Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  I thought Mama would jump out of her skin. “You mean you still can’t see it?”

  “Not even a feather. Now Mama, if you don’t mind, can we please change the subject? I mean, here I am, standing in an empty shop—everything I own is gone—stolen—and you want to stand around and talk about fairies.”

  Mama’s mouth opened and closed silently several time. Finally she managed to produce a few faint squeaks.

  “What?” I said with remarkable patience.

  The squeaking grew louder. “Not fairies, angels!”

  “Just stop it!” I screamed. “This isn’t about you, or what you think you see on the wall. It’s about me!”

  Mama drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch. “If that’s the way you feel, then I’m going straight home.”

  “Goodbye, Mama. Thanks for picking me up at the airport, but I can take a cab home from here. Or hitch a ride with Wynnell or C.J.”

  She stomped to the door, angrier than I’d ever seen her. Well, the nerve of that woman! I was the one whose life had come unraveled, for crying out loud. I was the one facing bankruptcy.

  Mama opened the door. “It’s not too late to say you’re sorry, Abby.”

  I gaped at her in disbelief.

  “Well, then, I’m gone!” she said, and the door slammed behind her.

  An hour later I was still gaping, this time at Inspector Greg Washburn. Take it from me, the man is a hunk; six feet tall, blue eyes, black hair, muscles in all the right places, which is to say, none between the ears. We were an item for a while, but I broke it off because—well, the truth is, we didn’t trust each other. Of course Greg had no reason for his doubts, while everyone knows Greg had the hots for a bimbo named Hooter Fawn. I’m not saying he acted on his impulses, but I want a man who not only has eyes just for me, but who will kindly avert those eyes on a bad-hair day.

  “I thought you were with homicide,” I said.

  “Very funny, Abby.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  I sat down on a floor so clean Mama could serve bridge-club cake on it and no one would complain. “I’ve been out of town. Or didn’t you notice?”

  “Of course, I noticed. I just thought that your mother, or some of your friends—never mind, it’s a long story. Yes, I’ve been assigned to your case.”

  “Well, let the investigation begin,” I said. Try as I might, I couldn’t pry my peepers off him. I had tried dating other men—including a drop-dead-gorgeous detective from Pennsylvania—but it was no use. All I could think of was Greg, who seemed to have no trouble thinking of women other than me. If only there was some way to make him really jealous.

  To my surprise, Greg sat down cross-legged opposite me. He pulled a small leatherbound notepad from the pocket of his navy blue shirt.

  “As you can see, Abby, the person or persons who robbed your shop, made a clean sweep of things—uh, sorry, Abby, no pun intended.”

  “Can you tell me something I don’t know?”

  He shrugged. “We dusted for prints—there aren’t any. No sign of forced entry. No evidence of a truck or moving van in the alley, although of course they undoubtedly used one. We even had a guy climb up on the roof—”

  I waved my hand like a schoolboy with a right answer. We schoolgirls were far too polite to wave in my day, even though we had all the right answers.

  “Wait a minute! What do you mean they undoubtedly used a truck or van?”

  He closed the notepad and slipped it back in his pocket. “It was definitely a pro job, Abby. If I were to hazard a guess, the contents of your shop are halfway to California by now.”

  “California?”

  He nodded. “I’m surprised you don’t know. What do we have in the east that the Californians don’t?”

  I bit my tongue. There are plenty of Californians with sense. My brother Toy just happens not to be one of them.

  “A hundred and fifty years of English colonial history.”

  “What?”

  “We’re talking about the resale of history, here, Abby. Apparently it happens with some frequency. Especially up north. I thought you would—”

  I tuned Greg out. It had finally sunk in. The czarist samovar I bought at an estate sale in Myers Park last month, and hadn’t even gotten around to pricing, was going to end up gracing the credenza of some Hollywood mogul. I found myself hoping that the purveyor of my stolen goods scalded himself where the sun didn’t shine. Unless, of course, he or she was innocent, and especially not if he was Steven Spielberg. I’m still waiting for the sequel to E.T.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Damn it, Abby, don’t you listen to a word I say?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “I just got through telling you that this was a professional job, possibly even part of a national ring. You’re probably never going to see your stuff again.”

  “They were treasures, not stuff.”

  He nodded.

  “How did they know I was going to be gone?”

  “Maybe they overheard you talking to your travel agent, or one of the other antique dealers on this street. It could even have been someone from church. They’re not all saints, you know.”

  “But they had a key, right? You said there was no sign of forced entry, and—”

  “Where do you hide your key, Abby?”

  “What?”

  “Your key.”

  “Who said I hide a key?”

  The Wedgwood eyes rolled impatiently.

  “All right, but I don’t hide it on a doorsill. Or under the front mat. I’m not that stupid!”

  He sighed. “One of those fake stones you order through a catalog?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Show me.”

  I sheepishly took Greg to see the clever hollow brick I keep in the alley by the back door. It is much more subtle than those fake stones, and it’s a real brick. I bought it at the Southern Home & Garden Show last spring.

  But except for a rolled-up pill bug and a squashed cricket, the spot was as bare as Mrs. Hubbard’s cupboard.

  “Well—uh—it was there!”

  “Abby, Abby, Abby, whatever am I going to do with you?” Greg shook his handsome head.

  “Not a damn thing!” I stamped back into my empty shop, my very footsteps mocking me with their echoes. Greg trotted after me, adding to the mockery.

  I was in no mood to see Jane Cox, aka Calamity Jane, standing in the middle of my display area. Given the circumstances, she was, of course, delighted to see me.

  “Oh Abby, dear,” she wailed, and draped herself over me like a flag on a casket, “it’s just so awful. Is there anything I can do to help? Anything?”

  I bit my tongue, which takes some doing in my case. As the mother of two college kids, I have permanent indentations in my lingual organ.

  “Don’t worry, Abby, my cousin Orville back in Shelby had the same thing happen to him, and it turned out just fine. You’ll see.”

  I struggled free from her embrace. “Your cousin Orville had an antique shop that was burgled?”

  “Gracious no, Abby. Cousin Orville dabbles in the future, not the past. He makes organic dentures.”

  Greg and I couldn’t help but exchange glances. Calamity Jane—“C.J.,” we call her—is as loony as a lake in Maine.

  “Don’t tell me he makes teeth out of ivory,” I chided. “Elephants may be making a comeback in some countries, but—”

  “Oh, no, of course not ivory. Cousin Orville Ledbetter uses pig teeth.”

  “And someone swiped his stock of sow incisors?” I asked incredulously.

  Greg chuckled. “Perhaps the perpetrator was Porky.”

  “Or Petunia,” I peeped.

  C.J. gave us scathing looks. “As a matter of fact, the thieves were…”

  The door to my shop swung open and in strode Tradd Maxwell Burton. Either C.J.’s voice trailed off, or my ears temporarily stopped work
ing. As for Greg, the little vein on his left temple was now the size of Europe’s chunnel.

  Tradd Maxwell Burton was even more handsome when viewed through sober eyes. He wasn’t tall as Greg, and was blond, rather than dark, but nature had certainly smiled on him nonetheless. Golden hair, golden skin, thick gold chain around thick golden neck, gold-brown eyes—everything about him was gold, except his teeth, which were milk white, and may have been artificial. They certainly weren’t pig’s teeth. At any rate, his shoes, socks, and polo shirt were as white as his teeth, and either he’d just stepped off a tennis court, or he made his living advertising bleach.

  “Abby!”

  What cheek to address me so familiarly in front of Greg. I loved it. Never mind that he’d stiffed me on those drinks. I’d wring his golden neck later.

  “Tradd!”

  He bent and gave me a quick kiss. The subtle scent of expensive cologne did not escape me. The stuff Greg wore came in big bottles and had one-syllable names.

  “So this is the famous shop, huh?”

  “Was,” I said. “I’ve been cleaned out, as you can see.” Frankly, I don’t remember having mentioned to him that I owned a shop. Although, given my condition on the plane, anything was possible—well, almost anything. I am fairly positive I didn’t join the mile-high club.

  A sharp nudge from C.J. reminded me of my manners. “Tradd, this is Jane, Jane this is Tradd, and that,” I said nodding at Greg, “is Inspector Washburn. He’s investigating the burglary.”

  C.J. cooed like an amorous pigeon. Greg grunted.

  As well-bred as he appeared, Tradd responded appropriately. He cooed briefly, but not too flirtatiously back at C.J., grunted perfunctorily at Greg, and empathized deeply with my woes.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “I know just the thing to get your mind off what happened.”

  “I already ate a Snickers bar,” I said.

  He laughed and putting a golden hand on my shoulder, turned me so that I faced the front window. “Look out there.”

  “Oh, my God,” C.J. squealed, “is that white Jaguar yours?”

  Tradd fished a set of keys from the pocket of his tight, white shorts.

  “And you’re giving that to Abby?”

  “Whoa, not so fast.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Sorry, little lady, but this one is spoken for. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice long ride.”

  “Where to, Anchorage, Alaska?” C.J. was incorrigible. She was also grass green with envy, which, frankly, was a nice contrast for her apple-red lipstick.

  “He’s talking to me,” I snapped.

  “The South Carolina low country,” Tradd said.

  “You mean the beach?” C.J. wailed. “Man they were sure right about life not being fair!”

  Tradd chuckled, obviously enjoying C.J.’s attentions. “Not the beach, exactly, although it’s about eight miles away as the crow flies. I’m headed down to an old rice plantation just outside of Georgetown.”

  “I love Georgetown,” I said.

  “Abby, don’t be ridiculous,” Greg muttered.

  I whirled. “Excuse me?”

  Greg literally took a step back. “Georgetown is at least a seven-hour round-trip.”

  Tradd rocked casually in his white sport shoes. I’m not up on brands, but this pair looked like they might easily cost my monthly mortgage.

  “Well, we wouldn’t do it in one day,” he said. “I had a weekend trip in mind.”

  Greg blinked but said nothing.

  “Ooh, Abby!” C.J., I knew, would have been glad to shed eight inches and forty pounds just so she could crawl into my skin.

  “A weekend trip?” I croaked. “Which weekend?”

  “This weekend. I’m headed down there tomorrow. My grandmother is hosting a little treasure hunt and, well, to be frank, I need an expert’s assistance if I’m going to play.”

  “What kind of expert?” Greg growled, and then seeing me frown, revealed his pearly whites.

  Tradd smiled charmingly. In the war of dental brilliance, it was definitely a standoff.

  “I need an antiques expert.”

  “Ooh,” C.J. caught her breath, “I know almost as much as Abby.”

  I faked a patient smile. “Of course, you do, dear. But you have a shop to run. Whereas I…”

  Tradd nodded encouragingly. “We play these games from time to time. It’s a family thing, I guess. This time it’s grandmother’s turn, so she gets to set the rules. She’s calling this one ‘Find My Missing Antique.’”

  “How bizarre,” Greg muttered.

  “Who is your grandmother?” I asked. Mama has some distant relatives down along the coast, whom she visits from time to time. Although Tradd and I are clearly not of the same social set, Mama may have heard of his family.

  “Grandmother is Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III,” he said, the pleasure evident in his voice.

  C.J. and I both gasped. We had just read an article on the Latham estate in Architectural Digest. Or was that Art & Antiques? At any rate, the article claimed that the Latham family maintained “one of the most significant collections of antiques in America today.” I remembered that phrase, if not the magazine, because I fantasized for a week that Robin Leach burst into my shop with his camera crew and bellowed the same thing about me for all the world to hear.

  “The Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III?” C.J. asked weakly.

  Tradd shrugged modestly. “I suppose there could be another, but I don’t know her.”

  Greg cleared his throat. “Let me get this straight. Your grandmother has lost some valuable antique and you want our Abby to come down and help you find it?

  Our Abby indeed! Where was our Abby when Greg decided he needed to go grouper fishing down in the Florida Keys and ended up groping some groupies instead? And where was our Abby when Hooter Fawn cast her doelike gaze upon Greg’s handsome features and I didn’t see him for almost a week?

  “Oh, no, she hasn’t lost it,” Tradd said, his voice as smooth as a California chardonnay, “she hid it. I just need to find it.”

  “How is our Abby supposed to help?”

  “Well, since she is an expert on these things—you see, Grandmother won’t be telling us what the item is. It’s up to us to figure it out from clues.”

  “I still don’t get it. What’s in it for our Abby?”

  I wanted to leap into the air and slap Greg silly, but breeding and geography prevented me. “Yes, what’s in it for me?”

  Tradd grinned, causing folks a block away to pull down their shades. “Well, besides the obvious—I mean, you know—I’ll pay you five thousand dollars, whether we find the piece, or not.”

  C.J. clapped her hands. “Hot damn! You go, girl!”

  It was definitely tempting. No, it was downright seductive. I would gladly pay to see the Latham estate—if I had any money, which of course, I didn’t. But to be driven there by a handsome man in a Jaguar, and have the opportunity to spend two nights in those surrounds—well, it was all too good to be true. Don’t forget that Mr. God’s-Gift-to-Women had stiffed me for two drinks on the plane.

  He seemed to read my mind. “Bring a friend, if you like.” He nodded at C.J. “My brother Rupert is about her age, I’d guess, and he’s flying in from Houston Friday afternoon. The two of them could make a team.”

  C.J. grabbed my arm and buried her nails to the quick. “Oh, Abby, pleeeeeease!”

  “It’s a very tempting offer, dear,” I said reluctantly, “but five thousand dollars is one Federal sofa in so-so condition. You know that. It isn’t going to restock my shop.”

  C.J. moaned.

  Ginger-brown fingers raked back a shock of vanilla-icing hair. “Oh, didn’t I mention that the winner gets to keep the piece? I’m prepared to split its fair market value fifty-fifty.”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Burton, I don’t have time for games right now.”

  “Perhaps I forgot to explain that the minimum value of this piece is one hundred thousand dollars.”

/>   “Well—”

  “All right, you drive a hard bargain. You can have the damned thing. After all, it’s who wins that counts.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but I just have one little problem.”

  “Would that be me?” Greg said hopefully.

  I glared at him. “Actually, it’s my cat, Dmitri. As you well know, Tradd, I’ve just come back from a cruise. Poor Dmitri has been penned up at the Happy Paws Pet Motel for five days, and I don’t want to leave him there any longer.”

  “Can’t your mama keep him?” C.J. cried.

  “I don’t think so, dear,” I said crisply. “Mama is allergic to cats.”

  Tradd cocked a sun-bleached eyebrow. “Is that all that’s keeping you from coming?”

  “Yes.” If it was indeed kismet, a kitty wouldn’t stand in the way.

  “Heck, then your problem is solved, because grandmother loves cats.”

  “She does?”

  “She’s absolutely passionate about them. Her last one—Mr. Tibbs—died last month. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see a new set of whiskers around the old place.”

  Broke and desperate as I was, it was finally an offer too good to refuse. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go. But no hanky-panky, you hear?”

  C.J.’s whoops of joy failed to drown out the sound of Greg slamming the door behind him.

  3

  Mama picked up before the phone could even ring. “Abby, is that you calling to apologize?”

  I swallowed my pride. It was the first solid food I’d had all day.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  In the ensuing silence permanent peace came to the Middle East, and Congress voted themselves a salary cut. “Then, say it, dear.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “What is it you’re sorry for, Abby?”

  “I’m sorry for—uh—well—”

  “You can’t bring yourself to say it, can you, dear?”

  I clenched my left fist and bit the bullet. “I’m sorry that I ridiculed you, and yes, I was too stupid to see the angel on the wall, although now it’s just as clear as vodka.”

  “You’re looking at it now?”

  “Uh—yes, Mama.” In for a penny, in for pound.

  “Can you really see it, Abby, or are you just mocking me?”