by Tamar Myers
TAMAR MYERS
Statue of Limitations
A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY
For the Charleston Authors Society,
particularly my dear friends
Mary Alice Monroe and Nina Bruhns.
Contents
1
It is no secret that I am an S.O.B. I…
2
I’d driven by double 0 Legare hundreds of times, always…
3
A few of my brain cells must have misfired, no…
4
“Mama!”
5
Harriet snorted. “They didn’t get along, them two,” she said,…
6
“Miss Timberlake, are you all right?”
7
South Carolina coastal islands are not what typically springs to…
8
At first I thought I’d hit a pothole. Although uncommon…
9
“I don’t like them, Abby,” Rob said, before I had…
10
“Abby, darling,” Mama said, “I’ve already invited guests to tea.”
11
“Can I help you?” I asked the man on the…
12
“How did y’all learn about the Webbfingerses’ bed and breakfast?”
13
“Greg, darling,” I cooed, “will you be a doll and…
14
My petite patootie connected with the nearest chair while I…
15
Harriet did not answer the door when I rang, and…
16
For what it’s worth, the tourist from the Big Apple…
17
I am no prude, but Belinda Thomas’s outfit was way…
18
John and Belinda exchanged glances. “Of course she is,” he said.
19
I can’t blame Greg for pressing the pedal to the…
20
Ed Crawford was either dead or in a coma. In…
21
“Say what?” I snatched back the photo. Nothing had changed.
22
I must admit that Toy and C.J. make a handsome…
23
“Abby, it’s me—Rob!”
24
I would have showered at the Rob-Bobs’, but I needed…
25
Toy picked up after the first ring. “Wiggins.”
26
“Mrs. Spanky!”
27
“So you recognize Nick?”
28
“I was born and raised right here in Charleston. My…
29
“Abby, at least wait until I get there.”
30
There were two of them and a gun, versus me…
31
“Here’s to our Abby,” Mama said, raising her tea glass…
About the Author
Other Books by Tamar Myers
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
It is no secret that I am an S.O.B. I love living South of Broad, in the historic district of Charleston, South Carolina. Mine is one of the most coveted addresses in the nation, and it is rumored that God Himself lives here—although I have yet to run into Him on my daily walks. I have, however, met several people who think they fit the bill.
My best friend, Wynnell Crawford, is not as lucky. She’s merely a W.O.T.A.—West of the Ashley. The Ashley, of course, is one of Charleston’s two principal rivers. The other important river is the Cooper. They meet at Charleston’s famous Battery, where together they form the Atlantic Ocean. Please don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong with living west of the Ashley, but unless one lives on an honest-to-goodness plantation, being a W.O.T.A. is just not as good as being an S.O.B.
But in Charleston even geography takes second place to genetics. The really old families have bloodlines as tangled as the roots of an azalea in need of repotting. Through the bluest veins courses blood that has been recycling for over three hundred years. The redder the hemoglobin, the shorter the time the family has been in residence.
A growing number of folks are so inconsiderate that they weren’t even born in Charleston County. These unfortunates occupy the bottom rung of the social ladder and are referred to as being “from off.” The term has variously been interpreted to meaning “from off the peninsula” or “from off someplace far away.” It doesn’t really matter. If one is “from off,” there is simply no getting on.
Although one can always hope. Does not hope spring eternal? Even in the smallest of breasts? And anyway, I had just come from lunch at Chopsticks Chinese restaurant on King Street, where I’d received a wonderful fortune in my cookie: “Big things are coming your way.” I immediately thought of my husband, Greg, but when the phone rang at my shop a half hour later, minutes before closing time, and I heard the dulcet tones of one of the city’s homegrown S.O.B.’s, my tiny heart began to pound.
“Yes, this is Abigail Timberlake,” I said.
“Mrs. Timberlake, I was in your antique store the other day, and I must say, I really admire your taste.”
“Thank you.” I was so grateful for the compliment, I didn’t even consider correcting her. Ms. Timberlake is my business name. My married name is Mrs. Washburn.
“And how clever of you to call it the Den of Antiquity. However did you think that one up?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Mrs. Timberlake, I was wondering if you did more than just sell your antiques.”
Again I thought of Greg. “Uh—well, what did you have in mind?”
“Fisher and I have a little project we’re working on. A bed and breakfast is what I’d guess you’d call it. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d been interested in decorating for us.”
Would I? Would Bill Clinton like an invitation to a sorority sleepover? I tried to play it cool.
“Where is this bed and breakfast, Miss, uh—”
“Webbfingers. I’m Marina, and Fisher is my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Marina, but I’m not sure where Webbfingers is.”
I heard the soft, muffled laugh of gentility. “Darling, Webbfingers is our name, not our address. We live at double 0 Legare.”
Of course she pronounced the street Legare to rhyme with “Brie.” Only rubes, or recently arrived yokels “from off,” pronounce the word as it is spelled. But double 0? Oh, why not! This is Charleston, after all, where many addresses begin with 0, and sometimes it seems as if there are more half than whole numbers.
“Double 0 Legare,” I said, and jotted the address down on a notepad on my desk. As if I would forget. I could barely control my excitement. It was all I could do to keep from hanging up, calling the Post and Courier, and taking out a full page ad saying that I, little old Abigail from the Upstate, was now officially a decorator to one of Charleston’s finest.
“If it’s convenient for you,” she purred, “I thought you might stop by this evening, and I’ll show you around. Let you get a feel for the place.”
“What time?”
“Say seven. Fisher and I have theater tickets, but we don’t need to leave until almost eight.”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” I said, and then immediately regretted both my excessive enthusiasm and my choice of words. A strap of sleigh bells hangs from a nail on the back of the door, and the bells had begun to jingle as if Santa himself was driving the sleigh.
“My, you are a clever woman,” Marina said, but this time she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
“A customer just walked in,” I said. “The door does that.”
“Yes, of course. See you this evening, then.” She hung up first, a not so subtle reminder that she was a real S.O.B. and I merely a Johnny-come-lately.
>
I glared at the woman who’d just walked in the door. She wasn’t a customer, but my buddy, Wynnell. What are best friends for, if not to occasionally serve as whipping boys? And anyway, the woman has only one eyebrow, a tangled hedge of black and gray. I point that out to illustrate that not only is she oblivious to expressions, she’s oblivious to faces. My glare meant nothing to her.
“Abby, why aren’t you closed?”
“But it’s just now five-thirty.”
“Abby, it’s girls’ night out, remember? You and I and C.J. are going out for dinner and then a movie over in Mount Pleasant, remember?”
I sighed. “Yes, I remember.”
“But C.J. can’t go. She forgot that she has a shag lesson tonight.”
“So then maybe we should reschedule.” I wasn’t wild about this girls’ night out anyway. Greg is a studmuffin, and if it wasn’t for the fact that my mama lives with us, I’d be happy to do the nesting thing practically every night—or at least until high society came calling.
“We can’t reschedule, Abby. I got Ed’s dinner ready for him this morning. All he has to do is zap it in the microwave.” Wynnell’s plaintive tone reminded me that she had moved here even more recently than I and had yet to make friends. Her marriage to Ed, while a long one, was as rocky as a shrimp boat during a tropical depression. In other words, she was dying to get out of the house.
“Okay, dinner and a movie. But I need to run an errand before the movie.”
The hedgerow shot up. “What kind of errand?”
I was torn between blurting out my good news and treading carefully. Wynnell has her own antique shop, Wooden Wonders, but she can’t afford lower King Street. Her business, like her residence, is West of the Ashley. It seems that she regards everything I have, as well as everything I do, with a mixture of envy and admiration.
“This woman and her husband are creating a bed and breakfast. They want me to decorate. I’m supposed to stop by and look the place over at seven.”
The admiring side of her nodded. “Well, there’s no question you have good taste. What’s the woman’s name?”
“Marina Webbfingers.”
Wynnell’s mouth hung open while her brain switched over to its envious side. “The Marina Webbfingers?”
It was my turn to exercise a jaw. “Do you know her?”
“Of course not personally. But her picture was in the paper last weekend—on the society page. Didn’t you see it?”
“No.” I have given up looking at the society page. Greg and I attended a number of charity functions, even given freely, but never found our grinning mugs on that page. There is no use in torturing myself.
“Abby, she’s in there practically every week.”
“That’s nice. So, I take it you don’t object to popping by her house on our way to the movies?”
“Are you kidding? Abby, I don’t suppose you’d let me—uh, you know.”
“Choose the movie? By all means. Go for it.”
“No, Abby. What I mean is that business is a little slow at Wooden Wonders. Nobody seems to know that I’m there. I was wondering if—well, if you’ll let me help you decorate this woman’s bed and breakfast…” Her voice trailed while her eyes pleaded. She took a deep breath. “Abby, this could make all the difference. To my business, to me, and to Ed.”
“To Ed?”
“Abby, you know my husband didn’t want to move down here. Too hot, he’s says. Too many mosquitoes. Up in North Carolina he could afford to be retired. What I brought in was just gravy. Now he has to go back to work.”
“How’s the job search coming?”
“Well, of course he can’t find work in a textile mill down here. He’s got applications in at Lowe’s and Wal-Mart—but even if he gets a job, it won’t be what he’s used to.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t apologizing, merely expressing sympathy. It was Wynnell’s idea to follow me to Charleston, not mine. At the time, I’d tried to warn her that starting all over at her age was not just a walk in the park. Of course she didn’t listen. I probably wouldn’t have, either, if all my friends had pulled up stakes and moved to where, at least according to DeBose Heyward, “the living is easy.”
“Abby, it’s not all your fault,” Wynnell said generously. “But if you really want to help, give me this chance. I’ll do whatever you say. I just want to be your assistant on this project. Please, Abby. Pretty please with sugar on top?”
It was embarrassing to hear a strong woman like Wynnell beg. Besides, there was bound to be some task I could assign to her that wasn’t crucial to the overall success of this project. But I had to be careful. The woman has atrocious taste in furniture, and knows nothing about color coordination, which helps to explain her lack of success—even West of the Ashley. Maybe she could act as my gofer, or I could set her to work stripping wallpaper. She would share in my earnings, to be sure. Possibly even some of my forthcoming fame.
“All right, you can help me this once, but if—”
“Oh, Abby, you won’t regret it!” She flung herself into my arms. Given that she is five-foot-eight and I am four-foot-nine, and she weighs at least sixty pounds more, I felt like a very small gazelle being hugged by a lioness.
I gasped for air. “I mean it, Wynnell. You have to follow my instructions to the letter. And they may not be jobs that you like. Is that clear?”
“Baccarat crystal clear,” Wynnell said, and took the liberty of laughing at her little joke.
My best buddy is not known for her sense of humor, so I took advantage of the rare opportunity and laughed with her. Meanwhile my inner voice was shouting an alarm. Nothing good was going to come of this partnership. If I was a true friend, I’d renege on our agreement.
Sometimes, however, it is easier to be kind than to be wise.
2
I’d driven by double 0 Legare hundreds of times, always admiring its architecture, but never dreaming that someday I would be privy to the secrets that lay behind its wrought-iron gates. The mansion is a superb example of the Greek Revival style, with two-story columns topped by Corinthian capitals. In Charleston, porches are called piazzas, and this magnificent structure had ground and second floor piazzas across the front. In the side garden, which was to the left, a fountain splashed in the center of a boxwood parterre. A main path led past a massive Canary Island date palm to a second, more informal garden—well, to be honest, it was more of a jungle of overgrown azaleas. Peeking above them were several brick structures clad in creeping fig vines. I guessed these outbuildings to be a carriage house and servants’ quarters.
Wynnell and I were five minutes early, and so as not to be too obvious, we parked along the seawall on Murray Avenue and strolled along South Battery Street. It was obvious, at least to us, that we were not tourists. We both wore dresses, unlike most of the milling throng. Tight shorts and either T-shirts or tank tops seemed to be the preferred uniform. I do believe that one can view more wedgies per capita in the historical district of Charleston than anywhere else in the country.
“Yankees,” Wynnell hissed.
“You don’t know that,” I said. My friend is not a racist, and harbors no prejudice against gays, but anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon line gets her knickers in a knot. Never mind that—and I know this for a fact—she has a Yankee in her woodpile.
“Abby, look at that woman. She’s spilling out of her clothes in every direction. A Southerner would never disgrace herself like that.”
“Want to bet?”
“I’ll bet tonight’s movie. I’ll even buy the snacks.”
“You’re on.” As short as I am, I had to run to catch up with the woman, who was walking rapidly the other way. “Excuse me,” I called after her.
She stopped and turned. “Ma’am?”
“Do you know how to get to the Gibbes Museum?”
“No ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m just a tourist myself.”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I live here. I’m only—”
&n
bsp; “Directionally challenged,” Wynnell said. She had had no trouble keeping up.
I smiled at the stranger. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”
“Nawlins.”
“Nawlins, Louisiana?” I presumed she meant New Orleans.
She smiled back at me. “Is there another?”
“Not in my book, at any rate. So what do you think of Charleston?”
“It’s so interesting. I had no idea.”
Now that I had established that she was indeed a Southerner, I had to decide if it was worth it to me to decipher what she’d said. We Southerners—especially we women—have been brought up to always be polite, even if that requires telling a white lie or two. By saying that she found my adopted city “interesting” and that she had “no idea,” the lady from Louisiana could have been saying one of a dozen things. Perhaps she found it interesting that sections of King Street smell like garbage on Sunday mornings, and that she had no idea there would be a dearth of public rest rooms along the Battery. On the other hand, she could have meant that it was interesting that a local person would not know her way around, and that she had no idea that Charleston was the most beautiful—not to mention the friendliest—city in the nation. In the end I decided it wasn’t worth it. Not if we were going to get to Marina Webbfingers’s house on time.
But I couldn’t resist rubbing it in to Wynnell when we were alone. “I told you.”
My friend frowned, the hedgerow all but obscuring her eyes. “She could be a Yankee spy.”
“A what?”
“You heard me, Abby. I read that there is a special training school—up in Michigan, someplace—where they teach Yankees how to speak correctly. Make them insert the proper number of vowels, soften the R’s, that kind of thing. If we should ever decide to secede again—”