Statue of Limitations

by Tamar Myers

  9

  “I don’t like them, Abby,” Rob said, before I had a chance to even say hello. The inventor of caller ID is not going to get a Christmas card from me.

  “Why don’t you like them? It’s her hair, isn’t it?”

  “No, but come to think of it, she could get a job hosting late night horror flicks on TV. But they’re fakes, Abby.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they’re not married, for one thing.”

  I sighed. “Here we go again. I suppose you’re going to tell me that Nick Papadopoulus is gay. For your information, Rob, not every handsome man is gay. And neither is every celebrity. And don’t you start in again on Santa Claus.”

  “Abby, darling, how many straight men do you know who wear bright red suits with white fur trim?”

  I was unconvinced. “How many gay men wear red suits with white fur trim?”

  “Touché. But it was as plain as the nose on Bob’s face that this couple had no chemistry between them. Zip, zero, nada.”

  I could hear Bob protesting loudly in the background. His nose is remarkable, but his deep bass voice is his most distinguishing attribute.

  “Leave my schnoz out of this,” he boomed.

  “That’s right,” I said, “leave Bob alone. Besides, I know plenty of married couples who lack chemistry.”

  “Then how about his chains?”

  “What about them?”

  “Ten carat gold, Abby. And the longest one is just plate.”

  “You can tell that from across a room?”

  “Seen enough cheap stuff to spot the difference. What is this guy, anyway? A pimp?”

  “He’s a Wall Street broker.”

  “Just like my grandmother was a grand champion on Fear Factor.”

  “She was? I mean, so what’s this guy’s game?”

  “It’s your job to find out, Abby. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. By the way, thanks for a really good lunch. Bob thanks you, too.”

  “But we still have the lunch I made, and the emu salad sandwiches are soggy now,” Bob blared in the background. “And what the heck am I supposed to do with all those quail eggs?”

  Mercifully, Rob hung up.

  Bob should have given his peculiar lunch to C.J. The big gal will eat anything. Her Granny Ledbetter back in Shelby believed that every living creature was a potential meal. She used real amphibians when she made toad-in-the-hole. When she couldn’t find toads, she used frogs. Kiss one of Granny’s casseroles and you might well find yourself face-to-face with a prince—albeit a dead one.

  C.J. had just closed a sale on a Hepplewhite dining room set when I entered my shop. She greeted me with her usual goofy grin.

  “Hey Abby, you’re not here to check up on me, are you?”

  “Of course not, dear. But how are things going?”

  She told me about the sale.

  “Did you give them the standard discount?” I asked. Many customers don’t realize that we in the trade often build a discount into our asking price. Since this particular dining room set cost an arm and a leg (very nice legs I might add, barely scarred by centuries of use), ten percent was a hefty hunk of cash.

  “They didn’t ask, Abby.”

  “Well, in that case, you and I will split the difference. And no need to thank me, C.J., because you deserve it.”

  “Actually, Abby, they paid me more than the listed price.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “You see, some other couple was looking at it first, and I started going on and on about what a great deal this was, so then this second couple jumps into the conversation, and the next thing I know they’re bidding.”

  “C.J., you’re a genius, you know that?”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. I’ve known that since I was one.”

  I smiled patiently. “C.J., one-year-olds don’t know anything about intelligence quotients. They can barely speak.”

  She looked me straight in the eye—of course she had to look down, while I looked up. “I could talk at three months, Abby. I began to read at four months.”

  There was no point in arguing, especially since she was probably telling the truth. The woman could speak seventeen languages, including Mandarin Chinese. I, on the hand, sometimes have trouble with English—especially the hard words like “subliminal.”

  “C.J., darling, as long as everything is fine here at the shop—and you’re obviously doing a great job—I’m going to leave everything in your hands for the next few days. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure, Abby. And if you need any ideas about how to track down the killer, just holler.”

  I turned my head so that rolling my eyes wouldn’t offend her. Having raised a teenage girl, I know firsthand just how irritating ocular rotation can be—at least for the observer. For the roller, it does help to relieve stress.

  “Thanks, C.J., but I’ll manage just fine.”

  “I’m sure you will, Abby. But if it was me, I’d start by inviting some of those bed and breakfast guests to tea. Tourists love having tea in historic Charleston homes. And that way, you could kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, give your mama some business. Mozella is going to hang out a sign, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate any customers you bring over.”

  “Hold it right there! Mama’s in business? What kind of business?”

  “Serving tea. Abby, are you a little bit slow? Not that there is anything wrong with that. Cousin Arbuckle was the slow one in our family. Couldn’t even tie his shoes until he was six months old. Granny says she thought he would never amount to anything, until he and Al Gore invented the Internet together.”

  “Mama can’t run a business out of our—make that my—home!”

  “Why not, Abby? You told her to get a job.”

  “Yes, but—oh, never mind. Where is Mama now?”

  “Baking scones, I think.”

  I ran for my car.

  I was too late. In the space of a few short hours Mama had turned my beautiful eighteenth century home into a tea shop. She’d even hung her shingle: MAMA’S TEA PARLOR. It was a only a temporary sign, Magic Marker on cardboard, but she had done a good job of drawing a cup and saucer, and I must admit that the overall affect was cute. Mama was cute as well in her pink and white gingham apron with the extra long ruffles.

  “So, Abby, what do you think?”

  “I think you should have asked me first, because I would have said no.”

  “That’s why I didn’t.” The oven timer buzzed. “Just a minute, dear, while I check on the scones.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. “It’s not just that I don’t want a parade of strangers in my house, Mama, but this is illegal. You need a business permit, and a certificate from the board of health.”

  She pivoted on her pumps. “But what will I do with all this food? Besides the scones, I made gingerbread with lemon sauce, some yummy macaroons, the cutest miniature quiches, and these little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Let’s see, there’s cucumber, watercress, tuna salad—”

  “I’ll have some friends over for tea.”

  Mama frowned. “Abby, I already know your friends. I want to meet new people.”

  “These are new people, Mama.”

  She yanked the scones out of the oven at just the right moment. They were golden brown, without being overdone, and smelled heavenly. There appeared to be two kinds: cheese and raisin.

  “Will you have to be here when they come, Abby?”

  “Of course. In fact, I was just about to ask you if you wouldn’t mind hanging out in the kitchen.”

  “Why Abigail Wiggins Timberlake Washburn! Shame on you for trying to banish your poor old mama from her own living room.”

  “Technically it’s my living room, Mama, and I need to speak to these people alone.”

  “Abby, are you ashamed of me? Because if you are—well, I’ve never been so hurt in all my born da
ys.”

  My sigh helped cool the scones. “I’m not ashamed of you, Mama. Honest. It’s just that—well, these aren’t really friends. They’re just people I need to interview.”

  Mama put her hands on hips, a gesture that emphasized her cinched waist even more. “This has to do with Wynnell, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe—okay, yes.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Leave your house?”

  “No.”

  “Oh I see, you’re going to banish me to the kitchen. Well, in that case, there’s one thing you should know.”

  My next sigh rustled Mama’s ruffles. “Make it fast, because I’m really pressed for time.”

  Mama had a strange, triumphant look in her eyes.

  10

  “Abby, darling,” Mama said, “I’ve already invited guests to tea.”

  I wish I could say that I couldn’t believe how much nerve she had. Unfortunately, I could. The examples were legion. Perhaps the example that stood out the most in my memory, and which I still chafed at, if I allowed myself to think about it, was my high school prom. The senior prom. Mama canceled my date with Brad Belk, a college freshman she didn’t like, and “substituted” Howard Craighead, a high school sophomore. I would have spent the entire night on my bed crying, but since Howard had yet to get his driver’s license, and had a daddy richer than Howard Hughes, I got to ride to the prom in a real, chauffeured limousine, one that was privately owned. Not the kind that smells vaguely like puke, and into which promgoers pack themselves like circus clowns.

  “Then you’ll have to uninvite them, Mama.”

  “You don’t want me to, dear.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  The smallest of smirks played at corners of her perfectly rouged mouth. “I invited the Zimmermans and the Thomases.”

  “I don’t care if these are your church friends—”

  “They’re not, dear. They’re guests at double 0 Legare St.”

  When I was a little girl and stared with my mouth wide open, Mama used to say that my eyes would pop out. Not that it would matter, she’d tell me, because I would choke to death on a fly at the same time. It’s a good thing there weren’t any flies in the house at the moment, and although my peepers didn’t pop, they must have presented quite a sight.

  “Abby, that look—you’re doing it again. Just don’t be mad, dear, because I’m only trying to help. Wynnell is my friend, too, remember?”

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it’s just a tiny pony named Mozella. Besides, there would be plenty of time to yell at her—respectfully, of course—when my friend was cleared of wrongdoing and out of the clinker.

  “Why not the Papadopouluses as well?” I asked.

  “They said you were meeting them for lunch. Lordy, Abby, it was hard enough trying to find these two couples. I had to get descriptions from the maid, and then hunt for them in the Market. You know what that’s like.”

  Indeed I did. The Market, which runs the length of Market Street, between Concord and Meeting, was built in 1788, and is at times referred to as the Slave Market, although slaves were never sold there. House slaves were, however, sent to shop for produce and dry goods at the many stalls on the lower level. Today it is thronged by tourists in search of a good deal on souvenirs, which range from elegant sweetgrass baskets woven by the Gullah descendants of slaves to general flea market knickknacks manufactured in China. At times the narrow aisles of the market can get so crowded that a small woman like myself—or Mama—can get literally carried along with the masses. I once visited all the buildings twice without ever intending to do so.

  “Yes, I know what the place is like. It’s a wonder you found them. Did you have any trouble convincing complete strangers to come over for tea?”

  Mama has a strong Upstate accent, the kind folks up there used to have before Yankee transplants, relocating to Charlotte, spilled over the border into South Carolina and modified our speech. Although I suppose television is partly to blame for homogenizing our speech. At any rate, Mama’s Rock Hill accent differs from a Charleston one. The latter pronounces “house” a bit like they do in Tidewater, Virginia, which, to my ear, sounds a bit like the way many Canadians say it. Fortunately, most tourists from north of the Line can’t tell the difference between Upstate and Lowcountry accents.

  “Now, sugar,” she said, “you know I can be just as charming as Miss Scarlet herself.”

  “Frankly, Mama, I’m surprised you don’t wear wooden hoops instead of petticoats. Think of the all money you’d save on starch.” I smiled sweetly. “So, what time is this tea?”

  “Four o’clock. That gives you plenty of time to change into something decent.”

  “You mean a dress, right?”

  “Of course, not dear. I’m not as old-fashioned as you think. A Sunday skirt and blouse combination will do just fine.”

  “Whatever, Mama. Just as long as you agree not to bother us during tea.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. It was my idea.”

  “I know, but this is a murder investigation, and I’m the one with the expertise. Relatively, at least.” I already knew that Mama was going to be as hard to shake loose as a tick, but it was worth a try.

  “Abigail, darling, what if I serve you the tea, and then retire to the kitchen?”

  “Promise you won’t interfere in any way?”

  “You have my word.”

  “And you won’t stick your head out the door every five seconds with questions of your own?”

  “Why Abby, I’m offended.”

  “Mama!”

  “All right, dear. There is no need to get your knickers in a knot. I’ll behave.”

  And I’ll never eat another piece of chocolate.

  The two couples arrived separately. Like most tourists, they’d elected to stroll through our charming streets and absorb the ambiance. The route from number 7 Squiggle Lane to double 0 Legare is flanked by the some of the city’s most historic architecture, and certainly its finest gardens. I often wish I could see my new hometown through the eyes of a tourist again.

  At any rate, Herman and Estelle Zimmerman arrived first. Herman is a beefy man with a farmer’s tan and a ruff of graying hair sticking up from underneath his collar. He is one of those rare people whose lips don’t part when smiling, but the huge grin stretches practically from ear to ear. His wife Estelle is a slender woman whose body looks much younger than her head. I’m sure she cannot help the suitcase-size bags under her eyes (no doubt quite handy for short trips), but it is immediately obvious that her hair is not only an improbable color, but too dark for a woman her age. As for her thin penciled brows, she would be better not having any. She looks perpetually surprised, although perhaps she is—every time she sees her blue-black coiffure in the mirror.

  “Howdy, little lady,” Herman said, and thrust out a hand the size of Switzerland.

  I shook hands reluctantly. I value my fingers and the ability to write and eat unaided. Although I was not permanently maimed by this senseless ritual, I would like to refute the adage that one cannot squeeze blood from a stone.

  Estelle’s handshake was quite the opposite. It felt like someone had placed a boneless, skinless fillet of fish on my palm. Mahi mahi, I think. I dropped it as soon as I could do so without appearing rude.

  “Welcome to Charleston,” I said, and ushered them inside.

  Herman and Estelle glanced around my living room with the same apparent reverence and awe one might experience at a special exhibit at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  “Are those sconces Venetian?” Estelle asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Yes. Aren’t they lovely?”

  “I thought so. Eighteenth century?”

  “Right again. Are you an antiques collector?”

  “Me?” She giggled behind a damp hand.

  “My wife was a history major,” Herman said. “But she knows everything. Ask her a question. Any question. Doesn’t have to be about
history.”

  I attempted a gracious smile. “Maybe later. Won’t you two please be seated?”

  They appeared not to hear me. “Go ahead, ask her,” Herman insisted.

  “Okay,” I said, grasping the first thought that flitted through my mind. “Why was Napoleon defeated at Waterloo?”

  She giggled again. “Because he had hemorrhoids.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, most history books will tell you that he made a tactical blunder by waiting until midday for the ground to dry out before moving his troops. But they don’t usually print why such a brilliant mind made a mistake of this magnitude. The answer is that he suffered from hemorrhoids and was sleep-deprived that day.”

  It sounded like one of C.J.’s infamous Shelby stories, but who was I to argue? I had, at best, a precious few minutes to grill this couple before the Thomases arrived, or before a crafty Clouseau clad in crinolines cavorted in, carrying coconut cookies.

  “Please,” I begged, “have a seat.”

  One of the perks of owning your own antique store is that you get to redecorate with whatever pieces of merchandise catch your eye. One month I’m in a Victorian mood, the next month I’m in a rococo frame of mind. This month it was Italian. Although Herman wasn’t the largest man I’d seen lately, I must confess I was nervous about him sitting on my eighteenth-century chairs, which, although quite sturdy when they were built, were not intended for twenty-first-century bottoms. To be sure, I breathed a small sigh of relief when the gilt and needlepoint chair held its own.

  But no sooner had his bottom connected to the chair than Dmitri came prancing in from one of the rear rooms of the house and jumped into Herman’s lap. My beloved pussy must have landed on a fairly sensitive area because Herman gasped loudly.

  “Dmitri off!” I commanded.

  My ten pound bundle of joy ignored me as usual. In fact, his reaction was to knead Herman’s thigh while swatting the poor man in the face with his tail.

  “It’s all right,” Herman said, between swats. “I love cats.”

  I smiled, much relieved. The world is sharply divided between cat lovers and cat haters. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground with this species. Incidentally, I love both cats and dogs, but lost custody of our dog when Buford and I divorced.