Statue of Limitations

by Tamar Myers

  My petite patootie connected with the nearest chair while I struggled to catch my breath. So the leopard hadn’t changed his spots! I knew it! And what really made me sick to my stomach was that if I didn’t help Toy out of this jam, he would no doubt hit Mama up for the money. Perhaps he already had. Maybe that’s why they’d had their heads together so long the day before.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” I gasped, “have you?”

  “Psyche!”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that what we used to say as kids when we fooled somebody.”

  “Maybe you said that—wait a minute. Do you mean you aren’t trying to borrow money? That the Mafia doesn’t want to break your legs?”

  Toy laughed heartily. He’d either picked up the skills of a good actor while in Hollywood—despite never getting an acting job—or he was as sincere as a nun on her deathbed.

  “Sis, I may not have a whole lot of money, but I don’t have any debts, either. I don’t want anything from you—well, except—well, I thought maybe we could be friends.”

  “Is this another ‘psyche’?”

  He raised two fingers. “Scouts’ honor.”

  “Toy, how do feel about taking a lie detector test? I have a friend in the police department who could arrange one.”

  That was actually a bit of a fib. When Greg was a detective up in Charlotte, he might have been able to arrange such a thing. Might. Sergeants Scrubb and Bright on the Charleston force knew me, but they weren’t likely to do any favors for me. Of course I had yet to sleep with them—and probably never would.

  Ever lucky, Toy was saved by the sudden appearance of C.J. The big galoot likes to come in through the delivery entrance, she claims it makes her feel special, on account of the fact that customers aren’t allowed through that door. When I remind her that neither do the customers have keys for the front door, she shakes her massive head and sighs.

  “Abby,” she says, “you don’t have a sense of drama, do you?”

  C.J. has nothing but. This morning she popped out from behind an armoire like the killer in a horror movie. That’s what it must have seemed like to Toy, because he let out a bona fide yelp when he looked over and saw the clumsy gal looming behind me.

  “Holy—uh—moly,” he said, catching himself just in time.

  My friend and employee is without guile. “So who’s the hunk, Abby?”

  “He’s no hunk! He’s my brother. Toy.”

  “Ooh, don’t tease me, Abby. You said your brother was a scumbag, not a priest.”

  I could feel my toes swell as the blood drained from my cheeks. “C.J.!”

  Toy chuckled. “That’s all right, Abby. You have my dispensation for any unflattering remarks you may have said in the past.”

  “He’s not a real priest yet,” I hissed.

  I’m not sure either of them heard me. There were so many pheromones wafting back and forth between the two of them that I found it hard to breathe. My summer allergy pills don’t cover sexual stimuli. At least I finally knew which direction my brother’s pendulum preferred to swing.

  I jumped off the chair and grabbed Toy’s arm. “We have some serious sleuthing to do, remember?”

  “Ooh, Abby can I come, too?”

  “Someone needs to mind the shop, dear—and last time I signed a paycheck, it had your name on it.”

  “But three heads are better than two.”

  “Two will do just fine.”

  “That’s what cousin Merckle up in Shelby said, but was he ever wrong. When he had that third head removed, he just couldn’t make up his mind anymore.”

  I turned to Toy. “C.J. is originally from Shelby, North Carolina. She has a very—how should I put this—interesting family.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your cousin Merckle,” Toy said. He sounded genuinely interested.

  My young friend smiled gratefully. “Well, he was born with three heads, you see. They were normal-size heads, too, but he only had one body. It was a cesarean delivery of course. Anyway, this was the first time in history anything like this had happened in Shelby, and everyone said that cousin Merckle was going to be in all the record books, and that would put Shelby on the map. And cousin Merckle was going to be really famous, too, ’cause the job offers just came pouring in even when he was a baby. You wouldn’t believe it, Abby—”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

  Toy glared at me, so I put a sock in it. “Go on,” he said kindly.

  “This big company in New York wanted him to model hats. Another wanted him to model sunglasses. Ooh ooh, and this shampoo company wanted to do a commercial where they washed each head with a different kind of shampoo to compare the differences.” She hung her enormous, but single, head and sighed. “Of course none of that happened after he had the third head removed.”

  I looked down at the floor so I could discreetly roll my eyes. “C.J., with all these endorsement offers pouring in, why did he have the third head removed?”

  “Because he got tired of looking different than the other members of his branch of the family—the Wicky Fork Ledbetters. So he had the doctors take off one head—the middle one, of course—but like I said, it was a huge mistake. You see, that was the head that made compromises between the other two, which clearly had minds of their own. From that day on cousin Merkle was never able to make another decision. And of course all those job offers fell through, now that he looked like everyone else in his clan.”

  “Toy, darling,” I said, trying not to smile, “I keep a saltshaker in my locker in the storage room. How many grains would you like?”

  “What I’d like to do,” he said, without missing a beat, “is to ask you out, C.J.”

  “Be careful, C.J. It might be a ruse. He could be after your money.” Despite the fact that she works for me, C.J. has done quite well for herself. She had her own shop up in Charlotte.

  “Don’t worry, Abby. I can’t date a priest.”

  “Episcopal,” Toy said quickly. “We’re allowed to date—just as long as we’re not married. Of course the people we date should be single as well.”

  I have never seen C.J. look so happy. “Do you like hops and scotch?”

  “Never tried them together, but I’m game.”

  “Then pick me up at seven.”

  “Excellent.”

  I couldn’t move fast enough to avoid C.J.’s arms. To say she gave me a bear hug would be the understatement of the year. It was more like the embrace of an amorous yeti. Not that I’ve experienced a whole lot of those, mind you.

  “Ooh Abby, I owe you one.”

  “You’ll owe me a new set of ribs if you don’t let go.”

  Toy tried to hug me as well, but I saw that coming, and the second C.J. released me, I dashed for the door. “Toy, if you’re coming with me today, you’ve got to keep up.”

  He reluctantly followed me out to the street.

  There was something fishy about Fisher Webbfingers, something I couldn’t pinpoint, but I aimed to discover what it was. Maybe it was just his weird request that I entertain his guests, although the more I thought about it, it seemed strange that a couple with marital difficulties, but no apparent financial difficulties, would open a bed and breakfast. What was in it for them?

  “Toy,” I said, continuing my train of thought aloud as we drove from the shop to double 0 Legare, “can you think of any way we can check on somebody’s financial history?”

  “Abby, you’re not Internet savvy, are you?”

  “I am so. It’s just that I’m too busy to spend a lot of time cruising the Net.”

  He laughed far too long and hard. “That’s surf, sis, not cruise. Unless you want to pick up guys.”

  “Whatever. Well, can you?”

  “No problemo. But it would help if we had his Social Security number.”

  “Yes, but how do we get that?”

  “He’s alone in the house now since his wife died, right?”

  “Except for the maid.
But so what?”

  “So you distract him outside, and I’ll slip in and have a look-see.”

  “What about the maid?”

  “I’ll seduce her.” There wasn’t a trace of a smile on his face.

  “Toy, she played with God as a child. She may even have been His baby-sitter. Besides, you’re supposed to be a man of the cloth.”

  That’s when he grinned. “Just kidding, Abby. It’s fun to pull your leg, sis, you know that?”

  But when we got within spitting distance of double 0 Legare street, it began to look as if seducing anyone was a moot point. There were no cars parked on the street anywhere near the place and, we soon discovered, the two car garage was empty.

  “Perfect,” Toy said, and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  “But it’s already nine, and we’re all supposed to meet here at ten.”

  “Maybe they didn’t like the breakfast that was served. It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re in luck. Now remember, your mission is to head straight for the office—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Every house has an office, Abby. It may not be a special room, but there’s always at least a corner with a desk in it, or at the very least, a box of papers stashed somewhere. What you’re after is anything with a Social Security number. You know, three digits, dash, two digits, dash, four.”

  “But I’m not going in, you are!”

  “Think about it, sis. They already know you. If they catch you, they’re more likely to accept your story than mine. I mean, how do explain a strange priest in your house? You could at least claim you needed to use the bathroom.”

  “Which Marina never allowed me to use.”

  “There you go—that’s your cover. You felt insulted by that, and since there was no one home, and you had to go—you decided to take a stand. Or a sit, as the case may be.”

  “After breaking and entering. Toy, I could be arrested for that.”

  “Don’t worry. Unless someone bothered to put the security system on—and believe me, a lot of people only use theirs after dark—I can get you in without the breaking part. You can say you found the door unlocked.”

  “And what if the security system is on?”

  “Then we run like hell.”

  By then I was parked along the curb, so I was at liberty to turn and stare at him. “Have the folks who run your seminary ever met you?”

  “Good one, sis.” He unbuckled his seat belt. “Okay, are we on the same page?”

  “We’re not even in the same book, Toy. In fact, we’re not even in the same library. I’m not going to trespass, and that’s that.”

  His blue eyes didn’t waver. “How bad do you want to clear your friend?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “And I thought you were a sleuth, Abby.”

  “A law-abiding one.”

  I doubt if he heard me. He’d turned and was scrutinizing the main house like a hawk hovering over a meadow.

  “Aha! We’re in luck.”

  “You’ve come to your senses?”

  “That upstairs window is open. Chances are security is off, but we can test it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll throw a stick through the window. It’s not as likely as a rock to break something, and the movement will set off the censors.”

  “Even so, how do you propose that I get up there—assuming I agreed.”

  “That’s a piece of cake. I’ll hoist you up to my shoulders, then you can grab that vine—wisteria, right? All you have to do is go in through the window. You can come out through a door.”

  “For your information, that’s not wisteria. It’s creeping fig.”

  A relative of the edible fig tree, the creeping variety (Ficus pumila) looks nothing like its cousin. Its juvenile foliage is delicate, and the tracery of the vines adds architectural interest in brick and stucco walls. But as the plant climbs, the foliage triples in size and the vines become woody. The only way to maintain the more desirable form is to keep it heavily pruned.

  Wynnell tried to get Mrs. Webbfingers to let her remove the vine altogether, so it wouldn’t ruin the brickwork with its roots. But Mrs. Webbfingers said it was too late, that the roots had already dug in too deep, and that removing it would create “an eyesore.”

  Just thinking about my pal made me ache to help her. But I was a soon-to-be respected member of the community. How could I even contemplate doing something illegal?

  Of course Toy didn’t care two figs about my angst. “Great,” he said. “All those roots should keep you nice and safe.”

  There must have been a small part of me that wanted to break the law. How else can I explain the phrases that pushed their way into my mind.

  If I am not Wynnell’s friend, then who is?

  If I don’t act now, then when?

  I flung open my car door. “Let’s get going, then, before they get back. And keep in mind, Toy, that I don’t look good in horizontal stripes. Vertical, on the other hand, might add the illusion of an extra inch or two. Oh, and make sure someone remembers to feed Dmitri.”

  “Will do, sis,” he said with a laugh.

  But it was soon no laughing matter.

  15

  Harriet did not answer the door when I rang, and the stick that Toy lobbed through the window failed to set off an alarm. But a six-foot, out-of-shape priest trying desperately to hoist a very short woman onto his shoulders should have set off mental alarms in any neighbor glancing that way, or in the throngs of tourists just starting to make their circuits.

  Perhaps no one perceived us as doing something illegal precisely because we were so obvious about it. The neighbors were probably used to seeing people climbing in and out of windows, and the tourists, I’m sure, had all been warned about Charleston’s eccentric citizenry. We were simply part of their day’s entertainment.

  At any rate, reaching the open window was not as easy as Toy had made it out to be. He staggered under my weight, light as I am, and for a few perilous seconds I thought we were going to topple over backward. If at all possible I planned to land on top of Toy, who was undoubtedly softer than the ground. When I was finally able to grab some fig vines, the leaves ripped off in my hands.

  On my third try I was able to grab a woody stem, but I was totally unprepared when Toy stumbled out from beneath me. I might well have fallen to my death—or at least broken my back—had not a band of tourists started to applaud enthusiastically. Heartened by their support, and the sudden knowledge that a break-in with such encouraging witnesses was not really a crime after all, but merely an unconventional entrance, I grabbed a stem with my other hand and managed to climb inside. Still, my heart was pounding like a madman on a xylophone.

  My heart beat even faster when I beheld the glories of Fisher and Marina’s boudoir. Or perhaps it was just Marina’s boudoir, as couples of their ilk and means often prefer to sleep apart. It was, in any case, a very feminine room, with peach and cream being the dominant colors. Fine silks swirled down from the gilt canopy, and silk damask had been glued to the walls in lieu of paper. The dark, gleaming hardwood floor was covered in part by a French Aubusson rug with an immaculate cream background. A bottle of fine champagne, a Mozart CD, and of course Greg—I shook my head to clear it of this fantasy. I had a job to do. Wine, men, and song would just have to wait.

  The bedroom didn’t seem like a place in which to find paperwork, so I tiptoed to the door and peeked into the hallway. Somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have been a very good girl, because the open door across from me revealed a spectacular office setup. Who wouldn’t want to balance their checkbook while seated at a late eighteenth-century mahogany desk embellished with ivory inlays and polished brass finials? If I owned that desk, I would botch up my accounting just so I had an excuse to sit there longer.

  I ran my fingertips over wood as smooth as satin but not entirely dust-free. Oh well, Harriet Spanky was up in her years. Now where in this beautiful desk would important pap
ers be? One thing for sure, the Webbfingers were not clutterbugs. Except for a stack of papers lined up with precision on the left of the inkblot, and an equally precise pile of open envelopes on the right—mostly business correspondence, from the looks of it—the top of the desk was clear. There were eight cubbyholes—four on each side—but they contained only writing implements, a stapler, cellophane tape, and similar items indispensable to the home office.

  A pair of heavy drawers on either side of the knee space were more promising. I pulled open the one on the left, and grunted with satisfaction at what I saw. Files. Oodles of files. American Automobile Association, American Airlines, Artie’s Automobile Detailing Service, Azure Skies Window-washers, Babaloo Bakery and Party Rentals, Bank of America, Bell South…hmm. The files were in alphabetical order, all right, but according to company names, not category.

  I backed up to Bank of America. There were a zillion statements of deposits and withdrawals, a few attesting to CD ownership, and—aha—an unfinished application for a new debit card. Sure enough, there was Fisher Webbfingers’s Social Security number. Marina’s, too! But before I could fully appreciate my coup, I heard what sounded like a thud downstairs. Was that a door slamming? Yes, it must have been, because seconds later I could hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  Toy was going to pay for this! By now he was probably back in my car, hot-wiring it for his getaway. It wouldn’t surprise me if he drove all the way back to his seminary in Sewannee, Tennessee, and hid out in his cell. Or did he have a dorm room, plastered with posters of J-Lo and Britney Spears? Well, he belonged in a padded cell, that’s for sure, and so did I for listening to him.

  The sound of footsteps grew louder. The person approaching was in the hallway now. It was too late to make a dash for the bedroom and its open window. It was too late to do anything but find someplace in the room in which to hide. But where? This room, like many to be found in old houses, relied on armoires and cupboards for storage. Alas, the only furniture, besides the desk, was a Chippendale settee and a pair of matching chairs. Even my shadow couldn’t hide behind those graceful legs.