by Tamar Myers
“But you must have! You saved the woman’s life, for crying out loud!”
C.J.’s head shook like the paint mixer at Home Depot. “Actually, I didn’t see much of anything. It was blacker than Granny’s coal bin in that room. All I could see were shadows—this big shadow choking this little shadow, so I stabbed the big shadow and then boom, the next thing I knew, the lights went out. That’s all I can remember.”
I slapped my young friend’s cheek. Lightly, of course.
“Try to get a grip, C.J. You don’t want to stay in here the rest of your life, do you?”
“What’s wrong with here?” Mozella demanded. “The food is good and they got all the hot water you want.”
“You might try using some—with soap!” I hissed.
To her credit—and much to my surprise—it was C.J. who steered us back to the business at hand. “Abby, I think someone hit me on the head.”
“What?”
“Here, feel this.” She pushed aside a hank of hair near her crown.
I gingerly probed her scalp, which, too, was in need of a good scrubbing. Sure enough, there was a lump the size of an egg—well, a pigeon egg at least.
“Ouch!” I said sympathetically. “This is pretty bad, dear. I think a doctor should see this. Did you get this last night in Flora’s room?”
“In her bathroom. I went in there to wash my hands—they felt kind of dirty on account of I’d killed with them. But the lights were off, because of the storm, and I had to feel around in the dark. I had just found the sink—or was it the tub—when the lights in my head went out.”
“The lights in your head?” If she meant what I thought she did, one could argue they’d never been turned on.
“Yeah, everything went black, and when I woke up my head hurt like the dickens.”
“And then what?”
“Well, it only hurts now if I bump it.”
“No, dear, what did you do when you woke up? When you came to?”
“I tried to get back in, Abby. But the door was locked.”
“What do you mean by ‘back in?’ Where were you when you regained consciousness?”
“That’s the really strange part. I was in the kitchen, sitting at the table again. Actually, I was sort of slumped over it, and my cocoa was spilled. The electricity was back on by then.”
“But you went over to Flora’s room and tried the door?”
“Yes.”
“And when you found it locked, you didn’t feel the need to call somebody? To wake me up and tell me what happened?”
C.J. hung her head. “This might come as a surprise to you, Abby, but I’m—uh—well, I’m a little bit different than most folks.”
“Oh?”
“She means to say she’s a tomato short of a salad,” Mozella had the nerve to say.
I glared at Garden Lady. “Go on, dear,” I said to C.J.
“Mozella’s right, you know. I’ve always been a bit different. Not crazy, mind you—but I see things in a different way. Haven’t you ever noticed?”
“Some people call that a sign of genius,” I said, rather deftly sidestepping the issue, if I say so myself.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Take Van Gogh, for instance. Or Robin Williams. Both geniuses, and both men with an unorthodox take on life.”
“Robin Williams cut off his ear?”
“Not yet, dear,” I said patiently.
“Wow, so I’m a genius. I always kind of suspected it, you know? I mean, sure a lot of people can read when they’re two, but how many two-year-olds do you know who can do the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink?”
“None—and have it make sense. But C.J., dear, we seem to have strayed again. Why didn’t you just come out and tell me what happened, when it happened?”
“But that’s just it, Abby! I wasn’t sure what happened. I thought maybe I’d fallen asleep over my cocoa and dreamed it all. When I discovered the door was locked, I knocked, but of course nobody answered. So I cleaned up the mess and went back to bed—by then the thunderstorm had stopped. Anyway, on the way back to our room I passed by Mrs. Latham’s room, and there she was, snoring away just as peacefully as could be.”
“You opened her door and peeked inside?”
“Don’t be silly, Abby. This house has old doors, and they all have keyholes. I checked through the keyhole, you see. I’m actually very good at that.”
“I bet you are. When Flora didn’t answer her door, did you peek through her keyhole, too?”
“Of course! I mean I tried—I’m a genius, remember? But I couldn’t see into Flora’s room, because there was a key in the way.”
“Hmmm.”
“Wish I’da been there,” Mozella muttered. “All you need is a paper clip. Straighten that sucker out and you’ve got the best lock pick in the world. It ain’t nothing to push out a key and open a bedroom lock. Hell, them things was made to be jimmied.”
I smiled thinly. Of course, at my age, and without collagen injections, that’s the only way I can smile.
“You don’t say, dear?”
“Yeah, picking them’s like taking candy from a baby.”
“I bet you’re an expert at that, too.”
“Well, I don’t need to stand here and be insulted,” Mozella huffed, but alas, she didn’t budge.
“C.J., dear,” I said, and put my hand on her shoulder, “what did it feel like? I mean, when you stabbed Flora?”
“Geez,” Mozella said, “and you think I’m the lowlife!”
“That’s not what I meant,” I snapped. I tried to push C.J away from the vexing vegetable, but she also seemed rooted to the ground.
“You know, Abby,” C.J. said, her face lighting up, “that’s a very good question, because now that I think of it, it felt kind of funny.”
“Funny ha-ha, or funny odd?” Face it, with C.J. you never know.
“Funny odd. I mean, back in Shelby I once helped Granny Ledbetter butcher a sheep. This didn’t feel like that, at all.”
“You stabbed the sheep?”
C.J. grimaced. “Of course not! Granny made Elmer stick his head in the gas oven. But it was my job to cut him up afterward for chops and things. Stabbing Flora didn’t feel at all like that.”
“How did stabbing Flora feel?”
“Fluffy.”
“Come again?”
“That’s the best I can describe it, Abby. Flora was soft—like a marshmallow. Almost like air. Abby, that’s why Mozella thinks I didn’t do it. It didn’t feel like I was stabbing a real person.”
I pictured C.J. stabbing a giant marshmallow. Despite a fish sandwich, a large order of fries, and a large chocolate shake, I was still hungry enough to smell the damn thing.
“I see. And how many times did you stab Flora—or the marshmallow, or whatever it was?”
“Just one.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
I patted her shoulder. “Good girl. I’m very proud of you.”
Mozella slapped her other shoulder. “Yeah, way to go!”
C.J. blinked. Her eyes were still puffy from crying. “Y’all are proud of me?”
“Of course, dear. You told me everything I need to know.”
“I did?”
“You most certainly did, dear. And I think I can prove now that you didn’t do it. You didn’t kill Flora.”
Mozella grabbed my arm again. “Y’see? I told you all you had to do was listen to her. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
I wrenched free of Garden Lady’s grasp. “As right as last night’s rain, dear.”
As much as I hate to be rude, I had no choice but to drag my friend across the cell, and then threaten Mozella with my shoe when she tried to follow.
“I’m not a murderess,” C.J. chortled.
“I know, dear.” I lowered my voice. “But don’t tell anyone, including the sheriff, what you just told me.”
C.J. gasped. “You don’t trust him?”
&
nbsp; “Honey, I don’t trust anyone but myself, and sometimes I doubt the wisdom of that.”
You could have landed a small plane on C.J.’s lower lip. “You don’t even trust me?”
I thought fast. “I can always count on you, dear.”
“Ooh, Abby, I love you!” C.J. threw her arms around me and gave me the granddaddy of all hugs.
“I love you, too, dear.” To an outsider—and quite possibly to Mozella—it looked like a scene from a B movie.
Then I reached into the right pocket of my jeans and pressed the buzzer Sheriff Thompson had given me. It would have been much more fun to bang on the bars with a battered tin cup.
“So,” the sheriff said, leaning back in his chair, “you learn anything in there?”
“Not really. That awful woman kept interrupting us.”
He chuckled. “Adrianne’s a case, isn’t she?”
Adrianne? “Sheriff, is she dangerous?”
“Only to herself. Adrianne Menlow is what I call a one-woman crime ring. She turns tricks when she can, sells a little drugs, steals with some regularity, but never anything violent. She does, however, step on other people’s toes. I expect to find her floating face down in the Black River one of these days.”
“What’s she in for this time?”
“Purse snatching. Some Yankee tourist got out of her car to take a picture of Adrianne’s house—it’s on the quaint side, by the way—and Adrianne came around the other side of the car and lifted her bag. The tourist is lucky Adrianne didn’t take the car.”
Fortunately, I had left my purse with the sheriff. It was still there, in the middle of his desk. I reached for it and patted it just the same.
“I see. Sheriff, poor Miss Cox has a nasty bump on her head. I think you should have a doctor look at it.”
His face tensed. “Adrianne do that?”
I was tempted to tell the wrong lie. “No. C.J. fell and bumped her head while trying to reach the top bunk bed. You really need to put a ladder in there.”
Trust me, no mortal doctor was going to get the truth out of C.J. I mean, when’s the last time a doctor’s listened to you? Really listened?
“There used to be a ladder,” the sheriff said wistfully, “but one lady inmate went berserk and decided to kill her cellmate with it.”
“Not Adrianne?”
He smiled and shook his head. “The coroner had a good time with that one. Death by wrung neck, is how he put it.”
“Sheriff, do you have Buster’s work number?”
His smile froze. “Which Buster would that be?”
What an idiot I was! I had the temerity to warn C.J. not to blab, when the truth is, my lips are not only capable of sinking a ship, but the entire navy!
“Uh—the coroner. Floyd Busterman Connelly, I think it is.”
“And why would you be wanting that?”
“Uh—he invited me to lunch tomorrow. At his aunt’s house. I turned him down, but I’ve changed my mind. I thought his aunt might need some warning.”
He nodded. “That aunt would be Amelia. She’s a terrific cook. Be a shame to miss out on one of her meals—but that’s not why you’re hot to call Buster, is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you and Buster would make a great little couple.”
I was too annoyed to be relieved. I snatched up my purse and stomped from the room—well, maybe stomping is putting it a bit strongly. When you are four feet nine and wear a size-four shoe, prancing is the best you can do.
At any rate, I pranced straight into the arms of danger.
18
“Hey, good-looking,” Tradd said, and I stopped in midprance. It was all I could do to keep from whistling.
He had changed from his morning’s clothes, I’m sure of that, because he looked as fresh and clean as a daylily. Like a daylily, the top half of him was clad in orange, a color not usually suited to golden complexions, but Tradd was the exception. The bright cotton golf shirt made him glow. His cotton chinos weren’t even creased behind the knees, so either he had changed in the restroom, or mastered the art of driving while standing. When you’re that drop-dead gorgeous, no one is going to arrest you.
“Hi,” I said, squeaking like a pubescent boy. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been remiss in my duties, Abby. I’ve come to take you to lunch.”
I groaned inwardly. “Sorry, but I already ate.”
“At the Purple Pelican?”
“McDonald’s.”
“Then you still haven’t eaten. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the door.
Okay, that’s not exactly the truth. I am pretty sure he touched my wrist with at least one of his golden fingers, and then walked in front of me to the door. I followed like a chunk of iron behind a magnet. The point is, I was powerless to do otherwise.
For the record, Tradd drove sitting, although for much of the way he managed to steer without the use of his hands. Or so it seemed. Not that they were on me, mind you, but as we sped along he gesticulated wildly, shouting the details of some story that was evidently very amusing, although the words were lost on the wind. Like an idiot I nodded and laughed periodically,
The Purple Pelican is located on Front Street in downtown Georgetown, a block south of the rice museum. It sits right out over the water, but the water in this case is not the Black River, but the Sampit. The folks in Georgetown are more modest than those in Charleston, and do not claim that the two rivers come together to form the Atlantic, as is the case with the Ashley and the Cooper.
The humble Georgetownians have built a charming boardwalk along this stretch of the river, and as it is lined by restaurants, galleries, and antique shops, it is an ideal place to while away a day. Indeed, were it not for the discordant presence of Georgetown Steel and the prevailing stench of a nearby paper mill, downtown Georgetown would have few rivals in the nation for ambiance.
Perhaps Tradd had called ahead for reservations, but it didn’t really matter. The hostess at the Purple Pelican was as charmed by him as I, and proved it by immediately showing us to an outdoor table facing the water, with an espaliered camellia at least partially blocking the view of the steel plant. As we passed through the crowded main dining room I noticed a painted purple pelican prominently displayed on the mantel above a stone fireplace.
“What’s with the purple pelican?” I said to the hostess after we were seated. “Aren’t they really brown?”
The hostess was a buxom young woman in a tight-fitting uniform who just happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to Flora. Her name, however, was Barbie. I kid you not. At any rate, from the moment Barbie first laid eyes on Tradd I ceased to exist. Perhaps she never even saw me. Or perhaps she saw me and decided to treat me like a child. At any rate, I longed for a long pointed stick with a sign stapled to it that said SHORT, BUT STILL HERE. If the sign didn’t work, I could always poke her with the stick.
“Well, that purple pelican is certainly unusual,” Tradd said, bless his heart. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that.”
Bodacious bosoms answered immediately. “Ah, that’s Jake’s idea. He’s the owner. It’s supposed to be campy.”
“Where did he get it?” I asked.
Silence.
“I wouldn’t mind having one for my beach house,” Tradd said.
Well-endowed couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Jake’s brother made it. He’s a wood-carver. He has a studio out on Highway 17. I could show you where it is. I get off at three.”
I know Tradd glanced at me, because what I felt was too short to be a hot flash. “Thanks, but I’m tied up for the rest of the day. Maybe some other time.”
Humongous hooters was loath to leave. “That’s our sixth one, you know. Customers keep stealing them.”
“How?” I asked.
Barbie shrugged, but said nothing.
“How?” Tradd asked.
“Sneak them out under their coats, I
guess.”
“You’re kidding!” I said. I couldn’t imagine how someone could steal something that large and not get caught. My daughter Susan, I’m ashamed to say, stole a tape deck, by tucking it under her coat and pretending to be pregnant. You would have to be as tall as Brooke Shields and as wide as Roseanne to fit that pelican under an overcoat, and even then you’d look like you were carrying sextuplets to full term.
“I hope this table will be all right,” our hostess said. Then inexplicably she threw her arms in the air and then dropped them to her sides, an action which caused her two best features to jiggle like a pair of Jello molds.
Tradd grinned from ear to ear, but said nothing.
“This will do just fine,” I said. I was hoping the brilliance of those pristine caps would blind the little tramp—well, at least temporarily. Just long enough to make her stagger off the deck, over the boardwalk, and into the river. It certainly blinded me. But, alas, when I regained my sight, there she was, unabashedly searching Tradd’s left hand for a wedding ring.
“Y’all enjoy your meal, now. Your waitress will be with you in just a minute,” the hussy said, as her feet grew roots that pushed through the floor boards of the deck and down into the brackish water of the Sampit.
“Well, maybe you should run along now and seat someone else,” I said, since Tradd no longer seemed capable of speech.
The hostess with the mostest didn’t even hear me. “Y’all let me know if there is anything else I can do.”
“Scram,” I said kindly.
“Huh?” Barbie said, still not looking at me.
“Put your eyes back in your foolish young head, and get back to work, dear.”
That seemed to cut through her reverie. “What did you say?”
I smiled, drawing on the patience of my years. “Either you skedaddle, or I’m telling Jake you’ve been putting the moves on my man.”
“Well, I never!” Barbie withdrew her roots from the floorboards and stamped back to her station. You can bet that Tradd’s eyes followed her every wiggle.
No sooner had our butts touched our seats, than I laid into Tradd. “You,” I said, “are a disgusting pig.”
That got his attention. “Excuse me?”
