by Tamar Myers
“Oh, not everyone. You didn’t. Mostly just people of a certain—how should I put this?”
“Social standing?”
“Your words, darling, not mine.”
Before I had the chance to protest being lumped with the hoi polloi, the door to Mr. Hammerhead’s office opened. The man framed by the sill was surprisingly handsome. Tall with dark hair and green eyes, he looked entirely normal to me—not that I am qualified to judge. Even his clothes—blue and white seersucker suit and white buckskin shoes—were everyday Charleston attire. At least among the gentry.
“Ah, Mrs. Washburn, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved quickly to shake my hand. “Please, come into my office. I think I can find you a chair. Mrs. Dillsworth,” he added, “please hold all my calls.”
I thought I saw the receptionist wink just before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. She could have been winking at either of us. It didn’t matter; I’ve had experience dealing with smarmy men. That’s why I carry pepper spray in my purse.
But Mr. Hammerhead proved to be a perfect gentleman. He listened attentively to everything I said, and even jotted down notes. I haven’t been taken that seriously by a man since my courtship days with Greg.
“That about covers it,” I said, reluctantly ending my spiel.
“Yes, I’ll handle her case,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s wonderful. Forgive me for being blunt, but what do you charge? Per hour, I mean.”
He glanced at a wall calendar of Charleston. Perhaps he had seasonal rates.
“Three hundred.”
I couldn’t help but gasp. “An hour?”
He looked at the opposing wall. “Well, that’s my usual rate. Is Mrs. Crawford indigent?”
“Not exactly, but she is indignant. Anyway, I plan to cover her expenses.”
“I see. And where are you employed, Mrs. Washburn?”
“I own the Den of Antiquity on King Street. It’s an antique store.”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you my special new customer discount, which is one-third off.”
“Two hundred?”
He looked at me. “On top of that you’ll get another fifty percent off if you’ll agree to do some of the legwork. You see, I’m a little short on staff at the moment.”
“What sort of legwork?” I hoped that wasn’t a come-on.
“I seem to remember reading in the paper recently that this inn is now open for business. Am I correct?”
“Yes. La Parterre—that’s French for little garden—has already received a rave review in the Post and Courier.” There was no need to remind him that it was the landscaping for which the reviewer couldn’t seem to find enough praise. My rooms, on the other hand, were merely referred to as pleasant.
“Well then, perhaps you could speak with some of the current guests. See what, if anything, they might have seen or heard. But”—he raised a recently manicured hand, which was surely an extravagance, given his apparent lack of business—“if you encounter the police, leave as discreetly as possible. This is all on the QT.”
“I understand.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse, I’m going straight over to interview Mrs. Crawford.”
I stood. “Thank you so much, Mr. Hammerhead.”
He stood as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Washburn.”
I turned to go just as he was clearing his throat.
“Mrs. Washburn?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you don’t find this too forward of me, but you have very nice hair.”
My hair is short, and until recent years a deep chestnut brown. It’s nothing too special by any means, but it is mine, and I plan to keep it that way. I was out of that office quicker than double-geared lightning.
I drove straight to my shop, which, although on King Street, is in another rent district altogether. Before I did any snooping, I needed to touch base in person with C.J., my assistant. The girl has a 160 IQ and is a crackerjack businesswoman, but somehow still manages to be one variety short of a three-bean salad. Born and raised in Shelby, North Carolina (trust me, I have nothing against that fair city), she spins stories that make the Paul Bunyan tales seem like unassuming collections of facts.
“Abby,” she practically shouted when she saw me enter, “the most incredible thing just happened.”
“Here, or in Shelby?”
“Here, of course.”
Experience has taught me that humoring the big gal can pay off in spades. Or not.
“Do tell,” I said cautiously.
“See that William and Mary walnut highboy over there?”
“What about it?”
“I made it move—by telekinesis.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
“Abby, you don’t believe me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just that something else very important happened—”
“Watch!” C.J. is over a foot taller than me, and built like a linebacker with hips. She squared her shoulders, thrust her head forward, and screwed her face into what quite possibly resembled a constipated bulldog. For a minute I thought her eyes might pop out. Of course nothing happened.
“Maybe if you don’t concentrate so hard,” I suggested.
“Ooh, Abby, but that’s the key. Granny Ledbetter back in Shelby was able to move a mountain just by staring at it.”
“Perhaps metaphorically.”
“No, I mean for real. Abby, you remember Crowders Mountain?” She was referring to an isolated peak just west of Charlotte, North Carolina, near the South Carolina border, that offers hardy hikers spectacular views of both Gaston and York counties.
“Yes,” I said warily.
“Well, it used to be even further west, on the other side of Shelby. But Granny wanted the afternoon sun to shine on her tomatoes, so she moved it. Took her two tries, though. The first time, she accidentally dumped part of it into Lake Norman. That’s how come Crowders Mountain isn’t quite as high as it used to be, and why the lake has so many islands.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. This was her most ridiculous yarn yet. If I didn’t put a stop to things, she might well scare away customers.
“C.J., darling, imagination is a good thing, but—”
“Abby, you don’t believe me, do you?” The hurt in her large gray eyes made me instantly regret my words.
“I believe you.” Being a little too much on the perky side, I could always use a longer nose.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I—”
I was saved by the bell. The sleigh bells, that is. The person I least wanted to see at that moment had just entered the shop.
4
“Mama!”
Please don’t misunderstand. I love my mother dearly, but she makes Ozzy Osbourne and his family seem like boring, middle-class, everyday people. That’s because Mama’s eccentricities take her in the opposite direction. Stuck in a mid-fifties time warp, she wears dresses with snug waists, and full-circle skirts puffed out by piles of starched crinolines. Even while vacuuming, my minimadre wears heels and pearls, and she never leaves the house without first donning gloves and hat. According to her, the second saddest day of her life—the day my daddy died was the saddest—was the day she, while on vacation to California, spotted the real-life June Cleaver, Barbara Billingsly, sporting a pair of slacks. If that wasn’t bad enough, the pants were purportedly white, and it was already two weeks after Labor Day.
“Abigail Louise,” Mama breezed, as she sailed into my shop on wind-filled skirts. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble again.”
I got to her as fast as I could and pulled her between two facing armoires. C.J. tried to join us, but I waved her away.
“I’m not in trouble, Mama. Wynnell is.”
“That’s the same thing, dear. You two are practically joined at the hip—well, at least you used to be. Before your silly little tiff. Besides, you know I can smell trouble,
and that’s exactly what I smell right now.”
Mama was serious. She claims she can detect danger with her nostrils, and if the wind is just right, even minor impediments to my happiness will show up on her nose radar. I respectfully dismiss the notion that she has this ability, and suggest that this delusion is a result of all the hair spray she uses.
“All I did,” I said, “was speak to a lawyer on her behalf.”
“But that’s not all you’re going to do, dear.”
I avoided her eyes. “Mama, how do you know about Mrs. Webbfingers’s death?”
“Mrs. who?”
“Don’t play games with me, Mama. I want the name of your source.”
My petite progenitress—she is only three inches taller than I—lives with Greg and me. She hadn’t been in the room when I received Wynnell’s call, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t overheard my half of the conversation. It is even possible—and it pains me to say this—that she was listening in on the phone extension in her room. After all, this is the same woman who picked open my diary when I was a teenager, and then blamed it on the cat.
Mama sighed. “I slept in late this morning, dear—but that phone call just before eight woke me up.”
“Aha, so you did listen in!”
“Gracious, no. I wouldn’t do anything so rude. Besides, the phone in my room makes a terrible buzz when a third party is on the line. You really should replace it, dear.”
“Mama!”
“All right. You hadn’t been gone a minute when the doorbell rang. Of course I wasn’t dressed yet, but I had to answer it, didn’t I? I mean, what if it was you, and you needed to get back in for some reason, but you’d left your key? Anyway, it was a reporter from Post and Courier—don’t ask me to remember her name—and since she was a she, I invited her in and made her some coffee. Real coffee, by the way—not that instant stuff Greg has to make for himself in the morning, because you won’t get up and make it for him. Abby, if you don’t mind me saying so, I never sent your father out into the world without a proper breakfast.”
“I do mind you saying so. Greg leaves the house at four-thirty, and he is every bit as capable as I am of making coffee. He prefers the instant, because that’s what he’s used to on the boat. Now back to the reporter. What did she want?”
Mama patted her pearls, which is the first indication that she is annoyed. “The reporter,” she said, curling her upper lip, “didn’t want to talk to me at first. Just you. But I made her real coffee and served her some nice warm cinnamon buns—”
“Which were Sarah Lee.”
“But I warmed them first, which is more than you do for Greg. Now where was I?”
“About to tell me what she wanted.”
“Ah, yes. Well, she asked if you’d ever worked for Marina Webbfingers. And I said that of course you knew the woman very well, but you’d never worked for her.”
“But I have!”
“Darling, decorating her bed and breakfast is hardly the same as working for her. I didn’t want her to think you were the maid.”
“Not that there would be anything wrong with that, but please, continue.”
“So anyway, after her second cinnamon bun she let it drop that Marina Webbfingers had just been found dead, and word on the street was that your friend Wynnell Crawford was the killer.”
“Word on the street? Mama, you’ve been watching too much television.”
Mama gasped. “Abby, you know I don’t watch TV. Since Green Acres left the air there hasn’t been a thing worth watching.”
I couldn’t have agreed less, but there was no point in arguing. “Word sure gets around fast in Charleston,” I said, shaking my head.
“Not as fast as in Shelby.”
“C.J.!” I whipped around the corner of the nearest armoire. Sure enough, there stood the big galoot, a hand the size of Connecticut cupped behind her left ear.
“Abby, please don’t be mad. There aren’t any customers in the shop right now, and I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Just like I won’t be able to help docking your pay if you don’t find something useful to do—out of earshot.”
“Abigail!” Mama started to frown, but remembered in the nick of time that it causes wrinkles. Besides, Donna Reed never frowned.
“Sorry, C.J.,” I mumbled.
“Oh that’s all right, Abby. I know you mean well. And you can’t be expected to know everything.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, like you never met Evangeline Graff from Shelby. Of course I never did either, on account she died before I was born, but Granny Ledbetter sure did. In fact, they were best friends growing up. But Evangeline never could keep a secret—and Granny had a lot of those. Anyway, everything that Granny told her friend, the whole town ended up knowing. Took just a few minutes, too. ‘Tell a Graff,’ the people started to say, ‘and you might as well tell everybody.’ So when Cousin Ebeneezer Ledbetter invented a machine that could send messages over a wire, that’s what they named it. Did you know that, Abby?”
I bit my tongue, but just for a second. “And I suppose your cousin invented the telephone and named it after someone named Phony?”
“Oh no, Abby. Alexander Graham Bell invented that—although I’m sure he got a little help from Cousin Ebeneezer.”
“That does it, ladies. I’m out of here. You can reach me on my cell phone, but only if it’s an emergency.”
Mama tried to follow me, but one of her heels got caught in the sidewalk. She didn’t fall, thank heavens, but as she struggled to maintain her balance she reminded me of the thirty-four hours of excruciatingly painful labor she had endured in order to bring me into this world.
“It was thirty-six, Mama,” I said. “And it has absolutely nothing to do with where I’m going now.”
“I know where you’re going, dear. You’re going to try and find whoever it was who murdered that Webbfoot woman.”
“That’s Webbfingers, Mama. And I don’t want you following me.”
“But I could help. You know I’m good at getting people to talk about themselves.”
“Sorry, Mama. I have to do this alone.”
“Alone! That’s what I am.” She stepped out of her shoe and yanked it loose with both hands. “Honestly, dear, sometimes I think I should have stayed up in Rock Hill.”
“Don’t be silly, Mama. You love it here. And you have your friends at Grace Church. Not to mention all your buddies in that club you belong to—the Heavenly Hopefuls, isn’t it?”
“It’s Heavenly Hustlers, dear, and it hasn’t been the same since one of them almost killed you.”
“Have you thought of getting a job?”
“Of course I’ve thought of that, but what would I do? You know I haven’t worked outside the home since marrying your daddy.”
“Well, you were a secretary—” I choked back the rest of my sentence. Secretaries these days need computer skills. All Mama knows about computers is that if you take one apart to dust it, you better know how to put it together again. Otherwise your daughter could get very irritated.
Mama held her gloved hands in the air, as if surrendering. In reality, she was preparing to deliver her famous victory speech.
“Don’t worry about me, dear. Just go on and do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll be fine.” She blinked away a bogus tear. “I can sit at home and cut coupons. Who needs friends when you get to be my age? They’re liable to die soon, anyway.”
“Cutting coupons is a wonderful idea,” I said malevolently. I didn’t think for a minute she would. When Mama gives her victory speech, it isn’t just to make me feel guilty; it’s a sure sign she has something up her shirred sleeve.
I had no doubt that Mozella Wiggins was going to be just fine.
Although Marina Webbfingers’s murder had presumably happened only hours prior, there was no telltale sign announcing the fact. No yellow tape, no stone-faced detective barring access to the property. Either the police had alr
eady done their job or discretion had won over detection. This was, after all, double 0 Legare Street.
Mama hadn’t succeeded in making me feel guilty, but the pangs were certainly there when I pushed open the wrought-iron gate, wound my way through the parterre, and entered the garden Wynnell had reclaimed. The friend who I had imagined had no taste had turned out to be rather talented—if you discounted the hideous knockoff statue of David which, incidentally, was no longer in evidence. In the weeks since I’d last seen the garden, the annuals had come into their own; masses of flowers bloomed everywhere. It was a scene deserving of its own month on a Charleston calendar. Thank heavens someone—no doubt the deceased—had removed the silly sculpture.
“Well done, Wynnell,” I said softly to myself.
“It is kinda pretty, ain’t it?”
I whirled. It was Harriet Spanky, the Webbfingerses’ overworked maid. I’d gotten to know her quite well during the decorating process, because the elderly servant had seen to it that Wynnell and I were well-supplied with sweet tea—the Southern elixir of life.
Judging by her perpetually tired eyes and the deep creases on her face, Harriet had played with God when He was a child. Perhaps she’d even baby-sat for Him. I knew she was a widow whose husband had died in a war, but which war was anybody’s guess. It would have come as only a mild surprise to learn that he had perished in the war, sometimes referred to hereabouts as the War of Northern Aggression.
If Harriet needed to work, for whatever reason, that was her business. It was, however, my right to think it shameful of the Webbfingerses to require such an elderly woman to wear a uniform. Except for the length of the skirt—which mercifully came down to her knees—it resembled the classic French maid’s uniform. How degrading this must be to a woman who should have been at home baking cookies for her great-grandchildren, not scrubbing the toilets of the aristocracy.
“Hi Harriet,” I said warmly. “How’s the arthritis today?”
“Could be worse. I could be dead like the missus.”
“You have a point there.”
“So you heard? Ain’t that awful?”