The Glass Is Always Greener (4 page)

“Oh shut up with that tiny crap,” Detective Krupp said. “Five dollars and a stepladder will still buy you a cup of coffee at Starbucks—
if
they notice you.” She laughed, snorting like a horse. “Just so you know, Mrs.
Timberlake
, there has never been a Detective Greg Timberlake on this force.”

“That may be,” I said, “but Greg’s last name is Washburn.”

Judging by Detective Krupp’s face, she didn’t like being bested. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“You didn’t ask—ma’am.”

“That’s right,” Detective Wimbler said. “We just assumed. When we assume, my mama always said, one makes an
ass
out of
u
and
me
. Put the three of them together and you get—”

“An ass,” Detective Krupp said. “Really, Wimbler, how
did
you make it on the force? Are you the chief’s nephew or something?”

“It’s my ex-husband’s name,” I said.

They both returned their focus to me.

“What?” Detective Krupp said.

“My ex-husband is the notorious divorce lawyer Buford Timberlake. I’m sure you see his smarmy ads every time you turn on the TV.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Detective Wimbler. “
Is your husband a bum? Get rid of that scum—with Timberlake. Is your wife a nag? Get rid of that hag—with Timberlake
. Those are the kind of jingles that stick with you.”

“That stick in your craw,” I said. “When I was forty, Buford traded me for a younger model that was twenty percent silicone—if you get my drift. At least that. But Tweetie—may she rest in peace—met her Maker in a suit of armor—”

Detective Krupp sprang to life. “Not Tweetie Byrd Simpson from Blowing Rock High!”

“You knew her?”

“Knew her?” Detective Krupp cried. “Why we grew up together. Our houses backed up to one another. We had a ton of sleepovers and we used to take baths together as little girls. Right up until high school as a matter of fact. But I lost track of her after we graduated and she moved to Charlotte. She wanted to make something of herself—and I guess she kind of did. I read about it in the paper when she died. That’s when I decided to move down here and become a detective so I could solve murders like hers.”

“Well, you know, it was me who solved Tweetie’s murder.”

“Get out of town and back! That was
you
?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You hear that, Wimbler? We have ourselves a genuine celebrity on our hands!”

“Speaking of which,” Detective Wimbler said, “there is absolutely no scientific proof equating hand size with—well, you know what.”

“Detective Wimbler has
issues
,” Detective Krupp said in a loud stage whisper, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I do not.”

“The best thing is to just ignore him. A lot of the really tall suspects try to sleep with him—go figure—but you’re the first one in a long time who is significantly shorter than he is. I think you’ve thrown him for a loop.”

“Just shut up,” Detective Wimbler said. His face was pomegranate pink.

Detective Krupp walked over to the one-way glass window and pulled down a shade. “Mrs. Timberlake, because you knew Tweetie that makes you like family to me.”

“Uh—listen. I didn’t like Tweetie in the beginning. How could I? She stole my husband. Sure, my feelings softened somewhat later on when Buford cheated on her, but I don’t think you should count me as family.”

“But I do, and I’m going to take care of you.”

“Me too,” said Detective Wimbler. “Research does show that tall people—especially tall men—get all the breaks. Did you know that they’re much more likely to get promoted?”

“Maybe that’s because they have larger brains,” Detective Krupp said. She sounded quite serious. Then again, she was at least five inches taller than her partner.

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t bother to legally change my name from Timberlake to Washburn when I remarried.”

“Actually, I hadn’t,” said Detective Krupp.

“My late mother kept her maiden name,” said Detective Wimbler. “It was Wiggins.”

I didn’t dare tell the poor man that this was also
my
maiden name. Perhaps my late daddy, who was also diminutive, had been kin to Mrs. Wimbler. The revelation of such a possibility was sure to start a never-ending conversation—on second thought, that little tidbit would be my ace in the hole.

Detective Krupp was clearly annoyed whenever the conversation veered from her control. “What I’m trying to say, Mrs. Timberlake, is that Wallace here and I have your back.”

Wallace?
How cruel can some parents get? (June and Ward Cleaver exempted.) No wonder the poor man had a complex; it wasn’t his height after all. Daddy was only five feet, and that included the one-inch chip on his shoulder—but it came from the fact that the service wouldn’t take him, not because of his stature per se.

“Mrs. Timberlake,” Detective Krupp said, her annoyance clearly growing, “are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Good. Because I’m trying to tell you that my partner and I are going to take it easy on you, on account of you and I have this special connection. And you’re a native Southerner—like us. It’s not like you just moved down here six months ago from someplace like Boston or New York, and started calling yourself a North Carolinian.”

“Or worse yet,” Detective Wimbler said, “is when you don’t.”

“Yeah, you’ve got that right.”

“And this means exactly what?” I said. I knew I was being played, and not like a Stradivarius either.

“It means we’re going to release you on your own recognizance,” Detective Krupp said, “but we want you to stay in the area.”

“That means no taking any side trips to visit LEGOLAND,” Detective Wimbler said.

I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that the miniature village built out of LEGO blocks that’s in Denmark?”

“Sometimes it’s best just to ignore him,” Detective Krupp said. “Like now.” She moved to the door, indicating my interrogation was over. “Oh, just one more thing,” she said. “Her bazoomas were real.”

“I beg to differ, Detective Krupp. That’s how I caught my husband having the affair. The bill from the plastic surgeon came to our house; it was for nine thousand dollars.”

“Did you take the time to read it carefully, Mrs. Timberlake? I bet dollars to doughnuts that was for Tweetie’s reduction surgery. In the fourth grade that girl began to blossom like nobody’s business, and by the time we started middle school she could have posed for
Playboy
. Then they just got out of control—her breasts I mean. They were right painful, I suppose. I know she got excused from gym on that account.”

“Why, slap me up the side of the head with a mess of greens and call me late for dinner.”

“Are you mocking me, Mrs. Timberlake, because I’m trying to like you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just ashamed of myself for having been so judgmental of her, and didn’t know what else to say.”

“Just lay low, Mrs. Timberlake,” Detective Wimbler said. “Don’t say anything more here; we’ll be in touch with you.”

When I returned to the grand lobby of my hotel, I expected to get on the elevator, walk down a long plushy carpet to my door, enter my suite of rooms, take a scalding hot shower, and then flop onto my bed with the remote in one hand and a contraband bag of Peanut M&M’s in the other. Instead I was accosted. Right there in the lobby, I was practically jumped by three people—one of whom had been stalking me virtually my entire life!

Chapter 4

S
urprise!” Mama said.

“I don’t like surprises, Mama. You know that.”

“Abby, don’t be such a grouch,” Wynnell said. After Rob, she was my closest friend in the whole wide world, and knew a lot better than to drive up from Charleston unannounced like that.

“We’re your backup team,” C.J. said. C.J. is my ex-sister-in-law, but a dear friend as well. She is also from Shelby, North Carolina, and has the stories to prove it.

The three of them had surrounded me, but I managed to slip under C.J.’s long, gangly arms. “What the heck is going on? Who called you?”

“Why nobody, dear,” Mama said. “You know how I have this ability to smell trouble? Well, I began to get a whiff of it last night when I was watching TV, so I called C.J. and Wynnell and told them to be on standby, and then this morning when I was frying bacon I couldn’t even smell it on account of the scent of trouble was so strong.”

“Perhaps you were smelling something rotten in Denmark,” I said with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Shame on you, Abby,” Wynnell said. “If my mama was alive, I’d never talk to her like that. Oh Lordy, how I miss that woman.”

“Wynnell, your mama used to whip you with a braid made from rawhide strips just because you left water spots in the sink.”

“Well, I still miss her, Abby—just not in a good way.”

“At least y’all had mamas,” C.J. said. “I was raised by Granny Ledbetter who learned her mothering from her mama who learned hers from a she-wolf.”

“Oy vey,” I said. “I feel a Shelby story coming on.”

“But Abby,” C.J. insisted, “this one is true. You see, there was this band of Gypsies traveling through Shelby—this was back around 1900. Anyways, they accidentally left a little baby behind at their campgrounds and it was adopted by this alpha she-wolf and her pack. A couple of years later this Italian family built a house out in the forest, near the wolf’s den, and discovered Great-granny running wild through the trees. They caught her, raised her up like one of their own, and then took her along with them to Italy on a trip to visit relatives when Great-granny was about nineteen years old.”

“Let me guess how this ends,” Wynnell said. “Your great-granny fell in love with an Italian sculptor who made a statue of her, and another human child, as they were both nursing from a wolf.”

C.J. nearly fainted from surprise. “How did you know? Honest to Pete, Wynnell, I’ve never told
anyone
that story before. Granny Ledbetter made me promise never to tell it on account of it was just too personal to share—what with the nursing and all.”

“I think your granny was right,” I said. “So don’t tell anyone else.” I put my hands on my hips in the most unladylike of stances and gave them each a frank stare, but not one of them even had the courtesy to blink. “Okay, given that y’all are such good liars, maybe y’all will be of some help—
down the line
. But I need to collect my thoughts first. In the meantime, you might wish to drive back to I–77 and go north an exit or two. I seem to remember some chain motels up there.”

“That’s all right, dear,” Mama said. “We’re already checked in here. I’m bunking with you, of course—my bags are already in the room—and Wynnell and C.J. will be sharing a room.”

“Of course,” I said. There went any hope of unwinding.

“In case you’re wondering how we’re going to pay for these fancy-schmancy digs,” Wynnell said, without a trace of sarcasm, “I’ve been squirreling away money for a long time in hopes of a ‘girls’ weekend’ getaway. And this, Abby, certainly fits the bill.”

I urged my lips to form a smile, even just a small one. “But who’s minding the shop, Wynnell? Both of my employees are standing right here.”

“Ooh, Abby, guess,” C.J. said, suddenly animated again. “You’ll never guess who.”

“Mayor Riley?”

“Good one, Abby! I did ask him,” she said guilelessly, “but he said his schedule had been filled for some time. Guess again!”

“Oh what the heck, I guess Greg.”

“Abby! How did you do it? Are you psychic like your mama?”

“Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute! My
husband
, Greg, is minding
my
shop, the Den of Antiquity?”

C.J. nodded happily, while Wynnell nodded sheepishly.

“Don’t worry,” Wynnell said. “He’ll be fine. My Ed will be checking in on him from time to time—and Booger is there as well.”

“What’s this world coming to,” I said. “My beloved shop is in the hands of a man who hates antiques. But I shouldn’t worry because his best buddy—who goes by the name of Booger—is there to help him.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Wynnell said.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” I said, “I’m going to the bar.”

“Ooh, goody,” C.J. said.

“
Alone
,” I said.

The clock was stopped for Mama the day Daddy was killed by a kamikaze gull with a brain tumor the size of a walnut. June Cleaver and Margaret Anderson were Mama’s role models, and to this day my dear little mama, who stands just five feet tall in her nylons, vacuums the house wearing high-heeled pumps and a single strand of pearls. Of course she wears a good deal more than that as well, including a cone-shaped bra built using hurricane-proof construction methods and a full circle skirt shirtdress with a matching belt cinched so tight it appears to bisect her waist. Beneath that skirt (holding it out to at least a forty-five-degree angle) is a crinoline so heavily starched that the carbohydrates in it could feed Paris Hilton for a year.

When I returned to the room I found five of these crinolines lined up, standing upright on my bed. Mama, on the other hand, was curled up under a blanket on the sofa in the sitting room of my suite. Believe me, her sweet dreams soured rather quickly upon my arrival.

“Mama!” I had to shake her as hard as a paint mixer just to get her to open her eyes. “You didn’t take a pill, did you?”

She sat up groggily, pulling the blanket over her bust. The modesty move was so unnecessary given the fact that she wears the twin cones to bed under her nightgown. After all, Deborah Kerr wouldn’t be caught braless. What if her lover—Deborah’s, not Mama’s—were to come pounding on the hotel door, demanding to take her into his strong, business suit–clad arms . . .

“Mama, I’m talking to you. Did you take a sleeping pill?”

“No, dear. It’s just that I didn’t get much sleep last night, what with all the worrying I had to do about you.”

“
Had
to do? No one’s forcing you to worry, Mama!”

“It’s a mother’s job, dear; it comes with the territory. Don’t you worry about Charlie and Susan?”

“Well, of course I do, but that’s different; they’re only in their twenties.”

“It never ends, Abby. The problem is that there isn’t anything you can say to anybody before they—well, you know, do it—that will truly make them understand this. That parenthood is forever.”

“I thought that only applied to Jewish mothers.”

“Who knows? Maybe so—but remind me to discuss that further with you tomorrow.”

“
What?
”

“Abby, I’m really awfully tired. Can’t we just go to sleep?”

“Where, Mama? The bed has been taken over by a company of crinolines. I know that if I were to set them on the floor there would be all heck to pay.”

“Well, dear,” said Mama becoming suddenly, and suspiciously, wide-awake, “this couch opens into a full-queen size bed. We could stand the crinolines on this and I could sleep with you on the king.”

I sighed. “Okay, Mama. But no spooning. Last time those cones dug a hole in my back that took two weeks to plump out again.”

“Deal,” Mama said happily.

When I’m with her, Mama makes me drive. C.J. and Wynnell drove separately. That said, we had breakfast at the Flying Biscuit in the Stonecrest Shopping Center. The biscuits there are the size of small pillows, and I’d forgotten just how much food my compatriots could put away in a single meal. Even more surprised at their combined intake was the somewhat distraught manager of that fine establishment. Understandably, she was trying to urge us along.

I shared her frame of mind. “So,” I said, “we best be getting this show on the road. We have a lot of sleuthing ahead of us.”

“More biscuits, please,” Mama said nonchalantly. Given that my minimadre has a waist that would make Scarlett O’Hara look positively chubby, it is a wonderment where she stores all this.

Wynnell fixed her unibrow on the manager, which sent the poor gal scurrying back to the kitchen. “The problem is,” she said, when the coast was clear, “that we’re here as Abby’s backup team. But according to that fellow who grilled me like a well-seasoned tenderloin this morning, my petite friend here, my best buddy, my galloping gal pal—”

“Okay, we get it,” Mama said. “Could you just get to the point, dear?”

“Well, the point is that your daughter is the number one suspect.”

“
What?
” I cried. In my distress I stood so abruptly that I tipped our table, causing empty, but nonetheless sticky and gooey plates to slide into C.J.’s and Wynnell’s laps.

Wynnell ignored the egg yolk on her white cotton blouse and the syrup on the lap of her blue bias-cut skirt. “He knocked on the door at six-thirty, Abby, and made it sound like I had to speak to him. You know, down at the station. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“What did he ask, and what did you tell him?”

“He asked mostly stupid stuff, like how long had I known you, did I ever hear you talk about the victim, did I think you were capable of killing anyone—that kind of thing.”

“And what did you say? About me killing someone?”

“I said that it was theoretically possible, but extremely doubtful. I told him about the time we found a mouse in the storeroom and you insisted that we catch the little fellow in one of those humane traps and release it in the black neighborhood.”

“
What?
”

“Well, you did; that’s where the vacant lot was.”

“Wynnell, dearest, I merely directed you to release the critter in the
nearest
vacant lot. Now the detective is going to think that I’m a racist. C.J., were you grilled as well before breakfast?”

The galoot had crammed half a biscuit into her mouth and was having trouble swallowing it. I waited patiently while she chased the pastry down with half a tumbler of milk and a glass of ice water.

“I have my own room now, Abby, on account of Wynnell snores like an asthmatic orangutan. Anyway, he knocked on my door at six thirty-five, only he was a she in my case. I know because I was on the phone with my ex—your brother—and I had my eye on the clock. It isn’t cheap calling the Congo.”

“Toy is in the
Congo
?”

“My only
son
is in the Congo?” Mama wailed.

“The Democratic Republic of the Congo—which is anything but. There are two countries that call themselves Congo, Abby. This is the by far the bigger one; this is the one most people think of when they hear that name.”

“Fascinating geography lesson, C.J., but what’s my brother—your ex—and mama’s son—doing there?”

“He’s delivering mosquito nets to remote villages. Malaria kills thousands of people over there every year.”

“My son the saint,” Mama said.

“How did he get to the Congo?” I asked. “Did he walk across the Atlantic?”

“Good one,” C.J. said. “I’m sure he took a plane, Abby. But my cousin Malcolm Ledbetter up in Shelby can walk on water.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said. “What questions did the detective ask you?”

“You don’t believe me, do you, Abby?”

“Well—”

“You’ve never believed any of my Shelby stories, have you?”

“Never say never, right? Right, Mama? Right, Wynnell?”

“If y’all will excuse me, I need to use the little girls’ room,” Mama said.

“I’m coming with you,” Wynnell said. “Somewhere it’s written that we ladies of a certain generation must always do this in pairs.”

“You’re not that old, dear,” Mama said, “but come along. And do hurry. This is one conversation that I’d prefer to miss out on.”

Apparently C.J. was not in a waiting mood. “Well
what
?” she said before Mama was even safely to her feet.

“Well,” I said, “some of your stories are a little far-fetched.”

“Just name me one!”

“For instance, you don’t have goat DNA, C.J. That’s physically impossible—not to mention that’s a lot of initials.”

“I have horns and a tail, Abby. What further proof do you want?”

I glanced around the room. I saw normal people eating pillow-size biscuits having normal conversations. It was probably a safe bet that none of them was claiming to have barnyard kin.

“C.J., I’ve said this before—and you know that I say this out of love, as your friend, and not as your ex- sister-in-law—that I know someone in Charleston who is excellent. I can recommend her personally, because I am one of her patients. It’s strictly talk therapy, mind you, nothing—”