Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  “You don’t understand,” she said. I heard frustration, but not an ounce of remorse. “I wanted the will to be found by someone who loves me. Someone who remembers all the stories I told them in the nursery. About the clock their grandfather and I brought back from our honeymoon. It didn’t have to be Alexandra, I was just hoping it was.”

  It was time to put away the violins; a woman was dead, after all. Even strumpets deserved to be avenged.

  “Tell that to Flora’s parents,” I said sharply. “Tell that to someone who really cares.” I eyed the distance to the door. Unless she had the gun hidden in her bra, and was one hell of a quick draw, I was assured of a safe getaway. “You know, of course, I’m going to have to turn you in.”

  “I’m fully aware of that,” she said flatly.

  I took several steps backward. “And just because you played with God as a child, doesn’t mean they’re going to let you off the hook.”

  She actually smiled. “I’m eighty-nine. I could use a rest.”

  Two more steps. “South Carolina has the death penalty, you know.”

  She had the audacity to laugh. “I’ve had a heart condition for the past ten years. How much longer would I live, anyway?”

  “But what about C.J.!” I wailed. “Don’t you give a damn about her? Don’t you understand that you’re ruining her life?”

  “Nonsense, child. Neely Thompson and our young coroner—Buster, they call him—are no fools. By now they must have discovered that Flora wasn’t stabbed to death. But what she was doing with the sultan’s kris is beyond me. Anyway, I doubt that a few hours in jail will have ruined her life. After all, she isn’t one of us.”

  “One of us? Just what is that supposed to mean? Look, C.J. may be an egg or two short of an Easter basket, but she has feelings.”

  The dowager waved a biscuit hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I find the girl delightful. But girls of her class don’t have that much to lose, now do they?”

  “Her class?”

  She nodded. “Now, you—that’s a different story. I can tell that you come from a good family. And Timberlake—Bob Timberlake is a famous North Carolina artist, isn’t he? So, you married well, too.”

  “I didn’t marry Bob,” I screamed, “I married Buford. They’re no relation. And Buford has about as much class as you do! No, I guess he has a trifle more, because he has yet to kill anybody.”

  One giant step backward and I was at the door. Dmitri, however, had decided to forgive the doting dowager and had curled up on her pillow.

  “Dmitri! Come to mama!”

  My fickle friend opened one eye.

  I turned the knob and gave the door a push. “Now!”

  My feckless feline closed his eye. A satin pillow and someone to cater to his every whim, versus a fur-covered blanket in a wicker kitty basket and an owner too busy to even keep track of her shadow, much less a cat, what was there to choose?

  “Traitor!” I shrieked, and stepping backward into the hall, pulled her heavy door shut.

  I didn’t even have a chance to turn around. The blow to the back of my head came as a total surprise. And that’s when the lights went out in Georgetown.

  I awoke in degrees. Bright flashes of color and intense pain alternating with darkness and an overwhelming need to sleep. Gradually the colors dimmed, and I became more alert, but my surroundings were still as dark as Tweetie Bird’s roots. The pain, incidentally, never left me. I felt like the Carolina Panthers were using my head to practice kicking field goals.

  After dozens of kicks—most of them undoubtedly winners—I began to feel the sensation of movement. Short, hard jerks that coincided with the field goals. Apparently I was locked inside something. Possibly a large box of some kind.

  “Hey, let me out!”

  “Not on your life,” someone said and laughed. The jerking continued.

  I will admit I entertained the idea that I might be dead and was, in fact, in hell—but the thought lasted only a few seconds, mind you. I am an Episcopalian, after all. For us hell is having to use plastic cutlery at a tailgate party.

  “Let me out now!”

  “You’re a fiery little thing, I’ll give you that.”

  “Albert?”

  “Hell, I guess it doesn’t really matter if you know it’s me. You’re not going to live long enough to do anything about it.”

  “Albert Jansen! You let me out, right this minute. Did Edith put you up to this?”

  “Edith—that’s a laugh!”

  Before I could ask what was so funny, the box, or whatever it was that contained me, pitched forward and fell a good two feet. My lights flickered again as all eleven Carolina Panthers kicked me simultaneously. You can bet your bippy I screamed like there was no tomorrow.

  Albert pounded on my prison. “Shut up!”

  “Make me, you idiot! What did you do, drop me off a cliff?”

  “I dropped you in Grandmother Latham’s rowboat. You’re a hell of a lot heavier than you look.”

  Sure enough, I could feel myself rocking. “Ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, you wuss. Edith could sling me over her shoulder with one hand. Besides, this box has got to weigh a ton.”

  “I’m not a wuss, and this isn’t a box. It’s a chest.”

  “Ah, the one with all the lifesavers and junk.”

  “That’s the one. But it’s empty now, except for you.”

  But if I recalled correctly, it was no ordinary chest. I had only ever seen two of them before. Both Bavarian-made, and both intended to serve double duty as chest and cradle. Kinderkaschete they were called. If a small child was inadvertently trapped inside, they merely needed to slide open a ventilation panel. And I, as I’ve been reminded far too often, am barely larger than a small child.

  “You ready to take a little boat ride?” Albert called.

  “Not until I’ve got a lifesaver on, dear. It’s the law, you know.”

  “It isn’t where you’re going.”

  He had pushed off from the dock and I could hear the faint splash of oars. “And where might that be?”

  “First out to the middle of the Black River, and then straight down to the bottom.”

  “Why, that’s stupid,” I said stupidly. “Out in the middle of the river folks are going to see you.” I tried to slap my face in the darkness of the trunk, and ended up banging my elbow.

  “Oh, there’s a little detail I forgot to mention,” Albert said, putting his face sadistically close to the lid, “but it’s night now. A nice, dark moonless night.”

  “But, that’s impossible!”

  “You were out a long time, Abigail. Stashed safely away in the attic. Of course, everyone else thinks you’ve gone home. That’s what I told them, you see. I told them you said you had had enough of the Burton-Latham clan. I told them you called a cab.”

  Try to keep your assailant talking—I’d heard that on Oprah or some other talk show. “There really is no need for this, dear. The old lady confessed to everything. Surely, you heard that. You were waiting right outside her door.”

  “Yeah, I heard all right. She was weak.”

  “So, you were in this together?”

  “Not hardly. She killed Flora, not me.”

  “Then why are you doing this to me?”

  “Like I said, Grandmother Latham is weak. She’s bound to talk sooner or later.”

  “What’s it to you if she talks?” I screamed. “She killed Flora, not you.”

  “Oh, but I was there.”

  “You saw it?”

  “I was there.”

  “Repetition is the cardinal law of learning, dear, but with you, I’m afraid it’s a sign of senility.”

  “I was with Flora. Flora and I were lovers.”

  “Oh.” It was no doubt unproductive to point out that Flora and half the male population of Georgetown County were lovers.

  “The old bag came downstairs in the storm expecting to find Tradd. Under other circumstances it might have been funny. I certainly di
dn’t expect her to shoot Flora.”

  “Pow. Right in the back of the head,” I said. If he couldn’t be overcome by guilt, maybe gore would do the trick.

  “Yeah, pow. But then she had this witness, see? And I had this major problem.”

  “Ah, yes, her money. You’re afraid she’s going to tell Edith, who will drop you like a hot potato. Then it’s bye-bye big bucks.”

  “You’re a smart woman, Abigail. I would have enjoyed being married to someone like you.”

  “In your dreams, dear.”

  He let my sarcasm roll off him, like black water from a gator. “Anyway, for a minute, I thought the old crone was going to shoot me, too. You should have seen the look on her face! But, fortunately, your fruity friend came into the kitchen—” He stopped talking, and I heard the faint splash of paddles again. “Middle of the river.”

  “That’s nice, dear, but finish your story. So, C.J. came along, carrying the kris for protection and—”

  “And—over you go!”

  My lights barely flickered when I hit the water. What came as a shock was how quickly the chest began to take on water. Apparently Mrs. Latham neglected to put the boathouse on her annual termite-inspection list. Nonetheless, it was imperative that I wait until Albert had seen the chest sink out of sight. So, although it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, I stayed put until the water sloshed into my nostrils. The trapdoor opened easily, and just as easily I slipped out and into the cool black water.

  To be honest, I didn’t have time to be scared. Besides, I’m a decent swimmer, thanks to all those afternoons spent at the Fort Mill water park when Buford and I were courting. Buford, who was over a foot taller than me, was so dazzled by my charms that he never noticed me treading water in places where he could easily stand.

  At any rate, the Black River in summer is delightfully warm. Much warmer, if you ask me, than the water at Myrtle Beach. But Albert was right—it most definitely was night. Had it not been for the lights of the Latham house in the distance, the water, the shore, and the sky would have all blended together. I couldn’t even see Albert in the boat.

  I listened for the slap of oars against the surface. Nothing. Perhaps he was sitting motionless in the boat waiting. The man was an engineer, after all; they’re sticklers for details.

  Then something brushed against my foot. Something that might have been a fish, or a piece of wood, or an alligator. I broke the world’s record for free-style swimming getting to shore.

  23

  “And then what happened?” Mama asked.

  She’d come down to pick up C.J. and me, and Buster’s aunt, bless her soul, had invited her to lunch, as well. Why on earth our hostess had to include C.J. and both Triplett brothers is beyond me. What’s more, Buster didn’t seem to mind one bit.

  “Well, then I sneaked into the house—taking great care to avoid the grande dame, of course—and told the entire story to Edith. She was very helpful.”

  “She wasn’t mad because you killed her husband?” C.J. really should remember to swallow her food before speaking.

  “Abby!” Mama dropped her fork and her hand flew to her pearls. “You killed Albert?”

  “Of course, not, Mama. Albert drowned when he threw me overboard. He lost his balance and the boat tipped over. Apparently he had never learned to swim. Besides, the boat was leaking so fast, he didn’t have a chance anyway.”

  Buster’s Aunt Amelia handed me a large bowl of mashed potatoes. They were the homemade kind, heavy with butter and cream. Even Mama would be hard pressed to make better.

  “My nephew Floyd, here, was a swimming champion in high school,” she said pointedly.

  C.J. popped another bite of pot roast in her mouth. “I thought your name was Buster.”

  I gave C.J. a warning look. “It is. Buster is his middle name.”

  “I have a cousin Floyd—”

  I cut off her off at the pass. “Turns out Edith Jansen is a pretty nice woman. She just comes across strong with outsiders because she’s trying to protect her family. As soon as she called the sheriff she marched right into her grandmother’s room and rescued Dmitri for me.”

  “Considering that Flora is dead,” Daniel Triplett said solemnly, “Edith should have protected outsiders from her family.”

  “So,” Mama said, picking up her fork, “everyone in the family suspected Mrs. Latham had hidden her will in that fancy clock?”

  “They knew she’d hidden it in the missing piece, they just didn’t know what that piece was. But nobody knew the terms of the will—except Flora. She was the old bag’s witness.”

  Mama poked me with her fork. “Abby, how you talk!”

  “Sorry,” I looked first to Mama, and then Buster’s Aunt Amelia. Of course, neither of them were anywhere near eighty-nine.

  “So, what were the terms?” Buster asked.

  “I know, I know,” C.J. said waving both arms. “She left everything to Alexandra, didn’t she?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “It can’t be both, Abby.”

  “Yes, it can. You see—”

  “But, maybe you’re right. There’s a building in Shelby that is the world’s shortest skyscraper and—”

  “Excuse me,” Mama said, and stretching across Aunt Amelia’s broad table poked C.J. with her fork. “Let Abby finish her story.”

  “Well, like I was about to say, the will divided everything equally between all four grandchildren—the children themselves were left entirely out—but there was a codicil that stated the entire will was null and void if Alexandra found it first. If that was the case, the old—I mean, Mrs. Latham—was going to have a new will drawn up leaving everything to the lass with the auburn locks.”

  “Is that legal?” Buster asked turning to Rhett.

  “We’d have to look it up,” Daniel said, saving his brother the trouble of rasping. “We lawyers rely heavily on books.”

  “And legal assistants who have to comb through the books,” Rhett said anyway. By the way C.J. was making goo-goo eyes at him, he must have deduced she found his voice charming.

  Aunt Amelia nudged me with a veritable vat of gravy. “I’ve known Genevieve Latham’s grandchildren since they were born—they came to visit her just about every summer. Anyway, I must say I’m shocked at the way young Rupert turned out. That shaved head, and all. Are you sure he didn’t have anything to do with the maid’s murder?”

  “Positive.” I passed the gravy to Mama. “By the way,” I whispered, “you might be interested in knowing that Toy no longer parks cars for Fallen Stars.”

  “Oh, I know,” Mama said, just as calm as could be. “He hasn’t worked there in over a year.”

  “What?” Of course everyone looked my way.

  “Abby’s brother Toy is becoming an Episcopal priest,” Mama announced proudly.

  “What? Mama is this supposed to be a joke? I mean, you would have told me long before this, if it was true.”

  “This is no joke, dear. Your brother is in the top 10 percent of his class at seminary.”

  “But Toy’s a ne’er-do-well,” I wailed. “A sower of wild oats. A prodigal son!”

  “I knew you’d say that, Abby. That’s why I never told you. It’s a shame you and your brother never communicate.”

  “I bet y’all don’t have that problem,” C.J. cooed to Rhett.

  Aunt Amelia mercifully distracted me with a tureen of green beans and fatback. “Buster said you’d help him pick out a few good pieces. Personally, I’d pick that highboy over there. I think it’s worth a pretty penny.”

  “It’s a beautiful piece,” I said, feeling put on the spot. I’d noticed the highboy the minute I walked into the house—noticed that it was a reproduction, as were most of Aunt Amelia’s “antiques.” But the dear lady had graciously allowed me to bring Dmitri into her house, and he reposed at that very moment on my lap, beneath the tablecloth.

  “My Abby knows her stuff,” Mama said proudly.

  C.J. unglu
ed her eyes from Rhett. “You never did say, Abby. Did you get to keep that eighteenth-century Swiss baroque clock?”

  I shook my head. “The old lady—I mean, Mrs. Latham, reneged on her promise. She never intended for anyone but Alexandra to have it, and now—well, I’ve torn her family apart, haven’t I?”

  “There, there,” Mama patted my arm for a change instead of her pearls. “You don’t need to worry about losing out on some dumb clock.”

  “That clock would have sold at auction for over two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Is that all?” She sounded positively cheerful.

  The phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Buster said to his aunt, who was busy trying to tuck a silver-plated serving spoon into a heaping bowl of collard greens.

  Buster was back in a Mississippi minute, which is even longer than a Carolina minute. “It’s your boyfriend,” he said to me.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I snapped.

  Buster frowned. “Someone named Craig Washburn?”

  “That’s Greg, and he is not my boyfriend.”

  His face relaxed. “That’s what he said you’d say. He also said you weren’t likely to take his call.”

  “He was right about that.”

  “So, he said to give you a message.”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “Not here,” I muttered.

  Buster was a bust at reading faces. “He said to tell you they found the contents of your shop.”

  I stood up, spilling Dmitri on the floor. “They what?”

  He put a strong, warm hand on my arm. “I’m afraid it’s not good news, Abby. The truck the thieves were driving overturned on I-40 in the mountains west of Asheville. According to Craig—I mean, Greg—the contents of the truck were pretty much pulverized. But, one of the thieves confessed.”

  I felt faint. This bit of news was the final nail in the coffin that had been my career. “Fat lot of good a confession does,” I said bitterly.

  “Well, at least it’s closure, isn’t it?” C.J. said. “And don’t worry, Abby. I can loan you some money. I’ve got oodles saved.” To her credit, she was just trying to be helpful.