Statue of Limitations (13 page)

I
can't blame Greg for pressing the pedal to the metal and making like a ghost; he simply disappeared. And while I gaped open-mouthed at the space left by my husband's car, the menacing pickup behind me did a vanishing act of its own. Perhaps the bridge really was haunted.

By the time I dropped off the Zimmermans and the Papadopouluses, Greg had showered and was sitting on the front steps with a salted margarita in each hand. If I hadn't been so furious, and thus capable of seeing only red, I might have noticed how much the white shorts and crisp blue shirt he'd changed into set off his tan. If I hadn't been so self-absorbed, I might have appreciated the fact that he was wearing cologne—something other than Eau du Poisson.

Greg extend the drink meant for me. “Here you go, hon. On a hot day like this, I think a little extra sodium is called for, don't you?”

“I don't want alcohol. I want answers.”

“Okay, but you're not forgetting that I have to solve crossword puzzles in pencil first.”

“Greg, I'm in no mood for jokes. What are you doing home this early?”

“The truth?”

“Of course.”

“You're going to be pissed.”

“It's too late now.”

He sighed, and set my untouched drink next to the wrought-iron banister. “The truth is I love you too much. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you.”

It was the truth, all right. I could see the love in his eyes. But I could
feel
his need to control me. And yes, I was pissed. I was an adult, for crying out loud. In a sense, Greg risked his life every day that he took the shrimp boat out. We both risked our lives whenever we drove anywhere—or, for that matter, walked. Especially during tourist season.

“Greg, you and Mama sicced Toy on me. Wasn't that enough?”

“No offense, hon, but your brother isn't the most responsible person in the world.”

“That's not fair. For all you know, he's changed.” Two days ago I would have bet a million dollars that those words would never pass my lips.

My darling husband was suddenly interested in
studying one of his brown kneecaps. “If he was responsible, he wouldn't have helped you climb a wall. That was a damn foolish thing to do, Abby. You could have broken your neck.”

“But I didn't—Greg, you were
there
?”

“Someone had to keep an eye on you.”

My legs felt weak, so I joined Greg on the steps—on the far side of the steps. “Did you follow me to Sullivan's Island?”

“Guilty.”

“What did you do while we were eating lunch on the Isle of Palms?”

“I hung out on the beach behind an umbrella. I could see you the entire time.”

“How did you end up in front of me on the bridge?”

“It was that sudden stop you made at the sweetgrass basket stand. I couldn't turn around fast enough. I thought I'd lost you—I thought sure you were on to me—so I decided to mosey on home. Wait for you here. I guess I moseyed too much.”

One has to admire a man who can spend hours outside in our near tropical heat and not break a sweat. After admiring him briefly, one is then free to react in a more reasonable way.

“Gregory,” I growled, “what you did is just plain unacceptable. I'm not going to take it sitting
down.” To emphasize my point, I jumped to my feet.

He lost interest in his kneecap. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that until you can respect me as an equal, someone capable of making her own decisions—well, I'm just not going to put up with it.”

His sapphire blue eyes locked on mine, but after a second or two seemed to fade in intensity. “Ah, I know what you mean. You're moving out, aren't you? More accurately, you're moving in with them.”

“Them?”

“The Rob-Bobs. Every time we have a dispute, you either run back to your mama's or you move in with Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben. Now that Mozella lives with us, it's narrowed your options, but you're just as eager to go. I'm telling you, Abby, just because they're gay—well, I still don't like to see you move in with two guys.”

“You think I'd rather move in with them than stay here and work this thing out?”

“Don't you three have more in common?”

“Our work, yes. But you're my best friend.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes it doesn't feel that way.”

The trouble with having a handsome and charming husband is that it's hard to stay angry at him. There are times when I have to work to keep my hackles hiked. On the other hand, while a
homely mate might make it easier to hold a grudge, the makeup sex might not be as good. Not that I'm speaking from personal experience, mind you, even though I was married to Buford “the timber snake” Timberlake. Back then it took at least half a bottle of wine—but I digress.

“Greg, I just need time to cool off. To sort things out.” Already I was softening. But if, after two years of marriage, I couldn't get Greg to see how much I valued my independence, the road ahead was bound to be even rockier. It was my duty as a good wife to drive the point home now, while the potholes were still navigable.

The love of my life picked up my discarded drink. “Abby, you just need to calm down a bit.”

“Calm down?”

“Just a notch, hon.”

“That does it. I'm outta here for now. You see that Dmitri gets fed—and sift his litter for a change. Oh, and tell Mama where I am.”

He looked at the margarita, which was sweating far more than he ever did, and then looked at me. “Let me know when you're done pouting, Abby.”

“Damn you,” I said.

He didn't even have the decency to wait until I'd turned away before downing the drink.

 

The Finer Things is arguably Charleston's finest antique store. While I carry a broad inventory,
catering to a variety of tastes and pocketbooks, the Rob-Bobs deal only in museum-quality, one-of-a-kind pieces. Collectors come from as far away as New Orleans and San Francisco to do business with them.

I have sleigh bells on the back of my door to announce customers, but at The Finer Things, one has to be buzzed in. While my friends do not engage in racial, or economical, profiling, they do have a decided prejudice against fully expanded women in spandex. Shoppers deemed inappropriately dressed will be ignored.

Once inside, however, expect to be treated like a queen. A gold-plated samovar once owned by Nicholas and Alexandria is kept full of Russian tea. A solid silver salver, made by the revered Paul himself, spills over with petits fours and crustless sandwiches that somehow manage never to go stale. Should you open your mouth to speak, either Rob or Bob will pop up beside you, as if anticipating your comment or question. Guests—and that's what my friends prefer to call their clientele—leave with the impression that they were all that mattered during their visits.

Perhaps the Rob-Bobs had been tipped off to my impending arrival, because even though I leaned on the bell, neither even bothered to glance at the door. Finally, when by rights they should have
been calling the police, Bob tripped over and pretended to do a double take.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, pushing the door open with long slim fingers, like those of a pianist, “the buzzer must be broken.”

“Bull.”

“Abby,” Bob did his best to whisper, “Greg called and he doesn't want us to enable you.”

“What?”

He lowered his voice even further. Since Bob's normal register is bass, his deep rumbles echoed off the nearest pieces of furniture. It would have been easier to understand an elephant.

“I heard you better the first time, Bob. I want to know what he means by ‘enable.'”

“I'm sorry, Abby, but he thinks you're being childish.”

“Does this mean I can't stay with you?”

Bob's Adam's apple jerked violently, and I imagined a large fish—perhaps a bass—had just been snagged. “If it was up to me, Abby—oh the heck with it, it's my place, too. Of course you can stay.”

“What about him?” I pointed with my chin to Rob's turned back.

“Forget about him. He's doing his alpha male thing, bonding with Greg. But he'll come around.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. And who cares if he doesn't? You'll stay in my room—well, it's really the guest room, but you know what I mean. That's where I keep my vinyl collection. We'll have a great time, just the two of us. I have Judy Garland originals, Peggy Lee—hey, you like camel?”

“Cigarettes?”

“The meat.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Because if you do, you'll love alpaca. They say it's sweeter than camel. I'm serving a standing rib roast tonight, with yogurt and cumin sauce. I found the recipe in
Caravan Cuisine
. I had to adapt it, of course, seeing how alpacas come from South America, not Africa or Asia, but it smells good just marinating.”

I must confess that for the next few minutes I found myself in a culinary quandary. I could refuse Bob's offer and have Greg think he'd won, or I could acquiesce and gag on alpaca. Because gourmets generally serve small, albeit attractively presented portions, I decided to risk gagging. And anyway, if I backed down now, I'd more than likely have to choke on my words, which didn't have the advantage of being served with yogurt and cumin sauce.

“Great,” Bob said, when I agreed to his plan.

“Not so fast!” Maybe it's because Rob took two
years of ballet when he was boy, but that man can move as silently as a puma in slippers.

Bob crossed his rather spindly arms. “I'm not backing down. Abby's my guest.”

“Correction—she's
our
guest.” Rob stooped to kiss my cheek. “You okay with that, Abby?”

“Sure, but I thought—”

“That was just to throw him off track. Serve him right to worry even more.”

 

Supper wasn't for a number of hours—alpaca roasts, even when well-marinated, are best cooked slowly to ensure tenderness—so there wasn't any point in my hanging around the shop. I tried calling Wooden Wonders several times to see if by chance Wynnell's husband, Ed, was there, but kept getting a busy number. Instead of adding to my frustration level, I decided to tool out there in person.

Compared to the old Cooper bridges, the Ashley River Memorial Bridge is sedate and dignified, almost European in appearance. Because the latter does not have to accommodate container ships, very few people who use it come down with high-altitude sickness. On a trip across the Ashley one invariably sees sailboats, and if headed into town, the Ashley Marina presents one of the prettiest sights on the Eastern seaboard.

When headed out of town, the first right turn puts
you on St. Andrew's Boulevard. By bearing left and staying on Route 61, the traveler finds him- or herself on Ashley River Road, downriver from some of America's finest antebellum-era plantations. Magnolia Gardens, Drayton Hall—this is the Old South about which Margaret Mitchell rhapsodized. It is still there—sans slaves, of course, and with ice cold beverages at one's fingertips, if one has the fortitude to make it past the strip malls and other dubious achievements of urban development.

Wynnell's shop is in one of these microshopping centers, sandwiched between a Subway and a coin-operated laundry. Her customer base tends to be drop-ins from the Laundromat, lower-income women who, unable to purchase washers and dryers of their own, are unlikely to buy “used furniture” at such fancy prices. An occasional well-heeled woman with a hankering for a low-fat sub will wander in out of curiosity. If it weren't for the munching matrons, Wooden Wonders would never have floated at all.

The front door was locked, but I could see Ed on the phone, his back to me. I rapped on the smudged glass with my knuckles until he turned around. He held a finger up as if to signal I should wait a minute, but then he hung up almost immediately.

“Abby,” he said, struggling with the lock, “what a nice surprise.”

“Ed, how was the arraignment? Were you there?”

“No. It happened too fast—but that was Wynnell on the phone just now. The arraignment was moved up. There was an opening on the docket, and so they were able to convene a grand jury this morning.”

“And?”

“She”—his voice broke—“my Wynnell's been indicted for murder. In the first degree.”

“Just like that? On what evidence?”

“Apparently there were several eyewitnesses who heard her threaten the deceased. And the so-called murder weapon was found.”

“Yes, a statue. What about bail?”

“Denied. Too great a flight risk.”

“Why? Because she once ran off to Japan with a group of tourists?” I immediately regretted my words. That episode occurred during a particularly low dip in their marriage—I wasn't aware of any equivalent high points—and undoubtedly brought back sad memories. Ed had to travel to Tokyo, where he made a public appeal to reclaim his bride of over thirty years. The Crawfords have all the luck of Saharan surfers, so it came as no surprise to me when Ed found himself on a Japanese television game show, encased to his neck in green tea-flavored gelatin, while a pair of trained seals vied to balance balls on his nose. Still, it had
made sushi converts out of both Crawfords, and Ed now prefers sumo over baseball.

“Have you spoken with her lawyer?” I asked gently.

“Just got off the phone with him. He seems like a nice enough man. Said you brought in another helper.”

“My brother, Toy. Ed, you mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting to be asked to sit, I wrestled a Victorian side chair out of a tangle of its littermates. The furniture hadn't been dusted in weeks.

“If Wynnell is going to make it in this business, she's going to need my help. From now on we're in this together. And Abby, thanks for offering to take us under your wing.”