Gilt by Association (10 page)

“Nah, it wouldn't be the same. Every time we'd go over to visit my aunt, Alma would admire the armoire. Well, not just the armoire, of course. The other pieces as well. There were five of them, weren't there?”

“Four. Besides the armoire, there was a Louis XV desk, one small Louis XV table, and a carved and gilded mirror.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“I mean, you should know. You were the one who bid against me.”

He picked up his cup and set it right down again. “Yes, that's right, I did. Someone had to keep them in the family, you see. I just couldn't stand by and watch my Aunt Lula Mae's furniture be auctioned off like that.”

The waitress, whose name badge read Evlyn, slammed my eggs plate down in front of me. Thus alerted, I was
able to intercept the plate of raisin toast. She let go of it reluctantly.

“I asked. We don't serve marmalade.”

I nodded, and as soon as she was gone dug into the oblong wicker basket of jellies in front of me. In the very bottom was a marmalade. I spread it defiantly on one of the slices and left it sitting on the plate the entire meal, which, by the way, was delicious.

“So,” Garland said at last, “it's time to talk, isn't it?”

“I thought we were talking,” I said. While I'd eaten, he'd done a thorough job of covering the Panthers and the Hornets, and had made a brief foray into the world of golf.

“I mean business,” he said. “I want you to consider an offer.”

“What kind of an offer? I don't sell plants in my shop. The Den of Antiquity is strictly antiques.”

I chose to interpret his grimace as a smile. “I'm not talking about plants. I'm not a wholesaler. What I want to do is to make you an offer for my aunt's furniture.”

“Now? But, I mean—someone was killed in the armoire. Surely you don't want that as well.”

“All of it,” he said.

“Mr. Riggs, I don't understand,” I said gently. “I mean, if you couldn't afford—”

He cleared his throat. “That's what I meant by an offer. If you would let me pay you in installments, I'd be willing to pay twenty percent more than your retail price.”

“I see. Well, the reason I outbid you in the first place is because I have a buyer lined up for those pieces.”

“Who?”

I was not prepared for his bluntness. “Well, uh, somebody down in Columbia.”

Actually my buyers—a husband and wife team—lived in Belmont, North Carolina, on the northern shore of Lake Wylie. They had recently retired there from Connecticut.
They had stopped in my shop almost two months ago, liked what they had seen (thank God they didn't come to my house), and virtually given me carte blanche to shop for them. Curiously, immediately following Lula Mae's death they visited my shop again. They had the temerity to ask me to bid on her things, should they go to auction, before she was even in the ground!

“Maybe my buyer will decide against the armoire,” I said. “You want me to give you a call?”

He hesitated. “Sure thing.”

Then he scooped up his jacket and left, stiffing me for the entire bill.

C
all it force of habit. Before I knew it, I was on Selwyn Avenue, just a couple of blocks from my shop. I honestly couldn't remember what had motivated me to drive there. In fact, I couldn't even remember the drive. Frankly I deserved to have my license suspended for at least a couple of days.

When I realized where I was, I pulled over and parked on a side street. I closed my eyes. I did not turn the engine off. After I was through shaking—it is damn scary not knowing
why
you've done something—I had a brief argument with myself. Should I continue on down Selwyn, past my shop, or would all that yellow tape across the front door be too much for me to handle? Would stopping in to see my friends and coworkers be a help or a hindrance in my investigation? Most importantly, would there still be reporters lurking about?

The cautious side of me was winning, and I was probably just minutes away from turning around and heading back down Selwyn in the direction I'd come, when Calamity Jane tapped on my window. I can't deny that I jumped. No doubt a taller woman would have hit her head on the car ceiling.

“Hey Abigail, you all right in there?”

I rolled down my window just far enough to be polite. “I'm fine, dear. I was just resting my eyes for a minute.”

“You're lucky I came along, I guess. I went to college with a girl from Virginia. Funny, but her name was Virginia. Anyway, she used to drive back home on long weekends. One day she stopped at a welcome station—just to rest her eyes, like you did—and she fell asleep. She left her car running, too. But she never woke up. You see, there was this hole in her exhaust pipe, and another hole in the floorboard, and—”

“I don't have a hole in my floorboard, dear. You wouldn't happen to know if there are still reporters hanging about, would you?”

Jane Cox, aka Calamity Jane, aka C. J., frowned. “Strange that you should mention that. I haven't been to my shop yet—I'm just now arriving—but last night a reporter with a notebook actually came to my house. To talk to
me
!”

“What? What did he ask? What did you say?”

“Oh, I didn't say anything. I never answer my door without looking through the peephole first. My Auntie Grace over in Hickory did that once, and the man pushed right past her and into the house. And then he—well—” She blushed. “He peed on her couch.”

I forgot to be annoyed at her digression. “That's all he did, was pee on her couch?”

“But it wasn't Scotchguarded, you see. Auntie Grace was a very simple woman, living on a pension. It cost her almost fifty dollars to get the couch cleaned.”

I nodded sympathetically. “But you're sure it was a reporter at your house last night, right?”

Her eyes widened at my naivete. “Reporters carry notebooks, don't they? The man who—well, you know—on my auntie's couch didn't carry a notebook.”

“I bet you're right.”

Jane Cox is new enough to our little antique community so that the gossip on her has yet to be solidified. The Rob-Bobs think she's a lesbian, Peggy Redfern thinks she's a
man-eater, Gretchen thinks she's happily married and has at least one child, and dear Wynnell thinks the Woman is stark raving nuts and feels sorry for her. Somewhere along the line, Wynnell is convinced, Jane Cox had a bad experience with a Yankee and just flipped out. We all agree, however, that C. J. has much improved Feathers 'N Treasures—my late Aunt Eulonia's shop—and that she is an asset to the community.

“If you're afraid you might run into reporters I could walk ahead and warn you,” Jane offered generously.

“Thank you, but I've decided not to hang around. Anyway, I've got to be somewhere at ten, and I want to change my clothes first.” To save time, I'd worn an old pair of pink and gray cotton sweats to meet Garland Riggs.

“This isn't an arraignment you're going to, is it?” Jane looked genuinely worried on my behalf.

There was no reason
not
to tell the woman the truth. “No, contrary to any rumors you may have heard, I have not been arrested. I have a tea party at ten. With Mrs. Lottie Bell Barras Bowman.”

“Well, my, my,” she said, obviously impressed.

I decided to impress her one more time. “Then after that I thought I'd run over to Belmont and see the Kefferts. They're the ones I bought the Louis XV set for. I want to see if they're still interested in it.”

C. J. pointed to the passenger side of the car. “Mind if I sit down a minute? Standing too long is hard on my veins. It could lead to blood clots, you know. I read about a woman—I think she was a waitress—who had a blood clot start in her legs and then zoom up into her head. It killed her, of course. And all because she stood all day.”

“You don't say.” I obligingly unlocked the passenger door and motioned for her to get in. At least then I could roll my window up.

“The Kefferts, you say. Is that Rich and Terri Keffert?”

“I don't remember their first names offhand. I think she calls him Captain. You know them?”

“Captain and First Mate Keffert. Yeah, that's them. They just started attending my church. We're in the same Sunday school class. I think they're from Massachusetts.”

I should have known. The Kefferts had struck me as smart people. Undoubtedly they wanted to fit into their new community as quickly as possible, and in the South the quickest way to do that is by joining a church. Here the church directories are the ties that bind the community together. That and sports, of course.

“Actually they're from Connecticut. You haven't been to their house, have you? I mean, can you give me directions?”

“Oh, you won't need directions once you get to Belmont. I haven't see the house myself, but I hear that it's awesome. It's shaped like a giant boat. Only it's made out of cement and doesn't float, of course.”

“Oh really?” My Louis XV furniture in a concrete boat!

“But I'd be careful if I were you.”

“You didn't perchance know someone who went down on the
Titanic
, did you?” I immediately regretted being so flippant.

“Well, yes, in a way. I mean I knew a woman named Clara, whose sister went down on the
Titanic
. You see, Clara's sister—”

“I was only kidding,” I said.

She regarded me seriously. “I meant you should be careful about the Kefferts. Like I said, they just joined my church, so I don't know them that well. They could be dangerous.”

I made a semi-successful attempt not to laugh. Hope
fully it sounded just like a sneeze. “They're a rich, retired couple. Why should I be afraid of them?”

“They may be the killers you're looking for.”

I cut off the car engine. “Excuse me?”

“Well, they had a motive, didn't they?”

I shook my head vigorously to clear it of the cobwebs that were affecting my hearing. “What?”

“Maybe they're not that rich after all. Maybe they spent all their money building that cement boat.”

“So?” I asked politely.

“So maybe they thought they would get a discount on the furniture if there was a body found in it. I saw this show on TV where—”

I thanked C. J. for her company and her concern. Then I pushed her out of the car—literally—by pretending to look for a map of North Carolina in the glove compartment. And my Algebra II teacher back in high school said I didn't use my head!

 

Lottie Bell Barras Bowman did not answer her doorbell. After about five minutes of constant ringing—after all, she might have had a head start on
tea
—I gave up and fought my way back through the jungle and to the street. As I thrashed my way past the last aucuba bush, I nearly ran over an elegant older woman and her two Yorkshire terriers.

“May I help you?” she asked calmly.

“Uh, my name is Abigail Timberlake, and I'm here to see Mrs. Bowman,” I stammered. “I've been invited to tea.”

Thank God I'd actually changed out of my sweats and into a church dress. Even then I must have looked a sight.

“My name is Irma Mickley,” the elegant woman said. “And these”—she pointed to the dogs—“are Rocky and Tina. We're Lottie Bell's neighbors from across the street.
We were looking out our front window when you pulled up. I guess you haven't heard.”

“Ma'am?”

“Lottie Bell is in the hospital.”

“Ma'am?” The woman was going to think I was stupid as well as disheveled.

One of the dogs—Tina, I think—whimpered, and Irma Mickley bent gracefully and patted her head.

“It happened less than an hour ago. I don't know many details, just that an ambulance came and they carried her out on a stretcher. They took her to Presbyterian, I think. I heard them say something about her heart.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Well, neither did I. I never thought it would be Lottie Bell's heart. Her liver maybe…” Her voice trailed off.

“Did you know her well?”

She patted the other dog, Rocky. “Well, we've been neighbors for forty some years, but we've never been
friends
. Still, it's a shock whenever someone goes, even if they are up in years like Lottie Bell.”

I politely refrained from asking her if she was related to Calamity Jane. Just because someone gets wheeled off to a hospital doesn't mean they're
gone
. I thanked Irma Mickley for her information, patted Rocky and Tina obligingly, and made a beeline for Presbyterian like a bat out of hell.

 

The emergency room receptionist was a bucktoothed, buxom, red-haired woman named Margaret. She was a jolly gal who seemed totally out of place in such a grave setting. I had the feeling that if she had a say in the matter, she would admit the wounded and dying without first making them fill out enough paper to level a small forest. She was just the sort of person I needed to talk to.

“Hey,” I said, the standard Carolina greeting.

From her smile I learned that her parents had been too poor or too cheap to buy her braces. “Hey.”

“I just heard that a Lottie Bell Barras Bowman was brought in by ambulance less than an hour ago. Heart attack, I think. Can you give me more details.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, a friend.”

She winked. “I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.”

“She's my mother.” Mama would kill me for adding twenty years to her age, but she would approve of the fact that Lottie Bell wore pearls. The Jack Daniels, however, was another story.

Margaret scanned her computer screen. She caught her breath suddenly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. The patient you asked about has—well, she's died.”

I stared stupidly at her.

“Hey, you know, I'm about to go on break. Would you like to have coffee with me?”

I snapped out of my reverie and thanked her for being a shining example of a good receptionist.

“Hey, no problemo,” she said, and turned to smile at the next person in line.

Absorbed as I was in my thoughts, I can only be grateful I walked smack dab into Greg Washburn and not some poor soul with multiple contusions. Our difference in height is practically obscene, and I bumped my nose hard against his sternum.

“Pardon me,” I gasped, not realizing at first who it was.

“Oh there you are!”

“Greg! Guess who was—”

He put his arms around me, and then let go quickly, as if he was ashamed to be doing so in public.

“I know,” he said. “It's Mrs. Bowman.”

“Yes, she died of a heart attack. It couldn't have been
more than an hour ago. I was supposed to meet her at her house for tea. It feels so weird.”

He led me over to a vacant row of seats that were partly screened by an anemic-looking schefflera.

“Sit,” he ordered.

I stood. “Why are you here?”

He sat and crossed his long legs, ankle over knee. “I've been looking for you,” he said.

“Me? How did you know to find me here?”

“I spoke to that doomsday woman who took over your aunt's shop. Jane what's-her-name.”

“Jane Cox. We call her Calamity Jane. But she didn't know I was going to be here. She just knew about the tea.”

He nodded. “Right. But when I heard over the wire that Mrs. Bowman had been brought here, I knew where to find you.”

“You were worried about me?”

He patted the seat beside him, but I preferred to stand. He sighed. “Okay, Abby, have it your way. But you're not going to like this.”

“Like what?”

“You sure you don't want to sit?”

My heart pounded. “It's Mama, isn't it? I knew I shouldn't have used her name in vain.”

He shook his head.

“Charlie? I keep telling him not to drive so fast.”

“No.”

“Oh God, not Susan!”

He smiled wanly. “No. It's not your family.”

“Dmitri?” The poor dear had used up at least eleven of his allotted lives.

“No. It's your shop. It was broken into last night.”

I sat down hard.