Gilt by Association (25 page)

“I didn't bill you, buster,” I said through gritted teeth. “You stole that table from C. J.'s house, remember?”

“Ha! Not a bill from you, but from some damn furniture company.”

“No sympathy,” I reminded him.

His laugh then was almost pleasant, like we were out for a joyride instead of on our way to my funeral.

“The bill, Miss Timberlake, was made out to a man named Barras. Apparently he was an eighteenth-century ancestor of mine. It was a bill for that table and the other pieces.”

“You're kidding!”

“There was a letter as well.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A letter from a Monsieur Laurier, a Paris furnituremaker. Apparently Josephine—who was not yet married to Napoleon, and who was living with my ancestor—was buying expensive furniture and charging it to her host. When the bill came, she hid it in the table. She did the same thing with the letter demanding payment.”

“Y'all were deadbeats even then,” I said.

“Barras was my ancestor,” he snarled, “not Josephine.”

We rode in silence for a minute, turning first left and then right on the deserted streets. The sky was beginning to lighten. The stucco mansions were assuming shades of gray.

“Aren't those letters at least worth something?” He sounded pathetic.

“A couple hundred each, maybe,
if
you found the right
buyer. Not nearly enough to trade your life for.”

He spit, but his window was closed. “Goddamn! See what you made me do?”

“I didn't make you do anything, dear,” I said, mimicking the sweet sarcasm Susan uses. “You did it to yourself.”

“Shut up!”

I was on a roll. “Were those your cigarette butts the police found, dear? If so, that shade of lipstick does nothing for you.”

“Huh?”

“Do you prefer lethal injection or the chair?” I asked. Certain death—mine—brought with it a surprising amount of freedom.

“I'm not the one who is buying it, girlie. You are. Only you don't get a choice. You and your friend back there are buying the farm right now—or what's left of it.” He laughed.

“You'll never get away with it, asshole. People know where I am. I called for help before I came out here. Even if you do kill us, they'll trace it to you.”

“Yeah, right. You're lying, girlie. But even if you aren't, they'll never find you. Last week I signed a contract to plant one dozen big magnolia trees back here. Not container size, but great big ones. Field dug trees. They're all bundled in burlap and sitting back here waiting to be put in the ground. Magnolias for Magnolia Manor.

“Yesterday morning I finished digging the last hole. Twelve of them. As big as craters. So you see, y'all's graves are already dug. Y'all will be Magnolia manure, in a manner of speaking.” He didn't laugh.

We came to a sudden stop at the back end of the development. Garland immediately jumped down and undid a heavy metal chain, which was as thick as my wrist. Obviously the man knew where he was going.

Still I closed my eyes when Garland got back in the
car and drove right through what appeared to be the back of a long but very narrow house. Although bound, I braced myself for a crash as best I could. When there was none, I twisted my head around for a backward look.

“Well, I'll be!” I couldn't help but say.

It wasn't a house we'd driven through, but a facade worthy of a Disney feature. It was a two-dimensional Tara in stucco. Magnolia Manor, it said in free-standing letters set on the grassy slope that banked toward the “house.” Six huge spotlights, as big as washtubs, were trained on the letters, but unfortunately they had yet to be turned on. On either side of the make-believe mansion, the grassy bank continued for a hundred or more feet, and that's where the magnolias were to be planted.

“When it's all done, this is going to be the main entrance,” Garland said. He sounded proud, as if he was in charge of the entire development, not just the landscaping. “There's going to be a country club across the road there, and the builders decided to compete for attention. The country club is going to be so exclusive that even Arnold Palmer has to go on a waiting list.”

“Maybe my mama will apply if the Apathia Club doesn't take her,” I said.

He gave me a strange look. I realized I could see the whites of his eyes. It was definitely getting on toward dawn and my foretold demise. He seemed to read my mind.

“No more time to waste, girlie. Which side do you want to be planted on? Right or left, take your pick. Just tell me where you want to go.”

“Up yours,” I said.

He chuckled and got down from the cab. A few seconds later he was hauling me out like a sack of flour, and throwing me over his left shoulder. He held me in place with both hands.

“I decided to plant you on the left. You'll get a better
view of the country club. The clubhouse is going to be over there.”

“Where?”

He pointed with his right hand. Fat lot of good it did me, since I was facing the other way, toward the Tara monstrosity.

“Where?”

The stupid man jabbed the air with that sausage finger. Apparently he thought I had eyes in the back of my head. He could think I had horns, too, if he wanted, because his very stupidity presented me with a chance to get away.

It wasn't much of a chance, but I knew it was all I was going to get. Kicking and twisting at the same time, I managed to wiggle out of his grasp and off his shoulder. I slid backward. As my left hand moved past his face, I twisted to the left, bringing the Kashmiri sapphire in contact with his cheek, starting at the corner of his mouth and continuing to the ear.

He screamed, a long agonizing howl, like a wolf caught in a steel claw trap. Both hands flew to his face, and I hit the ground, harder than a sack of flour. For the second time that morning, I passed out.

W
hen I woke up, it was in the ICU of Mercy Hospital South. Mama was hovering over me like a hummingbird on a hibiscus.

Trust me, regaining consciousness is not like what they show in the movies. I didn't wake up suddenly and ask, “Where am I?” It was a gradual process, my consciousness flickering on and off like a light bulb on a bad circuit. But every time it flickered on, there was Mama. Although Mama is taller than I am, she still doesn't scrape five feet, so hovering over a hospital bed was no easy task for her.

Other faces hovered as well, and as the light bulb stayed on longer, I began to focus and sort them out. I saw Susan several times, and Charlie at least once. I thought I saw dear Wynnell, although that might have been an orderly who didn't bother to shave. As for those periodic flashes of intense blue, they were undoubtedly Greg's eyes. Nurse Beasely told me later that she would gladly trade places with the lowliest of Candy Stripers if she could have a boyfriend like Greg. Was he really taken? she wondered. I assured her that he was, and to punish her pushed my call button a few more times than was absolutely necessary.

Little by little my family and friends pieced together for me a rather ragged version of my rescue, which was about as fractured as my skull. “Subdural hematoma,”
the doctors said. A hairline fracture, which had caused two small blood vessels to burst in my brain. Fortunately the bleeding stopped spontaneously, and since no surgery was required, I was released from the hospital in just over a week.

It wasn't until Christmas Day, however, that I got the full, unabridged story of the events that led up to my nicked noggin. Mama and I were having Christmas dinner with the Rob-Bobs since Susan and Charlie were off in Paris with Buford and the Tweetie Byrd. The Rob-Bobs, bless them, had been kind enough to invite Greg as well.

The fact that Rob is Jewish apparently has little effect on the way they celebrate Christmas. The place was decked out as lavishly as the Biltmore Estate, only on a smaller scale, of course. They had not held back on the food either, and the gilded Regency groaned under the weight. The beaming Bob had clearly outdone himself.

“Roast suckling pig,” he said as he placed a pewter platter the size of a surfboard in the middle of the table.

We stared in disbelief at the centerpiece. It was indeed a pig—small, granted, but a whole pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. The pitiful creature had undoubtedly been shaved, but otherwise was gruesomely intact. It had tiny hooves that looked as if they were made of burned plastic, ragged ears that were charred along the edges, and a three-inch tail. Mercifully, Bob had replaced the piglet's eyes with stuffed green olives.

The pheasant under glass was real as well, as were its feathers. Ditto for the individual servings of quail
en brochette
. It was clear from the start that this was going to be another one of those meals where the food earned mileage on the plate, but never actually touched the lips.

I allowed myself to envy Tweetie for a moment. Although she had to put up with Buford—who sort of re
sembled the suckling pig—she was probably enjoying a Le Big Mac at EuroDisney with my kids.

Mama gaped at the graphic display of medieval food. A true Southern lady, she has the ability to comment on any situation and make it sound like a compliment.

“It's all so incredible,” she said.

Bob beamed.

“He does have a way with food,” Rob agreed. A Southern gentleman, he shared Mama's ability.

We were all chatty that meal. What better way to avoid eating? Even Bob, who actually ate, did his fair share of talking.

“It was Garland's cousin Toxie, you know, who left behind those cigarette butts.”

“You don't say! Not Amy? She had the cold. I thought she might have caught it skulking around outside.”

“No, it was Toxie all right,” Rob said. “We went down to her club last night and talked to her. Man, can she ever sing.”

“You're kidding!”

“Almost as good as Liza,” Bob said. “But enough about her.” He raised his wineglass. “To Abby,” he said. “May she have more lives than her cat, Dmitri.”

“Here, here,” everyone chorused.

“And to Bob,” Rob said, “who wields a shovel as well as he does a spatula.”

Mama laid down an empty fork. “Excuse me?”

“It's time we told her,” Bob said, sounding as proud as a mother hen. He looked at Greg.

Greg cleared his throat. “Well, when Abby called that morning, I, uh, was otherwise occupied.”

My heart sank. “Not with that bimbo Bambi!”

Greg smiled weakly. “Her name is Deena, and she's not a bimbo. But no, I wasn't with her.”

“Then where were you?” Mama is nothing if not protective of me.

Greg swallowed hard and glared at Rob. “I was in the hospital myself.”

“What?” Since food had yet to pass my lips, swallowing was no problem for me.

“I had a—well, I skidded off the road,” Greg said miserably. “I was on my way over to see you and hit an ice patch.”

“A likely story,” Mama snapped.

It isn't right to kick one's mother under the table, but I couldn't help myself.

I stared at Greg. “Were you hurt?”

“Naw, just a few bumps and bruises, but she insisted on keeping me overnight.”

“Who is
she
?” Mama was at it again. “Silicone Sally?”

Greg glared. “You must be referring to Deena, Mrs. Wiggins, and that's not who I mean. The she I'm talking about is the doctor.”

Rob waved his hands, presumably to get our attention, but maybe to dispel the bad vibes that were piling up faster than the bones on Bob's plate.

“Anyway,” Rob said, “the hero is Bob. You see, he was—well, you tell them, Bob. And don't be modest about it.”

Bob grinned and had the grace to blush. Modesty becomes some men.

“Well, I got up earlier than usual that morning, despite the time we went to bed.” He turned to me. “I was going to bake you some cinnamon rolls. From scratch. When I walked by the guest room the door was open and it was empty. I thought of waking up Rob, but he can be a bear when he hasn't had his eight hours.”

Rob nodded. “A grizzly.”

“I had a hunch that you had gone over to C. J.'s to search the—the—”

“
Table liseuse
.”

“Yeah. So I called there. First it was busy, then nobody answered.”

“I must have just left.”

“Yes. But C. J. should have answered, unless something had happened to her.”

I recoiled in my chair. “You thought I killed her?”

Everyone laughed, albeit nervously. Bob blushed scarlet.

“That's not what I meant. But you might have been provoked into something and found yourself in deeper water than you'd planned.”

“Abby's a good swimmer,” Mama said loyally.

“Mama, please. Go on, Bob.”

“Well, there's not much to tell. I drove over to C. J.'s and just as I turned the corner, there you were, driving off. So I followed you.”

“Why didn't you follow faster?” I didn't mean to sound so sharp. But even with my insurance, the week in the hospital had cost me a pretty penny.

“I followed as fast as I could, Abby, but you drive like a bat out of hell.” He glanced at Mama. “Pardon the language.”

“Pardoned,” Mama said. “Please go on.”

“Yes, well, I lost you on South Boulevard, and was about to give up when I remembered you said Garland Riggs owned the Broken Tree Nursery, and that it was somewhere down near Pineville. So then I drove around trying to find a phone book and—”

“You drove around looking for a phone book?” I nearly yelled.

Okay, what else was the poor man supposed to do? He wasn't from the area. I couldn't expect him to just know where Broken Tree Nursery was. But it scared the dickens out of me to think that Southern Bell Yellow Pages was the only thing that had prevented me from becoming compost down in Magnolia Manor.

“Hey, hey, Abby,” Rob said, and rightly so.

“Sorry, Bob,” I hastened to apologize. “I really am grateful. You are my hero. Now please go on.”

Bob smiled graciously. “Well, there isn't much else to tell. I got to the nursery and found your empty car. There wasn't anything else for me to do but follow the monstrous tracks of that ridiculous pickup of his.”

“That and conk him over the head with a shovel,” Rob said proudly.

The doorbell rang and my unassuming hero sprang to answer it. In a minute he returned, with both C. J. and Wynnell in tow.

“We pulled up at exactly the same time,” C. J. gushed. “Imagine that! I read a book once where—”

“Merry Christmas!” Wynnell said. Bless her soul.

“Merry Christmas,” we chorused.

“Here.” Wynnell thrust a package at me before C. J. could open her mouth again. “Open it, dear.”

Against my better judgment I tore into my gift just to shut C. J. up. It worked for a few minutes. Perhaps in a former life Wynnell wrapped mummies for a living, or manufactured chastity belts. Even Houdini would be slowed by her efforts.

“Ooh,” I heard Mama gasp as I ripped away the last sheet of Santa Claus paper.

“Ooh,” the others chorused.

I stared silently at the gift my thoughtful friend had made with her own two blessed hands. The lime-green corduroy jumper with purple patch pockets and yellow buttons the size and shape of egg yolks was truly beyond intelligible words.

“I felt kind of bad, having given you that store-bought sweater before. I mean, you could have
died
, Abigail.”

I gave Wynnell a big hug. I hadn't realized the woman felt so strongly about me. But if the tears that drenched
my back were any indication, she was the best friend I ever had.

“Thank you,” I said, on the verge of tears myself.

“Ahem,” Greg said and tapped on his water glass.

I released Wynnell and gratefully gave Greg my attention.

“I have a present for Abby, too,” he said and pulled a little black velvet box out of his right pants pocket.

“Uh-oh,” Mama muttered.

Greg cleared his throat. “Abby, I—”

“Later,” I mouthed. I wasn't about to be proposed to in front of a room full of people.

He didn't notice my desperate attempt to stop him. “I want you to know—”

“Please, not now. Not here,” I whispered, as if no one else could hear me.

But Greg was determined. Wynnell may as well have tried to stop Yankees from spilling across the Carolina border. I held my breath, helpless to save both Greg and me a lot of embarrassment.

“—I appreciate your help in nabbing Garland Riggs. In fact, the entire department is very grateful. So we got you this.”

He opened the little black box and held it out to me. Inside was a small but exquisite gold charm in the shape of a cat.

I exhaled loudly, for all the world sounding like a punctured tire. But I couldn't help it, given the bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment I felt.

“And for you,” Greg said, turning to Bob, “the department has unanimously declared you Citizen of the Week. Anytime you want to ride along with us in our civilian program, you just let me know. But no hands-on stuff again.”

Everyone laughed. Bob blushed.

“Thanks,” he said. But I suspected he would rather have the gold cat charm.

“My cousin Elmo went on a ride with the Shelby police once,” Jane said, “but he wasn't exactly an invited guest. You see, he'd been reaching under a police car to retrieve a quarter he'd dropped when—”

“Shut up,” Mama said gently.

“Shut up,” we chorused, and a merry Christmas was had by all.