Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  “Abby!”

  I reeled, more from shock than the impact. Face it, C.J. might be a big gal, but she has poor follow-through. Apparently she is also very fond of me.

  “Ooh, Abby, I’m so sorry! It’s just that you were babbling on and on about Buford and Tweetie.”

  “I was?”

  “You were raving like a lunatic.” C.J. touched my cheek gently. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just tell me that you didn’t confess to a murder.”

  “She did,” Edith said triumphantly. Between you and me I wanted to take Edith’s diamonds and shove them down her wrinkled brown throat.

  “I’m not talking to you.” I turned to my friend. “C.J., is that true?”

  “Just a minute,” Sheriff Thompson said. “Are you aware that anything you say can be held against you in a court of law?”

  C.J. nodded dismally. Tears streamed down her face. It was a crying shame she hadn’t taken the time to wash her hair since yesterday’s ride in Tradd’s convertible. Stringy hair is no way to start a prison stay—or so I’ve been told.

  It is a fact that tall people get more respect than we vertically challenged. I, unfairly, am often treated as a child. There is really nothing I can do about it; with my size-four feet I can only wear so much heel. Still, I did what little I could and stood as straight as a yardstick, although of course taller.

  “Sheriff, are you arresting Miss Cox?”

  He smiled. “I’m not in the habit of arresting anyone for murder without first seeing a body.”

  “Ah, the body.” The grande dame made a distasteful face. “I saw her myself, Neely. It’s a gruesome sight.” She turned to her middle grandson. “Tradd, dear, will you be so kind as to show Sheriff Thompson to Flora’s room? You seem to know the way quite well.”

  Tradd had the decency to blush. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m coming, too,” I said, “and so is C.J.”

  Edith gasped. “You most certainly are not!”

  “Habeas corpus!” I screamed. I wasn’t sure what it meant, except that it had something to do with a body. Either that, or it was a town in Texas.

  “What?”

  “No one is arresting C.J. for a corpse she hasn’t even seen, and—”

  “She just confessed, you idiot. Of course, she saw the body.”

  “Well, I haven’t, and I’m her best friend. Besides, C.J. didn’t know what she was doing when she confessed. She didn’t really mean it.”

  “Yes, I did, Abby.”

  “Shut up, C.J.!”

  Sheriff put his hand up as if he were stopping traffic. “Who, here, has not seen the unfortunate Flora since her alleged demise?”

  I was the only one to raise my hand.

  “You can come, Miss—”

  “Timberlake. Abigail Louise Timberlake.”

  He nodded. “I hope you have a strong stomach, Miss Timberlake.”

  “I’ve seen corpses before,” I said, perhaps a bit too jauntily.

  “Then, let’s go.”

  The two of us followed Tradd to a small, windowless room off the kitchen. One actually had to walk through the pantry to get to it. This cubicle may have once been part of the pantry, but I had a hunch it had once served as quarters for some favored “house slave.” It was hardly a bedroom for a free and salaried maid. At any rate, the grande dame was right, a gruesome sight met these weary eyes.

  Only a teenager is capable of creating the mess that was Flora’s room. Since the maid was well into her twenties at the time of her death, I can only surmise that she was emotionally stunted. That would have explained her involvement with Tradd. The tiny room looked as if a garbage truck had crashed into a section of Victoria’s Secret. Bras, panties, and other assorted lingerie items were scattered everywhere, as were food wrappers and containers. An empty Snackwell box adorned one bedpost, a red lace brassiere another. A black, lace-trimmed garter belt hung from the single-bulb light fixture, red-and-white-striped candy canes dangling from its clips. So distracting was the mess that it took my eyes several seconds to spot the body, which was lying in the open, right in the middle of the bed.

  “Oh, my god,” I said and clamped a hand over my mouth.

  Tradd has hands the size of a catcher’s glove, and he clamped one over my eyes. “Grandmother tried to warn you, Abby.”

  I yanked Tradd’s hand away. “Just look at that kris! The handle is exquisite—the intricate working of the silver and the superb quality of those apple-green jade insets.”

  “Abby!” Tradd was genuinely shocked.

  I know, I should have been ashamed of myself—I am ashamed of myself now, if that makes any difference. So without further delay I will tell you what else I saw. There lay Flora spread-eagled on her rubble-covered bed, the kris buried in her chest up to its exquisite, jewel-studded handle. Flora’s mouth and eyes were wide open in an unmistakable look of surprise. Curiously, there was very little blood.

  “Oh, my,” I said quietly. Although, as previously stated, I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, it’s not something I’ve gotten used to.

  Sheriff Thompson went through the motions of feeling for a pulse. Of course there was none to be found.

  He sighed. “Well, it appears she died very quickly. There’s no sign of struggle.”

  “How can you tell?” I asked. Then, as punishment, I bit my tongue.

  Thankfully, the sheriff ignored me. He made several calls on his cell phone, speaking in a low urgent voice, while Tradd and I looked anywhere but the bed (okay, so I sneaked one last look at the kris). Then we filed out of the cubicle and back to the drawing room, where the grande dame and her descendants were cackling like hens who had just laid their eggs. Poor C.J. was the only calm one in the bunch. When we entered the room her brows raised slightly.

  “Well?” Edith demanded.

  “The girl’s dead, all right,” Sheriff Thompson said. He spoke to the grande dame, pointedly ignoring Edith. “Detective Lou Wingate will be right out. In the meantime, please make sure that everyone stays clear of the scene.”

  “I’ll make sure,” the matriarch said. “Does this mean you’re leaving?”

  The sheriff nodded. Then he looked at C.J. The poor girl looked like a raccoon caught in someone’s headlights.

  “You ready?” he asked gently.

  C.J. thrust her hands out again. This time they were balled into fists.

  “But you can’t arrest her!” I wailed. “She’s barely more than a baby.”

  “Ma’am, no one said anything about an arrest. But I am taking her in for questioning.”

  “No arrest?” Sally said indignantly. “Grandmother Latham, do something!”

  “Sheriff Thompson knows his business, dear.”

  Edith was on her feet, her brown face muddy with rage. “But Grandmother, you heard her confess. She’s guilty. She murdered Flora. The sheriff is supposed to arrest and cuff her. That’s how it’s done in movies.”

  “Sit!” the grande dame ordered. She turned to her friend. “Proceed, Neely.”

  “Are you ready, Miss Cox?” the sheriff asked gently.

  “At least let her wash her face,” I snapped. “In the meantime I’ll go get her purse.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t permit that Miss—”

  “Timberlake. Abigail Timberlake. And why not?”

  “Because she might try to escape, that’s why!” Edith hissed.

  “Shut up, Edith dear,” the grande dame said through clenched teeth.

  I would have expected someone, perhaps Rupert, to gasp, but the room was suddenly so quiet I could hear Edith Burton’s wrinkles deepen.

  “Ready?” the sheriff asked again.

  The brave girl raised her chin. “Ready.”

  C.J. went docilely, and without cuffs. I wanted to ride with her in the sheriff’s car, but he wouldn’t let me. I considered making a fuss—the kind that might lead to an arrest of my own. It had been a day for slapping, after all, and if it worked for Zsa
Zsa, it could work for me. One more slap and I could share the back seat with C.J.

  Fortunately Tradd intervened. “I’ll drive you,” he said, putting a restraining hand on my arm. “I owe you that much.”

  “You’re darn tootin’ you do.”

  Tradd smiled. “You’ve got fire, Abby. I always did admire a woman with fire.”

  I burst into tears.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Tradd asked.

  I had by then sobbed uncontrollably, blubbered through a plethora of apologies, and honked my way through Tradd’s handkerchief and half a box of tissues. Buford and I were never that intimate our entire first year of marriage.

  “I’m fine, honest. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  The golden eyes shone, blessing me with their beams. “Let’s see—oh, yeah. Your shop was gutted by thieves, you’ve been treated rudely by my family, and your best friend’s confessed to killing my grandmother’s maid.”

  I hiccupped. “She’s not my best friend. Wynnell Crawford is. But, I guess you’re right, it has been a rather trying couple of days.”

  Tradd pulled up in front of a long, low concrete building painted tan. “Well, we’re here. Do me a big favor, Abby, will you?”

  “You mean try not to get arrested, or worse yet, to do something that might land you in the hoosegow.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, like that.”

  Be careful, I told myself. You could get to like this man. Sure he had his faults—like driving too fast and lusting after Flora—but the latter was dead, and it is a fact that married men drive slower than single men. What mattered was that when the chips were down, Tradd was there. Greg, on the other hand, would have made fun of my red nose, and as for Buford, the man thought my tears were laced with anthrax, judging by his reaction.

  We went inside where a very nice lady dispatcher named Stephanie explained patiently—several times—that no, I could not barge into Sheriff Thompson’s office, but yes, I could use the phone if I kept it short and reversed the charges.

  So I did what any self-respecting, middle-aged woman would do if given the chance. I called Mama.

  Mama picked up on the first ring. “It’s about time, Abby,” she said, having accepted the call. “I’m going to Carolina Place Mall in Pineville with Dot and Marilyn. We’re having lunch at the Olive Garden. They’ll be here any minute.”

  I tried not to be annoyed. “Mama, this is important. When they come, tell them to wait.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you ‘can’t?’”

  Mama sighed. “Okay, so I’m not going to the mall with Dot and Marilyn. I’m going to your shop.”

  “What? Mama, did Greg catch the burglars? Are they returning the stuff?”

  “No, dear, but it’s almost as good. In fact, it’s even better. You wouldn’t believe the size of last night’s crowd. Wynnell is there now, and she says that Channel 9 is on its way, and that the man from the Observer has already come and done his thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “You know, the angel.”

  “Mama, please,” I wailed, “I don’t have time to talk about your visions. I have something very important to tell you.”

  “Oh, I know, dear. That’s why I’ve been waiting by the phone.”

  “What?”

  “You know I can smell trouble, dear, and ever since I woke up at six this morning my nose has been itching like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Please, bear with me, but what Mama said was undoubtedly true. The woman has a shnoz for news—good or bad. Ask anyone in Rock Hill. They’ll tell you Mama predicted Doug Echols would win the mayoral race, and she didn’t waver in her conviction even when Doug came in second in a three-way split. He won in the runoff, and had Mama taken her proboscis’s predictions to a bookie, she would be a rich woman now and lunching somewhere in Southpark, not Pineville.

  “C.J. killed someone, Mama. A maid named Flora.”

  “Nonsense, Abby.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not at all what my nose smelled. It smelled you, dear. You’re the one who is in trouble.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” I wailed. “And I’m pretty sure C.J. didn’t either.”

  “Pretty sure? You should be ashamed of yourself, Abby. After all that girl’s done for you.”

  I bit. Blame it on the fact I was feeling weak and vulnerable, and didn’t see how I could feel any worse. Blame it on the fact that I had yet to eat breakfast.

  “What has C.J. done for me, Mama?”

  Pearls clicked against the receiver of Mama’s phone. “Shall I be blunt, dear?”

  “Lay it on me, Mama.”

  “It’s what she does for your image, Abby. Having C.J. as your friend makes you look good.”

  “How does hanging around with C.J. make me look good? She’s a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, Mama, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Of course, dear. But you’re a sandwich short yourself. Hanging out with C.J. makes you look more normal by comparison.”

  “This from a woman who wears pearls in the shower?”

  “I didn’t call just so you could insult me, dear.”

  “I called you, Mama,” I shouted, and hung up.

  “Abby, you all right?” Tradd tried to fold me into a sympathetic bear hug. Any other time I might have welcomed such a move, maybe even lingered a little to breathe in his cologne. Today, however, I was not in the mood.

  I pushed myself gently, but firmly, out of his embrace. “I’m fine. Well, hell, no I’m not! I don’t know what to do, Tradd.”

  He cocked that handsome head. “Geez, I don’t know what to say. I live in Charlotte—only come down here to visit Grandmother—I don’t know anything more about local lawyers than you do.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, there is a guy I went to school with. Not a lawyer himself, but I bet he knows a couple.”

  I slapped the receiver in his hand. “Call him.”

  “I can’t, Abby. Billy’s got an unlisted number, and I don’t have it with me. But it shouldn’t be hard to find him. It would have to be raining Persians and poodles to keep him off the course.”

  “Go get him. I’ll wait right here.”

  “Uh—he plays at Litchfield Plantation Country Club. That’s a good twenty minutes from here. By the time I find him and bring him back, it could be over an hour.”

  I ran that by my gray matter. “Go anyway. In the meantime, I’ll make a few more calls back home. Somebody is bound to know the name of a good lawyer.” I hoped Billy wouldn’t be too mad if I’d already found one by the time Tradd returned.

  10

  “Wynnell’s Wooden Wonders,” the voice said cheerily, and then accepted the charges just as cheerily. Wynnell would never do that.

  “This is Abby. Get me Wynnell.” Perhaps I was a bit brusque, but Wynnell’s new assistant, Lydia, suffers from chronic happiness. This wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for the fact that the woman is a zealot, and will stop at nothing to bring a smile to one’s lips. There are days when my lips prefer to remain absolutely horizontal.

  It took at least five minutes for Wynnell to get to the phone, during which time I had to listen to Lydia singing along to a Captain & Tennille recording of “Muskrat Love.” It must have been on cassette or disk, because no sooner did my torture end, than it started all over again. If indeed I do end up in hell—as some folks have threatened—I want five years knocked off my sentence.

  Finally, a breathless Wynnell got on the line. “Abby, you won’t believe what’s going on over at your shop.”

  “Not you, too, dear! Wynnell, I really don’t have time for flights of fancy. The most horrible thing has happened here—C.J. killed a maid.”

  “Was she a Yankee?”

  “Wynnell!” The woman should be ashamed of herself. She has an unreasonable hatred of northerners. According to Wynnell the U.S. Immigration Service should tr
ansfer their focus from the Mexican border to the Mason-Dixon line.

  “I don’t know the victim’s bloodlines,” I wailed, “but she sounded local to me.”

  “Uh-oh. Then C.J.’s in trouble.”

  “Of course, she didn’t really kill the maid.”

  “But you said—”

  “That’s what she’s confessed to. But you know our C.J.: she couldn’t step on a roach if it was armed with a gun and aiming at her ankles.”

  “You’re right. Remember last year when she got head lice? She didn’t shampoo for three weeks because she was afraid of killing them.”

  “Ah, so that explains it. Wynnell, listen, I need your help.”

  “Sure, Abby, anything. You’re my best friend, so name it.”

  “Thanks, Wynnell. Say, you used to live in Georgetown, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. That’s where I got married. Abby, you know that.”

  “And you and Ed lived there for a while, didn’t you?”

  “Three years, while Ed worked for the paper mill.”

  “That’s what I remembered. So, here goes—I need you to help me find C.J. a lawyer.”

  “Me? You want me to help you find C.J. a lawyer?”

  I rapped the receiver on the counter a couple of times. “There was a nasty echo, Wynnell. Yes, that’s what I want. I was hoping you remembered the names of some Georgetown lawyers.”

  “Why should I remember any lawyers’ names?”

  “Well, I admit it’s a slim chance, but what about the guy who did your will, for instance?”

  “I don’t have a will.”

  “Of course, you do! Everyone makes out a new will when they marry, silly, and anyway that’s not my point. My point is—”

  “But I don’t have a will, Abby.”

  “You don’t? What if you or Ed were to suddenly die? Who would get your estate? I mean, what about your children? What about me?”

  “Oh, stop it Abby. Ed’s not even sixty, and I’m as healthy as a horse. All this will talk is just plain unlucky.”

  Under better circumstances I would have read her the riot act. There is no excuse for not having a will. Any one of us could get run over by a cement truck tomorrow, or, like Daddy, dive-bombed by a seagull with a tumor in its brain.