Statue of Limitations (21 page)

“Drop it now!” Harriet screamed.

I had no option but to follow through. The anchor didn't exactly sail off the end of the truck; it dropped. But as luck would have it, Baby Boy now lay facedown in the dirt, and the sharp tines came
to rest in his gluteus maximus. I have only twice before in my life heard such anguished cries, and both times I was giving birth.

Harriet may have been willing to kill me, but she was still a mother. As she tended to her son, I slipped away into the tall marsh grass. Three deep gashes and a hundred bug bites later, I was rescued by a pair of retirees who had taken a wrong turn in their bass boat.

“H
ere's to our Abby,” Mama said, raising her tea glass as high as her tailored dress allowed.

“Here, here!” everyone shouted. The taller folks at our table clinked glasses, much to the amusement of the other customers gathered for lunch at Slightly North of Broad.

Wynnell and Ed, who was now on an insulin pump and feeling as fine as frog's hair, were among my most vocal supporters. I was both surprised, and glad, to see them sitting so close together. While not exhibiting the behavior of lovebirds, neither were they glowering at each other like a pair of disgruntled vultures. And Wynnell, much to my great relief, professed to being pleased at the prospect of Ed joining her in the business.

The Rob-Bobs, bless their hearts, weren't quite as content. Bob had planned to cook the lunch himself—octopus à l'orange, or something like
that—but I'd begged Rob to talk him out of it, on the grounds that having almost become crab food, I wasn't up to devouring marine life anytime soon. Needless to say, my buddy with the bass voice was pouting.

Toy, however, was in high spirits. Although it had been four days since my ordeal, he was still in town. I was beginning to suspect that his deacon's collar was a rental, and that I would be stuck having him as a house guest until he qualified for Medicare.

“To my brave sister!” he said, rising to his feet. “May she have as many lives as a sack full of cats.”

“Please, no sack references,” I said.

Greg squeezed my knee under the table. He'd been nothing but affectionate lately. I knew how hard it was for him to bite his tongue. You had to give the man credit for trying to keep an open mind.

C.J. stood beside Toy. “So Abby, how much is that statue worth?”

“According to the rightful heir—a Senor Giovanni Gastelli—about thirteen million. That's the highest offer he's gotten since the news broke.”

“Ooh Abby, is it true you're going to be in
Time
magazine, just like my cousin, Horatio Ledbetter?”

“Our Abby is going to be in a lot of magazines,” Mama said proudly, “but it's you and Toy who have the really big news, isn't it, dear?”

The big gal grinned.

TAMAR MYERS is the author of ten previous Den of Antiquity mysteries:
Larceny and Old Lace
;
Gilt by Association
;
The Ming and I
;
So Faux, So Good
;
Baroque and Desperate
; and
Estate of Mind
;
A Penny Urned
;
Nightmare in Shining Armor
;
Splendor in the Glass
; and
Tiles and Tribulations
. She is the author of the Magdalena Yoder series, is an avid antiques collector, and lives in the Carolinas.

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