Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  I would have loved to hear more details of Amelia Shadbark’s shabby treatment of her husband, but that information was not going to be productive. Maybe some other time, and on a full stomach.

  “You mentioned other children, dear. How do they fit in the picture?”

  “There is just one other—a son. Orman Shadbark Jr.”

  “Did he get along with his mother?”

  Evangeline took a swig of her concoction and then made a face. I didn’t know at first how to interpret the grimace.

  “Orman Jr. is a L-O-S-E-R.”

  “How so?”

  Her face contorted again. This time a plethora of creases appeared seemingly out of nowhere, confirming my earlier suspicions that she was older than her surgeon would have you believe.

  “The man’s a drunk.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She seemed oblivious to the irony. “He lives somewhere up in North Charleston. Or is it Hanahan? Anyway, he hasn’t been able to keep a job for years. If it weren’t for the handouts his mama gives him—or should I say gave?—he’d be living on the street. And that family thinks they’re so all-fired special.”

  I took my second sip of punch. Some folks don’t find courage until they hit the bottom of the bottle. I was fortunate enough to find it near the top of my glass.

  “What did Amelia Shadbark do to you?” I asked.

  Evangeline blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I tried another tack. “We all have our dark sides. What was hers?”

  She drained her glass for the third time. “She had this dog, you see. Some fancy breed—Irish wolfhound, I think it was. Tall, skinny thing. Anyway, you’re supposed to keep your dog on a leash, clean up after it. That sort of thing. Well, Amelia’s dog was too good for that. Came over every day and did its business. And guess who wouldn’t come over and clean it up?”

  “I’m sure that was aggravating,” I said sympathetically. I’d had a similar thing happen to me, and I wanted to strangle the bitch. The neighbor, not her dog.

  Evangeline eyed the froth in the pitcher. “Oh, that wasn’t the half of it. I also had a dog back then. A little Pomeranian named Flossie. One day Flossie got out—just for a minute—and the wolfhound was over here like greased lightning.”

  I gasped. “Oh no. I hope it was quick and painless.”

  She glared at me. “It was neither. I couldn’t separate them, try as I might. You wouldn’t think such a thing would be possible, but it was. Anyway, the vet advised an abortion, but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “You mean Flossie got pregnant?”

  “Fortunately there was just one puppy, but she had to have a cesarean.”

  “Bless her heart.”

  “The puppy weighed almost a third as much as she did. We named him Huey. You know, after Baby Huey in the comic books.”

  I nodded. “So they both survived?”

  “Yes, but Flossie was never the same after that.”

  I glanced around. There’d been no sign of a dog in that lovely house. Come to think of it, there’d been no dog at Amelia Shadbark’s house either—at least not that I could see. Surely an Irish wolfhound would be hard to miss.

  “Where are the dogs now?”

  Evangeline turned the empty pitcher upside down over her glass, collected what few drops remained, and slugged them back. Then she set pitcher and glass down with a thud.

  “Honey, Flossie’s been dead for thirty-five years. Huey for twenty.”

  And I thought Mama could hold a grudge. Mention Cora Anne Sanders, and Mama will tell you that the former insulted her in front of the whole world, God included, by putting ketchup on Mama’s casserole contribution to a church supper. That was back in 1976!

  The only thing I remember that far back—that still got me worked up—was being stood up on a date by Blainey Edwards. If he had taken me to homecoming, as he promised, I never would have agreed to have my roommates fix me up with a blind date. That means I never would have met and married Buford Timberlake. Then again, we never would have produced two such lovely and loving children as Susan and Charlie.

  I took my third sip. “I know it’s none of my business, Evangeline, but—”

  My hostess waved for me to be quiet. “Shhh! You hear that?”

  “What?”

  “That car.”

  “Which car?” We were in a city, for crying out loud, and it was evening rush hour.

  “That car!” She pointed at a dark green Buick that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and was turning into Amelia’s driveway. “Well, well, well. I wonder what he’s doing there now!”

  “Who?”

  “Her gardener.”

  The car pulled to the end of the short driveway, and sat idling for a few minutes before the engine killed. Finally, a tall dark man got out on the driver’s side, glanced up at the deceased’s house, and then disappeared behind some shrubs at the driveway’s end.

  “Surely he knows she’s dead.”

  “Well—”

  “I never trusted that man.”

  “Why, because he’s African American?”

  Her eyes flickered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not prejudiced against anyone. But for a gardener, that man spends an awful lot of time inside.”

  “Inside the house?”

  “Oh, he goes around to the back, of course. So I’ve never seen him go in. But I know what’s going on. He even brings her presents.”

  Since the man in question appeared to be in his late twenties, I wanted to shout, “You go, girl!” But, as C.J.’s granddaddy up in Shelby used to say, you don’t spank a cow that’s giving you milk. That expression finally made sense—well, sort of.

  “Presents? You don’t say!” I pretended to be shocked.

  She nodded vigorously. “Sometimes as often as once a week.”

  “What does he bring?”

  “I can’t tell. They’re always in a box.”

  “Are they wrapped?”

  “Some are, some aren’t. But always right out in broad daylight. It’s like they didn’t even care about the scandal.”

  “Is there a scandal?”

  She shrugged.

  “I mean,” I said, “what do the neighbors have to say?”

  “My neighbors don’t have a whole lot to say, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, the McFarlands”—she gestured with her chin to indicate the house on our left—“are getting up in years, and I almost never see them out. And the Graysons”—she jerked to the right—“are from off.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “From off. You know, from off someplace else.”

  “But they live here now,” I said incredulously.

  “Honey, they’ve lived here only fifteen years. Why, they’ve hardly had time to unpack.”

  “I’m from off,” I informed her, as if she hadn’t figured that out.

  “Yes, but they’re from someplace up North originally. We just don’t chat that much.”

  “I see.” I stood. “It’s been wonderful getting to know you, Evangeline.”

  She eyed the remains of my drink expectantly. “You come back anytime, Abby. We’ll have ourselves another little tea party.”

  I promised to return.

  “Hello,” I called. “Hello!”

  The gardener appeared suddenly between two camellia bushes, nearly giving me a heart attack. I steadied myself against his car while catching my breath.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  I will confess right now to staring at him. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Using Greg’s height as a comparison, I judged him to be about six feet tall. His skin was smooth, the color of a good chocolate milkshake, his hair arranged in neat braids that fell below his shoulders in back. But what made this man so gorgeous was the symmetry of his features. It was as if a template for his face had been cut from a single piece of folded
paper. I wanted to reach up and touch him; to trace the outline of his eyes, nose, and mouth. The only other time I’ve ever felt that impulse was on a trip to Florence, Italy. There it was the statue of David I wanted to caress (had I been able to reach it), and not some Italian man—well, there were a few of those, too. But I digress.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  I shook myself out of my reverie. “I was having tea with a neighbor across the street,” I said. If Evangeline could call it “tea,” then so could I. “I wondered if you’d heard the news about Mrs. Shadbark.”

  The young man cocked his head and gave me an appraising look. “Actually, I have. In fact, I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Me?”

  “I thought maybe you wanted to sell her something.” He was holding an oil lamp box, which he set carefully on the front passenger seat as he spoke.

  “To the contrary! I, uh, I—”

  “My name is Percival Franklin,” he said and held out his hand. The ease with which he did, coupled with his youth, disarmed me.

  “Abigail Timberwash,” I said. “I mean, Timberlake. Or Washburn—that’s my married name.”

  “Are you a friend of the family?” His tone was skeptical.

  “Well—I knew her.”

  “Then you know she was one terrific lady. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “It’s certainly a shock. Are you a friend of the family as well?”

  He grinned. “Why are you playing games with me, Mrs. Timberwash?”

  “That’s Timberlake! And whatever do you mean?”

  He pointed to Evangeline’s house, which at that point was directly behind me. “I saw you sitting up there with that snoopy woman.”

  “You did?”

  “That’s all she does, you know. Just sits there and watches this house to see who comes and goes. She seems to find me particularly interesting. You don’t suppose it’s because of my color, do you?” He laughed. “Or haven’t you noticed?”

  My face burned. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

  “Mrs. Timberlake, you’re not from around here—”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “You have a different accent.”

  “It’s pure Carolina,” I wailed.

  “It isn’t Charleston. Mrs. Timberlake, are you with the police?”

  One of the lessons I’ve learned surprisingly late in life is that virtually everything comes with a spin. The news, history, even the Bible, they all have somebody’s viewpoint attached to them. There is no source of information that we mortals process that doesn’t come with a bias. The question is, how much, and whose?

  I could easily, and truthfully, have told the young man that I was indeed connected with the police. I am, in fact, married to a retired detective. Never mind that he works as a shrimper now. Granted, this might be a bit more spin than was prudent, but since truth operates along a continuum, what did it matter?

  However, Percival Franklin seemed to be far more astute than I was at his age. I had nothing to gain by b.s.’ing him further, and possibly something significant to lose.

  “No, I’m not with the police. In fact, the police questioned me this morning because I was one of the last people to see Mrs. Shadbark alive. Needless to say, this has made me a bit uncomfortable, so I decided to do a little investigating of my own. As for that snoop across the street, she said you were Mrs. Shadbark’s gardener. Is that true?”

  He didn’t even blink. “Very good, Mrs. Timberlake. Not everyone can turn on a dime like that.”

  “It helps to be small.”

  We both laughed.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Are you the gardener?”

  “Ah, that! You mean ‘just’ the gardener, don’t you?”

  “Well—I—you’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Franklin. You certainly cut to the chase.”

  “Saves time.”

  “I should imagine that a young man like you has plenty of time.”

  “I work three jobs, Mrs. Timberlake—well, I did, until this morning. I work the graveyard shift at a factory, I do the gardening here—when it needs it—and then I have my real job.”

  “Which is?”

  He opened the car door and carefully removed the box. “Have a peek.”

  9

  “That’s beautiful! Where did you get it?”

  “I made it.” There was no attempt to disguise the pride in Percival Franklin’s voice.

  “Get out of town!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, this is incredible. Can you take it out of the box?”

  The young man extracted the sculpture from its box with the delicacy of a surgeon. It was a sprig of camellia leaves, and a single blossom, carved from a dark wood, possibly cherry. The leaves gleamed like real camellia leaves after a rain, and on one of the flower’s petals a drop glistened and appeared to shimmer.

  “Wow!” I reached to touch one of the leaves, but he pulled the sculpture away.

  “I had it hidden in the toolshed. I was going to give it to her today. It needed to dry a little bit more.

  “The varnish?”

  “Shellac. It was still tacky when I brought it.” He tipped the box. “See?” He rubbed an area of the base with a long finger. “And here, where the cardboard stuck.”

  “You sell these?”

  He nodded.

  “Where? I mean, do you have a shop?”

  “I have a stall at The Market.”

  He meant The Market, which runs the length of Market Street, between Concord and Meeting. It was built in 1788 and is at times referred to as the Slave Market, although slaves were never sold there. House slaves were, however, sent to shop for produce and dry goods at the many stalls on the lower level. Today many of the shoppers are tourists in search of a good deal on souvenirs.

  “Are they all flowers?”

  “I do dolphins,” he said. “And seagulls. They’re the easiest. They’re also cheaper, so they sell better.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how much does something like this go for?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, I do dolphins and seagulls. This is my first attempt at a flower.”

  I fished in my purse for one of my business cards. I have a little metal case for them, but it always manages to come open. I’m more likely than not to come up with a lipstick or comb. This time I found a card on my first dip.

  “I own an antique store on King Street. The Den of Antiquity. I’m afraid I sell strictly antiques, and I haven’t owned the shop very long. But when I get to know my customer base better—you know, their tastes—I’d love to recommend your work. Well—pieces like this flower. I don’t know about the dolphins and gulls.”

  He took the card almost shyly. “I was thinking about two hundred and fifty. You think that’s too much?”

  “I think that’s a steal!”

  “Really?”

  I longed to finger his flower. “It’s museum quality.”

  His eyes shone. “I don’t just carve wood—”

  A gray Mercedes-Benz was trying to park along the curb. The driver was obviously inexperienced, or else very drunk. She made three attempts at parallel parking, then finally settled for the front left tire resting half on the curb.

  “Well, gotta go,” Percival Franklin said. He seemed tense, poised for flight.

  “But you were about to tell me—”

  He slipped the carving back into its box. As he did so, my business card fluttered to the ground. While I was stooping to pick it up, he thrust the box at me. It grazed the corner of my eye.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but you take this. It’s yours.”

  Before I could react at all, much less thank him, he was backing his dark green Buick out of Mrs. Amelia Shadbark’s driveway. I stared after him in disbelief. Then I stared into the box.

  “I’ll take that for you,” a high-pitched voice chirped.

  It was the drive
r, a pale woman in a cream linen suit, with matching heels and bag, and a broad-brimmed straw hat only a shade darker. She seemed perfectly steady in her four-inch spikes, as she clicked up the drive at an astonishing speed.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “It’s not a bit heavy.”

  She waved an armful of chunky jewelry at me and trilled like a canary. “Of course it isn’t. But I’ll take it just the same.”

  “I think not.”

  She clicked to a stop. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s in this box belongs to me,” I said calmly.

  She cocked her head, the brim of her hat resting on one shoulder, and studied me with eyes that were frank and unafraid. Her face was familiar, but I didn’t know where, or how, I might have met her. It was like listening to one of those harmonies from the late sixties that was clearly not the Beatles, yet you couldn’t place it.

  “You got that box from him, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Quite frankly, dear, it’s none of your business.”

  Her head snapped to its normal position. “It is, if what’s in there belonged to Mrs. Amelia Shadbark.”

  “Well, it didn’t.”

  She clicked forward two steps and held out her hands. The chunky jewelry clanked obscenely as it settled into place.

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  I stood my ground. “I don’t think so.”

  Physically I’m about as threatening as a stuffed kitten, but the Linen Lady seemed to be having second thoughts. She inched backward, until she’d relinquished the ground gained in her last advance.

  “Who are you?” she demanded in a schoolgirl voice.

  I’ve never actually played football, but I’ve been forced to watch enough on TV to pick up a few good moves. I considered feinting to the left, and then, since I could undoubtedly turn faster than she could, making a break for it to the right. The only problem was I didn’t want to risk dropping the exquisite carving Percival Franklin had made. And then there was also the very small matter of my pride.

  “I was here first,” I said. “How about you identify yourself.”

  The linen crowd are practiced in giving cold looks, not glares, but the inept driver was able to give me a doozy. At least she was good at something. The climate on that Charleston driveway suddenly felt like a cold winter day up in Charlotte.