Statue of Limitations (4 page)

“That may be. But Wynnell is my best friend. I've known her for years. She isn't capable of murder. Besides, what would be her motive?”

H
arriet snorted. “They didn't get along, them two,” she said, “she and the missus.”

“That's news to me.”

“Yes, ma'am, they sure didn't. Had themselves an awful row during them weeks your friend was working here.”

“What was it about?”

“Mrs. Crawford wanted to use the bathroom in the main house, on account the water was turned off in the outbuildings the day you was having them tubs changed. But the missus said she weren't going to have no help coming inside—except for me, and I have to use the third floor bathroom—but your friend said she weren't no help, but a professional. Then the missus said she was acting pushy like a Yankee, and that's when all hell broke loose—pardon my French.”

To Wynnell, those would certainly have been
fighting words, but she'd never kill over them. Not unless they'd been uttered by a Yankee, and even then she was only likely to maim.

“Harriet, where was I when this happened?”

“You was with them shower installers. Took them forever, if you ask me. The missus was all upset about them blocking up Legare Street like that. She was sure she was going to get a situation.”

Ah, a citation. “Harriet, I assure you, no matter what you heard, my friend would never kill anybody.”

She tucked a wisp of gray hair under her white maid's cap. “Ma'am, you ever look closely at your friend?”

“Of course.”

“Don't it bother you that she has just one eyebrow?”

“But it stretches all the way across her face. Besides, you can't judge a book by its cover.”

“I ain't judging no books, ma'am.”

“What I meant was—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, ma'am, but if the mister sees me standing here talking, he ain't gonna be too happy. I need this job.”

“Yes, of course. Although I must say, I'm surprised he made you come in today. You'd think he would have things on his mind other than housecleaning—not that it isn't necessary,” I added quickly.

“It's them tourists, ma'am. The ones renting them rooms you fixed up. The police are making them stay until they're done investigating. Don't none of them want to stay someplace where someone's been killed, so they ain't at all happy. Just wish they wouldn't take it out on me.”

“I understand. Maybe I can help.”

“Yeah?”

“I could talk with them—maybe calm them down a bit.”

Her laugh was like marbles being shaken in a jar. “You gonna make them lunch, too? 'Cause I ain't seen a bunch of pickier eaters.”

Unfortunately I cook about as well as I can sing. The last time Greg cajoled me into trying karaoke, the manager of the establishment refunded our admission charges and bought us drinks,
after
I promised never to sing in his establishment again.

“Well, I guess I could
take
them to lunch—somewhere not too expensive. But I'm sure they're not allowed to leave the premises.”

“No, ma'am, they're allowed to leave—they just ain't allowed to leave town. In fact, they're all off to the Market to buy souvenirs—just like nothing had happened—except for them Greeks.”

“Fraternity kids? Here?”

The marbles got another good workout. “These ain't kids. These is real Greeks. Papa-something is
their name. Wanted me to cook them some lamb. You ever eat lamb, Mrs. Timbersnake?”

It was my turn to laugh—a ladylike chuckle, of course. “That's Timber
lake
. Timbersnake was my first husband. But yes, I've eaten lamb many times.”

“It stinks, don't it?”

“Not if it's fresh and prepared properly.” I sucked in deeply but was unable to retrieve my words. “A nice tender leg of lamb with mint jelly—but it's definitely not for everyone.”

To my relief, she nodded in apparent agreement. “Well, I got to get them rooms cleaned while the folks is out. But you can talk to them Greeks if you want to. They're in the King George room above the carriage house. But you might want to stomp on the stairs or something, and let them know you're coming before you knock. You know how it is with them foreigners.”

I couldn't resist. “No, how is it?”

“Always having sex, that's what.”

“Is that so?”

“That's why there's so many of them.”

“I'll definitely have to put a stop to that,” I said, “or the next thing we know there'll be big fat Greek weddings popping up all over the place. The smell of lamb will permeate the city. Vegetarians will have to flee for the sake of their nostrils. Beef prices will plummet and—”

“You making fun of me, Mrs. Timbershake?”

“Absolutely—not. Well, I'd better get to it.”

She gave me a cynical look, straightened sagging shoulders, and marched off to strip linens and scrub toilets.

I didn't bother to stomp on the stairs. I weigh less than a hundred pounds, and with my tiny feet, I'd sound more like a palmetto bug than anything else. These bugs are merely a variety of roach, and are essentially harmless, but they are the SUVs of the insect world. Although not quite the size of cats, I have been known to trip over them. Tourists invariably freak when they see them. If frightened badly enough, the guests in the King George suite might greet me at the door with a can of Raid. Maybe even a baseball bat.

 

The only thing that appeared to be imminently dangerous about the man who opened the door was his brilliant white smile. I am a sucker for tall, dark, handsome men, and although I am happily married to one, that doesn't always stop me from lusting in my heart. Sometimes, even, the feeling extends to my loins—although that's as far as it gets. How fortunate I am to be a somewhat lapsed Episcopalian and don't flog myself with chains of guilt. Besides, I'm sure Greg has similar thoughts when he sees a pretty woman.

This dude in particular was worthy of a little
drool. His nearly black hair was nicely accented by silver sideburns, and he had a cleft in his chin that rivaled that of Kirk Douglas. His brown eyes were alert and intelligent. And not that it really mattered, but he appeared to have his financial ducks in a row as well. That is, if the heavy gold chains and Italian suit were already paid for.

“Ah, you must be the masseuse,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pay no attention to Nick,” a female voice behind him said.

A second later a tall woman pushed the gorgeous man aside. Thanks to Botox, beauty is no longer just skin deep, but even then it is wrong to judge folks on their natural physical attributes. Perhaps I may be given leeway, in light of that fact there appeared to be very little that was natural about this woman.

Her pinched face hinted at more than one facelift, and her deep, even color spoke of days spent supine on a tanning bed. And why is it that some bottle blondes let their dark roots grow out to the point that they look as if they're wearing dead skunks on their heads? This woman's short hairdo even included a flip that resembled a tail.

“Hi, I'm Abigail Timberlake Washburn,” I said. “I'd like to welcome you to Charleston.”

“Are you with the
Post and Courier
?” She re
ferred to our local newspaper, which is an excellent publication, by the way. It was, however, an odd assumption, and raised some interesting questions.

“I'm afraid not. I'm just a private individual—a friend of the family. I heard that you are stranded in town, so speak, and I want to offer you hospitality.” Strictly speaking, it wasn't a lie. I was a friend to many families—just not the Webbfingers family.

“Oh, I thought you might be here to do a story on my husband. You know, him being a Wall Street mover and shaker. You probably don't get too many of those in Charleston.”

“Actually, we get a surprising number of celebrities. Why just last week I thought I saw Brad Pitt walking up Pitt Street.” I couldn't help but laugh when I realized the connection.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No. Honestly. A lot of movies are shot here because of the mild climate, and because there is so much historical architecture.”

She nodded. “Well, Miss—uh, I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.”

“That's Mrs. Washburn.”

“Yes, of course. At any rate, I'm afraid my husband and I have a few things to do, so if you'll excuse us—” She started to close the door.

“Not so fast, Irena.” Tall, dark, and handsome was turning into a blabbermouth.

“I came to invite you to lunch,” I said, while I still had the chance.

“To lunch?” the woman with the roadkill hairdo asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It's just our way of showing hospitality, ma'am.” I doubt if knocking on hotel doors and inviting the occupants to lunch is customary anywhere. In fact, one would think a normal person would consider it rather strange. But when a well-dressed middle-age woman with a strong Southern accent offers a free lunch, it is apparently a hard thing to pass up.

Irena, however, was obviously still wary of Charlestonians bearing Greeks gifts. “Lunch with you and who else?”

“Just me.”

“Are you part of some kind of organization? Because if you're trying to convert us to your religion, I'm telling you now, it isn't going to work. Nick and I already belong to one, and I assure you, we're not going to change.”

They may be tiny tootsies, but sometimes I can think fast on them. “Yes, ma'am, it is an organization, but it isn't religious. It's called People Interested in Treating Yankees. We're just a group of
citizens who are proud of our town and love to show it off to those not fortunate enough to live here.”

“Hmm. We're from New York City. You can't beat that.”

“Yes, but do you have a chapter of P.I.T.Y.?”

She looked like a cat that had been asked a calculus question. “Uh—we have thousands of organizations. I'm sure we have one of those.”

“There you go. P.I.T.Y. must be nationwide. So then, how about it? Lunch at Slightly North of Broad? That's the name of the restaurant, by the way, as well as its location.”

She glanced at a watch which, if genuine, cost as much as a year's tuition at the College of Charleston. “Isn't it a little early for lunch?”

“Yes, of course. My reservation is for twelve. Would you like me to pick you up?”

“Hey, that would be nice,” Nick said. He flashed me a smile that, had it reflected off a tin roof, could have put someone's eyes out. “We're the Papadopouluses, by the way.”

“We'll meet you there,” Irena snapped.

I got my petite patootie out of there before she changed her mind.

 

I had parked along the seawall, so I took the opportunity to enjoy the view while I called for backup. I may act foolishly from time to time, but I
wasn't about to dine unchaperoned with two strangers from the Big Apple, especially since one of them was so hostile. With my luck, they'd slip me a Mickey, then pretend I was drunk so they could carry me out, and then the next thing I'd know, I'd find myself in the harem of a third-world potentate.

My friend and colleague, Bob Steuben, picked up on the first ring. “The Finer Things,” he said, referring to the name of the antique store he co-owns with his partner Rob.

“Bob, darling, what are you doing about lunch today?”

“Hi Abby. Well, I brought in some smoked emu salad sandwiches, two dozen deviled quail eggs, and a rhubarb tort.” He was serious.

“Sounds yummy.” I was not serious. “How about I treat you to lunch at Slightly North of Broad?”

I must have been speaking louder than usual, or Rob has exceptional hearing. There was a brief scuffle while he managed to get the phone away from Bob.

“Does that invitation include me?”

“Definitely.”

“Then we're on.”

“But what about the lunch I made?” I heard Bob whine in the background.

“We can give it to C.J., can't we, Abby?”

“Well, she does eat everything,” I whispered, so Bob wouldn't hear. The man considers himself a gourmet, and I suppose he is, but neither Rob nor I can stomach some of his concoctions.

“Abby says that's a great idea,” Rob said, with more emphasis on my name than was needed.

There was a good deal of conversation that I couldn't decipher, and then Bob got on the phone again. “It's not that I'm unappreciative, Abby, but I wish you'd give me more warning. Do you know how hard it was to peel those quail eggs?”

“I'm sure it was a pain. So, are we on?”

He sighed. “All right. What time?”

“Noon. But there is a condition I haven't yet explained.”

“Which is?”

“You two are not going to sit with me.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a long story, dear, which I'll tell you some other time. But basically I want you two to just keep an eye on me.”

“And who else?”

“Always the perceptive one, aren't you? It's this couple from New York.”

“Abby, I smell a rat.”

The phone on the other end of the line changed
hands again. “I smell Bob's lunch. Abby, out with it. Are you working on another case?”

“What makes you say that?”

“We heard about the murder. Wynnell's lawyer called us. He wanted to know if we were willing to be character witnesses. I said of course, but that I thought the whole thing silly, because she isn't capable of killing anyone.”

“You said it.”

“Abby, I thought you promised Greg you weren't going to do any more sleuthing. The last time, you almost got yourself killed.”

“Wynnell's my best friend, Rob—well, except for you two. Besides, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“Yeah, right.” If Rob wasn't careful, his sarcasm was going to drip all over his Ferragamo shoes