Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  I sighed. “Okay, what do I do now? Pick a lawyer at random from the Yellow Pages?”

  “That would be a good place to start. Just make sure you pick a good lawyer—C.J. can afford it. I know she’s young and, uh—well, a scoop short of a sundae—but she’s a regular genius when it comes to money.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, but how do I find a good lawyer?” I will admit to being prejudiced in this area. But I was married to a lawyer, remember? Most of the lawyer jokes out there can ultimately be traced back to me.

  “Perhaps I should restate that,” Wynnell said quickly. “Forget about finding a good lawyer, find an effective lawyer.” She paused. “Abby, if you really want to do C.J. some good, call you-know-who.”

  Wynnell is a Baptist and on the surface, at least, more religious than I. “Okay, so I’ll pray,” I promised, “but as they say, God helps them who help themselves.”

  “Abby, you’re not hearing me.”

  “Yes, I am. The connection is just fine. Maybe a little static—”

  “Call Buford!”

  “What?”

  “Now, you heard me. Listen Abby, I know you think the man is pond scum, but he’s the best at what he does, and he’s bound to know the best criminal lawyer in Georgetown County.”

  “The man is beyond pond scum,” I growled. “He’s the slime beneath the ooze beneath the sludge at the bottom of the pond.”

  “That may be,” Wynnell said patiently, “but if you’re really C.J.’s friend, you’ll give Buford a call.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” I snapped and hung up.

  Okay, so I treated Wynnell shabbily, but that’s what best friends are for. They’re there for other reasons as well, of course, but if you can’t mistreat your best friend now and then, and do so without fear of losing her, then she’s not worth having. Wynnell knew that when I got back to Charlotte I would make it up to her. In the meantime I was able to work some of the panic out of my system, and replace it with pure, unbridled hostility.

  That was exactly the emotion I would need for me to call Buford.

  “Hello?” It was the Tweetie Bird.

  “Tweetie, this is Abby. Let me speak to Buford, please.”

  “I can’t, Abby. He’s in the little girls’ room.”

  “You mean little boys’ room, don’t you?”

  “Uh—yeah.”

  “Reading the paper, I suppose.”

  Tweetie popped a bubble in her gum. By the sound of it, the wad she was chawing was big enough to produce biosphere.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “I was married to him for twenty years, remember?” C.J. and I may be short a couple of picnic items, but poor Tweetie is missing at least one bulb in her chandelier.

  “Buford won’t like it if I disturb him, Abby. Not until he’s done with the comics.”

  “Take the cordless phone to him, dear. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”

  She trotted off, and I could tell from the echo of another popped bubble when she had turned the hall corner. I didn’t need a bubble to tell me when she reached the bathroom door. Buford was his usual nasty self.

  Five minutes later, Buford was on the phone. “This better be good,” he growled.

  “It’s C.J. We’re down here in Georgetown County at Latham Hall Plantation. C.J. has just confessed to murder.”

  “Holy shit! You don’t mean she did Mrs. Latham in!”

  “No, not her ladyship, but the maid.”

  “Flora?”

  “You know her?”

  “Uh—no. I mean, not really. I was at a reception the old lady gave—why the hell am I explaining this to you?”

  “Funny, but Mrs. Latham never mentioned you,” I said.

  “It was a big reception and I didn’t stay long. So, C.J. killed Flora, did she?”

  “You know she didn’t. That’s why I’m calling you. You’ve got to help her out.”

  “Hell, I’m strictly a divorce lawyer, Abby—you know that. It wouldn’t do a damn bit of good if I came down there.”

  “I’m not asking for you to come here, Buford. Just put me in touch with one of your local cronies—the best criminal lawyer you know in Georgetown County.”

  Buford had the temerity to laugh.

  “It isn’t funny, Buford. Now, who do I call? Better yet, you make the call.”

  “Get real, Abby. The best criminal lawyers in South Carolina live in Georgetown—the Triplett brothers—who just happen to be twins.” He chuckled. “Anyway, they aren’t going to waste their time on small fry like C.J.”

  “They will, if you tell them to.”

  “Abby, give me a break. I have a reputation to maintain. I can’t waste good contacts on some psycho antique dealer.”

  “C.J. is not psycho! She’s merely one food group short of a balanced breakfast. So, either you get those hotshot twins working for C.J., or I tell Tweetie about you and Flora.”

  I heard a gulp that could have swallowed Minnesota. “I’ll talk to the twins,” Buford said quietly.

  “Good.”

  “And you’ll keep your mouth shut about Flora?” It was as close to begging as I’d ever heard him get. Well, I’m not counting those times right after my babies were born, because my sex life is really none of your business.

  “You swear you didn’t have anything to do with her death, Buford?”

  “I swear on my Mama’s grave.”

  Trust me, that was Buford’s most solemn oath. The man and his sainted mama were attached by the umbilical cord until her death the year before Buford and I met. From what I hear—not from Buford, of course—she was an itty-bitty woman with a tongue that could slice cold butter into neat pats. Come to think of it, that’s why he married me; he still didn’t have his mama out of his system. But he must have done a thorough job of mother-cleansing during our twenty years of marriage, because the Tweetie Bird and I are nothing alike.

  Buford made the call to his lawyer friends and called me back within five minutes.

  “Stay right where you are, Abby. The twins will be there in a minute. I got them on their cell phone. They’re only about a mile away.”

  “Thanks, Buford. You really came through.”

  “Now, you come through for me,” he grunted.

  “A deal is a deal,” I said calmly, “unless I ever get wind of you cheating on Tweetie again.”

  “I thought you hated her.”

  “I did, but not anymore. Tweetie’s too dumb to know what she does half the time. You, on the other hand, had my heart. Then you stomped on it with both feet, and threw it in the trash. And as if that wasn’t enough, you tore my babies from my bosom and gave them to that nitwit to raise. Lord, somebody could write a country-western song about the things you did to me.”

  “I didn’t tear any babies from your bosom. Susan was ready to start college, and Charlie was a rising junior in high school.” There was a long pause. “Abby, tell me something. If something were to happen to Tweetie—uh, I mean, if she and I were to split or something—would you take me back?”

  “Not if you were the last male in the solar system,” I said without a second’s hesitation. “Why? Is something going on between you and the Bird?”

  He hung up.

  The Triplett twins were not at all what I expected. They were, however, very familiar. Classic white-bread looks, gleaming smiles, impeccably groomed, they could have stepped out of a magazine or catalog ad. They were absolutely identical—not even mirror images—even their own Mama couldn’t tell them apart.

  “Weren’t y’all in that commercial?” I asked. “You know, that gum ad. Something about two tastes in one.”

  “Hey,” one said, extending his hand, “I’m Daniel Chapman Triplett.”

  “Abigail Louise Timberlake,” I said, “née Wiggins.” When folks throw three names out at me, I see no reason not to counter with four.

  “Gene Everett Triplett,” the second one said in a raspy voice quite unlike his brother�
�s. Frankly, it was rather sexy. “Call me ‘Rhett.’”

  “Call me Abby,” I said, upping the ante.

  “No doubt you’re wondering why I sound this way,” Rhett said.

  Of course, he was right. “Bad cold?”

  “I swallowed bleach when I was four.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I made him drink it,” Daniel said. “I told him it was magic juice. It could have burned his vocal cords beyond repair.”

  “My, y’all are certainly forthcoming,” I said.

  “We never lie, Abby,” Rhett said.

  Daniel frowned. “That’s not true. We told Mrs. Lippman we would have her contract dispute settled by Monday, but we didn’t have a ruling until Thursday.”

  “That wasn’t a lie, bro. It wasn’t our fault Hurricane Hugo came through.”

  I gasped. “Hurricane Hugo was over ten years ago. You mean you haven’t told a lie in all that time?”

  Daniel fixed his hazel eyes on mine. “You don’t have to be smarmy to be a lawyer, ma’am.”

  “But—”

  “We’re smart,” Rhett rasped. “We use our brains to navigate the system.”

  “It actually works in our favor,” Daniel said. “Folks find the truth disarming.”

  I stared at them. “You’re for real, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  “Well, I’ll be.” I was certainly disarmed. The truth! What an eccentric notion. And people say that mystery writer friend of Mama’s—the one with the frizzy blond hair—creates characters too eccentric to be believable. Why, all one has to do is look around; the world is full of bizarre people. Except for you and me, of course.

  “Has the sheriff booked your friend yet?” Rhett asked.

  “Not that I know. He’s been asking her a few questions.” I nodded in the direction of the sheriff’s office. “But they’ve been in there a long time. I’m really worried.”

  Then, for the first time in my life, I began to hyperventilate. It began as uncontrollable heavy breathing—not unlike sex—and progressed to the point where I thought I was going to rupture my throat. Or worse, stop breathing altogether.

  “Somebody get a paper bag!” Rhett shouted.

  Alas, the day of the paper bag is gone. Stephanie, the dispatcher, had only a plastic bag to offer. Fortunately the Triplett twins are indeed smart. Daniel ripped off his jacket, flung it over my head, and put me in a headlock. I’m not sure if it was the increased flow of carbon dioxide to my brain, or the smell of his cologne, but almost immediately my breathing returned to normal.

  I struggled to free myself of the Armani prison. “Let me out! I’m okay!”

  Daniel whipped the jacket off my head, nearly removing my ears with it. “You sure?”

  “I’m fine. I just need to sit down for a minute.”

  They guided me to the row of faux-leather seats by the front door and made me sit. Rhett brought me a mug of water from the restroom, which I politely refused. Stephanie’s lipstick was all over the rim.

  “Jane Cox is just a baby,” I wailed. “She’s too young for the chair.”

  Rhett turned to Daniel. “Buford didn’t say anything about a baby, did he?”

  I grabbed Rhett’s sleeve. “That’s just an expression, you nincompoops.” I drawled the offensive word to soften it; I am a southern lady, after all. “C.J. is twenty-four. I know she’s a successful businesswoman and all that, but in some ways—actually, in most ways—she’s very young for her age. But she’s definitely not the type who would murder.”

  Daniel blessed me with a smile worthy of a TV commercial. “Abby, there probably isn’t a soul alive who wouldn’t commit murder if the circumstances were right.”

  “Could you?” I snapped.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Me, too,” Rhett said.

  They were right, of course. If circumstances were right. Mama, wearing her pearls, would kill in a heartbeat, if it meant protecting me. I would do the same for her and my children. And maybe Wynnell. But Mama and I would only become killers if it meant saving loved ones’ lives. We certainly wouldn’t kill anyone simply because they were obnoxious. Neither would C.J.

  “Someone has to have a motive to kill,” I said. “C.J. had no reason to kill anyone in the Burton-Latham clan.”

  “So it might seem,” Rhett said.

  “What is that supposed to mean? She only met the gang yesterday—well, except for Tradd. She’s only known him a couple of days longer.”

  “That you know of,” Daniel said.

  Contrary to some folks’ opinion, I do not have a short fuse. My temper and my height have nothing in common. But this was just too much.

  “The poor girl is innocent!” I shouted. “If all you can do is make innuendo, then thanks, but no thanks. I’ll find C.J. another lawyer.”

  I jumped to my feet and headed for the phone.

  11

  “We’re sorry,” Rhett rasped.

  I turned and gave him the evil eye.

  “Yeah, sometimes we get a little carried away,” Daniel said quickly. “But you see, we refuse to defend a client we know is guilty. So we have to be careful.”

  I sat again. “Do y’all at least believe me? I mean, do you believe that I believe she’s innocent?”

  They looked at each other, and then nodded. “We believe you,” Rhett said, “but we haven’t even met the client. We can’t agree to take her case until we’ve talked to her. After all, your husband said she confessed.”

  “Ex-husband,” I hissed. “And yes, she did confess, but she was lying.”

  “Why would she lie?” Daniel asked. He sounded genuinely perplexed.

  I shrugged. “Maybe she saw the murder happen. Maybe the murderer threatened her life if she didn’t confess. Maybe she just—well, had a breakdown.”

  “Like a psychotic break?”

  It was clear I needed to choose my words carefully. “What I mean is, maybe Jane thinks she did it—but she certainly didn’t do it. Like I said, she didn’t have a motive.”

  Rhett cleared his throat, but of course it did no good. “Look Abby, even if she just thinks she did it, she would still have to have a reason in her mind.”

  Daniel saw that I was about to bolt again. “But of course that reason wouldn’t necessarily have to make sense.”

  I smiled gratefully. “Exactly. Maybe she didn’t like the color of Flora’s hair, so in her mind, she killed her. But in her mind, only. But even that is hard to believe. Like I said, her elevator might not go all the way to the top, but it’s still functional.”

  They looked confused.

  “Put it this way,” I said, “in the pinball game of life, her flippers are a little farther apart than most, but she can still score points.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. So what do we do now?”

  The brothers exchanged glances. Either they were able to communicate with their eyes, or they enjoyed looking at themselves.

  “I’ll take care of business at this end,” Rhett said. “Daniel will drive you back to the Latham estate.”

  I swallowed my disappointment. I was beginning to find Rhett’s scratchy voice attractive.

  “But what will I do there?”

  “Spy,” Daniel said.

  “On whom?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Even the old—I mean, Mrs. Latham?”

  “Especially the old crone,” Rhett said.

  “Guys, now you’re being ridiculous. The woman is ancient—almost a century old. She couldn’t stab an angel food cake with an ice pick. Besides, they all hate me out there. I have no reason to snoop around if I’m not with Tradd.”

  “Tradd?” Daniel asked.

  “Oops. I guess Buford didn’t fill you in on everything. Tradd’s the hunky guy I’m with. He’s my date for the weekend.”

  Their eyes swept the room. There were a few wanted posters tacked to a cork bulletin board, but Stephanie was the only
other warm-blooded person in sight.

  “Ah, he went off to see if he could find a lawyer,” I said sheepishly. “I guess this could be awkward if he comes back with one, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Daniel said, “if your friend prefers him to us, we’ll gladly step aside.”

  “Hey, that wouldn’t happen to be Tradd Burton?” Rhett rasped.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”

  They both laughed. “We used to call him Little Wet Tradd,” Daniel said. “He was the scrawniest, goofiest-looking kid there was. Used to spend summers with his grandmother, who is a friend of our grandmother. We were driven over there almost every day and forced to play with him and his brothers and sister.”

  “Why Little Wet Tradd?”

  “He cried a lot,” Rhett said. “Of course it was our fault; we were pretty mean to him.”

  Daniel nodded. “Yeah, we were at that. It’s because we were trying to get the attention of his older sister.”

  Rhett turned to his brother. “What was her name?”

  “Edith,” I said.

  “That’s it! Prettiest girl we ever saw.”

  “Edith and I once played ‘doctor,’” Daniel said, blushing. “Of course, we were just little kids then.”

  Rhett punched his brother on the shoulder. “You did not!”

  “Did, too. Remember how we always played hide and seek?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Remember that time no one could find me? Not for hours and hours? Well, at least it seemed that way to me.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Well, I was hiding in this great big wooden chest in the boathouse. Edith found me and, well—you know.”

  “Get out of town,” Rhett said, and slapped his brother on the back.

  “Gross,” I think I said.

  “She still pretty?” Daniel asked.

  “Gag me with a spoon,” I said.

  He scratched his head. “There was another girl, too—a cousin, I think. We used to call her Dog Face.”

  “Gee, you guys were a barrel of laughs.”