by Tamar Myers
“There is no excuse for your behavior. You eyes were all over that girl like white on rice.”
He seemed puzzled. “She didn’t seem to mind now, did she?”
“That’s not the point. What about Flora?”
“Flora, what does she have to do with this?”
“She’s dead for crying out loud! Murdered! Didn’t she mean anything to you?”
“So?”
“So, don’t you think it’s a mite insensitive to be flirting with a restaurant hostess the same day your girlfriend is killed?”
He blinked. “Who said she was my girlfriend?”
“Well, it was perfectly obvious that something was going on, the way you two carried on. And her the maid.”
“Ah, I see. So we’re prejudiced, are we?”
I must admit to being grateful that outdoor dining section was enclosed by a screen. When I open my mouth that wide, I invariably get a snootful of flies.
“I am not prejudiced!”
Golden eyes danced. “In fact, I’ll go a step further. Not only are you prejudiced against maids and restaurant hostesses, but you’re jealous.”
“Me? Of what?”
“Of my attention, of course.”
I sputtered like a brush fire in a drizzle. “Why you—you—you egotistical cad!”
He laughed. “Cad—now that’s a word one doesn’t hear very often.”
I would have gotten up and left the Purple Pelican right then and there had not our waitress appeared with a list of mouthwatering specials a mile long. Call me a masochist if you like, but I wasn’t about to miss a meal I’d already paid for with my dignity. I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and then excused myself to use the ladies’ room.
On my way back to my seat and the insufferable Tradd, I just happened to glance at the TV above the bar. Much to my surprise, given the hour of the day, it was neither a sporting event or a soap opera, yet both the bartender and a few well-dressed patrons seemed engrossed in the show. I wandered over.
“Ah, CNN,” I said aloud, reading the call letters in the corner of the screen.
“Shhh,” someone said.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “It’s not that Saddam Hussein again, is it?”
“Shhh!”
Properly chided, I shut my mouth and watched as the camera panned a long line of people, some standing, some kneeling, on a sidewalk in a very familiar city. Columbia, perhaps? Raleigh?
“And these are only a few of the faithful,” the handsome young moderator said, “this line extends down the street for four blocks.”
I stepped closer. The street certainly looked familiar. Wasn’t that—no, that couldn’t possibly be C.J.’s shop in the background! Even if news of her arrest had reached the Charlotte media, it had nothing to do with the national scene, and why would there be so many “faithful?” Unless, those were friends and relatives from Shelby!
The moderator—Chet, I seemed to recall—moved rapidly down the line. “And now we approach the Den of Antiquity, a modest—”
“That’s my shop!”
The chorus of “shhhs” sounded like a steam engine gaining speed.
“But it is! I’m the owner. You see, I’m just here for—”
“Can it, lady,” the bartender growled.
I clapped my hand over my mouth and stared at the bizarre scene unfolding. Chet had entered my shop and was weaving his way through a crowd of the faithful—all of them on their knees now—to the rear wall.
“There!” he said, pointing solemnly at what appeared to be a blank wall, “is the so-called angel of redemption.”
“I don’t see anything,” a smartly attired businesswoman remarked.
“Shhh!” I said.
“And right here,” Chet said, shoving the microphone under Mama’s face, “is the woman who first brought this phenomenon to national attention.”
“Hey, y’all,” Mama said, waving at the camera. Her first time on television and the woman was already a pro.
“Tell us, ma’am, how this was first brought to your attention and what you think it means.”
“Actually, Chet,” Mama said, taking the microphone from him, “this is the angel of the apocalypse, not the angel of redemption.”
The crowd murmured.
Chet grabbed the mike back. “How’s that?”
“Well”—Mama has strong, sharp nails, and Chet was a fool to tangle with her—“it’s almost the millennium, right?”
“Of course. So what?” Chet was clearly irked at not being in control.
“So, that means the end of the world.” Mama waited until the gasps subsided. “And this angel has been sent to warn us that the end times are nigh. Behold, the Almighty hath spoken.” More gasps.
Nigh? Hath? Mama is a cradle Episcopalian, for Pete’s sake. Where does she come up with that language?
Chet wrested the microphone away from Mama, but in doing so left some of his DNA behind in her nails. Chet’s not all that bad looking, and I briefly considered cloning the clod.
“That’s an interesting theory, ma’am, but back to my first question. How did this—this apocalyptic angel first come to your attention?”
“Shut the door,” Mama barked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Shut it!”
The camera swung around to face the door, and a very tall, thin, plain woman got up from her knees and attempted to close the door. This did not sit well with a short, squat, hairy man whose turn it was next to enter my shop. Tall, thin, and plain pushed, while short, squat, and hairy resisted. Mama couldn’t have asked for a better setup. The two devout were almost equal in strength and the door went back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball on a very short table.
“Look!” someone in my shop shouted.
The camera swiveled again to the rear wall.
“See! The angel is flapping her wings!”
There followed a chorus of moans and religious ejaculations, the like of which would have made the most successful televangelist weep with envy. The commotion was too much for tall, thin, and plain, and her attention was diverted long enough for short, squat, and hairy to get the upper hand. The door flew open and stayed that way.
“Oh,” at least fifty people moaned.
Mama snatched the microphone away from Chet, who had also let down his guard. “You see, that’s what happened Thursday morning when I opened the door. The key had gotten stuck in the door and I was trying to jiggle it loose, and I looked up and there it was. Of course you might ask”—Mama waved the camera closer—“why I was even opening the door to an empty shop?”
“Ma’am—” Chet made a feeble and futile sweep at the mike.
“Because my daughter Abby was burgled, that’s why—I mean, this shop was. Everything was taken. That happened Wednesday. I was here looking for clues because a certain Charlotte investigator, who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are G.W.”—Mama leered into the camera—“was unable to come up with clues.”
“Mama!” I gasped.
“Shhh!” No one at the bar even looked at me.
“Well, I didn’t find any clues, but I did find the angel. And let me tell you something, the thieves who burgled my Abby’s shop are going to pay dearly for their dastardly deed.”
“Amen, sister,” someone yelled.
Mama nodded approvingly. “Because, you see, the Good Lord hath chosen my daughter’s shop to be the place of his final revelations.”
“Hallelujah!”
“Glory be!”
Mama held up a hand for silence. “But y’all—the people of Charlotte, Gastonia, and Rock Hill—no, make that America—can be blessed by making a pilgrimage to the Den of Antiquity on Selwyn Avenue in beautiful Charlotte, North Carolina. Admission price to this holy shrine is only ten dollars per person, but y’all can get a family discount for—”
Apparently CNN was not in the mood to provide free advertising for Mama’s latest harebrained scheme. The screen went mom
entarily blank and then lit up with coverage of a dingo roundup in Western Australia.
“Ah, shit,” one of the Purple Pelican’s well-dressed patron’s muttered.
The bartender clicked off the set. “What kind of name is Den of Iniquity for a holy shrine?”
“It’s Den of Antiquity,” I snapped, “and it isn’t a holy shrine. It’s my antique shop.”
Heads finally turned my way.
“My name is Abigail Timberlake,” I said quickly, “and that was my Mama you just saw on TV.”
“And I’m Tom Cruise,” said the bartender.
“But that really is my shop!”
“Lady, you’re not getting anything else to drink today. You’ve already had enough.”
I wheeled and stamped off to rejoin Tradd. His chair, however, was just as empty as Buford’s heart.
19
“He just left,” the waitress said. She paused. “I guess he thought you weren’t coming back.”
“What?”
She bit her lip. “Don’t worry, I didn’t cancel your order yet, and he already paid for both meals.”
I may not have Mama’s ability to smell trouble, but I can read faces pretty well. It’s a useful skill in the retail business. At any rate, I sensed there was more she wanted to tell me. All I needed to do was to establish a connection. Her name, Youneequekah, filled her entire badge. It seemed like a good place to start.
“You have a very interesting name,” I said. “How do you pronounce it?”
“Unique-ah. It was my mama’s idea. She wanted it to be original. Someday I’m going to get up enough nerve to change it to something else. You know, something more ordinary like LaTisha or Tomika. My husband, however, is dead set against me changing it.”
“Mamas,” I said sympathetically, “can be a pain in the you-know-where. And so can husbands.”
She laughed. “Tell me about it.”
“So, dear, did the gentleman who was with me leave alone?”
She shook her head.
“That figures,” I growled. “You wouldn’t happen to know who it was he left with?”
“Oh, sure. He left with Barbie.”
“The hostess?”
“She’s the owner’s niece. She comes and goes as she pleases.”
“Probably steals pelicans, too,” I said. “Keeps her daddy in business.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind, dear. I was just being catty. If you bring me my lunch, I’ll put something else in my mouth besides my foot.”
“You want Mr. Burton’s lunch too?”
“Gracious no!” Then it hit me. “You know Tradd Burton?”
“Girlfriend, everyone in Georgetown knows of Tradd Burton. Isn’t he a fox?”
“He’s gorgeous,” I agreed. “Unfortunately he knows it.”
“Isn’t that the truth. Still, if I wasn’t married, well-I guess I’d be tempted.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Okay, so I’m tempted now. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m ashamed of myself.”
Youneequekah glanced around the outdoor pavilion. No one seemed to need her.
“There are probably more little Burtons running around this town than there are tadpoles in a swamp.”
“You don’t say!”
“Every time he comes down here to visit his grandmother, he—well, you know—finds someone new to be with.”
“Yuck.” I was remembering the touch of Tradd’s hand against my skin. We hadn’t, of course, become intimate, but still, you know what they say. When you have sex with someone, you are also having sex with everyone they’ve ever had sex with, and on down the line. In other words, I had thrilled at the touch of a thousand strangers—half of them women.
Youneequekah nodded. “Yeah, as far as I’m concerned, Tradd Burton is a ‘look but do not touch’ kind of man. Bet Flora Dubois (Youneequekah pronounced it do-boys) wishes she hadn’t.”
Shame on me, I hadn’t even bothered to learn the girl’s last name. Dubois! Maybe she really was French.
“Did you know she was dead?” I asked gently.
“You’re kidding! I mean—no, I didn’t know. When did she die? How?”
“Sit down, dear.”
Youneequekah took Tradd’s chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“Last night—or maybe early this morning—Flora was killed. Murdered.”
“Murdered? By who?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Does he know this?”
“Tradd? Of course. He found the body.”
“Why, don’t that beat all, and him sitting here like nothing happened.”
I gulped. “I hardly knew the girl. Really.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not blaming you. But him—he’s the daddy.”
“The daddy? He’s Flora’s father?”
Youneequekah couldn’t help but snicker at my stupidity. Really, I was not offended.
“No, he wasn’t Flora’s father, he was the father of her baby.”
“You mean—”
“Like I said, there are a lot of little Tradd Burtons running around. I call them Traddpoles.”
“So Flora had a baby!”
“No, girlfriend, she didn’t have it yet. From what I hear, she was due along about Thanksgiving.”
“But that’s less than three months from now!”
Youneequekah nodded. “Carried it well, didn’t she?”
“It was her height,” I said bitterly. Leave it to me to be jealous of a dead woman. But both times I was pregnant I looked like a cantaloupe with a head. A strawberry-size head. Mama disagrees, but I swear I showed within the first month.
“Yeah, it must have been her height. Of course I’m pretty tall, but when I was pregnant with Jamal, I showed more than that.”
“Miss. Oh, Miss,” a man called from a table across the pavilion. We both ignored him.
“So, you knew Flora?”
“She comes in to the Night Tide—well, she did—that’s a club my Sammy and I hang out at sometimes. I’ve seen her there.”
“Pregnant and still drinking?”
“We’re not talking prime mother material here.”
“Oh, Miss!”
Youneequekah glanced grudgingly at her customer. “Hey, I got to go.”
“I know, but just one more question. You know a woman named Adrianne Menlow?”
She stood up. “Never heard the name before.”
“Deep voice? Ugly as sin?”
“Several people come to mind.”
“Looks like a walking vegetable garden?”
“Ah, you mean Addy! She’s a friend of Flora’s, and she’s bad news.”
“How so?”
“Drugs, prostitution—you name it, I bet she’s done it. She shows up at the Night Tide, too, but usually manages to get herself thrown out. Ends up in jail half the time. The Night Tide isn’t that kind of place.” She stood up. “Well, too bad about Flora. Wonder who the old lady is going to name in her will now?”
“Excuse me?”
“Miss!” Both the man and his voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I am terrible at placing people out of context. Besides, I didn’t know any men in the area outside of Burton-Latham men, and he certainly was not one of those.
“Hold your horses!” I called to the impatient customer. “Please explain,” I said to Youneequekah, “about this will stuff. Are you saying Flora is named in Mrs. Latham’s will?”
She shrugged. “That’s what Flora had everyone believe. I didn’t hear her say it myself, but that was the buzz. Apparently the old lady feels her grandchildren don’t really love her—that all they want is her money. Of course, that’s what Flora wants—I mean wanted—too. But at least she was honest about it.”
“How terribly sad.”
“Yeah, but can you blame the grandmother? Just look at Tradd.”
“A loser with a winning smile.”
Youneequekah snorted. “If it wasn’t for those ca
ps on his teeth, he’d have a smile like fish.”
“That does it!” The customer, now irate, was on his feet and headed our way. Perhaps he was headed straight to Jake the manager to get Youneequekah fired. It was, of course, all my fault. I jumped up to intervene, and then suddenly it dawned on me why the man was so familiar. He was only my height, for heaven’s sake.
“Oh, my gosh!” I wailed, “it’s Buster!”
“Who?” Youneequekah—and I can’t blame the poor woman—had taken refuge behind me.
“Buster Connelly, the coroner.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” I said to Buster.
“I bet you are.”
It was a sour response from someone who had just consumed a free meal—Tradd’s to be exact, and had been plied with enough gin and tonics to satisfy a congressional fact-finding team. Not to mention that I had carried his stack of phone books over to my table, which was the better of the two.
“No, I mean it. I don’t know what got into me. It’s been a crazy weekend.”
“Yeah, yeah. You say no to my invitation, and the next thing I know I see you mooning all over that Burton kid.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t doing the mooning. Now, that cheap little hostess—”
“Is my niece.”
“Oops. You don’t happen to carve pelicans in your spare time, do you?”
“No, and Jake is not my brother—he’s my brother-in-law.”
“And I thought Charlotte was a small town. Well, you’re not going to report Youneequekah’s apparent inattentiveness to Jake, are you?”
“It would be a waste of time. Jake and I don’t get along so well. I only come here because the food is good.”
“And today it was free,” I said pointedly.
Buster ignored me and started in on a slab of Girdle-buster pie, a specialty of the house. How he managed to pack so much into such a small space, was beyond me. Next time I took an extended trip I was going to ask Buster to pack my suitcases.
“Well, I’m sorry again,” I said. “And I’m just going to keep on blathering until you forgive me.”
“Will you reconsider my invitation for tomorrow?”
“Certainly not. I do not give in to coercion.”
“Good, then I forgive you. I despise weak-willed women.”
“Well, I loathe dictatorial men.”
