by Tamar Myers
The waitress, a mere child herself, waited patiently while the father nudged the mother, priming her for his next funny remark.
"They all," he pointed to the children, "will be having the grits. We all," he gestured at his wife and then himself, "will be having the biscuits with sausage gravy. That isn't too spicy, is it?"
"Sir?"
"On account of John's heart," the wife said. She spoke loud and slow, as if the waitress had a hearing problem, "The doctor says he has to avoid spicy foreign foods."
"Ma'am?"
The father belched good-naturedly. "Spice. That's what it does to me. This stuff isn't spicy, is it? You know, hot?"
The waitress shrugged. "I don't think it is."
The wife nodded sagely. "That means it's hot," she translated. "Well, in that case, we'll be having the grits, too. And toast please."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, does cinnamon on the toast cost extra?"
"No, ma'am. What would y'all like to drink?"
The wife whispered to her husband, who shook his head. She whispered again, as loud as a choir of snakes.
"Is the water here safe to drink?" he asked obediently.
"That does it," Wynnell said.
She stood up and would have charged the Yankee pestilence had I not grabbed a fold of her outer garment. As I should well have expected, a piece about the size of a pillow case tore loose.
"Now look what you've done!"
I looked. The swatch of fabric was in my hand, but Wynnell's outfit looked no different.
"Oh, you've ruined it," Wynnell wailed, oblivious of the Yankees. "Now I'm going to have to go home and change."
I tried to pat the fabric back in place. There was no telling where it came from. Wynnell sews free-form.
"Not there, you idiot," she snapped. It is hard being a southern lady when one's ensemble is in shreds.
"Hey, hey, what have we here?" the Major asked. It must have been his military training, but I hadn't heard as much as a sole scuff against the floor.
"Sit," I hissed to Wynnell. "No one will notice anything."
She sat, the severed-material draped across her lap like an oversize napkin. I hoped my other guests didn't request napkins to match their outfits.
Gretchen showed up at 7:30 on the dot, as I expected her to. The woman has a thing about punctuality. She claims—and I believe her—to have given birth to all four of her children on their respective due dates, as determined by her doctor months in advance. Furthermore, all four children were born at precisely 10 A.M. All this from a woman who refuses to wear a watch.
"You know of course that Joan Lunden is interviewing the three tenors at seven-forty-six."
"No ma'am," I said.
Gretchen shoved her glasses back up into place. "Of course, I'm taping the show, but I would rather watch it live. You know, Abigail, I really don't see why I'm needed here. I didn't make any threats against Rob Silverburg, now did I?"
"No ma'am, and that's Goldburg, not Silverburg."
Peggy's iridescent blue eye shadow preceded her into the room, providing a much needed diversion. She was chewing something. The woman eats three square meals a day, plus innumerable "pre" and "post" meals. It isn't humanly possible to be that horny. Neither is it possible to eat that much and not be any fatter than she is. The woman is either an alien from another solar system or a bulimic sex addict. If you knew Peggy, you'd vote for the former.
"Is that friend of Rob Goldburg's here yet?"
I ducked a shower of crumbs. "No, but he'll be coming later on."
"Good, maybe then there's time."
"For what, dear?"
She glanced hungrily over at the Wisconsin family who were being served their toast and one-syllable grits.
"To vote Rob out of the association, that's what."
"Peggy!"
"Well, it's embarrassing, Abby. Having one of our members up on murder charges. What do I say to customers?"
"He didn't do it, Peggy! That's why we're all here. To find a way to prove he didn't."
"Still, in the meantime, we should vote him out. I'm sure we all feel that way. Don't we, Major?"
The Major sidled up to Peggy. "Yes?"
He has been trying halfheartedly to woo Peggy for as long as I've known them, but she isn't the slightest bit interested. Apparently their chemistry just isn't right for each other. It is a real shame, too, because I can see a lot of good coming from that union. Peggy could finally give up food, and with any luck, the Führer's pajamas would be retired. Personally, I think it's worth a shot.
"Tell Abigail what you told me," Peggy said.
The Major stepped forward and squared his shoulders. "We don't want an accused murderer in our little group. That's what I said."
I glared up at him. "Why the hell not? Won't he give you exclusive rights to his pajamas?"
"Very funny," the Major said, and then stepped wisely back out of kicking range.
"Gretchen, do you feel this way, too?"
Gretchen nodded and mumbled something about the three tenors and Joan Lunden getting it on. I made a mental note to ask her for details later.
"How about you, Wynnell?"
"Well Abby—"
I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. Everyone was deserting the cause before the breakfast had even begun. Even before Anita, our most conservative member, had arrived.
"Do y'all really feel this way?"
Wynnell, Gretchen, and the Major nodded. Even the Brady Bunch from Wisconsin nodded, although it was none of their damn business.
There was the staccato rap of machine-gun fire in the doorway, and I ducked behind Peggy. The Major, who has been properly trained in these matters, hit the deck. Peggy and Wynnell are much braver than I and didn't budge. Either that, or they recognized the sound of Anita coughing.
Sure enough, there she was, standing in the doorway, a vision of holiness. Anita wears modest, wrist-length sleeves, even in summer, and her skirts are what Rob calls "mud-draggers." She never wears any jewelry because it is somehow inherently sinful. However, I must say that the Holy Roller hairdo she sports is actually rather becoming on her. The woman is a very pale, natural blond, with no discernible lashes or brows. It is my personal opinion that she would benefit enormously from a little makeup, but who am I to judge? Besides, the tobacco stains on her teeth do supply a little contrast.
"Oh there you are, dear!" Peggy ran up to Anita and gave her a quick hug.
Anita smiled. "Are we all here?"
"All except for Bob Steuben, our newest member," I said cheerfully.
Anita frowned. "You didn't tell her, then?"
"Course I did," Peggy said, "she just—"
I snatched a piece of cinnamon toast from the tourists' table and crammed it in Peggy's mouth. They were too busy complaining about the butter in their cereal to notice.
"Let's all take a seat, shall we?" I asked brightly. "We have a lot to cover this morning." Whatever my colleagues had decided didn't count, not until they had heard me out.
We were able to order and listen to Anita say grace before returning to the subject of Rob Goldburg.
"Amen," I chanted. I gently tapped my water glass. "Now, folks, about Rob Goldburg. Here's what I had in mind. Of course—"
"Anita is our president," Gretchen said. She looked at me over the tops of enormous round frames. "Shouldn't she be calling this meeting to order?"
I smiled sweetly. "Yes, dear, but I called this meeting."
"Are you paying for our breakfasts?" Peggy asked.
"Hey, no fair! Not unless she does something about my dress first!" Wynnell turned to me and gave me a world-class withering look.
"You may rummage through my sewing scrap bag," I said generously. "Take whatever you want, but not that square of cotton paisley. I'm saving that for a halter top."
It was like telling a child they could have all the candy in a candy shop except one particular chocolate bar. Of course, I was one step ahead of Wynnell
.
"That's the hot-pink material with the yellow paisleys, isn't it? Why can't I have that?"
I sighed deeply. "All right, dear, you can have the paisley piece, but you owe me one."
Wynnell nodded happily.
"Well, are you paying for breakfast, or not?" Peggy demanded.
"Okay, okay. But you can't change your order." Believe it or not it was a happy compromise for both of us.
I tapped on my glass again. The Yankee children tapped on theirs, but I ignored them.
"Does anybody know what time it is?" I asked.
"It is exactly seven-forty-six," Gretchen said wistfully. "Right now the three tenors are on Joan Lunden having a good time."
"I think you misspoke, dear. Anyway, it's time we banded together to protect ourselves and our reputations."
"By ousting Rob Goldburg, right?" Anita started to reach into her purse but stopped. The cigarette would have to wait for a private moment.
"Wrong," I said. "Even if we oust Rob, and he is found guilty, our reputation is going to suffer. We will have had a murderer among our group. It will always be a scandal. Not only is no one going to want to buy my aunt's shop, but no one will buy his, either. We will have two shops sitting empty on our street.
"But on the other hand, if we help prove him innocent—which I believe he is—our little group has nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, once the police are convinced that Rob didn't murder my aunt, then they can start looking for the real killer. He may kill again, you know."
"Not likely," Anita said. "Now that he's in jail."
I thought of borrowing one of Wynnell's withering looks but wisely opted for the candy approach.
"My aunt had many friends, dear. From what I hear that church is going to be packed for her funeral."
Anna's eyes glazed over in anticipation of her Rock Hill debut. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. Perhaps she was mouthing the words of the hymn she would sing.
"Now, back to what we can do to help Rob out," I said firmly.
"Hmm, hmm." The Major outlined his abbreviated mustache with a pudgy finger. "Not so fast there, girlie. There is just one thing wrong with your little scheme."
"Yeth?" It is hard to enunciate clearly while biting one's tongue.
"Well, what's wrong is that Gretchen here saw Rob Goldburg enter your aunt's shop the evening she was killed. Just minutes before, as a matter of fact."
"What?"
Even the Yankee dawdlers jumped.
"Tell her, Gretchen."
Everyone was nodding like a rear window full of plastic puppies. Poor Gretchen had no choice but to come clean.
"It was six-sixteen, time for the local weather, not that I had a television on, mind you. I don't keep a TV in my shop."
"No need." I said sweetly. "Please, go on."
Gretchen glanced at the Major, who was nodding more vigorously than the rest of the puppies. She pushed her glasses back into place, probably to protect her from my wrath.
"Well, I was just locking the front door, when I saw Rob Goldburg doing the same thing. Only he got done first. I waved at him, but I guess he didn't see me, 'cause he trotted right on over to poor Eulonia's place."
"Did you see him go inside."
"No, but I'm sure he did. I know he was parked in the other direction, right in front of me, and when I got to the car, he was nowhere to be seen, but his car was still there."
"What does that prove!" I tried not to sound too triumphant.
Gretchen squirmed. She has a short, plump torso, with only the hint of a neck. When she squirms her whole body is put into motion.
"Well, at exactly six-nineteen, just in time for the sports roundup, I drove up the street, past Eulonia's shop, and there was no Rob. So he must have gone inside."
"I see."
She smiled and nodded, along with the rest of the rear-window pups.
"So, you're saying that you saw Rob head off in the direction of my aunt's shop, but you turned away before you saw him go in. Later when you didn't see him on the street, you assumed he was inside? Killing her?"
This time Gretchen glanced at Anita, who was busily studying the Yankee dawdlers. Perhaps she could sense their souls were ripe for saving.
"Well, he didn't evaporate into thin air," Gretchen wailed.
"Yes, he did."
The bobbing heads all froze and then pivoted in unison to gape at the speaker, who was male.
"Ah, Bob, just in time," I said, pushing my chair back. The hug I gave him was for my colleagues' benefit just as much as it was for his.
"What the devil is going on?" the Major bellowed.
I introduced Bob Steuben. When I mentioned that he was from Toledo, the Yankees became agitated. Perhaps they thought Bob was going to be our next course.
The Major was the first to recover. "Now tell me, boy, what you meant when you said he evaporated into thin air?"
Bob smiled bravely. "He didn't exactly evaporate, but he didn't go into Miss Wiggins's shop. I can vouch for that."
Gretchen peered over her lenses. Clearly she found the man less intimidating than yours truly. I didn't know whether or not to be flattered.
"But I saw him head that way, and then three minutes later he wasn't there. How do you explain that?"
"Easy. I picked him up. I drove past y'all's shop while y'all was locking up, and parked down the street a short way. Rob was headed for my car when you last saw him."
"The subject of y'all is always plural," Peggy said generously. Perhaps she hadn't heard that Bob was gay.
"Well, that explains it," Gretchen said. She sounded relieved I knew it was important for her to be believed, no matter what the outcome.
A couple of the heads nodded; Wynnell's did not. "You have any kin that fought in the war?"
Bob turned and regarded her pleasantly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, my dad fought in the war."
"Which side?"
"Ours, of course."
Wynnell looked like she'd been slapped. "That ain't so funny to some of us. Some of us still take it pretty serious, you know."
Bob looked about as confused as a palmetto in a snowstorm. "My dad took it very seriously. He was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. He would have died, but a German medic saved his life."
I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. "I'm sorry," I said between gasps. "You were talking about World War II, but Wynnell was talking about the Civil War!"
"The War Between the States," the Major corrected me.
"The War of Northern Aggression," Wynnell snapped.
"Speaking of saved," Anita said, "Are you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"If you died today, do you know where your soul will go?"
I turned to Anita. "Is that a threat, dear?"
Anita glared at me through lashless lids. "If Rob Goldburg had been saved, he wouldn't have killed your aunt. Jesus would have stopped him."
"Rob is Jewish, dear," I said wearily. "Maybe he has a different take on things."
"Jesus saves. Moses invests," Bob said lightly.
Anita was not amused. "You haven't answered my question."
Bob shrugged. I could see he was losing patience with us. If he enlisted the Yankee dawdlers, it could be a fair fight.
"Well?"
"I was raised Presbyterian. Any other personal questions?"
"Northern Presbyterian or southern?"
The Major cleared his throat. "What I want to know is, did you serve in the army? The United States Army?"
"No, I did not. They were no longer drafting when I turned eighteen."
"You could have enlisted. I did. It's a patriotic man's duty, if you ask me."
"There are other ways of showing your patriotism," Bob said. He looked like he was about to bolt.
"Pledging to PBS is just one way of showing your patriotism," Gretchen said.
"Bullshit!" The Major pounded the table and sent Denny's cutlery flying for the second time that week. "PBS is commie crap."
&
nbsp; "My singles group is planning a trip to Russia next month," Peggy said generously. "I'm sure there is still time to sign up. I hear that old icons are a bargain. You can pick up some authentic Byzantine pieces for a fraction of what you'd have to pay for them in New York."
"Really?" Bob actually seemed interested.
"Of course the trip itself is rather expensive. It's much cheaper if you choose double accommodations. I signed up for a single, but I'd be willing to share, if you want."
"I bet you would," the Major said. The mustache twitched like a mouse in heat.
"Hey, how far is it to Disney World?" the Yankee husband called from his table.
"Three thousand miles and you're going the wrong way," Wynnell said with a straight face.
Actually, with Wynnell it's very hard to tell if she's smiling. You could grow okra in those furrows and never even see it. Maybe even a little cotton.
"That does it, Wilbur," the Yankee wife shouted. "We're turning around right after breakfast and heading home. Back to where people are polite."
It was time to wrest control of my meeting, so I tapped loudly on my water glass. Everyone but Wynnell gave me their attention, so I whistled Dixie. Just the first few bars.
"Look folks, we have gotten way off the subject here. We're supposed to be helping our friend and colleague, Rob. Not giving Bob here the third degree."
"Rob may be y'all's friend, but he isn't mine," Anita said. "The Bible warns us not to be unequally yoked with sinners. Some of y'all may want to share Rob's yoke, but don't count me in."
The Major squared his shoulders. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
I banged on my water glass. One of the copycat Yankee children banged on a plate with a fork, and the din was horrible. Neither Mama nor Daddy Yankee made a move to correct the child, proving Wynnell's often expressed opinion that proper etiquette is solely a southern virtue.
I ignored the child's noise and smiled sweetly at my guests. "Remember just who is picking up the check."
"I sure as hell am not!"
I dropped my fork on my plate and made more noise than the Yankee child. There, in the doorway of the nonsmoking section, stood my ex-husband Buford Timberlake. On each arm was a woman, and neither of them was Tweetie.
The woman on his left was at least six feet tall, with bottle black hair, and hips still quivering from liposuction. The woman on his right was of average height, with auburn hair, but she was definitely not built for speed. If those boobs didn't have their own zip codes, then she had to be in violation of some federal statute. Perhaps that's why she was having breakfast with a lawyer.
