Gilt by Association (17 page)

“I remember, dear. I already apologized last night. But speaking of your shop, why aren't you there now?”

“Because I have a message to deliver, that's why.”

“Deliver away.”

“Well, it's not a verbal message. Wait right there.”

She trotted off to the front door, held it open with one outstretched leg, and pulled in a large potted camellia.

“Here's your message.”

“What the—”

“That's what I said when he gave it to me this morning.”

“Who? Is there a card?”

She shook her heard. “Naw, he said he was in a hurry and didn't have time to write one.”

I felt like shaking her whole body. “
Who
said that? Greg? The man you met last night?”

“Your boyfriend? Naw, this was some guy in a blue jacket. It had a logo of a tree on it, and some name which I forget.”

“Garland Riggs!”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, I know him. He owns a nursery.”

She scratched her head and wrinkled her nose. “He didn't look like the baby type.”

“I don't know that he is. He owns a plant nursery. He's trying to get me to do him a favor, and this”—I pointed to the camellia—“is his idea of a bribe.”

“What's he want you to do?”

“Sell him something.” She could put lit bamboo slivers under my fingernails and I wasn't going to get any more specific than that. I had already encouraged her nosiness far too much.

“Well, I'd be real careful, if I were you. I once—”

“Jane, dear,” I interrupted, “I have an important favor to ask you.” I didn't mean to be rude, but I had had a sudden brainstorm.

“What's that?” she asked suspiciously. “It's not about taking more of your messages, is it?”

“Absolutely not, dear. Remember that beautiful little marquetry table that was part of Lula Mae's—well, Amy's—estate sale?”

“Vaguely. I don't shop in your circles, Abigail, so I only glanced at that stuff at the preview.”

“It's over here,” I said. I guided her gently to where the small table reposed, a masterpiece of eighteenth-century craftsmanship.

“It's very pretty,” she said. She sounded almost bored.

“Would you mind terribly keeping it for me for a few days?”

Her eyes widened. She was far from bored. “You mean it?”

“Yup. I'm taking this desk with me—” I pointed to the Louis XV desk from the Barras estate—” because I have more room. But, if you don't mind, I'd like you to keep this.
Temporarily
, of course.”

“Wow! May I put it in the window? And what if some
one asks to buy it, Abby?” She was running her hand lightly around the rim. “It isn't marked.”

“No, dear,” I explained quickly. “I would like you to keep it at home. If you have room, of course.” I knew she lived in a rather small house.

She nodded, almost too eagerly. “I am having some friends over this weekend. I hope you don't mind if I pretend this is really mine. Of course that can backfire on you, too. Once in high school—”

I picked up the small table and practically thrust it on her. “You really must be going,” I said. “You have your own shop, remember? But thank you for bringing over the camellia, and thanks for baby-sitting the table, and I'm awfully sorry you were bothered.”

I opened the door with my left hand and was about to gently, but firmly, deposit her, table and all, on the sidewalk when she gasped.

“Lord have mercy! What's that?”

I whirled. If Arnold Ramsey's killer was hiding in the shop, I would have it out with him then and there.

“Where? What do you see?”

“Abby! On your hand!”

My heart was still pounding. “Oh, you mean this?”

“Yes. Oh, Abby, it's gorgeous! What is it? One of those blue cubic zirconias?”

“Bingo.”

“I thought so. I saw them advertised on my favorite shopping channel. You know, the one where they beat a drum every tenth time they sell something? Anyway, they were only asking $19.95 for that very same ring. But it didn't look so big on TV.”

I waved my hand casually. The stone was so large, it practically took effort.

“It's gaudy,” I said. “Ostentatious as all get-out, but hey, it's just for fun, so what the heck.”

She was practically drooling. “You see that ring ad
vertised again, you call me, Abby, will you? Or, tell you what. You just go ahead and order it for me. Even if they've changed the price, I'll pay up to $39.99. Okay?”

“Will do,” I said and pushed her gently out the door.

A
fter some deliberation I decided to remain closed for the day. I needed time to reclaim my shop, so to speak, before I opened it to the public. Besides, I owed it to Lottie Bell now to attend her funeral that afternoon. I also owed it to the woman to find her killer. And I was convinced that her killer and Arnie Ramsey's killer were one and the same.

It occurred to me that the best way to regain emotional ownership of my shop was to start dusting at the front, by the door, and work my way to the back, where the dreaded armoire stood. I am a firm believer in dusting, and give everything in my shop at least a light once-over every week. This sets even my low-end merchandise apart from comparable items found in junk shops. Not that I have many low-end pieces, mind you, and none of them is junk.

Mine is an eclectic collection, but I am fond of virtually every piece. I only buy those things that I would be proud to put in my own home, although obviously I don't. I used to, though. But Buford didn't like “that crap” as he used to put it. Buford's idea of chic is a Lazy Boy recliner with a console on which to put the
TV Guide
and his can of beer. The remote never leaves his hand.

I ran the feather duster over an eighteenth-century Turkish pasha table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Some
highly skilled artisan had labored intensively over that piece almost two hundred years ago. Buford would have put an ashtray on it for the cigars he smokes.

“Damn it,” I said aloud, “I'm taking back my life.” I peeled the tag off the pasha table and carried it to the back room of my shop. I was careful not to even glance at the armoire. Eventually my dusting would get me that far, and maybe by then I would be ready. If I wasn't—well, that would be fine, too. Part of taking back my life was learning to be kind to myself. To make the same allowances for myself that I made for others.

I was so engrossed in my work that I didn't even hear the cowbells jangling. When Wynnell spoke, I nearly jumped through the ceiling.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” she said.

I gasped for breath. “How the hell did you get in? I locked the door.”

“I have a key for safekeeping, remember? Abby, I stood out there and knocked for about five minutes.”

“Sorry, dear. I guess I was engrossed in my own thoughts. Who's minding the store?”

“No one,” she said. “I put up my sign and dashed over to see how you were doing. I didn't mean to be gone this long.”

“Sorry, again. How did you know I was here?”

Wynnell laughed. “How else? Our very own town crier. She said she saw you practically having to push that sleazy Dr. Bowman out of your shop. Is that true?”

“No. He was actually well-behaved today.”

“What did he want?”

“To invite me to his mother's funeral this afternoon.”

“You going?”

I nodded. “She gave me this,” I said, waggling my middle finger.

Wynnell stared. “Well, I'll be! One of those London blue topazes.”

“Yeah,” I said, “isn't it beautiful?”

There was no point in bragging about the ring. Those people knowledgeable enough to spot a perfect sapphire would appreciate it for what it was. Others would just have to appreciate it for what they thought it was.

“I brought you this,” Wynnell said.

She took a package from under her arm and thrust it cheerfully at me. I took it reluctantly. My gift had not been boxed, just wrapped in used Christmas paper. A piece of yellowing tape still held part of an old name tag firmly in place. “To Burt—” it said.

“Merry Christmas, a little early.” Wynnell was beaming with the joy of giving. “I thought you might need a little cheering up.”

“You're a doll,” I said, giving her a big hug.

“So open it.” She sounded just as eager as my children had been upon bringing their elementary school art projects home.

I had no choice. I knew, without a doubt, that my gift was something Wynnell had sewn. I could feel fabric through the paper. But there was no way out. I was going to have to be the gracious Southern lady Mama raised me to be.

“Why, it's just beautiful,” I said, before I'd even gotten the package halfway open.

“You're kidding. Do you really like it?”

“Yes, honest. I really—”

The package was open now, and its contents were definitely not beautiful. I had expected one of Wynnell's cockeyed creations, so I was quite surprised by the T-shirt from New Orleans depicting a naked fat woman sitting astride an alligator. “Crack kills,” the caption read.

“Wynnell, I don't know quite what to say.”

I held the disgusting thing out at arm's length, politely pretending to admire it. Wynnell stepped back for an admiring look of her own.

“Oh my God!” she screamed.

“What is it, dear?”

“I'll be back in a minute,” she shouted and dashed out the door.

True to her word, she was back in less than sixty seconds, huffing and puffing like Buford used to do right after sex. “The T-shirt,” she gasped, “was for my nephew Burt. This is for you.”

She handed me a package in identical paper. The second package, however, was a bit bulkier, and the tape securing the name tag was clear. The name was mine.

I opened the second package with trepidation. As tasteless as the T-shirt was, odds were I would rather wear it in public than something Wynnell had made. Boy was I ever wrong.

“It's beautiful!” I practically screamed.

“Do you really like it?” Wynnell was beaming.

I held the teal-blue cable-knit sweater against my chest. It really was very pretty. Wynnell had done an almost professional job.

“I love it! I didn't know you could knit.”

“I can't,” Wynnell said. “I bought this at Carolina Place Mall. It called out your name when I walked by.”

I hate feeling like an utter fool. Fortunately it is not quite yet a daily event.

“Thanks,” I said, and gave her a big hug.

Wynnell's arms remained hanging at her sides, like salamis in a deli.

“I love you,” I added.

Wynnell blushed. Not all women handle intimacy with facility.

“So,” she said, “how are you really doing, Abigail?”

“Fine. Never been better. Well—since Tuesday, that is.”

“Good, good. How was that hot date last night?”

“Not so hot. The guy was a jerk, but in the end it
turned out well for both of us. Remind me when you have time, and I'll tell you the details.”

“That'll be great.” She seemed anxious to leave, and was edging to the door when something occurred to her. “Abigail, have you spoken to Susan lately?”

“My daughter, Susan?”

“Yup, that's the one.”

“Well, she dropped by the house on Sunday to do her laundry, but I haven't since then. Why? What's up?”

She had her hand on the doorknob. The cowbells murmured.

“Nothing, I hope. It's just that I saw her at the mall last night, and—well, uh—”

“Spit it out, Wynnell.”

“She was with this guy, Danbo Links. He's the butcher at my neighborhood Winn-Dixie. He's got to be twice as old as her.”

“Shit,” I said.

“And I think he's married.”

“Double shit!” I refuse to use the “F” word.

“Well, that's all. Gotta be going.”

Wynnell, good friend that she was, fled as soon as she'd done her duty. Of course I immediately got on the phone. There was a real bogeyman hiding in the closet this time and his name was Danbo Links. I might not have Toy's baseball bat handy, but I had my tongue, which, I've been told, along with the pen, is mightier than a thousand swords.

“Winn-Dixie. Can I help you?” some high school girl chirped.

“Meat department, please,” I said crisply.

Danbo let the phone ring a half-dozen times before he picked up. He must have been busy making sausage.

“Mr. Links?” I asked calmly.

“Yes.” Already he sounded cautious.

“This is Abigail Timberlake, Susan's mother.”

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I
said
I was Susan's mother. You know, the baby you were out with last night.”

“Don't know what you're talking about, lady.”

“Well, I guess I'll have to talk to the manager then. Can you transfer me?”

There was a long pause. “Look, I don't want any trouble. What did you say this girl's name was?”

“Susan Timberlake.”

“I honestly don't know anyone by that name, ma'am. I just picked me up some girl in a bar. Said her name was Sherry. Said she was twenty-one.”

“Her name is Susan, and she's nineteen. Her daddy is Buford Timberlake, the big-shot lawyer who loves putting people behind bars. And, by the way, I'm dating a cop.” It was only a slight exaggeration. Buford is a divorce lawyer, and Greg an investigator, but why burden Danbo with details?

I could hear him swallow. “Yes, ma'am.”

It doesn't hurt to play it safe. “One more thing, Mr. Links. I'm well aware that there is a Mrs. Links. I suggest you spend a few evenings at home with her, if you don't want her finding out. On the other hand, perhaps she could use my ex-husband's services free of charge. Do you get my point, Mr. Links?”

“Yes, ma'am!”

Thank God for Alexander Graham Bell. A hundred years ago I would have had to hitch the buckboard and spend half a day riding over to the Winn-Dixie, or its counterpart. Then Danbo Links would've taken one look at me and fed me into his meat grinder.

Of course throwing Buford's name out undoubtedly helped. His name has appeared in the
Charlotte Observer
about as many times as Ann Landers's. Unfortunately Susan wasn't going to be as easily intimidated. We could threaten to not pay her expenses at UNCC the next se
mester, but that would suit her fine. She hates school. She would welcome the opportunity to quit school and “get a life.” That life might very well include moving in with someone like Danbo Links. She has done both before.

If Buford was in a cooperative mood, he could threaten to leave her behind when he goes to Paris. But I had the feeling that wouldn't be much of a threat, either. My daughter is geographically as well as culturally challenged. She thinks New Mexico is a country and couldn't name more than half of the other forty-nine states if her life depended on it. For sure, the world does not call to her with its siren songs. She once referred to the language of Germany as Germish. “I mean, they speak Swedish in Sweden, don't they?” she said in her defense. Susan either didn't have any morning classes or she'd decided to skip them. I would put money on the latter. She picked up on the ninth ring.

“What?”

“Susan, it's your mother. Were you asleep?”

“Of course not, Mother”—she yawned—“but what is it? I'm going to be late for class.”

“Out late last night, dear?”

“I have a biology test I needed to study for.”

“I have no doubt it was biology, dear, but it wasn't a test. Does the name Danbo Links mean anything to you?”

“What? Mama, I'm late for class. Can you make sense?”

“I'll cut to the chase, dear. I have it from the horse's mouth that last night you were out with a married butcher twice your age. What do you have to say to that?”

She yawned again. “He was married?”

“Susan, didn't you even know his name?”

“Yeah, Dan something. Mama, names don't mean as much to my generation as they do to yours.”

“Maybe so, but Mr. Links is from my generation.”

“Mama, is that all you called about? Because if it is,
you can save your breath. Dan and I broke up last night.”

“Broke up? How long were you going together?”

“I met him last night, Mama. It was a quick thing. I guess it just wasn't meant to be.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief, but with my hand firmly covering the receiver. “Where did you meet him?

“At his butcher shop.”

“Can it, toots,” I said crisply. “He doesn't own a butcher shop. He works for Winn-Dixie. Susan, when are you ever going to stop seeing me as the enemy, and start telling me the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do tell you the truth, Mama.”

“Susan!”

“I met him at a bar, okay? Can I go now? I really am late for class.”

“No doubt you are, dear. Aren't you even going to ask me how I'm doing? Finding a body in an armoire wasn't a picnic, you know.”

She sighed, perhaps the longest and most belabored sigh in history. “So, how are you?”

“Better, thanks. Although we still don't know who killed Arnold Ramsey and—”

“Arnie Ramsey?” She sounded suddenly interested.

“Yes.”

“Kind of a skinny guy with yellow teeth and a tattoo of a rose on his leg?”

I hadn't seen Arnold's teeth, and I didn't want to know how high up on his leg the tattoo was. I only hoped leg wasn't a euphemism for buttocks.

“He was skinny,” I said.

“Had a girlfriend named Norma?”

“Had a
wife
named Norma. Susan, did you know this guy?”

I could have peeled a dozen hard-boiled eggs before she got around to answering. “Mama, promise you won't be mad?”

I promised. If she could lie, so could I. I would, however, try very hard not to let her know that I had.

“I dated Arnie for a while last summer, Mama. It didn't work out.”

Thank God for small favors. “He hit you?”

“Yeah, but just one time—then I told him to get lost. Hey, how did you know?”

“Just an educated guess, dear. Sweetie, didn't you know that he was married?”

“He said he wasn't. What am I supposed to do, run an FBI check on every man I meet?”

“That's not a bad idea, dear. What if you had been with Arnold Ramsey the day he was killed?”