Larceny and Old Lace

by Tamar Myers

  "I saw that, too," Peggy said thoughtfully, "but it was all baloney. There's no way a woman who looked like that could get pregnant fifteen times."

  "Just the same, it's always possible that there is someone out there to contest the will, or that Aunt Eulonia left all her money to charity."

  Peggy nodded. "Or three-legged cats."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I saw it on a talk show. A California billionaire left his entire fortune to build an international home for three-legged cats. The will stood."

  "My aunt was afraid of cats."

  "Well, in that case, what are you going to do with your aunt's shop, Abigail?"

  "I don't know—sell it I guess. I haven't had time to even think about it."

  "Well, maybe you should give it some thought. I mean, you want to make sure you sell it to a legitimate antique dealer, or the zoning board might come down on you."

  "Is this some kind of a threat, dear?"

  The little brass bell above her door announced a customer, and she responded like a bass fisherman to a tug on the line. Being small is advantageous when it comes to overcoming inertia, and I was able to grab her skirt before she got away.

  "Please, Peggy, I have a very important question to ask you, and it will take only three seconds."

  "One, two, three."

  "Have you seen a woman in a silk orange jumpsuit and black boots? I mean, today?"

  "You mean Penny?"

  "Penny?"

  "A terrible bleach job and not enough makeup?"

  "That could be her!"

  "If that's the one, her name is Penny. I don't know her last name though."

  The customer was still casually scanning the place. It was far too early to pounce on her, and Peggy knew it. Premature pounces are guaranteed to scare away the fish. They have to see and taste the bait before you try and reel them in.

  "Is Penny a customer?"

  "She's been in once or twice lately, but she didn't buy anything. We have the same aerobics instructor."

  "You take aerobics?" I didn't mean it to sound like it did.

  There was an explosion of blue. "Just because I have a little extra padding doesn't mean that I'm not in great shape. This is a well-toned body you're looking at—not all hard and angular like Jane Fonda's. Men find me comfortable."

  "I'm sure they do, dear. I wish I had a body like yours." It was one of the hardest lies I've had to tell. My kids would have been proud of me.

  Peggy gave me the once-over. "For starters, you'd have to eat more. Your boobs are too small and your hipbones jut out like fins on an old Buick. But you realize, of course, that if you put on the pounds, you're going to have to do some toning. Men like padding, not flab. Of course there's nothing we can do about your height."

  I swallowed my pride. "Where and when does your aerobics class meet?"

  "My aerobics class is full, but there's millions of others. Just look them up in your phone book, or call the Y."

  "I'm sure not all aerobics classes are the same, dear. Maybe your instructor could recommend a good one. For beginners, I mean."

  "No, he can't."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Now that I'm not going to Alaska, Joe is mine."

  Morning had broken, even if it had taken a little longer than the first morning.

  "Not to worry, dear. I'm already spoken for."

  The blue disappeared entirely. It was a wonder her eyes didn't fall out.

  "You?"

  "Yes, I am finally in a relationship, as we say these days."

  "You?"

  I bit my tongue and counted to three. "Yes, I was married, you know. At least once in my life a man has found me desirable."

  "And dumped you," she said cruelly.

  I forgave her for Charlie's sake. "But now that's all behind me. The new man in my life has scruples."

  "Don't tell me the man is Investigator What's-His-Name. Somebody Sideburns."

  "That's Washburn, dear. So, are you going to give me the dope on your aerobics class? If not for me, then do it for Greg. I'm afraid he likes comfortable women, too."

  "How do you know he does? Did he say so?"

  The customer had begun to circle a Federal sofa like a shark around a bleeding swimmer. I had to act fast.

  "Because he mentioned you, dear. He referred to you as 'an extremely attractive woman.' "

  "Well, Penny and I are in separate classes, but if you hurry you might catch her. If I remember correctly, her class meets Friday mornings about this time."

  I trust Peggy was able to reel in her customers as easily as that.

  Jumping Joe's House of Aerobics is one of Charlotte's best-kept secrets. I mean that literally. It took me an hour to find the place which, as it turned out, was just over a mile away. Peggy neglected to tell me that Joe's studio is his garage and that his office is his living room. She also neglected to describe Joe.

  "Jumping Joe," he said, opening the door. "How can I be of service?"

  I looked slowly up, past a few low clouds, to one of the homeliest faces God has put on this good earth. Only a blind mother could love a face like that. Just about everyone, however, could appreciate Joe's body—himself included. Perhaps that is why he was wearing the skimpiest denim shorts I had ever seen on a man. These were so frayed around the legs that in some places there was too much fray and not enough fabric, if you know what I mean. I looked down again. It was hard not to stare.

  "Is this Jumping Joe's House of Aerobics?" I asked foolishly.

  "Sure thing, babe."

  "It is?"

  "Low on frills, high on thrills. That's my motto, babe. How can I be of service?"

  I took a deep breath. Unless it's Sonny Bono, I'm not too fond of men calling me "babe."

  "I'd like to ask you a few questions about your studio. But you can go ahead and get dressed first."

  "I am dressed."

  I can remember when it was acceptable only for women to parade around in public half naked. If you asked me, the world has already gone to hell in a handbasket.

  "Perhaps I could ask them here."

  "Suit yourself, babe, but it's thirty degrees cooler in there."

  I reluctantly jumped into the handbasket headed for hell. It had to be at least twenty degrees cooler in hell than on the sidewalk.

  He pushed a stack of pizza boxes off the couch and sat down. "Let's have a seat at my desk, babe."

  Call me old-fashioned, but a beer-can-covered coffee table is not what comes to mind when I think of a desk. Still, it was a handy thing to have between us.

  "I'd just as soon stand, thanks. I've been sitting all day."

  "No prob, babe." His mocking did nothing to improve his face. "So, you're interested in taking one of my classes?"

  "Yes, the one Penny is in."

  "Who?"

  "You know, Penny. Blond hair, about this tall. Likes to sweat."

  "Ah yes, blond Penny. Sorry babe, but that class is full."

  I stared dejectedly at the floor. "That's too bad. I don't always have a car, and Penny said I could hitch rides with her."

  "Blond Penny said that."

  "Her very words."

  "I see. Jumping Joe's is a private establishment, and I don't advertise much. How'd you hear about me in the first place, babe?"

  "Penny told me, of course. She said your classes were just what I needed."

  He picked a beer-stained tablet off the table and flipped a few pages.

  "Well, well, lookee here. I seem to have an opening after all. You want to start today?"

  "What time today?"

  "How about now?" He stood up and started around the table.

  I edged to the door. "I'm afraid I left my aerobics clothes at home."

  "No problem, babe. Clothing is optional. Didn't Penny tell you that?"

  "Penny is a woman of few words."

  "That's because there isn't any goddamn Penny." In one step he blocked off my exit. "Now, why the hell are you really here?"

&nb
sp; "This woman named Penny bought a large piece from my shop, and I lost her address before I could get it delivered. All I want is her address, honest."

  "Drop the phony act, babe. You're here for the same reason every other babe shows up. Aerobics, right?"

  "Right!"

  "A little special one-on-one aerobics, right?" His leer actually improved his looks.

  "Wrong!"

  "Come on, babe, my rates are really reasonable."

  "Look here, buster, I'm not in the least bit interested in whatever it is you're selling. Now get out of my way, or you'll be sorry."

  He didn't budge.

  I was trapped but not entirely helpless. There are certain advantages to being short. What may be too high for some women to kick, was perfect punching height for me, especially on a man that tall. I had never done that before and hope I never have to do it again, but I was glad to do it this time. Jumping Joe, incidentally, does live up to his name.

  An ambulance was just pulling away from in front of the Major's shop when I returned. Three squad cars had traffic blocked off on that side of the street, and a rope barrier prevented any pedestrians from getting within yards of the shop. Despite the heat a small crowd still lingered across the street, right outside my shop door. Had I still been open, it might have been a good day for business after all.

  I spotted Peggy at the edge of the crowd and tapped her on he shoulder.

  "What happened?"

  She whirled, nearly knocking another woman over.

  "As if you didn't know!"

  "The Major have a heart attack?"

  "Someone tried to strangle him," she hissed. "With their pare hands. If it wasn't for that new fella, Bob, the Major would be dead."

  "What did Bob do?"

  "He gave the Major CPR until the medics could arrive."

  "Who would try and kill the Major?"

  "Don't you play games with me, Abigail. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you in."

  "For what?"

  "For trying to strangle him, that's what!"

  I had to laugh. "Me?" I held up my hands. "Do you honestly think I could manage that?"

  She scowled, obliterating her blue. "Well, you did go to see him this morning, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but I saw you, too, and you look just fine to me."

  That woman can turn on a dime. "Well, thank you," she said patting her hair. "Some folks wilt in the heat, but some of us just get ripe."

  "Then you obviously don't need to go to Alaska," I said generously.

  She accepted her compliment with a smile. "You didn't find Penny at the aerobics school, did you?"

  It was my turn to scowl. "I did not! What I found was a gigolo in a pigpen."

  "Joe is not a gigolo! He's a sexual addict with financial problems."

  "Hey, wait one minute. How did you know Penny wasn't there?"

  "Because she came into my shop a few minutes after you left. She said she was on her way to the mountains for the weekend."

  "Did she say where?"

  "Some place called Mossy Lodge. It's near Grandfather Mountain, I think. It sounded expensive."

  I practically ran. There was a lot I had to do if I was going to spend the weekend in the mountains as well.

  "I don't want to go away for the weekend," Mama said.

  "We can get back in time for church Sunday morning, I promise. They can count on you for the choir."

  "I don't want to go!" Mama brought the bowl of chicken salad down on the table with considerable force.

  I stared at this woman who used to be my mother. Gone were the pearls, the full skirts, and the gingham aprons. Dangling earrings, a tank top, and blue jeans were not adequate replacements by any means. Not for somebody's mother!

  "Where have you taken her?" I wailed.

  Mama gave me the fish-eye and refilled my tea.

  "I've got a life now, Abigail. It's time you realize it."

  "Does this life have a name, Mama? Why won't you tell me who he is?"

  "All in good time, Abby."

  The doorbell rang—croaked was more like it. Mama's doorbell sounds like the time I accidentally stepped on a toad in the dark.

  "Maybe you can get him to install a new one," I said, hopping up.

  "Maybe we'll just disconnect it and not answer the door," Mama said to my back.

  I ignored her.

  "Yes?"

  There was a man at the door—about my age—who looked familiar, although I couldn't place a name. Perhaps he was long lost kin come to claim my inheritance.

  "Hello, Abigail. May I come in?"

  This person was not too lost to know my name. It could only mean one thing.

  "Mama, you're robbing the cradle!"

  The man smiled nervously. "I'm Breck Whitehead, the probate lawyer for your aunt's estate."

  "You sure? You look awfully familiar."

  "We go to the same church. You sit two pews behind me and three people to the left."

  "Of course. Please, come in."

  I should have known. In Rock Hill you can live your entire life and have it populated solely by the Episcopal church. Want to speak to a teacher? We have tons of those. How about a college professor? Would half the congregation please step forward. Need a dentist? Will a pair of them do? Gynecologist? We have at least three of those. Oh, it's a brain surgeon you need? Why didn't you say so. She sits four pews behind me, next to the family of research engineers. Just behind the architect. At the Episcopal Church of Our Savior we even have a crazy woman mystery writer with frizzed-out blond hair who claims she was raised among a tribe of headhunters in the Belgian Congo. She's not exactly another Sue Grafton, but you have to give her credit for her imagination.

  Breck Whitehead obediently followed me into Mama's parlor for a private conference. I was beginning to remember something about him. He was a year behind me in high school, but we attended the same youth group at church. Slow Breck, we called him then. No one from that group could ever totally forget the night Breck Whitehead threw up on the roller coaster on our annual outing to Myrtle Beach, try as we might. He was sitting in the first car and it was a windy night. At least two of the kids changed denominations after that.

  "Your aunt was a very generous woman," Breck said, digging through his briefcase.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, family was always very important to her."

  He looked down at me through the bottoms of his bifocals. "I beg your pardon?"

  I smiled warmly. "I was her closest living relative, you know. Except for my brother, Toy."

  He gave me an odd look. "Shall we begin."

  "Begin away," I said, perhaps too gaily.

  "I, Eulonia Louise Wiggins, being of sound mind and body do, on this—"

  "Skip the preamble, Breck."

  Breck took his bifocals off and leaned back in one of Mama's Victorian armchairs.

  "She didn't leave you the house. Or the store."

  "Not Toy!"

  "No, Toy and you fare the same, I'm afraid."

  "Then I don't understand. There must be some mistake."

  "Like I said before, your aunt was a very generous person. Ten—no eleven, years ago she deeded her house over to a charitable foundation. The same with her store."

  "But that's impossible! She was living in that house until the day she died, and running the store. You've misunderstood something in those papers."

  I tried to snatch the sheath from him, but Breck was a lot faster than he used to be. After the roller coaster incident he learned to dodge punches pretty well.

  "It's all clearly spelled out here, Abigail. Your aunt deeded her real estate holdings to this foundation with a stipulation that she be allowed to live in the house until her death. And now she's dead."

  "No shit, Sherlock!" I apologize, but one can't be a lady all the time. "What the hell is this foundation?"

  Breck cleared his throat and swallowed. "The Society for the Reestablishment and Preservation of the Carolina
Parakeet."

  "What!"

  "The Carolina parakeet was a little bird that went extinct—"

  "I know about the damned parakeet—we studied it in school—and that's my point. It's extinct."

  "Not according to the society. Some hunters in the low country supposedly spotted a pair of them in a swamp in the early sixties, and ever since then a few faithful believers have dedicated themselves to verifying this report and setting up a preserve in preparation for that day."

  "But that's crazy! That should be against the law."

  "Believing in something is not against the law, Abigail," he said solemnly.

  "But fleecing people is. You can bet your sweet bippy I'm going to contest this will."

  "I'm afraid it won't do you any good. It's already a fait accompli."

  "English please, Breck."

  "Although it mentions your aunt deeding away her property in this document, it isn't part of this will. That she did over a decade ago when she was of sound mind and body, so it's a separate issue. What's in this will is a brief discussion of what she left you."

  "Her savings? Stocks and bonds?"

  Breck shook his head while I prayed he wouldn't get motion sickness.

  "Your aunt had no savings. Like I said, she was very generous—always giving things away."

  "She was cuckoo."

  "If that's the case, I wouldn't spread it around. Someone might contest her actual will." In retrospect, I missed the sarcasm.

  "Contest away," I said blithely. "Nothing shared is zero, right?"

  He smiled, triumphantly. "In this case it's more like two pairs of green velvet curtains."

  "What?"

  "That's what it says. You want to see for yourself?" He thrust the document in my face, bending an eyelash and nearly giving me a paper cut on the lip.

  "Well, I was right, then, after all," I said. I was trying to sound smug, but it is hard to do when you've just had a house and a shop taken away from you.

  "How so?"

  "The aforementioned curtains—monstrous, ugly things, anyway, are at the cleaners. And I have no idea which one. Not that it makes a difference, mind you."

  "Then sign here." He shoved a pen at me.

  "Hold it, Breck. It may not be in that will, but my aunt was supposed to have left me some valuable antique lace, and I want to know where it is."