Larceny and Old Lace

by Tamar Myers

  "And now, I think we should all raise a glass of orange juice—or a cup of coffee—to Abigail. She has generously offered to buy a full page in the Observer advertising our shops, to keep the momentum going. It must be nice to be so rich."

  "Hear, hear," everyone said.

  "I am not rich!"

  "How much is gold going for these days?" the Major asked.

  "It was gold lace, dear, not Fort Knox."

  Actually, Fort Knox wasn't far off, but I didn't want the IRS to start salivating until I'd had a chance to consider all my options. Dear Aunt Euey had not neglected her heirs after all. Sewn into one of her drapes, between the lining and the ugly green velvet, was the front panel of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's wedding dress. It was handmade gold lace. I don't mean gold-colored lace but real gold lace.

  As far as Bob could determine it was late-fifteenth-century Guipure lace, from Ferrara, Italy, of course. Bob says the pattern of flowers, alternating with garlands of leaves, is fairly typical of the times but of exceptional workmanship. Considering that the lace was made specifically for someone very wealthy—a nobleman's daughter—the five hundred tiny pearls that dot it are no surprise. It is no surprise either that the pearls have yellowed somewhat through the centuries, but hey, nothing is perfect—except for the twenty-five small, but very clear, diamonds that dot the centers of some of the flowers. And there's nothing wrong with the rubies on the ten largest flowers, either.

  I have been told that I could get upward of three hundred thousand dollars for the panel at the moment, possibly even more if another spectacular royal wedding comes along and the bride wants something truly special incorporated into her dress. Bob and Rob threw up their hands in horror when I suggested removing the gems and selling them and the lace separately.

  Teddy, a jeweler friend of Mama's, disagrees. The diamonds would all have to be recut to get them up to current standards, but he thinks they would be worth half that much alone. The rubies, he said, are worth dying for.

  I am as sentimental as the next person, and the thought of keeping the panel for Susan's wedding (someday!) has occurred to me. However, while I may be sentimental, I am not brain-dead.

  Of course, I would have to give my brother Toy his share, not to mention our Uncle Sam. So, given the fact that I don't own a house and refuse to live indefinitely on Tony's charity, I am not rich. I am, however, indisputably much better off than I have been since the day Buford dumped me in favor of Tweetie.

  "Okay. When the waitress brings the checks, pass them down here. But this is a one-time offer."

  "For she's a jolly good fellow!" Skinny as he was, Bob could out-bass a bullfrog with a cold.

  "Hear, hear!"

  The Major wiped milk from his mustache. "I wonder who's going to buy Anita's shop."

  We all glared at him.

  "I never did like her," Wynnell said, still glaring. It was time to tweeze those hedges again. "If you dig deep enough, you'll find a Yankee in her woodpile for sure. A true southern woman would never have done what she did."

  "You haven't read the paper yet today, have you, dear?" I said kindly.

  "Well, does this conclude our business then?" Peggy asked.

  She paid no attention to our affirmative response because a good-looking man in his twenties had just walked in, alone. While she was thus distracted I snitched the last piece of bacon off her plate.

  After all, I had paid for it.