Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  “I’m afraid so, dear. Only you didn’t miss much. It was more like a trade union protest than a party.”

  Wynnell sat on the bed and rubbed her head. “You mean it got rowdy?”

  “You might say that. Mama came as Lady Godiva. C. J. was her horse. Take it from there.”

  “And the others?”

  Perhaps I only imagined the special significance she attached to that word. But then again, perhaps not. I decided it was time to bring things out into the open. If my friend turned on me for doing so—well, maybe the Xanax would help.

  “She came as Little Bo Peep. Even brought a live sheep with her.”

  The hedgerow brows raised in unison. “She who?”

  “Tweetie. It’s all right, dear, I know everything.”

  Wynnell sat silent for a moment. “I thought I could trust them,” she said finally. “Apparently not.”

  “What about me? Do you think you can’t trust me? Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

  Wynnell shook her head, and then grimaced at the pain it caused. “I wanted to spare you, Abby.”

  “Spare me what?”

  She stared at me, as if willing me to read her thoughts. “You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Tweetie,” she said. If words were fingers, hers were holding a stranger’s dirty lingerie.

  “Ah. You thought that if you told me, it would stir up painful memories.”

  Wynnell blinked. “Does it?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. It’s been a while and—well, to be absolutely honest, I pity her more than anything else.”

  “Abby, how can you of all people say that? The woman’s a—”

  “A witch?”

  “That’s putting it politely. She’s a slut and a home-wrecker too. I only hope that someday she gets what’s coming to her.”

  “Well, it isn’t Ed.”

  Wynnell seemed to rally. “Expound,” she said.

  “Ed doesn’t want Tweetie—not really, and I daresay she doesn’t want him.”

  “But then why did he sleep with her?”

  “Ask him. Maybe he was feeling lonely.”

  Wynnell nodded slowly. “Maybe. I haven’t exactly been there a lot for him lately—if you know what I mean.”

  “Spare me the details, please, but yes, I do know.”

  “That still doesn’t make it right.”

  “Of course not. Ed’s a skunk.” I counted to three. “But he’s still a keeper.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. It would be too much trouble to train a new husband, right?”

  Wynnell laughed. “Abby, he’s not a dog. He’s a skunk.”

  “Same thing. Beside, you’ve been together now—how long?”

  “Thirty-one years.”

  “You see! Think of all that shared history wasted if you two were to go your separate ways.”

  She studied her nails. “But you didn’t forgive Buford.”

  “Well, at least not for a couple of years. Then I realized my hate was hurting me more than him. Anyway, it’s not the same thing. Ed’s dalliance with Tweetie was a onetime thing. Buford—well, he married her, didn’t he?”

  “So are you saying I should just turn the other cheek?”

  “Not at all, dear. Thrash him soundly, within an inch of his life, if you’re up to it. At the very least make him grovel. But in the end, forgive. You’ll feel better for it.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I know I am—and, oh, this incident should be worth at least a cruise.”

  “Abby, you are so bad!”

  “Right again as well. Hey, you want to stay the night? It will make him worry.”

  Wynnell grinned. “Sure.”

  “I took a Xanax,” I confessed, “so I might start feeling a little draggy, but if you want, we could bring the leftover food up here and watch TV in my room. I taped All My Children.”

  “Abby, you know I don’t care for soaps. Isn’t there something else we could watch?”

  “Well, I think there’s a chick flick on Lifetime.”

  “That Julia Roberts movie? I’ve seen it twice. Abby, don’t you have anything a little more adult?”

  I thought for a moment, and then flushed. “Buford bought me a tape once. I don’t know why I still have it. Anyway, he said he thought it might improve our—well, sex life. It’s called Stan Does Seattle.”

  “Bingo!” Wynnell clapped her hands in glee.

  I couldn’t help but smile. If watching a tawdry video made her feel like she was getting back at Ed, I was all for it. Very few sexual diseases get transmitted through VCRs, and viewers almost never get pregnant.

  “Okay,” I said gamely. “Stan it is. Just let me get out of this costume and—”

  Dmitri, whom I’d not seen since Wynnell had scared him out of his wits at the front door, came barreling into the room and dived under my skirt. His tail was even bushier than my friend’s brows.

  “It wasn’t me who scared him this time,” Wynnell said. “He didn’t even look at me.”

  “I know, but something’s obviously spooked him.” I looked around for a hard, heavy object. In the old days I would have grabbed one of Buford’s golf trophies. Now the best I came up with was a pair of bronze bookends. I picked up one, a trumpeting elephant with its foot raised to crush a lion. “Come on, let’s go check it out.”

  6

  “Abby, don’t you have a burglar alarm?”

  “I do. He’s hiding under my skirt now.”

  “That isn’t funny, Abby.”

  “Okay, so I’ve put off installing a security system.”

  “Then don’t you think we should call the police?”

  “Wynnell, I don’t really think there’s an intruder. Dmitri acts crazy like this all the time. I’d feel better, though, taking a quick tour of the house, just to make sure all the doors and windows are locked. You coming with, or not?”

  She glanced around the room. A small Tiffany lamp with a low-wattage bulb on the nightstand was the only illumination, and the room practically crawled with shadows.

  “Coming.”

  Armed as I was, I led the way. We hadn’t gone but twenty feet when I stopped abruptly. Wynnell, for whom grace is not a virtue, plowed into me. Fortunately the woman has long arms and was able to catch me before I toppled off my height enhancers.

  “Abby! What is it?” she hissed.

  “I just remembered that I have a machete under my bed.”

  “You do? Whatever for?”

  “I bought it in Jamaica the last time I was there. It’s actually an antique. It was used for chopping cane on a sugar plantation. Anyway, I was going to put it in my shop, but then decided it didn’t hurt to have a weapon around the house. I’m not about to get a gun.”

  “We should get it!” She gave me a little push.

  I waved my arms until I caught my balance. “Be a doll, dear, and get it for me. I’d have to take off my stilts just to reach under the bed. I might even have to remove my dress, if the machete has been pushed back too far.”

  “Oh no, you don’t! You’re not sending me in alone.”

  “My bedroom is right there,” I said pointing to the nearest door. “Here, take this!” I thrust the heavy bookend at her.

  She took it reluctantly. “Okay, but you’re getting a burglar alarm. One that doesn’t eat cat food.”

  While Wynnell went off to get the knife, the beast in question lashed me repeatedly with his tail. I could tell by his fervor that he was no longer frightened, but hungry. Leave it to a male to be scared silly one second and ravenous the next.

  Buford was that way. Only with him it wasn’t fear, but amorousness. I used to envy other women whose husbands purportedly dropped off to sleep after fulfilling their marital duties. Mine always wanted a steak dinner. One time he requested a—

  A low cry from Wynnell interrupted my reverie. I started, as if suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.

  “Wynn
ell?” I clomped toward the bedroom. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  Her response was an ear-splitting scream.

  I twisted my right ankle in getting to her. In fact, I lost that stilt altogether. Poor Dmitri got stepped on more times than I care to remember, but somehow I managed to make it to my friend’s side in a matter of seconds.

  At first I could see nothing amiss. Wynnell was kneeling beside the bed, as if to get the machete, and she still had her head. Her real head. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room with us—until Wynnell rocked back on her heels.

  “What the heck is that?”

  “Abby,” Wynnell moaned. “Oh, Abby, it’s awful.”

  I threw off the other stilt and sank into a pile of collapsed hoops beside my friend. Barely protruding from the dust ruffle was a metal helmet, but when I flipped up the bed skirt, I could see the entire suit of armor. The same armor I’d seen the mystery guest wearing earlier.

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” I said. It was just a costume, of course, but very convincing. It would look splendid in my new foyer. Not that I would really keep the armor, mind you—well, maybe, if the guest didn’t return for it.

  “But Abby, there’s somebody in there.”

  “There is?” I started to lift the visor, but Wynnell grabbed my wrist.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to look.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” I peeled her fingers loose with my free hand and opened the visor to see for myself.

  Sure enough, there was a dead person in that suit of armor. And yes, it was an awful sight to behold. But Wynnell was wrong about one thing.

  “This isn’t a man,” I said softly. “It’s Tweetie.”

  Greg answered the phone at Mama’s. “This better be Domino’s Pizza, and you better be calling from just around the corner.”

  “Huh?

  “I have a starving crowd over here. Please don’t tell me you’re lost again.”

  “Honey, it’s Abby.”

  “Abby! Where are you?”

  “At home. Greg, something—”

  “Hey, you’re not still sulking, are you? Because your mama’s party is really rocking. You need to get on over here.”

  Mama’s party? I’d planned the party months ahead of time, compiled the guest list, had invitations printed up, and now Lady Godiva was getting all the credit.

  I swallowed my irritation. “I’m not sulking, Greg. I called to tell you that Tweetie Timberlake is dead.”

  “What? Say that again, Abby. It’s kinda noisy in here. For a second I thought you said Tweetie is dead.”

  “She is.” I practically shouted. In the background I could hear C. J. braying like a donkey while Mama sang “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” at the top of her lungs. When she gets in her cups, which honestly isn’t all that often, my petite progenitress hauls out her repertoire of World War II songs. It was during that time period, incidentally, when she met Daddy.

  “Abby, this isn’t some mean-spirited joke, is it?”

  “No. I wouldn’t joke about a thing like this. Tweetie’s been murdered.”

  “Hey, hold it down in there,” he shouted, his hand only half-covering the receiver. He got back on. “How? Where? When?”

  “I think she was strangled. And it happened here. But I don’t know when—well, tonight of course.”

  “Strangled? What makes you think that?”

  “Both her eyes and her tongue—never mind,” I wailed, trying to erase that awful image from my mind. “The point is, she’s dead.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “I’m tiny, Greg. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Right. Sorry. Look, just sit tight. I’ll be over in a flash.”

  “You’re at Mama’s in Rock Hill,” I reminded him, and not without a trace of bitterness. “It would take you twenty minutes in a squad car to get back to Charlotte. It will take you at least thirty in your own car. I could be tried and convicted by then.”

  “Or it could take forty minutes if we keep chatting. Bye, Abby.”

  I didn’t have time to react. Before Greg could hang up, Mama was on the line.

  “Abby, are you all right?”

  I swallowed enough sarcasm to induce a bad case of indigestion. Unfortunately there was some left over.

  “Yes, Mama, I’m perfectly all right. My party was ruined and now I have a dead woman in my house. Come to think of it, I’m more than all right. I’m fine as frog’s hair split three ways”

  “Abigail!” Mama said in a tone she hadn’t used since I was a teenager. “What’s going on? Why is Greg leaving?”

  Mama claims she has the ability to smell trouble. She means that literally. Clearly the polyester wig and nude body suit were interfering with her sensory capabilities.

  “Tweetie is dead,” I said flatly. “You didn’t smell that one coming, did you?”

  There was a long pause. “I’m coming right over, Abby.”

  I softened. “No need, Mama. Thanks, anyway. Wynnell is here, and any minute the bell’s going to ring and—”

  It rang on cue.

  “Gotta go, Mama. I’ll call later.”

  7

  The paramedics were the first to arrive, followed only seconds later by the men in blue. The house was swarming with people when I answered the doorbell for the umpteenth time. Had I been wearing false teeth, I would have swallowed them when I saw the dead ringer for Tweetie standing on my front porch.

  The woman flashed a badge at me. “Investigator Sharp,” she said in a high girlish voice. “Say, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. She was the spitting image of the newly deceased—well, except that Tweetie had been a bottle blond, and this woman’s hair color was obviously natural. One can always tell, you know. There is more to being blond than just stripping perfectly good brown hair of its pigment. At any rate, other than the origins of their respective hair colors, they were physically identical. It was as if they had bought their faces and figures from the same plastic surgeon, using the same catalogue of silicone body parts. There was, however, something different about the look in the detective’s eyes. And I’m not just talking about how it differed from the look in Tweetie’s eyes when I opened that visor. This bimbo had an aura of cunning about her that the dead woman never had.

  “Uh, uh, you look familiar.”

  “Do I?” She held out a manicured hand. “You’re Abigail Timberlake, right?”

  I frowned. There are some pretty sick people out there in the world, and a few of them happen to be my friends. Could it be possible that this was all an elaborate practical joke?

  “May I see your badge, please,” I said in a guarded voice.

  “Certainly.” She actually handed it over to me. It was every bit as heavy and appeared to be as genuine as Greg’s. I memorized the number before returning it.

  “You can’t be too careful.” I still wasn’t sure the woman was telling the truth. Her striking similarity to the dead woman aside, the alleged detective wasn’t dressed in a professional manner. The males I knew in the department generally wore khaki slacks and navy blazers. Neckties were de rigueur. The woman identifying herself as Investigator Barbara Sharp was wearing a black velvet dress that fell far short of her knees. It didn’t do such a good job of covering her bosom, either.

  “You’re right about that. May I come in?” She sailed past me without waiting for an answer.

  “Hey!”

  “That’s all right, Abby.” I felt Greg’s hand on my shoulder. “Let her go. She has a job to do.”

  I turned and threw myself into the arms of the man I loved. When all was said and done, what did it matter if he’d deserted me to make merry with Mama and her minions? He was here now that I needed him. That’s what really mattered.

  “You holding up okay?” he asked. Genuine concern was registering in those brilliant blue eyes.

  “I’m okay
—well, I guess I’m really not. This all seems so unreal.”

  He squeezed me gently. “You’re in shock. That’s only natural. Did you tell the kids yet?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to tell them?”

  I shook my head. Both Susan and Charlie would still be up. Neither of them had been close to their stepmother, and while telling them would be awkward, sad even, it was certainly manageable. Telling my ex-husband was another story. That could go either way. Depending on the mood he was in, Buford might well burst into tears over the phone, or he could just as easily launch into an angry diatribe, accusing me of killing Tweetie.

  “Has anyone called Buford?”

  “I don’t know. I gave his number to one of the uniformed officers.”

  Greg kissed me. “You call the kids, while I check on things. If nobody’s called Buford, I will.”

  “Thanks, dear.”

  While my real-life knight, who owns no armor, charged off to gather information, I called the kids from the phone in my den. First Susan, who was enjoying a semester abroad in a small village in southern France, and then Charlie. I was surprised to get Susan so easily.

  “You want me to come home, Mama?” she asked. My daughter prides herself on her acting ability, but I could see right through her.

  “There wouldn’t be much point to it, would there, dear? I mean, she’ll probably be buried by the time you could get here. Anyway, don’t you have midterms or something coming up?”

  “Yeah, right,” Susan said, jumping too easily at my manufactured excuse. My daughter, I knew, despised the woman who’d torn her family apart.

  My son, Charlie, who attends Winthrop University in Rock Hill, was not particularly saddened, either. He volunteered to come and spend the night with me, but I could tell by his voice that he wasn’t keen on sleeping in a house where a corpse had just been discovered. I graciously turned him down.

  I had no sooner hung up when Greg came into the room with Wynnell and Investigator Sharp in tow. I did another double take.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “As well as can be expected. They’re upset, of course”—I decided to be utterly honest—“but they’re not heartbroken.”