by Tamar Myers
“I’ll wait.”
He gave me a look that said it would be my fault if, indeed, Rob proved to be unfaithful. So be it. I’d raised two teenagers; I was used to being blamed for everything. Besides, what did one man’s erroneous opinion really matter, when Charleston’s aristocracy thought me capable of murder?
Bob’s visit not only left me in a crunch for time, it left me distracted. I drove to Mindy Sparrow’s house on Tradd Street, even though it is just two blocks from where I live. I’d looked her up in the Charleston white pages, you see, and there had been just one Sparrow listed south of Broad. There were a couple of Hawks, and a Starling, but just the one Sparrow—Beauregard. That had to be Mindy’s husband, I reasoned. At any rate, that short drive made my linen dress look like a piece of origami that had been balled up and discarded. Even chain-smoking California sun worshippers seldom get that wrinkled.
I was tugging on my dress when Mindy answered the door. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.
“Love your dress,” she chirped.
For a second I thought she was making fun of me. Then it dawned on me that she was being as sincere as a preacher on Judgment Day.
I waved my wrist. “And I’m wearing chunky jewelry too.”
“Beautiful!”
“And designer shoes.” Actually, I’d bought the sandals at Payless for $12.99, but they looked like I’d paid at least twice that for them.
“Interesting. Ms. Timberfake—”
“That’s Timberlake.”
“Yes, of course. Would you like to come in?”
I could hardly believe my good fortune. “I’d love to.”
She stepped aside to usher me into one of the most tastefully appointed salons I’d ever seen. The key, as often is the case, was understatement.
With the exception of a late-eighteenth-century Chinese rug, which served as the room’s focal point, the furnishings were English. The rug, however, was outstanding. Its center field bore the representations of nine mythical lion-dogs. The colors employed were a rich deep blue, tan, ivory, and persimmon. There was a good deal of wear—Charlestonians use their antiques—but still, I would estimate that at a properly advertised auction, the rug would easily fetch fifty thousand dollars.
The English pieces were also notable. They were all eighteenth century as well, and of the finest workmanship. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they were all signed. There weren’t many pieces; just a settee, two chairs, and an inlaid satinwood game table, but that’s what gave the room its exceptional beauty.
“How lovely!” I gushed.
Mindy permitted her aristocratic mouth to form a smile. “They were all brought over from England by my husband’s great-great-great-granddaddy, Phineas Sparrow, in 1798.”
A less arrogant woman would simply have said “thank you.” There was no need to trot out the generations of Charleston forbears. Well, two could play that game as good as one.
I shook my head in mock sympathy. “Post–Revolutionary War immigration. You must be so embarrassed.”
Beady bird eyes bored into mine. “Just when did your ancestors come over?”
“About a century before that.”
“But not to Charleston!”
“Not right away.”
“But they did move to Charleston?”
The truth is, my family first settled in North Carolina, and North Carolinians are, incidentally, modest folk. They consider their fair state to be a valley of humility between two mountains of conceit. Although my family eventually spread to the Upstate region of South Carolina and parts of Georgia, no one, to my knowledge—until I came along—ever dared call Charleston home. I couldn’t exactly tell Mindy the truth, now could I?
“Well, they landed in Virginia,” I said, trying to keep a straight face, “and built a home in Richmond. They gave that a try for a couple of years, and then decided to move on down to Charleston. As you can imagine, they’d heard so many nice things about this place and were anxious to compare the two cities.”
“And?” She was waiting with bated breath.
“They were bitterly disappointed. They found Charleston to be unworthy of their affections, so they moved to the Upstate.”
Perhaps I’d gone too far. Mindy teetered on her four-inch spikes. If she fell, I’d have to catch her, and I was sorely out of practice.
“I’m just kidding!” I cried.
She stopped swaying. “Which part were you joking about?”
“That they’d found Charleston to be unworthy of their affections. To the contrary, it was they who were unworthy.”
She seemed only minimally relieved. “But has your family really been in this country that long?”
“I’m afraid so. Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Granddaddy Cornelio Wiggins landed in Philadelphia in 1690.”
“Ah, so they were Yankees.”
“For about a year. He waited there until my great-great-great-great-great-great-granny could join him. Then they headed South.”
“Phineas Sparrow was the youngest son of a duke, and my great-great-great-granddaddy on my mama’s side, Baron Munchausen by Proxy, was the second son of an earl.” At least that’s what it sounded like.
“Is that so?” She had yet to ask me what I was doing there, much less offer me a place to sit.
“Oh yes, and my husband’s branch of the Sparrow family is related to three American presidents, but the Proxys can claim four.”
If you can’t beat them, then adore them. “I certainly admire your bloodlines, dear. Good breeding may not be everything, but it’s almost everything, and you, my dear, look very well bred.”
“Thank you—I think.”
“Tell me, is it true that old-time Charlestonians, like you, are not allowed to receive transfusions from those of us who hail from off? You know, on the grounds that it might dilute the blue in your blood, possibly even turning it an unsightly shade of fuchsia?”
“Ms. Timberbake,” she trilled, teetering dangerously once more, “did you come here just to poke fun at everything I hold dear?”
“That’s Timberlake,” I said, “and it’s about time you asked the nature of my visit. As it happens, I came to ask you a few questions of my own. Questions that have to do with Amelia Shadbark.”
Mindy Sparrow appeared to be not the least bit surprised. She gestured at a Chippendale chair.
“Please, have a seat. Would you care for something cold to drink? Some sweet tea maybe?”
“That would be lovely. In the meantime, do you mind if I use the powder room?”
She smiled wanly. “It’s the second door on the right.”
For your information, I didn’t have to use the facilities. But as long as Mindy was going to be in the kitchen pouring my tea, I might as well be doing something interesting. And, I don’t mind telling you, my curiosity was rewarded.
The Sparrows had solid gold bathroom fixtures. Although I have enough money of my own to live comfortably, it occurred to me that an unscrupulous version of myself could walk around with faux gold faucets in her purse, ask to use the bathrooms of the super rich, and then make a switch. One might not get away with it, but at least the bailiff would twist his tongue when he read the charges.
I tried unscrewing the sink spigot—just to test my idea—but these hands, which can barely crack open a boiled peanut, were useless in that regard. I flushed the toilet to give my visit credence, mussed up the guest towel, and returned to the salon.
Mindy appeared seconds later bearing a sterling tray with two tall glasses of tea.
“Do you like benne cookies?” she asked. She was referring to the sesame wafers so popular in Charleston. The cookies, like Gullah, have their origin in West Africa, where sesame seeds are believed to bring good luck.
“I love them,” I said without hesitation.
My answer seemed to disappoint her. No doubt she hoped I’d never heard of this Charleston treat, thereby reaffirming my status as a stranger.
&
nbsp; Since there was no coffee table, she handed me my drink and let me select a few wafers, before she whisked the tray back to the kitchen. By the gleaming looks of that silver platter, there was a maid standing by with a polishing cloth at the ready.
“Now then,” she said when she’d returned and taken a seat, “perhaps we can start over.”
I’m all for peace. “Absolutely,” I said.
“So, Ms. Timbershake, ask me your questions about Amelia. I want, just as badly as you do, to have her killer found.”
I decided, in the interest of expediency, to let her mispronunciation of my professional name pass. Therefore, I swallowed my irritation along with the remains of my wafer.
“I understand you were a close friend of the family.”
She smiled. “Very close. Like I told you when I first met you the other evening, Constance Shadbark was my best friend growing up.”
“Are you still close?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s very interesting, you see, because just this morning Constance said the opposite.”
She blinked. “Surely you misunderstood.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, Constance rather vehemently denied any sort of friendship between the two of you.”
“Are you sure you have the right Constance?” Mrs. Sparrow’s smile had tightened to such a point that it looked like her face might crack. If she ever tired of being a society dame, she’d have a nice future on a home shopping channel.
“I’m quite sure,” I said. “I mean, how many Constance Rodriguez née Shadbarks could there be? Besides, she admitted to eloping with the pencil eraser salesman.”
The smile slipped and was replaced by a smirk. “That’s the one.”
“So, like I said, she denies being friends with you. Why do you think that is?”
“Because she’s jealous.”
“And what is Constance jealous of?”
“The fact that I was Amelia Shadbark’s daughter. Her biological daughter.”
19
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Ms. Timberstake. Amelia Shadbark was my mother.”
“But—but—that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t you think we looked alike?”
“Mrs. Shadbark had a lot of wrinkles,” I said kindly, “and they weren’t just on her clothes.”
“Our bone structure,” Mrs. Sparrow chirped. “And even the way we carried ourselves. Everybody could see it. Constance was no exception.”
“Whoa! Do you mind starting at the beginning?”
Mindy Sparrow’s smile was genuine now. “Where should I begin?”
“The beginning?”
My facetiousness was lost on her. “Oh, that would take all day. Let’s just say that Amelia Shadbark experienced a mild period of teenage rebellion, and I was the result.”
“Gracious me,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “I suppose we can be glad it wasn’t a serious teenage rebellion. How old was she?”
“Well, actually—strictly speaking, that is—she wasn’t a teenager. You see, Amelia had the unfortunate experience of being sent away to college. It was a private girls’ college—which I won’t name—but it was up North.”
I shuddered in sympathy. “Go on.”
“Well, she was twenty-one at the time, and a senior, when she met a boy from Boston. He was from one of the best families—a Brahman.”
“Mrs. Sparrow, I’m a lapsed Episcopalian. I can assure you that his religion doesn’t concern me.”
“Boston Brahman are not a denomination,” she twittered. “They’re the cultural and intellectual elite. And for the most part, they are old money.”
“But still Yankees,” I mumbled.
The look she gave me was so cold it made her air-conditioner stop running. I swear it’s true. I could hear the fan cease abruptly.
“Do you want to hear the rest, or not?”
“I do!” I pressed a petite palm over my mouth.
“In that case, I’ll continue. Now, where was I?”
I mashed my errant lips into my face. I wasn’t about to say a word.
“Oh, yes, shortly after she began to date this young man, Amelia found herself, uh, in the family way, as they used to say in those days. Unfortunately she was in a bit of a quandary because—”
“There was a chance the Brahman boy was not the father?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course he was the father. I’ll have you know Amelia was not a slut.”
“But you said she became pregnant shortly after she met him. One can infer—”
Another blast of arctic air made me mash my lips even flatter. I was going to need collagen injections just to speak again.
“Ms. Timbermake, I refuse to cooperate if you’re going to continue to be so rude.”
I unfurled my lips and gave them a good flap before speaking. “I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
Mindy cocked her head and regarded me with one icy orb. “You had better be, or this conversation is over.” She paused an interminable length of time, presumably to see if I was going to interrupt. “Well, as I was about to say, Amelia was in a quandary because she knew her family would never approve of her marrying a Bostonian—even if he was a Brahman. Then, too, there was the small matter that his family looked down on Amelia because she was Southern. And, just in case you’re wondering, abortions were very difficult to obtain, even had Amelia seen that as an option.
“At any rate, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened at the school, so the college was prepared. They found a home for Amelia’s baby with a local couple. That sweet little baby the Hansons took in, of course, was me.” She paused again, this time for dramatic affect. “Anyway, the Hansons were wonderful parents to me, even though they were—how shall I put this—blue collar.
“They saved their pennies, and when the time came for me to go to college, they didn’t even object when I insisted on attending the College of Charleston. You see, I knew that my birth mother had been from Charleston, I even knew her name. Well, to make a long story short, I looked Amelia up and introduced myself.” She waved her tapered fingers as if to shush me, although I hadn’t uttered a peep. “I know, these blood reunions don’t always go over big, but I was discreet. And, as it turned out, Amelia had just been going through a period of self-examination, so the timing was fortuitous.”
I had just had to put my two cents’ worth in. “It must not have been so discreet, if Constance found out.”
Ms. Sparrow smiled smugly. “That was Amelia’s doing. She was so proud of me, she let everyone and their gardener know who I was. So, of course, my new brother and sister were no exception. Constance is just three years younger than me, by the way. Orman Jr. four.”
“But I don’t get it. She was shamed into giving her baby away in the first place. What changed that?”
“The sixties. Oh, it still wasn’t proper to have a child out of wedlock—and probably never will be. Not in Charleston. But certain things could be intimated, just never spoken directly. Still, folks knew the score. Although I don’t think Amelia really cared at this point, because of what Orman Sr. was up to.”
“Which was?”
“Another maid.” She pointed one of the long manicured digits at me. “Ms. Timberrake, I’m only sharing this because Amelia’s death concerns you. Otherwise—well, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed, we Charlestonians do not engage in gossip.”
“I’ve certainly noticed something. But tell me, how did you manage to marry into society? I mean, given your rather unorthodox beginnings.”
“Bloodlines,” she hissed. “I have good bloodlines.”
Having finished my tea and cookies, I stood. “Well, this has certainly been illuminating. But I am still confused about one thing; earlier when you trotted out your list of illustrious ancestors—the Munchausens, or whomever—were they Amelia’s people, or the Hansons’?”
“Ame
lia’s, of course!”
Mama worked hard to raise me as a Southern lady, and I try not to disappoint her. I extended a petite paw.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Narrow.”
“That’s Sparrow.”
“Whatever, dear.”
I got out of there while I still had a few manners left.
I hate running into people. It can be so damn uncomfortable at times, especially if they have abs of steel.
“Excuse me,” I said, using the last of my good manners.
“Oh no, ma’am, excuse me,” said the tourist. The Bermuda shorts and camera told me he was a tourist, but his accent told me that the place he called home was no more than a full day’s drive away.
I jockeyed to get around him, and as I did so I noticed he was holding a fistful of brochures. Upside-down.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Beg pardon, ma’am?” He regarded me with clear gray eyes set in a deeply tanned face. I figured him to be in his late twenties.
“Which historic home are you looking for? Perhaps I know where it is. The tiny little maps they supply on those brochures are all but worthless.”
He flushed and righted the bunch. “Uh, well, the Heyward-Washington House looks kind of interesting.”
“Oh, it was. Too bad they tore it down.”
“Ma’am?”
“Oh yes, the city put up some first-class condominiums. I hear they’re selling them for two million dollars each.”
He frowned and smiled simultaneously. “Ma’am, I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, uh, the brochure doesn’t mention that at all.”
“Those are old brochures, dear. These condos just went up in the last several months. You should see them, especially the penthouse. The view stretches from Folly Beach to the Isle of Palms. That one sells for three million dollars, and last I heard it’s still available. You should really take a look—it won’t cost you anything just to take a peek.”
He was all smiles now. “Thanks, I might.” He started to walk away.
“And they offer a huge discount to private investigators!” I called to his back.