Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  Although I couldn’t hear what Mr. Johnson first said, the next thing I knew all three of them were laughing. I sneaked closer, keeping a pair of highboys to my right as my cover.

  “And it’s really comfortable for napping, too,” Mr. Johnson said.

  The ladies roared.

  I stopped dead in my size-fours. Something bizarre had just happened. On the way home from work I would check a few of the charming Charleston gardens for signs of giant pods. It appeared as if the body snatchers had mounted another successful invasion.

  “I don’t suppose you could give me a discount,” the principal buyer said, her voice dripping honey. After all, the rich don’t stay that way by parting with their money.

  Homer Johnson bowed slightly, his jowls flapping forward like fleshy wings. A few feathers, a lot less weight, and he might achieve liftoff.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “for you I’d cross the Cooper River—under water. But I’m afraid I have this piece marked as low as I can get it, and not have my mama call me a fool.”

  The Linen Ladies laughed. “Not even just an eensyteensy bit?” one purred.

  He sighed dramatically. “Ma’am, it’s a steal at this price. In fact, I wish I still had room in my parlor for a piece this size. You see”—Homer Johnson glanced around conspiratorially—“this sofa is of particular interest.”

  “What do you mean?” they asked in tandem.

  “I think I remember seeing one just like this at the Smithsonian last year.”

  I think I remember. Brilliant. And who knows? Perhaps he had.

  “Then I definitely want it.” The buyer reached into a purse that cost almost as much as the sofa and withdrew her wallet. “Which other pieces do you find particularly interesting?” she asked.

  Homer Johnson was hired.

  No doubt about it, the man was a gifted salesman. And wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’d been potty-trained before the age of one. All you had to do was to show Homer—as he asked me to call him—something one time, and he had it down pat. As for my “newfangled” cash register, he found it easier to work with than did I. If only all the senior citizens in my life caught on as fast as Homer Johnson.

  “Abigail Louise Timberlake!” Mama cried at the top of her lungs the second she entered the shop. She hadn’t even looked to see if I was with a customer. Thankfully, I wasn’t.

  “Mama! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be up at Kanuga.”

  My petite progenitress patted her pale pink pearls. They were a present from Daddy the year he died, and Mama has never willingly taken them off. I suspect she even showers in them, although you can be sure I’ve never peeked. That the pearls have any nacre left—and indeed they do—ranks, in my opinion, up there with some of the holy mysteries of the church.

  In fact, I’m surprised there is anything left of the beads. When Mama gets even mildly agitated she pats the pearls. She does this even when she’s happy. When she becomes annoyed she rotates the necklace, between right thumb and forefinger, slowly at first, her speed increasing as her blood pressure rises. Sometimes she gets so worked up the pearls become a blur.

  “How can you expect me to lollygag around in the mountains with a group of church people I hardly know, while you’re down here ruining our lives?”

  7

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me, Abby. That’s all anyone could talk about—Mrs. Amelia Shadbark. I must have heard that name a million times. Now she’s dead, and I didn’t even get a chance to meet her.”

  “Mama, who told you she was dead?”

  “Sudie May heard it from Lilly Beth who heard it from Margaret Anne who—”

  “Never mind, Mama, I get the picture.”

  “Abby, did you know Mrs. Shadbark was the grande dame of Charleston society?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Abby, she was our entrée!”

  “Then who was the appetizer?” I asked wickedly.

  The pearls began their first rotation. “Abby, I’m being serious. You were invited to tea at Charleston’s finest, and you didn’t take me!”

  “That’s because you were up at church camp hobnobbing with Charleston’s second finest. Besides, as it turned out, it was only a business tea. You would have been bored. That’s why I took C.J.”

  Mama gasped. “You took C.J.?”

  Alas, the rumor mill was not nearly as reliable as I’d expected. The information pipe had gotten plugged somewhere between Charleston on the coast and Kanuga in the mountains. In this case it appeared as if missing information was going to be more of an issue than wrong information.

  “Like I said, it was business. And anyway, Mama, she behaved herself very well.” I refrained from adding, “unlike some people I know.”

  “C.J. might have behaved herself,” Mama said, giving the pearls a complete spin. “But did you?”

  “Of course!” I stared at her. Boy, was I wrong. The pearls were spinning so fast my head was following suit. “Mama, what have you heard?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Spit it out, Mama!”

  “Abby, do you know your blouse is inside out?”

  “It’s the newest fad, Mama. But that’s not what the ladies at Kanuga were gossiping about. I want you to tell me what they said. Tell me now.”

  “Well, dear, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t pretty, dear.”

  Rumors seldom are. I braced myself against an eighteenth-century secretary.

  “Go ahead. I can take it.”

  “Very well.” The pearls were a streak of pink. “It’s been suggested that you might have—uh, contributed to Mrs. Shadbark’s death?”

  “What?”

  “You know, poisoned her. Although, frankly dear, now that I know C.J. was there, this sheds a whole new light on things. Not that she would do it on purpose, of course, but you know how she is. We don’t call her Calamity Jane for nothing.”

  I looked around weakly for a place to sit. Fortunately there was a genuine Turkish ottoman within collapsing distance.

  “Mama, you didn’t honestly think I did it, did you?”

  “Of course not, dear. But you try convincing the others.”

  “Forget the others,” I cried. “You know I didn’t do it. That should be all that matters.”

  “Of course, like I said, there is C.J.—”

  “What about C.J.? Are you telling me you suspect her?”

  “Well, you’ve got to admit she’s a pecan or two shy of a pie.”

  “She’s also one of your dearest friends.”

  Mama blinked, and the pearls flopped to a stop. It was the truth. The fact is, Mama has more in common with C.J. than she has with me. Ever since Daddy died, my dear mother’s elevator hasn’t quite made it to the top floor. And although Daddy’s unfortunate demise—killed by a dive-bombing seagull with a walnut-size brain tumor—happened in the seventies, Mama has been mysteriously locked in the fifties. She wears dresses that nip in at the waist, and with full-circle skirts puffed by layers of crinolines. Her living room furniture is “blond” and her lime-green drapes hang from scalloped wooden cornices. On a recent survey she listed Mamie Eisenhower as the woman she most admired, and Lawrence Welk as her favorite television show.

  “Abby,” she said, “I get your point. C.J. wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “Exactly. In fact, she once told me about the time she glued the wings back on a fly that had been hurt.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She looked in on the Rob-Bobs this morning—at the Finer Things—and then went off to take a carriage tour of the historic district, and to do some shopping.” I glanced at my Rolex. “She should be home by now.”

  “Our house?”

  “Yes, Mama. She doesn’t return to Charlotte until the day after tomorrow.”

  Mama nodded, pleased at the information. “Then I’m making shepherd’s pie for supper. That’s her favorite, you know.”


  “Yes, but if I recall correctly, C.J. said that’s because up in Shelby they put a real shepherd in the pie.”

  Mama giggled. “Oh, Abby, you’re terrible.”

  I hoisted my petite patootie off the ottoman. “Well, Mama, I’ll see you at supper then.”

  At five feet even, Mama is three inches taller than I, but her voluminous skirts take up as much room as a linebacker. When I tried to pass, she neatly blocked me.

  “Not so fast, Abby. Who’s that lean, mean, sex machine over there?”

  My head swiveled like Linda Blair’s. “Where?”

  “Over there, sitting behind your desk.”

  “That’s Homer Johnson, my new assistant. And I’d hardly call him lean.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “You sure? He’s not wearing a ring.”

  This from a woman who practically has to hold her hymnbook with her toes in order to read it. Ever since she broke her last pair of bejeweled, batwing frames, back in the eighties, Mama has refused to wear glasses.

  “I’m sure, Mama. He has a daughter named Winter—”

  Mama wrinkled her nose. “Maybe so, Abby, but I smell single.”

  “Whatever, Mama.” The woman has always claimed she can smell trouble coming. But smelling marital status, now that was new.

  “So, are you going to introduce me, or what?”

  “Or what, Mama.”

  I wasn’t being rude, mind you, but merely stalling the inevitable. Within minutes Mama had worked up the nerve to introduce herself to Homer Johnson, bless his heart, and I was superfluous. Mama seemed to have forgotten me—forgotten supper even—and Homer seemed quite content with all the attention. Perhaps he really wasn’t married.

  Every time the shop bells rang, however, Homer immediately excused himself and scurried to wait on the customer. The magic I’d seen him work earlier was repeated time and time again, and my business boomed like never before.

  Given the fact that I appeared to be unneeded by my new employee, and unseen by the woman from whose loins I sprang (practically fully grown, to hear Mama tell it), I decided to steal a few minutes and do a little investigating of my own. It’s not that I didn’t trust the Charleston Police Department, but I had more at stake in finding Amelia Shadbark’s killer than did they. They merely had their professional reputations on the block. I, on the other hand, had my social reputation, not to mention Mama’s. Failure to clear my name from any and all suspicion could mean that my descendants would be blacklisted in the Holy City for generations to come. The names Wiggins, Timberlake, and even Washburn would join the likes of Sherman, Grant, and a host of nefarious carpetbaggers.

  So, while Homer was occupied unloading a rice planter bed that had been taking up far too much room, and Mama was busy “reapplying” her face, I ducked out of the shop. Fortunately I’d driven to work that morning, so it took me only a few minutes to reach the Shadbark mansion. I may have a smaller cranium than most women, but that doesn’t make me stupid. My intent was not to visit the scene of the crime; I knew from past experience it would be closed to me. My intent was to find Gladys Kravitz.

  You see, it had occurred to me that every neighborhood has its version of that Bewitched character. Maybe not as extreme as that meddling woman, but someone who pries and spies, nonetheless. Such folks are not only tolerated, but often subtly encouraged. They function as human watchdogs for the community. Sure, we all feel free to complain about them “sticking their big noses where they don’t belong,” but in the end we feel safer for having them around. We may even pass on to them our own observations—in an offhand manner, of course—and let them do the broadcasting.

  But even if I couldn’t locate the Gladys Kravitz who lived on Amelia’s street, I was certain to find someone who would talk. Tragedy—and murder ranks at the top of that list—generates in even the most taciturn of folks the need to talk. Recall, if you will, the last time an ambulance or fire truck was spotted parked on your street. Were not your neighbors, yourself included, gathered in little clumps to both observe and discuss the matter? “I didn’t know she had a heart condition.” “He always bragged about his gun collection.” That kind of thing. This need to discuss tragedy has a half-life of several days, and it had been only a matter of hours since the detectives had been to my house. Besides, the news had not made it into the morning’s issue of the Post and Courier. There was still plenty to speculate about.

  Although I expected to find someone to talk to, I certainly didn’t expect to hit the jackpot. Especially not without trying.

  “Ma’am!” I heard the woman call.

  I was standing on the sidewalk opposite the Shadbark residence. Actually, I was hiding behind a palmetto trunk, trying to decide which of the houses flanking the mansion was my best prospect. The call came from behind me.

  In order to save face, I pretended not to hear.

  “Ma’am! There’s nobody there at the moment. Not likely to be for a while, now that it’s all taped up.”

  I turned reluctantly. You could have fried an egg on my face. The woman was seated on a third-story balcony, or piazza, as they say in Charleston. Because her house, like many on the peninsula, was set right up against the sidewalk, she was perched practically above me. Who knew what-all she had observed.

  “I’m not a rubbernecker—honestly. It’s just that I knew Mrs. Shadbark.”

  She took a sip from a tall glass. “Yes, I know.”

  “You do?”

  “You were over there yesterday. Four o’clock on the nose. You and a tall blond girl. Is she your daughter?”

  “C.J.?” I couldn’t help but laugh. Neither my daughter, Susan, nor my son, Charlie, looks anything like me. My ex-husband Buford was a good ten inches taller, and was bigger boned proportionately. But I would have had to sleep with a Nordic King Kong to produce offspring like C.J.

  “I take it she wasn’t your daughter.” She waved her glass. “Hey, I’m having a little late-afternoon libation. I’d be happy if you joined me. With two, it’s an official cocktail party.”

  She didn’t need to twist my arm. “Sounds wonderful. My name is Abigail Timberlake, by the way.”

  “Evangeline LaPointe,” she said. “I’ll be right down to let you in.”

  Ms. LaPointe was, at least by my standards, an extremely tall woman with a prominent proboscis and short, almost wiry, strawberry-blond hair. The color wasn’t natural, and it had been recently applied, so it gave me no clue as to her age. But there was tightness about the eyes that suggested she night be a woman in her sixties trying to pass for a decade younger.

  She met me at the wrought-iron gate and ushered me through rooms filled with exquisite late-eighteenth-century pieces. Of course I had to compliment her on what I saw. That pleased her immensely, and instead of taking the elevator, we climbed the stairs in order that I might peek into even more rooms. By the time we reached the third-floor piazza we were fast friends. A glass of frothy pink punch made us even closer.

  “So, you were invited to tea,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Amelia Shadbark. The pillar of Charleston society.”

  “That, too, honey. What I mean is, Amelia didn’t often entertain. Not since her husband passed away.”

  “Then I’m flattered.”

  “As well you should be.” Evangeline downed half a glass of punch in a single gulp. Apparently now that she had a drinking partner, there was no longer any need to sip.

  I smiled happily. The grand dame might be dead, and my presence in her house problematic, but at least one person had realized what a coup it was.

  “To Amelia,” I said, and raised my glass.

  Evangeline drained her glass. “To hell with Amelia.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. The woman was a witch.”

  “Well, uh, I don’t know what to say.”

  “No need to say anything, honey. But let me tell you, that woman was a
s mean as a snake. Somewhere there’s a happy mongoose.”

  I took my first sip. A body my size can’t handle much more than one drink, but I needed the fortification.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to share more, dear.”

  Evangeline poured herself another glass and drained half of it before answering. “Sure, she came across as high society, and yes, her people settled Charleston when God was just a boy, but she had her share of problems, let me tell you.”

  I took another sip. “Tell away!”

  8

  Evangeline drained her second glass. That is to say, her second glass since I’d arrived.

  “For one thing, her children hated her. Constance—the daughter—hasn’t been by to see her mother in years. Of course the two of them haven’t been on proper speaking terms every since Constance ran off to Chicago with a pencil eraser salesman.”

  “A what?”

  “A pencil eraser salesman,” she repeated irritably. “You have a hearing problem, honey?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s just that I never thought about that being a profession.”

  “Well, I suppose it is, because that’s what he was. Anyway, the old bat nearly disinherited her.”

  “But she didn’t?”

  Evangeline shrugged and refilled her glass. When she was done, nothing but froth remained in the pitcher.

  “I’ve heard it both ways,” she finally said. “But what would you do if your daughter killed your husband?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She nodded. “Orman Shadbark died of a heart attack when Constance eloped. At least that’s what Amelia claims.”

  I dug in my pocketbook for a pen and began taking notes on my cocktail napkin. Luckily, Evangeline LaPointe was not adverse to using paper products.

  “What do you mean by ‘she claims’?”

  “Well, he died of a heart attack—that’s a fact. But I wouldn’t blame it all on Constance. Lord only knows what grief the poor man was subjected to all along.”