Gilt by Association (9 page)

“I see. Well, if it's that insignificant—which I don't think it is, considering a dead body was found in my shop today—why are you here? Why did you even bother to come over?”

“To see you,” he said.

He tried to lock those gorgeous eyes on mine, but I turned away and studied the tan and gray abstract painting that hung innocuously on one of my cream walls. Mama had bought it as a housewarming present. She didn't like carrying coals to Newcastle, she said. No antiques for the antique dealer. The painting had become a symbol of my life then, drab and abstract. Empty without Greg. I put the antiques I'd been living with up for sale in my shop.

But now it was time to get on with my life, to reclaim the things that gave me pleasure. It was time to put some color back into my new digs. Maybe some rich vibrant red like on Amy Barras's walls. But not blue. Certainly not Wedgwood-blue.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?” The beige sofas had to go, too. Maybe a cheerful yellow chintz with cabbage flowers, a la English country estate. It would fit in much better with the few antiques I hadn't taken to the shop.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Can't,” I said. “I've got that date with the podiatrist, remember?”

He laughed and let himself out, and I didn't move until one of the Rob-Bobs came out of the kitchen and hugged me. Then I burst into tears.

I
did not sleep like a baby—my babies never seemed to sleep. Instead I slept like a hibernating bear, only waking up once during the night when Dmitri, who likes to sleep on my chest, inadvertently stuck a paw in my mouth. The second time I awoke it was already morning, but not quite time for my alarm. I guess I had been too tired to unplug the phone when I went to bed.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause during which my blood temperature plunged several degrees. Six-thirty in the morning is too early for those annoying sales solicitors, so it could only mean one thing. Mama, or one of my children, had suffered a calamity; appendicitis perhaps, or a fatal or near-fatal car accident. There was a lesser chance that my daughter Susan was calling to say she was pregnant. Not that I was expecting her to be pregnant, mind you, but if she turns up that way out of wedlock, you can bet I'll hear about it at an inconvenient time. But not before noon.

“Hello?” I rasped again.

“Mrs. Timberlake?”

I sat up in bed, spilling Dmitri off my chest. “Which hospital is it?”

“Huh? This is Garland Riggs, Mrs. Timberlake. I'm the owner of Broken Tree Nursery on Nations Ford Road. I want—”

“I don't take unsolicited business calls at home,” I said angrily and slammed down the receiver.

It rang again almost immediately.

“Yeah?” I answered only because, with my luck,
that
would be the hospital calling.”

“This isn't a business call,” Garland Riggs said quickly. “Least not nursery business. This is family business.”

“Susan never mentioned you,” I said defensively. “And she doesn't believe in abortion, so you're going to have to pay child support.”

“Huh? Mrs. Timberlake, my mama was Mimi Barras Riggs. Lula Mae Barras was my aunt. Well, my aunt through marriage.”

“Oh,
that
Garland Riggs.”

My predicament was slowly and uncomfortably coming back to me. I remembered that Garland was of the Barras cousins and had been on my list to contact that day. But of course a good deal later. God created breakfast, then Adam and Eve—in that order. Read your Bible if you don't believe it.

“Mrs. Timberlake—”

“It's Ms.,” I said crossly. “I'm divorced now. You're not calling from another time zone, are you?”

“No, ma'am. I'm sorry if I woke you. I'm an early riser myself, and I tend to forget the rest of the world sleeps in.”

“The rest of the world does not
sleep in
, Mr. Riggs, just because you get up with the chickens. What is it you want?”

“I heard about what happened yesterday. I was wondering if we might have breakfast together and talk about it. My treat, of course.”

It was an odd suggestion coming from a male, and a total stranger. I probably would not have accepted his in
vitation, had not something in his voice reminded me of Greg.

“Breakfast would be fine,” I said. “Can you give me forty-five minutes.”

“Sure, forty-five minutes. How about Denny's?”

I would rather eat breakfast at Denny's than haute cuisine at the finest restaurants in Paris, but it wasn't where I wanted to eat that morning. More important than the food was the possibility that one of Greg's acquaintances might see me out with another man. Clearly Greg didn't believe that I had a date with Arvin. Well, I'd show him!

“Can we make it the Waffle House on South Boulevard?” I'd seen patrol cars parked outside that place more than once, and, as we all know, men gossip more than women.

“The Waffle House will be fine. How will I recognize you?”

“Just look down,” I said blithely. No amount of pretending is going to alter the fact that my most distinguishing feature is my lack of height.

It was uncanny. The second I put the receiver down, the phone rang again.

“Yes, Mr. Riggs?” I said patiently.

“Riggs? I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number,” the caller said, exhibiting rare telephone manners for this day and age, even in the Carolinas.

“Wait!” I shouted.

It was too late, not that it much mattered, because Lottie Bell Barras Bowman called me right back. This time I answered with my name and she stayed on the line.

“I was wondering if you could come over this morning for tea again.”

“Well, I, uh—”

“Of course, it wouldn't actually have to be
tea
.”

“That's very kind of you, Mrs. Bowman but I—”

“There's something I found regarding the furniture that
I need to show you. Something in my granddaddy's diary.”

“Oh?”

“How does ten sound?”

“Ten sounds fine.”

“Tea at ten, then. Or whatever.” She giggled girlishly and hung up.

I ignored Dmitri's demands to have his chin scratched and jumped in the shower. I was just toweling off with one of the ultra thick and terribly expensive bath towels Mama had given me for my birthday when the doorbell rang. It was Murphy's Law, of course. For what it's worth I am genetically incapable of
not
answering a bell—be it the phone or the door. Fortunately the towel was large as well as thick, and a quick tuck turned it into a rather modest sarong. Any reasonable person would have seen that.

Greg did not. “Is that how you normally answer the door?”

I gave him what I hoped was an impish smile. “This towel is a lot bigger than the one I normally wear.”

“Very funny, Abby. Can I come in, or do you want the whole world to see you like that?”

“Just a minute,” I said. I closed the door and scampered back to my bedroom, where I put on a long-sleeved, quilted polyester housecoat—the one I bought for Susan to take with her to college. I opened the door just a few seconds past my minute.

“Hysterically funny, Abby. Remind me to laugh sometime.”

Instinct told me he was upset about a lot more than how I dressed to answer doors. I stepped aside and let him in.

“I told Deena,” he said without further preamble.

“You what?”

“I broke it off with Deena. Just like you asked.” He sounded miserable.

I glanced at the clock. It wasn't even seven yet.

“When?”

“Last night, on my way home. I was going to wait until today, but I got to thinking on my way home—”

“You spent the night at her house, didn't you?”

“Talking, Abby. That's all we did was talk.”

I may not be able to spot lipstick on a cigarette butt. Collars are another story. I pointed to the offending smudges.

“Where does she think your eyes are located?”

“She was crying, Abby. She laid her head on my shoulder. I comforted her. That's all that happened, Abby. I swear.”

“I see.” Actually I felt like one of the blind men in the Hindu parable of the elephant. I thought I had hold of the elephant's trunk, but for all I knew it was the tail. And any time you find yourself holding a tail in your hands, watch out! You're liable to be dumped on.

He was pacing. Periodically he raked his long strong fingers through that thick, almost black hair.

“God, it was a nightmare, Abby. We'd only been out a few times. No more than five, I swear. You would have thought we'd been married for ten years. Are all women like that?”

“Like what?” Never answer a rhetorical question with a question. Like I said, it was too early in the morning for me, and I hadn't had breakfast.

“She threatened to kill herself, Abby. Can you imagine that?”

“She did?” The poor dear should have told me her plans. I might have volunteered to help her out. I am only joking of course—but just barely. People who use suicide threats to manipulate others deserve at least a serious illness.

“She said I'd led her on. She said we had an understanding. Hell, Abby, what kind of understanding was it, if I didn't even know about it?”

I did feel for Greg. He honestly didn't have a clue. It was very much like when our puppy, Scruffles—Charlie has him now—tried to play with the birds that hung around the feeder on our deck. Scruffles would bound happily at them, not meaning to catch them, only to play, but the birds would take to the trees. Greg was like Scruffles; adorable, cuddly, and perennially confused.

“She'll get over it,” I said calmly. “You know us women. We're always reading commitment into everything. It's in our genes. Part of the cavewoman survival thing. If we can get a caveman to share his bearskin on a permanent basis, we know our little cave babies will stand a better chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. She'll be
fine
, Greg. That's the point. She carried on like she was supposed to, and you resisted just like you were supposed to. Right?”

He waited a second too long to answer.

“
Right
?”

“Yeah. I didn't do anything. I already told you that.”

I glanced at the clock on my VCR. It was five minutes until seven.

“Look, sweetie, I have a breakfast appointment I'm already late for. Why don't you stay here and catch a few winks before you go on duty? We'll talk some more later.”

He nodded and headed for the sofa. Halfway there he stopped and turned around.”

“Who's the appointment with? The podiatrist?”

I smiled patiently. “No, that's tonight. This morning it's with a nursery owner.”

“You're a hoot,' he said and stumbled to the couch.

I hoped to hell that half of Charlotte's finest hadn't chosen to eat at the Waffle House that day.

 

As soon as I saw the truck, I knew that Garland hadn't left yet. It had his nursery logo painted clearly on both sides. It was what I call a monster truck. The double cab was perched precariously atop wheels large enough to land a jumbo jet. It stood head and shoulders above the other vehicles in the parking lot—to mangle a metaphor.

Garland Riggs should have described himself for me. There weren't any police officers—that I could tell—at the Waffle House at seven twenty-five when I arrived, a mere ten minutes late. The five men and one woman looked astonishingly alike, although the woman's mustache was perhaps the heaviest. Graying brown hair, plumpness, and late middle age were just a few of their common denominators. Had it not been for the blue jacket with the green logo of a broken tree on it, with the name Riggs embroidered across its branches, I would have had to resort to asking for names.

“Mr. Riggs, I presume,” I said, holding out my hand.

He took it without standing up. Since he was a Southerner born and bred, that meant he was pretty angry.

“Did they give you my message about being late?” I asked pleasantly.

“Yeah.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. “I have a business to run. It's Christmas tree season.”

“I'm sorry, but I kept getting interrupted. First the phone, and then the doorbell. The phone was your aunt.”

“Aunt Lottie Bell?”

I nodded. “She's invited me for tea this morning.”

“Why would Dotty Lottie have you over for tea?”

“Don't be rude,” I said. “I think she's really sweet, and clear as a bell, in spite of her fondness for Mr. Daniels. Last time, we had a fascinating conversation.”

“Oh? What did she say?”

“I don't betray confidences, Mr. Riggs.”

He stared at me.

I stared back calmly.

“Well, since you're going to be having tea later then I guess you won't be needing this.” He tucked the plastic-coated menu behind the napkin dispenser.

I pulled it back out. “You offered me breakfast, didn't you?”

“Ma'am?”

I called the waitress over and ordered scrambled eggs with cheese, bacon, grits, and raisin toast. “And try to scare up some marmalade for the toast,” I said gently.

The waitress, who looked astonishingly like her customers, sauntered off to do her thing, but not without first letting me know that the assortment of jelly packets at my table was not negotiable. If my basket didn't contain marmalade from the get-go, I was out of luck. And speaking of luck, didn't I know how lucky I was to live in a country where I could choose between grape and strawberry?

“So what's this all about?” I asked when we were alone.

He stirred his coffee vigorously. No bacon and eggs for him, unless of course he'd already eaten.

“My Aunt Lottie Bell called me yesterday with the news. I could hardly believe it. I was shocked.”

“Imagine how I felt when I opened my new armoire and found a dead man inside!” I shuddered.

“I bet it was horrible. You read about this kind of thing happening in really big cities, like New York or Los Angeles. Maybe even Chicago. But Charlotte? What's the world coming to?”

“The world has gone to hell in a handbasket,” I said. That is one of Mama's favorite phrases. But for her the world headed for Hades the day the first Rock Hill woman stopped wearing gloves to church.

“Killing someone, and then stuffing them into an an
tique armoire. That's just plain sick,” Garland said. He took a sip of his coffee. “Do the police have any leads? Do you know what the autopsy showed?”

I shrugged. “Mr. Riggs, you didn't really expect me to talk about the grisly details over breakfast, did you?”

“Huh? Of course not. Actually, I'd rather talk about the furniture.”

“Yes?” Finally I was getting somewhere.

“As you know, I was at the auction. My wife—Alma—was very upset when I came away empty-handed. We're not as loaded as Aunt Lottie Bell.”

“I'm sorry. But that's the nature of the beast, I'm afraid.”

“Yeah, well, she's been admiring that furniture for years. Ever since she married into the family. She was hoping I would give it to her for Christmas.”

“There are still almost three weeks left until Christmas,” I said with forced cheer. “You might find something similar down in Waxhaw.”