Baroque and Desperate

by Tamar Myers

  True to my baser nature, I opened the door just as he reached for the handle. “So,” I said, “does this mean our deal is off?”

  Tradd froze. “Uh—I don’t think it does, do you?”

  I allowed visions of a hundred grand to dance through my head while Dmitri, no doubt about it, languished in the belly of a gator. “A deal’s a deal. We’d both have to change our minds. I, for one, haven’t.”

  “I haven’t either. But Abby, you haven’t been looking very hard for the missing treasure, have you?”

  I stood up, still in the Jaguar. That put us about eye to eye.

  “Me? What about you? You spent the morning God-only-knows where, and then wasted precious time being ambulance driver to a round-heeled hostess. In the meantime, my second best friend in the whole world is languishing in the county jail.”

  “Hey, it’s not too late to call this whole thing off.”

  Who knows? We might have done just that, had not the door to the Latham manse opened, and the lithe and lovely Alexandra stepped out onto the porch. At her heels was the bald and bare-bellied Rupert. They both seemed at first surprised, and then relieved to see us.

  “Oh, there you are!” Alexandra cried, tossing her auburn hair. “You’re never going to believe what’s happened.”

  “Try me,” I growled, and glared at golden boy.

  “Edith just found the treasure—the missing antique. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tradd said.

  I sat back down in the car.

  21

  There was no one to blame but myself. It was as clear to me now as the handwriting on someone else’s wall. I should have put my size-four foot down and forbidden C.J. to come down with us. I should have spent Friday evening conducting a systematic investigation, instead of obsessing on Tradd and Flora’s relationship and Edith’s rudeness. I really had no choice but to visit C.J. in jail, but I certainly didn’t need to put on the feed bag at the Purple Pelican.

  “So, what was it?” I heard Tradd ask, as though through a tunnel. “Not that old rocking horse in the nursery? I didn’t see it around this time, but I didn’t want to waste my guess on it.”

  “Oh, that old thing,” Alexandra said, shaking her mane again. Perhaps her neck itched from all that hot, heavy hair. “It was all scarred and banged up. I don’t see how that could possibly be worth a hundred thousand dollars. Funny, I didn’t even remember it until just now.”

  Rupert shook his chrome dome. “It had a real leather saddle,” he said wistfully. “I could ride that boy for hours.”

  I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue.

  “Miss Timberlake”—she of the perfect jeans finally glanced my way—“you don’t suppose a wooden rocking horse could be worth that much?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but answering that was like asking a deaf doctor to diagnose a skin condition over the phone based on a blind patient’s observations. It was madness. Actually, the treasure hunt itself was madness, and I was a raving loon for having gotten myself involved in it. If C.J. was a banana short of a split, I didn’t even have the ice cream.

  “Well, that all depends—”

  The front door to the manse opened again, this time with a slam. Edith stood there growling like a gorilla in a Chanel suit. Her chubby hubby was nowhere to be seen.

  “Tradd! Where have you been? Grandmother wants to talk to you!”

  Golden boy remained immobile as an Oscar. “Well? Were you right? Did you win?”

  Edith glared at me. I know, there are some who will contest my ability to discern a glare at fifty feet, but all I can say is, thank heaven I was wearing sunglasses.

  “What is she doing here?” she shouted.

  “Why, Edith,” Alexandra said, clearly shocked, “she’s grandmother’s guest, remember?”

  “She’s Tradd’s guest, you twit, and she doesn’t belong here.”

  “You lost, didn’t you?” Rupert, bless his West Coast heart, could not contain his glee.

  Edith answered by slamming the door behind her. The woman was clearly blessed with upper body strength. It’s a wonder the old house was still standing.

  Tradd grinned. “Never a dull moment around her. Well, grandmother beckons.” He tipped an imaginary hat at me and trotted off to do the old biddy’s bidding. Just between you and me, it is possible to admire a guy’s buns and be spitting mad at him at the same time.

  “Hope y’all don’t expect me to stay out here and chew the fat,” Rupert said quickly, “when the real show is inside.” He darted after his older brother.

  “So, that just leaves us,” Alexandra said. “Good. I was hoping we’d have a chance to have a private chat.”

  “I’m flattered, dear.” Indeed, I was. “But I have to find my cat, before the gators do. Have you seen him lately?”

  Periwinkle eyes regarded me innocently. “Which cat would that be?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, dear. That big yellow cat your grandmother’s been clutching like an overnight bag in a crowded airline terminal?”

  “Oh, that cat? He’s inside with grandmother now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded, and the auburn tresses rose and fell like a billowy sea, yet not a hair left its place. “That was very nice of you to give him to grandmother.”

  “I didn’t give her my cat,” I snapped. “I loaned him to her for the weekend. Tomorrow afternoon that ten-pound fur ball goes home with me.”

  “Well, you’ll have to take that up with grandmother, I suppose.”

  “There’s no taking up anything, dear. That flea bag is mine.”

  It’s a rare woman that can look stunning and stunned at the same time. “Oh, my! Yes, I’m sure he is.”

  “You bet your bippy, toots.” I would have stridden on into the house to see Dmitri for myself, except for two small impediments: one, these legs are incapable of striding, and two, the elegant Alexandra had my arm in a vise grip. Apparently upper-body strength ran in the family.

  “Miss Timberlake—do you mind if I call you Abigail?”

  “Not if I can call you Andie.”

  “Miss Timberlake, I know we hardly know each other, but I feel so comfortable talking to you.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. One gets the impression that you are both a sensitive and intelligent person. Surely, you’ve heard that before.”

  “All the time,” I said. By rights my nose should have grown an inch, and if I were truly my mother’s daughter, I would have been overwhelmed by the odor of trouble.

  “Well, in that case, do you mind if we talk in the garden? It is so pleasant there this time of the year and besides”—she gestured toward the house—“this is a very personal matter.”

  “Oh?” I’m a sucker for secrets. I’m good at keeping them, too. For instance, I have yet to divulge whether or not anything happened between me and the president on his last visit to Charlotte.

  “Come, we’ll talk on the bench.” Her tone was not imperious, merely assuming.

  I trotted acquiescently after the elegant Alexandra. I had to take two steps for every one of hers.

  We sat together on the bench, me cross-legged as before. The river was much higher than it was during my chat with Albert, which meant that alligators were undoubtedly closer. I scanned the water for black “logs.”

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Alexandra said in her patrician accent.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned, focusing her large orbs on my humble face. “That’s such a delightful scent you’re wearing. What is it?”

  “Desperation,” I said. No need to add that it was also the scent of fear, as well as the odor of an unwashed body, a visit to the county jail, and enough garlic lunch to keep even the most voracious of vampires at bay.

  “Ah, yes, I believe I’ve heard of that,” she said quite seriously, “I’ll have to see if the Dillard’s back home carries it.”

  “I’m sure you
can find Desperation at Dillard’s, Macy’s, Neiman Marcus, you name it. It’s in all the better stores.”

  “Wonderful! I’ve always said you can tell the status of a woman by the quality of her perfume.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then you might be interested to know that for the past thirty centuries, back to the days of King Solomon, the finest perfumes have used, as a base, oil scooped from the anus of the civet cat.” A fact is a fact, after all.

  Alexandra’s alabaster visage seemed in danger of cracking. “Surely, you’re joking.”

  “I kid you not. But, you didn’t bring me here to talk about feline extracts, did you?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “So, dear, what’s on your mind?”

  “Uh—well”—she looked away—“it’s not easy for me to talk about.”

  I may possess the patience of a saint; I just happen to lack a saint’s self-control. “Spit it out, dear. ‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ remember?”

  “Miss Timberlake, are you in love with my cousin?”

  “What?”

  She repeated the question, something she richly deserved. But she deserved even more.

  “I most certainly am not in love with your cousin, dear. Trust me, Edith is not my type.”

  “No! I mean Tradd.”

  “Spare me.” Thanks to having raised two teenagers, my derisive snorts rank up there with the best of them. “Tradd Maxwell Burton is of philandering pheromones. I will admit that he lights my fire, so to speak, but a woman would have to be a fool to be in love with him.”

  “Then I’m a fool,” she said quietly.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, but I am! I’ve been in love with Tradd since—well, since we were little children. And he was in love with me, too. We vowed we were going to get married when we grew up. Look over there”—she pointed across the river—“see where the reflection of that old dead tree trunk forms a V? We were going to build our house there.”

  I patted her alabaster arm. “Isn’t that illegal, dear? Marriage between first cousins, I mean.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not illegal in South Carolina.” She sighed. “Of course, it takes two to tango, doesn’t it?”

  “And Tradd wouldn’t dance?”

  “It was all that hateful floozy Flora’s fault. Always laughing and carrying on, mocking me by throwing herself all over Tradd. But, she’s dead now, isn’t she? Now we’ll see who gets the last laugh.”

  I stole a glance at her long, slender hands. A well-manicured finger can pull a trigger just as easily as a grubby digit can.

  “Did you kill her, dear?”

  She stiffened. I may as well have invited her to partake in a belching contest.

  “I most certainly did not! Oh, I know, she managed to turn Tradd’s head, but it wouldn’t have lasted. His infatuation with her, I mean. Class eventually finds its own level, don’t you think?”

  “Well—”

  “Of course, it does. Silly me, then, for worrying about you and Tradd.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “No offense intended, Ms. Timberlake. I simply meant that birds of a feather will flock together—that kind of thing. We are cousins, after all. I certainly had no intention of putting you down because you’re a merchant. It isn’t your fault you weren’t born a Latham or a Burton. We can’t help our ancestors, now can we? Although these days, what with cloning and all—”

  I didn’t hear another word of her pathetic prattle. All my senses were tuned to the V she’d pointed out. It hadn’t been there at low tide, but now that the shiny black water was high, the single slanted trunk of an ancient tree formed not a V, but an arrow! It had to be. Didn’t that quote mention the tide? But, where—the garden shed. The arrow was pointing directly at the dilapidated garden shed. Of course! Everything about gardening was time-related. When to plant, when to water, when to fertilize, when to prune…gardening and time went hand in hand like Buster and me—I slapped myself for even thinking such a ridiculous thing.

  “Mosquito bite you?” Alexandra asked thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking as fast as I did that time I absentmindedly walked into the men’s room at the Carolina Outlet Mall at Carowinds. Then a cheery “Where’s Waldo?” and a quick exit did the trick.

  “Funny,” Alexandra said, focusing the periwinkle orbs on me again, “but mosquitoes don’t usually come out in the heat of the day. Do you think it’s because of El Nino?”

  I slapped my poor, undeserving cheek again. “Maybe it’s just a class thing. Maybe we hoi polloi are sweeter. But, be a doll, dear, and run in and get me some bug screen.”

  “But wouldn’t it make more sense if you got it? I mean, you might get bitten again if you stay here.”

  “Yes, it would make more sense if I went inside,” I said, as slowly as Yankees think we talk, “but I’m having an allergic reaction. If I move, it only gets worse.”

  “Oh, my gosh! This is terrible. Shall I call 911?”

  “No need to, sweetie,” I drawled. “I keep a vial of antivenom serum in my purse. It’s—”

  “Your purse is right beside you. There on the bench!”

  “Did I say purse? You see, it’s happening, already. I meant to say overnight bag. You see, the vial is more like a jar, on account of how allergic I am. It won’t fit in this purse.”

  “Be back in a flash,” the dear heart said, and sprinted toward the house.

  Fine breeding, indeed! No doubt about it, but if you shook the Latham family tree a Cox would fall out.

  The second I heard the house door slam, I sprinted for the garden shed. Why the U.S. Olympic officials don’t recruit middle-aged women with a mission, is beyond me. I would have made Carl Lewis bite my dust. At any rate, I flung open the garden shed, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Almost immediately—well before the house door slammed a second time—I saw what I’d come to Georgetown to find. It was all I could do to suppress a scream.

  22

  “It’s the most elaborate Swiss clock I’ve ever seen,” I burbled.

  Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III nodded. Dmitri, snuggled safely in the crook of her leathery arms, purred like the works of the finest Swiss clock.

  “It’s by Emanuel Brugger,” the old woman said proudly. “It’s even signed by him. And dated—1764. The works are made of beech, you know. Elias and I bought it on our honeymoon.”

  “I thought you honeymooned in the sultanate of Bandar?”

  “Heavens, child, one goes to more than one destination on one’s honeymoon! We made a proper grand tour that year. Switzerland was, of course, one of our stops. We picked up the clock in Zurich, in an antique shop that sold a lot of baroque pieces. Elias was very fond of fancy things.”

  “Look at the detail. The painting. See, these four figures represent the four seasons.”

  “Exactly. You would have thought that the John Heywood quote would have been a dead giveaway.”

  I shrugged. “And speaking of dead, this lower painting—the skull here—symbolizes death.”

  “Especially Alexandra.”

  “Come again?”

  “It was always one of her favorite things.”

  “Alexandra Latham has a thing for death?”

  The ancient eyes flashed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Alexandra was always fond of the clock.”

  “So, she is familiar with this baroque Swiss clock—”

  “Of course, she is. All the grandchildren are. It’s been on the mantel in the nursery for over sixty years.”

  “Wow. And not one of them noticed its absence.”

  A single tear trickled down a cheek as leathery as Mama’s pan-fried steak. “I expected Alexandra to. In fact, I was counting on it. I know one isn’t supposed to have favorites, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”

  “You were?” I lowered my voice. “Why was it so important that Alexandra find the clock?”


  Dmitri squirmed, forcing Mrs. Latham to set him down on her bed. We were in her bedroom, with the door closed. Although I had yet to hear anything suspicious, or see a shadow flicker by the bottom of the door, I just knew someone was out in the hallway. Watching. Listening.

  “You see”—the octogenarian said, matching my tone—“there’s something hidden here in the back.” She slid open a painted wood panel and withdrew a business-size envelope.”

  “It’s not a will, is it?”

  She recoiled in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “I saw the movie, dear. Or was it some book I read? Anyway, all the ne’er-do-well heirs kill each other trying to find it. Gracious me—” I clapped my hands to my cheeks involuntarily. “Flora Dubois wasn’t one of your heirs, was she?”

  “Heavens, no! She was my maid. And that’s all she was. It’s a pity though that Tradd couldn’t get the picture. Someone had to put a stop to her.”

  My knees shook. “So you killed Flora?”

  She sat down heavily on the bed. Unfortunately for poor Dmitri, she sat squarely on his tail. It couldn’t have hurt all that bad, the bed was soft, after all, but you would have thought she’d driven an eighteen-wheeler rig over those eight inches of bony fluff.

  “Yes, I killed Flora,” she said. I didn’t actually hear those words, but I’m a fair lip reader. Grandmother Wiggins was as deaf as a turnip.

  I waited until my precious ceased his pitiful yowls and was merely hissing. “How did you kill her?” I asked quite sensibly. As far as I knew, Buster had yet to make the details public.

  She straightened and raised her chin. “I shot her, of course.”

  “Where? I mean, what part of her body?”

  “Well—okay, but I really had no choice. I shot her in the back of the head.”

  “I don’t suppose firing her was good enough.”

  “Firing her wouldn’t have done anything about the baby. She absolutely refused to get rid of it.”

  I nodded. “So, you knew about that, too. And you wanted to make doubly sure the little brat wouldn’t somehow end up inheriting all this. Well, Mrs. Latham, I think you went to an awful lot of trouble. Why didn’t you just give everything to Alexandra now? That’s the new thing, you know? Die broke, the experts are saying. That’s the only way to go.”