Statue of Limitations

by Tamar Myers

  I stared at the man. I hadn’t liked him from the moment I met him. It’s hard to pinpoint why, and I certainly hope I’m not so shallow that I subconsciously based my opinion on his looks. And anyway, he’s not bad-looking, just sort of creepy.

  He was originally a carrot top, whose hair is now fading to grayish beige, and like Irena Papadopoulus, he is deeply tanned. But Fisher’s tan comes from the real thing—hours spent in the sun golfing and fishing—and thanks to a zillion and one freckles, has an orange cast. It’s the eyes, however, that set him apart from anybody else I know. His irises all but lack color. So pale is the blue, that the blood vessels behind them show through, like tangled clusters of red spiders.

  “I had so many numbers programmed into it,” I said with remarkable composure, which, hopefully, made up for at least some of my foul language earlier.

  “Mrs. Timberlake, do you have a minute?”

  “Well, now that I can’t call anyone—” I forced a smile. He was, after all, a grieving widower. And on my list to interrogate. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webbfingers?”

  “Take my wife’s place.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I saw you talking to Harriet, and then you went around to one of the guest cottages. You know your way around the place, Mrs. Timberlake. You know the setup. You know Harriet.”

  “I still don’t understand.” So help me if the man was hitting on me. With Marina barely cold, and my cell phone in the marina—I wasn’t in the mood for sexual shenanigans. Not that I normally engage in extramarital pursuits.

  “You see, Mrs. Timberlake, the police won’t let my guests leave town, and the stress—plus all the work—is too much for Harriet.”

  “I’m not surprised, given her age. Maybe you should get her some help.”

  “Those are my thoughts exactly, Mrs. Timberlake. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the domestic scene in Charleston, Mr. Webbfingers. But I believe you can find the numbers of cleaning agencies in the yellow pages.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion. However, in addition to hiring an additional maid, I was thinking—well, I was thinking of hiring you.”

  I saw red, and it wasn’t just in his eyes. “Mr. Webbfingers, I am a professional antiques dealer. I do not clean other people’s houses—not that there is anything wrong with that. And frankly, sir—and I mean no disrespect—I doubt if your wife did much housework.”

  Pale, almost invisible eyelashes flickered. “Oh no, I wasn’t asking you to clean. I want you to be more like a hostess.”

  “Mr. Webbfingers, this conversation is over.” I must admit, however, that I briefly entertained the thought of being a hostess—well, a geisha, really. Those platform shoes they wear would add several useful inches to my height, and I’m extraordinarily fond of sushi.

  “Mrs. Timberlake, you misunderstand.”

  “I understand enough, Mr. Webbfingers.” I turned and walked away in the direction of the Cooper River. A group of tourists was in need of someone to snap their photo. They kept taking turns, which meant one of them was always out of the shot. They were young and loud and appeared to be having a great deal of fun. Judging by their accents—and the fact two of them were wearing Cleveland Browns T-shirts—they hailed from someplace north of the line. At any rate, by volunteering to play photographer, I could give them a dose of Southern hospitality, as well ensure my safety. Fisher Webbfingers wouldn’t dare mess with a bunch of boisterous Buckeyes.

  “I only want you to take them out for meals and show them around,” he shouted to my back.

  I whirled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, act like a tour director. Keep their minds off of what happened.”

  What happened? He made it sound like palmetto bugs had invaded the guest cottages. This was his wife he was talking about. Someone had bludgeoned her with a knockoff statue, for crying out loud.

  “I know what you must be thinking,” he said, as if reading my mind. “That I didn’t love my wife. That I’m not showing enough emotion. You’d be right on both counts.”

  Nothing can be quite as startling as the truth. “Please, continue.”

  “We’ve been married for thirty-three years. That’s a long time to remain faithful to one person.”

  Having been the wronged party, I had no sympathy for him. “Half the world’s problems could be solved if men kept their peckers in their pants,” I said peevishly.

  “I quite agree. It wasn’t mine that got out.”

  “Oops. I apologize. It’s just—well, never mind. The relationship you had with your wife is none of my business.”

  The washed-out eyes insisted on locking on mine. “She’s had three affairs—that I know of. The last one was with this college kid down here on spring break. Happened two years ago. A spindly little guy—not at all her type. Still, he must have had something she wanted.”

  “TMI!”

  “No, MIT. He was an engineering student from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I’m an engineer, you know. Retired from Nucor Steel just this year. Early retirement, of course, because I’m only fifty-five. Anyway, could be Marina thought bedding an engineering student would be especially hurtful. I don’t know. She always refused to talk about any of this. Wouldn’t go to therapy or marriage counseling. Over the years our love just plain eroded. I only agreed to the bed and breakfast because I thought it would make her happy. Sort of a last chance.” He paused just long enough to catch his breath. “Well, apparently, it didn’t make her happy. My guess, Mrs. Timberlake, is that my wife was killed by her newest lover.”

  “Mr. Webbfingers,” I said, wagging one of my fingers in his face, “Wynnell Crawford may be many things, but she is not a lesbian—not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “Oh no, not Mrs. Crawford. My wife didn’t swing that way, either.”

  This was worth having to buy and reprogram a new cell phone. “So you don’t think my friend is guilty?”

  “Of bad taste, yes. That statue was really ugly—but Marina liked it. Insisted on keeping it there. But of murder?” He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  My heart started to pound. “Have you met this new lover? Do the police know about him?”

  “No, and yes. I can’t prove that she had a new lover, but I told the police that I thought she might. And that something went terribly wrong. It’s the only reason I can think of for what happened.”

  My hopes were dashed like waves against the seawall. “Mr. Webbfingers, I’m sure you know that ordinarily the police would consider you the prime suspect.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “But they made an exception in your case.” I raised my voice slightly, but not enough to turn it into a question.

  “I’m sure I would be their prime suspect if it hadn’t been for that catfight between my wife and Mrs. Crawford—”

  “Catfight?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Enlighten me. Please.”

  “Yesterday afternoon Marina called Mrs. Crawford. Asked her to stop by and check on some of the flowers. They were looking pretty droopy, I guess.”

  “They looked fine to me a few minutes ago.”

  He stared at me through his transparent irises. “They didn’t yesterday. Anyway, one thing must have led to another, because pretty soon the whole neighborhood could hear them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I wasn’t there. I was playing golf. Heard about it when I got back—after I found Marina. Dead.”

  “It was a hundred degrees yesterday. You play golf when it’s that hot?”

  He turned a deeper shade of orange. “We play in the mornings, and refresh ourselves in the afternoons. But I don’t do the hard stuff anymore—just beer, and the occasional glass of wine. Anyway, Mrs. Timberlake, would you consider helping me with the guests? At least until after the funeral? Which, by the way, I’m not even allowed to sch
edule until Forensics is through with—uh, Marina’s body. I know this must sound like a strange request. Let them fend for themselves, is probably what you’re thinking. But Mrs. Timberlake, if I don’t keep them distracted somehow—even show them a good time—they might get it in their heads to sue me.”

  “Sue you? On what grounds?”

  “Emotional distress. Mental agony. I forget the exact phrase my attorney used. The point is, we’re living in a litigious society, and appeasement seems to be the best form of prevention.”

  Unfortunately he was right. But how lucky for me! Now, not only did I have an excuse to visit double 0 Legare, I practically had to hang out there. If the police didn’t shoo me away, this case was just about closed. Sure, I had only just begun my sleuthing, but I was a veteran at this. Heck, someday I might even consider private detective school, or whatever it was I had to do in order to hang out a shingle.

  DEN OF ANTIQUITY/DEN OF INIQUITY

  Fine antiques and murder investigations our specialties

  There was one condition, however. After all, Mama didn’t raise any fools—if you discount my younger brother, Toy. By helping Fisher out, I could, perhaps, spring Wynnell from the clinker, but it would also mean less coins for my coffer. While C.J. is competent enough to do the work of two people, she can’t do the work of two people plus me.

  “Of course you’ll be compensated,” he said, reading my mind again.

  “Well, uh—”

  “I’ll pay twice what Marina paid you to decorate.”

  “And expenses?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then it’s a deal,” I said, and proffered a petite paw, which he was glad to accept.

  The boisterous Buckeyes had been replaced by jovial Japanese. Not only were they eager to accept my offer to photograph them, but they insisted I be in the picture as well. On each and every camera. Although there were only eleven tourists, there were twenty-some cameras, and by the time my likeness had been properly captured on each, my hospitality streak was wearing thin.

  Finally, I was able to make a break for it during a film change. A young girl named Teruko, wearing a T-shirt that bore an early likeness of Michael Jackson, had become especially attached to me. She tried to follow me, but I dodged deftly behind a throng of morose visitors from Finland. Their Scandinavian solemnity was too much for the teen from Tokyo, and I was once again on my own.

  I needed to think. Something was rotten in Denmark, maybe in Helsinki as well. Why had Fisher Webbfingers selected me as his social hostess? Didn’t he have friends or relatives who could perform the task? If not, why hadn’t he hired a professional tour guide, or even a party planner? Or perhaps he had tried to—and none of them were willing to take the job. Perhaps they all knew something I didn’t know about the man.

  Just because the police hadn’t put Fisher Webbfingers at the top of their list didn’t mean he was innocent. A cheating wife is not only a common motive for murder, but in some cultures these killings are even sanctioned. Of course the folks in Charleston wouldn’t condone such behavior, but given Fisher Webbfingers’s high social standing, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect the police to begin their investigation with someone else. Someone who didn’t always keep her lips buttoned when circumstances called for discretion, and who, reportedly, had engaged in a catfight with the deceased.

  It could also be that the surviving owner of the bed and breakfast was on to me. He’d seen me snooping around, and since he seemed to be adept at reading minds (mine is small and doesn’t take very long), he’d rightfully concluded that I was on a mission to free Wynnell. Having me get involved with his guests was a great way to keep tabs on me. It might even afford him the opportunity to whack me over the head with a heavy object.

  Unless…maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe Fisher Webbfingers believed that I had a part in his wife’s murder. He had to know that Wynnell and I were buddies, and that I was responsible for getting her the job. Perhaps he thought we were in cahoots, and he was conducting an investigation of his own. Why the nerve of that man!

  I felt like marching right back to double 0 Legare Street, but then remembered Wynnell’s request that I stall her husband. That was going to take some doing, considering the fact he was out on Folly Beach pier, and I had a noon lunch engagement downtown at Slightly North of Broad. Besides which, I had no idea how to stall a depressed man in his sixties. Were we both not married, and if Ed had a little more zip in him, a game of beach blanket bingo might have done the trick. As it was, a sandy game of Scrabble was the best I could offer.

  It’s often said that we’re better off not knowing what the future will bring. If I had known about the can of worms waiting for me to open at beach, I would have gone straight home. There’s not a lot of trouble one can get into under the covers. At least not alone.

  7

  South Carolina coastal islands are not what typically springs to mind when one hears the word island. Forget Tahiti and Bora Bora. Forget even the Bahamas. Yes, our islands have plenty of palm trees, but they are as flat as a putting green and are not set apart from the mainland by large expanses of water. Tidal creeks and salt marshes help define many of our islands, so that it is possible to drive from one island to another and not be aware that one is actually island-hopping.

  The town of Folly Beach is on Folly Island, although the two are virtually synonymous. This gem of a community has managed to maintain much of its charm, and here, very simple cottages, some barely more than a shack, somehow mix harmoniously with much grander residences. The main axis is Ashley Avenue, which runs parallel to the coast and is, at most, just one block from the ocean’s fury. One might surmise that it was folly to build a settlement on a mere spit of sand, and that this is the origin of the name. For indeed, hurricanes do reshape the island, and from time to time the owners of a second row of homes suddenly find themselves with beachfront property. The name, however, derives from an Old English word meaning “heavily wooded.”

  When I got to Folly Creek, I lowered my window in order to smell the tidal flats. Pluff mud is what we call the dark, odoriferous muck. It’s one of those love it or hate it scents, but to most Carolinians with early child beach experiences, it is definitely a love affair, a symbol of homecoming. The smell was particularly strong that morning, and I felt blessed to catch glimpses of crabs scuttling over the soft surface. Here and there, where rivulets of water remained, stately white egrets and blue herons were busily fishing.

  I raised my window again after crossing over to the island so I could savor a few more minutes of air-conditioning. I needn’t have bothered. A strong breeze was blowing off the ocean, and its salty fingers caressed my face as soon as I stepped out of my car.

  Folly Beach Edwin S. Taylor Fishing Pier, as it is officially called, extends over a thousand feet into the Atlantic. One gets the impression that if the pier was just double in length, it would be possible to walk all the way to Africa. A look back at the shoreline certainly offers one of the most impressive views in the country.

  And while it is a great place to fish, it is also a popular spot to people-watch. Although tame by West Coast standards, the waves here are among the highest in the state, and it is a common sight to see surfers trying their luck on colorful boards. Even more common are the tourists, many of unsinkable proportions, who need only roll out of their hotel beds and onto the beach. One sees them even in the winter, when the locals are huddled around their fireplaces. In the summer, when the water temperature is eighty-five degrees, it gets harder to tell the natives from the visitors.

  There are fishing stations at regular intervals along the pier, but I found Ed Crawford at the very end of the pier. He was leaning forward, half over the rail, as if he wanted to get as far away from land as possible.

  “Hey Ed,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  He turned slowly. “Wynnell send you?”

  “So you know?”

  “How could I not? Every day that woman makes it clear
what a big disappointment I am.”

  Thank heavens I hadn’t yet spilled the beans. “Ed, I really doubt that’s true. She loves you very much.”

  He glanced at his line, then turned back to me. “I worked hard all my life, but I never made the kind of money Wynnell wants. She doesn’t just want to keep up with the Joneses, she wants to keep up with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Living south of Broad, that’s all she talks about, Abby. We had a perfectly good house back in Charlotte which was already paid for. Unless we win the lottery, there’s no way we could ever afford one of those S.O.B. places.”

  “Well, they’re not all they’re cracked up to be. A centuries-old-plus house can be a nightmare when it comes to upkeep. And most of the really old ones have to be shared with Apparition Americans.”

  “What was that?”

  “Ghosts. Apparition American is the p.c. term.”

  He couldn’t even spare a chuckle. “Abby, back in Charlotte I had friends. Not just buddies, but guys I’d known my whole life. Guys I could trust like brothers. It’s hard for a man my age to make new friends, especially when your wife’s working all the time. Heck, I’ll just come out and say it—I’m lonely.”

  I wouldn’t trust my brother with bringing in my junk mail. Even though Toy is now on course to become an Episcopal priest, and Mama worships the ground he walks on, his track record speaks for itself. When he left Rock Hill originally, to seek fame and fortune in Hollywood, he not only borrowed money from me, which he has yet to repay, but he borrowed my car—without permission. The congregation that eventually hires him better keep a close eye on the offering plate. But I digress.

  As I was standing there, pretending to look at Ed’s face, but actually looking past him to the sea, I had an epiphany. My best friend needed help in her shop—especially now that she faced the threat of imprisonment—and her lonely husband needed human contact. The solution to both problems was as obvious as the eyebrow on Wynnell’s face.

  “Guess what?” I said excitedly.