Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  He turned. “Ma’am?”

  “PI’s get a fifty percent discount.”

  His was a hearty, refreshing laugh. “So I’m busted, am I?”

  “You betcha.”

  “What gave me away?”

  “What didn’t? Besides, I’m married to a former detective—wait just one cotton-picking minute! Greg hired you, didn’t he?”

  The gray eyes turned as somber as Charleston Harbor on a cloudy winter day. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am—”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” This time I jockeyed to stay in front of him. “It makes perfect sense to me now. First he blows a gasket when I get involved in this case, then suddenly he’s all peaches and cream. That’s because he hired you to watch out for me, right?”

  The hapless PI stared at me, at a loss for words.

  “So, you’re not so much a PI as you are a bodyguard. Am I right?”

  “No comment, ma’am.”

  “Are you armed?”

  He shifted from one sockless Nike to the other. “Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  I shook my head. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you young man. I detest being followed, even if it is for my protection. Good luck keeping up with me.”

  “Please, ma’am, I’m only doing my job.”

  The poor guy was practically down on his bare knees begging. He had a point—although what did that really have to do with me? It was not my responsibility to see that he met the terms of his arrangement with Greg. If I chose to take my life into my own two tiny hands, that was my right. This is America, after all. Even in the Confederate States of America we had that right—well, those of us who were white and male.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s my car over there, as you well know. My plan is to drive up to Georgetown.”

  “Georgetown? But that’s over an hour away.”

  That charming port city is indeed an hour and a half drive up coastal Highway 17. It’s worth visiting if one is a tourist, by the way. Settled by rice planters in 1729, it is the third-oldest city in the state. There are many buildings of interest, including a rice museum, which once served as the old slave market.

  “Yeah, I should really get a move on. I want to make sure I get back before dusk. All those deer along the highway make me nervous.”

  “What’s in Georgetown?” I was surprised to hear him whine.

  “You have your secrets, dear, I have mine.”

  “But your husband will be back from the movies by then—”

  “Aha! So it is Greg you’re working for!”

  He couldn’t have squirmed more had he been a worm presented with a fishhook. “But ma’am, the Braves are playing tonight, and I’ve already made plans to go over to a buddy’s house to watch the game on his digital TV. The first pitch is at seven.”

  “Then I suggest we get cracking. Where’s your car?”

  “Around the corner, ma’am. That way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.

  “Well, I could offer you a ride, I suppose, but that would be taking hospitality a bit too far. What say we meet at the visitor center on Front Street in downtown Georgetown in exactly an hour and forty-five minutes—that should allow for traffic over the Silas N. Pealman Memorial Bridge. Anyway, I’ll fill you in when we get there.”

  Without waiting for his reaction I walked calmly, if a bit quickly, to my vehicle. My guess is that the tail Greg had hired to protect my tail hesitated a tad too long. When I glanced in my rearview mirror he was running in the direction of his car. Then I turned the corner. That was the last I saw of him.

  20

  Yes, I should feel guilty for what I did, but a bodyguard who could be ditched that easily was not going to do me a whole lot of good. To the contrary, a really clever killer would spot my shadow, making everything I did just a waste of time. Still, it was sweet of Greg to want to protect me. I would remember to tell him that—if he didn’t yell at me.

  At any rate, I parked my car in the city garage off Concord Street, near the South Carolina State Port Authority. I wound my way up the ramp to the roof, on the theory that only a very determined PI would bother to search for me at such dizzying heights. Besides, the view from on top is invariably quite splendid. Today, despite the fact there was hardly a breath of wind, the harbor was dotted with sailboats. Further out, toward Fort Sumter, a lone figure was parasailing across the cloudless sky.

  I paused to admire the scene, vowed to myself that I would someday be brave enough to go parasailing, and then scampered down the steps as fast as I could go. Although parking garage stairs give me the creeps, I find the elevators even worse. At least the odds of stairs malfunctioning are close to nil.

  Due to the exceptional heat, there were fewer tourists about than usual, but I blended quickly into the stream of the sweaty if somewhat sparse crowd. Perhaps it is the charm and grace of the city, or perhaps it is simply the euphoria brought on by spending, but one almost never sees a cross face in downtown Charleston. A smile and a shopping bag are all one needs to become virtually invisible. Lacking the latter, I scurried toward The Market.

  This historic shopping site was built on land deeded to the city in 1788 by Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, among others, on the stipulation that there would always remain a market. The main building, Market Hall, is a two-story Roman Doric structure designed by Joseph Hyde in 1840. The upper level, now under renovation, houses a Confederate museum. The arcade, at street level, stretches for several blocks toward the harbor, becoming progressively more simple in design.

  I ducked into the harbor end of the arcade. At this point The Market consists of a single row of semi-open sheds that can be bitterly cold in the winter and sizzling hot in the summer. The vendors here rank among the hardiest souls on the planet. Any one of them could lead an expedition to the poles, or a jaunt, at sea level, along the equator. I can’t visit this part of The Market without being propelled by guilt to purchase at least something.

  The first among equals, and the hardiest of the lot, have got to be the Gullah women who sell their homemade sweetgrass baskets at the entrances to the sheds, where they endure the broiling summer sun, and cold damp winter winds. The baskets are veritable works of art, made in tradition of West African basketmakers, a tradition that, like benne cookies, was imported along with the slaves. One can also see the baskets for sale in Mount Pleasant, in little sheds along Highway 17. Sweetgrass baskets are highly collectible and have become popular with both tourists and long-term residents, and prices can reflect that.

  I resisted the temptation to peruse the sweetgrass baskets at The Market in search of a bargain, and made my way as quickly as possible down the single aisle that runs the length of each shed. To either side were stalls that sold T-shirts, postcards, souvenirs, jewelry, handbags, binoculars, beach towels, videotapes, and a thousand other things that appealed for a split second, but for which I really had no need. There was no sign of Percival Franklin, or a stall displaying hand-carved dolphins and seagulls.

  I hopped across the street and popped into the second shed. There was plenty of bric-a-brac on display, but nothing remotely resembling art, unless you count the velvet paintings of Jesus Christ, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, the original Three Stooges, and galloping horses. One imaginative painting had the first three of these icons all in the same painting, seated astride galloping horses. The artist was, I am sure, not trying to be disrespectful, and had placed Jesus Christ on the lead horse. Marilyn Monroe brought up the rear.

  “How much is it?” I asked, just out of curiosity.

  The vendor, a squat woman with a semi-full contingent of teeth, grinned happily. “Four hundred and fifty dollars. Five fifty if you want to add the Stooges. We’re all sold out of them at the moment, but I can get you one by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe just Curly.”

  She scowled. “Whoever heard of splitting up the Stooges? It’s all three of them or nothing.”

  “In that case, nothing.”

  “
Then like I said, four hundred and fifty. With the tax that comes out to—”

  “No thanks.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I’m a dealer myself—an antique dealer over on King Street. I was just asking out of curiosity. One never knows. My customers might ask where they can buy some beautiful contemporary artwork. I need to know whom to recommend.”

  She beamed and handed me a card. “Name’s Connie Beth. I’m here every day. And on the days I can’t make it, I send my husband, Elmer. He’s the one that does the painting.”

  “Thanks, Connie Beth. Say, would you happen to know if there’s a young man in one of these buildings who sells exquisitely beautiful woodcarvings?”

  Connie Beth shook her head. “But there is a young fellow over in the next shed who sells these God-awful carvings. Birds, fish, that kind of thing. I told him if he’d take up carving important stuff—you know, like them praying hands—he could make all kinds of money.”

  Birds? Fish? Seagulls were birds. Dolphin weren’t fish, although a lot of people assumed they were.

  “Is he a very handsome African American? Maybe in his early twenties?”

  She giggled. “Yeah, he is kind of cute, isn’t he? Still, it’s what you got that sells, not how you look.”

  “Do your husband’s paintings sell well?” I asked, struggling to keep a neutral tone to my voice.

  Connie Beth nodded vigorously. “Like I said, we’re all sold out of that one of Jesus, Elvis, Marilyn, and the Stooges. My Elmer can’t paint them fast enough.”

  “Thank you, Connie Beth,” I said. She had been very helpful.

  I didn’t mean to sneak up on Percival Franklin, but he was talking to a customer when I approached, and his back was turned. Even though I waited until the young man was through conducting business before I spoke, he jumped.

  “Lord have mercy, Mrs. Timberlake! You scared the pis—tachios out of me.”

  “Nice recovery. Sorry about the scare. Sometimes I think I should wear a bell around my neck.”

  He laughed. “So, you still like the carving I gave you?”

  “I love it! Unfortunately I didn’t come here to talk to you about that.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  There was something about the way he said it that made me blush. I could feel the crimson spread across my face.

  “Oh, I’m a happily married woman, Mr. Franklin. Which is not to say I don’t find you attractive—hey, did you know that woman who sells the velvet Jesus paintings has the hots for you?”

  “She does?”

  “Well, she said you were cute.” Leave it to me to dig myself into a hole while standing on a concrete pad. “Look, I came to see you about Evangeline LaPointe. She was murdered last night.”

  He stared at me. I wasn’t sure he’d understood.

  “Amelia Shadbark’s nosy neighbor,” I said. “The one who drank too much. She’s dead.”

  His dark eyes flickered. “Not here.”

  “Not here, what?”

  “We can’t talk about this here.” If I hadn’t had the experience of raising a mumbling teenage son, I wouldn’t have been able to understand a word Percival Franklin said.

  “Then where?”

  “Give me half an hour to close my stall. Then meet me at Waterfront Park—say in another fifteen minutes. You know where the Pineapple Fountain is?”

  I nodded. This enormous, but spectacular, water feature lives up to its name. It’s impossible to a miss a sixteen-foot granite fruit.

  “I’ll be there,” I said, “with bells on.”

  “Just one will do the trick.”

  I laughed, but he’d already turned away to help a customer.

  Instead of wandering back through the market I exited onto Market Street and headed straight for the park. Charleston has so many treasures, most of them of great historical interest, that it is easy for the casual visitor to miss some of the more recently created gems. Waterfront Park should be on everyone’s list.

  For one thing, it has what Charleston’s Mayor Joseph P. Riley Jr. calls the “best gravel path in America.” The mayor himself took an active part in selecting the stones, which hail from both Texas and South Carolina, and together form a surface that works well for both wheelchairs and high heels. It certainly felt good under my feet as I followed the walk that leads to the Pineapple Fountain.

  I parked my keister on the nearest shady bench. For the first few minutes I kept a sharp lookout, in case I’d been followed. The park, however, was virtually deserted, and I soon found myself getting drowsy. I fought the feeling for a good five minutes and then—perhaps it was due to the soothing sound of splashing—succumbed to sleep.

  “Mrs. Timberlake!”

  I jumped, precipitating an uncomfortable reconnection of keister and bench. “What!”

  Percival Franklin smiled. “Sorry, Mrs. Timberlake. It’s just that I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Oh Lordy, is it considered bad manners? I mean, was my mouth open?”

  “No ma’am. I mean your purse. It’s just sitting on the bench besides you. Someone could have walked away with it.”

  I grabbed my bag and held it to my still pounding chest. “Well, there was nobody around.”

  He gestured to the space where my pocketbook had been. “May I?”

  “By all means. Sit. But you must call me Abigail.”

  “Call me Percival,” he said, taking his seat. “The only people to call me Percy are dead.” He meant it as a joke, I assure you.

  One has to give us Southerners at least some credit. We’ve come a long way from my grade school days when not only was my school segregated, but the drinking fountains on the public playground were segregated as well. It would have been unthinkable back then for a white woman and a black man to share the same park bench. Today an interracial couple can stroll through Waterfront Park, pushing their mixed-race baby in a stroller, and no one will give them a second look—except possibly to smile at the baby.

  Yes, I know, there are still a few cretins out there who are woefully behind the times. But there are enough reasonable, fair-minded folks—at least here in Charleston—that bigots are, by and large, afraid to give voice to their poison. I certainly didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious about having Percival Franklin share my bench. Not on account of his race, at any rate. Now his looks—it is hard to sit that close to someone that good-looking, and not feel at least a trifle on edge.

  “What’s in that white bag?” I asked.

  He glanced at the plastic sack between his feet. “I’ll get to that in a minute. First tell me about Miss LaPointe.”

  “There’s not much to tell, except that she suffocated to death. Apparently someone smothered her.”

  Percival grimaced. “When?”

  “Early this morning. Probably between three and four. That’s all I know for sure—except for the fact that my dear sweet husband put a tail on me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was being dogged by a private investigator—a bodyguard, really. But then I ditched him.”

  The young man’s head swiveled. “You must have done a good job, because there isn’t a soul in sight. Not even a tourist.”

  “You don’t see any tourists because there’s nothing to buy here in the park. Only a mad dog or an Englishman—well, you get the picture. Anyway, Percival, I wanted to ask you a few questions if I might.”

  I couldn’t see him tense, but I could feel the back support of the bench vibrate as his spine straightened. “I was in bed,” he said flatly.

  “Oh no, that’s not what I meant! The questions are about Amelia Shadbark’s children.”

  He looked at me through eyes still shining with suspicion. “I don’t know them, Abby. I worked for Mrs. Shadbark three years, and I never saw the daughter—not to my knowledge. The son stopped by a couple of times, but we were never formally introduced. That didn’t stop him from criticizing the way I clipped the hedges.”
/>   “How did you know he was the son, if you weren’t introduced?”

  “Brunhilde told me.”

  “Ah. Well, that brings me to my next question. What do you think of Ms. Salazar?”

  “How do you mean? Are you wondering if I think she killed Mrs. Shadbark? Or Miss LaPointe?”

  “That, too. I was going to have you start with your impressions in general—but please, plunge right in.”

  “Bruney is okay,” he said, choosing his words deliberately. “Maybe we didn’t see eye to eye when she first hired on, but I guess you can say we got to be friends.”

  “Bruney?”

  “That’s what I call her.”

  “Does she call you Percy?”

  His glare, I’m sure, was all for show. “She can come across as mean, but she’s really not. She doesn’t have it in her to kill.”

  I looked him right in the eye. “Did you know she was really Swedish?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Excuse me, Abby, but that’s crazy.”

  “It’s true. Brunhilde Salazar’s real name is Ingebord Simonson.”

  Percival grinned. “Okay, so I’m busted. Yeah, I knew that.”

  “She told you?”

  “Look, she isn’t trying to get away with anything illegal. Bruney—and that’s what I really call her—just needs a break. It’s not her fault those husbands died. I would have married her myself—just to keep her in the country—except that I already have someone in my life.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t mean to sound disappointed. It just came out that way.

  “And she’s female, in case you’re wandering.”

  “I wasn’t.” I swallowed enough irritation to give me a bellyache. “Okay, this leaves me with just one question; what do you know about Mrs. Mindy Sparrow?”

  “The society lady who hates my guts?”

  “That’s the one. Although I think the word ‘distrusts’ is more accurate.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s all the same to me.”

  “Yes, but what do you know about her?”

  He shrugged. “Besides the fact that she’s skinny, wears wrinkled clothes, and sounds like a, uh, like a sparrow?”