Larceny and Old Lace (23 page)

“Holy shit!”

A third burst of adrenaline got me off that porch, past the pack of dogs, and smack up against the garage window. It was my car, all right.

“Oh, miss,” I heard her calling from the front door.

“That's her, all right!” Anita screamed.

I can't say whether or not the garage door was unlocked, the lock was broken, or I managed to break it. All I know is that I had that sucker open in less time than it took Buford to roll off me and light up a cigarette. Maybe Anita didn't keep a spare key hidden on her car, but I sure as hell did. Two of them, in fact.

Even then, I had just backed onto the road when the first of the bullets came whizzing past my windshield. By the sound of things, more than one person was firing at me, and they weren't firing pistols, either. I ripped the shift stick into drive and stomped on the gas. Charlie would have been proud of me. My car is not exactly prime drag material, but my tires squealed louder than Buford does just before he lights that cigarette.

Thank the good Lord I didn't get hit by one of the bullets, but the rear fender of my car did.

“You'll pay for this, you bitch!” I screamed.

I was still cursing when I almost ran over Roy. He was about a half mile from the house and panting with exertion.

“Get in!” I shouted. Frankly, I'm not sure I even stopped all the way.

“Damn if you aren't something,” Roy said when he could catch his breath.

I glanced in the rearview mirror for the millionth time. I could just see the pinprick of headlights. It was possible we were being pursued.

“You okay?”

“Damn,” he said again.

“Then hold on to your heinie, 'cause you ain't seen nothing yet.”

I pressed the petal to the metal. “Eat my dust, ladies!”

I
t was either luck, or divine providence, but somehow we managed to make it back to the main highway and the diner. At that point, neither of us could purposefully have navigated our way out of a paper bag.

I have nothing but praise for the law officials of Cleveland County, North Carolina. They treated me with respect, even an appropriate amount of sympathy. They were also damned efficient. Anita and the pink lady—who, as it turned out, was her cousin—were promptly arrested.

But it wasn't until I got a chance to talk to Greg that I felt really safe. Ironically, that's also when I realized just how vulnerable I had been.

“Stay right there, Abigail; I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Yes, please come,” I said.

I couldn't help it. After I hung up, I bawled openly and, for the second time that night, took a thorough drenching. My relief was every bit as intense as my terror had been. Although they all swore I wasn't making a fool out of myself, I could tell that the sheriff and his men were uncomfortable. Eventually even the waitresses at The Sitting Duck cast me get-with-it looks.

Although there was nothing in it for him, dear, sweet Roy stayed with me until Greg arrived. His personal skills were only marginally better than his sense of direction, but he did his best to comfort me until Greg arrived.

“There, there,” he said, patting me as if I were a baby.
“They're going to lock her up and throw away the key. You don't need to worry about her anymore.”

“It's not just that, Roy. She was my friend—at least I thought she was. She had the nerve to sing at my aunt's funeral—the woman she killed! Can you imagine that?”

“The woman was a real sicko. I overheard the woman deputy say that when they arrested Anita, she was sitting in the middle of the living room in a pile of old curtains.”

My heart pounded. “Green velvet drapes? Heavy things?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“They were my aunt's. What else did the deputy say?”

“That Anita was ripping them open with a razor knife.”

“She didn't!”

“She did. And something pretty spectacular fell out of one of them.”

“What?” The only time I regret being a southerner is when I want news in a hurry, while it's still news.

“Something all frilly and gold.”

“Mould-bread face!”

He looked hurt. “Sorry, but I don't know about these fashion things.”

“Gold thread lace!” I screamed, and gave Roy a long, hard hug.

 

“I still can't understand why you didn't tell me you had a sister!”

Rob hung his head. “She was only trying to protect me, Abigail. I'm her only brother. You haven't changed your mind about not pressing charges?”

“But a rotten fish on the hottest day of the year?”

“She's really sorry about that and wants a chance to apologize.”

“Rotten fish can be forgiven, but I'm not so sure about the threat against my son.”

Rob wrung his sculpted hands. “I told you before, Abigail, that it wasn't a threat against your son. She was trying to make a joke.”

“A joke?”

“You know, Charlie the Tuna.”

“Ha, ha. At the very least, Rob, your sister lacks judgment.”

“You're right about that, and I'm very sorry.” His contrition was genuine, I'm sure.

“And she has no sense of propriety.”

“I couldn't agree more. I told her that the fish was a bad idea. I'll make sure she pays to have your shop fumigated.”

“I'm talking about her outfits. Even in Nome, Alaska, they don't wear stuff that heavy this time of the year.”

“Told you so,” Bob boomed cheerfully.

“And one more thing: tell her to lose that orange getup—unless she plans to inflate it with helium and hang a gondola basket from it.”

We walked over and sat down with the others. Mercifully, Peggy Redfern, our new president, did not tap on her water glass to get us started. Neither did she offer up a long prayer.

“Do we have any business this morning?” she asked, eyeing a plate of french toast two tables over.

“I'd like to propose that Bob Steuben be admitted to the association.”

“Hear, hear,” we all said.

Even the Major was in agreement. Although he was aware that Bob had saved his life, we had yet to tell him just how. I have no doubt that we each were hoping to hold that back as personal ammunition at some later date.

“We also have a petition for membership from a Mr. Tony D'Angelo. He is, as y'all know, the new owner of Feathers 'N Treasures.”

There were a few sighs, but mine was not the loudest.

“Now, now,” Peggy said, much to her credit, “we have to be fair about this. Mr. D'Angelo has promised to paint the shop, inside and out, and upgrade the merchandise. And of course, no more poster signs in the windows.”

We voted Tony in.

“Of course y'all already know that I no longer plan to sell my shop to Major Calloway.” I read gratitude in the glance Peggy threw my way. “As unpleasant as all this murder, and attempted murder, stuff has been, business has never been better.”

She was right. Our block had become a mecca for ghoulish memsahibs whose lives lacked excitement but who had big bucks to drop. Even the Major was taking a lesson from it and had changed the name of his shop to Guns and Posies. His merchandise still had a military theme with heavy Teutonic undertones, but it now carried some furniture for the first time. One could now buy Eva Braun's daybed, and the Führer's footstool, if one was so inclined.

Peggy's order arrived and she ate a large biscuit, dripping with butter and honey, before continuing. Personally, I think that's too much for one bite. At any rate, I had no doubt that Peggy was going to switch appetites as soon as she met Roy. The lad was going to be in town the coming weekend for a personal tour of the big city by yours truly. However, I had every intention of dumping him on Peggy. Roy had already become a little too sweet on me. That kind of thing can be flattering if you're in the market, so to speak, but I had already found my treasure. Greg and I were having our second date Saturday night.

“And now, I think we should all raise a glass of orange juice—or a cup of coffee—to Abigail. She has generously offered to buy a full page in the
Observer
advertising our shops, to keep the momentum going. It must be nice to be so rich.”

“Hear, hear,” everyone said.

“I am not rich!”

“How much is gold going for these days?” the Major asked.

“It was gold lace, dear, not Fort Knox.”

Actually, Fort Knox wasn't far off, but I didn't want the IRS to start salivating until I'd had a chance to consider all my options. Dear Aunt Euey had not neglected her heirs after all. Sewn into one of her drapes, between the lining and the ugly green velvet, was the front panel of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's wedding dress. It was handmade gold lace. I don't mean gold-colored lace but
real
gold lace.

As far as Bob could determine it was late-fifteenth-century Guipure lace, from Ferrara, Italy, of course. Bob says the pat
tern of flowers, alternating with garlands of leaves, is fairly typical of the times but of exceptional workmanship. Considering that the lace was made specifically for someone very wealthy—a nobleman's daughter—the five hundred tiny pearls that dot it are no surprise. It is no surprise either that the pearls have yellowed somewhat through the centuries, but hey, nothing is perfect—except for the twenty-five small, but very clear, diamonds that dot the centers of some of the flowers. And there's nothing wrong with the rubies on the ten largest flowers, either.

I have been told that I could get upward of three hundred thousand dollars for the panel at the moment, possibly even more if another spectacular royal wedding comes along and the bride wants something truly special incorporated into her dress. Bob and Rob threw up their hands in horror when I suggested removing the gems and selling them and the lace separately.

Teddy, a jeweler friend of Mama's, disagrees. The diamonds would all have to be recut to get them up to current standards, but he thinks they would be worth half that much alone. The rubies, he said, are worth dying for.

I am as sentimental as the next person, and the thought of keeping the panel for Susan's wedding (someday!) has occurred to me. However, while I may be sentimental, I am not brain-dead.

Of course, I would have to give my brother Toy his share, not to mention our Uncle Sam. So, given the fact that I don't own a house and refuse to live indefinitely on Tony's charity, I am not rich. I am, however, indisputably much better off than I have been since the day Buford dumped me in favor of Tweetie.

“Okay. When the waitress brings the checks, pass them down here. But this is a one-time offer.”

“For she's a jolly good fellow!” Skinny as he was, Bob could out-bass a bullfrog with a cold.

“Hear, hear!”

The Major wiped milk from his mustache. “I wonder who's going to buy Anita's shop.”

We all glared at him.

“I never did like her,” Wynnell said, still glaring. It was time to tweeze those hedges again. “If you dig deep enough, you'll find a Yankee in her woodpile for sure. A true southern woman would never have done what she did.”

“You haven't read the paper yet today, have you, dear?” I said kindly.

“Well, does this conclude our business then?” Peggy asked.

She paid no attention to our affirmative response because a good-looking man in his twenties had just walked in,
alone
. While she was thus distracted I snitched the last piece of bacon off her plate.

After all, I had paid for it.