by Tamar Myers
"Ha! Good one, good one. Say, about what happened at the meeting yesterday, you aren't planning to tell anyone, are you? I mean, the police, or whoever."
I was genuinely puzzled.
"What happened that the police should know about?"
He put the helmet back on, possibly a defensive gesture.
"You know, what we said about your aunt. Wishing she was dead and all."
Light dawned in the crevices of my mind, sending a myriad of fuzzy creatures scrambling. The Major's visit made sense now.
"Actually, Major, I believe you said that 'whoever bumps off that old biddy deserves a commendation.' Are you here to collect your medal?"
He took a step back, the rim of his helmet knocking against a cowbell I keep tied to the door to apprise me of customers. It was a tie as to which jangled louder, the bell or my nerves.
"Listen, Timberlake, I don't have to put up with your accusations. Everyone there said the same kind of thing. We were all sore at your aunt on account of the way she kept her place, but none of us really meant it. Hell, who would be stupid enough to make a real threat in front of a dozen witnesses?"
My glare was his answer.
"Look, girlie," he snarled. "I don't take this shit from anybody. I came over to offer you my condolences. Well, you can take my goddamn condolences and shove them—"
Which is what I tried to do. But the Major weighs twice as much as I, and I was barely able to push him to the door much less have him go through it. I know that sounds a trifle mean-spirited, but with the Major's tough hide, he would only have been out the price of a couple of Band-Aids. I would have been out $32.54 for a new pane of glass.
My phone rang off the hook. Virtually every other shop owner in the Selwyn Avenue Antique Dealers Association called with words of sympathy. Some of it heartfelt.
"Sorry to hear about your aunt," Rob Goldburg said. "I didn't mean the terrible things I said yesterday at breakfast. I really didn't. Is there something we can do to help?"
He sounded sincere. I said no, and thanked him. The "we" was undoubtedly meant to include his new partner, Bob Somebody-or-the-other. I had yet to meet the fellow, but rumor had it that he was from New York, a real expert on some of the upscale merchandise that the rest of us just dabble in. Rumor also had it that Rob and Bob were more than business partners.
The rumor-spreader must have been hard at work.
"Abigail? Wynnell here. I just heard the news and I'm sick to my stomach. How awful for you. You want me to close up shop for a few minutes and come on over?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm doing fine."
"You sure, dear? I can't imagine I'd be fine if my aunt was raped and then decapitated."
"That's not what happened."
"Oh, was it the other way around? Good Lord, what's this city coming to? Charlotte used to be such a good place to live in. I'll tell you what the trouble is, Abigail. It's those damn Yankees."
"She wasn't raped or decapitated, Wynnell. She was strangled by a bellpull. And what's this about Yankees? As far as I know the police have no suspects."
"Well, if it wasn't a Yankee, then it was someone influenced by a Yankee. If you ask me, we should build an electric fence along the Mason-Dixon line. Then you'll see. Our crime rate would plummet."
"And so would our sales, Wynnell. What percentage of your sales is to tourists?"
"There are southern tourists as well, Abigail. We don't need murdering Yankees to survive."
I prayed my most frequent prayer, the one for patience. "The police haven't fingered a Yankee, Wynnell. At this point the killer could turn out to be anybody. Who knows, it could even turn out to be you."
"That isn't funny, Abigail. I was going to apologize for what I said about your aunt yesterday at breakfast, but now maybe I won't."
I could feel Wynnell's withering look from four shops away. The woman missed her calling. Somewhere there's a classroom full of unruly kids who could benefit from the juxtaposition of Wynnell Crawford's eyebrows.
I succumbed to temptation. "Wynnell, dear, just the other day I heard that not only did you have a Yankee in your woodpile, but it was Sherman himself."
"Why, I never!" she said, and slammed down the phone.
Peggy got through next. She must have been horny again, because I could hear her chewing. Peggy isn't married and, unfortunately, has an exceptionally strong libido. When Peggy can't fill her sexual needs, she does the next best thing and fills her stomach. Peggy would be fat if it wasn't for the exercise she does get those times she's lucky enough to have sex.
"Abigail?"
"Is it blueberry or pumpernickel?" Mama can smell trouble. I like to think I can smell food over a phone.
"Cinnamon raisin. Picked it up at the Bagel Works Delicatessen. There's a new guy working there who's to die for. Oops, sorry, Abigail. Sorry about your aunt, too."
"Thanks, dear. You aren't by any chance calling because you're nervous about something you said at breakfast yesterday?"
Who knew a bagel could be deafening? "What? I don't know what you mean, Abigail."
"I think you do, dear, but not to worry. We all shoot our mouths off from time to time, and then live to regret it."
There was a moment of silence and then the sound of throat muscles trying desperately to forward the bagel on to the stomach. Even cartoon pythons aren't that loud.
"I only said she was tacky, Abigail. I didn't threaten her."
"But you preferred her out of the way, didn't you, Peggy?"
"I'd prefer to get rid of some wrinkles, too, but I have yet to get a facelift. And those alpha hydroxyl creams I use don't count. They're more like wishing your lines away—which is kind of like what I did to your aunt. I wished her away. I didn't kill her."
I wished Peggy a good day.
My daughter Susan called next. Susan has had one year of general studies at the University of North Carolina here in Charlotte, and already she knew more than her father and me combined. One more year and she would have been a match for Phil Donahue.
"Mama!"
"Hey, Susan. I suppose you heard the bad news about your great-aunt Eulonia. Did Grandma call you?"
"No. What's up?"
I was surprised. This semester Susan has moved out of the dorm and shares an apartment with two other girls. As part of her strategy to convince herself of her independence, she contacts her parents only when she needs money. Or someone to dump on. Since her father has oodles of money, and I don't, guess who gets dumped on. This, however, did not sound like a dumping day.
"Aunt Eulonia died last night. No, let me rephrase that. She was murdered."
"Bummer. Mama, I've got a problem you wouldn't believe."
"I said your great-aunt is dead, dear. Did you hear me?"
"Yes, I heard you. But Mama, my problem is serious. You have a minute or what?"
Actually, at the moment there was a young couple hovering around a Victorian parlor set that had been in my inventory far too long. They alternated between sitting on the pieces and carefully examining them for flaws. At one point the wife stepped back and made blocking gestures with her hands. To be sure, all five pieces were being lined up against imaginary walls. A well chosen word or two would put their cash in my coffer. I really didn't have time to be dumped on.
But I am a mother. "Spill it, dear."
The bomb dropped without further preamble. "I quit school today."
"You what?"
"I went to the registrar's this morning and withdrew. It wasn't too late. Of course I won't get all my tuition back, but who cares?"
I bit my tongue and counted to ten. Twice. Once in French and once in Spanish.
"Why did you drop out?"
"Because school's a drag. You know I've never liked school. And besides, I was at Belk's Department Store in South Park Mall last Saturday and they need someone in the cosmetics department. I've decided that's more real. School is too phony."
"If you're no longer in school you're going
to need a real paycheck, dear. Didn't Dad say he was going to pay your share of the apartment only as long as you stayed in school?"
During the ensuing silence I watched the young couple slip slowly out of love with my parlor set. If I hadn't been held bondage by maternal strings, I might have been able to salvage the deal. I made a desperate attempt anyway.
"Ten percent off today," I called out cheerily.
"What?" Susan sounded aggravated with me. "Mama, my life's a mess and you're haggling with customers?"
"Oops, my mistake. It's actually twenty percent off," I yelled.
They shook their heads and walked slowly out of my shop. They had my number. Undoubtedly they'd be back the next day and try for 25 percent off. With any luck I'd be on the phone again and give them thirty.
"Mama! Don't you care?"
"Of course I care, dear. What is it you want from me?" Besides my figure, my patience, and the best years of my life. She had already taken those.
"Mama, I'm not going to be making that much at Belk's. Not to start. Aren't you going to offer to pay my rent?"
I would not. That was the only thing Buford and I agreed upon. We would support the children financially only as long as they remained in school. Otherwise, they were on their own. With Buford's money, Susan could have gone on to medical school or something else equally time-consuming. But since she wanted to play apartment without the benefit of an education, she was going to have to do it on her own. Maybe then she would reconsider school.
"I'm the meanest Mama in the whole world," I said, preempting my lovely daughter.
"Mama!"
"And I'm so unfair!"
Susan hung up. But what else could I do? I didn't have the money to support her while she played at having a job. If she wanted to move in with me, I'd be delighted. But Susan would rather floss three times a day than do that. After all, I'm prone to wild and wacky behavior, such as sleeping when it's dark and washing the dishes before the mold on them requires mowing. Not to mention I vacuum up my dust balls before they get too big to trip over.
During the brief respite that followed Susan's call I hurried over to the parlor set that had so intrigued the young couple. It was early Eastlake and in excellent condition. I took a minute to admire the burled walnut frames and the dusty pink velvet seats. Then I removed the old price, replacing it with a figure 30 percent higher. Even if I was caught on the phone when they returned, I could still afford to be generous.
I thought sure the next phone call was going to be from Buford. He sees it as his sacred duty to yell at me every time one of our children is unhappy or does something stupid. Even though he and I agree on Susan's education, it is undoubtedly somehow all my fault that Susan has decided to drop out of school and live in near poverty. Since I produced the egg that hatched Susan, I am responsible for her behavior. What else would one expect from a lawyer who once sued a pencil company because they didn't warn their customers that a sharpened lead can put out an eye?
"Den of Antiquity. Guilty party speaking," I said cheerfully.
Gretchen Miller gasped. "Oh, Abigail, you didn't do it, did you?"
I think as fast on my feet as a doped walrus. "You bet I did. She had to learn a lesson."
"But, Abigail, isn't decapitation a little too severe? And the rape, you didn't do that, too, did you? I mean, it isn't physically possible, is it?"
My brain had caught up with my ears. "Gretchen! Of course not! And she wasn't decapitated, she was strangled. Only I didn't do that, either. I thought you were someone else."
Gretchen's sigh of relief could have extinguished a candle a yard away. "I'm so glad, Abigail. I mean, that you're not guilty. Do the police know who is?"
"If they do, they're keeping it from me."
"Any suspects?"
"You tell me, dear. You were at that breakfast yesterday morning."
Gretchen sneezed. I imagined her pushing her round, owl glasses back up on her stub of a nose.
"Abigail, if you'll recall, I stuck up for your aunt yesterday. I said she was a 'jewel.' You remember that?"
"Yes, dear, I do. That was right before you complained about her place being run down."
She sneezed again. "Sorry Abigail. It's the pollen count. I'm almost positive it's not a cold. I usually don't get a cold until November, and then—"
"Is business slow today, dear?"
"Business is good, Abigail. I just sold that bronze statue with the you-know-what."
"The 'what' was a penis, dear. So, if business is good, why are you calling?"
I imagined Gretchen's faded gray eyes widening behind thick lenses.
"Well, I—uh—I wanted to expresses my condolences on your aunt's passing. That's really all."
I accepted her condolences gracefully, even though I would hardly refer to being strangled as "passing." Even sans the rumored rape and decapitation, my poor aunt had done more than pass from this life to the next. Catapulted was more like it. No wonder they say ghosts are usually the products of violent death. I'd have trouble finding my way through the veil, too, if my last memory was a bellpull tightening around my neck. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if Aunt Eulonia's spirit hung around her beloved Feathers 'N Treasures trying to comprehend recent events.
Perhaps it would benefit my aunt if I stopped by her shop and had a chat with her. One-sided, I hoped. You know, kind of explained what happened. And if the case ever got solved, tell her why it happened. Fortunately her shop was still off-limits to anyone but the police; the yellow tape across the doors made that perfectly clear. For the moment that was fine with me. I was in no hurry to see where dear Aunt Eulonia had lain gasping, perhaps thrashing, on the floor of her run-down shop.
To take my mind off the ghoulish spectacle I turned on the TV. All My Children was about to start.
The cowbell rang on the stroke of one. It didn't jangle this time, it rang. Bells all over heaven rang as well. Gods gift to women—at least to me—had just stepped through the door.
I ran to be of service. "Yes? May I help you?"
"Ms. Abigail Timberlake?"
"Yes."
"I'm Investigator Greg Washburn, Charlotte-Mecklenberg police. We have an appointment."
I held out an eager hand. His hand may not have been so eager, but when it touched mine, electricity flowed—from my hand to my heart, to my head, to my feet. My entire body was paralyzed. It was a good thing I had worker's compensation insurance.
"Ma'am, is there someplace we could talk?"
I stared at a youthful Cary Grant. No, Greg was a little taller and broader through the shoulders, his tummy firmer. His hair was darker, curling under where it hit his collar. The chin cleft was there, but so was a dimple on his left cheek. His eyes, rimmed by long black lashes, were intensely blue.
"Contacts?" I asked. At least my mouth was working, if not my brain.
"Ma'am?"
"I mean, you must have many contacts in your line of work. Ah, yes, we can talk back there by the counter, if you like."
I willed two rubbery pedestals to move my body and my head to the back of the shop. Somehow they made it. My brain arrived a few seconds later.
"Identification?" I asked.
It was all there. Unfortunately it didn't tell me everything I wanted to know.
"Satisfied?"
I nodded. Of course I turned off the TV. Even Tad Martin can't compete with Investigator Greg Washburn.
"Sit?" Did he think I was talking to a dog?
The blue eyes danced. There was only one chair. "Why don't you sit, ma'am? I'd prefer to stand."
I didn't need to be coaxed. I could will those rubbery pedestals to walk, but I couldn't keep them from shaking. Except that, if I sat down, those blue eyes would be too far away. I would need opera glasses to get as close as I wanted.
Investigator Washburn and I did not share the same agenda, "Ma'am, what can you tell me about your aunt?"
"She's dead," I said. So was my brain.
He smiled, f
lashing teeth as straight and white as piano keys. "Yes, we've determined that. Can you describe what she was like when she was alive?"
"Old."
He glanced at a pocket notepad. "She was eighty-six, right?"
"Right. She would have been eighty-seven the day after Christmas."
"A little on the senior side to still be working. Did she have plans to retire?"
I laughed and then became acutely aware that laughing can produce spittle. There are more effective ways to attract a man than drenching him.
"Let me tell you about my aunt. Her grandmother was born on a farm down near Columbia. Great-Grandma Wiggins was fourteen when the Union army swept through burning everything in their path. She was home alone at the time but managed to save the farm. Her weapons were two muskets, a pitchfork, and a mind as sharp as a scalpel. Just how she did it is a long story, but the point is Aunt Eulonia was every bit a Wiggins. Oh yeah, Great-Grandma Wiggins died at age one hundred seven. She still lived on that farm. By herself."
He jotted something on his pad. "Sounds like quite a lady. You know anyone who might have had it in for your aunt. Besides the Union Army?"
I swallowed first before laughing pleasantly. "Well, that's kind of a messy question. Can you be more specific?"
A black eyebrow arched slightly over a dancing eye. "Is there anybody that you can think of who would have wanted your aunt dead?"
I tried not to squirm. "Well, yes, and no."
The blue eyes stopped dancing. "Tell me about the yes first."
If it was in for a penny, in for a pound, why was I always throwing my entire checkbook in the ring?
"Everybody—well, just about everyone who owns a shop on this street wanted her dead. Maybe not actually dead, but gone somehow."
"Why?"
"It was an image thing. You've seen her shop. Aunt Eulonia had no interest in living up to anybody else's standards or expectations. She didn't give a damn about what people thought."
"And the no part?"
The blue eyes were fixed intently on me. It might have been due to the feeble air conditioner I have out back, but I was burning up. All I could think of was jumping into those clear blue eyes and taking a swim. I had to lasso my frolicking thoughts, tie them up with words, and force them out of my mouth.
