Larceny and Old Lace (11 page)

“W
hat?”

Even the Yankee dawdlers jumped.

“Tell her, Gretchen.”

Everyone was nodding like a rear window full of plastic puppies. Poor Gretchen had no choice but to come clean.

“It was six-sixteen, time for the local weather, not that I had a television on, mind you. I don't keep a TV in my shop.”

“No need,” I said sweetly. “Please, go on.”

Gretchen glanced at the Major, who was nodding more vigorously than the rest of the puppies. She pushed her glasses back into place, probably to protect her from my wrath.

“Well, I was just locking the front door, when I saw Rob Goldburg doing the same thing. Only he got done first. I waved at him, but I guess he didn't see me, 'cause he trotted right on over to poor Eulonia's place.”

“Did you see him go inside?”

“No, but I'm sure he did. I know he was parked in the other direction, right in front of me, and when I got to the car, he was nowhere to be seen, but his car was still there.”

“What does that prove?” I tried not to sound too triumphant.

Gretchen squirmed. She has a short, plump torso, with only the hint of a neck. When she squirms her whole body is put into motion.

“Well, at exactly six-nineteen, just in time for the sports roundup, I drove up the street, past Eulonia's shop, and there was no Rob. So he must have gone inside.”

“I see.”

She smiled and nodded, along with the rest of the rear-window pups.

“So, you're saying that you saw Rob head off in the direction of my aunt's shop, but you turned away before you saw him go in. Later when you didn't see him on the street, you
assumed
he was inside? Killing her?”

This time Gretchen glanced at Anita, who was busily studying the Yankee dawdlers. Perhaps she could sense their souls were ripe for saving.

“Well, he didn't evaporate into thin air,” Gretchen wailed.

“Yes, he did.”

The bobbing heads all froze and then pivoted in unison to gape at the speaker, who was male.

“Ah, Bob, just in time,” I said, pushing my chair back. The hug I gave him was for my colleagues' benefit just as much as it was for his.

“What the devil is going on?” the Major bellowed.

I introduced Bob Steuben. When I mentioned that he was from Toledo, the Yankees became agitated. Perhaps they thought Bob was going to be our next course.

The Major was the first to recover. “Now tell me, boy, what you meant when you said he evaporated into thin air?”

Bob smiled bravely. “He didn't exactly evaporate, but he didn't go into Miss Wiggins's shop. I can vouch for that.”

Gretchen peered over her lenses. Clearly she found the man less intimidating than yours truly. I didn't know whether or not to be flattered.

“But I saw him head that way, and then three minutes later he wasn't there. How do you explain that?”

“Easy. I picked him up. I drove past y'all's shop while y'all was locking up, and parked down the street a short way. Rob was headed for my car when you last saw him.”

“The subject of
y'all
is always plural,” Peggy said generously. Perhaps she hadn't heard that Bob was gay.

“Well, that explains it,” Gretchen said. She sounded relieved. I knew it was important for her to be believed, no matter what the outcome.

A couple of the heads nodded; Wynnell's did not. “You have any kin that fought in
the
war?”

Bob turned and regarded her pleasantly. “Yes, as a matter of fact, my dad fought in the war.”

“Which side?”

“Ours, of course.”

Wynnell looked like she'd been slapped. “That ain't so funny to some of us. Some of us still take it pretty serious, you know.”

Bob looked about as confused as a palmetto in a snowstorm. “My dad took it very seriously. He was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. He would have died, but a German medic saved his life.”

I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. “I'm sorry,” I said between gasps. “You were talking about World War II, but Wynnell was talking about the Civil War!”

“The War Between the States,” the Major corrected me.

“The War of Northern Aggression,” Wynnell snapped.

“Speaking of saved,” Anita said, “Are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you died today, do you know where your soul will go?”

I turned to Anita. “Is that a threat, dear?”

Anita glared at me through lashless lids. “If Rob Goldburg had been saved, he wouldn't have killed your aunt. Jesus would have stopped him.”

“Rob is Jewish, dear,” I said wearily. “Maybe he has a different take on things.”

“Jesus saves, Moses invests,” Bob said lightly.

Anita was not amused. “You haven't answered my question.”

Bob shrugged. I could see he was losing patience with us. If he enlisted the Yankee dawdlers, it could be a fair fight.

“Well?”

“I was raised Presbyterian. Any other personal questions?”

“Northern Presbyterian, or southern?”

The Major cleared his throat. “What I want to know is, did you serve in the army? The United States Army?”

“No, I did not. They were no longer drafting when I turned eighteen.”

“You could have enlisted. I did. It's a patriotic man's duty, if you ask me.”

“There are other ways of showing your patriotism,” Bob said. He looked like he was about to bolt.

“Pledging to PBS is just one way of showing your patriotism,” Gretchen said.

“Bullshit!” The Major pounded the table and sent Denny's cutlery flying for the second time that week. “PBS is commie crap.”

“My singles group is planning a trip to Russia next month,” Peggy said generously. “I'm sure there is still time to sign up. I hear that old icons are a bargain. You can pick up some authentic Byzantine pieces for a fraction of what you'd have to pay for them in New York.”

“Really?” Bob actually seemed interested.

“Of course the trip itself is rather expensive. It's much cheaper if you choose double accommodations. I signed up for a single, but I'd be willing to share, if you want.”

“I bet you would,” the Major said. The mustache twitched like a mouse in heat.

“Hey, how far is it to Disney World?” the Yankee husband called from his table.

“Three thousand miles and you're going the wrong way,” Wynnell said with a straight face.

Actually, with Wynnell it's very hard to tell if she's smiling. You could grow okra in those furrows and never even see it. Maybe even a little cotton.

“That does it, Wilbur,” the Yankee wife shouted. “We're turning around right after breakfast and heading home. Back to where people are polite.”

It was time to wrest control of my meeting, so I tapped loudly on my water glass. Everyone but Wynnell gave me their attention, so I whistled Dixie. Just the first few bars.

“Look folks, we have gotten way off the subject here. We're supposed to be helping our friend and colleague, Rob. Not giving Bob here the third degree.”

“Rob may be y'all's friend, but he isn't mine,” Anita said. “The Bible warns us not to be unequally yoked with sinners.
Some of y'all may want to share Rob's yoke, but don't count me in.”

The Major squared his shoulders. “Hey, what's that supposed to mean?”

I banged on my water glass. One of the copycat Yankee children banged on a plate with a fork, and the din was horrible. Neither Mama nor Daddy Yankee made a move to correct the child, proving Wynnell's often expressed opinion that proper etiquette is solely a southern virtue.

I ignored the child's noise and smiled sweetly at my guests. “Remember just who is picking up the check.”

“I sure as hell am not!”

I dropped my fork on my plate and made more noise than the Yankee child. There, in the doorway of the nonsmoking section, stood my ex-husband Buford Timberlake. On each arm was a woman, and neither of them was Tweetie.

The woman on his left was at least six feet tall, with bottle black hair, and hips still quivering from liposuction. The woman on his right was of average height, with auburn hair, but she was definitely not built for speed. If those boobs didn't have their own zip codes, then she had to be in violation of some federal statute. Perhaps that's why she was having breakfast with a lawyer.

“Why, if it isn't that rat, Buford,” I sang out. “I'm telling Tweetie.”

I know, it was childish of me, but I couldn't help it. Also, I will admit to feeling a certain kinship with the woman. Perhaps hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but there are few bonds so easily formed as those between two scorned women.

Buford, as ever, was without a conscience. He didn't even have the decency to blush.

“Not that it's any of your goddamn business, but this is a business breakfast.”

“Ah, yes, monkey business.”

He disengaged his right arm from the mammary monster, so that he could gesticulate. “You're one to talk, Abb. Where the hell did you spend last night? I called over at Marilyn's a dozen times. The old biddy is so pissed at me she can't see straight. She tried to tell me that you weren't there and she
didn't expect to see you. Something about you two having it out over plaster poodles and pink flamingos. Claims you defaced her property. Is that true?”

“In a pig's ear.”

“Well, where the hell were you? I called your Mama's, but you weren't there either. At least that's what some guy said when he answered the phone.” He chuckled. “Your Mama been getting it on, Abb?”

“Leave Mama out of this!”

It was bad enough that Mama broke the seventh commandment, but to flaunt it publicly by not answering her own phone was unspeakably bad manners. I was going to have to do a thorough examination of my own wood pile. It was undoubtedly chock full of Yankees.

“Abigail spent the night with me,” Bob said gallantly. To his credit he said it in a low, booming voice that I hardly recognized.

“What the hell did you say?” Buford bellowed.

Anita gasped.

Wynnell frowned.

The Major snorted.

Peggy's blue lids fluttered.

Gretchen glanced at her bare wrist. “It's eight thirty-seven. Spencer Christian will just be wrapping up the morning weather. Since most of us will be opening our shops in just twenty-three minutes, I move that we adjourn this breakfast so we can get to work.”

“I second the motion,” Wynnell said. “All in favor say ‘aye.'”

The chorus of “ayes” was deafening. Even the Yankees voted to end my breakfast, but that didn't surprise me. What surprised me was Bob Steuben. Here I was, shelling out good money for a breakfast, during which we were supposed to come up with proof of his partner's innocence, and he was folding. Fleeing from the table like a startled rabbit. Perhaps it was the sight of Buford with a bimbo on each elbow he found intimidating. Boy, would I set him straight. Buford Timberlake was no macho man. As near as I can remember, the
only thing on Buford that consistently went up was his blood pressure.

It did no good for me to protest the straw vote. I was chewing at the time, and by the time I had politely swallowed, all of my ungrateful guests had fled. Not one left even so much as a quarter for their tip. Wynnell, at least, left a piece of bacon behind. It was nice and limp, and I would have to remember to thank her for it—maybe when I returned the swatch of fabric she'd left behind as well.

“Can I take y'all's picture?” the Yankee husband asked on his way out. “
Gone with the Wind
is my wife's favorite movie.”

He had to be talking to me. Scarlet might have been a little taller than I, but she certainly wasn't six feet. And she most certainly didn't have hooters that hid her view of her shoes.

“Okay, but I charge five bucks for a solo shot,” I drawled. “Each additional face in the pose is another two bucks.”

The Yankee brushed rudely past me. “Not you. Him!”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I know he doesn't look the part, but you did call him Rhett Butler, didn't you?”

“I did not!”

The Yankee husband looked helplessly at his wife.

“I heard her,” the Yankee wife said. She glared at me, daring me to contradict her.

“Well—”

“Since we decided not to go on to Disney World, we have to get photos of something.” The Yankee husband snapped his flash into place. “So, it may as well be a man named Rhett Butler.”

I decided not to spoil their trip. If they wanted to think that ‘rat Buford' and Rhett Butler sounded alike, that was fine with me.

“Great, take his picture,” I said agreeably. “But you pay me. I'm his agent.”

They left Denny's quite happily, I assure you. After apologizing for Wynnell's rude exaggeration, I informed them that Disney World was only a few more exits down the interstate. Of course, that wasn't quite true, but we do have Carowinds, a wonderful amusement park of our own that straddles the
border of the Carolinas. Anyone who took a picture of my ex-husband as a vacation trophy would certainly not notice the difference.

Buford stashed his bimbos in a booth and caught me just as I was exiting the front door. I mean that only figuratively; by now the man knows better than to lay a finger on me. Spilling pennies on the sidewalk is not the only thing guaranteed to bring him to his knees.

“What the hell is wrong with Susan's apartment?”

“Susan's apartment?”

“Susan, our daughter. Her apartment.”

“Her apartment?”

“What the hell are you, some goddamn echo machine?”

I smiled sweetly. “What makes you think something is wrong with her apartment?”

“I tried calling her last night, looking for you. Some guy answered. Said he was a janitor, and that Susan couldn't come to the phone. Something about a leak. When I called again no one answered. What's going on?”