Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  This time Constance took so long to answer the door that I was tempted to eat the gifts I’d brought to keep from starving to death. I could have kicked myself for not having brought something to drink.

  “It’s only you,” Constance said when the door finally opened. “What do you want this time?”

  “To give you these,” I said, and held out the goodies.

  She eyed the carrot cake. “Who told you that’s my favorite?”

  “No one, but Publix makes the best carrot cake in the world. I didn’t think I could go wrong. See, it even has a carrot made out of icing on top.”

  “Ms. Timberlake, are you implying that we heavy people can be bought with food?”

  “No ma’am. It’s just that I know you don’t get out much.”

  “Is that cheese bread fresh?”

  “Atlanta Bread Company makes it fresh every day.”

  “You can come in,” she growled, “but just for a minute.”

  I stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned apartment. It was furnished simply, in what can best be described as Early Goodwill decor. This is not a judgment call, mind you—we must all make do with what’s available to us—but merely an observation. It was also my observation that Constance had recently had a guest. There were two plastic tumblers sitting on the fake cherry coffee table, and both were approximately half full of ice tea. Despite the cool air, the ice in the drinks was producing more sweat than Wendy Steuben.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.

  Constance caught me glancing at the tumblers. “Oh no. I get a little absentminded sometimes. I’d forgotten I’d already fixed myself a drink. Then, as long as I had two made, I decided I might as well drink them both.” She paused, as if pondering the problems of the world. “Would you care for something to drink?” she finally asked.

  Afraid that she might offer me one of the two teas, I requested water. She was happy to oblige, but did I mind getting it for myself?

  “And cut me a nice slice of that cake, while you’re in the kitchen. Feel free to have one, as well. You’ll find knives and forks in that drawer to the right of the sink, and there are some dessert plates in the left cabinet on the bottom shelf.”

  “What about the bread?”

  “I’ll be saving that for supper.”

  “No, I meant, where do you want me to put it?”

  “Just leave it on the counter by the refrigerator. And speaking of which, pour me a little milk. It will go better with the cake. You’ll find the glasses on the shelf above the dessert plates.”

  I did as I was bade, although I resolved not to do any laundry, if asked. Constance might not be happy to see me when I showed up at her door, but she had no compunctions against putting me right to work.

  When I returned with her snack (I’d passed on the cake) she graciously allowed me to sit. I chose an armchair upholstered in faded purple-and-green-plaid polyester. Constance had already staked out a matching couch, and my only other option was a black painted kitchen chair that looked like its previous owner had thrown it into a wood-chipping machine, and then changed his mind.

  “So,” she said, and took her first bite. Before continuing she licked the icing off her lips. “To what do I owe the honor this time?”

  I took a sip of water. “I went to see your brother, Mrs. Rodriguez. And then Mrs. Mindy Sparrow. They had some interesting things to say.”

  Constance jabbed a finger into her cake, and licked the icing off that, too. “I just bet they did. Bet they both badmouthed me to hell and back.”

  “I wouldn’t say that—”

  “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me, Ms. Timberlake. Tell me exactly what they each said.”

  “Well, your brother had a very specific message. He said to tell you he wouldn’t have any money until the end of the month.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Actually, her language was a bit stronger than that, but I’m too much of a lady to repeat it word for word.

  “I don’t know what he meant.”

  “The hell you don’t! He meant—as you damn well know—that he sends me a monthly check. Well, let me tell you something, little Miss Mess in Everybody’s Business, he doesn’t send me a dime. Once, just once, I borrowed two hundred dollars from him to get from Chicago back to here—by bus. I have long since paid that money back.”

  I said nothing, although I was tempted to tell her what Orman Jr. had said about her behavior being the cause of their father’s death. The only reason I refrained was that I knew my motive was now wrong. I no longer wanted just to get information; I wanted to hurt her for calling me a name. The “little” part I was used to—but Miss Mess in Everybody’s Business had really struck a nerve.

  I’d served the piece of cake with the largest section of carrot-shaped icing on top. After waiting impatiently for a few seconds for me to respond, Constance swiped the decoration off in one piece and licked her finger. The cake itself disappeared in three bites. Then, for no reason that I could see, she licked the remaining fingers on that hand. Perhaps in a previous life she’d been a cat.

  “So what did that lying Sparrow have to say?”

  “Mrs. Rodriguez, she seems to be under the impression that Amelia was her mother.”

  “That lying piece of—”

  “More cake?”

  “Later. Tell me exactly what she said.”

  I told her. Constance listened with remarkable impassivity. I mean, one minute she was as fractious as a mule with a burr under its saddle, and the next, her features were as placid as a stone Buddha’s.

  I was beginning to think my cat diagnosis had been correct when she snapped out of her reverie. “It’s all lies,” she hissed. “The two of them are in cahoots. They want me committed.” She wagged a moist finger. “No, I’ll tell you what they really want—they want me to drop dead like Daddy did.”

  “Why would they want that?”

  “So that they could inherit more money, of course!”

  “But if Mrs. Sparrow isn’t one of your mother’s heirs, how does she stand to inherit?”

  Constance snorted. “By marrying Orman Jr. Please, Mrs. Timberlake, this isn’t rocket science.”

  I stood my ground. “It may not be rocket science, but its about as clear as a bowl of she-crab soup. Mrs. Sparrow is already married.”

  “That marriage is a sham. Mindy only married Beauregard Sparrow because she couldn’t get my brother to commit. She was trying to make him jealous, but he was slow to react, and the plan backfired on her. But make no mistake, Mrs. Timberlake, Mindy and Orman Jr. have been lovers for years.”

  “Then why didn’t she get divorced and marry him?”

  “Because my brother is a loser. He’s never been able to keep a job, and Mama and Daddy didn’t believe in trust funds. We had to make it on our own. Mindy knew which side her bread was buttered on. Only now all that’s changed—Orman Jr.’s side suddenly has more butter.”

  I tried to imagine the chic Mrs. Sparrow I knew cavorting with a broken-down drunk like Orman Shadbark Jr. Unless the latter stood to inherit a whole lot of money—more than a flock of Sparrows could supply—I just didn’t see it.

  “Forgive this indelicate question, Mrs. Rodriguez, but how large is your mother’s estate?”

  She regarded me through the slits that served as eyes. “Mama could buy and sell all of Charleston County.”

  “As rich as that? Well, Mrs. Sparrow would have me believe that you hated your mama.”

  “More lies! Take me to her, Mrs. Timberlake. Drive me over there right now, and I’ll rip her lying tongue out.”

  “Okay by me. But I have to warn you, it’s awfully hot out there.”

  I could tell Constance wasn’t expecting to have her bluff called. She turned the color of a peeled rutabaga.

  “Oh, then I shouldn’t go out,” she moaned. “Ever since the cradle, heat and I have been enemies.”

  “You sure you don’t want to come? We
can stop at Sticky Fingers restaurant on the way,” I said, referring to a popular barbecue joint on Route 17. “Their Memphis dry ribs are to die for.”

  The woman seemed torn between following through on an empty threat or forgoing another meal at my expense. She gazed wistfully down at her hands.

  “Youth eez mean!”

  I nearly fell off the purple-and-green-plaid chair. I’d plumb forgotten about the two glasses of iced tea sitting on the coffee table when I came in.

  “Brunhilde!” I exclaimed, as a hulking figure emerged from a back bedroom.

  “Youth,” cried the masseuse, shaking a sausagelike finger at me, “youth ur being oonfeer. Zeeth voman haff asrhritis. Eeth eez deefeecult fur her to valk.”

  “Drop the phony accent,” I said calmly. “I know all about you, Brunhilde—I mean, Ingebord.”

  She stopped mid-stride. “Yah?”

  “Yes. And I don’t care that three of your husbands died under mysterious circumstances—wait, that didn’t come out right! What I meant to say is, I don’t hold that against you.”

  “You don’t?” she said, with just the slightest trace of a lilt.

  “These things happen,” I said. Under my breath I may have mumbled something about her having Ledbetter blood. “I’m delighted to find you here. You’re just the person I want to talk to.”

  Her normally dark and brooding face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern with two candles in it. “I am?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t suppose I could steal you away for a few minutes. Maybe we could take a walk.”

  “In this heat!” Constance struggled to rise from the couch.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take her someplace cool. Like maybe the mall.”

  “There is no covered mall in Mount Pleasant. You have to go all the way up to North Charleston.”

  “You’re right. So, we’ll make it a restaurant.”

  Constance had found her feet. “Then I’m coming too.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but having Constance along would defeat the whole purpose of my little excursion. I had to think fast.

  “Make that the library. I have a trunk full of books that are overdue.”

  “But you live in Charleston, Mrs. Timberlake. You can’t return Charleston books to our library.”

  “As it happens, they’re Mount Pleasant books, ones my husband checked out to read on his shrimp boat. He berths it here, at Shem Creek.

  Constance sank back down into the couch. “Then y’all can go on without me. Just don’t believe everything you hear.”

  I had the impression that remark was directed at both Ingebord and me.

  I grilled Ingebord over steaks at T-Bonz on Johnnie Dodds Boulevard. The early supper was her idea, by the way, not mine. She had two steak platters, and I had coffee. Clearing my name of any associated guilt in the death of Mrs. Amelia Shadbark was getting to be an expensive undertaking. Perhaps there was a way to write these expenditures off on my income taxes. If I got into trouble with the IRS—well, too bad the Bushes were now in the White House. Otherwise I could always donate an antique bed—maybe a nice Queen Anne—to replace the worn out one in the Lincoln Bedroom.

  I waited patiently until Ingebord had started in on her second steak before commencing the grilling. A full stomach is the best way to maintain peace, if you ask me.

  “So tell me about the ice hotel in Sweden,” I said pleasantly.

  “It is cold.”

  “I imagine it is. Have you ever spent the night in it?”

  She looked up from her food. “I am an unlucky woman Mrs. Timberlake, but I am not a fool.”

  “I was just trying to make small talk,” I cried.

  Ingebord Simonson didn’t suffer fools either. “The ice,” she said emphatically, “what kind of foolish person is this that sleeps on ice?”

  “An adventurer? Besides, the hotel supplies sleeping bags.”

  “It is crazy.” She shoved a piece of meat the size of an impala into her mouth. “So what is it you really want to talk about, Mrs. Timberlake?”

  “Everything—that is, in regard to Amelia Shadbark’s death.” I held up a hand to silence any protest. “But just so you know, I don’t suspect you. And you, apparently, don’t suspect Constance. Why is that?”

  The bad news was that when Ingebord scowled she had only one eyebrow. The good news was that it was full enough that, with a little shaping, it would be rather attractive.

  “Mrs. Timberlake, it is not that I do not suspect Mrs. Rodriguez, but where else am I to stay? The police tell me not to leave the area, and I cannot afford these Charleston hotels.”

  “Ah, so you were living in the Shadbark mansion, correct?”

  She sighed. “There I have my own bathroom. A Jacuzzi even. And in the bedroom, a private telephone.”

  “You must have known Constance pretty well—I mean, to get her to take you in.”

  Ingebord shook her head vigorously. “I did not know her at all.”

  “You’d never even met her?”

  “No, I had not met her. I was a servant, Mrs. Timberlake. I did not associate with the family or their guests.”

  “But you waited on them, right? I mean, you served my friend C.J. and me tea.”

  “Yah, this I do, but Mrs. Rodriguez, she does not even come for tea. Then, the day after her mama dies, she calls me at the motel I am staying in, and invites me to come stay in her apartment. I think at first maybe this is a joke, but she calls many times. Finally, I say yes. I told you before, Mrs. Timberlake, I am not stupid.” She shuddered. “But we must share just one bathroom, yah?”

  I took a sip of my coffee, which had gone tepid, but I didn’t care. Ingebord Simonson was a lot more forthcoming than Brunhilde Salazar. I was finally getting somewhere.

  “Tell me, dear,” I said, “what’s her game?”

  23

  Ingebord’s English, while fluent, did not stretch to include all the nuances of the language. The eyebrows rose in questioning manner, pulling the scar on her left check into a taut thin line.

  “Poker?”

  “That’s not the kind of game I mean. Why do you think she invited you to stay with her?”

  A chunk of steak the size of an eland disappeared down her gullet. “Because she is lonely.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And she is kind. There is much hospitality in the American South.”

  “We do our best. But has Constance tried to influence you in any way?”

  The scowl returned to Ingebord’s swarthy forehead. “You think I can be—how do you say—bought?”

  “Not at all. By the way, the desserts here are fabulous.”

  “Yah, I think maybe I will get one. Or two. It is hard to decide.”

  “Get them all. So, back to my question. While I know you can’t be bought, is Constance trying to get you to see things her way?”

  Ingebord looked up from the meat, like a lioness from her kill. “There is no need for her to do this, Mrs. Timberlake. I agree with what she thinks.”

  “Which is?”

  “That it is the brother and Mrs. Sparrow who wanted my employer dead.”

  “You really think they’re capable of murder?”

  “Yah. Everyone is.”

  “Not me!” I honestly don’t think I’m capable of murder. Killing, however, is another matter. If my children’s lives were at stake, or Mama’s, or Greg’s, and maybe even C.J.’s—well, there’s no telling the lengths I’d go to protect them.

  Ingebord eyed the dessert menu. “Even you, Mrs. Timberlake.”

  My face burned. “And what about young Percival Franklin?”

  She started, dropping the menu. “He is a good boy!”

  “I figured you’d say that. From what I hear, you two got along famously.”

  “Yah, we got along okay. Mrs. Timberlake, there is no—how do you say—uh, motive?”

  “Perhaps that’s your word.”

  “Yah, it is. There is no motive for P
ercival to kill Mrs. Shadbark.”

  “There’s no chance he managed to get himself written into her will?”

  Ingebord stopped laughing when I snatched up the menu. “Mrs. Timberlake, Percival and I were servants. It is only in the movies that servants get written into the will.”

  Not only, I thought. “Percival is a very talented young man, dear. He’s shown me some of his work.”

  She made no comment.

  “He gave me a carved wooden flower,” I said. “It was exquisite. He also gave me a glass mermaid.”

  Again no comment.

  “Have you seen his work, Ingebord?”

  She pursed her lips, as if just having tasted lemonade that was a tad too tart. “This style of art is not my cup of coffee,” she muttered.

  “I think you mean tea, dear. Anyway, did Percival give—or even sell—any pieces of art to Mrs. Shadbark?”

  The eyebrows fused. “I did not concern myself with such matters, Mrs. Timberlake.”

  I sighed. For all the progress I was making, I would have been better off going to the movies with the gang. I could be snuggling up next to my honey pot, and if we’d let Mama pick the movie, I could be having a nice long nap.

  “Do you at least know where Percival lives?”

  It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw her sallow color lighten a shade. She was now a pleasing pale yellow, not unlike my teeth.

  “He lives in North Charleston, I think. Or maybe it is Hanahan. He is in the telephone book.”

  The woman was being as cagey as the Riverbanks Zoo up in Columbia. I held the menu as far away from her as I could.

  “Can you at least tell me why you were so hostile to my friend C.J. and me, when we arrived for tea?”

  “I was?”

  “You practically bit our heads off. What was that all about?”

  Ingebord shrugged. “Well, that seems like a long time ago, yah? Maybe it was because there were others who tried to become friends with Mrs. Shadbark. It was obvious to me that they were after her money.”

  “You don’t say! Like who?”

  She lunged at the menu, and I didn’t react fast enough. Ingebord flashed me a triumphant smile.