by Tamar Myers
"We've met?"
He laughed and I closed my eyes. He did sound twenty.
"Remember that time your car wouldn't start, and you didn't belong to Triple A?"
"No."
"Think back. It was a sixty-three Dodge Dart. White. With push-button controls."
This time when my mouth fell open an ice cube fell out. "That was you? How can you remember that far back? I mean, about a car not starting?"
The liver spots danced. "Or how about the time, after Susan was born, when I came over and fixed up a swing seat in that willow oak out back." He sighed. "Actually that one had to come down just this summer, thanks to Hurricane Hugo."
"My God!"
"Yeah, a real shame. Hugo came through six years ago, and still some trees are dying because of it."
"No, I mean, I can't believe how good your memory is. I wish mine were that good. I remember that one of my aunt's neighbors tied up the swing seat, but I didn't remember that it was you. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings."
"Nah. Think nothing of it. My point was, you knew me, you just forgot. Things like that happen."
I took his word for it. I also decided to take advantage of his formidable memory while I had a chance. Before I forgot who he was again.
"Say, Tony, you ever hear my aunt mention something valuable that she planned to auction off through Sotheby's?"
"What kind of thing?" For someone so old, there was a lot of fire in his eyes.
I decided to hold my cards close to my chest. That's far easier for me to do than it is for Tweetie.
"Oh, I don't know. Something very unusual, I guess."
"Ah, that."
"Ah, what?"
He studied me quietly for a moment, the fire in his eyes dimming. Or perhaps he fell asleep. People his age have been known to do that.
"Euey was always talking about something she'd run across as being a rare find. A 'one-of-a-kind' she called them. Euey had more 'one-of-a-kinds' than a barn full of drunken poker players."
"But I heard this was something really special. Something she wanted to auction off at Sotheby's."
He gave me a pitying look. "I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, especially a dear friend, but look around you. Take a walk through the house. Do you think you'll find anything really valuable here? Or at her shop? Your aunt lived very modestly, you know."
"Yes, but—"
"Who told you about this valuable item? Did she?"
"Who else?"
"She describe it for you?"
"Of course." I'm sure my priest will disagree, but sometimes there is virtue in not telling the truth. "Not telling the truth," as opposed to "lying." There is a difference, you know. One is passive, the other active. One is intended solely to protect yourself or someone else you love. The other is for personal gain.
"Well? You going to tell me about this mysterious thing that's worth a fortune?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I promised Aunt Eulonia I wouldn't."
He stared. There was something not quite right about those bright eyes. Perhaps gramps was overmedicated. I'd read that sometimes blood pressure medicine could produce the same effect.
"Yes, but she's dead," he said in that youthful voice.
"Exactly! I couldn't possibly break my word to a dead woman." I stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go look for something nice to have her buried in. A favorite of hers."
He stood up as well. "Mind if I tag along?"
I took a deep breath. "Frankly, I do."
"Oh."
I walked out of the breakfast room, fully expecting him to tag along behind me like a puppy dog, but he didn't. I did need to find something to bury my aunt in, but that could wait. I wanted to see for myself if there was something valuable—something lace—hidden in one of her drawers, or draped over something in her closet.
It is downright weird to walk around in someone's house after they have just died. I think this is especially true if the deceased is a relative. Aunt Eulonia had family photographs covering every available inch of wall space, and in at least half of them I could see my own face grinning out at me. In at least half of those I could see Aunt Eulonia as well. The two of us would always be together in those photographs, but we were never going to be together again in real life. Not close enough so that she would have her arm draped around my shoulder, a bow in my hair thrust up her nose. At least I hoped not.
As familiar as the room was, it seemed strangely different. Something was missing. I turned around in circles a few times, and then it hit me.
"Hey Tony," I called. "Where are those slime-green velvet curtains?"
"Don't know. Maybe at the cleaners."
Hopefully the cleaners would lose them. They were beastly things, refugees from some old movie theater most probably. I was clearly at a genetic disadvantage when it came to decorating.
I wandered into Aunt Eulonia's bedroom, and that's when the heebie-jeebies really began. Besides bathrooms, bedrooms are the most personal, and personalized, rooms in a house. Psychologists and psychiatrists could save their patients thousands of dollars if they analyzed the contents of their bedrooms instead of their minds. Even just a dresser offers enough clues to reconstruct 90 percent of any given human being.
Frankly I did not enjoy rummaging through my aunt's drawers and pawing through her closet, but the job had to be done. And quickly, so that Tony with the bright eyes and phenomenal memory wouldn't become suspicious.
I was disappointed, but not surprised, when my hurried search turned up not a scrap of lace, except for the crotch on a pair of panties that any decent, God-fearing woman would not have in her house. Especially if she was eighty-six.
"You all right in there?" The fossil with the teenage vocal chords sounded impatient, rather than worried.
"Yeah. Coming."
I snatched a navy blue dress off its hanger and draped it over my arm. I had seen Aunt Eulonia wear that dress several times on special occasions. At least I thought I had. At any rate, it would do nicely.
"She hated that one," the old goat said when I returned. He was standing in the middle of the breakfast room floor, exactly where I had left him.
"Nonsense," I said. "She didn't hate this. She wore it a lot."
"It still has the price tag on it." A surprisingly large, crooked finger swatted at the cardboard strip.
"There, you see," I said, "she didn't hate it. People don't buy clothes they hate."
"I gave it to her last Christmas," he said. "I forgot to remove the tag before I wrapped it. She got a kick out of that. Said she could tell by it how much I thought of her, but I could tell she didn't like it. I offered to take it back, but she wouldn't let me. I said she could always wear it to her funeral. I guess I was right."
I wanted to push the little man right out the back door. Push him off the porch. Maybe he would land in the holly. He was driving me crazy. Not only was he hampering my investigation, but he was showing me up for a fool—a fool who didn't know the first thing about her aunt, her father's only sister.
I sighed and sat down. The navy dress slid through my hands and onto the floor. It had been a very long day.
"What do you suggest then?"
He was gone less than a minute. When he returned it was with a peach suit, a cream blouse, and a pair of black patent leather pumps.
"These were Euey's favorite shoes. She had to wear sneakers to work every day, on account of her bunions, but these were her favorite shoes. Of course you don't need to use any of this stuff. She was your aunt."
"There's not going to be an open, casket,'' I said.
I took the outfit anyway. May as well bury Aunt Eulonia in something she had once liked. Still, it made me furious to think I was going to bury my aunt in an outfit picked out by a stranger. A man no less.
"The funeral will be at the Episcopal Church of our Savior down in Rock Hill. Noon Thursday."
It wasn't exactly an invitation, but
it was as close as he was going to get. If I had been half the lady Mama raised me to be, I would have given him a hug and offered to drive him there and back. But I couldn't. There was something about the man that didn't seem right. Something that wasn't ringing true but that I couldn't put my finger on. However, to honor Aunt Eulonia's memory I was going to give the old geezer, Tony, or whatever his name was, the benefit of the doubt.
"But I want my aunt's key," I said. There is a limit even to honor.
He fumbled in the right pocket of his baggy pants and fished out a key. I tried it in the door. It fit.
"And now the other one. The one she gave you way back when."
The eyes shone brightly in the wrinkled face, but his expression barely changed. "It's at home."
"Then get it," I said calmly.
He mumbled something as he left. but I didn't ask him to repeat it. While he was gone I made a quick trip back into my aunt's bedroom to rehang the navy dress. As far as I could tell everything was just like I had left it.
I went back to the breakfast room, sat down at the table, and laid my head on my arms. Over an hour later I woke up with a stiff neck and a watch indentation in my cheek. The key had not been returned.
"Go away," I shouted.
The doorbell chimed again. Aunt Marilyn's doorbell is a mini version of London's Big Ben. I found it charming when I first moved in. I am less charmed now.
I squinted at my clock radio. It wasn't yet seven. Since I open my shop at nine, I don't have to get up until seven-thirty. Even eight, if I push it. Anybody who tries to wake me before seven deserves to be appointed a delegate to the International Graffiti Artists Convention in Singapore.
It chimed a third time. Someone was knocking as well.
I pushed Dmitri off my stomach and literally rolled off the bed. Hitting Aunt Marilyn's hardwood floor is the fastest way I know to become fully awake. Sure it hurt, but after a few seconds I was able to struggle into a thick terry robe, one with a belt, and stumbled barefoot to the door.
Mrs. Ferguson was going to get a piece of my mind. Periodically she has the nerve to wake me just to tell me I have placed Aunt Marilyn's plastic trash bin too close to the curb. She is always filled with questions: Who is going to pick up all my trash if some schoolboy tips them over before the garbage men arrive? Do I want to make every dog on the street sick by chewing on my discarded cellophane wrappers? Am I aware that the lid to the bin is warped and that I'm infesting the neighborhood with flies?
Enough is enough. "Look Fergie," I said, before the door was all the way open, "if you want to be my garbage intermediary—"
Investigator Greg Washburn stood there, tall and handsome, the early morning sun glinting off his thick dark hair. His hands were behind his back.
"You are under arrest for impersonating a crabby homeowner," he said, displaying the full array of piano keys. The sun glinted off them as well.
I grabbed at my robe. I didn't want it tied too tightly.
"I thought you were someone else. What's wrong?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me. I got your message last night, but I thought it was too late to call." He winked. "But I can see that now is probably too early for a visit."
I laughed with strained casualness. "Nah, I've been up for hours reading the paper. Just haven't bothered getting ready for work. Come on in. I'll fix you a cup of coffee."
"Thought you might like this," he said, handing me the morning paper.
I snatched the Charlotte Observer from him. I would have beat him over the head with it, except that I like my paper crisp and unwrinkled. Usually, by the time Buford got done with the paper, it looked like it had already been at the bottom of the bird cage.
"I get the Sunday Times from New York. It arrives by mail every Tuesday. I save it to read until the next morning." That wasn't so much a lie as it was a minor adjustment of the truth. I do read the Times now and then. At the library.
Investigator Washburn was fascinated by Aunt Marilyn's decor.
"Gosh, I haven't seen furniture like this since I was a kid. What is it, Danish modern?"
"Early nineteen-sixties Sears and Roebuck, with just a dash of Montgomery Ward. There are gold veins in the bathroom mirrors you are free to admire."
"Is that coffee table marble? It's so unusual."
"Faux-plastic," I said. "Aunt Marilyn couldn't afford the real thing."
I stopped being bitchy long enough to duck in the kitchen and make him some coffee. The coffeemaker is mine. Every time Aunt Marilyn pops in for one of her visits, I dash into the kitchen and hide it in the wastebasket under the sink. It is the second coffeemaker to reside in this house. The first ended up in the trash bin by the curb and was undoubtedly rescued by Mrs. Ferguson. It had been a hard week.
When I returned with Greg Washburn's coffee I discovered, much to my delight, that Dmitri and Blue Eyes had made friends. That is to say, Dmitri wasn't hissing and lashing out with clawless paws like he used to every time he was within striking distance of Buford. The two handsome males were regarding each other calmly, without any discernible jealousy on either part. It seemed too good to be true.
"I see you've met," I said stupidly. I set the tray down on the coffeetable. "Dmitri is usually shy about company. Especially men. He doesn't seem to like them very much."
"I like cats," Greg Washburn said. "They generally like me back." Somewhere in heaven an angel swooned on my behalf.
While he was sipping his coffee and reading my paper I slipped into the bedroom to dress. It was going to be another scorcher so I was justified in choosing the white sleeveless cotton dress with the deep V neckline. It was certainly not my fault that it fit me like a latex glove. I could have sworn it said a size four, not a two.
I ran a quick comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, flossed, gargled, and touched up my makeup, all in under five minutes, I'm sure. Give or take. It must have taken a few minutes more to spray on some cologne.
He was smiling sheepishly when I returned. "Hope you don't mind that I finished up the coffee. Didn't get a chance to have any before I came over, because I was in a hurry to see what your message was about. Best damn pot of coffee I ever drank."
I smiled bravely. Never apologize, never explain. Some people are just fast coffee drinkers.
"Investigator Washburn—"
He held up a hand. "Please, Officer would be fine."
"Yes, sir. Anyway, I think I may know why my aunt was killed. Not who killed her, but why."
He pulled the notebook out of his suit pocket. "Go on."
I was very cooperative and told him what Charlie had told me. Every word, to the best of my recollection. He made me repeat everything at least three times. I tried to be patient.
After he had jotted enough notes upon which to base a novel, he focused those deep blues on my cat greens. "Is there anything else you can remember about your conversation with your son that might pertain to this case?"
"No."
"You sure? Anything at all?"
"That's all I know. Do you want to hear it again? I could trot out my college Spanish." Cute as he was, I was starting to get miffed.
"And you had no knowledge about this lace—whatever it is—until last night when your son told you about it?"
I would have whacked him hard with that newspaper, damn the consequences, except that it was spread all over the floor.
"You think I would have involved my son, Charlie, in this if I didn't need to?"
"Ma'am?"
"If I had any knowledge of this lace whatchamacallit, any idea that it was valuable, I would have told you yesterday. I sure as hell wouldn't have held back so that my seventeen-year-old kid had to go through this. You going to ask him to repeat everything three times?"
He looked stunned. "Ma'am?"
"Oops. Sorry," I said. "It's a bad habit of mine, jumping to conclusions before I've had my morning coffee."
"It's all right," he said.
I looked pointedly at the empty pot t
hat he had set on Aunt Marilyn's coffee table. "If you don't mind, I'm going to make some more."
"Please do," he said. "Coffee is one of three things I can never get enough of."
I ignored the twinkle in his eyes. While I was making coffee in the kitchen and zapping up some frozen cinnamon rolls, I heard the front door open and close.
Fine, I thought, run out on me. But you better not be running off to pester Charlie, not without me being there. If you do, so help me, I'll sic Buford on you. Although my ex-husband is the bottom layer of sludge, upon which floats the scum of the earth, he adores his son. And even though Buford Cornelius Timberlake is only an ambulance chaser, he has friends in high places. When Buford bellows, these high-placed friends start to tremble. Buford, as I said, is an expert on dirt. He almost always gets his way.
As I was piling the hot rolls on one of Aunt Marilyn's plates I heard the door open and close again.
"Who is it?" To be on the safe side I grabbed the pot of scalding coffee.
"It's only me, ma'am, Greg Washburn."
I took the fresh pot of coffee and the rolls into the living room. Caffeine, sugar, and another, less combative look at Greg Washburn, might yet get the day off to a good start.
"Smells great," he said.
I suddenly remembered a scientific study on odors and male sexual response. In this study the male participants, who had electrodes attached to their penises, were most aroused by the smell of cinnamon. I glanced in the appropriate spot, but everything seemed normal. Perhaps it took time.
There was something else of interest on his lap. He had brought something back inside with him, something in a long plastic bag.
"What's that?"
He handed it to me. "You seen this before? I want you to look at it carefully, but don't open the bag."
I examined the contents of the bag carefully, although I recognized them immediately. It was a bellpull. A nineteenth-century needlepoint bellpull, of exquisite workmanship and design.
My heart pounded. "Is this it? Is this what killed my aunt?"
He nodded. "You recognize it?"
I handed it back carefully. Although it was an instrument of death, it was also the last thing to touch my aunt while she was alive. I felt she was somehow connected to it.
