Larceny and Old Lace

by Tamar Myers

  "Why, if it isn't that rat, Buford," I sang out. "I'm telling Tweetie."

  I know, it was childish of me, but I couldn't help it. Also, I will admit to feeling a certain kinship with the woman. Perhaps hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but there are few bonds so easily formed as those between two scorned women.

  Buford, as ever, was without a conscience. He didn't even have the decency to blush.

  "Not that it's any of your goddamn business, but this is a business breakfast."

  "Ah, yes, monkey business."

  He disengaged his right arm from the mammary monster, so that he could gesticulate. "You're one to talk, Abb. Where the hell did you spend last night? I called over at Marilyn's a dozen times. The old biddy is so pissed at me she can't see straight. She tried to tell me that you weren't there and she didn't expect to see you. Something about you two having it out over plaster poodles and pink flamingos. Claims you defaced her property. Is that true?"

  "In a pig's ear."

  "Well, where the hell were you? I called your Mama's, but you weren't there either. At least that's what some guy said when he answered the phone." He chuckled. "Your Mama been getting it on, Abb?"

  "Leave Mama out of this!"

  It was bad enough that Mama broke the seventh commandment, but to flaunt it publicly by not answering her own phone was unspeakably bad manners. I was going to have to do a thorough examination of my own wood pile. It was undoubtedly chock full of Yankees.

  "Abigail spent the night with me," Bob said gallantly. To his credit he said it in a low, booming voice that I hardly recognized.

  "What the hell did you say?" Buford bellowed.

  Anita gasped.

  Wynnell frowned.

  The Major snorted.

  Peggy's blue lids fluttered.

  Gretchen glanced at her bare wrist. "It's eight thirty-seven. Spencer Christian will just be wrapping up the morning weather. Since most of us will he opening our shops in just twenty-three minutes, I move that we adjourn this breakfast so we can get to work."

  "I second the motion," Wynnell said. "All in favor say aye."

  The chorus of "ayes" was deafening. Even the Yankees voted to end my breakfast, but that didn't surprise me. What surprised me was Bob Steuben. Here I was, shelling out good money for a breakfast, during which we were supposed to come up with proof of his partner's innocence, and he was folding. Fleeing from the table like a startled rabbit. Perhaps it was the sight of Buford with a bimbo on each elbow he found intimidating. Boy, would I set him straight. Buford Timberlake was no macho man. As near as I can remember, the only thing on Buford that consistently went up was his blood pressure.

  It did no good for me to protest the straw vote. I was chewing at the time, and by the time I had politely swallowed, all of my ungrateful guests had fled. Not one left even so much as a quarter for their tip. Wynnell at least, left a piece of bacon behind. It was nice and limp, and I would have to remember to thank her for it—maybe when I returned the swatch of fabric she'd left behind as well.

  "Can I take y' all's picture?" the Yankee husband asked on his way out. "Gone with the Wind is my wife's favorite movie."

  He had to be talking to me. Scarlet might have been a little taller than I, but she certainly wasn't six feet. And she most certainly didn't have hooters that hid her view of her shoes.

  "Okay, but I charge five bucks for a solo shot," I drawled. "Each additional face in the pose is another two bucks."

  The Yankee brushed rudely past me. "Not you. Him!"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Well, I know he doesn't look the part, but you did call him Rhett Butler, didn't you?"

  "I did not!"

  The Yankee husband looked helplessly at his wife.

  "I heard her," the Yankee wife said. She glared at me, daring me to contradict her.

  "Well—"

  "Since we decided not to go on to Disney World, we have to get photos of something." The Yankee husband snapped his flash into place. "So, it may as well be a man named Rhett Butler."

  I decided not to spoil their trip. If they wanted to think that 'rat Buford' and Rhett Butler sounded alike, that was fine with me.

  "Great, take his picture," I said agreeably. "But you pay me. I'm his agent."

  They left Denny's quite happily, I assure you. After apologizing for Wynnell's rude exaggeration, I informed them that Disney World was only a few more exits down the interstate. Of course, that wasn't quite true, but we do have Carowinds, a wonderful amusement park of our own that straddles the border of the Carolinas. Anyone who took a picture of my ex-husband as a vacation trophy would certainly not notice the difference.

  Buford stashed his bimbos in a booth and caught me just I was exiting the front door. I mean that only figuratively; now the man knows better than to lay a finger on me. Spilling pennies on the sidewalk is not the only thing guaranteed to bring him to his knees.

  "What the hell is wrong with Susan's apartment?"

  "Susan's apartment?"

  "Susan, our daughter. Her apartment."

  "Her apartment?"

  "What the hell are you, some goddamn echo machine?"

  I smiled sweetly. "What makes you think something is wrong with her apartment?"

  "I tried calling her last night, looking for you. Some guy answered. Said he was a janitor, and that Susan couldn't come to the phone. Something about a leak. When I called again no one answered. What's going on?"

  Clearly Buford didn't have a clue, and that put me between a rock and a hard place. Should I tell on my daughter and risk losing her trust, or did I owe it to her father, scurrilous as he was, to let him know what was going on in our daughter's life? At any rate, Buford's money was the only thing I could think of that could possibly get Susan back on track again.

  "Susan has dropped out of school, lost her female roommates, and is now living with an ex-janitor old enough to be her father. A male janitor. That's what's going on."

  Buford's jaw dropped to tripping level. I will admit that I felt sorry for him. I mean, up until Tweetie came along, we were in that parenting thing together.

  "What?"

  "Maybe it's not as bad as it seems," I said quickly. "After all, she's found herself a job behind the cosmetics counter at Belk's. And at least now with a man living there, we don't have to be so concerned for her safety." After all. Buford had yet to see Susan's apartment, so he didn't know how important that consideration was.

  "How old did you say this creep is?"

  "Thirty-eight."

  "His name?"

  "James Grady. She calls him Jimmy. Buford—"

  It was too late. I thought of calling Susan and warning her, but reluctantly decided against it. There would be no stopping Buford. Sooner or later he would catch up with her, and it was better that the confrontation happen at her apartment, than at Belk's. Besides, having Grady there would deflect most of Buford's ire. Perhaps, even, the two men would punch each other out.

  I quit daydreaming and went back inside Denny's. The two bimbos were sprawled quietly in the booth, as complacent as two cows chewing their cud. They sat up at attention when I approached them.

  "Rhett Butler had an emergency," I kindly informed them. "He said to go on home."

  "But he didn't pay us," the tall one whined.

  "Yeah, he owes us twenty bucks." The shorter one had been resting her breasts on the plastic seat, and there were two damp ovals where she had lain.

  "Then I guess I'll have to pay y'all."

  I dumped the contents of my change purse on the floor in front of their table. The last I saw of them they were down on their knees picking up pennies. It was worth every one.

  Greg Washburn was waiting for me when I got to the shop. He looked as cool as a cucumber and as dry as toast. I would have eaten him, had I not just had breakfast.

  "He didn't do it," I said, "and I have proof."

  He smiled. "Tell me."

  Before I could open my mouth, the fall mummy came betw
een us. This time she was dressed in a mohair sweater and a long suede skirt. I could only hope that her blood had been replaced with Freon.

  "That's better," she said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your dress. You're wearing black. It's a little severe, but it's more in keeping with the season."

  I smiled patiently. "I'm going to a funeral this afternoon, dear."

  "I want a refund," she said, switching gears faster than a race car driver on a hilly track.

  "What?"

  "I want a refund on that punch bowl. It broke when I got it home."

  "How?"

  "I dropped it trying to get it out of the car." She had the nerve to look me in the eye.

  "I'm sorry, dear, but glass breaks, you know."

  "A good quality cut glass punch bowl wouldn't have broken. And that's what I thought you were selling. Since you obviously weren't, I want my money back."

  She was able to say all that without batting an eyelash. Clearly the woman had a future in politics. Or perhaps she already was in politics, which would explain how she could afford my prices.

  I trotted out my sweetest smile. "Bring in all the pieces, and I'll give you back your money."

  She laughed prematurely. "Honey, I don't think you heard me. It hit the driveway. Kaboom! It's in a million pieces now—in a Dumpster."

  I nodded sympathetically. "I did hear you, dear, but I don't think you heard me. You can have your money back when I get my punch bowl back."

  I turned back to Greg. "He did not go into my aunt's shop just before the murder, like Gretchen said he did. I mean, I assume she got around to telling you that story, too."

  He appeared startled. "She took back her story?"

  "Yes, she had to. That's because I found an alibi for Rob."

  "Rob Goldburg?" It was the mohair monster. For one brief, sinful moment I felt like taking a match to her sweater.

  "This is a private matter," I said through gritted teeth.

  She pushed me rudely aside. "I know all about Robby's arrest," she said to Greg. "And I agree with her, he didn't do it. He couldn't have, because he was with me."

  Greg stared at her expectantly. I stifled a snicker.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  She tossed her bleached mane imperiously. "Cozette Ballard, but my friends call me Cozy."

  "Address?" To Greg's credit, he didn't miss a beat.

  She gave him one of Charlotte's poshest addresses.

  "Phone number, please?"

  Cozy looked at me and I turned discreetly away. It was all pretty stupid, considering she had given me her unlisted number the day before when she charged the punch bowl.

  "When was he with you?"

  "Late Monday afternoon, of course. From about four to six."

  "Where were you, and what were you doing?"

  "Why, shopping of course. In Robby's shop. He's got the good pieces on this street."

  I forgave her. "You see?" I cried. "Here's another alibi. And Bob Steuben got back from doing his errands at six-sixteen. Just ask Gretchen. That leaves only sixteen minutes!"

  Greg took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and started scribbling in it, but he didn't take his eyes off Cozy. For all we knew he really was scribbling.

  "How can you be sure of that time frame?"

  Cozy's smile was testimony that at least one Charlotte orthodontist was able to send his children to college.

  "That's easy," she said. "I had lunch with a girlfriend who had a hair appointment at two. I dropped her off and then wandered over here, because it's only a few blocks away. I was supposed to pick her up in an hour, but the next thing I knew it was six o'clock. My friend Mignon had to take a cab home. She hasn't spoken to me since."

  Greg shook his head stubbornly. "Sixteen minutes is plenty of time to walk from his shop to your aunt's, do what he's accused of, and then drive off with this Bob Steuben. And anyway, Gretchen Miller didn't see Bob Steuben pick up the suspect. We have only his word for it that it happened."

  "He has a point," mohair said.

  I shoved her gently aside, forcing Greg to look at me. "Right, and I suppose that even if Gretchen did see Bob pick him up, that wouldn't count, either, because Bob is probably a suspect, too."

  Greg looked over my head. "Did you buy anything at Mr. Goldburg's shop Miss—"

  "Cozy Ballard," she said with a straight face. "And yes, I bought a pair of Regency carved and gilded beech armchairs."

  "How much did you pay for them?" I asked. I knew the chairs: they were the most expensive things in Rob's shop.

  "Thirty-two thousand even," she said.

  Greg gasped. "No wonder he calls his place The Finer Things."

  "That was a steal, you know," I told him. "A pair just like that sold for almost forty-seven thousand dollars at an auction in New York about six years ago."

  Cozy looked pleased. Greg looked mortified.

  "Well, New York is a major antiques center," I explained, "and a lot of people with money—wait a minute! If Cozy here bought those chairs, Rob couldn't help but remember it. Only he said Monday was a slow day."

  Greg frowned.

  "Well, I was the only customer in the shop at the time," Cozy said.

  My mouth had already helped put my friend behind bars. I needed to change the subject before it convicted him.

  "I just got in an empire chest with corner columns and an overhanging top drawer. You want first crack at that? I'm willing to knock ten percent off."

  Cozy cooed happily and trotted off in the direction I pointed.

  "Look," I said to Greg, taking care not to do any looking myself, "Rob Goldburg is innocent. I just know he is. He doesn't have it in him. He's all bark but no bite. The Major, however, is quite capable of biting."

  "Do you have any proof?"

  "No."

  I could feel him staring at me. "Until there's been a trial and a verdict handed in, the only way you can know Rob's innocent is if you did it yourself."

  I braved the blues and stared right back at him. "See here buster, this afternoon is my aunt's funeral. The last thing I need today is to listen to crap like that."

  He appeared stunned. "Sorry," he said. I could tell he meant it.

  Never let a man off easy, Mama keeps telling me, but then again, what does she know? She's had Daddy on a pedestal ever since he was killed—until last night when she allowed some man to push Daddy off the pedestal so that he could crawl into bed with her.

  "She was my only aunt on my daddy's side," I said. The sniffle would have sounded phony to a woman, but Greg Washburn was far from that.

  "Hey, I said I was sorry. But it's my job to consider everyone a suspect until the real killer gets put away. Any clues, no natter how slim, have to be followed up on."

  "Did you test the bellpull for sweat?" I asked.

  Dmitri had that same expression once when he accidentally ran into a mirror. "Say what?"

  "It was ninety-five degrees on Monday and as humid as the inside of a goldfish bowl. If Rob killed my aunt, like you claim—dashed off there, because he only had sixteen minutes—his hands would have been sweaty. Some of that sweat should have come off on the bellpull. You test it for sweat."

  "Hmm," was all he said. His daddy must have taught him not to go easy on women. I mean, he could have thanked me for the suggestion.

  "Well, have it tested," I said graciously. "In the meantime, what's the scoop on Jimmy Grady?"

  He sighed. "You're not going to like this, and there's no way to sugarcoat it."

  I braced myself against a walnut highboy. "I already don't like it. Now give it to me straight."

  "James Robert Grady has a rap sheet that would reach from here to Raleigh. Most of it petty stuff, but a few more serious."

  "Like what?"

  "Stealing money from newspaper machines."

  "Tell me the serious stuff."

  He looked away. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this, you know."

  "I know, now
tell me."

  "Grady was convicted on car theft in Georgia eighteen years ago. Served just over five years in Atlanta."

  I knew he was holding back. "I said to give it to me straight."

  He took a deep breath. "He was convicted of being an accessory after the fact in a murder case. One involving the stolen car."

  I leaned back against the highboy. "Tell me everything."

  It was an ugly story about one of Grady's buddies in a small Georgia town who beat up his wife and then intentionally killed her when she threatened to go to the police. The buddy needed a car to leave town in, but he didn't have one, so Grady stole one for him. Apparently Grady's bulb was dimmer than December sunshine in Alaska because the car he stole belonged to the mayor and had city plates.

  "Shit," I said. The tears were splashing off my cheeks and I was out of tissues.

  Greg took a step forward. If I would have moved at all, he would have hugged me.

  "Hey, good luck with your daughter I mean it."

  I turned away. It was my fault Susan was living with scum like that. If I had only been more—whatever it was Buford really needed—he wouldn't have dumped me for Tweetie, and we would have stayed together as a family. Sure, Susan would still be in college, but she wouldn't be in college with something to prove. Our divorce had put a chip on her shoulder that was never there when she was growing up. It had to be my fault, because up until Buford found Tweetie, everything was peachy-keen. I swear it was.

  Greg cleared his throat. "Uh. there's one more little thing I found out, but it can wait until later."

  I whirled. "What? Tell me now, damn it!"

  "It seems that James Robert Grady is not thirty-eight. He's fifty-two."

  I felt like laughing. What difference did it make now if he was sixty-two? The man was a convicted criminal. He had aided and abetted a wife-killer. At least if he was sixty-two he would be ten years closer to the grave.