Statue of Limitations (11 page)

I
am no prude, but Belinda Thomas's outfit was way off the charts for Charleston. Maybe in Calamari, California, one got away with sightseeing in a halter top and spandex shorts, but not in the Holy City. Belinda bulged in all the right places, and a few of the wrong ones. If we were seen together, Mama's church lady friends were going to suffer sore tongues from all that wagging.

“Belinda,” I said, ratcheting my perk factor up a few notches, “perhaps you'd be more comfortable in something else. The sun here is very strong, and I'd hate to see you get burned.”

She flashed me her caps. “Thanks for your concern, but you can see that I'm quite tanned.”

I could see that her spray-on tan was streaking even worse today. She looked a bit like a blond tiger, with unusually large breasts and pink claws, in a hootchie-mama outfit.

We took three cars, forming a miniature caravan. The affable Zimmermans rode with me, the
hunky Nick and his suspicious wife followed closely in their rental car with Irena at the wheel, while the Calamarians from Cambria lagged an inconvenient distance behind. They stopped at every yellow light, which, as every South Carolinian knows, is only optional. In fact, in parts of the Upstate there is a persistent rumor that
five
cars must go through a yellow light before it is allowed to turn red. As Charleston is not unknown for its curbside parking, the calm Californians raised my blood pressure fifty points by the time we reached the Cooper River bridges.

There are currently two bridges that span this busy port entrance, and a third in the making. All three structures are nosebleed high, and not a day passes that at least one acrophobiac refuses to cross the river at this juncture. To add to the general discomfort, the older of the two existing bridges, Grace Memorial, appears to be held together by nothing but a thick layer of rust. One gets the feeling that the backfire from a truck or a sudden gust of wind could reduce the bridge to nothing more than a pile of red dust. On this account, Greg even refuses to eat beans before crossing.

The Arthur Ravenel Bridge, as the new one will be known, will surely be one of the architectural wonders of the century. Purported to be the longest single-span suspension bridge in the country, it soars so high that a few of our more de
vout citizenry believe it an affront to the ultimate architect Himself and vow never to use it.

Most of us, however, look forward to using the new bridge. “Wow, just look at that,” I said proudly. “Isn't it beautiful?”

Estelle Zimmerman, who was seated in the passenger seat beside me, wrinkled her nose. “I suppose they have to build it that high to allow big ships to pass under. But the bigger and grander it is, the more people will want to commit suicide here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is the number one spot in the world for suicides. The official count already exceeds one thousand, but some Coast Guard members have estimated the actual number may be ten times that. Some psychologists say that the spectacular setting is one of the reasons that bridge is so popular. If you're going to jump, why not there, instead of splitting your head open on some dirty sidewalk?”

“Why not, indeed?” What else was there for me to say?

“My Estee knows everything,” Herman said. The pride in his voice was touching.

“Well, I'm sure the Charleston and Mount Pleasant police will figure out how to keep people from jumping off the Arthur Ravenel Bridge when it opens.”

“Have they figured out how to extract the bodies from the old bridge?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, in the 1940s a barge broke loose in a storm and hit a piling. A green sedan carrying six people plunged into the Cooper River, and of course they all drowned. Then when the bridge was being repaired, two workmen fell into the cement form of the new piling, and are said to remain there until this day.”

“Ah, so you've been boning up on Lowcountry ghost stories.”

In the rearview mirror I could see Herman lean forward and rap the back of his wife's seat with knuckles the size of walnuts. My guess was that he was trying to get her to shut up.

“Estee and me don't believe in ghosts.”

I was about to comment on how curious it was that a woman from Wisconsin would know this bit of local lore when my rearview mirror revealed something quite disturbing. The Thomases' rental car, a dark green, was nowhere to be seen.

“Uh-oh, I can't see them.”

“Who?” Herman's thick neck was almost as malleable as Linda Blair's in the
Exorcist.

“John and Belinda.”

“You're right. I just see them folks from New York.”

I slurred over a minor cuss word. Now I had to
turn around as soon as I got across and hunt down the disobedient sightseers. What part of “keep up” didn't they understand?

Summer traffic in this part of the Palmetto state is about as bad as winter traffic in the Sunshine state. The chief difference between Florida's horde and ours is that our visitors tend to be a younger bunch with families, and many of them come from the inland areas of the Carolinas. They also tend to drive SUVs (or SAVs, as Greg calls them—Suburban Assault Vehicles), which make it impossible to see stoplights and street signs until the last second. Even a native can become disoriented when familiar landmarks are obscured by so-called recreational vehicles the size of elephants.

Okay, so I'm not a native of Mount Pleasant, and might have had trouble retracing my route anyway. But nonetheless, I couldn't find a spot in which to safely turn around until we got to Houston North-cut Boulevard, and by then I was in such a foul mood that I was no longer slurring my words. In the meantime, Irena Papadopoulus was leaning on the horn and mouthing the very same words.

Herman Zimmerman rapped on the back of my seat, barely missing my neck with his hairy knuckles. “My Estee is opposed to swearing,” he said without a trace of jollity.

“Then perhaps one of you should drive,” I snapped.

Of course, I immediately apologized. Not only was my rude behavior wrong, but if reported to the right ears (or wrong ones, depending on one's point of view), I might well be stripped of my Southern Bellehood. This happened to Mama's cousin Nattie Lee in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, when, in the middle of a shopping mall, she stepped in a wad of gum while wearing a brand new pair of shoes. That very evening a band of grim-faced ladies showed up at the door of her home and demanded her resignation from the National Association of Southern Belles.

In order to be reinstated in this organization, cousin Hattie Lee had to host a family from Michigan for two weeks, eat corn bread with sugar in it, drink unsweetened tea, and pronounce her state's name in just four syllables. In other words, live Wynnell's worst nightmare—until she landed in a Charleston clinker. At least in jail my buddy was served sweet tea. I'd be willing to bet my life on that.

“Well, see that you don't swear again,” Herman said. Thanks to the review mirror, I could see that he was smiling. No doubt his crotchetiness had all been an act put on for the benefit of the “little lady.”

 

I found the Thomases huddling inside their car just off the entrance ramp to Route 17. A black and
white automobile with a revolving light was keeping them company. When I tried to pull over, the officer attempted to wave me away, but having finally found my lost charges, I wasn't about to lose them again. With one final blast of her horn, Irena Papadopoulus and her handsome, but henpecked, husband joined us.

Fortunately for everyone involved, it turned out that I knew both the officers that went with the squad car. Delbert Dittlebaum is Detective Bright's nephew, and his female partner is—let's just say I met her under unpleasant circumstances. With any luck, she wouldn't remember me.

Instead of waiting in my car like common sense dictated, I foolishly opened my door and started to climb out.

“Wait where you are,” Officer Dittlebaum ordered.

“It's me, Abby Washburn. I'm a friend of your uncle—Detective Bright.” Okay, so that was a gross exaggeration, but passing cars were beginning to slow, as their occupants stared goggle-eyed at us. Why is it that folks feel compelled to rubberneck? Don't they realize that it's not only dangerous, but accounts for most of the delay whenever there is an accident?

Officer Dittlebaum's partner stared as well. “It's you,” she finally growled. It's not like she encoun
ters four-foot-nine-inch adult women on a daily basis. Perhaps she thought I was a child who had stolen a car.

“Good morning, officer.”

“Causing trouble again, are you?”

“No ma'am. I'm showing these visitors our beautiful city and some of our Lowcountry landmarks.”

“I just bet you are.”

“Honest. You can ask them.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Did you know, Mrs. Washburn, that Mr. Thomas here is afraid to drive over the bridge?” She said it loud enough that poor John couldn't help but overhear.

“No ma'am. But that's not so unusual, is it? From what I understand, not a day goes by that someone doesn't need help getting over.”

The contentious woman snorted. “If they're your guests, and if you had described your itinerary properly, you would have known one of them had agoraphobia.”

“Acrophobia.”

“What?”

“Acrophobia is the fear of heights. Agoraphobia is the fear of open spaces.”

“Mrs. Washburn, at the very least I should issue you a ticket for improper parking, endangering the lives of fellow motorists, and—”

“I'm sorry. I promise it won't happen again.”

She glared at me an interminable length of time. Meanwhile Officer Dittlebaum twiddled his thumbs. Were it not for the angry glint in the policewoman's eyes, I might have thought she was daydreaming. Or even sleeping. There are a few folks, I am told, who can nap while standing, and with their peepers open.

To pass the time I ran a couple of game plans through my mind. Bribes were out, but contributions to a widows' fund—now surely there was nothing wrong in suggesting that. And if that seemed too obvious, cheerful acceptance of my punishment, and a warm invitation to dinner, might induce her to tear up the ticket and issue a warning in its place. If that failed, and the fine was really high, I could sell my hair to Mr. Hammerhead in lieu of recompense, and he could plead my case in court. Oh, if only Toy were here. He could charm a snake out of its skin. How else could a pettifogger like him gain admittance to one of the South's most prestigious seminaries?

“Mrs. Washburn!” she barked, suddenly emerging from her daze.

I roused myself from a petite fog of my own. “Yes?”

“I'll drive these folks across myself, and Sergeant Dittlebaum will drive me back, but from then on you're responsible for them. I suggest that
if they don't find someone else to drive them back over, you make sure they take I-526 around. Those bridges seem to be less intimidating.”

“Yes, sir—I mean ma'am.”

“Well, what are you standing there for? Get back in your car before you cause an accident.”

I lit out of there like I was carrying a shovel full of coals.

 

Ever since Hurricane Floyd, when I spent eleven hours (I was one of the lucky ones) in a traffic jam on I-26, my philosophy of life has been “Pee whenever you can.” After saying good-bye to the officers, I led our caravan directly to Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island. The fort, now a national monument, has free, if somewhat hot and stuffy, rest rooms attached to the Visitors' Center. It also has free parking.

We vied for a shady parking spot. After using the facilities, we revived ourselves with the air-conditioning inside the Visitors' Center, while enjoying the exhibits and browsing through a selection of historical books for sale. Herman Zimmerman wanted to watch the fifteen minute video (also free) but I vetoed his request. I had other things I wanted them to see.

I led them out the front door to the right, and just opposite Stella Maris Catholic Church, we turned left on a dirt lane that leads to the water. This easy-to-miss spot is one of Charleston
County's best kept secrets, and I pray that it remains so. Thus far it seems to be the haunt only of fishermen and a few summer renters who lounge in front of beach houses that have unparalleled views of Fort Sumter and passing ships.

It is here that the harbor opens to the ocean. The mix of waters, and the resulting currents, make this an unsafe place in which to swim, but very attractive to aquatic life. I am particularly fond of the dolphins that leap and dive for their dinners near the end of a rocky groin. Somehow these beautiful mammals manage to stay in approximately the same spot for long periods of time. I could stand and watch them all day.

Herman Zimmerman was enthralled as well. “Why, just look at them big fish.”

“They're dolphins, not fish, dear,” Estelle whispered, but the cool breeze blowing in from the ocean blew her words back to me. “They're air-breathing mammals, like you and I. They're supposed to be very intelligent. Maybe even more intelligent than chimpanzees.”

“Just the same, I'd like to catch me one.”

Belinda Thomas definitely heard that. “Hey, I love dolphins.
Flopper
was my favorite movie.”

John put a protective arm around his wife. “That's ‘Flipper,' dear.”

A wise guide knows when it's time to change the subject. “Over there,” I said, pointing to the
east, “is Fort Sumter. That's where the Late Unpleasantness began. And just behind us, to the left, is Fort Moultrie. It was first constructed out of palmetto logs in 1776. The British attacked it, but since palm logs are fibrous, and not woody like real trees, they absorbed most of the impact from the cannon balls. The British fleet was defeated. That's why South Carolina is known as the Palmetto state.”