by Tamar Myers
Her apartment was on the ground floor, and as it lacked a working bell, I rapped on the peeling green door. When no one answered after several seconds, I rapped again.
“I’ll just be a minute,” a woman called. “I need to grab my purse.”
After enough time had elapsed to cook up a mess of collard greens, the door opened. Clearly I had the wrong apartment, the wrong address altogether. This woman, with her stringy shoulder-length hair, dressed in a faded floral T-shirt from Kmart, and stretch pants that bulged obscenely in places skirts were meant to cover, could not be Amelia Shadbark’s daughter.
“Uh, I think I’ve made a mistake.”
The woman, who was leaning heavily on a cane, looked at me through eyes that were mere slits. “You’re the one they sent to pick me up, right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re from social services, right? You’re here to give me a ride to the doctor.”
“No, ma’am. I’m looking for a Constance Shadbark.”
She pushed a greasy wisp away from her eyes with her free hand, the better to see me. “What do you want with Constance?”
“It’s about her mother.”
Her eyes appeared closed. “I’m Constance Shadbark Rodriguez. Prefer to use my maiden name. Who are you?”
“My name is Abigail Timberlake. I had tea with your mother the day before yesterday—the day before she, uh, passed on”
She nodded. “So you’re the one.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” I wailed.
“Are you sure? Because I’d have to congratulate you if you did, and I’m not in a congratulatory mood.”
I started. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” She began to back into the apartment, as deliberating as a semi-truck easing into the delivery bay of a supermarket.
“You’re glad your mama’s dead?”
“Glad isn’t the word, Ms. Timberlake. I’m thrilled.”
The door would have closed, but for the tip of the woman’s cane. I planted one of my size fours beside the wooden staff.
“Look, I may not be from social services, but I can give you a ride just the same. To the doctor, to the grocery store—wherever you want to go. Just name it.”
She paused. Her breath came in loud gusts through the narrow space created by my foot.
“Please,” I begged. “I’m a very good driver.”
“Let’s make it IHOP then.”
“Not the doctor?”
“You want your chance to grill me, right?”
I didn’t argue again.
Constance informed me that she didn’t like to talk on an empty stomach, so I drove as fast as I could without risking a ticket. This involved a lot of vehicular bobbing and weaving, around tourists who appeared pleasantly lost, or retirees whose massive cars were no more peppy than they. If it had been Mama with me, I would have had to put up with a lot of senseless gasping, possibly even a few screams. Constance remained placid, although she did grunt when I screeched to a stop at the red light where Mathis Ferry road joins the highway.
But we made it to the restaurant safely, and I was relieved to find a parking place. You see, the International House of Pancakes on Route 17 North is one of this burgeoning town’s few spots where one can grab a bite of breakfast. As such, it is invariably crowded. Midmorning, however, seemed to be a fairly good time. Although there were several empty booths available in nonsmoking, Constance Rodriguez insisted on sitting in the land of hazy addiction. What made her choice really interesting is the fact that she didn’t smoke. Or at least she claimed not to.
“I’m tired of all this political correctness,” she grunted, and then proceeded to order the Farmer’s Breakfast with extra sides of hash browns and bacon. I opted for just coffee.
True to her word, Constance didn’t say a word—except for placing her order—until after she was through eating. That is, through eating her first breakfast. After ordering a second breakfast, this time the Rooty-Tooty-Fruity, hold the Fruity, she inclined her head in my direction.
“You may ask your questions now,” she said imperiously.
I swallowed a mouthful of tepid coffee and took a deep breath. “Well, uh, okay. Did I understand you correctly before? I mean, are you actually thrilled that your mama is dead?”
She ran a pinky up the side of the boysenberry syrup bottle, and then licked it. The pinky, not the bottle. Although I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her lick that too.
“I’m overjoyed,” she said, her tone utterly flat. “The woman was insufferable.”
I found myself wishing IHOP served something stronger than coffee. “Do you mind elaborating?” I asked.
“Where should I begin?” She dabbed a puddle of syrup on the table next to the bottle. “How about the day I was born? Mama thought she’d done her duty. Thought she’d produced a proper heir. A boy. She was so out of it—so hopped up on painkillers—she misunderstood the doctor and nurses. When she came to her senses and saw me, she literally turned away. Figuratively, too. Do you know, she never once changed my diapers?”
“You’re joking!”
“I don’t joke, Ms. Timberlake. She hired a nursemaid. A black woman named Betty. Until I was ten, Betty was more of a mama to me, than Amelia.” She paused to clean the sides of the maple syrup bottle.
“What happened when you were ten?”
“Betty died,” she said, in the same flat tones. “She was run over by a drunk while crossing King Street on New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Day actually. Mama wouldn’t let her live at the house. Made Betty stay late that night to take care of me while she and Daddy partied.”
I warmed my coffee from the thermos on the table and stirred in two miniature tubs of half-and-half, and a package of Equal. “Did your daddy treat you the way your mama did?”
For the first time her eyes were wide enough for me to see their color. They were palmetto-frond green.
“I didn’t agree to talk about Daddy.”
I nodded. “But what about your brother—Orman Jr., isn’t it? I mean, how did your mama treat him?”
“Ha! Well, Mama hung the moon on him, of course. Guess who got to take care of the little monster when Betty died?”
I smiled. “I have a younger brother. His name is Toy, believe it or not. In my mama’s eyes he can do no wrong.”
I knew she was studying my face, but the fact I could no longer see her eyes again was disconcerting. It was like having a face-to-face conversation with a person wearing very dark, or reflective, sunglasses.
“So Toy really pisses you off,” she said finally.
“Well, he’s studying to be an Episcopal priest—hey, that’s not fair. We’re here to talk about your mother, Mrs. Amelia Shadbark.”
“Right.” The apricot syrup bottle was clean, so Constance was forced to dribble some directly on her finger. “But you brought up the subject of your brother, Ms. Timberlake.”
“Well, let’s get back to yours. Does he live in the area?”
She shrugged. “Last I heard he had an apartment in North Charleston. Off Rivers Avenue, I think. Close to Trident Technical College.”
That didn’t sound like a likely address for a Shadbark. But neither did the Fig Tree Apartments, even if they were located in prestigious Mount Pleasant.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.
She screwed up her face to help her think. “Five years?”
It sounded more like a question than an answer, but I wasn’t surprised. I’d have to stop and think if anyone asked me when I last saw Toy. It’s not my fault he moved to California, and refuses to come East even for a short visit. If I had as much time on my hands as Mama does, it might be a different story. I’m not adverse to visiting La-La Land, mind you. I just can’t take that much vacation.
“Mrs. Rodriguez,” I said—she’d not yet invited me to call her Constance—“can you think of any reason someone would want to kill your mother?”
“M
yself excluded?”
“Come on, surely you don’t mean that!”
She laughed for the first time. It was surprisingly high and girlish, and reminded me of Mindy Sparrow.
“Do I look like the type who could kill—physically, I mean?”
“Your mother was poisoned,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.
“Well, it wasn’t me. I haven’t seen her in years. I would have had to mail her the poison. But to answer your question, you might want to check out her heirs.”
She pronounced it “hairs.” I was on the verge of telling her that was the job of a real detective—one with a lab at his or her disposal—when I figured it out. But Constance might have inadvertently made a point. A human hair will record toxins that have been ingested during its growing cycle, although it is unlikely Amelia Shadbark’s hair grew very much after she was poisoned.
“Aren’t you one of her heirs?” I asked.
“Ha! Now that’s a good one. Mama wrote me out of her will the day I married Lorenzo.”
“The pencil eraser salesman?”
It is possible to glare through slits. The blue-green eyes shone like twin laser lights.
“There is nothing disgraceful about selling pencil erasers. Somebody has to do it. But oh no, Mama wanted me to marry a doctor, or a clergyman. Even a lawyer, she said, was better than a salesman.”
“Been there, done that—married the lawyer, I mean. It was a disaster. Now I’m married to an ex-cop shrimp fisherman.”
“Really?” Her demeanor was suddenly much warmer. Now we were sisters; in status, if nothing else.
“Really. He operates out of Shem Creek, here in Mount Pleasant. He comes home every night smelling like the beach at low tide.”
She smiled. “Lorenzo used to smell like rubber.”
“What happened to him?” It was a reasonable question, given that she referred to him only in the past tense.
Constance gave the Very Berry jar a thorough cleaning before answering. “He died—it will be ten years next Friday. His sample van collided with a lumber truck.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She laughed, but that high girlish voice couldn’t transcend the bitterness. “Thanks, but it was kind of ironic, wasn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Those logs were headed for a pencil factory. My Lorenzo was pummeled to death by potential pencils.”
“So then you came back to the Charleston area.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes, that’s what brought me back. I got a job when I first returned—as a bookkeeper for a bakery up in North Charleston. I didn’t count on being crippled by arthritis.” She extended a clutch of sticky fingers. “See? I can’t even close this hand properly. But it’s even worse in my knees. And since I can’t drive anymore, I have to rely on the mercy of strangers.”
I grimaced sympathetically. I also felt guilty as all get out. Thanks to me, the woman was packing more weight on those knees, instead of keeping her appointment with the doctor.
“I trust Mrs. Sparrow has been a big help.”
She centered the slits on my face. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, it’s just—I mean, she is your best friend and all. It must be a comfort to have a friend as close as a sister nearby.”
“Mrs. Sparrow,” she hissed, “is not my best friend. In fact, she isn’t any kind of a friend.”
“But she said—”
“Mrs. Sparrow is a bitch.”
You can bet I would have gotten to the bottom of that, had it not been for the arrival of the Rooty-Tooty-Fruity, sans fruit. After that, my little interrogation was over. Although Constance allowed me to drive her to the doctor—where we had to wait for a cancellation—and to the grocery store, she refused to say another word about herself, her mother, or her brother.
It wasn’t a total loss, however, because while still in her syrup-licking stage, she’d given me a little something to go on.
13
Orman Shadbark Jr. might well prove to be a big something to go on, if only I could find him. From Mount Pleasant I took the Mark Clark Expressway, crossing first over the Wando River, then Daniel Island, and finally over the Cooper River, which, despite the fact that it was low tide, was doing a remarkable job of forming its share of the Atlantic Ocean. I exited the expressway on Rivers Avenue, headed north, and as I approached Trident Technical College I kept a sharp lookout for apartments, but to no avail. Eventually I was forced to expand my search for an apartment building to both sides of Rivers Avenue, which is four lanes wide, and in the process gave my guardian angels, and myself, a good cardiovascular workout.
Common sense ultimately prevailed, and I suspended my sleuthing in favor of a hearty lunch at Binh Minh, a Vietnamese restaurant adjacent to a defunct miniature golf course. I’d eaten there before on several occasions, and knew their salty lemongrass chicken was to die for, whereas the traffic on Rivers Avenue was not.
I had no sooner turned off my engine when I noticed, tucked behind the little golf course, a red-brick, single-story building that looked too long and narrow to be a conventional house. It wasn’t worth the effort of fighting traffic, not to mention losing my parking space, to drive over to the strange building, so I hoofed it instead.
It was worth every drop of dew (Southern women don’t perspire) when I not only confirmed that the odd structure was indeed an apartment building—although only four units long—but that the tenant farthest from Rivers Avenue was listed on the mailbox as Orman. There couldn’t be that many Ormans in the country. It had to be Constance’s brother.
The bell was taped over, so I rapped with my knuckles. They may be tiny, but so are BBs. Both are hard, however, and can pack quite a wallop—not that I intended to hit anyone, mind you.
At any rate, the door opened presently, and when it did, it was all I could do to remain standing. The wave of alcohol fumes was that strong.
“Yes?” The man reeking of spirits was of medium height, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, and was wearing the Charleston summer uniform of the upper class. That is to say, his suit was made of blue-and-white-striped cotton seersucker, and he sported a matching blue bow tie. White buckskin shoes completed the look.
“Mr. Shadbark?” I asked.
He peered over my head with eyes so red they added a patriotic touch to his ensemble. “Who wants to know?”
I proffered a petite paw. “My name is Abigail Timberlake.” There was no point in confusing him with the Wiggins part. “I’m a friend of your sister.”
“Sister?” He swayed like one of the harbor cranes in hurricane force winds. “Don’t have a sister.”
“Constance Rodriguez, sir. Isn’t she your sister?”
The bloodshot eyes closed while he considered the possibility. When they finally opened, the red had turned to pink.
“Tell her I don’t have any money,” he said. “Not till the end of the month.”
I turned my face long enough to fill my lungs with parking lot air. “Sir,” I said while exhaling, “I don’t think Constance wants your money.”
“What does she want, then?”
It was time to ’fess up. While telling the occasional lie might be fun, it’s also a whole lot of work.
“Constance doesn’t want anything, Mr. Shadbark,” I said, carefully omitting the D. “I do. I want to talk about your mother.”
“Are you from the paper?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Post and Courier. There was a young lady here yesterday—”
“No, sir, I am not a reporter. I’m an antique dealer. I had tea with your mother the day she died.”
He gave me the once-over, which took all of three seconds. “Come in.”
“Well, uh—”
He snorted. Had someone lit a match just then, we would have both gone up in flames.
“Look,” he said, “I can’t afford to air-condition all of North Charleston.”
He had a
point. I had no business knocking on a strange man’s door if I wasn’t prepared to accept his hospitality.
“Just for a minute,” I said. “My husband’s waiting for me in the car.”
“I’m not going to bite you, Mrs. Timbersnake.” He laughed. “Given your name, that would be your job, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s Timberlake,” I said through gritted teeth. “Actually, it isn’t even that—never mind. Inside will be fine.”
A Southern gentleman by birth, Orman Shadbark Jr., my impromptu host, stood gallantly aside while I entered. He even bowed slightly, if unsteadily, from the waist.
“Please,” he said, “sit wherever you can find a spot.”
That was easier said than done. The small room contained a sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table, but they were all covered with empty bottles, dirty clothes, dirty dishes, and personal items I choose not to identify. I suppose the floor was an option, if I didn’t mind sitting on a mat of food crumbs. I could only conclude that Orman had been lying in, or on, his bed, fully dressed in the seersucker suit.
“I don’t mind standing,” I said.
“Suit yourself.” He looked longingly at an armchair, which, even if he cleared it, etiquette would prevent him from occupying. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He frowned, causing the bow tie to bobble. “I hope you don’t mind if I have one. It’s this heat.”
“By all means.”
The apartment was frigid, however. No doubt he needed the alcohol in his veins to keep them from freezing. Pure alcohol doesn’t freeze, you know—at least not at conventionally achieved temperatures. I had a roommate in college who proved that. We had a miniature fridge in our dorm room. I kept butter pecan ice cream in my half of the freezing compartment, Mary Beth gin in hers, away from the prying eyes of our dorm mother, who presumably had never been a college student herself.
At any rate, Orman disappeared into what I assumed was his bedroom, and returned just as quick with a glass half filled with a red liquid. I tried not to stare. At least he wasn’t drinking booze straight out of the bottle.
“It’s got tomato juice in it,” he said, reading my mind. “That’s good for your health, isn’t it? Lots of vitamins.”