by Tamar Myers
I cursed myself for having foolishly planned to wear my heaviest clothes on the return trip to Charlotte, and just to be fair, I cursed Peggy for plotting to turn us all into Popsicles. Then without wasting another breath I set out on foot to reconnoiter the premises.
Theoretically at least, I’d watched enough James Bond movies to know how to break and enter. In real life I have a hard time opening the cellophane bags inside cereal boxes, and I can never, ever pull that protective foil seal off a jar of Jif peanut butter without mutilating it first with a knife and a pair of pliers. Face it, as a Bond beauty, I was a bust.
For one thing, I could barely peer over the window-sills, which incidentally were covered with a soft but pungent layer of bird droppings. The panes themselves were so filthy that, even if all the lights had been left on inside, I wouldn’t have been able to see anything smaller than an elephant. James can, of course, open doors with a credit card, whereas I can’t even insert mine into the ATM without having it spit back at me half the time.
I pride myself on my tenacity, but I am ashamed to say that just then I was feeling about as tenacious as a Carolina snowflake in April. The windows may as well have been nailed shut, and after a few feeble attempts to open the door with my house keys, my American Express card, and an eyebrow tweezers, I plumb gave up. A sensible Abigail would be back at the Roach Motel catching her quota of “z’s.” Come to think of it, a truly sensible—make that a wise—Abigail would be safely tucked in her own bed in Charlotte, or just possibly, down in Key West fishing for grouper with you-know-who.
As Mama always says, you have to let go of the old, before you can grasp the new, and it wasn’t until I’d let go of my plan to break into the Southern Pennsylvania Metalworks Company that I noticed the smaller building behind it, all but hidden by a massive maple. A cracked, weed-riddled sidewalk led directly from the former to the latter—or at least appeared to. There were no security lights in that area of the property, and I stubbed both big toes before I’d walked a dozen paces.
“Damn you, Abby,” I said—talking to oneself is, after all the highest form of intelligence—“next time bring a flashlight.”
Abby agreed that she had been remiss, and we proceeded carefully together.
It wasn’t until I got close enough to where even I could have hit the smaller building with a stone, that I realized it was surrounded by a chain-link fence. It was soon apparent that the gate was secured with enough locks to tucker Houdini, and you can bet I abandoned any notion of climbing the fence when I espied the nasty coil of razor wire strung along the top.
“Good things come in small packages,” Mama used to say in her attempt to build my self-esteem, but until the day I see a four-foot, nine-inch fashion model, I will never be truly convinced. But that dark (and about to be stormy) night in the mountains of southern Pennsylvania, I became a temporary believer.
Just as I was about to give up for the second time, the night’s first flash of real lightning illuminated a hole in the fence. Technically speaking it wasn’t even a proper hole, but an area along the bottom of the fence where someone, perhaps the installer, had removed the bottom three rows of links to accommodate the roots of a tree. If I lay flat on my back, and turned my face to the side, I could just manage to squeeze under the fence—well, I might have, had I truly been as flat-chested as Buford always claimed. Having come that far, however, I was not about to let two molehills become a mountain, so I did the only practical thing and removed my bra. Gravity did its work and I made it through in one piece, although thank heavens I was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.
If you ask me, only an idiot would erect such a formidable barricade around an unlocked building. Need I say more about the Teschels’s mental prowess? And I think it was safe to conclude that Leona Teschel had not been the last of her clan to leave the building. It wasn’t the front door that was unlocked, you see, but a side door. As everyone knows, a woman would have checked all the doors at least three times each, and sniffed for gas leaks, even if there wasn’t a stove on the premises.
It was even darker than Buford’s heart inside the building so I had no choice but to turn on a light. Fortunately my fingers found the switch before encountering any wildlife. The overhead bulb was probably no more than sixty watts, but for a few seconds it felt like I was looking into the sun. Then as my eyes began to adjust I found myself staring at a scene from an Indiana Jones movie. There were roaches everywhere—more roaches, I’d wager, than there “were paying guests at the Clinton White House.
Of course I screamed. I assure you, however, that it was a controlled scream; of short duration, perfectly on key, and it originated in my diaphragm. In all modesty, it was more like the first note of an aria than a shriek. At any rate, the roaches seemed to be even less happy than I, and they scrambled for cover.
The source of the infestation was immediately obvious. The Teschels might live in a Victorian gingerbread house in the finest part of Hernia, but they were slobs. Hungry slobs. I had never seen such an array of empty fast-food containers. Who knew that Bedford had two Chinese restaurants? Wok Like A Man certainly wasn’t listed in the phone book, although judging by the mounds of detritus around me, the restaurant in question may well have closed its doors year ago.
Distracted by bugs and garbage, it took me longer than it should have to see that I had hit pay dirt. The furnace, the anvils, the tools, sheets of beaten silver, even photographs of museum-quality pieces—it was all there. Two long wooden benches covered with the accouterments of forgery. The only thing missing was a finished reproduction. I would have given anything, including an inch of my height, to have a Polaroid camera with me.
“Well, well, well,” I said to myself, and to an exceptionally large and surprisingly bold roach who was peeking over the edge of a pizza box.
The scabrous brute waved his antennae in obvious agreement.
“Abigail, you are something else,” I said, basking in the moment. “Not only are you one red-hot mama, but you’re an ace detective. If Greg Washburn had an ounce of sense he’d be worshipping at your temple of love, instead of fishing in Florida. But you know what? You really don’t need him, dear. You could have any red-blooded American male with a pulse you please.”
Although not red-blooded, and lacking a pulse, the roach seemed to agree. The randy fellow hoisted himself over the edge of the box and came barreling at me. I jumped back from the workbench, but just in case he was capable of flight, I reached for a large cardboard box on the floor near me, which I planned to hold up as a shield. The damn thing had something in it.
Something heavy.
Something that felt like it might be metal.
I forgot the amorous roach and peeked inside. Wrapped in a single sheet of tissue paper was the most exquisite eighteenth-century epergne I’d ever seen. All right, so it was the first eighteenth-century epergne I’d seen outside of a museum, but at the risk of being rude, how many epergnes can you remember seeing, eighteenth century or otherwise?
“Epergne,” I purred. The word was French in origin and the first “e” was long. The “g” and final “e” were silent.
Epergnes are essentially elaborate, tiered centerpieces. A gold or silver frame holds a central basket, or vase, around which are suspended smaller versions of the same. They are invariably ornate, often with delicate scrollwork or piercing.
The epergne I beheld was pierced silver in the rococo style. If I had to bet the farm, I’d guess it was a copy of a late eighteenth-century English piece. Beyond that, I would be just as accurate in guessing tomorrow’s soccer score for the Sri Lanka team in the Asia Cup.
I struggled with the morality of taking the epergne with me. As evidence, you understand. Just in case Tommy Lee showed and cleaned out the place while I was contacting the authorities. It was one of my shorter moral struggles.
Edward Marlon was your typical Yankee sheriff. He was on the short side, slender, and had a washboard stomach. He had a full head of curly blon
d hair that made me want to run my fingers through it. His brown eyes shone with intelligence, and he had all his teeth. Unfortunately the man had a strong Yankee accent, and the astonishing ability to speak faster than the human ear could hear.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” I said, for the umpteenth time. “Would you please repeat what you just said?”
To his credit, the sheriff made an obvious, and seemingly painful attempt to put brakes on his words. “Isaidthatwassomestormwehadthere.”
“I understood that!” I cried joyfully. Believe me, understanding Sheriff Marlon was as close to being bilingual as I was ever going to get. “Now please, say something else.”
The sheriff frowned. “Howaboutletsgetdowntobusiness?”
“All right. Like I said on the phone, I want to report a crime. In fact, several crimes.”
He extracted a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket. His movements were uncannily familiar. Except for his height, hair, and eye color, he might have been Greg.
“Howaboutwestartatthebeginningthen.Letmehaveyourfullnameandaddressfortherecord.”
I complied. If only that fly on the wall was Miss Williams, my high school Spanish teacher who claimed I didn’t have an ear for languages. Boy, was she ever wrong! But I will spare you the trouble of having to read Sheriff Marlon’s words as I heard them. It isn’t natural to talk even as fast as your average Yankee, much less faster than the speed of light. My Aunt Marilyn in Atlanta is convinced that fifty words or more a minute is likely to produce cancer of the vocal cords. While I won’t go that far, I do think that if the good Lord had intended for us to rattle away like machine guns, he wouldn’t have created so many vowels.
Of course the sheriff had no trouble keeping up with me. “Now, just what are these crimes you want to report?”
“The big one is murder,” I said.
Sheriff Marlon cocked his handsome head.
“Oh no, not me,” I hastened to assure him. “I didn’t commit these crimes. I’m just reporting them.”
This dual-speed conversation was not being held in the sheriff’s office, as you might have imagined, but at Imogene’s House of Pancakes, where Imogene herself served pancakes, as well as other breakfast treats. It was four o’clock in the morning and we were the only customers in the place. Our corner booth was the cleanest table in the joint, which wasn’t saying much. A good archeologist could, by carefully slicing through the residue, catalogue every meal ever served on that Formica platform.
“You saw someone commit a murder?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes—well, not exactly. But I saw Purnell Purvis collapse after he’d been poisoned. It happened on the sidewalk right outside my shop, the Den of Antiquity.”
“Where was this?”
“Charlotte, North Carolina,” I said proudly. “The Queen City.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to report a murder that happened in another state?”
“Well, the murderer lives here.”
“Was the murder reported in Charlotte?”
“Of course,” I said indignantly.
“Then I fail to understand. What does this have to do with you?”
It was time to think fast. Unfortunately I had a better chance of programming my VCR correctly. If it hadn’t been for Imogene’s sudden appearance I might have incriminated myself.
“You’nz ready to order?”
Short, blond, and handsome turned to me. “Well?”
I had yet to consult the menu, a single laminated pink sheet of paper. Judging by the grease on the thing, Imogene was a good cook.
“I’ll have two eggs—sunnyside up, bacon—not too crisp, grits—”
“We don’t have any of that.”
“I see. Do you have cornbread?”
“We serve breakfast,” Imogene said through pursed lips.
“Biscuits?”
She grunted.
“The usual,” Sheriff Marlon said.
“It’ll be out in a minute.” Imogene beamed at the sheriff and then, as if by magic, disappeared.
“What’s the usual?” I asked.
“Blueberry pancakes. Now where were we?”
He raked tanned fingers through the blond curls. I almost moaned aloud.
“We were talking about Tommy Lee Teschel,” I managed to say solemnly.
“Ah, so he’s the killer.”
“You know him?”
“Unfortunately just about everyone knows Tommy Lee. So far he’s managed to keep himself out of serious trouble, but I guess you could say we were all kind of waiting for the shoe to drop.”
“So you’ll arrest him?”
“Is there a warrant for his arrest in South Carolina?”
“North Carolina, and no, there isn’t any warrant. You see—well, they don’t have all the information. They don’t have the proof.”
The brown eyes regarded me frankly. “You do?”
“You can say that again. It’s right out there in my car.”
24
No one should set an eighteenth-century epergne atop a sticky table in an all-night pancake house. I was at least guilty of poor taste.
Sheriff Marlon whistled in appreciation. “Where did you get this?”
“I got me one just like that,” said Imogene, appearing out of nowhere.
“I bet you do,” I said.
“Got it at Walmart over in Somerset,” she said, plunking down our platters of gristle and grease.
“You don’t say.”
She pointed to my sapphire ring. “I got me one of them too.”
“You lucky woman.”
“Only I wear mine on the right hand. When I ain’t working, of course.” She pointed again. “That mean you’re married?”
I almost didn’t answer. But the sheriff’s ears had perked up, so I couldn’t leave the question hanging.
“I’m not married. This was a gift from an elderly friend for whom I once did a favor.”
When she dematerialized, I continued. “I found this epergne in a little building out behind the Southern Pennsylvania Metalworks Company. Tommy Lee has a secret workshop there where he makes reproductions of silver masterpieces. He sells these things as originals in Georgia and the Carolinas. Who knows, maybe he sells them here too.”
He poured half a bottle of boysenberry syrup over his short stack. “Tommy Lee gave you a tour?”
I attempted a bite of bacon. It was so crisp it shattered into a million pieces. I moistened a finger and dabbed up a few of the closer shards.
“Of course he didn’t give me a tour. I arranged that on my own.”
To my surprise, he shook his handsome head. “Let me get this straight. You’re confessing that you broke and entered—”
“I didn’t break and enter,” I snapped. “I squeezed under the fence. The door just happened to be unlocked.”
“Okay, so we’ve got trespassing and illegal entry.” He pointed to the dish. “And theft.”
“What?”
He nodded at the dish. “Does that belong to Tommy Lee?”
“Yes, but it isn’t like you think.”
“Then tell me how it is,” he said, and took an enormous bite of pancake.
I spilled the beans. Figuratively, but it wouldn’t have mattered had it been literally. There was already almost as much syrup on the sheriff’s tie as there was on his plate.
“That’s some story,” he said as he mashed the last few crumbs between the tines of his fork.
“Every word of it’s true. So, when are you going to arrest Tommy Lee?”
He smiled. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple.”
“Well, then get a search warrant. You’ll find a workshop back there, just like I said.”
“To get a search warrant I have to convince a judge that there is probable cause. No offense, Miss Timberlake, but all I have is your story.”
“And this!” I rattled the epergne.
“Which you came by illegally, if I may remind you.”
&
nbsp; I was about to bust a gut with frustration. “But you can’t just let a hardened criminal continue on his merry way. Who knows who he’ll kill next.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t begin an investigation,” he said quietly.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. That was at least a start.
“Okay, you don’t know me from Adam, and suddenly I show up with this crazy story. I can appreciate that. But I am a highly respected member of the Charlotte business community.”
He nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d mind, then, if I checked out your story?”
“Why should I mind? Of course you won’t be able to speak to Investigator Washburn. He’s off in Florida fishing for grouper.”
“I’m sure his colleagues could fill me in.”
“And just for the record, I don’t know anything about dimethyl sulfate. In fact, I’m not even sure about pulmonary edema.”
The brown eyes widened. “What?”
Imogene’s miraculous appearance saved me yet again.
“Phone,” she said, not even looking at me.
The sheriff picked up the epergne. “Mind if I take this with me?”
“Help yourself,” I said, trying to sound casual. As if I would just take off with the piece like some common thief!
While Sheriff Marlon took the call, I tried to eat. The biscuit was so sweet I spit it out into my hand. I was beginning to think Wynnell was right. We southerners might like our sweet tea, but northerners take the cake when it comes to sugar consumption. No doubt the Yankees would have lost the war, had Sherman not had a dentist traveling with him.
My eggs were indeed sunnyside up, but they were as raw as the day the hen laid them. Although they lolled about on a bed of grease, I doubt if they’d even had a chance to warm up to room temperature.
Sheriff Marlon returned sans epergne.
“Where is it?” I demanded. My ire is capable of cooking an egg in a minute flat.
“I put it my car for safekeeping,” he said, and had the audacity to wink. “You told me to help myself.”
