Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

Rhett snapped his fingers. “Alexandra! That was her name.”

  “She’s still called Dog Face,” I said. I know it was unkind of me, but this is a dog-eat-dog world, and I can be a bitch at times. The competition out there is fierce, after all. They say a hunk in the hand is worth two in the bush—or something like that—and I wasn’t about to casually turn Rhett over to the beautiful Alexandra until I was sure I had no use for him in my bush.

  “Oh, man, I’d like to see that Edith again.”

  I looked Rhett straight in the eye. “You drive me out there, and you might. I have to go pick up my cat anyway. But we still have one major problem: what’s my excuse for staying there more than a few minutes?”

  “Your things,” Daniel said.

  “What?”

  “Your husband—I mean, Buford—said you came down for the weekend, right? So, you have things there, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Just take your time collecting your stuff. In the meantime I’ll renew some old acquaintances.” Daniel winked at his twin. “Between the two of us we might come up with something.”

  “Lucky stiff,” Rhett muttered, but he didn’t argue with his brother.

  Take it from me. Never date a man who can’t lie. It was bad enough just driving in the same car with one. Halfway out to the Latham estate, on the private road, I checked myself out in the passenger-side mirror of Daniel’s brand-new Lincoln Town Car. Having a jacket wrapped around one’s head is seldom good for one’s coiffure.

  “Lord have mercy!” I cried, pressing back into my seat. “I look just awful, don’t I?”

  Daniel glanced at me. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What?”

  “Well-uh—I—uh—” he struggled with his damning tongue.

  “Just spit it out, dear. I just read somewhere that pent-up veracity can be fatal.”

  “Well, your hair’s all messed up, and that black stuff around your eyes is smeared. You remind me of that raccoon Rhett ran over last night on our way back from Charleston. But the raccoon didn’t have lipstick on his teeth.” He breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  We drove in silence for a few minutes. I am not the outdoor type—I find the open spaces in malls intimidating—but that morning the drive through the vast, uninhabited pine woods was food for my soul. Birds sang, the sun shimmered off the soft needles, and the pungent scent of sap filled the air, all regardless of what was going on in my world. Here there was order. Death, if not expected, was accepted. There is nothing like Mother Nature to dish out perspective.

  “I suppose I’ve been overreacting,” I said.

  “No, you haven’t.”

  I stared at Daniel. “What do mean?”

  “You should be scared. Your friend, Miss Cox, is in deep trouble.”

  “But just minutes ago you said you and your brother could help.”

  “I said might. And that’s only if she’s innocent—”

  “Which she is!”

  “Yes, but even innocent people get convicted and punished. It happens more often than you probably think.”

  Until then I hadn’t allowed myself to think beyond C.J.’s possible arrest. I certainly hadn’t thought of a trial or, God forbid, punishment.

  “Punishment? What kind of punishment?”

  Daniel’s hazel eyes seemed to light up from behind. “South Carolina has the death penalty, you know. Although it’s unlikely they’ll carry it through on a woman.”

  I was practically in shock. “It is?”

  “Oh, yeah, nobody likes to kill a woman—legally, that is. Especially if she has a religious experience in jail. Your Miss Cox isn’t already born-again, is she?”

  “How should I know?” I wailed. “I’m an Episcopalian! C.J. and I don’t talk religion.”

  He nodded. “That’s good, then. If she was born-again, you would have heard about it. So, if she’s convicted, we’ll have her stage a dramatic jailhouse conversion. No state official is going to kill a sobbing woman with Jesus in her heart.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in lying!”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe in it, Miss Timberlake—I’m incapable of it. I have no compunctions about encouraging others to lie. As long as it’s for a good cause, of course.”

  “Like saving an innocent woman’s life.”

  “Exactly.”

  A moment later we met the coroner’s car—actually it was a dented blue pickup held together by rust and baling wire—returning from the scene of the crime. The dirt lane was barely wide enough for the Town Car, so Daniel pulled over on the sandy shoulder, and in the process mowed down several longleaf-pine saplings. The coroner did the same. Both vehicles stopped.

  “Hey, Buster,” Daniel said, lowering his window.

  “Hey, Daniel. Where’s Rhett?” The battered old truck didn’t have glass on the passenger side, so there was nothing to roll down.

  “Back at the sheriff’s office, waiting to talk to his principal suspect.”

  I stiffened at the “s” word.

  “And who’s this pretty young lady?” Buster asked with a grin. Come Christmas Santa would have to bring him two front teeth and several molars.

  “Remember Buford Timberlake?”

  Buster shrugged.

  “Big fat lawyer from Charlotte with beady little eyes like a snake? Always has dark sweat stains under his arms when he takes off his suit coat?”

  “Don’t hold back, dear,” I urged.

  But Buster was shaking his head. “Nah, those Charlotte lawyers all look alike.” He grinned at me again. “But, like I said, who’s this?”

  I leaned toward him. “I’m Abigail Timberlake. Ex-wife, but no blood relation to the aforementioned reptile.”

  “She’s an extremely short antiques dealer,” Daniel said.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. My real name’s Floyd Busterman Connelly, but folks call me Buster.” I could feel his eyes zeroing in like heat-sensing lasers on my empty ring finger.

  “Likewise,” I mumbled.

  “You going to be in the area long?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Buster frowned, frankly an expression much more becoming on him. “Aw, that’s a real shame. There’s a whole lot to do here, you know? Have you seen the historical district yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We got houses that date back to the mid-1700s. Blocks and blocks of them. Folks say we’re a mini-Charleston.”

  “How interesting,” I said. I wasn’t just being polite, either. Where there’re old houses, there are often old things—like at Latham Plantation Hall. If C.J. was incarcerated and I needed to hang around for a spell, I would at least check out the antique shops. Maybe even scan the classifieds in the local paper.

  “I’d be more than happy to show you around, Ms. Timberlake. I’ve lived here all my life, and know a lot of interesting stories that you won’t hear on an official tour.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Buster, but I don’t think I’ll be around that long.”

  “Ah, that’s a shame. I’m going to be having lunch at my Aunt Amelia’s tomorrow. She lives in one of the oldest houses in Georgetown—1758—has the date on a plaque right on the front wall. Anyway, it’s supposed to be a secret, but she’s fixing to move into one of those retirement condos at the end of the year. She wants me to look over her stuff and choose what I want, before she puts it all up for sale. I was thinking maybe you’d like to come along and help me.”

  I reluctantly shook my head. “What a sweet invitation, Buster. But I really can’t commit. Not until I know what happens to my friend.”

  As much as I appreciated his attention to my marital status, I was not interested. The man was simply not my type. Now, don’t get me wrong and think that I eliminated Buster from my list of potential suitors simply because he lacked a full contingent of teeth. I am not that shallow—I once dated a man with no teeth of his own, although he had a beautiful store
-bought smile. And I never would have known that wasn’t his real hair if he hadn’t gotten in the way of my shop vac when I was cleaning out my car. Not that that made a difference. Besides, if a smile was that important, I knew where to find C.J.’s cousin Orville. The best hog’s teeth are hard to tell from first-rate dentures.

  Okay, okay, I confess! I am prejudiced. Buster was short. I could tell that just by looking at his arms. And I don’t just mean short like Michael J. Fox, I mean short—like me! If I dated Buster we would be subjected to constant comments about what a cute couple we made. In the event we married, some well-meaning, but thoughtless friend or relative, would give us his ‘n’ hers step stools. What kind of foundation was that upon which to build a solid marriage?

  Buster was no fool. He knew I knew he was sitting on a stack of phone books—in my case, it’s the Charlotte Yellow Pages.

  “Well, I’m in the book. If you change your mind, give me a call,” he said.

  “Thanks, will do,” I called gaily. I am, after all, an expert on forced gaiety, a skill I honed during the months following my breakup with Buford. There was no point in making my children any more miserable than they already were, just because my heart was in shreds.

  I’m not saying that Daniel was jealous of Buster, but for the rest of the way to the Latham manse he pouted in silence. Frankly, this was fine with me. Who likes to chat with a verbal time bomb? I can get all the insults I want from family and friends.

  A wise Abigail, however, would have squared her shoulders, donned an invisible but thicker skin, and thrashed out a game plan with Daniel Chapman Triplett. A wiser Abigail would at least have spent those moments of solitude gearing up for the second shoe to drop at the Latham estate. Shoes come in pairs, don’t they?

  12

  Edith answered the door. She made a poor substitute for Flora—even a real French maid would have been more polite.

  “Yes?” she snapped.

  “I’m Abby, remember?” I tried to push past, but her linebacker bulk prevented me.

  “Who are you?” she demanded of Daniel.

  “Daniel Triplett, ma’am. I’m here—”

  “Danny? Little Wet Danny?”

  Daniel turned the color of a maraschino cherry. “That’s Little Wet Tradd. Nobody ever called me that.” He took a step back, and I slipped behind him. “Who are you?”

  “Edith, silly. You remember, Edith Burton—only now it’s Edith Jansen.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  She shook her head, her broad face glowing like a two-candle jack-o’-lantern. She was wearing even more gold than usual, and I heard the faint tinkle of eighteen-karat hoops.

  “Hey, I haven’t changed that much, have I?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Daniel bit his lip.

  “I have? How?” Foolish woman—even Tweetie knows that’s on the list of top ten questions a woman should never ask, and that’s when dealing with a normal man.

  “Well, uh”—Daniel struggled valiantly—“you’ve grown up, for one thing.”

  “And?”

  “And, instead of looking like the sweet, young girl you used to be, you now look like this season’s average recruit for the NFL.”

  “What?”

  “Well, not exactly, of course, since they’re guys and you’re a woman, and I did say average—and no one person can resemble a group average, strictly speaking. But with those shoulders you could play one hell of a defense, and the last time I saw a neck that thick, it was attached to a bull.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “Edith? Who’s there?” I heard the grande dame call just as Daniel was about to get the door slammed in his face.

  “No one important, Grandmother. It’s just a tourist from Ohio looking for Myrtle Beach. I’m giving him directions.”

  Daniel peered down the hall—that is to say, he jockeyed to see around the hulking Edith. “Mrs. Latham, is that you? It’s me, Daniel Chapman Triplett!”

  “Who?”

  Daniel repeated his full name.

  “Ah, yes,” the old lady said, advancing slowly. “Little Wet Daniel. Shirley and Otis Triplett’s boy. There’s another one of you, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, ma’am, my brother Rhett. But it wasn’t me who cried all the time. It was Tradd.”

  “Nonsense. No Burton would blubber like that child did.”

  “No, ma’am, you’re wrong. It was Tradd, for sure.” Daniel had his faults, but he was as brave as his biblical namesake. I’d sooner face a den of lions than an outraged octogenarian. A ticker that old has got to be a fragile thing, and this one had been through a lot already that day. At any moment, that ancient heart was liable to stop short, never to run again. It’s not something I’d want on my conscience.

  “Step aside,” Genevieve Latham said to her granddaughter, who obediently and wisely stepped back into the foyer. That’s when the old lady saw me cowering behind Daniel.

  “You—child!”

  I froze. Perhaps her vision wasn’t as good as I thought. If I didn’t move she might think I was Daniel’s shadow.

  “Abigail—that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled.

  She had no trouble hearing. “Come in, child, and step lively. You too, Little Wet Boy. I may seem rich to you, but I can’t afford to cool all of South Carolina.”

  We stepped inside. For the record, Daniel would gladly have let me go first, but I wouldn’t let him.

  “Have you no manners, young man?”

  I squirmed around Daniel. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I just came back to get my things. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “But it’s true!”

  “Stay as long as you like, child. I was hoping you’d come back.”

  “You were?”

  She grabbed the sleeve of my T-shirt and tugged gently. Perhaps she meant to haul me one-handed along behind her. At any rate, I followed her to the drawing room, where she bade me shut the door. As for Edith and Daniel, as far as I knew they were still back in the foyer sparring—or, maybe even playing “doctor” for old times’ sake. Nothing surprises me these days.

  “Sit!”

  I did as commanded, choosing an eighteenth-century carved Italian armchair. It was the only non-English chair in the room. It was also situated just far enough from the grande dame to feel safe (although, frankly, she was unlikely to catch her own shadow, even if given a head start), yet close enough not to appear rude.

  “How’s that little girl?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, the one Neely took in for questioning.”

  “Ah, C.J.!”

  “Yes, of course. Just wait until you’re eighty-nine—you won’t remember names either. At least not of folks you’ve just met. Now, things that happened seventy years ago, why, I can remember them just as clear as a bell. Take for instance the time my mama took me into town—well, never you mind that. You say the little girl—C.J.—is doing all right.”

  I shrugged. “Sheriff Thompson was still talking to her when I left. But I found her a lawyer—actually, two lawyers.”

  “Ah, yes, Little Wet Daniel and his brother. I heard they had become lawyers.”

  “And just in case they don’t work out, Tradd went looking for a lawyer friend of his.”

  “Tradd?”

  “He’s really been super, Mrs. Latham. So have you.”

  “No need to be a sycophant, child. I like the girl. Grant you, she’s a few clowns short of a circus, but she’s sincere.”

  “That she is.”

  “Unlike my grandchildren.”

  Someone knocked timidly at the door.

  “Yes?” the old lady called sharply.

  The door opened just wide enough for Little Wet Daniel to insert his handsome head. “Ma’am, I need to talk to Miss Timberlake, if you don’t mind.”

  Black eyes blinked. “But, I do mind.”

  “Uh—could you tel
l her my brother called and I need to get back to the station.”

  I started to get up, but the old lady waved me down with a single wrinkled finger.

  “She heard you, boy. Is it an emergency?”

  He looked at me when he answered. “No, ma’am. It’s just that another client of ours up in Myrtle Beach—”

  The finger waggled him into silence. “In that case, she’ll be fine right where she is.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Little Wet Daniel ducked back into the hall and closed the door silently.

  The grande dame turned to me. “Now, where were we?”

  “You had just finished calling your grandchildren insincere sycophants.”

  “I did?”

  “Or was it loathsome leeches?”

  She smiled and leaned forward. “I don’t think those were my exact words, but they’re certainly true. All they want is my money—I know that. But, I don’t really have much choice, now, do I?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Company, that’s what. It gets lonely out here. You see, Abby, I never had many friends. Oh, sure, lots of acquaintances, but not many friends. I suppose I was too selfish with my time. Being a true friend takes a lot of time, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Truer words were seldom spoken. Wynnell and I spend hours on the phone each week, and our shops are just across the street from each other.

  “So, what few friends I had are all gone now. And so are my children—although I must confess, I didn’t spend much time with them, either. Now it’s just me and this great big house. You know what my grandchildren tell me?”

  “No, ma’am.” Frankly, I had a few guesses.

  “They tell me to sell the house and move into one of those retirement communities. You must know the kind—first you live in a condo, then a one-bedroom apartment, which they call ‘assisted living,’ and then you’re flat on your back in the nursing care unit. It’s supposed to be a step up from your traditional nursing home.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Well, I don’t. I can just as easily hire a staff of full-time nurses to live here. But my grandchildren have it all figured out—if I sell this place, I will have to sell most of my things. Between the sale of the house, land, and these”—she waved at the furnishings—“I’ll have a lot of liquid assets at my disposal, even if I buy that condo in the retirement village outright. Not that I don’t already have a lot of liquid assets.” She looked me in the eye. “I’m a very rich woman, Abby. When I die, my grandchildren will be rich. But they don’t want to wait until then. They’re hoping I’ll start divvying it up now.”