Gilt by Association (24 page)

I
immediately dialed Greg. After the fourth ring his machine picked up. I felt as if I had been slapped. How did he expect me to call and apologize, or otherwise worm myself back into his life? His indifference to what was supposed to be our mutual angst galled me. Not only did he look like a store mannequin, but he had just as much sentiment. Either that or he was busy boffing Hooter, to use a crude term I picked up from Buford. Either way, our relationship was clearly over.

“Up yours,” I screamed into his machine. It is too damn hard to be a Southern lady at five in the morning.

Knowing she is a thrifty person, I turned out all the lights in C. J.'s house. Then I turned them all back on. It had suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen head or tail of the marquetry table. I searched the house thoroughly, more confident this time, even managing quick peeks into the closets. The marquetry table would not have fit under her bed. Ditto for C. J. Two pieces of the puzzle were definitely missing.

I didn't bother to sneak out. I closed the front door firmly behind me and used the walk to the driveway like any normal human being. That, at least, C. J. had bothered to salt.

I suppose my intentions were to search her car, but I never got that far. I happened to glance down the drive
way, and in the waning moonlight the two wide tire marks in the snow stood out in bold relief. I should have noticed them on way in. They were definitely not made by C. J.'s tiny Festiva. They looked like the tire marks of a truck, one of those pickups with the monster tires. Garland's?

But of course! It wasn't a bloody “B” that Arnie was trying to scrawl in the armoire, but an “R.” An “R,” of which the left leg dripped down, partially closing it off and making it look like a “B.” How stupid could I be, not to have seen that possibility from the beginning?

And C. J., always bothering me, always trying to distract me with her bizarre stories. The captain and his first mate, indeed. It was more like Garland and C. J.

So that was it! C. J. and Garland were in on this together. That's why he kept sending messages through her. Perhaps they were even lovers. Garland was married, I knew, to someone named Alma. But what difference did that make in today's world? And so what if he was old enough to be C. J.'s father? Ask Mia Farrow that one.

Now the two of them (Garland and C. J., not Mia) had run off in such a big hurry that they hadn't even bothered to close C. J.'s door. Of course I didn't have proof yet—not the kind you could take to the police—but at least I knew where to look next.

I dashed back inside and pressed redial for the second time. Greg's machine answered again. Surely there was a law against public investigators making themselves unavailable while they frolicked and fornicated with femme fatales. Especially if the public investigator in question had given you his private phone number, and had in exchange taken your heart.

The Rob-Bobs didn't answer, either. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. They sometimes get nasty calls at odd hours from people who have nothing better to do than to harass those who were dealt cards from a different deck.

“This is Abby,” I said to their machine. “I'm fine. You were half-right, Rob. I mean about C. J. She
is
in on this, but she's not acting alone. Don't worry—she's not going to get away with this, I can tell you that. And neither is he. I'm headed for Broke—”

The machine cut me off, just like that. I thought about calling back, but decided I had told them enough, perhaps even too much. Besides, I really didn't have a minute to spare, not if I wanted to get over to Broken Tree Nursery before the trail got cold.

It took me forty-five minutes to make what should have been a twenty-minute trip. But I arrived safely, without any dings or dents to my car, or to anyone else's, for that matter. It was still dark at that hour, but already a smattering of headlights could be seen, creeping slowly along the frozen roads.

Broken Tree Nursery is on the southeast side of Charlotte, south of Pineville even, and it straddles the state line. Garland, or whoever does his menial labor, can stand in North Carolina while he prunes a shrub in South Carolina. Until only a year or so ago the area around Broken Tree Nursery was farmland, peaches mainly, with the odd cotton field here and there.

But Charlotte is growing faster than a fourteen-year-old boy, and Greater Charlotte now threatens to spill over into South Carolina. The land all around Garland's nursery is being converted from productive farmland into upper-middle-class subdivisions. A few of the subdivisions are prestigious enough to be predominantly stucco. If Garland really wanted to make a killing, it seemed to me, he would sell his nursery to local developers, instead of chasing after some mythical French fortune.

The nursery was dark when I arrived. The moon had set, and as Buford would say, it was blacker than a well digger's ass. The subdivisions that bordered Garland's property were still under construction and not yet inhab
ited. Except for a handful of light on in Laurel Oak Plantation, the newly completed subdivision across the road, and the occasional car pulling out of its handsome wrought-iron gates, it might as well all have still been farmland.

I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot, dousing my lights the second my tires crunched on the gravel. I braked and shut off the car, remaining in the warmth of my car a few minutes while my eyes adjusted as well as they could.

The first thing I looked for, and the first thing I saw, was Garland Riggs's pickup with the ridiculous oversize tires. I couldn't read the writing on the side, but that bizarre broken tree stood out like a beacon. It may as well have had a spotlight trained on it.

I am not blessed with particularly good night vision, but my eyes are overall very healthy, and soon I was able to make out, quite clearly, the various buildings and sheds that comprise the nursery complex. Between them and the blacker outline of the manmade forest were the stock fields. I was already vaguely familiar with the layout because I had driven by Broken Tree Nursery many times. Although I have a fairly keen interest in gardening, I had never bothered to stop in. Not with Kmart, Lowe's, and Home Depot to choose from.

My shoes made almost as much noise on the gravel as my car had made. At least I didn't sound as loud as an engine, if you discount the almost deafening thump of my heart. I had no choice but to crunch my way over to the pickup.

I felt its hood, and my heart pounded harder. The metal beneath my hand was still warm. Garland had been at C. J.'s. The two of them were undoubtedly inside the main building now, emptying the cash register, or whatever it is lovers do as they prepare for a life on the road as fugitives. Why they would do whatever it was in the dark
was beyond me. But then so is murder. Evil people thrive in darkness. That's what the Bible says—even the version we Episcopalians use.

There was no point in me hanging around longer. I had passed an all-night CoGo market not a quarter-mile down the road. Undoubtedly they had a phone I could use. I would make one last call to Greg, and then call the police. The
real
police. The police who weren't busy humping Hooter. Then I would park just inside the entrance of Laurel Oak Plantation and keep an eagle eye on the suspects. It would be starting to get light soon.

But first there was one thing I wanted to do to confirm my suspicions. Just to make double sure that I was right. A quick peek inside the double cab, and I would have my proof. C. J. was not the type of girl who would run off without taking at least a pair of clean underwear and her toothbrush. There had to be luggage of some sort stashed back there, perhaps even my marquetry table.

To say that I hopped nimbly up on the running board would be an exaggeration. Truthfully, I've mounted horses with more ease. I was making my third assault on the monster, and had finally made a purchase, when I felt myself lifted off the running board—literally—just as surely as if a giant owl had swooped down, grabbed me in its talons, and was carrying me off to its nest to eat for breakfast.

“What the—”

“You nosy little bitch,” the owl snarled.

“Garland!”

He set me down, but kept one fist knotted around the collar of my coat. Next time I did any snooping I was going to wear the damn thing unbuttoned. You never know when you might want to slip out of your coat and run for your life.

“I-I was just driving by,” I said stupidly, “and decided
to stop in and thank you personally for the lovely camellia.”

He laughed. “So you're a nosy,
stupid
little bitch.”

I couldn't argue with that. “Well, a gal's gotta try to save her own neck, right?”

“You're in it up to your neck. I'm afraid there's no saving you.”

“C. J.!”

She may have been his accomplice all along, but on some level we were friends. I didn't think C. J. would have it in her to see me offed as well. Perhaps I could take some sort of special vow of silence. I would be willing to do that, you know. Wouldn't you? I mean, what is so wrong about sealing your lips on evil, if it means saving your life? I know that sounds terrible, but when the Grim Reaper has you by the collar, you might reconsider your position. The only trouble was, I didn't think someone as hardened as Garland was going to fall for that.

“C. J.!” I called again.

Garland laughed, and then hoisted me up by the collar, like I was a kitten, and he a mother cat. He swung me forward so that my nose bumped the rear window of the double cab.

“See that?”

For a few seconds I didn't see anything but the stars in my head. Then I saw C. J. lying there on the backseat, all trussed up like a Christmas turkey. She had her hands tied behind her back. Her feet were bound together, and her legs were bent at the knee, and tied in that position. There was a gray swath of duct tape across her mouth. Her eyes were closed.

“You goddamn, goddamn, goddamn—” I said. I was too stunned to say anything worse.

Garland pushed my face into the glass. The stars all came out again, along with a few planets. I took a short nap.

When I awoke, I, too, was trussed like a Christmas turkey, only my legs were not tied behind me. I was propped on the front seat of the cab, beside Garland. My mouth wasn't taped, and I had one hell of a headache.

I felt for my ring. The idiot had let it be. It wasn't worth half of Paris, but it was worth a good sight more than all four Barras pieces combined. I groaned, as much from relief as from pain.

“It's about time,” he said. “I didn't want to kill you without an explanation. It's more fun that way.”

“Maybe for you.” I groaned again.

“That Arnie guy died without an explanation, damn son of a bitch.”

“So, you killed him, too. I knew it!”

“He had no business hanging around the warehouse—”

“He worked for Purvis,” I snapped. “Of course Purvis made my job a little more difficult by denying he was there that day. But who can blame him? Why borrow trouble?”

Garland grunted. “Hell, Arnie did. All I wanted was a good look at that damn mirror, and he started asking too many questions, and for your information, girlie, I didn't mean to kill him. I just decked him, and he hit his head going down.”

“So, you stuffed him in my armoire!”

He laughed. “It was mighty convenient. Then the next morning I called the cops.”

“That was you? Well, at least Arnie left a clue with his own blood.”

“I scraped that blood off when I paid your shop a little visit and lifted the mirror. Your precious clue, for what it was worth, is gone.”

“Gone, yes, but not forgotten.
Everyone
saw it,” I lied.

“Bullshit. You're the only one who figured it out, and you came alone. That little secret will die with you.”

“Like Lottie Bell's did with her? Is that why you burned her house down? To cover your tracks.”

He laughed again. “Better safe than sorry. Anyway, thanks to your friend there”—he pointed to C. J.—“I did solve the Barras family mystery.”

“Bullshit.”

His reaction to my use of the swear word was remarkably calm.

“It was in that little table, not the mirror. I would have smashed the fucker to smithereens, like I did the desk, but C. J. found it for me.”

“That figures.”

“Oh, she wasn't very cooperative. She might not get a chance to wake up before she buys the farm.” He laughed.

“Well, so you're a rich man now, are you, Garland?”

“Bitch!” he said angrily.

I waited. We were driving through the entrance of a new subdivision. One of the yet unoccupied ones behind Garland's nursery. Magnolia Manor, this huge sign said, in stucco-on-stucco relief. At least I was in the stucco subdivision. It's not much of a comfort, but if you have to die, you may as well die in an upscale neighborhood.

Garland pounded the steering wheel with one of his hamlike fists. “I'm not rich. You don't get rich in the nursery business. Not when you have record heat one year, and record cold the next.”

“Then sell it and quit whining,” I snapped. “You don't get sympathy from me—and get to kill me—all in the same night.”

He glanced at me, surprised at my cheek.

“But I don't own this fucking business by myself. My wife owns half of it, and she won't let us sell.” He jabbed the air with a sausage finger. “There! I could be living in a house like that if we sold out to developers.”

“Well, you've got your Paris property now, or what
ever was hidden in that table, haven't you?”

He pounded the steering wheel so hard I thought he would break it. Actually I hoped he would break it, and puncture an artery on a jagged edge. I am not yet the good Christian I intend to be.

“All I've got is shit. A fucking bill.”