Statue of Limitations (12 page)

Irena Papadopoulus swatted her arm. “Something just bit me.”

I smiled reassuringly. “It was probably just a no-see-um.”

“No-see-ums don't come out when it's this hot,” she snapped.

I shrugged. She was certainly right about that; biting midges prefer the more moderate temperatures of spring and autumn. But the scourge of the Lowcountry, if there is one, has got to be our insect population. Where else does one find biting insects so small they can barely be seen, roaches as big as kittens (which we graciously refer to as palmetto bugs), and mosquitoes so swift a track star couldn't outrun them?

Although nobody else was attacked by microscopic vermin, Irena started to do the dance of misery. Footwork isn't important in this Lowcountry jig (unless one has stepped in a nest of fire
ants), it's the flailing arms that count. If she entered a competition, I'd say the tourist from the Big Apple stood a fair chance of winning.

Even if she's not being paid, a good tour guide should always be mindful of her clients' comfort, so I got the show on the road as soon possible. We stopped briefly to view the triangular black and white lighthouse farther up the island, but remained in our vehicles when passing the two hurricane-proof “flying saucer” houses, and the World War II bunkers that had been converted to spacious homes.

The bunker houses are a favorite of mine. Through the glass entry of one these subterranean mansions, a magnificent chandelier can be observed, while on the roof, grass and shrubs grow happily. Even small trees.

After the lighthouse we didn't get out again until we reached Coconut Joe's on the Isle of Palms. This restaurant has the best ocean view east of the Cooper, and is the perfect place to have lunch on a hot summer day. Because the outdoor deck is high off the ground, and close to the sea, there is usually a breeze. However, just to be on the safe side, we unanimously voted to eat indoors. It was our hope that the air-conditioning would recharge our batteries.

While we feasted on coconut-breaded shrimp
and sipped margaritas (just half a one for me), we watched the swimmers and sunbathers take full advantage of their holiday on the beach. There was very little wave action at the time, but that didn't stop visitors from Ohio and Pennsylvania from trying to surf. Neither did extra poundage prevent the majority of people from wearing swimming garb, much of which was not to their advantage. One exceptionally large woman, who spilled out of her bikini like rising dough infused with too much yeast, was trying in vain to control a frisky little black dog on a leash. Finally the contrary canine broke loose and immediately started running frenzied figure eights across the supine bodies of sun-worshipers. Bedlam followed. A lot of bellowing as well.

“This certainly is entertaining,” John said. He had an amused glint in his eye.

Belinda nodded. “Nothing like this happens back home.”

“In Cambridge?” I asked, just to be wicked. It was the half a margarita's fault.

“That's Cambria,” John said.

“Right.”

Perhaps because she didn't have to drive, Estelle Zimmerman was well into her second drink. “What's the water temperature like there?” she asked.

Belinda tossed her naturally blond locks. “Nice and warm. I swim almost every day.”

Estelle Zimmerman whipped her head around to look at me. It took another second for the bags under her eyes to catch up.

“This woman is not from California,” she said.

J
ohn and Belinda exchanged glances. “Of course she is,” he said.

Estelle's penciled brows disappeared into the creases on her forehead. “I don't think so, dear.”

The handsome travel agent attempted to smile, but his blue eyes revealed his true feelings. “Are you calling us liars?” he asked softly.

The farmer's wife would not back down. “I read in the paper this morning that water in Charleston Harbor was eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Nowhere along the coast of California does the Pacific Ocean get that warm.”

“Estee knows everything,” Herman said proudly. He seemed oblivious to any ramifications of his wife's accusation.

John Thomas put a well-muscled arm around Belinda's shoulders. Then the couple rose to their feet in unison, as if they'd choreographed the action.

“Come on, darling, we don't need to listen to this.” John's protective persona made me think of Greg.

“But you can't go yet,” I said quickly. “How will you get back to Charleston?”

“We'll take the long way around, like the policewoman said.”

“What if you get lost?”

“We'll take our chances.”

It was time to be pragmatic. “But we haven't got the bill yet. We need to divide—”

He tossed a pair of twenties next to my plate. “Keep the change, Mrs. Washburn.”

There was nothing I could do to stop them, had I wanted to. The funny thing was, now that I'd been reimbursed for lunch (Coconut Joe's is very reasonable), I didn't care if I ever saw them again. They were as fake as a four dollar bill, as phony as a photo of Tammy Faye without makeup. But my gut feeling was (and the tinier the gut, the more accurate, if you ask me) that the Thomases had nothing to do with the death of Marina Webbfingers. Stereotypes of blondes aside, they didn't seem to have the brain power. Besides, John's hair color wasn't even his own.

Yes, I know, there are a lot of stupid crooks out there. One might even go so far as to say that most crooks at least lack discernment, or they wouldn't put themselves in situations that involve such
penalties as prison or, in some cases, capital punishment. But the Thomases came across as particularly inept. They were nice to look at, sure—if you like bulging biceps and straining bosoms—but let's face it, they couldn't find their way out of a paper bag if you gave them both scissors.

As Belinda's backside cleared the door, Irena Papadopoulus smiled smugly over the salted rim of her glass. “I didn't trust those two from the start.”

“Really?” I didn't want to tip my hand, but I'd had my own doubts about the Calamari couple.

“They're fakes. Complete fakes. If you ask me, the police should be investigating them, instead of that crazy woman with just one eyebrow.”

“Wynnell has two eyebrows—they're just closely spaced. And she isn't crazy.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Washburn.”

What I wanted to say next was that I didn't trust the Papadopouluses, either. No legitimate gem buyer would be ignorant of the four C's. And if the tall, dark, and usually silent man by her side was her husband, I'd eat my chapeau (I keep an easily digestible paper hat on hand for just such occasions). As for the Zimmermans…

A cell phone rang. Since mine had ended up in the drink, it took me a moment to remember that I had taken the backup phone from the car and slipped it into my bag before entering the restau
rant. This is an older, somewhat unwieldy model, with an annoyingly loud ring. Normally I think it is very rude to have one's phone turned on in an enclosed space, particularly this phone, but my best friend's freedom was at stake. Maybe even her life.

I didn't recognize the number at first. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Washburn?” I didn't recognize the voice, either.

“Yes.”

“This is Veronica Dillsworth. I'm—uh, Mr. Hammerhead's receptionist.”

I knew now who she was; the bosomy, nearly bald woman, who was quite likely more than just the attorney's receptionist. If that was indeed the case, her job title suited her just fine. But it was not my place to judge.

“What trouble has my brother gotten into now?”

“He's not in any trouble that I know of—although he certainly is cute. Too bad he's a priest.”

“He's only a priest-in-training. I'm sure the training he's had so far can be undone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. What can I do for you?”

“I'm supposed to pass a message on to you, Mrs. Washburn. Mr. Hammerhead said you might find it important.” She paused, presumably for dramatic effect.

“Don't keep me in suspenders, dear.”

“Suspenders?”

“That was a joke. What is this important message?”

“The murder weapon has been located.”

“The murder weapon?”

Five pairs of eyes locked on to me. Four, of course, belonged to my companions. The fifth, a remarkably large pair, were owned by our waitress, who had finally arrived with our bill.

“Mrs. Washburn, are you still there?”

“Yes. Please elaborate.”

“It's says here—Mr. Hammerhead left a note—that a tourist spotted it at low tide. Just off the Battery. Thought it might be a valuable find.”

“Just what exactly is
it
?” I tried to sound nonchalant, so as to disappoint the eavesdroppers.

“A statue of some kind—says here ‘David.' Maybe that was the name of the guy who found it. Anyway, there were bloodstains on it.”

“I see.” The five sets of staring eyes didn't see, and they leaned closer.

“Oh, and Mr. Hammerhead said to tell you the arraignment was moved up. In fact, that's where he is right now.”

“I see.”

“That's all the note says, Mrs. Washburn.”

“What else did the witness say?”

“Excuse me?”

It was my turn to pause. “Oh really? Did she describe the hair color?”

“Mrs. Washburn, I'm afraid you're not making any sense.”

“Possibly a tourist, you say? From which state?”

“Yes, it was a tourist who found the statue, Mrs. Washburn, but it doesn't say anything here about where they're from.”

“Well, I'm at Coconut Joe's right now, but as soon as we settle the bill, I'm heading straight for the Webbfingerses' place to deliver my passengers.”

“Mrs. Washburn, is your brother as kooky as you?”

“Certainly. And yes, I am driving my own car. You've got all the information on that, right? Model, license plate number, etcetera.”

“Mrs. Washburn, I really have to go.” She hung up.

“Okay, I'll see you in a bit, Officer Bright.” I turned my attention back to the ten twitching ears. “I'll take the check, this time.”

Herman was quick to protest. “That's not necessary, little lady.”

“But I insist. I have something to celebrate.”

“What?” Our waitress pulled up a chair and sat next to Estee Zimmerman.

I scowled at the impudent youth. “I'm not free to discuss it, dear.”

“That's no reason to be rude,” Irena said.

How right she was. A properly reared Southern woman is charming at all times. When left with no choice but to reproof, she does so while smiling, always careful to add the phrase “bless your heart.” Those three words, incidentally, can ameliorate even the foulest of insults, when said in just the right tone and in a Deep South accent.

“Darling,” I said to the girl, whose name was Teena, “I do apologize for my behavior. I'm sure it isn't your fault you possess a paucity of manners, bless your heart.”

She brightened. “Thank you, ma'am.”

Having redeemed my reputation as a belle, I led my little flock back to Ocean Boulevard and cars that were five degrees hotter than Hades.

 

I led my diminished caravan across the Isle of Palms connector and back to Mount Pleasant. On the way, we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and passed Goat Island, where a handful of adventurous souls live without the benefits of public utilities. Once we hit Highway 17 again, I aimed straight for the nosebleed high bridges and the Holy City. It was a half-hour trip, so we had plenty of time to talk, but it was the New Yorkers I wanted to grill, not the farmers from the dell.

Fate intervened when Estelle requested that I stop at a sweetgrass basket stand. The stands are
nothing more than flimsy wooden lean-tos that dot the highway between the Cooper River and Awendaw like buttons on an expensive blazer, but they contain some of the finest handicrafts on the continent. Here, Gullah women, descendants of Western African slaves, weave intricate baskets out of sweetgrass and palm fronds, in the tradition of their ancestors. The baskets have become highly collectible, popular with both tourists and long-term residents, and prices can reflect that. Of course not all baskets are created equally, and quality does vary, but overall these keepsakes will appreciate in value. With every passing year sweetgrass becomes harder to find, and the older generation of women, those with the patient fingers, find themselves with fewer protégées.

While Herman and Estelle haggled over what was already a bargain, and the handsome Nick fondled a particularly attractive specimen, I edged the irritable Irena aside.

“Mrs. Papadopoulus,” I said, “my wedding anniversary is coming up, and my husband wants to upgrade my diamond. But I've been thinking, and what I'd really want is to get a second ring—one for my right hand.”

“One can never own too much jewelry.”

“My thoughts exactly. And instead of a diamond in this ring, I'd like a nice big sparkling dolomite. Maybe a four carat stone. I realize
you're on vacation, and I don't mean to bother you with business talk, but I was wondering if you could give me a ballpark figure.”

She shrugged. “Yes, I am on vacation. Besides, I buy gems wholesale for retailers. I couldn't possibly give you a quote on a single stone. One that doesn't exist.”

“Oh.” That was disappointing. I thought sure I had her there, since dolomite is not a gem. It is, instead, a compact limestone, and in fact an entire mountain range of the mineral is to be found in northern Italy.

I must have sounded exceptionally pitiful, because that's what was reflected in her beady eyes. Fortunately the pity was served up with a nice dollop of scorn, which somehow made it more palatable.

“Well, you are talking about a hypothetical stone, aren't you?” she demanded.

My heart beat faster. “Yes, ma'am.”

“All right then,” she said brusquely. “If it's good quality dolomite—how does a thousand dollars a carat sound?”

“Fantastic.”

“Is it a mar kiss?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, shaped like this?” She shaped a classical marquise, elliptical but with pointed ends, on the back of her hand.

“No, ma'am. It's round.”

“That's too bad, because mar kiss stones are the big thing now. Resale would be better.”

“I don't plan to resell an anniversary ring.”

She snorted. Whether it was diversion or a no-see-um up her nose, I didn't care. I had all the information I needed.

 

We were halfway across the first span of the Grace Memorial Bridge when it happened again. Just as webegan the downward swoop over Drum Island, I happened to glance in the rearview mirror. Instead of the tanned and toned Nick, and the two-toned Irena, I found myself looking at a battered pickup being driven by a hygienically challenged man in faded blue overalls, and a head that wouldn't look out of place on Mount Rushmore.

“It's him,” I gasped.

“Who?” Herman, who was riding shotgun, tried to turn, but his neck ruff became tangled in his shoulder strap, rendering him temporarily immobile.

Estelle didn't budge. “Abby, I don't mean to be a backseat driver, but you're awfully close to this side of the bridge.”

Indeed I was. But in my defense, the Suburban Assault Vehicle to my left was well over the center line.

“There's someone tailgating us,” I said through
clenched teeth. “He tried to run me off the road earlier. Can you try and get a description?”

Herman grunted as he ripped off a handful of hair in a valiant effort to cooperate. “The son of a gun just gave me the finger.”

Estelle clucked disapprovingly at her husband's outburst. “Maybe you should speed up, Abby.”

“I can't. The car in front of me is barely creeping along. We're boxed in.”

“Then honk.”

The woman was really getting on my nerves, but she had a point. Some folks, while not as nervous as the Thomases, creep across the failing structure, no doubt afraid that a faster speed will cause the rust to break apart and send them plunging to their deaths. Others plod along because their cars just don't have oomph for inclines that steep. Still others—and this is where honking is beneficial—meander through life, and traffic, in a perpetual fog. A sharp toot of the horn will sometimes startle them into momentary consciousness. With any luck, the driver in front of me would remain surprised and awake until we'd both made it across safely.

I honked. Two long blasts followed by three short ones. I attached no meaning to my beeps other than “get out of my way you slowpoke.” But considering how things were going lately, I might consider learning Morse code. That way, when I
was really frustrated, I could spell out something really naughty.

The driver in front of me responded with an immediate burst of speed. Then turning his head, he smiled and waved.

“Cheeky son of a gun,” Herman muttered.

“B-But a handsome man,” Estelle stuttered.

“That's no man,” I sputtered. “That's my husband.”