Statue of Limitations

by Tamar Myers

“Mrs. Washburn, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Please elaborate.”

  “It’s says here—Mr. Hammerhead left a note—that a tourist spotted it at low tide. Just off the Battery. Thought it might be a valuable find.”

  “Just what exactly is it?” I tried to sound nonchalant, so as to disappoint the eavesdroppers.

  “A statue of some kind—says here ‘David.’ Maybe that was the name of the guy who found it. Anyway, there were bloodstains on it.”

  “I see.” The five sets of staring eyes didn’t see, and they leaned closer.

  “Oh, and Mr. Hammerhead said to tell you the arraignment was moved up. In fact, that’s where he is right now.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s all the note says, Mrs. Washburn.”

  “What else did the witness say?”

  “Excuse me?”

  It was my turn to pause. “Oh really? Did she describe the hair color?”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I’m afraid you’re not making any sense.”

  “Possibly a tourist, you say? From which state?”

  “Yes, it was a tourist who found the statue, Mrs. Washburn, but it doesn’t say anything here about where they’re from.”

  “Well, I’m at Coconut Joe’s right now, but as soon as we settle the bill, I’m heading straight for the Webbfingerses’ place to deliver my passengers.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, is your brother as kooky as you?”

  “Certainly. And yes, I am driving my own car. You’ve got all the information on that, right? Model, license plate number, etcetera.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I really have to go.” She hung up.

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a bit, Officer Bright.” I turned my attention back to the ten twitching ears. “I’ll take the check, this time.”

  Herman was quick to protest. “That’s not necessary, little lady.”

  “But I insist. I have something to celebrate.”

  “What?” Our waitress pulled up a chair and sat next to Estee Zimmerman.

  I scowled at the impudent youth. “I’m not free to discuss it, dear.”

  “That’s no reason to be rude,” Irena said.

  How right she was. A properly reared Southern woman is charming at all times. When left with no choice but to reproof, she does so while smiling, always careful to add the phrase “bless your heart.” Those three words, incidentally, can ameliorate even the foulest of insults, when said in just the right tone and in a Deep South accent.

  “Darling,” I said to the girl, whose name was Teena, “I do apologize for my behavior. I’m sure it isn’t your fault you possess a paucity of manners, bless your heart.”

  She brightened. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Having redeemed my reputation as a belle, I led my little flock back to Ocean Boulevard and cars that were five degrees hotter than Hades.

  I led my diminished caravan across the Isle of Palms connector and back to Mount Pleasant. On the way, we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and passed Goat Island, where a handful of adventurous souls live without the benefits of public utilities. Once we hit Highway 17 again, I aimed straight for the nosebleed high bridges and the Holy City. It was a half-hour trip, so we had plenty of time to talk, but it was the New Yorkers I wanted to grill, not the farmers from the dell.

  Fate intervened when Estelle requested that I stop at a sweetgrass basket stand. The stands are nothing more than flimsy wooden lean-tos that dot the highway between the Cooper River and Awendaw like buttons on an expensive blazer, but they contain some of the finest handicrafts on the continent. Here, Gullah women, descendants of Western African slaves, weave intricate baskets out of sweetgrass and palm fronds, in the tradition of their ancestors. The baskets have become highly collectible, popular with both tourists and long-term residents, and prices can reflect that. Of course not all baskets are created equally, and quality does vary, but overall these keepsakes will appreciate in value. With every passing year sweetgrass becomes harder to find, and the older generation of women, those with the patient fingers, find themselves with fewer protégées.

  While Herman and Estelle haggled over what was already a bargain, and the handsome Nick fondled a particularly attractive specimen, I edged the irritable Irena aside.

  “Mrs. Papadopoulus,” I said, “my wedding anniversary is coming up, and my husband wants to upgrade my diamond. But I’ve been thinking, and what I’d really want is to get a second ring—one for my right hand.”

  “One can never own too much jewelry.”

  “My thoughts exactly. And instead of a diamond in this ring, I’d like a nice big sparkling dolomite. Maybe a four carat stone. I realize you’re on vacation, and I don’t mean to bother you with business talk, but I was wondering if you could give me a ballpark figure.”

  She shrugged. “Yes, I am on vacation. Besides, I buy gems wholesale for retailers. I couldn’t possibly give you a quote on a single stone. One that doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh.” That was disappointing. I thought sure I had her there, since dolomite is not a gem. It is, instead, a compact limestone, and in fact an entire mountain range of the mineral is to be found in northern Italy.

  I must have sounded exceptionally pitiful, because that’s what was reflected in her beady eyes. Fortunately the pity was served up with a nice dollop of scorn, which somehow made it more palatable.

  “Well, you are talking about a hypothetical stone, aren’t you?” she demanded.

  My heart beat faster. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right then,” she said brusquely. “If it’s good quality dolomite—how does a thousand dollars a carat sound?”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Is it a mar kiss?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, shaped like this?” She shaped a classical marquise, elliptical but with pointed ends, on the back of her hand.

  “No, ma’am. It’s round.”

  “That’s too bad, because mar kiss stones are the big thing now. Resale would be better.”

  “I don’t plan to resell an anniversary ring.”

  She snorted. Whether it was diversion or a no-see-um up her nose, I didn’t care. I had all the information I needed.

  We were halfway across the first span of the Grace Memorial Bridge when it happened again. Just as webegan the downward swoop over Drum Island, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror. Instead of the tanned and toned Nick, and the two-toned Irena, I found myself looking at a battered pickup being driven by a hygienically challenged man in faded blue overalls, and a head that wouldn’t look out of place on Mount Rushmore.

  “It’s him,” I gasped.

  “Who?” Herman, who was riding shotgun, tried to turn, but his neck ruff became tangled in his shoulder strap, rendering him temporarily immobile.

  Estelle didn’t budge. “Abby, I don’t mean to be a backseat driver, but you’re awfully close to this side of the bridge.”

  Indeed I was. But in my defense, the Suburban Assault Vehicle to my left was well over the center line.

  “There’s someone tailgating us,” I said through clenched teeth. “He tried to run me off the road earlier. Can you try and get a description?”

  Herman grunted as he ripped off a handful of hair in a valiant effort to cooperate. “The son of a gun just gave me the finger.”

  Estelle clucked disapprovingly at her husband’s outburst. “Maybe you should speed up, Abby.”

  “I can’t. The car in front of me is barely creeping along. We’re boxed in.”

  “Then honk.”

  The woman was really getting on my nerves, but she had a point. Some folks, while not as nervous as the Thomases, creep across the failing structure, no doubt afraid that a faster speed will cause the rust to break apart and send them plunging to their deaths. Others plod along because their cars just don’t have oomph for inclines that steep. Still others—and this is where honking is beneficial—meander through life, and traffic, in a perpetual fog. A sharp toot of the horn will
sometimes startle them into momentary consciousness. With any luck, the driver in front of me would remain surprised and awake until we’d both made it across safely.

  I honked. Two long blasts followed by three short ones. I attached no meaning to my beeps other than “get out of my way you slowpoke.” But considering how things were going lately, I might consider learning Morse code. That way, when I was really frustrated, I could spell out something really naughty.

  The driver in front of me responded with an immediate burst of speed. Then turning his head, he smiled and waved.

  “Cheeky son of a gun,” Herman muttered.

  “B-But a handsome man,” Estelle stuttered.

  “That’s no man,” I sputtered. “That’s my husband.”

  19

  I can’t blame Greg for pressing the pedal to the metal and making like a ghost; he simply disappeared. And while I gaped open-mouthed at the space left by my husband’s car, the menacing pickup behind me did a vanishing act of its own. Perhaps the bridge really was haunted.

  By the time I dropped off the Zimmermans and the Papadopouluses, Greg had showered and was sitting on the front steps with a salted margarita in each hand. If I hadn’t been so furious, and thus capable of seeing only red, I might have noticed how much the white shorts and crisp blue shirt he’d changed into set off his tan. If I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, I might have appreciated the fact that he was wearing cologne—something other than Eau du Poisson.

  Greg extend the drink meant for me. “Here you go, hon. On a hot day like this, I think a little extra sodium is called for, don’t you?”

  “I don’t want alcohol. I want answers.”

  “Okay, but you’re not forgetting that I have to solve crossword puzzles in pencil first.”

  “Greg, I’m in no mood for jokes. What are you doing home this early?”

  “The truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re going to be pissed.”

  “It’s too late now.”

  He sighed, and set my untouched drink next to the wrought-iron banister. “The truth is I love you too much. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

  It was the truth, all right. I could see the love in his eyes. But I could feel his need to control me. And yes, I was pissed. I was an adult, for crying out loud. In a sense, Greg risked his life every day that he took the shrimp boat out. We both risked our lives whenever we drove anywhere—or, for that matter, walked. Especially during tourist season.

  “Greg, you and Mama sicced Toy on me. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “No offense, hon, but your brother isn’t the most responsible person in the world.”

  “That’s not fair. For all you know, he’s changed.” Two days ago I would have bet a million dollars that those words would never pass my lips.

  My darling husband was suddenly interested in studying one of his brown kneecaps. “If he was responsible, he wouldn’t have helped you climb a wall. That was a damn foolish thing to do, Abby. You could have broken your neck.”

  “But I didn’t—Greg, you were there?”

  “Someone had to keep an eye on you.”

  My legs felt weak, so I joined Greg on the steps—on the far side of the steps. “Did you follow me to Sullivan’s Island?”

  “Guilty.”

  “What did you do while we were eating lunch on the Isle of Palms?”

  “I hung out on the beach behind an umbrella. I could see you the entire time.”

  “How did you end up in front of me on the bridge?”

  “It was that sudden stop you made at the sweetgrass basket stand. I couldn’t turn around fast enough. I thought I’d lost you—I thought sure you were on to me—so I decided to mosey on home. Wait for you here. I guess I moseyed too much.”

  One has to admire a man who can spend hours outside in our near tropical heat and not break a sweat. After admiring him briefly, one is then free to react in a more reasonable way.

  “Gregory,” I growled, “what you did is just plain unacceptable. I’m not going to take it sitting down.” To emphasize my point, I jumped to my feet.

  He lost interest in his kneecap. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that until you can respect me as an equal, someone capable of making her own decisions—well, I’m just not going to put up with it.”

  His sapphire blue eyes locked on mine, but after a second or two seemed to fade in intensity. “Ah, I know what you mean. You’re moving out, aren’t you? More accurately, you’re moving in with them.”

  “Them?”

  “The Rob-Bobs. Every time we have a dispute, you either run back to your mama’s or you move in with Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben. Now that Mozella lives with us, it’s narrowed your options, but you’re just as eager to go. I’m telling you, Abby, just because they’re gay—well, I still don’t like to see you move in with two guys.”

  “You think I’d rather move in with them than stay here and work this thing out?”

  “Don’t you three have more in common?”

  “Our work, yes. But you’re my best friend.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

  The trouble with having a handsome and charming husband is that it’s hard to stay angry at him. There are times when I have to work to keep my hackles hiked. On the other hand, while a homely mate might make it easier to hold a grudge, the makeup sex might not be as good. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience, mind you, even though I was married to Buford “the timber snake” Timberlake. Back then it took at least half a bottle of wine—but I digress.

  “Greg, I just need time to cool off. To sort things out.” Already I was softening. But if, after two years of marriage, I couldn’t get Greg to see how much I valued my independence, the road ahead was bound to be even rockier. It was my duty as a good wife to drive the point home now, while the potholes were still navigable.

  The love of my life picked up my discarded drink. “Abby, you just need to calm down a bit.”

  “Calm down?”

  “Just a notch, hon.”

  “That does it. I’m outta here for now. You see that Dmitri gets fed—and sift his litter for a change. Oh, and tell Mama where I am.”

  He looked at the margarita, which was sweating far more than he ever did, and then looked at me. “Let me know when you’re done pouting, Abby.”

  “Damn you,” I said.

  He didn’t even have the decency to wait until I’d turned away before downing the drink.

  The Finer Things is arguably Charleston’s finest antique store. While I carry a broad inventory, catering to a variety of tastes and pocketbooks, the Rob-Bobs deal only in museum-quality, one-of-a-kind pieces. Collectors come from as far away as New Orleans and San Francisco to do business with them.

  I have sleigh bells on the back of my door to announce customers, but at The Finer Things, one has to be buzzed in. While my friends do not engage in racial, or economical, profiling, they do have a decided prejudice against fully expanded women in spandex. Shoppers deemed inappropriately dressed will be ignored.

  Once inside, however, expect to be treated like a queen. A gold-plated samovar once owned by Nicholas and Alexandria is kept full of Russian tea. A solid silver salver, made by the revered Paul himself, spills over with petits fours and crustless sandwiches that somehow manage never to go stale. Should you open your mouth to speak, either Rob or Bob will pop up beside you, as if anticipating your comment or question. Guests—and that’s what my friends prefer to call their clientele—leave with the impression that they were all that mattered during their visits.

  Perhaps the Rob-Bobs had been tipped off to my impending arrival, because even though I leaned on the bell, neither even bothered to glance at the door. Finally, when by rights they should have been calling the police, Bob tripped over and pretended to do a double take.

  “Oh my goodness,” he said, pushing the door open with long slim fing
ers, like those of a pianist, “the buzzer must be broken.”

  “Bull.”

  “Abby,” Bob did his best to whisper, “Greg called and he doesn’t want us to enable you.”

  “What?”

  He lowered his voice even further. Since Bob’s normal register is bass, his deep rumbles echoed off the nearest pieces of furniture. It would have been easier to understand an elephant.

  “I heard you better the first time, Bob. I want to know what he means by ‘enable.’”

  “I’m sorry, Abby, but he thinks you’re being childish.”

  “Does this mean I can’t stay with you?”

  Bob’s Adam’s apple jerked violently, and I imagined a large fish—perhaps a bass—had just been snagged. “If it was up to me, Abby—oh the heck with it, it’s my place, too. Of course you can stay.”

  “What about him?” I pointed with my chin to Rob’s turned back.

  “Forget about him. He’s doing his alpha male thing, bonding with Greg. But he’ll come around.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. And who cares if he doesn’t? You’ll stay in my room—well, it’s really the guest room, but you know what I mean. That’s where I keep my vinyl collection. We’ll have a great time, just the two of us. I have Judy Garland originals, Peggy Lee—hey, you like camel?”

  “Cigarettes?”

  “The meat.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Because if you do, you’ll love alpaca. They say it’s sweeter than camel. I’m serving a standing rib roast tonight, with yogurt and cumin sauce. I found the recipe in Caravan Cuisine. I had to adapt it, of course, seeing how alpacas come from South America, not Africa or Asia, but it smells good just marinating.”

  I must confess that for the next few minutes I found myself in a culinary quandary. I could refuse Bob’s offer and have Greg think he’d won, or I could acquiesce and gag on alpaca. Because gourmets generally serve small, albeit attractively presented portions, I decided to risk gagging. And anyway, if I backed down now, I’d more than likely have to choke on my words, which didn’t have the advantage of being served with yogurt and cumin sauce.