by Tamar Myers
"Well, like I said, they wanted her gone, not dead. I mean, who would really want to kill an eighty-seven-year-old woman just because she kept property values down and scared off a few rich customers? At her age, how much longer could she have held out?"
"Twenty more years?"
He had a point. "Still," I said, "I can't imagine any of these people actually going ahead and doing it. Killing her, I mean. Not most of them, at any rate."
Both eyebrows shot up. The blue intensified.
"Well, there is Major Calloway," I said. I wasn't trying to be vicious and pay back his rudeness. He really was the most likely candidate.
"Please go on."
"He collects and sells weapons and things. 'Antique military paraphernalia,' he calls it. But I don't think Hitler's pajamas count as paraphernalia, do you?"
Investigator Washburn laughed. He had a pleasant laugh, with little or no spittle.
"I think I read once that Hitler slept in the nude. Sounds like this guy's trying to pull the covers over the public's head."
"There! That's a form of strangulation, isn't it?"
He laughed again. "Did you ever hear Mr. Calloway make any threatening remarks to your aunt?"
"No. Not to her directly."
"Did he ever make threatening remarks concerning your aunt to anyone else?"
"Plenty of times. Only yesterday he told our entire group that Aunt Eulonia should be shot by a firing squad."
A smile played about the perfectly formed lips.
"What group is this?"
"The Selwyn Avenue Antique Dealers Association. We were having our monthly breakfast together at Denny's. We were all there except my Aunt Eulonia."
He jotted some more down. "Do all the antique dealers on Selwyn Avenue belong to this association?"
"All the ones concentrated in these two blocks."
"Your aunt included?"
"Aunt Eulonia was a charter member, but she stopped being active when she found out that we—well, some of us—had an agenda."
"Which was?"
I recrossed my legs. "To set and maintain standards for shops and dealers in this area."
"Did you endorse that agenda?"
"Well, I—uh, of course I'm all for standards. I mean, this is a nice part of town and we, as antique dealers, want to have a certain reputation. If this were your shop, would you want a junk shop next door?"
He shrugged. "I've always been fond of junk shops. Found a child's pedal car in a junk shop once. It was made back in the early fifties. Always wanted one of those. Anyway, this one was in great shape. Even had all four wheels."
My wheels were spinning. Was he a boy back in the early fifties? There wasn't a gray hair on his head that I could see, and I'd counted them twice. He had a full contingent.
"Very nice," I said. He could take it any way he chose.
"Ms. Timberlake, when is the last time you saw your aunt?"
"Let's see—hey, wait just one minute! You're not suggesting that I had anything to do with it?"
He displayed the piano keys casually. "Until charges are pressed, there are no suspects. And, everyone is a suspect."
Drop-dead gorgeous can go a long way, but there are limits. "Look here, buster. She was my flesh-and-blood aunt. My father's only sister. I did not kill her."
I leaned back in my chair huffing and puffing until it was time for round two. "And besides, do I look like I could strangle someone?"
The piano keys disappeared. "Your aunt was eighty-six. Almost eighty-seven. You could do it."
I stood up. "This interview is over. Don't let the door slam too hard behind you."
He still towered over me. "This isn't an interview, ma'am. It's an investigation. I can have you brought down to the station if you like."
I didn't. I had never been to a police station, or wherever it is investigators hang out. Not even that time Buford landed in the hoosegow for goosing a housewife he thought was a stripper. I let his good-old-boy buddies bail him out. What else are his friends for?
Perhaps I'm a product of too much television, too many grade-B movies on late-night TV. Somewhere along the line I got the impression that women who visit police stations out of uniform are manhandled by monolithic matrons with flashlights in their hands. Need I say more?
"I'll sing like a canary," I said. "You just name the tune." The blue eyes danced while the piano keys played.
"I just want the truth, ma'am. Your full cooperation."
"Ask away."
"Were you her next of kin?"
"Only blood kin she had that I know of. Me and my kids. Except for my brother, but he doesn't count."
"Why doesn't he count?"
I sighed. It seemed futile to pick open that scab again.
"Toy lives in California. But even if he were here, you could cross him off your list. Toy is about as energetic as a turtle on tranquilizers."
He nodded. "Laid-back, they call it out there. You have a key to her house?"
I scratched my head while I tried to wiggle out of that one. "Well sort of. I mean, not exactly."
Both the eyes and the piano did a little ragtime. "I've heard high school boys in dresses come up with better explanations than you."
I felt myself blush, although it could have been a mild hot flash. Inspector Washburn had succeeded in thoroughly confusing my hormones. One minute they were happily on their way to an early retirement and the next they were doing the hundred-yard dash.
"It's like this. Aunt Eulonia gave me a key—" I paused and glanced at the front door. It was stupid of me not to have left a straight aisle between it and the register. With his long arms he could probably stop me before I got around the counter anyway. In that case, it didn't make a difference that the storeroom was cluttered as well.
"Yes? May I see the key?"
"I don't have it, sir."
"You don't?"
"No, sir. My aunt and I had this little disagreement—you know, like all families do—and I think she took the key back."
Who would have thought that blue could be a mocking color? "You think?"
"I have been known to, yes."
The full, perfect lips parted unevenly. I took it as a snarl.
"Well, it's hard to say," I said quickly. "I mean, I had it on my key ring, and then one day I looked, and it was gone."
"Where do you usually keep this key ring? During working hours, that is."
"Here, on this hook beneath the counter. Nobody can see it, and that way it's easy to grab when I need to unlock display cabinets for customers. I tried wearing it on my belt like some dealers do, but the jingling about drove me crazy."
"I see."
I hoped he did. I was trying my best to be cooperative, I really was. I offered to answer any other questions he had, no matter how silly or embarrassing. He took me up on my offer and asked me a billion more questions, but I seemed to disappoint him each time. I might even have confessed to something—maybe a traffic violation or two—just to get those eyes dancing again, when his beeper went off.
"May I use your phone, ma'am?"
"Please, be my guest." As soon as he left I was going to disconnect that phone. In a very dilute form Investigator Greg Washburn was going to spend the night with me.
He talked just a few seconds on my phone. His lips never touched the receiver. His hands barely held it. It was hardly going to be worth unplugging.
"Ma'am, that'll be all for today. It's been a pleasure."
"There's still five more minutes on All My Children," I said. Trot out the big guns when you have to.
"I'm taping it at home. Thanks, anyway."
And then he was gone. I would have kicked myself, had I not been wearing pointed shoes. I'd forgotten to look for a ring.
I am not a masochist, even though Mama thinks I am. I honestly didn't know Buford was the scum of the earth until he took up with Tweetie. The only reason I decided to drive by the homestead that evening was because I wanted to talk to our son C
harlie. In person. Charlie and his great-aunt had been close. And it was more than the twenty bucks, and then fifty, Aunt Eulonia used to slip into his birthday cards. The two of them, although seventy years apart in age, were cut from the same cloth. You couldn't find fabric that wide at the Piece Goods Shop in Rock Hill.
Bob and No-Bob opened the door. Those are my names for Tweetie's breasts, although I'm sure she has her own. One of her breasts—the left, I think—bobs up and down when she walks, while the other is rigid. Her surgeon should have been more careful.
"Well, lookie what the cat drug home," Tweetie said.
I smiled pleasantly, ever the southern lady. "Is Buford here?"
At the sound of my voice, Scruffles came running. It wasn't his fault he nearly knocked Tweetie over. Good plastic surgeons should consider their patient's balance before agreeing to operate.
"Hey, boy!" I said.
"My husband is at his office," Tweetie said. She started closing the door before Scruffles could get in a single lick.
I took a cue from the Major and stuck a shoe in the door. My foot is a lot smaller than his, but then again, Tweetie is no Wiggins.
"Open that door or I'm telling Buford everything," I said.
The line works with Tweetie every time. One of these days I'm going to find out what it is she's trying to hide. At any rate, the door opened wide, leaving me face to point with Bob. Or maybe No-Bob. You get the point.
"I'm here to see my son. Is he here?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Buford said I don't have to let you in but once a week. You were already here this week."
"I was here Friday, and today is Tuesday. Anyway, I was awarded unlimited visiting privileges. Besides, Charlie is seventeen now. He can see me whenever he wants."
"I was talking about how many times I have to let you in the house. I don't care how many times you see your son. He's in the kitchen, still eating. That's all he ever does."
"That's what seventeen-year-old boys are supposed to do," I said calmly.
"And this damn dog sheds over everything. Have you ever tried getting dog hair off of white suede?"
"Not since my divorce, dear."
She lost interest in me and wandered off, the door still open. She turned around a corner, and I could see Bob bobbing and No-Bob not.
I am better behaved than most things the cat drags home, and closed the door. It was strange to be alone in my own house again—well, you know what I mean. Tweetie either had no interest in decorating or else was forbidden to do so by Buford (the man must have a little taste: he married me, didn't he?), because the only change I could see was the velvet Elvis painting above the grand piano. Even it was of better quality than most.
I gave Scruffles a big hug and let him lick my face a few times. "Next time try chewing that white suede," I whispered.
Charlie was indeed in the kitchen, chowing down on the remains of an extra-large pizza. Tweetie undoubtedly cooked like she decorated. And what else did she expect a seventeen-year-old boy to do besides eat? Besides that, for pete's sake?
"Mama!"
I hugged Charlie and tousled his hair. Thank God the gene for baldness doesn't pass through the father. Even a cue ball has more fuzz clinging to it than Buford.
"What's up, Mama? You want some pizza? The bitch wouldn't let me order extra cheese. Says she's trying to watch her weight."
I accepted dinner from my son. After supper I tousled his hair again. Charlie doesn't mind pizza grease in his hair.
"Honey, Aunt Eulonia died last night. Did you hear?"
He shook his head, tears welling up immediately. "I was at school all day, then football practice. I just got home."
"Look Charlie, I'll tell it to you straight. Anyway, you're going to read about it in the paper. She was murdered."
He sat bolt upright. "No way!"
"Yes, dear, last night. I would have called you then, but I wanted to tell you in person."
He nodded, a far-off look in his eye. Undoubtedly he was remembering some of the good times he had known with his great-aunt. When he was little he used to spend the night at her house, and the two of them would stay up until dawn, playing canasta and making peanut brittle.
"She was one of a kind," I said. "Why would anyone want to kill an old lady like that?"
He looked me in the eyes.
"I know why she was killed, Mama. I know why they killed Aunt Eulonia."
"You know who killed Aunt Eulonia?"
"No, but I know why she was killed."
Like all teenagers. Charlie lies through his teeth, but he is not given to dramatic statements. He has never felt the need for a spotlight.
He looked me in the eye. "Because of her lace."
Perhaps I had misjudged my son. "Her lace?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Aunt Eulonia had this lace thing—I forget what you call it—that she said was very valuable. That's why she was killed."
I smiled. A full day of school and then football practice. The boy was undoubtedly exhausted.
"Lace isn't that valuable, dear. Sure, if you get some really old stuff, and it's clean and not stained, it's worth something. But not enough to kill for. I mean, who would kill somebody for twenty-five dollars?"
He shook his head. "This was really special. She was going to sell it, you know. At an auction. In New York."
"Sotheby's?"
"Yeah, that sounds like it."
I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was on to something.
"Did you see this lace?"
"Un-unh. But she told me about it. She said it was really old. Hundreds of years even. It was made in Italy, or Spain."
"Go on."
He grunted and reached for the last slice of pizza. "That's all I know about it, Mama. Oh, except that if it sold at this place in New York for half of what she thought it would, she was going to retire and take a trip around the world. She wanted to take me with her." His eyes filled with tears. "We were going to Africa first—on a photo safari. When we were all done, we were going to end up in Alaska walking on one of those glaciers."
That sounded like Eulonia Wiggins alright.
"You never mentioned this," I said. I tried not to make it sound like an accusation.
"I wasn't supposed to. Not yet. She wanted me to wait until after the auction. She was afraid talking about it would jinx it. I guess it did." He turned away to wipe his eyes.
I sat quietly until he had composed himself. "Did anyone else know about this?"
He shrugged, the cold pizza hanging from his mouth.
"Do you know where she got it?"
Unlike Peggy, he swallowed before answering. "Some ancestor of ours, I guess. Her grandmother or somebody. Does that make us Italian or something?"
"Or something," I said. Our family had lived long enough in America to claim a pint or two of just abut everybody's blood. Scotch, Irish, English, German, Swedish, French, Catawba Indian, even rumors of an African-American way back when, but as of yet no Italians.
He flashed me a smile. It was like the sun peeking through a stormy sky. "I have always liked pizza. And pasta."
"Me, too."
"I suppose you have to tell the police."
"Yes, dear, I'm afraid I do. I'm sorry."
He nodded. "It's okay. I want whoever did it caught. I want them—Mama, you didn't tell me how she was killed."
He was going to read it in the papers anyway. Maybe see it on TV. "She was strangled. Someone took a bellpull and strangled her."
He took it in. "Well then, I hope whoever killed Aunt Eulonia gets hung. No, I want to hang them myself. After I beat the shit out of them."
I did not raise my son to be violent. Football is Buford's influence. Still, if I could catch whoever strangled my aunt, I would call Charlie and have him come over. Together we'd beat the shit out of her murderer.
"The funeral is Thursday at two," I said after a while. "Down in Rock Hill, at Grandma's church. You want to go?"
He looked puz
zled. "Why wouldn't I want to go? I'm not a baby, Mama. You going to come to school to pick me up?"
I nodded. "Charlie, did Aunt Eulonia ever give you a key to her house?"
He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. Not a baby, but still a boy. "No. You need to get in?"
"I want her to be buried in one of her favorite dresses. Something different than the one—well, you know."
"You won't find what you're looking for," Charlie said. It was uncanny how sometimes that boy could anticipate my next thought.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Aunt Eulonia told me she was keeping it somewhere nobody would ever think to look."
"In that old pie cabinet in the basement of her shop where she hides everything else?"
"I don't think so. It was supposed to be someplace really special. She said I wouldn't guess in a million years."
If it was in her safety deposit box then I was a day late and out of luck. It had undoubtedly been impounded that morning.
"Could it be at her house?"
"Beats me. She wouldn't give me any hints. But you can search her house yourself, if you want," he added, ahead of me again.
"What? I can't break in."
He smiled. "I said I didn't have a key. I didn't say I didn't know where one was. Try looking in a little clay flower pot tucked behind the azaleas next to the outside faucet. The one in back, near the garage."
Charlie squeezed me hard when I hugged him good-bye. "Love ya," he said.
I couldn't reach Investigator Washburn on the phone. He was off duty, I guess. Probably out gallivanting with women half my age. I was invited to leave a message, but I wasn't about to involve Charlie, not without speaking directly with Blue Eyes first. I left a cryptic message, asking him to call me at his earliest convenience. With any luck he would think I was coming on to him and take a hint. With just about any luck, but not with mine.
To me Charlotte is a big city, so by the time I got to Susan's street on the northeast side, my nerves were as tight as an overdeveloped perm. It didn't help matters any when Susan's building came into view. My daughter, perhaps to spite us, certainly to embarrass her father, chose the worst apartment building in all of Charlotte to call home. Don't get me wrong: the neighborhood itself is fine. It's Susan's building that is guaranteed to give you nightmares. I am convinced that in its better days it served as a training school for slumlords.
