by Tamar Myers
“Guilty. My, you’ve got a good—”
“You were drinking champagne. I never touch the stuff myself—well, I guess that’s not strictly true. I did have pink champagne once at a Valentine’s party. Now, there’s a holiday I’ve always hated. Couples, that’s what it’s all about. That and making money for the retailers. If you don’t have anyone special in your life, then you’re made to feel inferior. I’m not talking about myself necessarily. I mean, I’ve got Aunt Bernice and Little John, and where is it written that Valentine’s Day is for lovers only? But there are some people who have no one—did you ever see that Twilight Zone episode about the astronaut stationed on the moon? Or was it Mars? Anyway, he has this female robot with him to keep him company, only he forgets it’s a robot, see, and…”
I zoned out, not coming fully back to my senses until the trolley reached Monterey Square and started to turn north, back down Bull Street. “Excuse me, please. This is my stop.”
The raisin eyes looked right past me. “…so I told Little John that the next time Aunt Bernice’s bursitis flares up, it’s his turn to take her to the doctor. That’s only fair, don’t you think? Of course, I wouldn’t expect Little John’s help if it was some sort of female problem. Aunt Bernice has those too, boy, does she ever! Just last week her—”
I crawled to freedom over the massive thighs. I’m not sure Alice from Indiana noticed. As the trolley pulled away from the stop, I could see that her lips were still moving. I said a silent prayer for Aunt Bernice and Little John.
When I turned to take stock of my surroundings, I noticed first with dread, then with anger, the Tom Hanks look-alike sitting on a bench not ten feet from me. Monterey Square is as inviting as any of Savannah’s parks, but seeing this was too much of a coincidence. I marched resolutely up to the gorgeous young man.
“Have you been following me?” I demanded without preamble.
He looked up at me with bedroom eyes. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“You seem to be popping up on park benches everywhere. You’re like toadstools after a rain.”
“Maybe if you kiss me, I’ll turn into a prince.” He laughed.
“I said toad stool, not toad, and I’m not kidding. Why are you following me?”
He laughed again. “Ma’am, I’m not following you. You just got off the trolley, and I’ve been sitting here for nigh on to half an hour.”
“Well, you have to admit this is a bit strange, me running into you everywhere I turn.”
“Ma’am, this is Savannah.”
When all else fails, try good manners. “My name is Abigail Timberlake,” I said, and extended my hand.
He took it gallantly. “Joe Quarles at your service.”
I stared, wide-eyed as a scarecrow on steroids. The studmuffin lounging before me had a perfectly normal neck. There was not a hint of wobble to his handsome head.
“Any relation to Albert Quarles, the numismatist?” I finally asked.
Bench-warming Joe laughed. “He’s my daddy.”
“Oh. Somehow I got the impression he didn’t have any children.”
“I’m sure that was intentional. Daddy—Mama, too—would just as soon forget I was born.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“Believe it. Mama thinks she married into high society, and Daddy acts like I committed a cardinal sin by dropping out of school. He being a teacher and all.”
“Your daddy is a teacher as well as a numismatist?”
“Was a teacher. Now he just plays around with coins full time.”
“At least that’s an honorable profession.”
“Yeah, well mine’s older than his.”
I arched my brows. “What do you do?”
“I romance tourists. For money, of course.” He treated me to a dazzling white grin. “You in the mood to buy me lunch, Abigail Timberlake?”
“When geese wear shoes,” I said pleasantly and went on my merry way.
No encounter with a park bench hustler was going to get me down. The sun was shining, the mockingbirds singing, and all was right with the world. Attitude, I told myself, it’s all attitude.
And Greg was right. I’d been overreacting about Mama. A seventy-year-old woman does not need to ask her daughter’s permission to come and go as she pleases. Let’s face it, I had been acting stupidly, not at all in my own interest. My children were just now becoming adults, freeing me of responsibility, and I should have been gratefully enjoying my status as an empty-nester instead of trying to control the life of someone who was quite capable of taking care of herself.
“Just relax and enjoy the moment,” I said aloud to myself as I unlocked my new front door. In the words of my children, ‘take a chill pill.’”
Instead, I screamed.
14
Before me lay a scene of utter devastation. The pearl pink sofa and its cushions were in shreds, the goose down scattered about like hoarfrost. I stumbled to the kitchen. The cabinets were open, boxes and cans dumped on the floor. The silver drawers were empty, but the contents spilled, not taken. Even the refrigerator was open, bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboards. In short, the house was almost as messy as my daughter Susan’s room her senior year of high school.
I screamed again. This time it was a cry of pure, unadulterated rage at the waste that lay all around me. If someone wanted the damn coin collection that badly, they could have tried more civil means, like holding a gun to my head or a knife to my throat. Of course if that had been the case, I might well have added to the mess with a couple of quarts of blood, given the fact that I had no idea of the collection’s whereabouts. Still, there was no need to smash a jar of perfectly good artichoke hearts, was there?
“Are you all right?”
I whirled, my hands up to protect my face. Albert Quarles was standing not six feet behind me. He was wielding a hot-pink lamp vase as if it were club.
“Damn it, Albert, you scared me half to death!”
“Sorry, Abby. I didn’t know if you were in here alone or not. I wanted the element of surprise in case you weren’t.”
I gasped. “Oh, my God, I hadn’t thought of that! We may not be alone!”
Albert nodded, somehow managing to keep the monocle in place. “Let’s go out front. I have a cell phone. We’ll call the police from there.”
I beat him to the door, although not by much. I had the feeling that although Albert Quarles was a gentleman, he was first and foremost a self-preservationist. Frankly, I found that quality rather charming.
“So,” I gasped, catching my breath on the steps, “how did you happen to come along at just the right moment?”
Albert picked something invisible off one of the lapels of his cream-colored suit. In the sunshine his complexion looked even more jaundiced. The dried-apricot ears were positively orange.
“Well, I—uh—Abby, perhaps I should call the police first. Then we can talk.”
“By all means.”
When he was through giving directions, he slipped the tiny phone back into an inside breast pocket and straightened the paisley tie.
“Okay, Albert, what’s the story?” In a nearby oak a mockingbird was trilling at the top of his or her lungs.
“Well—” He compulsively touched the corners of his clipped black mustache. After four repetitions, I figured it was time to goose the goose.
“Spit it out, Albert. The cops will be here any minute.”
“I came to see you.”
“Me? But how did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t. You didn’t say where you were staying, and I guess I could have tried tracing you through my brother-in-law, Calvin, but I had some errands to run, so I thought I’d give here a try.”
That seemed plausible. “What did you want to see me about?”
“I wanted to warn you.” The mockingbird stopped singing.
“Warn me?” The hair on my arms stood on end, and because I’d been so busy lately, the hair under my arms followed suit.
“I thought you should know about the girl.”
“Amanda?”
The monocle popped out of his eye, and if it hadn’t been for the gold chain attached to it, would have fallen on the steps and might well have broken. Perhaps dropping the monocle was not an unusual occurrence, because Albert made no move to catch it.
“You know about her?”
“We met. She was here playing the piano the first time I stopped by. So now you tell me, what do you know about her?”
“Well, I only met her a couple of times, but I don’t think she did all that.” He gestured toward the house.
“Ah, but you have met her before—which means you’ve been here before. Right?”
Albert started to sit and then thought better of it. I don’t blame him; the suit was a dandy.
“Yes, ma’am. I have been here before. Your aunt and I were—well, we were friends.”
“Were you lovers?”
He gaped at me and then replaced the monocle to get an even better look. “No, ma’am! I would never cheat on Miranda.”
“Maybe so, but back at your house you practically denied even knowing her. ‘Didn’t do the social scene’ I think is the way you described her.”
He glanced around, no doubt checking the azalea bushes for spies. Given my experiences thus far in Savannah, it seemed like a prudent thing to do.
“Ah,” he said suddenly, “there’s the squad car now. I’d better be going.”
“What do you mean, going?”
“Later, Abby.” Albert was already a yellow blur. Before I could react, he was halfway down the block.
“What’s with this city?” I wailed. “Folks pop in and pop out like characters in a stage play.”
The mockingbird resumed singing.
Sergeant Albergeria may have had Portuguese ancestors, but she was as southern as biscuits and redeye gravy.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I nodded and then shook my head. “No, actually I’m not. My aunt’s house—I mean, my house—has been totally vandalized.”
Sergeant Albergeria gave her partner, Sergeant Polk, a meaningful look. Sergeant Polk cleared his throat.
“With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to go inside and have a look around.”
“Look away,” I said, “but be careful. The perpetrator might still be in there.”
The officers exchanged glances.
“Well, that’s what you call criminals, isn’t it? Perpetrators?”
“Right.” Sergeant Albergeria put her hand gently on my elbow. “Ma’am, maybe we should talk in the squad car. We’ll have more privacy that way.”
I was about to resist, if not resent, the suggestion, but I noticed a flock of tourists headed our way. They were being led, wouldn’t you know, by the woman with the bouquet for a hat. I could hear her high-pitched voice a block away.
“The car would be fine,” I said.
I let Sergeant Albergeria steer me to the car, which was parked under an oak tree directly in front of my house. Overhead the mockingbird sang his heart out.
“Front seat or back?” I asked.
She smiled. Up until then she had been merely a pretty girl with chestnut hair and calm gray eyes. Now she was fascinating. Sergeant Albergeria had two rows of teeth, top and bottom.
“Up front. Unless we both sit in back. But that would look a little kooky, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I climbed into the right front of the car. “Fire away.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, don’t you have a million questions to ask, like ‘Did you leave the door unlocked? Did you invite strangers in? What special insurance policies do you have?’ That kind of thing.”
“Hmm. You sound a bit cynical.”
“Forgive me, but I date a police detective. No one is beyond suspicion.”
Sergeant Albergeria laughed, giving me an even better view of her chompers. Surely she was a dentist’s best friend.
“I just want you to tell me what happened in your own words. I’ll let my partner do the interrogating.”
“Well, in that case, it’s very simple. I inherited this house from my aunt, who drowned in her bathtub New Year’s Eve. I know that sounds strange, but that’s what happened.”
The sergeant nodded. “I remember the case. It was eventually ruled accidental, right?”
“Heart attack. But I’d still like to know what color the champagne was.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You haven’t been inside yet, or you’d know. My aunt wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but pink. Anyway, I live up in Charlotte, but I came down to settle the estate. I’d never been in the house until this morning. My mother came with me to check it out, and I swear everything was fine. But then I returned just a few minutes ago to find the place looking like I’d rented it out to a college fraternity.”
She jotted something down on a clipboard. “How long were you gone?”
“About three hours.”
“Where is your mother?”
“I don’t know—What? You don’t understand! Mama and June Cleaver are one and the same. She irons her cotton panties, for crying out loud. She’d rather have a root canal than—” I clamped a small hand over a very big mouth. How insensitive could one get?
Sergeant Albergeria didn’t seem to notice my gaffe. “I have an aunt like that. She irons socks. Okay, where were we? Was there any sign of forced entry?”
I shook my head. “I don’t really know. The front door was locked, but it is such a mess in there I didn’t even think to check the back door.”
“I see. Okay, here’s one of the questions I’m sure you’ve been anticipating. Does someone besides you have a key?”
I shrugged, which is not the same as lying. I didn’t want to get young Amanda into trouble. Not for playing the piano. Nor did I want to see Moriah Johnson, my aunt’s niece by marriage, suffer. Not only can loose lips sink ships, mine have been known to sink entire armadas.
“Did your mother have a key?”
“No, and I thought we settled that. Besides, any number of people could have had keys—neighbors, friends, you name it.”
“You’re right about that. Some folks even give keys to—”
A loud burst of static drowned out the sergeant’s voice. She got on the car phone, and although all I heard was gibberish, she seemed to understand every word. She babbled back, radioed her partner, then turned to me. “We’ve got to go. Where can we reach you?”
“The Heritage. Tell me, what’s going on? Was there a bad accident somewhere?”
“Burglary.”
“Oh, please, can I ride along? I promise to stay in the car, if you let me come.”
She glanced at the front door and back at me. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”
“Pretty please? We have a ride-along program back in Charlotte. I’ve been on it twice and never gotten into any trouble.”
“But you formally applied for that, right?”
“Yes, but I’d give my eyeteeth—” I bit my tongue until it bled. It was still bleeding intermittently when I hobbled back into the Heritage.
“You have a visitor,” Ashley said immediately.
“My mother?”
“Over in the bar,” she whispered. “It’s a man.”
“Tall, dark, and handsome with a smile capable of putting your eyes out?” This described Greg perfectly—Superman, too, come to think of it, although only Superman could have flown from Charlotte to Savannah that quickly. Still, it never hurts to dream. And I wouldn’t mind changing my name to Lois Lane.
Ashley wrinkled her nose, thereby connecting a hundred or more freckles. “He’s kind of old. And ugly. I don’t think he’s your type.”
“Did he leave a name?”
“Yeah.” She handed me a slip of paper that must have started its life as spit-wad. A telepathic pharmacist couldn’t have read what was scrawled on it.
“Jumbo? D
oes that say Jumbo?”
“Didn’t sound like it.”
“Jimbo?”
“Nah, not that either. But you can’t miss him. Like I said, he’s old, and he’s got these real thick glasses.”
“Kimbro!”
“Yeah, that’s it. Hey, he’s not really your boyfriend, is he? I mean, if he is, I take back what I said.”
“Relax, dear, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?” The freckles on the girl’s forehead came together in orange stripes.
“Just business.”
I thanked Ashley and before she asked any more questions lit out for the bar. To get there I had to cross the lobby, which meant plowing through a mass of milling teenagers. The boys were wearing tuxedos, and the girls were all decked out in identical floor-length black velveteen dresses. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, for Pete’s sake. I tried to imagine the occasion. A choral group? A prom for Moonies? The annual convention of Junior Undertakers of America?
Despite their formal wear, the kids were anything but decorous. The boys pushed and snapped each other’s suspenders. The girls hissed like stray toms, or was that hair spray I smelled? There was such a high concentration of hormones that by the time I crossed the room even I had a face full of zits.
I spotted Dewayne Kimbro sitting by the window. He seemed startled to see me, but being a proper southern gentleman, he immediately found his feet.
“Sorry about the pimples, Mr. Kimbro. Who knew they were so contagious?”
“Uh—I just didn’t expect you to show up. I mean, you weren’t in. I had no idea how long you’d be out.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Please sit,” he said, and remained standing until my fanny kissed the chair. “Can I get you something to drink.”
“That would be nice. What are you having?”
“A Bloody Mary. Somehow it seems healthier, what with the tomato juice, celery stick and all—especially so early in the day.”
I chuckled. “In that case I’ll have a Bailey’s Irish Creme. Isn’t the milk mustache a symbol of good bones?”
He nodded absently, his face turned to the river below. There weren’t any passing freighters, and I didn’t see any dolphins. And—praise God, hallelujah—I didn’t see C.J. or Wynnell thrashing about either.