A Penny Urned

by Tamar Myers

  A PENNY URNED

  A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY

  TAMAR MYERS

  For Susan and Jack Timberlake

  Contents

  1

  Lula Mae Wiggins drowned in a bathtub filled with champagne.

  2

  Dmitri is my cat, not my boyfriend. Greg Washburn is…

  3

  C.J. and Wynnell declined to accompany me to Velvet Paws.

  4

  “Well, it’s about time,” the woman said.

  5

  My plan was to grab a toasted bagel in the…

  6

  I dug my nails into the base of Mama’s neck.

  7

  I took the bag and spread it on the desk.

  8

  “Excuse me?”

  9

  Mama and I stared at the empty box. Harriete with…

  10

  “Oh, Abby,” Mama wailed, “what have you done this time?”

  11

  The woman standing in the doorway stared back. She was…

  12

  “Mama?”

  13

  Ashley shook her head when I walked into the lobby,…

  14

  Before me lay a scene of utter devastation. The pearl…

  15

  “What bad news?”

  16

  “Diamond!”

  17

  “Ooh, Abby, you’re awake!”

  18

  “C.J.!”

  19

  “Ooh, Abby, you’ve got yourself a black cousin.”

  20

  “I can believe my eyes, all right,” I growled. “That…

  21

  Ashley Hawkins descended on us like—well, like a hawk. She…

  22

  C.J. was mad enough to chew nails and spit rivets.

  23

  “You’re kidding!”

  24

  My tiny feet took me on a detour to the…

  25

  I’m sure you’ll think I’m exaggerating when I tell you…

  26

  “So, Abby,” Wynnell said, picking up the last pea with…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Lula Mae Wiggins drowned in a bathtub filled with champagne. She was fully clothed. It happened on New Year’s Eve.

  Though someone had sent me a letter, I wasn’t informed of her death until a full three months had passed, thanks to my ex-husband, who returns all my mail unopened. Fortunately the delay was no cause for added grief. Lula Mae was my daddy’s second cousin, or something like that, and had never been a part of my life. Frankly, her name didn’t even ring a bell.

  “It was cheap champagne,” Mama said that day we got the fateful call from Savannah. “The kind you kind buy from Food Lion for $3.75 a bottle.”

  “How do you know?” I asked. We were playing Hearts with Wynnell and C.J., two of my closest friends and coworkers. I had just been passed the queen of spades and was trying to maintain my cool.

  Mama grinned. It was she who had passed me the queen.

  “The coroner said so. He said the taste was sweet enough to set your teeth on edge.”

  “Did he taste it?” C.J. asked.

  “Yuck,” Wynnell said. “Did he?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Mama said, and passed me the ace and king of hearts. “I didn’t speak to the coroner himself. I spoke with the executor of Lula Mae’s will.”

  “Did this executor say how it was this Lula Mae person happened to drown in a bathtub of champagne?”

  “Apparently she had a heart attack while bathing. And get this, Abby. She was dressed to the nines.”

  “She was bathing in her clothes?”

  Mama nodded. “You know, dear, your daddy’s family has always been a little on the strange side.”

  C.J., Wynnell, and I all rolled our eyes. For Mama to call anyone strange was like the pot calling the kettle black—in every language on earth. My mama, Mozella Gaye Wiggins, dresses like June Cleaver. Her sister Marilyn not only dresses like Marilyn Monroe, but also claims the blond bombshell stole both her name and her style from my platinum-coiffed relative.

  “What the heck am I going to do now?” I asked. I was referring to my lousy hand, having stupidly forgotten this was still Mama’s conversation.

  “You drive down and get her, that’s what,” Mama said. Her tone left no room for argument.

  “Excuse me?” I set my cards down, fortunately face up.

  “Don’t show us your cards, Abby!” the trio chorused.

  It was my turn to grin now that a redeal was in order. “What’s this about me driving down to Savannah to bring back a dead aunt?”

  “Cousin,” Mama corrected me. “And she’s been cremated. We could have them ship the ashes, but the executor said he’d been instructed to tell the mortician to place the cremains in an urn that was part of her estate. But get this.” Mama paused to take a deep breath. “The mortician, who claims to be something of an expert on antiques, thinks the urn is worth a pretty penny. Said it might be something called a truck-san. Is that Japanese, dear?”

  “He probably said Etruscan, Mama. That refers to the Tusci people who were contemporaries of the ancient Romans and lived in what is now Tuscany. So, shall we deal again? I mean, it isn’t fair now that you’ve all seen my cards.”

  “Whose fault is that, dear?”

  “Yours. You distracted me with this gruesome story of a dead cousin I’ve never even seen.”

  “Actually, dear, you did see her once. I think you were about three years old. Lula Mae came up here to visit. You called her a witch.”

  “I did not!”

  “You most certainly did, and to her face.”

  “Well, if I did—like you said, I was only three.”

  “Still, I can’t imagine why she’d leave you everything.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me right, Abby. Your daddy’s cousin left you all her worldly possessions. The executor—a Mr. Kimbro—said your brother Toy wasn’t even mentioned.”

  “Mama, was that call intended for me?”

  “Well, they called here,” Mama said, pretending to study her cards, “and it is my house.”

  It did not surprise me that my mother had been able to intercept a call, even one of this nature, intended for someone else. Mama could charm a fly out of its wings, and barring success at that, could lay on such a guilt trip, the poor fly would leave behind his antennae and a leg or two to boot.

  I glared at Mama, who of course didn’t notice. “Maybe you should go down to Savannah to pick up Lula Mae’s cremains. After all, you were married to her cousin. And I’ll bet you anything you pretended to be me on the phone when Mr. Kimbro called, didn’t you?”

  Silence.

  “Didn’t you?”

  Mama sighed. “I can’t believe your attitude, dear. I should think you’d jump at the chance to do this. That urn could be worth a lot of money.”

  “The Etruscan urn is most probably a fake,” I said, speaking from experience. “And besides, what do you propose that I do? Buy a cheap vase at Kmart and dump Lula Mae’s ashes into that?”

  Mama squirmed. “Well, I don’t see that we have a choice, dear. I already told the man you’d be there day after tomorrow.”

  “You what?”

  Mama cringed. “Well, it was either that or tell him to mail the urn and sell off your cousin’s estate. But seeing as how you’re an antique dealer, I thought you might like to look over Lula Mae’s things first. There might be some items you’d like to keep and maybe others you could get more for up here in Charlotte than you could get in Savann
ah.”

  “Or maybe you could have told him the truth, that your name isn’t Abigail Timberlake, and maybe you should have given him my phone number and told him to speak to me directly.”

  “What’s done is done, dear. There’s no use in beating a dead horse, is there?”

  “I’d wager the old gray mare has enough life left in her to go down to Savannah by herself with a U-Haul and bring back Lula Mae’s estate,” I mumbled half to myself.

  Wynnell gasped. Her hedgerow eyebrows had fused into one long, black bush.

  “Abby, is that any way to talk to your mama? Besides, she couldn’t possibly bring back your cousin’s entire estate.”

  “You stay out of this,” I said gently. One of the disadvantages of having a friend twelve years older than I was that she tended to act like she was my mama.

  C.J., on the other hand, is young enough to be my daughter, and every bit as impertinent as my real daughter, Susan. C.J. giggled.

  “Abby, don’t be ridiculous. Your mama can’t bring a house back in a U-Haul.”

  “House? Who said anything about a house?”

  “Oops,” C.J. said, and clamped a big hand over her big mouth.

  I looked at Mama, whose cards suddenly hid her face. “Mama! Out with it! What have you told Wynnell and C.J. that you haven’t told me?”

  Mama put down her cards. “Well, I guess we’re not going to finish this hand, are we?”

  I gestured at the queen of spades. “Not if I can help it. Now, what’s this about a house?”

  “It was going to be a surprise,” Mama said, glaring at C.J. “But I suppose you have the right to know. Your daddy’s cousin left you her row house as well.”

  “Get out of town! I mean, you’re kidding, right?”

  Mama shook her head. “I may be guilty of withholding a few facts—just temporarily, mind you—but I would never kid about such a thing.”

  “And what facts might you be withholding right now?”

  Mama cleared her throat and patted her pearls. The necklace was a gift from my father shortly before he died, and to my knowledge Mama hasn’t once removed it in seventeen years. When Mama gets agitated, she strokes or pats her pearls. When things get truly bad, she twirls them.

  “Why, nothing, dear, except that this row house is located on Gaston Street and is worth a great deal of money.”

  “How much?”

  “He wouldn’t give me an exact number, dear. But he did recommend a real estate agent. Anyway, I should think it would be worth several hundred thousand. Maybe even half a million.”

  Who knew that insulting a relative could be so lucrative? My brother, Toy, ever the suckup, had yet to inherit a thing. I, on the other hand, had already inherited an antique shop from an aunt and now a house.

  “Well, well, well,” I said, feeling both exhilarated and guilty. “I suppose I should drive down to Savannah. Do U-Hauls come with automatic transmissions?”

  Mama smiled. “They do, but that wouldn’t be a problem in any case. C.J. here has volunteered to come along.”

  “She what?” I turned to my young friend. “How long have you known about this?”

  C.J. is a big gal, a natural dishwater blonde with an expressive face. “I just found out, Abby. Honest.”

  “C.J., you’re lying!”

  “Okay, your mama called me a couple of hours ago. Just after she got the call from Savannah. But don’t blame her, Abby. She wanted to surprise you.”

  I turned to Mama. “Surprise me with what?”

  “Well, dear, I thought it might be nice if the four of us made the trip together. Sort of a girls’ week off.”

  “Mama, you don’t even work, but both C.J. and Wynnell do. Besides, Wynnell is married. She can’t just go trotting off like that.”

  “Actually, I can,” Wynnell said. “I have an assistant now, remember?” She lowered her voice, although there was no danger of anyone else hearing. “And Ed’s decided to work at home for the next two weeks. They’re remodeling an office next to his, and you know how he is about dust. Anyway, he’s been home one day, and already he’s driving me crazy. Besides, you’ll need a car to get around in when you’re down there. We can take mine. Please, Abby.”

  Wynnell never begs. Apparently she really needed a change of scenery. As for C.J., who knew what her motive was?

  I looked at the woman who birthed me. Thirty-six hours of excruciating labor, to hear her tell it. And a ruined figure. No amount of daughterly servitude was ever going to make up for that. Nonetheless, it was my duty to try.

  “This is a setup, isn’t it?”

  Mama shrugged. “But just so you know, dear, I haven’t been to Savannah since your daddy was stationed there during World War II. Why, only this morning I was looking at a photo of him taken at one of those lovely squares, and then that call came.” She brushed away a tear. “It’s almost as if this was meant to be.”

  I groaned. “Okay, okay, you guys win. I’ll take y’all with me to Savannah. But if anything terrible happens down there—anything at all—you three are going to pay!”

  They nodded, mute but grateful.

  Lest you think it was rude of me to have spoken like that to my mother and our friends, I’ve traveled with this trio before. These ladies make the Three Stooges seem like Emily Post. Besides, I had a gut feeling that nothing good could come out of acquiring the estate of a cousin I barely knew—not when she drowned in a bathtub full of champagne. Cheap champagne.

  “And we’re taking Dmitri,” I said firmly, referring to the one male I’m used to having around on a daily basis.

  They nodded again, and the die was cast.

  2

  Dmitri is my cat, not my boyfriend. Greg Washburn is my boyfriend—well, off and on. Lately more on than off.

  You already know that I’m Abigail Timberlake. You might not know that I’m forty-eight years old and not ashamed to admit it. In fact, I’m rather proud of my age, given the fact that nature has blessed me with a somewhat girlish figure and dark hair that has yet to turn. My eyes are green and, I am told, sparkle with youthful vitality. I weigh a mere ninety-three pounds—give or take a few.

  The one category in which nature shortchanged me was height. I stand four foot nine in my stocking feet, and that’s with wool socks! Of course I could wear high heels, but I don’t have a hankering to ruin my feet, and besides, the style selection in the little girls’ department is limited.

  But genetics deals only half our cards; we pick the rest. I chose to marry Buford Timberlake, a timber-snake of a man, who two-timed me with a bimbo named Tweetie. This happened on my forty-fifth birthday. Tweetie, I think, was twenty then. In retrospect I’m surprised Buford didn’t trade me in for two twenty-year-olds. Perhaps the cost of silicone was especially high.

  At any rate, Buford is a divorce attorney and has more connections than a set of TinkerToys. Before I knew it, he had the house, our bank accounts, but most importantly, our son, Charlie. Susan, thank God, was on her own by then.

  I had to scramble to support myself, but I managed. Today I more than manage. Luck has been on my side more times than not—knock on wood—and my shop in Charlotte, North Carolina, is squarely in the black. In fact, the Den of Antiquity has done so well that I, too, have an assistant.

  It was in the capable hands of this assistant, Irene Cheng, that I left my shop the morning I set out for Savannah.

  “Don’t forget that the Kefferts will be picking up their Khorassan carpet this afternoon,” I said, one small foot still inside the shop. Wynnell waited for me in her car, C.J. and Mama in the U-Haul, but I felt reluctant to leave.

  Irene rolled her eyes. “I won’t forget.”

  “And tomorrow morning that woman from Hickory will be stopping by to show you pictures of the living room suite her grandmother left her. Don’t even agree to look at the stuff if it’s run-of-the-mill Victorian.”

  “Don’t worry,” Irene said. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  I smiled
. Irene’s bluntness is also her charm.

  “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going.”

  “I guess you’d better. You look pretty stupid standing there just looking at me. People might get the wrong idea.”

  Against my better judgment I said good-bye again and climbed into Wynnell’s car.

  From Columbia on, we took the back roads down to Savannah. I always eschew the interstate. I know, it is often the fastest route, but not always, and this time it was far from being the most direct. Besides, I like seeing something besides pine trees and mud flaps.

  Route 321, on the other hand, takes me through cotton fields and charming little towns with distinctly American names like Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Virtually free of trucks, traffic is light, and I always make as good if not better time as I do on the interstate. But then again, I have a Carolina license plate. Buford once told me of an Ohio couple who got lost on a Carolina back road, stopped at a police station to ask directions, and, to make a long story short, ended up making license plates for the state of South Carolina.

  At any rate, I didn’t plan to stop, but it was lunchtime when we reached Denmark, and Wynnell made me pull over to the Little China House. We left Dmitri in the car, window cracked, and went inside. Normally I would advise against eating Chinese food in Denmark, South Carolina, but the Korean cook there was really quite accomplished, and we enjoyed a very tasty lunch.

  We also enjoyed each others’ company, and I was beginning to think the trip was a good idea after all.

  “Hurry up,” I admonished the slow eaters. “Time’s a-wasting!”

  Wynnell’s hedgerow eyebrows rose in tandem. “Abby, you’re not finally getting excited, are you?”

  “Well—okay, so maybe I am. But you can’t blame me, can you? I’ve never been willed a house before. If it really is nice—and if the area can support another antique shop—well, maybe I’ll just move down to Savannah.”