by Tamar Myers
She giggled. “No, I’m serious. Look at Greg. Tall, dark and handsome—and he’d give his eye teeth to get you back.”
“And I’d be happy to help him pull them.”
“Ooh, Abby, you’re bad. But you always know how to make me feel better. You know that?”
I shrugged, feeling guilty. The girl is one of my peripheral friends, after all. Her name is not likely to appear on my social calendar unless my other friends—the A list—are all busy.
“Are you hungry, dear?” I asked. It wouldn’t hurt me to go down to the kitchen and scrounge up something for her to eat. I’m not the world’s best cook, but even I could compete with Alexandra.
“Nah, I’ve got stuff right here. But thanks, anyway.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Candy bars. Three Musketeers.”
“You wouldn’t have one to spare, would you?”
C.J. rummaged in her suitcase and produced a freezer bag containing eight candy bars. “Hey, Abby, you want to watch a little TV?”
“I haven’t seen a set since we arrived, dear. I don’t think the boob tube is part of the Burton-Latham world.”
“Yeah, but I kinda figured that would be the case, so I brought my own.”
“You didn’t!”
C.J. trotted back to her magic suitcase. I was beginning to think that battered old valise was capable of producing all sorts of wonders, just like David Copperfield’s pants. Or Greg’s pants, to hear him brag.
It was a small set, but C.J. had had the foresight to bring along an antenna. So, when I should have been downstairs trying to earn a buck, or at the least keeping an eye on things, I found myself ensconced on a vintage bed, with a B-list buddy, watching B-grade movies.
Take it from me; a gal can get herself into a lot of trouble that way.
8
The last thing I remember was Doris Day slapping Rock Hudson. Or was that Sophia Loren slapping Cary Grant? Surely it wasn’t Curly slapping Moe. At any rate, despite the sugar and caffeine contained in those chocolate bars, I fell asleep close to midnight, and slept straight through until eight forty-five the next morning. I was still wearing my “designer” gown when I nodded off, because I was half expecting Tradd, or even Rupert, to knock on the door, and beg our participation in the goings-on.
But they didn’t. When I woke up sunlight was streaming in between the velvet drapes, and C.J. was snoring away beside me. I was astounded. It was the first time that I can recall ever having slept through an entire night without having to heed the call of nature. And the fact that I managed sleep through C.J.’s snores was nothing short of miraculous. The woman has a vibrating uvula that can wake the dead as far away as Utah.
“C.J.!”
Snrrrrrrx
I shook her, gently at first, and then made like the paint mixer at Home Depot.
“Go away!”
“C.J., it’s me, Abby. Curfew is over, and if we don’t shake a leg, breakfast will be, too.”
“A shake for breakfast sounds good.”
I whacked her with my pillow. “Up, up!”
She sat up slowly, like an aging sea monster rising from a sea of silk. “Aagh! It’s so bright out.”
“It’s called morning, dear.”
“Oh, Abby, close the curtains. All that light is giving me a pounding headache.”
As if on cue someone outside our door rapped sharply.
“We’ll be right there,” I called brightly.
“You see,” C.J. wailed, “even you can hear it!”
“It’s the door, dear. Be a doll, and answer it, will you? I forgot to pack a robe.”
C.J. groaned. “Do I have to? My head’s killing me. Besides, you’re wearing the same thing now you wore last night. They’ve seen it all before.”
“That’s precisely why I can’t answer the door, dear. They’ll think I slept in my clothes.”
“But you did sleep in your clothes.”
“Actually, I slept in your clothes and a drapery tieback. Now answer the door.”
Our visitor, lacking the patience of Job, began pounding in earnest. It’s a good thing they used solid doors back in the days of Col. Elias Latham. A hollow, particle-board door would have given way under the onslaught of fists.
“Open up in there,” a male voice shouted. It sounded like Harold Burton. “Open up, or I’ll have to break down the door.”
I snatched the silk spread, flung a corner over either shoulder, and staggered for the door. Someone was going to get a piece of my mind.
“You tell ’em, Abby,” C.J. called encouragingly from the safe comfort of the bed.
“Hold your horses!” I shouted and flung open the door.
Sure enough, it was Harold Burton, his fist raised in midblow. It was a small comfort that Harold, surprised by the sudden absence of a hard surface on which to bring down his fist, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the room. Thanks to all the karate classes Mama dragged me to, I was able to step adroitly aside.
I graciously helped the groaning man to his feet. “Most folks are more civilized when they call their guests to breakfast. A few folks even serve their guests in bed.”
Harold gingerly touched his chin, which seemed to have taken the brunt of his fall. “You can forget about having breakfast.”
“But we’re only fifteen minutes late, dear. And it doesn’t have to be fancy. Cold cereal will do just fine, won’t it, C.J.?”
“Ooh, I just love cold cereal! Do y’all have Chocolate Cheeseburger Crunch?”
“There isn’t going to be any damned breakfast!” Harold roared. “There’s been a murder.”
“What?”
“Don’t you ladies play dumb with me. Flora is dead, and one of you killed her. Now come with me.”
To his credit Harold permitted me to slip on a pair of stone-washed jeans and a brand-new T-shirt from the Gap. I know, those might sound a little casual for a weekend jaunt to the fabled Burton-Latham estate, but we’re living in a new, less-structured age now where just about anything goes. Besides, they were both clean.
The rest of the clan had already assembled in the drawing room, and they stared at us as we filed in. Even the grande dame was there, although she seemed to have replaced her flat button eyes with a pair of laser beams. I could feel those babies bore into me like a pastry funnel into a cream cake.
“I told you she was trash,” Edith said to Tradd.
“I am not!” I said hotly. “I come from an old, well-respected family. My great-great-granddaddy was a major in the War between the States. He sold both his mules to buy clothes for his troops.”
“Poor white trash.”
“Wow, isn’t that something,” C.J. exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder. “My great-great-great-granddaddy was a major, too. Only he sold out his troops to buy clothes for his mules.”
“No wonder the South lost the war,” I moaned. I turned to Tradd. “What’s this about Flora being murdered. Surely you don’t believe that either C.J. or I had anything to do with it?”
The golden orbs flickered. “Of course not. But Flora was found dead in her room this morning. She’d been stabbed in the chest.”
I shuddered. Death by burning would be my last choice. Death by a blade—of any description—runs a close second.
“When did it happen?”
Tradd shrugged.
“As if you don’t know,” Sally sneered.
“Well, I don’t! I went to my room right after supper, and didn’t leave until Harold came up and got us.”
“And I’m her witness,” C.J. said loyally. “Not that Abby needs one, of course. She can’t even open a jar of peanut butter without help, much less stab anyone to death. Besides, Abby’s so short, she couldn’t possibly have stabbed Flora in the chest; the knife would have hit Flora in the knees.”
“This is no time to be funny, dear,” I said through gritted teeth.
Albert clapped his hands. “Did you hear that, folks? She said ‘knife!’”
I
glared at him. “So?”
“So, who said it was a knife? It could have been an ice pick, or a screwdriver.”
“Or a kris,” C.J. said.
“A what?” Mrs. Latham spoke in a voice so thin and sharp it could have sliced bread.
C.J., startled, took a step backward, tripped on her own feet, and nearly fell to the floor. It took a moment for her to recover.
“A kris is a kind of knife, ma’am,” I said on C.J.’s behalf.
“I know what a kris is,” the grande dame said crisply. “The Sultan of Bandar gave that kris to my husband and me when we toured his country on our honeymoon.”
“What kris?” I glanced around the room. “Where?”
“The one in poor Flora’s chest,” Edith hissed.
I pointedly wiped her spittle from my face. “I didn’t even know your grandmother owned a kris.” I turned to Tradd. “Did you?”
“No.” Okay, so he wasn’t a knight in shining armor, but he didn’t seem as anxious to draw and quarter me as did the others.
“I kept the kris in my room,” Mrs. Latham said. She was back to button eyes. Even her voice had gone flat. “Did I ever tell you that the sultan wanted me for his harem?”
“No, grandmother,” Tradd said politely.
“Well, he did. He offered your grandfather a bag of uncut rubies and a purebred Arabian stallion.”
“What a coincidence,” C.J. managed to say before I clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Omar was his name. The sultan’s, not the horse. He was a very handsome man. But even if I didn’t love your grandfather—well, the sultan already had eight wives, and who knows how many concubines. Still, it was a great honor just to be asked. There were times, in the years to come, that I almost wished we’d taken him up on his offer. Your grandfather, as you may recall, was not the kindest of men. And he might have had only one wife, but—”
Edith laid a brown arm around the grande dame’s left shoulder. “Grandmother, please, must we share family secrets with them?”
Alexandra, who had been sitting very still, alabaster hands folded in lap, jumped to her feet and embraced her grandmother’s right shoulder. “Well, I think it’s a beautiful, romantic story. What almost was—the road not taken—lost loves, you know. I see it as a movie. Maybe with Tori Spelling playing you and—”
“Suck up,” somebody hissed.
“I could play Grandfather,” Rupert said. He sounded serious. “I already live in L.A., and I took an acting class last year.”
Edith glared at her youngest brother. “Well, as long as we’re casting the movie, I suggest we get Miss Cox here to play dead Flora.”
“Ooh,” C.J. said, “I could do that. I was in the drama club in high school, and Flora and I were about the same height.”
“She was being facetious,” I whispered. “She didn’t really mean that.”
Edith had ears like a bat. “Don’t you tell me what I mean, or don’t mean. And speaking of your friend here, she is the same size as poor dead Flora. Maybe you couldn’t have overpowered Flora and killed her with Grandmother’s fancy knife, but Miss Cox is another story.”
The doorbell rang, and C.J. and I both nearly jumped out of our skins.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Harold said smugly. “I called the sheriff before I went up and got you. That should be him now.”
“One of you is going to pay,” someone said softly.
I stared at beautiful Alexandra. In her large, blue-gray eyes was a look of pure hate.
Sheriff Neely Thompson did not fit the stereotype of a southern lawman; he was black, his stomach was taut, rippling with muscles—or so I imagined—and he did not have a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He was perhaps in his late forties, of average height, with a full head of hair, worn natural. Alas, the thick gold ring on his left hand made it eminently clear he was married.
“Good morning,” the sheriff said, nodding to each of us in turn, before giving his full attention to Mrs. Latham. “Good morning, Genevieve.”
My heart sank. The fact that he was on a first-name basis with the grande dame meant they were old friends. There wasn’t even a “Miss” thrown in there as a sign of deference.
“Good morning, Neely. How are the fish biting up your way?”
“Not so good—it’s been too hot lately on the river. But I bought a new outboard for my big boat and when the grouper start moving this fall, I’m taking her out on the ocean.”
“I caught a sixty-pound marlin the year I got married,” the old lady said wistfully. “Elias caught nothing. We almost called the wedding off.”
Sheriff Thompson laughed. “Lucky for me, Denise hates to fish. But she likes being out on the water. Always brings a book or two.”
“How is Denise? Will she be teaching again this fall?”
“Man, oh, man,” C.J. moaned, tapping her foot dangerously.
Sheriff Thompson foolishly ignored her. “Guess you haven’t heard yet. She’s decided to go back to Clemson for her Ph.D. I’m afraid that when the grouper run, I’ll be fishing by myself. Unless, of course, you care to go with me.”
The grande dame chuckled. “Careful, Neely. I might just take you up on that.”
“Don’t think I’m kidding. I got a new reel for Christmas that purrs like a kitten. You’re welcome to give it a try.”
“Arrrrrgh!” C.J. wailed.
We all stared at the spectacle from Shelby. Her hands were pressed tightly against her head, as if to hold it together in the event of an explosion. From the looks of her bulging eyes, the disaster was imminent.
“You have to excuse her,” I said. “She hasn’t had her breakfast, and all this talk of fishing has made her hungry.”
Mrs. Latham recoiled in indignation. “Breakfast! At a time like this?”
“Arrrrrgh,” C.J. wailed again.
I did the loving thing and slapped my young protégé. It was a gentle slap, mind you, and I took care to hit neither eye nor ear. Trust me, under the circumstances, it was the right thing to do.
At last the girl found her tongue. “Please,” she begged the sheriff, “if you’re going to arrest me, do it now and get it over with!”
“Arrest you?”
Letting go of her head, C.J. thrust both hands out. “Here. Cuff me, but be careful of the mole on my left wrist. If it gets irritated it might turn into cancer.”
Sheriff Thompson smiled. “Maybe it is time I got down to business. Okay, if that’s the way you want it, Miss—”
“I knew it! I knew you were onto me.” She turned. “Goodbye, Abby.”
“C.J.—”
“My keys are in the zippered pouch in my purse. Please, Abby, water my plants at home. And feed Cicero.”
“Cicero?”
“I bought an iguana last month for my birthday. Didn’t I tell you? And you thought I was still living alone.”
Reptiles give me the heebie-jeebies. Perhaps it is because I was married to one for twenty years.
“Well—uh—”
“He’s very tame, Abby. He’ll eat lettuce right from your lips.”
“I don’t even think so.”
“Take what you want from my shop as payment.” She turned back to Sheriff Thompson. “Will they be vertical or horizontal stripes?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“I’m kind of tall, you see, and vertical stripes might be too much. But I have broad shoulders and sort of a big bottom, so horizontal is out. Would it be possible to compromise and go for diagonal?”
Sheriff Thompson bit his lip. His eyes were dancing.
“We don’t use stripes in my jail. We use polka dots. You get your choice of large or small.”
C.J. breathed a sigh of relief. “I always did look good in polka dots—large, of course. They make me look smaller. Do I get to choose blue?”
Sheriff Thompson nodded. “Any other requests?”
C.J. shook her head. “So, do I confess here, or at the station?”
I gra
bbed one of her outstretched hands. “Don’t be ridiculous, C.J. All this nonsense could land you in a heap of trouble.”
She shook loose. “But I’m already in a heap of trouble, don’t you see? I killed Flora.”
9
I felt faint, just like the night Buford announced he was trading me in for Tweetie, who was less than half my age. It happened a week before our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I can remember it like it happened yesterday. We were getting ready for bed, and in a rare moment of boldness, I put the moves on my own husband.
“Not now,” he said, surprisingly gruff.
“What’s the matter?” I teased. “Have a headache?”
He colored, something I mistook then as a coy blush.
I giggled. “Maybe if I give you a massage, your headache will go away.”
“It isn’t a headache, Abby. We’re through.”
“I know you’re usually too quick, dear, but this time we haven’t even begun!”
“I’m not joking, Abby. You know that new secretary the firm hired?”
“You mean Silicone Valley?”
“Yeah, that’s the one, but her name is Tweetie Moreno.”
“You mean Tweetie like the bird?”
“Stop it, Abby. I’m trying to tell you it’s over between us. I want a divorce.”
That’s when I felt faint. My head spun, my vision blurred, and it was as if someone had punched me in the soft spots behind both knees. I sat heavily down on our turned-back bed.
“What has she got that I don’t?” I wailed.
As if it wasn’t obvious. Two decades of marriage down the drain because of two handfuls of petroleum derivatives. How shallow can someone get?
“See her bust size, and raise her two,” I said.
What was I talking about? Although there were any number of plastic surgeons in Charlotte who would be happy to sell me a chest, with my small frame I couldn’t achieve even Tweetie’s dimensions without toppling over.
“Aw, get it off, Abby. It isn’t just her boobs. It’s who she is. Tweetie makes me feel like a young man again.”
“And what do I make you feel like?” I shouted. “Chopped liver?”
Okay, so I was getting carried away by one of my most miserable memories, but that didn’t warrant a slap from C.J.
