by Tamar Myers
“Second-hand junk,” I muttered.
“What was that?” she snapped. “What did you say, Abby?”
“I said you have a lot of spunk.”
“Yes, I guess I do. It took nerve running that kind of operation. Sometimes you had to make difficult decisions. Letting Billy Ray go was one of the hardest.”
“You fired him?”
She didn’t seem to mind the question. In fact, her laugh could have cut through a concrete block.
“We didn’t exactly fire him. His car tore up before it could burst into flames. Real life isn’t always like the movies.”
“You killed your own cousin?”
“Shut up! I didn’t give you permission to speak.” She took another drag on the noxious weed. “Anyway, Tommy Lee did the actual deed. He messed with Billy Ray’s brakes. But hey, we had to do it. That screwup was about to pull us all under.
“I mean, I told Billy Ray to sell one of the tea sets in Atlanta, one in Dallas, and one in Chicago. But that damn fool was lazy and dumped two in Atlanta, and one in Charlotte. If he’d stopped to think, he would have realized that Atlanta and Charlotte have a lot of cross traffic in the antique market.”
I momentarily forgot the peril to my life and limb. “Why not hawk one of them in New York?” I asked.
“Never, ever sell a major con piece in the Big Apple,” she said, sounding like Mama giving me advice on how to date. “Appraisers there see too many real pieces. They’re far too savvy.”
“L.A.?”
“Ha. The idiots out there would never pay what those pieces are worth. Even the con pieces. The pioneers left their culture behind at the Mississippi River, if you ask me.”
Who knew that our own little Peggy could be such a regional snob? I wanted to slap her silly for chauvinism. But only after tweaking her nose, by informing her that the same person bought both the tea sets “dumped” in Atlanta. I wisely kept my mug shut, however. There was no point in dragging Mama deeper into the mess.
She took another toke. “It’s a real shame about you, though. I always kind of liked you. Sure, you’re something of a know-it-all, and you can be abrasive at times. But what the heck, who’s perfect? If only that idiot Billy Ray hadn’t got it into his head that you were the one who needed to go. And carrying that engagement announcement in his wallet—I never would have sent him that, if I had known his true intent. I just told him to get the silver back somehow. Not to kill you.”
“How thoughtful of you, dear.” I stuck my tongue out, but of course she couldn’t see it.
“Ha!” she barked. “Just be glad you never met the man. I swear, Aunt Leona must have had an affair. I don’t see how my Uncle Artie could have spawned such a nincompoop.”
“Well—”
“At first he actually thought the picture I sent him was a joke. He thought it was Tommy Lee and Adrienne’s engagement announcement, only with the names changed.”
“You think Tommy Lee looks like my Greg?”
“In your dreams. My cousin is much handsomer. Anyway, there you have it. It just kept getting out of hand. Lord knows I didn’t want to do away with Purvis! Where are we going to get our merchandise now? Those sons of his don’t know diddly-squat about the business!”
“Why should I care?” I wailed. “I’m going to die, remember?”
“That’s right,” she said, matter-of-factly, “and we better get started. I need to check into a nice motel and catch some ‘z’s.’ I had to sit all day in some damn state park waiting for dark so this overlook would empty. Then I had to wait for you to wake up. I wasn’t about to kill you without an explanation.”
“How very thoughtful, dear.”
“That’s sarcasm, isn’t it? And I thought I owed you an explanation because we were friends. Fine then, if that’s the way you want it. I won’t bother to tell you about Dmitri.”
“Dmitri!” What kind of a mother was I, to have forgotten all about him?
“On second thought, you deserve to know. Well, Abby, I threw your precious cat over the edge.”
“What edge?”
“The overlook, silly. That bag of fleas fell like a rock. How far is it down to the river? Four hundred feet? Maybe five hundred.” She chortled maniacally.
“You bitch!” I screamed, and lunged at her.
It was a stupid mistake, one she easily took advantage of by whacking me on the head with the pistol. When my mental dandruff cleared, she was all business.
“Move,” she grunted. “Get out of the car. I’ve got the safety off and I’m itching to shoot.”
I did as I was told. My legs were understandably wobbly, like those of a newborn colt, but with some gentle nuzzling from the muzzle of the gun, they became strong in no time.
“Now give me your ring!”
“What ring?”
“That ostentatious sapphire that’s worth a king’s ransom.”
“I don’t have it on me.”
I heard the safety click. “Don’t you lie to me, you little snot. I can see that thing glinting, even in the dark.”
I practically ripped the ring off my finger.
“Now hand it over.”
A larger and braver woman would have tackled Peggy then. A more knowledgeable woman would have chopped that gun right out of her hand. Oh, if I had only listened to Mama and taken martial arts courses when I was in college.
“Aaaah,” Peggy sighed, when I dropped the ring in her hand. “Aaaah.” It was practically orgasmic.
I took a quick step back. “It’s cursed, you know. The previous owner was murdered. I’d be careful—”
“Shut up!”
I did as bid.
“Now turn and march!”
I envisioned myself prancing along to a John Souza tune. The best I could do was shuffle. Even had I been the picture of health, the going would have been slow. We were headed down narrow, winding wooden stairs on a treacherously steep, wooded slope. Clouds had completely covered the sky by then, and the overhead tree cover contributed to the inky blackness. I literally could not see my feet. The stairs were not built for folks of my height, and I did a lot of stumbling. Had it not been for the wooden hand rail to guide me, I would have stumbled off the stairs, into the woods, and possibly rolled down the slope. Unless a tree stopped me. It was worth giving a try.
Except that the bitch could read my mind.
“Don’t even think about ducking out on me,” she rasped. “I’ll shoot at whatever I hear.”
I clung to the railing and stumbled on. As we neared the gorge, the trees thinned and the wall of trees on the opposing side of the gorge assumed a faint gray shape. At last I stood on the final platform, with nowhere else to go but down the abyss. My mind raced. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do. Death by bullet, or death by bashing, what would a more sensible gal choose?
Bashing. Definitely bashing. Who knows, I might land in a tree just beneath the rim, and be merely scratched and bruised. Or if I jumped far enough, I might miss the rocks altogether and land in the New River. Every now and then, don’t folks survive jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge? How high was that? At least I was a good swimmer. Thank Buford and the Fort Mill water park for that.
I took a tentative step towards the edge and all hell broke loose. Well, it certainly sounded like the demons from hell, although it was only Dmitri. I have been accused of exaggerating this part of the story, so from now on, I’ll tell you exactly what happened, with no embellishments of any kind.
To the best of my knowledge—it was still too dark to see properly—I had inadvertently stepped on my cat’s tail. Either my ten pounds of joy had somehow managed not to go over the cliff, or had survived the fall, and crawled back up. My best guess is both, that he landed in a treetop just over the edge. At any rate, Dmitri’s pained yowl caused Peggy to drop the gun. When I heard the thunk of metal on the platform I lunged instinctively at Peggy, who apparently lunged at the gun.
We missed each other, but I was luckier. I b
anged my nose and chin on the bottom step. Peggy Teschel Redfern, however, went sailing over the edge of the Red River Gorge and except for one long, and rather satisfying scream, was never seen or heard from again.
27
“More tea?” Mama asked.
“I would,” C. J. said and held out her cup.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Please what?”
I groaned. Well, it was Mama’s fault. It was her idea to throw a tea party and serve the beverage out of a genuine imitation William Cripps teapot.
In her inimitable style, Mama had insisted we use the set she gave me before her departure to the convent. She was saving Toy’s set, she said. Someday, she insisted, the boy Toy would get married.
As for the third set, the Kefferts had agreed to take it off my hands for what I paid for it. A good deal of publicity had been generated by Peggy’s plunge to oblivion—you might even say the case broke wide open. At any rate, Tommy Lee’s faux pieces were considered so good, that they commanded almost as much as the originals. Almost.
They were certainly good enough to make Major Calloway lust in his heart to the point of becoming a felon. Even though I had persuaded Mama not to press charges, the law was not quite as sympathetic. The old goat was on probation and required to perform more hours of community service than Mother Theresa. His shop, Major Calloway’s Antique Emporium, was up for sale. We in Charlotte may suffer fools, but we do not buy from them.
“I don’t get it,” C. J. said, as she reached for the last of Mama’s crumpets, “why was Tommy Lee living at home, if he and his mother hated each other so much? My cousin Dorothy—”
“Because,” I said quickly, “they didn’t trust each other. They each wanted to keep an eye on the other, and living in the same house was the best way to do that.”
“I forget,” Wynnell said, “did Tommy Lee confess first, or was that after his mother turned him in?”
I snorted. “After. And that was only to plea bargain.”
Mama’s pouring hand froze. “His mama turned him in to the police?”
“He killed her favorite son, Billy Ray.”
Mama’s free hand patted her pearls, seeking comfort. “Still, a mama turning in her own flesh and blood!”
“Wouldn’t you turn me in if I killed somebody?”
My dear, sweet mother looked absolutely stricken. “Bite your tongue, Abigail Louise. I wouldn’t turn you in for all the cotton in Dixie.”
“Not even if I—you know—bumped off Toy?”
“Not even then.” Mama’s lips formed a thin, hard line.
“Don’t you be getting any ideas now, Abby,” Wynnell said.
“Geez, that Peggy was really something,” C. J. said, shaking her head in wonder, “Imagine just knowing how to give someone a pulmonary enema.”
Wynnell and I howled. Even Mama laughed. In fact, she had to set the teapot down she was shaking so hard.
“That was pulmonary edema,” I finally gasped.
“Whatever!” C. J. said, hotly offended.
“And she didn’t know exactly what effect the dimethyl sulfate would have. She just knew it could be fatal if consumed. Peggy used to work for a textile plant in Gastonia. She’d seen the warning labels on the drums.”
“But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? How did she get her hands on the stuff when she decided to kill Purvis?”
“Who knows?” I glanced at Mama, who seemed to be safely looking elsewhere. “She probably slept with someone who still works there,” I mouthed.
“I heard that!” Mama had turned around and was giving me a compulsory frown, although the corners of her mouth were turned up.
I couldn’t help but smile back.
“But your coffee,” C. J. persisted. “Didn’t she put something in that?”
“Just a couple of sleeping pills. But you have to remember, I hadn’t slept a wink the night before.”
“I knew there had to be a good reason I never liked the woman,” C. J. said loyally.
Wynnell cleared her throat. “Come, come. You liked her just fine, and you know it. What you don’t like is being shnookered.”
“That’s ‘snookered,’” I said, not unkindly.
“And then there’s the sapphire—oops!” C. J. clamped a hand over her mouth.
It was too late. I let out a wail that was heard in Alaska and caused two dog teams to veer off the Iditarod Trail.
“It wasn’t insured,” Mama whispered.
“At least Dmitri is okay,” Wynnell said, and the eyes below the hedgerows glowered at the youngest of us present.
I dabbed my eyes with the corner of a linen napkin. “Yes, thank God for that. The vet said he didn’t have a scratch on him. Which means that Peggy probably did. I doubt if she even got close to the edge with him. She probably just dropped him, thinking he’d run away.”
Mama wasn’t about to sit and watch helplessly as one of her company napkins turned black with mascara.
“Well,” she said, “unless the next question is a matter of life or death, I suggest we nail this subject closed and talk about something else.”
“Men!” C. J. squealed.
“Argh.”
“Now, Abby,” Mama said sternly, “remember what I keep telling you. There are other fish in the sea.”
“She’s talking about Greg,” I said to my friends. “My mother doesn’t realize that I’m over the jerk. Fishing for grouper, indeed! He was fishing for groupies.”
Of course I wasn’t really over Greg. I would probably never be entirely over the man. But I had moved out of the shocked stage and was well into anger. Who knew, maybe I could harness some of that steam and write a bestseller. Short Women Who Date Tall Handsome Creeps.
Mama’s eyes flashed. “What kind of a father would he have made to Charlie and Susan?”
“Speaking of Susan,” C. J. said, “wasn’t she supposed to get married? That’s all you could talk about when you first came home. I never did hear how that turned out.”
“Ah, that.” I looked pointedly at Mama.
My dominant gene source blushed. “Well, we all make mistakes, don’t we?”
“What she means is, she jumped to conclusions. Susan was getting married in a movie the drama department was filming at Glencairn Gardens. I heard she made a lovely bride, but thank God it wasn’t for real.”
“Amen,” Mama said.
“I’ll drink to that!” Wynnell took a sip of her tea.
“Speaking of weddings,” I said, “I wonder how the Rob-Bobs are doing.”
“Ooh,” C. J. sighed. “Hawaii, can you imagine that?”
“I didn’t think they’d ever get back together,” Wynnell said, “but I’m glad. I can’t wait until they return. Just the other day I needed their expert advice—”
“Expert!” I practically shouted. “I nearly bought the farm—make that a gorge—because of Rob’s expert advice.”
The doorbell rang and Mama bustled off to answer it. She was back in the space of a sneeze with a Cheshire cat grin on her face.
“It’s a man,” she whispered. “For you, Abby. He says he has a date with you.”
“Me?”
“He said his name is Edward Marlon. Ha, Marlon! That’s a kind of fish, isn’t? You see, Abby, I told you there would be other fish!”
“Sheriff Marlon?” C. J. trilled. “The hunk from Pennsylvania?”
I jumped to my feet. “It’s not what y’all think—okay, so maybe it is. Eddy and I have been on the phone a lot and, well, there you have it. But I really didn’t expect him to just show up at Mama’s door.”
“But he did ask you for a date, remember?”
“Lordy,” Wynnell groaned. “Our little Abby is dating a Yankee.”
I fled straight into Edward Marlon’s arms.
Den of Antiquity Mysteries by
Tamar Myers
from Avon Books
THE CANE MUTINY
MONET TALKS
STATUE OF LIM
ITATIONS
TILES AND TRIBULATIONS
SPLENDOR IN THE GLASS
NIGHTMARE IN SHINING ARMOR
A PENNY URNED
ESTATE OF MIND
BAROQUE AND DESPERATE
SO FAUX, SO GOOD
THE MING AND I
GILT BY ASSOCIATION
LARCENY AND OLD LACE
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SO FAUX, SO GOOD. Copyright © 1998 by Tamar Myers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition April 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-192194-0
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