Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  “But Abby, what if the wire rips my dress?”

  “That wouldn’t be the end of the world, Mama—not as long as you didn’t get hurt. It’s not like you’re naked under there.”

  “But Abby,” Mama wailed, “I’m afraid I am!”

  “What?”

  “I was in a hurry this morning, dear. I had to catch up with you after you sneaked out. I’m afraid I forgot to put on my unmentionables. You see, I only wear panties when I wear a nightgown, but last night was pajama night and—”

  “TMI!”

  “You, too, dear?”

  “No! That stands for ‘too much information.’” I took a couple of prolonged, calming breaths. “Okay, Mama, scoot on back—carefully—and fluff your slips up. I’ll meet you back at the car in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops. And why the hell didn’t you buy a pair at the mall?”

  “Because I didn’t think of it, that’s why.”

  Perhaps because she had no knickers to knot, Mama was less obdurate than usual. She backed out carefully, and the last I saw her she was stomping down the tule weeds, warning the snakes to get out of her path.

  Meanwhile I sprinted across the gravel, in one clean sandal and one that felt as if I’d used it to dig my way down to China. Halfway across the parking lot the strap broke and I literally ran out of my shoe. Since there was nothing to be done about the failed footwear, I kept on chugging until I reached the building.

  Arcadian Designs consisted of a Quonset hut the size of an airplane hangar and a pair of smokestacks. The front door was padlocked, so I ignored that. But there was a small window on the side, about five yards down and about two and a half feet off the ground, that looked promising. It was the only window I could see.

  Upon reaching it, however, I discovered that it was not a window after all, merely a small opening over which something, perhaps an air-conditioner, had once been fastened. A person of standard size could not have fit through a space that small. Mama, with or without her crinolines, wouldn’t have made it. Even for me it was an extremely tight squeeze, and my bosoms may never be quite as full again, but I managed to wiggle through. Heck, I was so determined to get inside, I probably could have crawled through a dryer vent.

  So determined was I, in fact, that I didn’t notice how dark the interior was until I’d crawled inside. That’s when I cursed myself for not thinking to bring a flashlight with me from the glove box of my car. I cursed again when I stepped on a piece of broken glass. What an idiot I was. An Abby with just half a brain would have bought hiking boots at mall. Mankind, beginning with the Egyptians, has been making glass for twenty-five hundred years. You can bet it’s been breaking that long.

  “Damn it!” I cried.

  “You got that right,” a voice behind me said.

  27

  Shards in one’s sole are not nearly as distressing as a gun barrel pressed up against one’s back. I took an involuntary step forward, thereby accumulating more glass splinters.

  “Freeze, Mrs. Timberlake. You take another step and I swear I’ll blow your frigging head off. Pardon my French.”

  “Why, Homer Johnson—if indeed that is your name. Fancy meeting you here.”

  The barrel, which was hard, but at the same time deliciously cool, pushed against my upper spine. “I’m going to be putting something over your head now, so that you can’t see. You can resist if you want, but I advise against it. Unless, of course, you want to end up as a paraplegic.”

  “I won’t move,” I promised. “Will I at least be able to breathe?”

  “Yeah, I don’t see why not.”

  Homer slipped the “something” over my head. It was a paper bag! The same kind of bag your groceries get packed in. My indignation fought fear for dominance.

  “What did you do? Pick this up at Food Lion?”

  I felt the pressure of the barrel lift from my back, and a moment later lights came on in the room. Finally Homer answered me.

  “I always keep a few bags in the trunk of my car. Never know when you’re going to need them—like now.” He chuckled. “In high school we used to joke about the ugly girls. Said we’d have to put paper bags over their heads in order to date them. That wouldn’t have been the case with you, Mrs. Timberlake. You’re one fine-looking woman, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Then maybe it’s you who should be wearing the bag,” I said. “Because frankly, Homer, you’re not all that much to look at.”

  “And you’re cheeky, too. I like that in a woman. Too bad we didn’t meet under different circumstances. I wouldn’t have minded dating you.”

  “It wouldn’t have made a difference, Homer. I don’t date palmetto bugs.” I was referring to a species of giant cockroach that scuttle about the Lowcountry at night. Some of those critters are big enough to saddle and ride—at least for me.

  Homer didn’t have the decency to be offended. “Yeah, maybe we wouldn’t have worked out as a couple, on account of you ain’t smart enough for me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, you crawled right into my trap didn’t you? That hole under the fence—I dug it. And the hole in the wall, well, that ain’t nothing but a bellow’s vent. I took the grating off last night, kinda figuring you’d do something like this sooner or later. Figured if I made it too easy—like left the gates open—you’d see it as a trap. Hell, Mrs. Timberlake—pardon my French again—but you don’t let a guy get a whole lot of sleep.”

  “No sleep for the wicked.” Alack, the paper bag muted the peevish tone in my voice.

  “And then there was the late-night visit I had to pay Mrs. Shadbark’s neighbor. I swear, that woman has telescopes for eyes, and a mouth bigger than the Grand Canyon. Every time I sold the old lady a piece of my genuine faux Lalique, I knew she was watching. No telling what she would have said to the cops—or to you. Anyway, I really had to fight to keep awake the next day.”

  “I saw you yawning!”

  “Mrs. Timberlake, I don’t think you realize just how much trouble you’ve caused me. In order to beat you here, I had to drive so fast, I nearly drove off the road. Then, so you wouldn’t suspect anything, I had to park across at the park, and run over here. Barely made it in time.”

  “So that was you driving a million miles an hour! How the hell did you know where I was going anyway?”

  “Caller ID,” he said with his smarmy chuckle. “It’s a wonderful invention, ain’t it? As soon as that phone rang I knew you weren’t at Northwoods Mall. You were at the Citadel Mall, were headed west, over the Ashley. That could mean only one thing—you’d finally learned about this place. What happened, Percy regain consciousness?”

  “His sister told me.” Having said too much, I foolishly attempted to clamp a hand over my mouth, but hit paper bag instead.

  The gun clicked ominously nearby. “Keep those damn hands of yours by your sides—pardon my French.”

  “It wasn’t French,” I snapped. “And it’s a stupid expression dating back over hundreds of years of Anglo-French animosity and has absolutely nothing to do with us Americans. Do you know that the French have a similar saying about the English?”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed, Mrs. Timberlake? Like I said, you ain’t all that smart. Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here in my glass factory with a paper bag over your head.”

  “You’re right,” I said calmly, “I’m not very smart, or I would have been able to figure out by now how you managed to poison Mrs. Shadbark.”

  “That was nothing, Mrs. Timberlake. Thanks to you, it was a piece of cake.”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “Mrs. Shadbark called me to see if I could recommend someone to appraise her Lalique collection—the one I’d been helping her collect over the years. You know, Mrs. Timberlake, there wouldn’t have been a problem if my apprentice, young Percy, hadn’t gotten all vain about his work and signed a few pieces. Since you’re not long for this world I don’t mind telling you, I had me a nice little racket going. I’ve been supplyi
ng genuine antique Lalique to seven states.”

  “Bully for you, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “Well, since there was no stopping her from selling off the collection, so she could go to that goddamn nursing home—pardon my French—”

  “It’s not French!”

  “Yeah, well, anyway, I figured since you were new to the Charleston antique community, and from the Upstate, you wouldn’t know squat. I figured you’d buy them all up yourself, maybe get your Upstate butt in a peck of trouble. Anyway, so then when Mrs. Shadbark calls and tells me she’s having you over to tea, I send her a cake.” He laughed heartily. “A cake, get it? Killing her was a piece of cake.”

  “I still don’t get it. Was the poison in the cake?”

  “Arsenic. I have plenty of that on hand. You see, I use arsenic trioxide to make my glass. This time I used it to make icing.”

  “You baked the cake?”

  He grinned. “I’m a man of many talents.”

  I shook my head and the paper bag rustled. “The police should have caught that. I’m surprised they didn’t grill Brunhilde—I mean Ingebord—about the food.”

  He chuckled. “Shouldn’t surprise you none. They ain’t perfect, you know. Besides, I often baked cakes for the old lady. I’m sure that big foreign bitch didn’t think a thing about it.”

  “Anyway, you could have killed me! And my friend, C.J.!”

  “Not unless your taste buds were as deteriorated as Mrs. Shadbark’s. And frankly, Mrs. Timberlake, I wouldn’t have given a damn—pardon—oh, what the hell. Didn’t either of you eat enough to get a stomachache, am I right?”

  I seethed at having been deceived. To be honest, I was more angry at myself for having been such a sucker than at the murdering con man. I always thought I was a pretty good judge of character—Buford Timberlake aside.

  “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this. My husband hired a bodyguard. He could be here any minute.”

  “Yeah, right. If I know you, Mrs. Timberlake, you caught the guy following you and fired him on the spot. Either that or you’ve been dodging him like a cat between raindrops.”

  “How did you know? Have you been following me, too?”

  He had a truncated laugh; just two snorts really. “Mrs. Timberlake, you give me too much credit. You’ve plumb worn me out the last couple of days. Hell—pardon my French—one time I had to be two places at once. Getting that flower back that Percival gave you, that wasn’t easy, you know? I swear that boy wanted to be caught. Then, what with having to go to that auction at night, and that unpleasant business with Mrs. LaPointe, I never had a moment’s peace. I think it’s high time we both got a chance to rest, don’t you?”

  I’d heard someplace that the best way to keep an assailant from killing you is to engage him in a conversation, the more personal the better. If he thinks of you as a human being, rather than a target, he’s less likely to do you bodily harm.

  “I’m all for a nice nap—in my own bed,” I said in my best conversational tone. “Although it would have to be a short nap. Twenty minutes at most. Anything longer and I’m liable to wake up crabby. How about you?”

  “Long naps don’t bother me, ma’am. But it wasn’t a nap I had in mind for you. I was thinking more along the lines of eternal rest.”

  That didn’t sound so good. Just the thought of it made me cranky. I grabbed at straws.

  “Maybe we could discuss this over drinks. My treat, of course.”

  “I don’t drink, ma’am. It’s against my religion. No, what I had in mind was to feed you to them gators over there across the way.”

  “But I’m barely a mouthful! And I’m not nearly as tasty as I look.”

  “Yeah, there is always the chance the gators will only eat part of you, and the cops will find the rest. That’s why I thought me up another idea. You want to hear it?”

  “I’m all ears. And please, start at the very beginning.”

  “Like I keep telling you, Mrs. Timberlake, you ain’t that smart. Stalling is not going to save your—well, you know.”

  “You mean my ass, pardon my English?”

  “Yeah. But now this second idea I had, this will actually give you a chance at immorality.”

  “I think immorality is your bailiwick.”

  “Huh? I meant immortality. You see, Mrs. Timberlake, I plan to coat you in glass and turn you into one fine statue.”

  “You’re joking!”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. I got me this client down in Miami. Rich woman—husband’s in real estate. I’ve been selling her Lalique, Tiffany—you name it—for years. Of course it ain’t the genuine thing, but she don’t know that. Anyway, she got her a brand-new house now, with one of them great big entrance halls that’s crying for a statue. She was thinking of marble, but I convinced her that everyone has marble statutes. But a life-size glass one—now, how often do you see that?”

  I certainly never had. “I’m sure they’re a dime a dozen if you know where to look.”

  He snorted once. “I know better than that, Mrs. Timberlake. Now where was I? Yeah, about this client of mine. She still wants something marble for the entrance, so I suggested putting you—only she don’t know it will be you in there—on a marble pedestal.” He snorted again. “You ever been put on a pedestal before?”

  “My husband does it all the time.”

  “And she wants you—I mean the statue—to be blue to match her color scheme. No problem, I told her. Enough copper oxide, and I can get a bright peacock blue. And of course I’ll have to go for frosted, to hide all the tape.”

  “Tape? What tape?”

  “Oh, just some asbestos tape to keep you from combusting during the casting. Mrs. Timberlake, before I forget, how do you feel about opalescence?”

  “What?”

  “Because I can adjust the copper oxide so that in the right light you’ll have a nice green shimmer, but then when seen from another angle, you’ll be all blue again.”

  “Sounds rather pretty.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  “Oh, it will be. Trust me. Now what about the pose?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I can’t decide if you should have your arms extended above your head, or not. I promised her a life-size statue, and frankly, Mrs. Timberlake, you’re kind of short.”

  “Sorry about that. By all means, extend my arms.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Now, about the title. Even though my client lives in Miami, she’s originally from Minnesota. On account of that—and all the shimmering you’ll be doing—I was thinking of Aurora Borealis. Either that, or Northern Nymph. What do you think?”

  “Definitely Aurora Borealis.” What a lovely name for a shimmering statue.

  “Mrs. Timberlake, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re going to look right fine up there on that pedestal. This lady, I might add, entertains important folks from all over the world. Politicians, Hollywood celebrities—even royalty from time to time. You’re going to be famous. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday there’s a picture of you—Aurora Borealis—in one of them fancy art books on glass.”

  I felt my heart race. Was it just fear, or was there a tinge of excitement as well? I mean, if my goose—make that pheasant—was going to be cooked anyway, why not have it under glass?

  “Left is my best side,” I said. “Make sure it’s the side that faces the front door of the Miami mansion. And have me smiling. I never look good unless I’m smiling.”

  Instead of acknowledging my request, Homer Johnson grunted and fell on the floor somewhere near my feet. I could hear the gun he’d been holding skitter across the concrete.

  28

  “What happened next?”

  This was the umpteenth time we’d been asked the question, but since Rob was paying for dinner at Magnolias restaurant on East Bay Street, Mama and I were both happy to answer. Their Mocha Crème Brulee
is to die for, an expression I don’t use lightly. But dessert tonight, in honor of Bob’s fortieth birthday, was, and I quote from the menu: “American Classic Chocolate Cake, served with White Chocolate ice cream in a Benne Seed basket with White Chocolate and Raspberry sauces.” That was a dessert worth killing for.

  “Well,” Mama said—it had somehow managed to become her story—“I flashed him.”

  I gasped. “Mama, you didn’t!”

  Mama turned the color of the aforementioned raspberry sauce. “I hit him over the head with a flashlight. The one Abby keeps in her glove box.” She turned to me. “You knew good and well that’s what I meant.”

  I winked. “Did I?”

  “That’s my Abby,” Greg said, “always trying to stir up trouble.”

  At that point Mama, who really does try to stir up trouble, explained yet again how she’d gotten tired of waiting for me, and thought to look for a flashlight before coming in after me. Although she’d had to abandon her crinolines and crawl under the fence, she hadn’t had to use the vent hole. There was a back door to the Quonset hut factory, the same door Homer had used in his hurry to beat us inside, and it was unlocked. After knocking my captor cuckoo, Mama called the police and, of course, got all the credit. What else was new?

  When she was quite through embellishing her tale, she sat back and asked for questions. Fortunately, I was able to glare everyone into silent submission—except for Bob, who hadn’t been able to tear his eyes off his sister Wendy all evening. But Bob, bless his heart, addressed his remarks to me.

  “We’re just glad you’re safe, Abby,” he said. “That Homer Johnson fellow gave me the creeps the first time I met him.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Would you have listened?”

  “Well, anyway,” I said, moving the show right along, “his name is really Hobart Jackson. Explain, Greg.”

  My hubby put his arm around me. “Most folks have a hard time giving up their names. More often than not, you’ll find that the offender has picked an alias with the same initials.”

  Rob, who’d been basking in the happy knowledge that his surprise had gone over big with Bob, nodded vigorously. “If I had to pick an alias, it would be Richard Gere. People say I look like him, you know.”