Statue of Limitations (3 page)

“Yes,” I said warily.

“Well, it used to be even further west, on the other side of Shelby. But Granny wanted the after
noon sun to shine on her tomatoes, so she moved it. Took her two tries, though. The first time, she accidentally dumped part of it into Lake Norman. That's how come Crowders Mountain isn't quite as high as it used to be, and why the lake has so many islands.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. This was her most ridiculous yarn yet. If I didn't put a stop to things, she might well scare away customers.

“C.J., darling, imagination is a good thing, but—”

“Abby, you don't believe me, do you?” The hurt in her large gray eyes made me instantly regret my words.

“I believe you.” Being a little too much on the perky side, I could always use a longer nose.

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I—”

I was saved by the bell. The sleigh bells, that is. The person I least wanted to see at that moment had just entered the shop.

“M
ama!”

Please don't misunderstand. I love my mother dearly, but she makes Ozzy Osbourne and his family seem like boring, middle-class, everyday people. That's because Mama's eccentricities take her in the opposite direction. Stuck in a mid-fifties time warp, she wears dresses with snug waists, and full-circle skirts puffed out by piles of starched crinolines. Even while vacuuming, my minimadre wears heels and pearls, and she never leaves the house without first donning gloves and hat. According to her, the second saddest day of her life—the day my daddy died was the saddest—was the day she, while on vacation to California, spotted the real-life June Cleaver, Barbara Billingsly, sporting a pair of slacks. If that wasn't bad enough, the pants were purportedly white, and it was already two weeks after Labor Day.

“Abigail Louise,” Mama breezed, as she sailed
into my shop on wind-filled skirts. “Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble again.”

I got to her as fast as I could and pulled her between two facing armoires. C.J. tried to join us, but I waved her away.

“I'm not in trouble, Mama. Wynnell is.”

“That's the same thing, dear. You two are practically joined at the hip—well, at least you used to be. Before your silly little tiff. Besides, you know I can smell trouble, and that's exactly what I smell right now.”

Mama was serious. She claims she can detect danger with her nostrils, and if the wind is just right, even minor impediments to my happiness will show up on her nose radar. I respectfully dismiss the notion that she has this ability, and suggest that this delusion is a result of all the hair spray she uses.

“All I did,” I said, “was speak to a lawyer on her behalf.”

“But that's not all you're going to do, dear.”

I avoided her eyes. “Mama, how do you know about Mrs. Webbfingers's death?”

“Mrs. who?”

“Don't play games with me, Mama. I want the name of your source.”

My petite progenitress—she is only three inches taller than I—lives with Greg and me. She hadn't been in the room when I received Wyn
nell's call, but that didn't mean she hadn't overheard my half of the conversation. It is even possible—and it pains me to say this—that she was listening in on the phone extension in her room. After all, this is the same woman who picked open my diary when I was a teenager, and then blamed it on the cat.

Mama sighed. “I slept in late this morning, dear—but that phone call just before eight woke me up.”

“Aha, so you did listen in!”

“Gracious, no. I wouldn't do anything so rude. Besides, the phone in my room makes a terrible buzz when a third party is on the line. You really should replace it, dear.”

“Mama!”

“All right. You hadn't been gone a minute when the doorbell rang. Of course I wasn't dressed yet, but I had to answer it, didn't I? I mean, what if it was you, and you needed to get back in for some reason, but you'd left your key? Anyway, it was a reporter from
Post and Courier
—don't ask me to remember her name—and since she was a she, I invited her in and made her some coffee. Real coffee, by the way—not that instant stuff Greg has to make for himself in the morning, because you won't get up and make it for him. Abby, if you don't mind me saying so, I never sent your father out into the world without a proper breakfast.”

“I do mind you saying so. Greg leaves the house at four-thirty, and he is every bit as capable as I am of making coffee. He prefers the instant, because that's what he's used to on the boat. Now back to the reporter. What did she want?”

Mama patted her pearls, which is the first indication that she is annoyed. “The reporter,” she said, curling her upper lip, “didn't want to talk to me at first. Just you. But I made her real coffee and served her some nice warm cinnamon buns—”

“Which were Sarah Lee.”

“But I warmed them first, which is more than you do for Greg. Now where was I?”

“About to tell me what she wanted.”

“Ah, yes. Well, she asked if you'd ever worked for Marina Webbfingers. And I said that of course you knew the woman very well, but you'd never worked for her.”

“But I have!”

“Darling, decorating her bed and breakfast is hardly the same as working for her. I didn't want her to think you were the maid.”

“Not that there would be anything wrong with that, but please, continue.”

“So anyway, after her second cinnamon bun she let it drop that Marina Webbfingers had just been found dead, and word on the street was that your friend Wynnell Crawford was the killer.”

“Word on the street? Mama, you've been watching too much television.”

Mama gasped. “Abby, you know I don't watch TV. Since
Green Acres
left the air there hasn't been a thing worth watching.”

I couldn't have agreed less, but there was no point in arguing. “Word sure gets around fast in Charleston,” I said, shaking my head.

“Not as fast as in Shelby.”

“C.J.!” I whipped around the corner of the nearest armoire. Sure enough, there stood the big galoot, a hand the size of Connecticut cupped behind her left ear.

“Abby, please don't be mad. There aren't any customers in the shop right now, and I couldn't help overhearing.”

“Just like I won't be able to help docking your pay if you don't find something useful to do—
out
of earshot.”

“Abigail!” Mama started to frown, but remembered in the nick of time that it causes wrinkles. Besides, Donna Reed never frowned.

“Sorry, C.J.,” I mumbled.

“Oh that's all right, Abby. I know you mean well. And you can't be expected to know everything.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, like you never met Evangeline Graff from Shelby. Of course I never did either, on account she
died before I was born, but Granny Ledbetter sure did. In fact, they were best friends growing up. But Evangeline never could keep a secret—and Granny had a lot of those. Anyway, everything that Granny told her friend, the whole town ended up knowing. Took just a few minutes, too. ‘Tell a Graff,' the people started to say, ‘and you might as well tell everybody.' So when Cousin Ebeneezer Ledbetter invented a machine that could send messages over a wire, that's what they named it. Did you know that, Abby?”

I bit my tongue, but just for a second. “And I suppose your cousin invented the telephone and named it after someone named Phony?”

“Oh no, Abby. Alexander Graham Bell invented that—although I'm sure he got a little help from Cousin Ebeneezer.”

“That does it, ladies. I'm out of here. You can reach me on my cell phone, but only if it's an emergency.”

 

Mama tried to follow me, but one of her heels got caught in the sidewalk. She didn't fall, thank heavens, but as she struggled to maintain her balance she reminded me of the thirty-four hours of excruciatingly painful labor she had endured in order to bring me into this world.

“It was thirty-six, Mama,” I said. “And it has ab
solutely nothing to do with where I'm going now.”

“I know where you're going, dear. You're going to try and find whoever it was who murdered that Webbfoot woman.”

“That's Webb
fingers
, Mama. And I don't want you following me.”

“But I could help. You know I'm good at getting people to talk about themselves.”

“Sorry, Mama. I have to do this alone.”

“Alone! That's what I am.” She stepped out of her shoe and yanked it loose with both hands. “Honestly, dear, sometimes I think I should have stayed up in Rock Hill.”

“Don't be silly, Mama. You love it here. And you have your friends at Grace Church. Not to mention all your buddies in that club you belong to—the Heavenly Hopefuls, isn't it?”

“It's Heavenly Hustlers, dear, and it hasn't been the same since one of them almost killed you.”

“Have you thought of getting a job?”

“Of course I've thought of that, but what would I do? You know I haven't worked outside the home since marrying your daddy.”

“Well, you were a secretary—” I choked back the rest of my sentence. Secretaries these days need computer skills. All Mama knows about computers is that if you take one apart to dust it,
you better know how to put it together again. Otherwise your daughter could get very irritated.

Mama held her gloved hands in the air, as if surrendering. In reality, she was preparing to deliver her famous victory speech.

“Don't worry about me, dear. Just go on and do whatever it is you need to do. I'll be fine.” She blinked away a bogus tear. “I can sit at home and cut coupons. Who needs friends when you get to be my age? They're liable to die soon, anyway.”

“Cutting coupons is a wonderful idea,” I said malevolently. I didn't think for a minute she would. When Mama gives her victory speech, it isn't just to make me feel guilty; it's a sure sign she has something up her shirred sleeve.

I had no doubt that Mozella Wiggins was going to be just fine.

 

Although Marina Webbfingers's murder had presumably happened only hours prior, there was no telltale sign announcing the fact. No yellow tape, no stone-faced detective barring access to the property. Either the police had already done their job or discretion had won over detection. This was, after all, double 0 Legare Street.

Mama hadn't succeeded in making me feel guilty, but the pangs were certainly there when I pushed open the wrought-iron gate, wound my way through the parterre, and entered the garden
Wynnell had reclaimed. The friend who I had imagined had no taste had turned out to be rather talented—if you discounted the hideous knockoff statue of David which, incidentally, was no longer in evidence. In the weeks since I'd last seen the garden, the annuals had come into their own; masses of flowers bloomed everywhere. It was a scene deserving of its own month on a Charleston calendar. Thank heavens someone—no doubt the deceased—had removed the silly sculpture.

“Well done, Wynnell,” I said softly to myself.

“It is kinda pretty, ain't it?”

I whirled. It was Harriet Spanky, the Webbfingerses' overworked maid. I'd gotten to know her quite well during the decorating process, because the elderly servant had seen to it that Wynnell and I were well-supplied with sweet tea—the Southern elixir of life.

Judging by her perpetually tired eyes and the deep creases on her face, Harriet had played with God when He was a child. Perhaps she'd even baby-sat for Him. I knew she was a widow whose husband had died in a war, but which war was anybody's guess. It would have come as only a mild surprise to learn that he had perished in
the
war, sometimes referred to hereabouts as the War of Northern Aggression.

If Harriet needed to work, for whatever reason, that was her business. It was, however, my right to
think it shameful of the Webbfingerses to require such an elderly woman to wear a uniform. Except for the length of the skirt—which mercifully came down to her knees—it resembled the classic French maid's uniform. How degrading this must be to a woman who should have been at home baking cookies for her great-grandchildren, not scrubbing the toilets of the aristocracy.

“Hi Harriet,” I said warmly. “How's the arthritis today?”

“Could be worse. I could be dead like the missus.”

“You have a point there.”

“So you heard? Ain't that awful?”

“Were you here?”

“No ma'am. It happened sometime last night—after I got off work.”

“But you're still living on the third floor of the main house, right?”

“Yeah, but it was my birthday. My son Nolan took me out to dinner.”

This was my golden opportunity, so I can't be blamed for what I said next, can I? “Harriet, if you don't mind me asking, what's the magic number?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many years did you celebrate?”

“Sixty-three.”

“Not your son, dear…” I realized just in time that she wasn't referring to her son. “I mean,
happy birthday.” I paused an appropriate length of time before switching back to the somber purpose of my visit. “Your employer's murder must have come as quite a shock.”

“Yes, ma'am, it sure did.”

“Do you know how it happened?”

Her tired eyes gave me the once-over. “So then you haven't heard.”

“Just that she was dead, and it was murder.”

“It was your friend who done it,” Harriet said in a tone that was remarkably unaccusatory.

“Maybe that's what the police think, but it isn't true. And even if she did, how did she do it? Wynnell hates guns.”

“Oh, it weren't no gun, ma'am. The missus was blood-joined with a statue.”

It took me a second. “Bludgeoned. With a statue?”

“The police won't say for sure with what, but I know that's what it was. Look there”—she pointed to the center flower bed—“it's gone.”

“I saw that, but I thought maybe Mrs. Webbfingers had ordered it removed.”

“Why would she do that? It was such a pretty thing. Told my son I wanted one just like that for my birthday—I seen them at the flea market, you know, and they ain't all that expensive. But,” she sighed, “I guess he done right by taking his old mama out to dinner.”

“Yes, that was thoughtful, but Harriet—or do you prefer Mrs. Spanky?” The strictures of our working relationship had required we use last names.

“Harriet. I don't stand on no formality, Mrs. Tomberlake. Now that I ain't serving you no tea.”

“That's
Tim
berlake—and really Washburn now. So just call me Abby. Anyway, Harriet, I just wanted you to know that Mrs. Crawford would never have done anything like that.”

“Folks is capable of anything, ma'am, if you don't mind me saying so.”