by Tamar Myers
“I’m sorry, Harriet. I won’t do that again. But since it’s obvious that I’m not going to come out of this alive, you may as well tell me the whole story. I’m sure it’s very interesting.”
“Mama,” Nolan bawled, “you didn’t say nothing about killing her.”
“Hush, Baby Boy. Your mama knows best. Ain’t I always done the right thing by you?”
“Yes, Mama.” He started to sniff, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t because sweat had gotten into his nose.
“So Harriet, how about filling me in? How long have you known about the maquette?”
She was silent for a while, but I was just a bag of laundry, not long for this world, and she had some powerful secrets to share. Triumph is far less fun when kept to oneself, and Nolan wasn’t exactly the perfect listener.
“Since right after the war.”
“World War Two, right?”
“Yeah, back when the world was normal. Not like it is today, with all them preverts and the like trying to take over things. Anyways, one Sunday—and this was way before Hurricane Hugo—Baby Boy’s daddy and I was out crabbing. Sunday is my day off, you see. Has been ever since I started working for them Webbfingers, when I weren’t but fifteen years old. Anyways, I don’t let nothing stop me from attending the house of the Lord. So we was out crabbing, like I said, and we seen this boat with three men in it poking about them marsh channels like they was up to something fishy. I seen it first, so I tell Baby Boy’s daddy—his name was Bubba Boy—to get down—not like that would do much good—and then I get down, and we sort of spied on them.”
“Tell her who you seen in the boat, Mama.”
“I am about to, son.” At first I thought she was pausing for dramatic effect. Then I heard Nolan whimper. “Stop your whining, Baby Boy.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The barrel pushed against my abdomen. “Now where was I?”
“Three men in a tub,” I said quickly. “Rub-a-dub-dub.”
“You’re plum local, Mrs. Washburn, so I’ll ignore that. And yeah, it was three men, but you’d never guess who they was.”
“Fisher Webbfingers Senior, his friend Mr. Simonson, and Professor Keating.”
She swatted me, knocking me into Baby Boy’s shoulder. I bounced back to my upright position as easily as if he’d been a trampoline.
“That ain’t fair, Mrs. Washburn, knowing all them answers ahead of time. Where’s the fun of it for me?” Mercifully, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyways, what they was doing was trying to hide this statue on one of them bitty islands that ain’t hardly an island. Took them awhile to find just the right one, but they did. Soon as they left for good, me and Bubba Boy goes and finds that statue and puts it in our boat.”
“Dang, but that thing is heavy,” Nolan said. “Even for me.”
“Now didn’t I tell you to shush?”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“I told Mrs. Webbfingers Senior what we’d seen, only I don’t tell her what we’d done—that we’d already taken the dang thing. She says the statue is just a piece of junk, and that if I had a mind to, I should hide it under this big old camellia that Mr. Webbfingers Senior hated, on account of she got it from one of her beaus as a wedding present. Kinda like a joke, she said. So I done just that, and then I plumb forgot about it. But you see, the whole time she must have knowed it was worth a lot, but she didn’t care, on account of there was about as much loving going on between them old Webbfingers as there was between the young ones. Anyways, she had her own money.
“Well them years just go ticking by, and Baby Boy here is born, and Bubba Boy dies, and so does Mr. Webbfingers Senior and his missus, and then finally along comes Hurricane Hugo. Well, who woulda thought it possible, but that Hugo messes everything up, even that itty-bitty island. So Mr. Webbfingers Junior gets it in his head to see how his daddy’s statue is faring—he has him a little map drawed and everything—but there ain’t nothing there for him to admire.”
“Then what?” My excitement was genuine.
“Mr. Webbfingers Junior ’bout went crazy, that’s what. Combed them marshes like he was looking for nits. Them other kids of the Musketeers come back to help him look, but of course they don’t find nothing. And all the time I’m laughing behind the back of my hand, on account of them society folks is so bent out of shape over nothing. Finally, the Musketeers give up—I mean, what else they gonna do? Then you come along, Mrs. Washburn—”
“Moi?”
“And that dang statue suddenly appears in the flower bed. Mr. Webbfingers was fit to be tied. Called his buddies right away. But when them kids of the Musketeers showed up and they all got to talking, I kept my ears open, that’s what I did. Learned that that hunk of stone is worth a million dollars. Maybe more. And it lying there under that camellia the entire time!”
“It’s probably worth even more than a million.”
She grunted. “You see, Baby Boy?”
“But I didn’t mean to kill her, Mama.”
“I know you didn’t, baby.” She jabbed me again with the gun barrel. “You see what you done? If you and that friend of yours hadn’t showed up, this would never have happened.”
“But you knew about the statue all along!”
“Only I didn’t know what it was worth. A million dollars might not mean much to you, Mrs. Timberlake, but me and my son can’t even dream about that much money. Now where was I?”
“About to describe the dastardly deed itself?”
“T’weren’t bastardly. Wasn’t nothing like that supposed to happen—it just kinda did. I tell Baby Boy to get the statue in the middle of the night and switch it with this cheap one we find at one of them junk stores. You see, he was supposed to do it when everyone was asleep. But that afternoon he has himself a few beers, and reckons he’ll get the job over with early. So he comes over to the house, gets him the statue, and puts it in the truck. Then he remembers he’s supposed to put the cheap one in the flower bed, so he goes back to the house with it, but before he can even put the dang thing down, Mrs. Webbfingers sees him and starts hollering. That’s when Baby Boy panicked and did what he done.”
“I didn’t mean to hit her so hard, Mama.”
“I knowed you didn’t.” I could feel her reaching around me, presumably to pat him on the arm.
“So let me get this straight,” I said, after I’d waited long enough, “Baby Boy—I mean, Nolan—panicked again and tossed the bloody replica into the harbor.”
“That’s right. And now that you know the whole thing, just you hush, too, on account of all this talk is upsetting my son.”
At last I was happy to be quiet. And for the time to think.
We drove for at least half an hour. When we got to our destination, some obscure dirt put-in on a marsh channel, Harriet mumbled something as she slipped off the laundry bag. The sunlight blinded me to distraction, and I asked her to repeat what she’d said.
“I said, it ain’t right that you go to Glory and don’t see how you get there.”
“This is it? You’re going to kill me now.”
She cackled again. “We ain’t gonna kill you, Mrs. Timberlake; that would be against the Bible. We’re gonna let the crabs do you in.”
“Excuse me?”
“Baby Boy here’s been working hard on this extra big crab pot. When them critters get done with you, won’t be nothing left but bones. Who knows, maybe they eat bones, too. Ain’t never tried to feed them any.”
“That’s still murder. And killing Mrs. Webbfingers was murder as well.”
“Mama, make her stop saying that.”
“You see what you done?” Harriet demanded. She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she whacked me on the left side of the head with the butt of her gun.
I didn’t see stars, perhaps because it was broad daylight. I did, however, taste blood. It took a minute for the world to stop swirling.
“You’ll never get away with this, Harriet. Someone’s bound to see us.”
<
br /> “Not here they ain’t. Not until duck hunting season. Besides, it’s high tide now.”
I watched in fascinated horror as mother and son unloaded a small boat and what looked like a giant lobster trap. The only thing left in the bed of the trunk was an aluminum anchor attached to about six feet of chain. Maybe it went with the boat, or maybe they were going to use it to tether the crab pot to one place. It didn’t matter, though, because a better use popped into my head.
“Harriet, dear, do I at least get to pray first?”
“What?”
“You assumed I’m going to Glory, but the truth is, I’m just a lapsed Episcopalian. Don’t you think I should make things right with the Lord first?”
She sighed heavily. “It’s not like you didn’t have plenty of time on the ride over.”
“Yes, but we Episcopalians kneel when we pray. Surely, you don’t have anything against kneeling.”
“Hmm. Then kneel. It don’t bother me none.”
“Thanks. But somehow it doesn’t seem right to pray with my feet tied together. My hands, I understand, but my feet—I don’t think that’s respectful.”
“I don’t see how it ain’t.”
“Nolan, you understand, don’t you? Have you ever prayed with your feet tied?”
“No ma’am.” He turned to his mother like an oversized cuckoo bird chick begging to be fed. “Mama, just her feet, okay?”
Harriet turned the gun and brought it up to eye level. “Okay, but if you try anything, I’ll shoot. Then I’ll most likely be really mad, on account you caused me to sin, so I’ll shoot you again.”
“I understand.”
Nolan did the honors. His touch was tender, causing me to doubt that he would have used the crowbar back at the house, unless unusually provoked. Harriet was another matter. I was convinced that she would happily blow my head to smithereens, and repent of it later.
I had only a second in which to react. As the last bit of tape ripped loose, I brought one knee forward, where it connected solidly with Baby Boy’s nose. He stumbled, and while he struggled in vain to regain his footing, I leaped as high as I could, throwing myself against the lowered tailgate of the truck. With hands still tied, but outstretched, I managed to grab a few inches of the anchor rope.
“Drop it now!” Harriet screamed.
I had no option but to follow through. The anchor didn’t exactly sail off the end of the truck; it dropped. But as luck would have it, Baby Boy now lay facedown in the dirt, and the sharp tines came to rest in his gluteus maximus. I have only twice before in my life heard such anguished cries, and both times I was giving birth.
Harriet may have been willing to kill me, but she was still a mother. As she tended to her son, I slipped away into the tall marsh grass. Three deep gashes and a hundred bug bites later, I was rescued by a pair of retirees who had taken a wrong turn in their bass boat.
31
“Here’s to our Abby,” Mama said, raising her tea glass as high as her tailored dress allowed.
“Here, here!” everyone shouted. The taller folks at our table clinked glasses, much to the amusement of the other customers gathered for lunch at Slightly North of Broad.
Wynnell and Ed, who was now on an insulin pump and feeling as fine as frog’s hair, were among my most vocal supporters. I was both surprised, and glad, to see them sitting so close together. While not exhibiting the behavior of lovebirds, neither were they glowering at each other like a pair of disgruntled vultures. And Wynnell, much to my great relief, professed to being pleased at the prospect of Ed joining her in the business.
The Rob-Bobs, bless their hearts, weren’t quite as content. Bob had planned to cook the lunch himself—octopus à l’orange, or something like that—but I’d begged Rob to talk him out of it, on the grounds that having almost become crab food, I wasn’t up to devouring marine life anytime soon. Needless to say, my buddy with the bass voice was pouting.
Toy, however, was in high spirits. Although it had been four days since my ordeal, he was still in town. I was beginning to suspect that his deacon’s collar was a rental, and that I would be stuck having him as a house guest until he qualified for Medicare.
“To my brave sister!” he said, rising to his feet. “May she have as many lives as a sack full of cats.”
“Please, no sack references,” I said.
Greg squeezed my knee under the table. He’d been nothing but affectionate lately. I knew how hard it was for him to bite his tongue. You had to give the man credit for trying to keep an open mind.
C.J. stood beside Toy. “So Abby, how much is that statue worth?”
“According to the rightful heir—a Senor Giovanni Gastelli—about thirteen million. That’s the highest offer he’s gotten since the news broke.”
“Ooh Abby, is it true you’re going to be in Time magazine, just like my cousin, Horatio Ledbetter?”
“Our Abby is going to be in a lot of magazines,” Mama said proudly, “but it’s you and Toy who have the really big news, isn’t it, dear?”
The big gal grinned.
About the Author
TAMAR MYERS is the author of ten previous Den of Antiquity mysteries: Larceny and Old Lace; Gilt by Association; The Ming and I; So Faux, So Good; Baroque and Desperate; and Estate of Mind; A Penny Urned; Nightmare in Shining Armor; Splendor in the Glass; and Tiles and Tribulations. She is the author of the Magdalena Yoder series, is an avid antiques collector, and lives in the Carolinas.
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Other Den of Antiquity Mysteries by
Tamar Myers
LARCENY AND OLD LACE
GILT BY ASSOCIATION
THE MING AND I
SO FAUX, SO GOOD
BAROQUE AND DESPERATE
ESTATE OF MIND
A PENNY URNED
NIGHTMARE IN SHINING ARMOR
SPLENDOR IN THE GLASS
TILES AND TRIBULATIONS
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
STATUE OF LIMITATIONS. Copyright © 2004 by Tamar Myers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JANUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061865268
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