Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  The wolf whistle I heard as I showed the fishy couple in was all I needed to let me know that my Rhett had arrived. A minute later he swept me off my feet, and I mean that literally.

  “My stilts!” I gasped. “Put me back down!”

  Greg laughed. “Sorry about that. I got carried away there and forgot.”

  He held me aloft while I felt for straps with my stocking covered toes. “You’re a knockout, Abby, you know that?”

  Greg is tall, without stilts, and has eyes like sunlit sapphires. “Thanks, dear. You’re not so bad-looking yourself. But are you saying I’m more attractive now just because I’m taller?”

  “No, it’s just that—well—it’s a guy thing, I guess.”

  “So it is true? You’d prefer a taller woman! In that case, why did you make my stilts only a foot high? Why didn’t you build six-foot stilts? Then I’d really be a tall woman.”

  Greg laughed and then smothered my protests with a kiss. “What I meant,” he said, replacing his lips with a quieting finger, “is that guys—some guys, at any rate—find change interesting.”

  Some women undoubtedly found change stimulating as well. Greg’s little Rhett Butler mustache, while obviously artificial, made his already scrumptious face more inviting. Were it not for my hostess duties, I’d have whisked him upstairs.

  As if sensing my mood, Greg kissed me again. We might well have gone with the wind, had not my guests begun to arrive with regularity.

  Geppetto and Pinocchio turned out to be Donald Larkin and his diminutive wife, Regina. They are Yankees as well, but have lived in the south so long even Wynnell forgets their distasteful origin. Another hundred years and three generations later and Larkin descendants might actually be included in Cotillion.

  Moses, with his tablets of etched Styrofoam, was by day an interior decorator. Alan Bills is originally from Charleston, South Carolina, and as Southern as shrimp and grits. Alan does not plan to have descendants, so Cotillion is not an issue for him. Besides, he had his own coming-out party.

  The real Statue of Liberty might be located in New York Harbor, but like Alan Bills, the woman with the flaming torch was Dixie born and bred. The fact that Irene Cheng was of Chinese ancestry did not, even in Wynnell’s eyes, diminish her claim to the region.

  Irene is my assistant at the Den of Antiquity and one of the most capable women I know. She does, alas, suffer from an occasional lapse of judgment.

  “Irene, dear,” I said gently, “put that flame out before you come in.”

  “Can’t I at least make my entrance first?”

  “No.”

  “Man, you’re no fun!”

  “I’m a ball, dear, but I refuse to have my new house burned to the ground.”

  Irene grudgingly extinguished the flame. “My better half couldn’t make it,” she said. “Had to work the night shift. Is your mama here yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I ushered the saucy statue inside. “I’ve figured out who most of these folks are, but not all of them. See that pair of dice there? The smaller one could be Mama. On the other hand, you know my mother would never go anywhere without her pearls clearly visible, and Miss Snake Eyes over there doesn’t appear to be wearing any.

  “Now, that knight in shining armor could be male or female. People were a lot shorter in those days, you know.”

  “Your height?”

  I gave Irene the evil eye she deserved. “Even the men were just a little over five feet tall.”

  “So you think that could be your mother?”

  “No. Mama’s five foot even and the person in that suit—”

  My voice was drowned out by the gasps of my guests. In fact so much oxygen was depleted in that moment that I began to feel light-headed.

  “Abby, look!” I heard Irene say. She sounded like she was in another room.

  I looked, and then willed my eyes to not see what they quite obviously saw. Mama had finally arrived.

  3

  There was a white stallion in my foyer. It wasn’t a real horse, of course, but two people in a very realistic costume. Astride the magnificent beast sat Lady Godiva—wearing nothing by yards of synthetic hair, and pearls!

  I tottered breathlessly over to the threesome. “Mama?”

  My petite progenitress smiled proudly. “Do you like it?”

  “Mama!”

  “That’s my name, dear. Please don’t wear it out.”

  “Mama, how could you!”

  “How could I what, dear?”

  “You’re naked!”

  “No, she’s not,” the horse’s head said. “Look closer, Abby. She’s wearing a body stocking.”

  I scrutinized Mama. She was indeed covered, but the fabric matched her skin tone perfectly. It was almost the same texture. Were it not for the fact that she was now anatomically incorrect, I wouldn’t have believed my eyes.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief and turned my attention to the talking stallion. “C. J., is that you in there?”

  “I didn’t say anything, Abby.”

  “C. J., it is you! Fess up!”

  The horse shook its head and pawed at my parquet floor with an oversize hoof. It was C. J., all right. No other woman I know has feet that large.

  “C. J., I know you’re the horse’s front half, but who’s his patooty?”

  “That’s Sergeant Bowater, Abby. You know, the guy I’ve been dating.”

  “Aha, so it is you!”

  “Abby!” Mama said sharply. “Leave the girl alone!”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry, C. J.”

  The horse nodded. I couldn’t help but smile. Even though Jane Cox, AKA Calamity Jane, and therefore nicknamed C. J., is a pickle or two short of a barrel, this isn’t to say the woman is mentally challenged. She is in fact a brilliant businesswoman who, at the tender age of twenty-three, started up her own antique shop, and now, a mere two years later, nets nearly as much as I do.

  Mama gave me a disapproving look and then tapped the rear of her steed with a genuine riding crop. Sergeant Bowater swore softly.

  “Straight ahead,” Mama said. “There’s room for us over by the fireplace. But mind your tail.”

  “Not so fast, ma mere—and her mare.” I laughed at my little joke. “You don’t get away from me that easy.”

  “Giddyap!” Mama gave the sergeant a fairly good whack.

  “Damn, Mrs. Wiggins, that hurt.”

  I snatched the crop from Mama and grabbed her by an arm. “Mama, you’re seventy-eight, for crying out loud. You sure you want to make a spectacle of yourself?”

  “Absolutely. When you get to be my age, you’re beyond caring what people think.”

  “You go, girl,” C. J. grunted.

  I gave my pal a gentle kick in the fetlock. “Stay out of this. But, Mama, everyone’s staring.”

  “Sure they’re staring. But that’s because you’re making a scene, dear.”

  “Me? I’m not the one in a flesh-colored body suit.”

  “Which, you must admit is very flattering—considering my advanced age.”

  “But it isn’t you! You’re supposed to wear full-circle skirts puffed out with crinolines. That’s all you’ve ever worn since the day Daddy died—well, except for your brief stint as a novice in that Cincinnati convent.”

  “Oh, I wore them then, too. That’s one of the reasons they asked me to leave. That and the fact I wore curlers under my wimple. But I didn’t whistle on the stairs and I was never late to chapel. Those were totally trumped-up charges.”

  I sighed. “Okay then, make a fool of yourself. But don’t blame me if my friends laugh at you. Or even worse, if a photo of you shows up in the Charlotte Observer. The paper said they might send someone over, and for all I know, they could be here right now.”

  Mama straightened in her papier-mâché saddle and tossed her head vainly. The heavy gold tresses remained relatively still, but a stray strand whipped me soundly across the mouth
. I sputtered with surprise and indignation.

  “Giddyap!” Mama barked.

  The white steed moved with surprising grace and was soon swallowed by the crowd of admirers.

  I sought refuge in the kitchen. The Rob-Bobs—well, Bob, at any rate—were doing a bang-up job of keeping both food and beverages flowing. I was grateful for their help considering that by then Wynnell was not only in her cups, but was in the punch bowl as well. I mean that literally.

  Rob lifted her head gently out of the well-drained bowl. “She’s dead drunk. Do you know what’s wrong, Abby?”

  “I haven’t the slightest. It isn’t like her at all.”

  “It’s Ed,” Bob said. He had opened a jar of cheap, supermarket-variety caviar I keep in the pantry and was deftly mixing it with the expensive but minuscule amount the caterer had supplied.

  “Ed?”

  “Haven’t you heard, Abby? Ed’s been seeing another woman.”

  “What?”

  “Shhh,” Rob said, as he picked Wynnell up and cradled her in his James Brolin–like arms. “We’ll fill you in later. In the meantime, where shall I put her?”

  I led him upstairs to my best guest room. Believe me, it is no small feat climbing stairs in stilts, but I’d been practicing for weeks and was really quite good if I took my time. By the time we got to the guest wing, Wynnell was sawing logs like an Oregon lumberjack. Rob removed Wynnell’s shoes and then looked discreetly away while I slipped that horrible costume over her head and wrapped her in a fresh terry robe. Together we tucked an antique Amish quilt around our friend.

  As I closed the door behind us, I turned to Rob. “Now tell me about Wynnell.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know, Abby. That’s why I asked. Wynnell’s been over to the shop every day—several times a day—for the last week or so. A couple of times she’s even called us at home.”

  I almost slapped myself off those silly stilts. “But I don’t understand! Wynnell’s my best friend. My very best friend. We share everything. I can’t believe I didn’t have a clue.”

  Although my hoops contrived to keep us apart, Rob did his best to lay a comforting arm around my shoulder. He’s in his early fifties and, when not made up to look like James, has thick dark hair just starting to turn at the temples. Were it not for Greg, and the small fact that Rob prefers Bob to Babs, I’d be tempted to throw myself at him.

  “I think she didn’t want to rain on your parade.”

  “What parade? You mean the clowns downstairs?”

  “It was more than just your party she was worried about spoiling. She didn’t want to make you feel sorry for her—now that things are going so well between you and Greg.”

  “Damn that woman!” I said and stomped a foot. Unfortunately my petite pointed pump pulled loose from its strap and slipped off its perch. I teetered for a second, but despite a frantic flailing of my arms, I failed to fly. Rob caught me just in time.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. Honest.”

  Rob laughed. “Whoopsy daisy,” he said, as he propped me back up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant—I mean Mr. Brolin.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss O’Hara.”

  “Would you be a gentleman, Mr. Brolin, and tighten my foot strap?”

  “I’d be delighted too.”

  I hoisted my hoops. There is a trick to it, but I’d been practicing that as well. Suffice it to say, one tries to avoid the ladies’ room, although even that is manageable. I’ve been to Civil War (Wynnell calls it the War of Northern Aggression) reenactments and seen ladies in period costume enter and exit the Port-O-Johns. Clearly they have a feel for such a thing. At any rate, Rob knelt and set to work.

  “Tighter, dear. Greg must think I have larger feet than I do.”

  Rob shook his head. “These barely count as feet. What are they? Size two?”

  “Four. Would you mind tightening the other strap as well?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So tell me, Rob, who is this woman Ed is seeing?”

  “Tweetie.”

  I dropped my skirts, entombing the man in metal rings and layers of crinolines and heavy taffeta. From where I stood, all I could see were the backs of his legs. Unfortunately for the two of us, at that very moment Bob came bounding up the stairs, his own skirt hiked around his knees.

  “Abby, where’s your garlic press—oh, my God!”

  “It isn’t what you think,” I wailed.

  “Abby, how could you!”

  “I didn’t do anything! I just dropped my skirts.”

  Meanwhile Rob was trying to fight his way out of the tangle of metal and fabric without tipping me over. I’m sure it looked much worse than it was. When Rob finally emerged his face was the color of good Merlot.

  “I was tightening her shoe straps,” he sputtered.

  Bob put his hands on his hips. The sequined sheath dress he’d chosen was surprisingly flattering.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “He’s telling the truth, Bob. This man only has eyes for you. Besides, I’m taken.”

  Bob softened and offered Rob his hand. “The least you can do is get up quickly before someone else sees you. This isn’t the White House, you know.”

  Rob jumped to his feet. “Now what were you saying about garlic?”

  “Forget the garlic,” I snapped. “What’s this about Ed and Tweetie?”

  The Rob-Bobs exchanged anxious glances.

  4

  “Out with it, you two!”

  Bob cleared his throat. “I hate to be the one to tell you this but, uh, uh—”

  “Tweetie’s a slut,” Rob said.

  “And the Pope’s Catholic,” I said.

  “I didn’t know about Wynnell’s husband, but of course I know about Tweetie. She slept with Buford while we were still married, didn’t she? One doesn’t just fall into monogamy. One works at it. And Tweetie doesn’t work at anything except her hair color.”

  Bob made a sizzling sound. “Ouch! You sure you’re not a gay man in drag, Abby?”

  “Pretty sure. Look, I don’t dislike the woman. I really don’t. In fact, we have this weird kind of connection. She is, after all, stepmother to my children. Plus which, we’ve both been victimized by Buford.”

  “Yes, but Tweetie seems to give back to him as good as she gets.”

  “Then I say bully for her! Not that I’m condoning adultery, mind you. I’m just glad Buford finally knows what betrayal feels like from the other side of the fence.”

  Rob had amazement written all over his face. “You sound like you’ve forgiven Tweetie.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s the right word. Tweetie’s a twit. I feel sorry for her more than anything.”

  Rob whistled softly. “That’s more than Wynnell can say.”

  “Give her a chance, dear. How long has this affair been going on, and how long has Wynnell known about it?”

  “Affair?” Bob boomed, in his not-so-Barbra voice. “Is that what you told her?”

  Rob spread his hands. “Well—”

  “It’s not an affair?” I demanded.

  “Apparently it was just a one-time thing. But that counts, doesn’t it?”

  “In my book, yes. Go on.”

  Rob looked triumphantly at his partner. “It happened after the Christmas party. Wynnell just found out about it.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently Ed doesn’t clean his suits very often. Now with the weather getting cooler Wynnell took a couple in and, well, you can guess what happened.”

  “She found a motel receipt in the pocket?”

  They both nodded. “Very cliché,” Bob said, “but so is the entire situation. Older man, younger woman. Pot-belly, silicone. Sounds like B-grade movie material.”

  I snorted. “Sound like Ed’s a bit of a twit, too.”

  Rob cleared his throat. “Maybe—but maybe not. He may be kind of a dull man, but he’s also very conscientious.”

  “You mean he wanted to be caugh
t?”

  “Now you’re cooking with gas, Abby.”

  “But why? And why wait so long?”

  “Permit me.” Bob tugged on a bra that was obviously riding up. “Wynnell says their marriage has been flat for a long time. She thinks Ed might just be tired of her, but too chicken to ask for a divorce.”

  “The ironic thing,” Rob said, “is that Wynnell has been unhappy, too. She was thinking about divorce as well, until she found out about Tweetie. Suddenly she’s appreciating what she has, and wants to keep it.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense,” Bob said. “We think she’s just afraid of being lonely.”

  I can’t begin to tell you how hurt I was to hear the Rob-Bobs say these things. Wynnell has been my best friend for years. We share everything—or at least I thought we did. How could she confide in the Rob-Bobs, and not me? And speaking of friends, why didn’t the guys tell me earlier that Wynnell was hurting? They tell me everything else, and often in far too great detail.

  I was about to give them a piece of Scarlett’s mind when the phone rang.

  I took the call in my upstairs den. It’s where I retreat to read a book, listen to music, and yes, even watch television. It was in my La-Z-Boy recliner by the phone where I watched Marian Colby lock Adam Chandler in his Y2K shelter, and where I tried to warn Erica Kane to stay away from that self-involved heart surgeon.

  “Abby’s house of pandemonium,” I said breezily.

  “Mrs. Timberlake!”

  “Just a minute,” I let Scarlett say. “I’ll see if she’s in.”

  “Mrs. Timberlake, that is you speaking, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” I said cagily.

  “It is! And do you know who this is?”

  “Do I?” I knew who it was all right. There is no confusing Captain Keffert with anyone else. Since he is a valued customer I try hard to think of his brusqueness as a charming by-product of his Connecticut origins. That is certainly how I explain his and his wife’s eccentricity.

  “You’re darn tooting, little lady, so I’m going to stop beating around the bush. I want to know why you didn’t invite my wife and me to your party.”