So Faux, So Good

by Tamar Myers

  “Magdalena? Me? Magdalena talked to you about me?”

  “She was concerned about you, Abby.”

  “I can take care of myself just fine, thank you!”

  “Oh, I know. You are a very resourceful woman. I suspected that Tommy Lee was up to some kind of shady business, but I never would have guessed it was stealing silver.”

  “What?”

  “It’s funny, because I’ve driven by Southern Pennsylvania Metalworks Company many times—even stopped in a few times to harangue Tommy Lee—but I never really noticed that little building out back before. Or if I did, I didn’t think much about it. Not until you crawled under the fence.”

  “You followed me?” I shrieked, sending a flock of starlings in a nearby tree into orbit.

  “It was Magdalena’s idea. She was afraid Tommy Lee might catch on to you. She sent me over as a—”

  “Spy!”

  “Lookout. I mean, what would you have done if Tommy Lee had caught you in that little building where he hides his stolen goods?”

  “They’re not stolen, they’re counterfeited, dear. He makes those things right there.”

  “You’re kidding? Tommy Lee made that silver thing you found in the box?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Damn! When we were married that man couldn’t change a light bulb without written instructions.”

  “So, you were playing watchdog for me, were you?”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t see a car.”

  “I had to park at the bowling alley and jog all the way. It’s a good thing I’m a track coach and run with my girls now and then. But when you started to leave, I really had to scramble. Tore this on that damn fence.” She fingered an L-shaped rip on her denim blouse, just above her waistline.

  Aha! So it wasn’t just her bosoms that were bigger.

  “Perhaps you need to lose a few pounds, dear,” I suggested kindly.

  “I weigh ninety-six pounds dripping wet. How about you?”

  She had me beat by two measly pounds. Big deal.

  “You still haven’t told me what you were doing at Leona’s house, Adrienne. At least you haven’t tried to deny it.”

  “I was paying my rent, that’s what! Our conversation about the old bag being my landlady reminded me that it was almost two weeks overdue.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that! Ha!” Confidentially, that male donkey was going to have a hard time choosing between the two of us after that laugh.

  Adrienne dug in the pocket of her jeans and extracted a slip of paper. “This is my rent receipt! Signed and dated yesterday by Leona Teschel herself.”

  “What does that prove?”

  She thrust the paper in my face. “These are the same jeans I wore yesterday when I helped you look for your stupid cat. Do you think I normally carry a freshly dated receipt with me on the off chance I need to placate some anal-retentive skeptic?”

  My good southern manners prevented me from slapping her face—well, those and the fact it would have been too much like slapping myself.

  “I’m just trying to be careful,” I whined.

  “Well, it isn’t me you need to be afraid of. You really going home today?”

  “As soon as the girls get back with the U-haul.”

  “Good. You’ll be a lot safer down there.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Someone back home was poisoned a few days ago. I’d bet my bottom dollar that the Teschels were behind it.”

  She paled. “Trash. Just like I told you. They’re all trash.”

  “I suppose you saw me speak to the sheriff?”

  “Corner booth until your friends joined you.”

  “Wow, you’re good!”

  “What did the sheriff say?”

  “He said he’d try to get a warrant to search the Southern Pennsylvania Metalworks Company.” I paused dramatically. “And he asked me out on a date,” I said.

  “Lucky,” she said, and gave me a sisterly tap on the shoulder.

  “Of course since I’m leaving today, he’s all yours. If you wise up and dye your hair back to the way God intended, the sheriff might not even notice the difference.”

  She inhaled deeply. “Nah. These puppies would give me away.”

  I tapped her back—perhaps a bit too hard—and thanked her for her concern.

  “Keep in touch,” I said warmly.

  “Say hello to Mama,” she said, and smiled.

  I said hello to Mama sooner than I would have liked. I had stretched out across the bed, with a happily purring Dmitri on my chest, when the phone rang. The sudden jangle startled my bundle of purrs, who pushed off with his back feet and left scratch marks on my sternum.

  “What?” I said, perhaps a bit testily.

  In my defense, I was in pain. Besides, C. J. had already settled our bill with Mushroom Man who, as it turned out, was named Brando. Brando Marlon.

  It had not been a pleasant experience. Mr. Marlon had added all sorts of frivolous charges to our bill. Whoever heard of a motel charging for those little soap bars? Or toilet paper for that matter? Peggy’s makeup job on C. J. hadn’t done a bit of good, and when she returned to the meager bosoms of her friends, the poor girl was in tears.

  Mr. Marlon gasped at my greeting, but said nothing.

  “Look, you little weasel,” I growled. “We paid your damn bill, and checkout time isn’t until eleven. What more do you want? A pound of flesh?”

  “Why Abigail Louise, how you talk!”

  “Mama?”

  “And after all I’ve done for you. I gave you the best years of my life and—”

  “Endured thirty-six hours of excruciating labor—”

  “Forty-two.”

  “What?”

  “Forty-two hours,” Mama said. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty, Abby, so I always knocked off six hours when I told the story. The worst six hours, if you really must know.”

  “Mama, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought you were the motel owner.”

  “Never mind that, dear, just tell me why it is I’m always the last one to know.”

  I racked my brain for things I might have neglected to tell her. There were a few things I would purposefully never tell her, but she had about as much chance of finding those things out herself, as I did playing in the NBA.

  “Mama, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean—unless it’s about Greg. FYI, we haven’t officially broken up. We’re just taking a careful look at our relationship.”

  “Well, you’d be a fool to drop Greg, Missy, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I want to know why you didn’t tell me Susan’s getting married.”

  I dropped the receiver, which slid off the bed, and in the process of retrieving it, I kicked the night stand, toppling a K-mart specialty lamp. The base of the lamp survived intact, but the muslin shade was dented. I did my best to reshape it before picking up the phone. Crises with Susan were inevitable, but another encounter with Brando Marlon was to be avoided if at all possible.

  “Abby, are you still there?” Mama sounded like she was talking to me through a can tied to a string.

  “I’m back, Mama. I just dropped the phone. Now what’s this about Susan getting married?”

  “That’s what she said. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. At Glencairn Gardens.”

  “Over my dead body,” I grunted.

  “Then you better hurry home, dear.”

  “I’m coming home today, Mama. Wynnell and C. J. are going to be driving a U-haul back, so they may stop overnight halfway. Wynnell’s nervous about driving through the mountains and C. J. isn’t nervous enough, and she doesn’t even know how to drive a standard shift. I’d offer to drive, but those trucks are kind of big, and besides, I didn’t buy a single thing. But Lord, I hear that Wynnell did. And Peggy. Acres of quilts and some good Amish furniture too. I don’t think C. J. was quite as lucky, but she told me about a nice—”

  “Cut the chit-chat, dear. Thi
s call is costing me a pretty penny.”

  “You mean me. It’s costing me a pretty penny.”

  “I don’t think so dear, unless you’ve started paying my bills.”

  I thought about that for as long as it takes a pint of ice cream to start sweating on a warm summer day.

  “Mama, are you back at your house in Rock Hill?”

  “Of course, dear. Where else would I be, Timbuktu?”

  “My house, Mama! You were going to stay at my house until the police arrested Purvis’s killer. Remember?”

  “Oh, they already did that,” Mama said, and hung up.

  26

  I immediately dialed back.

  “Motor Coach Motel. How may I help you?”

  “Mr. Mushroom? I mean, Mr. Marlon?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Timberlake. What do you want?”

  “Me? How did you get on the line?”

  “You’nz have paid your bill, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that means you’re officially checked out. When that happens, all outgoing calls are routed through this switchboard.”

  “But I’m still in the room, damn it!”

  “Through my generosity, I might add. If that scrawny dishwater blonde hadn’t put up such a good fight, I wouldn’t be letting you keep the room until she gets back. A bill paid, is an exit laid. That’s my policy.”

  “I need to make a call,” I said, biting off each word, “and if you don’t get me an outside line, I’m telling your big brother.”

  “Who?”

  “Edward Marlon, Bedford County Sheriff, that’s who.”

  He hung up. However, when I dialed Mama’s number again, it rang straight through.

  “Mama!” I screamed. “Who did they arrest for Purvis’s murder?”

  “Lord have mercy, Abby, God gave me only one set of eardrums.”

  “Then you’ll be out your only set, if you don’t hurry up and tell me,”

  The pearls whirled. “Oh, all right, but you should read what your namesake says about phone manners in today’s column.”

  “Mama!”

  “Major Calloway. Doesn’t that just beat everything?”

  “Frank Calloway? Our Major Frank Calloway, of Major Calloway’s Antique Military Emporium?”

  “I think you’re the one who needs a new set of eardrums, dear.”

  “But Mama, Frank’s all bark, and no bite. Did he confess?”

  “No, but he will. The police found his fingerprints all over my house, and then they searched his house and found that tea set I bought for Toy.”

  “I suppose they got a search warrant,” I said bitterly.

  “Of course, dear. This isn’t Iraq.”

  “Well, that solves half a mystery,” I said.

  “And you’re halfway making sense,” Mama said. I love her dearly, but that woman has more cheek than the real Marlon Brando.

  I told Mama to get as much information as possible out of Susan, and under no circumstances should she allow her granddaughter to be married unless I was there. I fully planned to be there, but life, like a road through the mountains, has a way of taking some unexpected sharp turns.

  I took a sip of the coffee Peggy brought back. It was stone cold, and we had barely cleared the city limits of Pittsburgh.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?” I wailed.

  “Lordy, Abby, I’m going ten miles over the speed limit as it is, and we just passed a smoky a mile or so back.”

  “That was a city police car, not a smoky. And for your information, my mama drives faster than you.”

  Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “I have yet to get a speeding ticket, and I’m not going to get one above the Line.”

  “Damn it, Peggy, I’ll pay the fine!”

  “Getting stopped isn’t going to get you home any faster. And if they throw us in jail—well, we just may get back in time to watch your grandchildren graduate from college.”

  I started to argue, but when I saw the firm tilt of her chin, I settled for sulking. Sometime, not long after that, the sulking turned to slouching, and the slouching to slumber. Forget the images of sleeping babies—mine never did—and think cat. Think Dmitri, who can spend an entire day curled up on my bed, and then has the temerity to stretch and yawn a few times before settling down for the night.

  When I awoke it was dark, and the car had stopped moving. For some strange reason I was sprawled on my back across the rear seat. I tried to sit up, but an invisible sledgehammer slammed into my forehead, right between the eyes, knocking me flat on my back again.

  I groaned.

  “So, Sleeping Beauty finally awakens,” Peggy said. “Well, it’s about time.”

  The woman must have borrowed the can on a string from Mama. She sounded a lot further away than the front seat. I managed to prop myself up on my elbows for a few seconds, just long enough to glance out the window. It was indeed night. There were more stars sprinkled across the sky than were dandruff flakes on my black velvet dress the last time I wore it.

  “Are we home already?”

  “No, but don’t worry your cute little head, Abby. This is as far as you’re going.”

  “What?” I tried sitting again, but the pain in my head was unbearable. I lay still and closed my eyes. “Peggy, I don’t feel very well.”

  “Well now, that’s too bad.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but Peggy didn’t sound the least bit sympathetic.

  “I said I don’t feel very well. My head’s killing me.”

  “That’s to be expected.”

  “What happened? Were we in an accident?”

  To my astonishment, Peggy laughed, her voice suddenly clear. “The accident has yet to happen.”

  I lay quietly for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was all a bad dream and I really would awake in my own driveway back in Charlotte. If so, there was nothing to do but wait the nightmare out.

  But it wasn’t a dream, and I wasn’t asleep. Peggy had lit a cigarette, and I could smell the smoke. Dreams—well, my dreams at any rate—seldom, if ever, include smells. Still, it didn’t compute.

  I licked my lips, which felt like emery boards. “You don’t smoke.”

  “Wrong. I haven’t smoked for twenty years, but I do now. I want you to know, Abby, that this accident is going to hurt me as much as it’s going to hurt you.”

  “What accident? I don’t understand. And how do you know it’s going to happen?”

  “Because this accident has to happen. There’s no way to avoid it.”

  “Are we stuck on a railroad track? Because if we are, the best thing to do is just abandon the car. I know it’s new, and you’re very fond of it, but insurance will cover it.” It was strange, but talking actually seemed to ease the pain. Or maybe it was time.

  “We’re not stuck on any damn railroad track. But this is a good place for an accident, don’t you think so, Abby?”

  “Where are we?”

  “Why, New River Gorge, of course. Sit up, Abby, and see for yourself.”

  This time I was able to sit. I took it in stages, like a baby. In fact, I seemed to take as long as a baby learning to sit, but I was grateful that at least my head no longer pounded. It merely throbbed.

  “All I see is the dark,” I said. Someone had brushed the dandruff off my black velvet dress.

  “It’s going to rain, Abby. That makes it just about perfect, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Perfect for what?”

  Peggy took a final drag on her cigarette and mashed it into the ashtray. Then I heard her open and close the glove box.

  “Your death, Abby. That’s what we’re talking about. And just so you know, I’ve got a double-action automatic pistol pointed at you.”

  In retrospect I think I can honestly say that my blood did not run cold. Perhaps I was too shocked to be properly scared. I don’t think I even perspired unduly. Maybe a little dampness in those areas most vulnerable, and a light sheen to my fore
head, but otherwise, I was the picture of calmness.

  “Why am I going to die? Is someone going to kill me?”

  Peggy chuckled. Under other circumstances it would have sounded utterly benign. She might as well have been reacting to a joke I’d told.

  “That’s the beauty of it, Abby. You still don’t have a clue, do you? So you see, when I kill you—and it is going to be me—no one will be the wiser. Because if you don’t have a clue, then no one else does.”

  “Then clue me in, dear.”

  “I thought you’d never ask! Well, well, where to begin…”

  “The beginning?”

  “Gracious no, that will take too long. How about with my late dear cousin, Billy Ray Teschel?”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Tommy Lee too, of course. Which—”

  I gasped. “Leona Teschel is your aunt?

  “By marriage of course. Abby, Abby, Abby…how long have we been friends? Five, six years?”

  “Since I bought my shop. Four years.”

  “And in all that time, you never once asked if I’d ever been married.”

  “I figured you’d tell me, if you wanted me to know.”

  “Why weren’t you more curious, Abby? Didn’t you think I was a good enough friend?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Abby. I’m about to tell you a story. You see, Abby, we Teschels have always been a talented bunch. I may not be especially artistic, but I have other talents. Hidden talents, let’s say.”

  While she paused to light another cigarette, I bit my tongue.

  “Tommy Lee, of course, is the artist in the family. He’s really good, don’t you think?”

  I said nothing.

  “That was a direct question, Abby. You’re supposed to answer those.”

  I remembered the double-action automatic pistol. “The epergne is exquisite. And so is my tea set. I suppose he made that too.”

  “With his own two talented hands. I, however, was the brains behind the whole thing. I did the market research—learned what would sell where, and supplied Tommy Lee with photos he could copy from.

  “Now, Billy Ray. He was supposed to be our salesman because, lord knows, I couldn’t sell that kind of upscale merchandise. Not in my shop. You know the kind of stuff I carry.”