Gilt by Association (18 page)

“Wow! I never knew a dead man before.”

That wasn't true, either, but I'd give her the benefit of the doubt. She was nine when her grandfather died in a bizarre accident on Lake Wylie involving a seagull. Perhaps she'd blocked it out. Anyway, her Great Aunt Eulonia had passed on just last year. Surely she remembered that, and surely a dead
woman
counted for something.

“My point is, dear, that you could have ended up in the armoire as well.”

“Holy shit! You think so?”

“Yes. Susan, what can you tell me about that creep Ramsey, besides the fact that he hit you?”

“He had dirty fingernails.”

“I'm serious, Susan.”

“So am I. He always had black dirt under his fingernails. Even if he hadn't hit me, I probably still would have broken it off. It was gross watching him eat fries at McDonald's.”

“I bet it was.”

“Look Mama, now I
have
to go, so can I?”

“Right. You looking forward to Paris, dear?”

“Is that on the ocean, Mama? Do you think I should take my bikini?”

I told her “No,” “Yes,” and that I loved her.

 

Besides the pasha table, I set aside a green velvet-covered Empire sofa with claw feet, two inlaid Napoleon chairs, both covered in green silk, and a gold brocade ottoman. With my walls painted red, my new digs would either look luxurious or like a turn-of-the-century brothel. Either way, it was going to be a welcome change from beige.

It took me three hours and no lunch to dust my way up to the armoire. I spent another fifteen dancing around it, unable to even touch it, much less open the door. Finally I touched it, first with the feather duster, and then with my hands.

“It's only a bunch of wood,” I said aloud. “A very pretty and well-constructed pile of wood called an armoire. It's over two hundred years old. Now open the damn door.”

The door seemed to stick a little, something I didn't remember from last time, and it opened with a creak. But once it was open, I felt a huge sense of relief. I think I had expected to see the ghostly outline of Arnold Ramsey's body slumped in there, in my mind's eye, of course. There was nothing to see but wood.

Greg was right. Every trace of blood was gone. I could almost be persuaded to believe that I had not stood in that very same spot only a few days ago, and seen Arnold Ramsey's bloody body, and the letter “B” scrawled on the back wall. But that illusion would only work if I viewed the armoire through squinted eyes.

With both eyes open, however, it was obvious to me where the blood had been. The back wall of the armoire had been scraped, perhaps with a coarse sandpaper. One thing for sure, the piece was no longer as valuable as it was the day I made my winning bid.

Suddenly I realized that I was no longer feeling squeamish about the armoire, and I was definitely not afraid. I was mad as hell.

I
have a terrible confession to make, but I know I'm not alone in this. The best way for me to relieve tension is to get on the road and burn some rubber. That, and you know what, but I didn't have a
who
to do
what
with—at least not handy. Which is not to say that I eschew the safest sex of all, just not in my shop. C. J. might come poking around and get the wrong idea. You know how she is with jumping to conclusions. I can't imagine anything more embarrassing than having a SWAT team break into my shop to rescue me from my own ecstasy.

So I chose to burn rubber. Please don't get me wrong. I am a responsible speeder in every way. I don't drive while under the influence, I slow down for school zones, and I never cut in front of people who are old enough to have seen me in diapers. What's more, I am a good driver who drives a safe and reliable car.

Some of my friends—Wynnell, for instance—think that all laws are meant to be obeyed equally, that we can't just pick and choose which ones we want to ignore. Well, I think that there are a few of us exceptional drivers out there who are quite capable of driving well above the speed limit, and that the spirit of the law does not intend to inhibit us. I know, to you folks out there who aren't quite as adept behind the wheel, this sounds like rationalizing. So be it.

I made it to Belmont without getting a single ticket. I'm sure that siren I heard briefly behind me was intended for someone else. At any rate, C. J. was absolutely right. One doesn't need directions to find the Kefferts' “boat house.” I was at least three blocks away when I spotted the Connecticut flag flying from the mast.

It has been my observation that there is a rough correlation between exterior building materials and income levels. Neighborhoods where wooden and vinyl siding predominate tend toward the low-to middle-income end. Brick houses proliferate in middle-to upper-income neighborhoods. It's when you start to see a lot of stucco that you can be certain money no longer just speaks, it shouts.

The Kefferts' “boat house,” which was not cement after all, but stucco, floated in a sea of stucco houses. I'd seen the
Queen Mary
once on a trip to California, and while I suppose the Kefferts' ship is smaller, it is every bit as impressive. I felt like I needed to have a ticket in my hand just to ring the doorbell.

“Is Mr. or Mrs. Keffert here?” I asked politely of the uniformed maid.

“Who is inquiring?”

“Abigail Timberlake, owner of the Den of Antiquity.”

“I'm Mrs. Keffert. Permission to come aboard.”

I looked at the uniform again. Of course maids don't wear gold buttons embossed with anchors. And I suppose few maids wear white, but it was an honest mistake nonetheless. I didn't notice the bibbed cap until much later.

Mrs. Keffert—or First Mate Keffert, as she liked to be called, led me to the starboard side of the house and into the main deck salon. I gasped. It wasn't the size of the room that threw me, but the eclectic collection of curios the Kefferts had amassed through their life's voyage together. There was a real, but stuffed, polar bear rearing up on its hind legs, several assorted suits of armor, a pair of very large and thankfully very old elephant tusks, an
exquisite
uchikake
—a Japanese wedding over-kimono (worn by a life-size mannequin)—an almost life-size olivewood cross bearing an olivewood Jesus, and thirteen mounted gnu heads. Here and there was the odd piece of furniture; a rare floor model Bavarian cuckoo clock, a nineteenth-century English fainting couch, a maroon Naugahyde armchair, an Italian rococo settee with two matching chairs, and what I can best describe as a throne. It was an intricately carved chair, probably Chinese rosewood, but had been gilded to within an inch of its life.

“No deck chairs?” I asked pleasantly.

Surprisingly she laughed. “We keep them midships in our private quarters. I wanted you to see this room, where I plan to put the Louis XV things I'm buying from you.”

I forced a smile. “They're essentially bedroom things, ma'am. They might look a little out of place here.”

“Oh nonsense,” she said. “Have a seat.”

“May I?” I pointed to the throne.

“Please, be my guest. We just won't tell the captain. It's a real throne, you know. We picked it up on our latest trip to the Orient. It's from a minor Asian kingdom that was swallowed up by China and incorporated in one of the western provinces. The king had to abdicate.”

The Chinese throne was not nearly as comfortable as it was beautiful. His Majesty was probably relieved to not have to sit on it anymore. I'm sure he had hemorrhoids.

“Ma'am, you do know about the slight misfortune I had with the armoire,” I said.

She sat forward in her Naugahyde chair. “Oh, yes! Isn't it exciting? We're just tickled pink.”

“Excuse me?” I was beginning to think Wynnell was right about Yankees. They were an eccentric lot with a bizarre sense of humor—at least if they were all like First Mate Keffert.

“Oh, I don't mean we're tickled that poor Mr. Ramsey was murdered,” she said quickly. “What I'm trying to
say is that whenever possible, we like our things to have a bit of history behind them.”

I nodded. “Like that Naugahyde chair.”

“It belonged to Elvis,” she said, just as serious as a librarian with a headache. “That's where he sat to eat his late night snacks.”

I was dying to ask her about the almost life-size Jesus and the thirteen gnu heads, but I had business to conduct.

“So you still want to buy the set?”

“Oh, yes.”

“
Including
the armoire?”

“It is still available, isn't it?” she asked. She sounded anxious. “You haven't sold it behind our backs, have you?”

“No, ma'am, but it can no longer be classified as being in excellent condition.”

“You mean, there's blood?” Her face lit up, possibly with hope.

“There was some blood, but somebody—probably the person who killed Mr. Ramsey—scraped it all away. So you see, it's been marked up.”

“How much are you marking it up?”

“No ma'am, I'm not marking up the price. I'm talking about marks on the back inside wall of the armoire. Where the blood used to be.”

“How visible are they?”

I'd had enough of the macabre. “Not very,” I lied. “In fact, I'd have to say that without a magnifying glass, you couldn't even tell they were there.”

Her face fell. “Well, a deal is a deal though, right? We did ask you to buy the pieces for us, so we'll take them anyway.”

I squirmed on my royal perch. I was going to have to do some fancy lying to get out of this one. Too bad I didn't have Susan along to use as a resource.

“Yes, but I forgot about covenant number nineteen of
the Selwyn Avenue Antique Dealers Association.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Why, everything. You see, we're not allowed to sell anything which has been involved in a misdemeanor for a period of thirty days. And murder is definitely a misdemeanor.”

“That's silly,” she had the nerve to say. “I never heard of such a thing. You're holding out for more money, aren't you?”

I hopped off the throne and fidgeted discretely with a wedgie. “No ma'am. I'm terribly sorry about this, but I can't sell it yet.”

“But
if
you could, how much would you ask for the armoire alone?”

I named a ridiculously high figure just to get her off my back.

She took off her first mate's cap, brushed a lock of gray hair off her forehead, and replaced it. “All right then. But I expect a call from you in a month's time. The captain and I want those pieces. And remember, a deal is a deal.”

“I remember,” I said, at least two of my fingers crossed behind my back.

“Shake?”

“Excuse me?”

She thrust out a diamond-encrusted hand. I was tempted to thrust out my monstrous sapphire, but wisely refrained.

“Ma'am, it's not like we really had a deal. I mean, that's why I'm here. If it was a
deal
, then I wouldn't have bothered to check. I would have just shipped the pieces to you, and sent you a bill.”

“You're reneging, aren't you?”

“Let's just say I'm confused.”

“About what?”

“About why you want those pieces so bad. Frankly, Mrs. Keffert, it seems a little strange to me.”

She whipped off the hat and began turning it through
her hands. “The captain's not going to like this one bit.”

“I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.”

She tossed the cap at the Naugahyde chair. It missed, and landed on a hammered silver aardvark.

“Then I guess I'll have to tell you the truth.”

I stepped away from a suit of armor that was wielding a wicked-looking battle-ax. If her version of the truth staggered me, I didn't want to step backward into that.

“Shoot.”

“You see, the captain really wants those pieces because they once belonged to his family.”

I gaped, but I didn't stagger. As far as I knew, Lottie Bell Barras Bowman had three siblings: Lula Mae's husband, Cyrus; Toxie's father, Daniel; and Garland Riggs's mother, Mimi.

“I beg your pardon. You mean his mother was a Barras?”

“His great-grandmother. His father was a second cousin to the late Mrs. Bowman. The captain was her second cousin, once-removed.”

“The one whose funeral is in less than two hours?”

“Yes. The captain's great-grandmother fell in love with a Yankee soldier whose unit was occupying her house. After the Civil War they married, but her family and friends wouldn't accept him, so they moved up north.”

A likely story—to somebody born yesterday. It was probably plain old carpetbagger blood, which would explain a lot. At least that's what Wynnell would say.

I rubbed a thumb against the giant sapphire. “I knew Lottie Bell Barras Bowman, but she never mentioned having a Yankee cousin living in Belmont.”

“Do your cousins come up much in conversation?” she asked coolly.

I come from a small family, but not a particularly close family. I have only five cousins: one in Charleston, two in Raleigh, and three in Portland, Oregon. They are never
mentioned in casual conversation, and I'd have to think first before I told you their names. I don't know their children's names—my first cousins once-removed.

“But you are in touch with the family?”

She stared at me, and I could feel her evaluating me. I should have saved her the trouble and told her I wasn't worthy of her trust. I'm all for keeping secrets, but if anything she told me would point a finger at Lottie Bell's, and Arnie's, killer, I would sing like a canary with a megaphone.

She swept her gaze around the salon, taking in the doors in particular. Apparently the captain was nowhere to be seen.

“We have never met any of the Southern branch of the Barrases. We were waiting until we got everything here shipshape.” She chirped a few times, in what I think was supposed to be laughter. “We've been told that some Southerners are very suspicious of Northern transplants.”

“Not me,” I said. “Moving down here is proof of your intelligence. Do you plan to go to the funeral? Because you could meet the family there. I could introduce you.”

“You are very kind, Mrs. Timberlake, but I'll have to talk this over with the captain. I don't think he had planned on going.”

“Maybe that's just as well. No offense, Mrs. Keffert—I mean, First Mate Keffert—but your husband's cousins are not among the nicest people in Charlotte. In fact, they might give you a bad impression.”

She seemed perversely pleased by my bad news. “Oh, really? Well, maybe we'll make it a point of being there.”

I glanced pointedly at my watch. “Well, you don't have much time to decide. Do you know where St. Anne's Catholic Church is?”

“Is that on Park Road?”

I nodded and edged toward the door I'd entered. “That day you came into my shop and asked me to bid on Lula
Mae's estate…why didn't you just go to the sale yourself? It was open to the public. You would have saved on my commission.”

“We had plans for that day,” she said. “They couldn't be changed.”

There was something about the way she said it that made me shudder. Mama says that a goose walking over your grave on the day you attend a funeral is a sure sign of bad luck. Thirteen gnu heads staring down at me through glass eyeballs weren't going to help in the luck department, either. I said a hasty good-bye and jumped ship faster than a rat on a burning schooner.

 

I have a dark gray polyester/cotton blend dress with three-quarter sleeves that is my designated funeral dress. I wear it to all funerals, no matter what the season, and funerals are the only time I wear it. I know, nowadays, folks think it's all right to wear anything to funerals, but Mama and I don't agree. We feel the same way about weddings. Mama, however, takes it one step further. She has “Sunday only” dresses. Frankly, I think that's bordering on the eccentric.

At any rate, it should have taken me only fifteen minutes or so to slip out of my jeans and sweatshirt, into my funeral dress; out of my high-tops, and into black heels; rub off some of my lipstick and run a comb through my hair. Like I said, on a regular day I can be funeralized in fifteen minutes, but on that day, try as I might, I couldn't find my funeral dress. I
always
hang it on the extreme left side of the closet, right up against the wall. Today it wasn't there. I knew it wasn't at the cleaners, because I wash it myself, and it wasn't in the bathroom laundry basket, either. I checked three times.

I called Mama.

“Oh Abby, you're a mind reader, you know that? I was just going to call you.”