by Tamar Myers
Aunt Marilyn lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring through bright red lips. "Dahling, you simply must take better care of yourself. Why, I tell you what. This evening when you get off work I'll have a nice little supper waiting for you. Things I brought up fresh from the coast. How does she-crab soup and shrimp gumbo sound?"
It sounded superb. I had been so busy I hadn't had a bite to eat since the futile cinnamon rolls that morning. I had never seen Aunt Marilyn so docile. I should have thought of threatening her with a lawsuit two years ago. After all, I had been married to the king of ambulance chasers. Foolishly I decided to push the envelope.
"Supper sounds great, Aunt Marilyn. Then after supper, if it's still light, you can help me plant my camellia bushes."
She teetered on the six-inch heels. "I beg your pardon?"
I pointed to the bagged plants. "I thought they would look great where Mimi and Fifi are now. We could move those plaster mutts over a couple of feet—"
Aunt Marilyn gasped, sucking in a generous chunk of boa. I hastened to extract it before she choked. Two aunts dead in one week by strangulation would be hard to explain to Greg Washburn. Especially if one of them asphyxiated in my shop.
I patted her back to get her breathing again. "There, there, dear. If you insist, I can plant my camellias somewhere else. Maybe up by the front of the driveway."
I wouldn't be a southern lady if I repeated what Aunt Marilyn said next—when she could get her voice back. I bet the real Marilyn Monroe didn't talk like that. Hilton Head is just too close to Parris Island, I suppose. My guess, based on the words I heard, is that Aunt Marilyn regularly entertains marines. She sure didn't hear language like that growing up in Rock Hill.
"But the neighbors all love my camellias." I said calmly. "Even Mrs. Ferguson loves them. When she saw mine she went out and bought four just like them for herself. She said they're the prettiest camellias she's ever seen."
The boa bobbed dangerously close to my aunt's open mouth. Even I would never gasp like that in public.
"Then again, what does Mrs. Ferguson know." I said helpfully.
"Out!"
"Why, that's exactly what I said to those pink flamingos, dear. Haven't you had a chance to glance at the backyard yet?"
"Out!"
It was the only word she could say for the next few minutes. When she could finally manage a multiple word vocabulary she made it crystal clear that I, my cat Dmitri, and what few belongings I had in her house, were never welcome there again. Not unless I got down on my hands and knees and begged her forgiveness. This dictum inspired a few choice words of my own, which I will spare you.
"And I don't allow smoking in my shop!" I shouted as the last of her boa drifted through the door.
It was too late. My favorite aunt—my only aunt, now that Eulonia Wiggins was dead—had just shut the door on me. Figuratively, that is. I was no longer welcome on Ridgewood Avenue. Thank the good Lord I had most of my stuff stored at Mama's.
"What do you mean I can't spend the night?"
Mama paused a long time. Long enough for me to hear a stifled giggle.
"Abigail, dear, you know you're always welcome in my home. I want you to think of it as your home, too, but not tonight. I have plans."
"I'll watch TV with you, Mama. I'll even watch those infomercials you like so much. How about it?"
"Sorry, dear, but not tonight."
"Can I at least drop off Dmitri? Aunt Marilyn has threatened to run him through her neighbor's composter if I don't have him out of there by eight."
Somebody giggled again, and it sure didn't sound like Mama. Neither did Mama, for that matter.
"I told you, Abby, tonight's not good. Try calling a vet."
"Is your bridge club there? Is it that Dot McElveen who hates cats? No problem, Mama. I'll just sneak off to the guest room with Dmitri before anyone sees him, turn the TV on low, and you won't hear a peep out of us."
There were two distinct giggles this time. One Mama's, one belonging to somebody else.
"It isn't bridge, dear. It's other plans."
I sighed sympathetically. "Mama, you shouldn't allow the Werrels to impose on you like that. They can afford a sitter. Maybe two. Just because—"
"I'm not baby-sitting," Mama said. There was a bounce in her voice I hadn't heard in years. Maybe since Daddy died.
"Good, Mama, then I'll be right over after work."
"Really dear, I'd rather be alone tonight."
"No you wouldn't, Mama. You've never liked living alone. Listen, I'll stop in at the Bojangles on Cherry Road, and then the video store—"
"Show up at the door and I'll break both your legs with a rolling pin," Mama cooed. She sounded half serious.
"Excuse me?"
"Abby dear, I have a date."
I nearly dropped the phone. "With a man?"
Some of the giggles turned into guffaws. They were definitely manly.
"Mama! What's going on there?"
"Oh, nothing dear. Nothing that concerns you."
"If it concerns you, Mama, it concerns me." There is nothing wrong in recycling someone's words right back at them if you get the chance. I'm sure it must irritate the heck out of them. I know it does when it happens to me.
"This doesn't concern you, dear. Bye."
I called her right back, but the phone just rang and rang. I was stunned. Mama—to whom I had spent nine of the best months of my life hooked up by an umbilical cord—had just unplugged that other most important cord, cutting me loose for the second time. Against my will I had been born again.
Even worse, Mama—my Mama—was having, or about to have, sex!
Mama could have her disgusting roll in the hay. Aunt Marilyn could keep her precious Fifi and Mimi right where they were. It didn't matter one whit to me what they did because I had friends. The kind of friends who invite you to dinner on the spur of the moment.
"This is Bob Steuben," Rob said, as I was locking up my shop.
I introduced myself to a pale spindly man, possibly in his late thirties. He had mousy brown hair and a very small, narrow face. His eyes were set suspiciously close. His mouth was a thin gray line. Frankly, it looked like the good Lord had made him out of leftovers and run out of material when he came to the face.
"Pleased to meet you." Bob said, his secret revealed. He had a voice that could calm the Bosphorus Straits. "Rob told me all about you. You two set the date yet?"
"Excuse me?"
"He's kidding." Rob read the question in my eyes. "Yes, Abby, I made the call. You were right. This Washburn guy sounds okay. He said I did the right thing by calling. I feel a lot better now. Thanks."
"Good enough for me to invite you two out for some dinner? Maybe smoke a tobaccoless peace pipe and call a truce."
Rob and Bob exchanged glances.
"I had a great day at the shop," I hurried to say. "This is my treat."
"Well, uh—"
"Please. I need the company. Auntie Dearest kicked me out."
"She didn't!" Rob said with just the right amount of sympathy. "The camellias? Or was it the pink flamingos?"
"I'll tell you all about it at dinner," I said for Bob's benefit.
They exchanged glances again. They must have been meaningful glances because they'd made a decision.
"Bob's a hell of a cook," Rob said. "You're invited to our place for supper."
Of course I said yes. My Mama didn't raise any fools. Never mind the money I would save on dinner. I'd known Rob for seven or eight years, been friends with him for half of that, and had yet to be invited to his inner sanctum. From what I heard through the grapevine, Rob Goldburg's decor made Versailles seem shabby.
"I have to pick up my cat, Dmitri, first," I explained. "Auntie Dearest said she would turn him into a hand muff if I didn't pick him up by eight, and she means that literally. The only reason she let me keep him there was because she had a cat named DeMaggio when she first bought that damn house, and Dmitri looks just like him."
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The shared glances showed terror. "Does he shred?" Rob asked.
I shrugged in my nonchalant way. "All cats shed, dear. Even we shed, you know."
"He said shred," Bob boomed. "We just bought a silk Chinese Aubusson carpet over the weekend. We'd like it to last until next weekend if possible."
I smiled sweetly, since beguiling wouldn't work with those two. "Dmitri is declawed. Both front and back. He's strictly an indoor cat."
"I guess then it would be all right," Rob said. He looked at his partner for confirmation, and got it. Reluctantly.
"And if he even starts to throw up a hair ball, I'll whisk him off into the kitchen," I said sensibly. "You do have linoleum in there, don't you?"
They shook their heads no. They didn't have to do it so vigorously, however. If I was going to make it to dinner at the highly coveted and much touted table of Rob Goldburg, I was going to have to find some other kind soul to take my precious lambkins for the evening.
Tony D'Angelo took forever to open his door.
"Yes?"
"It's me, Abby. Remember?"
"Cara mia!" he cried in that boyish voice.
He would have hugged me, had I let him. But for all his warmth, he didn't invite me inside. Perhaps he too had a sex partner stashed in the boudoir. The way my luck had been running, it was probably Mama. I shouldn't have given her call forwarding for her birthday.
"Tony. I have a big favor to ask you."
"Ask!" He sounded eager to lay down his life for me, anything but ask me inside where it was twenty degrees cooler.
I pointed to the car, which I had carefully parked in the shade. "I need a temporary home for my cat, Dmitri. He's really sweet, honest. He's been declawed, neutered—"
"No problem! I love cats. Leave him here as long as you want."
It had been too easy. Suspiciously easy. Maybe Mama really was inside flagrantly flaunting her delicto. I said good-bye and drove off before I was given a chance to discover what was wrong with that picture.
I should have at least asked him why he hadn't returned with my aunt's key the night before.
I wasn't disappointed. Bob lives in South Park and owns a fairly modest house by neighborhood standards. Inside is what makes the difference. From the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper in the foyer to the Regency carved and gilded beech armchairs, everything was exquisite. It was perhaps a little overdone for my taste, but a refreshing change from Aunt Marilyn's fifties modern and Mama's Victorian hand-me-downs.
The food was something else. Something else that I could not identify. Frankly I couldn't tell if it was chicken or beef, but I didn't want to be boorish and ask.
"I've never had anything to compare with this," I said, after I had safely eaten most of it. Generally that is a safe statement when one needs to say something but still be kind.
Bob beamed, his narrow face widening. "Ostrich en cassoulet."
"He's kidding again, right?"
Rob looked at Bob fondly. "Not this time. Bob was so happy to find that a few people down here actually raise the damned things. Thought he was moving to the sticks."
I swallowed hard, willing my throat muscles to keep it all down.
"So, you're from New York?"
"Nope. Outer Mongolia. My father was a yurt merchant."
"Bob!"
"Okay, Toledo originally. But I've lived in Manhattan the last twenty years."
I nodded. A voice like that might move to Manhattan, but it sure wasn't born there.
"Welcome to the South," I drawled. "I hope you like it here."
The Rob-Bobs exchanged meaningful glances. It was getting to be too much on a queasy stomach. The ostrich was having a hard time staying down. Much to my relief the doorbell rang.
"Officer Washburn!" I could hear the shock in Rob's voice. "Come in. We were just eating dinner."
Greg Washburn mumbled something, and Rob mumbled back. They were in the foyer and we couldn't see them, but we didn't have to know that our evening had taken a turn for the worse. Bob Steuben regarded me somberly. A cock might as well have crowed three times.
They stepped quietly into the dining room. Both of them averted their eyes from me.
"Well, it appears there has been a slight change of plans. My dessert tonight is going to be courtesy of the county." He spoke calmly, almost nonchalantly. I knew it was for Bob's benefit. If I'd been alone he would have sworn.
"What the hell?" Bob boomed. So much for the mousy appearance.
Greg stiffened. "I have a warrant for the arrest of one Robert David Goldburg for the murder of Eulonia Wiggins. I have read him his rights and he has agreed to come peacefully."
I stood up. "Officer, you've arrested the wrong person." I know, that was a cliché, but I was in shock and had a stomach full of ostrich.
The blue eyes bored through me. "This is police business, Ms. Timberlake."
I steadied myself on the chair. "Well it's my business, too. I'm the one who told you that the bellpull belonged to Rob. I also told you that he didn't do it. Besides, he has alibis."
"Who?" I never knew blue could be so cold.
"Well, like Bob here, for instance. He's Rob's partner now."
"Actually Bob had Monday afternoon off." Rob said in a stupid display of honesty. "He had to change his driver's license and do some other errands. I was running the shop alone."
"But you had customers!" I practically screamed.
"Yeah, some. But it was a pretty slow day for me. Everyone was down at your shop." He laughed weakly.
Greg Washburn had the nerve to dismiss me by turning slightly away. His body language was deafening.
"I'm taking Mr. Goldburg down to the precinct house with me," he said to Bob. "You can follow if you want, but there isn't any point as far as I can see. The bail hearing won't be until tomorrow morning, and since this is a capital offense, I wouldn't count on your friend walking anytime soon. My advice is that you get a good night's sleep and call the best lawyer you know in the morning."
"Call your lawyer now," I said.
Greg Washburn turned his back. Bob Steuben looked helplessly from Rob to me.
"Call him," I said.
For the first time since I've known him, Rob Goldburg seemed helpless. "I don't know any criminal lawyers. Not personally. And Bob has just moved here."
"Then call Clay Timberlake," I said.
"What?" Rob's jaw dropped almost to his chest. Even Greg Washburn was surprised enough to turn my way.
"Okay, so Clay is Buford's brother, but he's also the best criminal lawyer in Charlotte. Maybe even in the state."
Rob stared for a minute, thinking. In the meantime I stared at Greg Washburn. He was the Judas, not me. Maybe he felt a little guilty; I could swear I saw him blink. Then again, one of those long, thick lashes, come loose, might have been the problem.
"Abigail, you're serious? Clayton Timberlake, the timbersnake?"
I nodded vigorously. "I don't have to like him to know he's good. And he's the best."
"The best is probably more than I can afford," Rob said. Not that it mattered. Rob made a fair living from his shop, but he had a rich, widowed mother who doted on him. F. Lee Bailey or Clayton Timberlake? It was merely a matter of convenience.
"Excuse me," Bob said, in that rich vibrating voice. "I'm new here, and I don't know all the players, but I do know that you, Abigail, and your ex-husband don't get along at all. What makes you think your husband's brother is going to want to be Rob's lawyer, given the fact that you two are friends? How am I supposed to talk him into that?"
"Look, I'll call him for you," I said. "I've had a lot of experience handling snakes. After all, I was part of that family for eighteen years."
Bob studied his partner's face.
"All right," Rob said at last. "Abby, give it a shot." He turned to Bob. "It's not Abigail's fault. It really isn't."
Bob Steuben shrugged.
"I mean it, Dinky. Do what Abigail says, I trust her on this."
; "Yeah right," Bob said.
I didn't blame him for being skeptical. I should have kept my mouth shut about that bellpull. But oh no, once again I made the mistake of thinking that truth and reason added up to justice. Boy, was I ever wrong. Surely, somewhere, there was a math class for the dangerously naive. Before I opened my mouth again, on any issue more important than which way to hang a roll of toilet paper, I was going to have to take that class. As it was, I was a menace to myself and to my friends. And now the Rob-Bobs were counting on me.
But "Dinky"? That had been my pet name for Buford!
I wouldn't mind having the weight of the world placed on my shoulders now and then if I wasn't already so damn short. As it was, I had to stand on tiptoe to dial Rob's wall phone.
"Hello, Timberlake residence. Marsha Timberlake speaking."
"Shit," I said, and then remembered to cover the mouthpiece.
Marsha Timberlake, Buford's sister-in-law, is one of those people born with a recessed left ear and an indentation in her left jaw. It would be a simple matter to graft a telephone receiver to her head. Outpatient surgery at the most. Marsha can, and does, talk for hours without feeling any ill effects. No cauliflower ear for her. At any rate, I hadn't expected Marsha to answer. She does, after all, have a seventeen-year-old daughter who was born with the same cranial deformity. Need I say more?
"Who is this," Marsha demanded, "and what did you say?"
There was plenty of time for me to think. Marsha does not hang up on callers, even if they've already hung up on her. Not unless call waiting patches in a new victim.
"It's me, Abby," I said finally. "I was telling my dog to sit."
"You don't have a dog, Abigail. You don't even have custody of your children anymore. Speaking of which, how are they, dear? Did you know that my little Dorothy was elected to vice president of the senior class? Of course that shouldn't come as much of a surprise, not when you recall that our dear, dear Redmund was class president three times when he was in high school. Now take our Scarlet, she's still just in seventh grade, but—"
