Statue of Limitations (15 page)

“Holy smokes!” Bob said. “The alpaca! I forgot to set the timer.”

Rob nudged me. “Maybe McCrady's isn't out of the picture after all. I'll call and see if they have a cancellation.”

“Over my dead body,” Bob growled. He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Abby. It's
just that I can't stand to see good food go to waste.”

“Neither can I,” Rob said. “That's why I want to call McCrady's.”

I found my friends' preoccupation with themselves strangely comforting. That's what the living should do—live. How they reacted to an acquaintance's brush with death had no bearing on my life. Just because I felt unsettled didn't mean they had to. Besides, if we didn't consume the camel's cousin now, it would show up later under another guise. Perhaps as alpaca pâté.

“Guys,” I said, “let's stick to the original plan. But first I need to show you something.” I fished the Polaroid of the stupid statue from my purse. “Believe it or not,
this
is what the police think was used to bludgeon Marina Webbfingers.”

Bob tapped the picture with the business end of a wooden spoon. Thank heavens it was a clean utensil.

“Well, I'll definitely have to remove your name from my list of suspects, Abby. That monstrosity has got to weigh at least twenty pounds.”

Instead of contributing his own wisecrack, Rob snatched the picture from my hand and held it closer to the overhead hanging light. In the process the spoon was sent flying across the room, where it smacked against a Baccarat crystal vase
filled with summer roses. The vase didn't shatter outright, but from the sound of the collision, I knew it was cracked.

But Rob was oblivious to the damage he'd done. “Somebody get me a magnifying glass,” he shouted.

“Rob,” I said patiently, “I may not have seen as many as you, but trust me, when you've seen one, you've seen them all.”

“I'm not talking about a plaster putz, Abby. This statue could be worth a fortune.”

“S
ay what?” I snatched back the photo. Nothing had changed.

Rob's arms are twice as long as mine, and he has the agility of a basketball player. “Look,” he said, holding the photo so that both Bob and I could see.

“We're looking,” Bob said. “But we don't see anything—except a middle-class cliché.”

“Look at the scale.”

Wynnell, the horticultural expert, often complained about scale. Spider mites and aphids as well. I had always associated those pests with plants, not with inanimate garden ornaments.

“Maybe we need the magnifying glass after all,” I said. “Still, I don't see why a little bit of scale should make an otherwise piece of junk worth a fortune.”

Rob's forehead assumed more folds than a Japanese fan. Then he burst into laughter.

“Not that kind of scale. Scale as in ‘proportions.'”

Bob hates it when Rob's superior knowledge of the trade shows him up. “So, this statue is a little head-heavy. So what?”

“It
is
?” I tried in vain to reclaim the snapshot from the hotshot.

Rob was still laughing. “Abby, did you actually see this with your own eyes?”

“I used Bob's,” I said.

“Good one. And where did you see it?”

“In Marina's garden, of course.”

“There's no' of course' about this, Abby. Unless I'm mistaken—and I seldom am about this kind of thing—what's in this picture is not a statue at all, but a maquette.”

“Why didn't you say so to begin with? Rob—sorry, dear, but I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about.”

“I do,” Bob said, and his Adam's apple bobbed twice, like a cork on the line from which the fish got away.

“Then please explain it to me.”

He looked to Rob for approval, and getting it, cleared his throat. “They're called maquettes. They're scale models—most often smaller, but made from a variety of materials—of major statues. The purpose is to give the sculptor a chance to see the finished product in miniature, before committing a large, expensive block of marble to the chisel. Sometimes the models survive along with
the important pieces, but often they weren't considered valuable enough to save. Never mind that the practice pieces
are
the originals.”

I was glad I'd decided to sit. “Are you saying this could be Michelangelo's original statue of David?”

Rob stroked the photo with a patrician finger. “I'm saying that it could be. Right now it's just a gut feeling.”

“I still don't get it. How can you tell by looking at one photo? And no offense to the photographer, but it's not even a good one. If that was a picture of Mama, I wouldn't hang it on the refrigerator. It would be a waste of magnet space.”

Bob sighed. “I hate to say this, Abby—because I don't want Rob's head to get any bigger than it is—but the man's got incredibly sharp instincts. When he gets a gut feeling, he's almost always right.”

“Except about food,” Rob said generously.

“My alpaca!” Bob lunged for the stove.

While our cook fussed and stewed over a leathery roast, Rob located a jeweler's loupe and we examined the photo more carefully. My silver-haired friend was right about one thing—this was not your run-of-the-mill David knockoff. As Bob had pointed out, the head on this one seemed a little larger than normal.

“Allowed them to fit in more detail,” Rob said.
“The student sculptors just had to remember to use two scales when transposing the work to a larger piece. And, of course, in sculpting, one can always take away, but never put back.”

I shook my head. “But what if this one was made in some concrete factory outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee? Maybe the so-called artist just couldn't get the hang of sculpting. Maybe this David was intended to be bought by a tourist from Ohio, because it would look cute between Snow White and St. Francis of Assisi.”

“Abby,” Rob said quietly, “you saw the statue close up. What was it made of?”

“Well, it wasn't concrete. I would have noticed that.”

“Plaster? Some of them can look pretty good when finished properly.”

“I remember thinking that it was compressed marble—at best. More likely resin.”

“Could it have been solid marble?”

“I never considered the possibility. Good golly, Miss Molly, what if it was?”

“Then I'd say the chances of it being something really special are pretty good.” He tapped his head with a corner of the photo. “Incredibly sharp instincts, remember?”

“If your head gets any bigger, you'll have to ride with your sun roof open. Think how your hair will look then.”

“As long as it's all there, who cares? Abby, you have got to let me see this statue.”

“It's being held as evidence, Rob. It's the alleged murder weapon.”

“Okay, so maybe I won't be allowed to see it, but you can. Take copious notes. Write down anything and everything you observe. Are there any marks on it that could possibly be a signature? Are the edges polished or crude? What the heck is it made of—and oh, try to guess its weight.”

“Rob, why do you think
I'd
be allowed to see it?”

He appeared to be baffled by my question. “Because you're a woman, Abby.”

I slid off my chair. Unfortunately that didn't make me any taller.

“Are you suggesting that I sleep my way into seeing it again?”

“Sergeant Scrubb is awfully sexy,” Bob said, pausing briefly in his efforts to scrape excess carbon from the roast.

I gave him the evil eye. “You guys better be kidding about this, or I'm out of here.”

They exchanged glances. “Yeah, we're only kidding,” Rob said. “But you still have an advantage.”

“What exactly would that be?”

“You're petite, pert, and pretty. That's a winning combo.”

“Ha, that's what you think. Studies have proven that taller people are treated better.”

Bob went back to his roast while Rob did his best to rescue me from a slow burn. “There are always exceptions to the rule, Abby, and you're one of them. People like you. They connect with you.”

“Go on.”

“You're a quick thinker, too. You have the ability to talk yourself into, or out of, just about any situation.”

“It didn't work with the alpaca,” I whispered.

“Touché.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Bob waved a meat fork in our direction.

I sighed. “I'll see what I can do, but I don't want you to get all bent out of shape if my report isn't exactly what you wanted. I obviously don't have your eye for beauty.”

“I heard that, too,” Bob said, but he was smiling.

 

It startled me to see the table set for five. I knew we weren't going to eat in the kitchen, because the Rob-Bobs make an occasion out of every meal, but they generally restrict entertaining to the weekends. Tonight's table sagged under the weight of their best Limoges porcelain (reputedly made for the Queen of England), heavy ornate St. Christopher's pattern silverware, a bewildering assortment of glasses and goblets, and a floral arrangement that looked like it had been swiped from a funeral home. Perhaps it had, because both
men know better than to create a centerpiece that interfered with one's line of vision. Unless they planned for me to peek under it, while they peered over.

“Is that a pyre for the entrée?” I wasn't being mean, because Bob couldn't hear me. He was still in the kitchen fretting over the albino artichoke aspic, which seemed to have a mind of its own.

Rob chuckled. “Well, actually, they
are
from a funeral home.”

“You're kidding!”

“It was Bob's idea. We have a friend who does makeup there, and she's always bringing discarded arrangements home. Anyway, Bob thought it would be a clever way to divide the table, in case you and one of our other guests didn't get along. I can remove them if you like.”

I racked my brain, which took all of three seconds. There are few people I truly don't get along with, and none at all that I know of on the Rob-Bobs' roster of friends. Okay—so I don't particularly care for Randy Dewlap. But for the record, it has nothing to do with his split tongue, and everything to do with his split personality, both halves of which are acerbic to the point of being abusive.

“Keep the flowers right where they are. Last time I watched Randy eat, I had nightmares when I went to bed.”

“It isn't Randy.”

“Oh. Well, that mystery writer friend of yours with the frizzy blond hair isn't so bad, once you get to know her. But I doubt if she wants to look at me. She once called me an illiterate pipsqueak.”

“That's because you criticized one of her books. Writers think of their books as their children. They never forgive slights. Besides, it isn't her, either.”

I gulped. “Not Mr. Mansour!”

“Abby, in all fairness, it was you who said he'd attract less attention by wearing one of his Persian carpets than with that hideous comb-over he has now.”

“But I said it to you, not him. You weren't supposed to pass that along.”

“So I had too much to drink that night. We all did. I'm sure Manny doesn't remember a thing.”

“Then who is it?” I shrieked.

“Did y'all want something?” Bob called from the kitchen.

We ignored him.

“It's C.J. and your brother, Toy,” Rob said. His arms were out, as if to block me from running.

“Get out of town! You've never even met Toy.”

“Still haven't. Mozella came in earlier this afternoon and spilled the beans. Bob and I thought we'd take advantage of your distracted mind and meet the brother-from-hell. We weren't ever going to get a chance otherwise. Fortunately, he and C.J. were flexible about their plans.”

“I'm surprised you didn't invite Mama and Greg.”

“We did invite Mozella, but
The Amazing Race
is on tonight. She says she never misses an episode. But you can forget about your studmuffin. As long as you're sore at him, he's in our doghouse as well.”

That's what friends are for! What a lucky woman I was to count these two dear, sweet men among my budding list of buddies. I felt the same way about them. I might not be willing to lay down my life for the Rob-Bobs, but I would definitely give the cold shoulder to any exes they wanted snubbed. Just as long as my friends didn't snub each other.

Still, it wasn't fair of them to invite my baby brother without first checking with me. They'd heard all my Toy horror stories, but they had no way to know that Toy and I had forged a temporary truce. Perhaps the Rob-Bobs were hoping for a spat of sibling incivility to serve as the evening's entertainment. I was about to give them what was left of my mind when the doorbell rang.

I
must admit that Toy and C.J. make a handsome couple. Both of them are tall, blond, and robust. They definitely look more like brother and sister than Toy and I do. If their relationship ever became serious, it would behoove me to question Mama about any trips to Shelby she might have taken when I was a little girl.

At any rate, C.J. had changed into a white cotton eyelet dress, and looked cool and comfortable. On the other hand, not only was Toy still wearing his apprentice priest clothes, but he'd added a baseball cap to his ensemble.

“What gives?” I asked.

“Don't tell me you're not a Braves fan.”

“It looks silly, Toy. Take it off.”

“Can't.”

“Come on.” I reached for it, but he jerked away.

“You've been away from the South for a long time, bro. Maybe in L.A. they wear hats indoors, but not here.”

“Toy's a grown-up,” C.J. said. “You can't tell him what to do. Besides, I think it's cute.”

I glared at the big galoot. “He's my brother. I can tell him what I want. And anyway, C.J., this isn't your business.”

“Leave her alone, sis,” he hissed.

“Fine. Just take it off.”

Toy whipped it off. It was the most surreal experience I'd had since my wedding night. Not that I was little Miss Innocent back then, mind you; it's just that I'd never seen a naked one eye-to-eye—so to speak. At any rate, my baby brother was now as bald as Dr. Phil McGraw—that is to say, he had some hair. However, unlike the pop psychologist, Toy Wiggins's locks had been reduced to scattered patches of fuzz located hither, thither, and yon. And a lot more yon than anyplace else.

“Toy!” I gasped. “What happened to you?”

“Take a guess, Abby.”

“Not Mr. Hammerhead!”

He nodded ruefully. “But I got the info you wanted, sis. Fisher Webbfingers is loaded—at least by my standards. I don't think he was after insurance money.”

My peepers brimmed with tears. What a loving thing for my little brother to do on my behalf. I reached up to give him a kiss, probably the first since he'd been out of diapers.

“Thanks, Toy. I'm really grateful.”

“It's okay, sis. It had to be done.”

Meanwhile, Rob was staring at us dumbfounded. His only sister is a pillar of society up in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was a safe bet that Rob would never let a lawyer cut his hair, no matter what was at stake. It was an even safer bet that Rob's sister would never put him in that position.

“Toy had the most beautiful blond hair,” I tried to explain. “Like Doris Day, but even thicker. Mama used to say that if he'd been born a girl, she would have named him Rapunzel. She's going to freak when she sees this.”

“Que sera sera,” Toy said bravely.

“Well I like it the way it is,” C.J. said.

Toy blushed. “Can I put the cap back on now?”

I attempted a warm smile. “By all means, dear. But at this point wouldn't it make more sense to just shave your head altogether?”

“That's easy for you to say; it isn't your noggin.”

“I have the prefect razor for the job,” Rob said. “We can be through by the time Bob gets dinner on the table.”

“I don't know—”

“Ooh, ooh,” C.J. cooed. “Shaved heads are sexy.”

 

Pseudosister or not, C.J., bless her overgrown heart, was the perfect addition to this last minute dinner party. “This is the best albino Albanian ar
tichoke aspic I've ever eaten,” she said, taking a third helping. “It reminds me of Granny Ledbetter's pink Portuguese parsnip pudding—except for the color, of course. And that just comes from adding a few strawberries.”

Bob beamed. “Thanks, I'm glad you like the aspic.”

“And the alpaca was superb. Most people undercook it, you know.”

“Really?”

She nodded her lioness head vigorously. “Really. A lot of folks these days think that food has to be undercooked for it to taste good or be nutritious. Restaurants especially. They wave their veggies over steam for a few seconds before they serve it. The truth is that many canned and frozen foods actually retain more vitamins than their fresh counterparts, because they are picked at the height of ripeness and processed immediately, whereas the vegetables you buy at produce markets are generally picked green and shipped long distances. Besides, you don't have to worry about lizard heads blinking at you.”

Bob blanched. “I beg your pardon?”

“C.J. found a lizard head staring at her from her steamed broccoli once,” I said, hoping to cut the story short.

“It wasn't just staring at me, Abby; it was winking.”

I sneaked a peak at Toy. Perhaps the two of them were meant for each other. Between her tall tales and his flat-out lies, they would never find themselves wanting for entertainment.

“Dead reptiles don't flirt,” I said gently.

“This one did.”

Three of us rolled our eyes, while the fourth licked his lips in anticipation. My brother had to be in seventh heaven. Without even trying, he'd found a Carolina girl as kooky as any in California. And if he played his cards right and married her, she would, no doubt, continue to work and put him through seminary. What's more, Calamity Jane has what the folks up in Shelby call “breeding hips.” In a few years my late blooming brother could be the patriarch of a swarm of wee Wigginses—as numerous as locusts, but without any of their good qualities. Yesiree, from Dumpster digging to dynasty building, things were finally looking up for Mama's baby boy.

But in the meantime I had an investigation to conduct. “C.J., darling, why don't you tell Bob about that new recipe your Granny Ledbetter sent you?”

“The one for rhubarb and possum pie?”

“That's the one.”

C.J. was happy to oblige me. “The trick,” she said to Bob, “is to start with a really tender possum, preferably one under a year old…”

I leaned across the table and poked my daydreaming brother with my fork. “I've got some bad news. Wynnell's husband, Ed, is in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“Diabetic coma. It happened in Wynnell's shop. I was there. We were talking, and suddenly he just slid out of his chair.”

“How are you dealing with it, Abby?”

I shrugged. “This was the first time I've actually seen someone come so close to dying. It still doesn't seem real. When it sinks in—”

“You'll call me, right?” Rob's eyes shone with devotion.

“Right.”

“And me,” Toy said. Perhaps I'm an optimist, but he sounded jealous.

“I'll call you both. I promise.”

“Because your little brother is here for you, Abby. I mean it.”

“Thanks.”

Rob opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Toy, did you hear about the statue?”

“Yeah. I was—uh, being shorn when he got the call. Abby, did you see it when you were remodeling?”

I would have hung my head in shame had not my nostrils already been too close to my plate. “Yes, I saw it. But Toy, there are so many cheap
knockoffs of David—I just assumed it wasn't real.”

“Real?”

Rob sat straighter. “Abby showed me a Polaroid. It looks to me like a maquette, possibly a model for the real David.”

Toy whistled, drawing Bob and C.J.'s attention as well. “This is getting interesting. What's a thing like that worth?”

“That all depends on whether or not it can be authenticated. If it can be, then theoretically it's priceless. But as most of you already know,” Rob said, looking pointedly at Toy, “in this business there is always a price.”

“Not being in the biz,” Toy said, “I haven't a clue. Can you give me a ballpark figure?”

“Whatever the market will bear. A lot of it depends on whether or not there is a prior claim on the piece.”

“He means ‘stolen,'” I explained. “It's one thing to pay a fortune for a status symbol; but it takes a special customer to shell out money for something that only they will ever see. Not that I have any personal experience along these lines.”

Toy winked. “Of course not, sis. Who are these special customers?”

I turned to Rob. “This is your area of expertise,” I said wickedly.

“Thanks a lot, Abby,” my friend said. “Like I knowingly deal with thieves on a regular basis.”

“Then tell Toy what you unwittingly do from time to time.”

“Well, it used to be that wealthy Japanese businessmen and Saudi Arabian potentates were happy to spend megabucks on private collections—things viewed only by them—just for the joy of having something unique. But the bottom pretty much fell out of the Japanese market when their economy took a nosedive following nine eleven. The Saudis have been cutting back on collecting items that are distinctly Western, or have non-Muslim religious themes. That pretty much leaves Europe, where collectors have traditionally been more frugal.”

“What about America?”

“Anything's possible, but we Americans like our possessions to be noticed. If it's not going to show up in a glossy magazine, with our names attached, then why bother?”

“Aren't you generalizing?”

Although Rob's forehead barely puckered, I could tell he was annoyed. “Of course I'm generalizing. I'm just trying to convey a sense of what black-market antiquing is like.”

“You still haven't named a price.”

Rob's puckers became furrows. “Because it's not
that simple. But okay, if a number is what you want—let's say a million dollars.”

“A million?”

“That's just an example—the first number that popped into my mind. It could be worth ten million. A lot depends on what precedents have been set. To my knowledge, this would be the first known maquette of David—if indeed that's what it is.”

“So now you're suddenly not sure?”

“I never said I was sure.”

“You sounded pretty sure to me. You even named a price.”

“Because you pressured me to.”

Perhaps I'm more wicked than I thought, because it amused me to see my flesh-and-blood brother and my brother-in-absentia posturing like a pair of stags in autumn over a doe that neither of them could claim. What a waste of energy. Toy would always be my kin, and Rob would always be my friend. Nothing was going to change that.

I cleared my throat. “Boys, may I have your attention?”

“It's about time, Abby,” Bob boomed.

C.J. clapped hands the size of Virginia hams. “Give them heck, Abby!”

I cleared my throat again. “If you please, no interruptions from the peanut gallery. Now, first
thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to call Detective Scrubb to see if we can't get a look at that thing—
whatever
it is. In the meantime, can we just enjoy our dinner?”

Bob brightened. “So you like my dinner.”

“Like it? It's absolutely remarkable.”

“Sounds like dubious praise,” Rob whispered.

Perhaps because his ears stick out from his head at right angles, but Bob is capable of hearing a frog fart at forty paces. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

I started to applaud. “Kudos to the chef!” I yelled.

C.J. clapped twice, but stopped abruptly. “Granny Ledbetter knows the best recipe for kudu.”

“I said kudos, dear, not kudus.”

“Oh, I know, Abby. A kudu is a species of large African antelope. Granny got some kudu meat as a gift once. The way she fixed it was so good, my tongue wanted to slap my head silly.”

Bob bounced in his chair with excitement. “I know where to get kudu meat! I just got this catalogue of exotic meats from a game farm in Texas…”

I had to tune them out in order to finish my meal.

 

I slept in the Rob-Bobs' guest room. Their Queen Anne bed is said to have belonged to the grand dame herself. The silk damask bed-curtains purportedly provided the royal body privacy, but thank heavens the guys have changed the bedclothes since then. Nothing beats a four-hundred-thread-count sheet from Linens-n-Things.

I'll blame it on the food, but that night I had the weirdest dreams. I dreamed I was the other Queen Anne, the one who lost her head in the tower of London. Already headless, I was wandering around the halls of a dank, dark castle, searching urgently for a replacement. Alas, there were no new noggins to be found, but in one spidery corner I spied a giant Albanian albino artichoke. Desperate, I tried it on for size. To my amazement, it fit perfectly.

“Abby,” a male voice called from just behind me.

I whirled, but the leathery leaves prevented me from seeing anything.

“Abby, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you.” But the artichoke didn't have a mouth and I knew my muffled words weren't being heard in return.

I started to run, but managed to take only steps before my assailant tackled me and I fell flat on my vegetable face.