Statue of Limitations

by Tamar Myers

  “Southerners are strange,” Belinda had the nerve to say.

  I counted silently to ten before responding. Then I counted backward to one. In Spanish. Since I nearly failed that course in college, it took me longer than you might think.

  “What about the New Yorkers?” I said, addressing John.

  “Mostly she was yelling at him for talking too much—said he’d blow things if he kept flapping his gums. Then he started in swearing. Said some really ugly things—things I shouldn’t repeat here.”

  “I see.”

  The Zimmermans had remained strangely quiet during my exchange with the Thomases. Perhaps they had nothing to share. Just because they heard the ruckus didn’t mean they’d been able to catch what was being said, except for the cuss words. On the other hand, they’d seemed quite willing to talk before the Thomases showed up. And, if body language meant anything, the two couples did not appear to be on the best of terms. Of course people can lie with their bodies, just like they can lie with their tongues.

  It was my intention to put the Zimmermans back on the spit for a more thorough grilling, when Dmitri leaped off Herman’s lap and bounded for the front door. The poor dairy farmer shrieked in a falsetto voice that was, fortunately, only temporary.

  My cat’s behavior could mean only one thing. Greg, my husband, the love of my life, was home. Although Greg is a shrimper, and not a fisherman, a good many fish find their way into his nets, and by the end of the day he smells like the bottom two inches of an aquarium—one that hasn’t been cleaned in days. Oddly enough, this aroma doesn’t do much for me, but Dmitri goes gaga over it. He can smell his pungent “papa” from a hundred feet away.

  Sure enough, seconds later the door opened and in stepped Greg, all six feet of him. A well-bred man, he tried hard not to appear startled by the assemblage in his living room.

  “If y’all will just give me a moment,” he said, “I’ll wash up and be back to introduce myself.”

  I grabbed one of my hubby’s slimy sleeves. “No need, darling, I’ll make the introductions for you. You see, my guests were just about to leave.”

  John Thomas was the first to take the hint. He sprang to his feet and announced his name. But instead of extending his hand, he waved. Everyone laughed, and soon the others were up and doing the same thing. For the record, the affable Herman Zimmerman was the last to get up—although that may simply have been because he had more to hoist. Nonetheless, it took a good five minutes for everyone to leave.

  They were halfway down the walk before I remembered to make plans for the following day. “Anyone up for a private tour tomorrow? I promise to show you sights most tourists don’t see.”

  “I’m a happily married man,” Herman said without missing a beat.

  Everyone laughed, but all agreed that a private tour would be just the ticket. We settled on ten o’clock as the perfect time to embark on our adventure. And in a rare moment of mental clarity, Belinda Thomas not only remembered the Papadopouluses, but volunteered to pass the news on to “that cute man and his wife.”

  When we were finally alone—except for Dmitri—I threw myself into Greg’s redolent arms. “Darling, you wouldn’t believe what happened today!”

  “Can’t wait to hear. You’re always a trip, hon. You want to tell me now, or after I shower?”

  In the meantime Dmitri was trying to climb Greg’s pant leg. No doubt my normally fastidious feline thought he would find fish if he only climbed high enough.

  “After you shower is probably best—but I need to fill you in on one thing first.”

  “Let me see…your brother Toy has decided to grow up, and to prove it, he just married a widow with thirteen children. Of course now he has to give up watching cartoons all day and get a job. Hey, I could always use somebody to scrape the barnacles off the bottom of my boat—especially when there are sharks around.”

  I pushed myself from his embrace. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That Toy decided to grow up?”

  “I was just kidding, Abby. Sorry, if I went too far. It’s just that I feel like I know him, even though I’ve never met him. Well, at least I know his type.”

  “You know the old Toy’s type. The new Toy is in Mama’s bedroom.”

  “What?”

  “He just showed up at the door this afternoon. He’s almost a priest now—already been ordained a deacon or something. Remember I told you he was tall, blond, sort of an Adonis type? You’ve seen pictures, you know what I mean.”

  “Are you trying to say he’s gotten shorter?” Greg’s sapphire blue eyes twinkled.

  “No! But he’s gained a lot of weight and looks a whole lot older. I didn’t recognize him at all.”

  “Maybe he’s an impostor.” Greg was only half kidding.

  “No, he’s the real thing. He admitted to flushing my gerbil, Jolie, down the john.”

  “Holy smoke, hon. This has got to be a shock for Mozella.”

  “What about me?” I wailed.

  Greg folded me back into his arms. “Maybe it’s an opportunity, hon.”

  “For what? To be hurt again?”

  “To get to know the real Toy better.”

  “The real Toy parks cars in Hollywood because he can’t get a job as an actor. The rest of the time he spends drinking and smoking Acapulco Gold—or whatever the latest preferred marijuana variety is.” Dang it. It was much easier when my little brother could be pigeonholed as a dropout and a loser. A penitent prodigal potential priest was a whole different ball game.

  “Give him a chance, Abby. Someday you’ll be glad you did.”

  I grunted agreement. Anything to get Greg into the shower and off my case.

  Mama is a miracle worker. Despite all the work she’d done on the tea, not to mention the shock of having her baby boy back home again, she whipped up a proper dinner for the four of us. But the biggest miracle was seeing Toy help her in the kitchen.

  When they walked out of Mama’s bedroom—seconds after Greg got in the shower—Mama had her arm around her son’s waist. From that moment on the two were inseparable. When Toy started peeling potatoes, I’m the one who nearly had a heart attack.

  The last time I saw Toy do anything to help around the kitchen was when he was seventeen. He’d been given the simple job of loading the dishwasher. How hard can that be? It’s not like he had to chop down a tree, saw a cord of wood, boil water, butcher a hog and render its fat to make soap, etc. But instead of performing his straightforward task—except for having to first unload the dishwasher—my lazy brother rinsed off the dishes and then spray-painted them white. Even the pots and pans. Of course the paint didn’t stick. Toy then loaded the dishes in a cardboard carton and put them in the back of a friend’s pickup and drove them through a car wash. While trying to unload said carton, the soggy box split open, and every single one of the dishes broke. Mama’s favorite skillet was dented as well.

  Do you think Toy got in trouble for that? Think again. Mama’s baby boy…

  “Abby, wake up!” Mama’s voice was unusually sharp, so I started. Somehow I’d managed to fume my way into a fog that lasted until we were all seated for dinner. Greg and I were in our rightful places as host and hostess, while Mama and Toy sat across from each other, beaming like a pair of headlights. “Toy,” Mama continued, “is going to say grace for us, now that he’s almost a priest. My son the Father. Toy, sugar, do you think I should call you Father Wiggins, Father Toy, or Father Son?”

  “Oh brother,” I groaned.

  “Shame on you, Abby.” Mama said, but Toy smiled.

  His grace, however, was nothing special. It was the same short blessing Mama taught us as children—one that I’ve come to think of as an Episcopal prayer, although it probably isn’t.

  Judging by our mother’s expression, my errant sibling had just recited half the Bible from memory. “So you still remembered it, sugar.”

  I started the pot roast on its circuit. “Mama, the wallp
aper in your old Rock Hill house remembers it.”

  “Very funny, dear. You should be nice to your little brother. After all, he’s going to help you.”

  My heart sank into my stomach, pressing down my bladder. I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom.

  “Help me with what, Mama?”

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  “Greg, darling,” I cooed, “will you be a doll and fetch the saltshaker from the kitchen.”

  “It’s right here on the table, hon. Next to the pepper.”

  “Those are both peppers, dear. You’ll find the saltshaker on the top shelf above the refrigerator. The step stool is getting kinda shaky, so you’ll probably want to get the aluminum stepladder from the garage.”

  At least I can be thankful that I did not marry a fool. Greg’s eyes locked on mine, holding me in my seat just as securely as if he’d grabbed my shoulders.

  “Somebody please tell me what I’ve missed.”

  “Nothing, dear. Just a little problem with Wynnell.” I tried in vain to force my gaze away from Greg so I could glower at Mama.

  “Horse dooky,” Greg said, out of deference to his mother-in-law.

  My sigh flickered the flames on the candles Mama had set out as a centerpiece. “It’s just that Marina Webbfingers—you know, the woman whose bed and breakfast I was decorating—was bashed over the head with a heavy object—”

  “You don’t need to be so graphic,” Mama objected.

  “Anyway, she’s dead, and the police think Wynnell did it, on account of she was last seen and heard having a screaming fight with the deceased. Now darling, you know I wouldn’t normally interfere, but Wynnell’s lawyer asked me to gather what information I could. And, coincidentally, Mr. Webbfingers himself asked me to entertain his guests until they were free to leave.”

  “That part sounds suspicious to me,” Toy had the nerve to say.

  This comment from the peanut gallery irritated me so much that I was able to break free of Greg’s hold and glare at my uninvited house guest. It was, however, a very short glare, because clerical collars can be rather intimidating.

  “You weren’t there. It made perfect sense to me.”

  “Does it still?” Greg asked softly.

  It took awhile for his question to register. I couldn’t believe my beloved hadn’t blown his stack. As a former Charlotte detective, he is intimately acquainted with just how dangerous a murder investigation can be—especially for the nonprofessional.

  “Do you think I’m being set up?” I finally asked.

  “It’s something to think about. Charleston isn’t exactly Podunk, Nowhere. Most visitors find there is too much to do and see, and that they don’t have enough time. I’ve never heard of someone needing to be entertained.”

  “Well, then think of me as a tour guide. We have plenty of those.”

  Three pairs of eyes looked pointedly at me.

  “Okay,” I wailed, “so maybe it is a little odd. But I’m not an idiot. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Greg cleared his throat. “Like that time you found yourself in a suit of armor about to be dumped into Lake Wylie?”

  “Or,” Mama said, not without the tiniest bit of glee, “the time you almost became a life-size, glass-encased statue, intended for someone’s foyer down in Miami? Abby, you hadn’t even shaved that day. You would have had stubble on your legs for years. Maybe even centuries.”

  I clapped my hands over my ears. “So I’ve had a few narrow escapes. So what?”

  “So,” Mama said triumphantly, “that’s why your brother Toy will be helping you with this investigation.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Greg said before I could protest.

  “I don’t mind, sis,” Toy had the temerity to say.

  One of the worst things about having such short arms is that I couldn’t stab people like Toy with my fork without having to first get up. Not that I would have hurt him, mind you. But he deserved a little prick.

  I was clearly outnumbered. For now. But Toy was sure to do something so irresponsible that even Mama would send him packing. And if he didn’t, well—perhaps I could get him distracted enough to bolt from the case on his own. I still wasn’t sure which team my brother batted for, but either he was gay or he wasn’t, and I had single friends of both genders. In fact, the first thing I would do the next morning is try him out on C.J.

  “Well then, I guess it’s settled,” I said.

  Greg raised a neatly trimmed eyebrow. “Abby?”

  “What?”

  Mama didn’t believe me, either. “She’s got something up her sleeve, Toy darling. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Toy winked at me. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ve got her covered.”

  “Yeah right,” I muttered. Little brother was no match for me.

  I awoke to the competing smells of sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee. The clock face read seven, which meant Greg had been gone two hours, and Mama still had a good hour to go before she began yet another day in the 1950s. This meant that some stranger had broken into my house and was cooking himself, or herself, breakfast. Not a common occurrence, I’m sure, but it does happen. At any rate, I had already dialed nine and one when somebody rapped loudly on my door. Terrified out of my wits, I accidentally dialed the second one. Meanwhile Dmitri, who’d been curled up on Greg’s side of the bed, jumped off to hide under it. A guard cat he is not.

  “Sis, you up?”

  I was only partially relieved to hear my brother’s voice through the door. Before I could respond, someone on the other end of the phone line demanded my attention.

  “Nine-one-one dispatcher.”

  “Uh—sorry, but I dialed the wrong number.”

  The phone rang the second the receiver was back in its cradle. “Mrs. Washburn?”

  “Yes?” I tried to sound innocent, but thanks to my caller ID, I knew exactly who it was.

  “This is the Charleston police. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you mind if we send a uniformed officer to your home?”

  “There is really no need. Like I said, it was an accident.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, we have an officer in your area. He will be there in about five minutes.”

  “But—”

  Nine one one hung up on me. In the meantime, Toy was trying to reconfigure my bedroom door with his knuckles.

  “Sis! The eggs will be cold if you don’t eat them soon.”

  I flew to the door, but remembered just in time that my sleeping apparel was not intended to be seen by anyone except Greg. Fortunately I keep my robe on a chair by the door, but I was panting when I opened the door.

  “Well,” he said with a smirk, “maybe breakfast can wait after all.”

  “Greg has been gone since five. Toy, what’s going on? Who’s cooking?”

  The smirk morphed into a smile. “I am.”

  I put as much stock in my brother’s answer as I do White House press releases. “Toy, so help me, if you’ve dragged Mama out of bed to make her cook—”

  He put his hands up in a mock defensive posture. “Come see for yourself, sis. I hope I remembered correctly—you do like your eggs over easy, right?”

  The doorbell rang. I knew exactly who it was.

  “Toy, be a doll and get that, will you?”

  My little brother loped obediently away, but was back in a few seconds. “Abby, it’s the police. They want to speak with you.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Hey sis, whatever trouble you’re in—well, I just want you to know that I’m here for you.”

  “I’m not in any trouble. I called nine one one by mistake, and it’s their policy to come in and look around. See if everyone is really all right. Trust me, it’s happened before.”

  Toy hadn’t heard a word I’d said. “This may come as a shock to your ears, sis, but I love you.”

  I cinched my robe tighter before following Toy back to the living room. The world was turning topsy-turvy on me
. A loving, protective brother who cooked breakfast without being asked? I never could have even dreamed that up. Not in a million years. Did this mean I was going to have to rethink the last thirty years and forgive the man? The day had gotten off to a rotten start.

  The police were there for only a minute, and Toy’s eggs were still warm. Delicious, too, I’m loath to say. Mama, who had been unnecessarily roused during the cursory search, was quick to compliment her son on his culinary achievement. But cooking eggs is not brain surgery, or even antique-collecting. A hen and a Charleston sidewalk in the summertime—that’s all one really needs.

  After Toy loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters—again, without being asked—we left for the Den of Antiquity. Mama waved us off with a conspiratorial grin. A stranger might have thought we were newlyweds. Okay, so I’m much older, but that kind of thing happens more and more these days.

  At any rate, when we got to my shop, I was almost ready to believe that my baby brother had turned over a new leaf—a great big banana leaf in his case. C.J. wasn’t there yet, and when I gave him a quick tour of the place, he actually asked questions.

  “So what’s your markup on this stuff?”

  “That depends on how much I paid for it and what I can expect to get. Three times the acquisition price is what I strive for.”

  He nodded. “Say, sis, I don’t suppose you could float me a loan, could you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not a big loan—just a little cash to hold me over.”

  “How little?”

  “A hundred thousand, that’s all. I promise to pay you back—and you name the terms.”

  “Say what?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you, sis, but I got in a little deep with some loan sharks, and the word on the street is that they have Mafia connections. You wouldn’t want to see me get my legs broken, would you?”

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