Statue of Limitations (2 page)

I
'd driven by double 0 Legare hundreds of times, always admiring its architecture, but never dreaming that someday I would be privy to the secrets that lay behind its wrought-iron gates. The mansion is a superb example of the Greek Revival style, with two-story columns topped by Corinthian capitals. In Charleston, porches are called piazzas, and this magnificent structure had ground and second floor piazzas across the front. In the side garden, which was to the left, a fountain splashed in the center of a boxwood parterre. A main path led past a massive Canary Island date palm to a second, more informal garden—well, to be honest, it was more of a jungle of overgrown azaleas. Peeking above them were several brick structures clad in creeping fig vines. I guessed these outbuildings to be a carriage house and servants' quarters.

Wynnell and I were five minutes early, and so as not to be too obvious, we parked along the seawall
on Murray Avenue and strolled along South Battery Street. It was obvious, at least to us, that we were not tourists. We both wore dresses, unlike most of the milling throng. Tight shorts and either T-shirts or tank tops seemed to be the preferred uniform. I do believe that one can view more wedgies per capita in the historical district of Charleston than anywhere else in the country.

“Yankees,” Wynnell hissed.

“You don't know that,” I said. My friend is not a racist, and harbors no prejudice against gays, but anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon line gets her knickers in a knot. Never mind that—and I know this for a fact—she has a Yankee in her woodpile.

“Abby, look at that woman. She's spilling out of her clothes in every direction. A Southerner would never disgrace herself like that.”

“Want to bet?”

“I'll bet tonight's movie. I'll even buy the snacks.”

“You're on.” As short as I am, I had to run to catch up with the woman, who was walking rapidly the other way. “Excuse me,” I called after her.

She stopped and turned. “Ma'am?”

“Do you know how to get to the Gibbes Museum?”

“No ma'am, I'm sorry. I'm just a tourist myself.”

“Oh, I'm not a tourist. I live here. I'm only—”

“Directionally challenged,” Wynnell said. She had had no trouble keeping up.

I smiled at the stranger. “If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Nawlins.”

“Nawlins, Louisiana?” I presumed she meant New Orleans.

She smiled back at me. “Is there another?”

“Not in my book, at any rate. So what do you think of Charleston?”

“It's so interesting. I had no idea.”

Now that I had established that she was indeed a Southerner, I had to decide if it was worth it to me to decipher what she'd said. We Southerners—especially we women—have been brought up to always be polite, even if that requires telling a white lie or two. By saying that she found my adopted city “interesting” and that she had “no idea,” the lady from Louisiana could have been saying one of a dozen things. Perhaps she found it interesting that sections of King Street smell like garbage on Sunday mornings, and that she had no idea there would be a dearth of public rest rooms along the Battery. On the other hand, she could have meant that it was interesting that a local person would not know her way around, and that she had no idea that Charleston was the most beauti
ful—not to mention the friendliest—city in the nation. In the end I decided it wasn't worth it. Not if we were going to get to Marina Webbfingers's house on time.

But I couldn't resist rubbing it in to Wynnell when we were alone. “I told you.”

My friend frowned, the hedgerow all but obscuring her eyes. “She could be a Yankee spy.”

“A what?”

“You heard me, Abby. I read that there is a special training school—up in Michigan, someplace—where they teach Yankees how to speak correctly. Make them insert the proper number of vowels, soften the R's, that kind of thing. If we should ever decide to secede again—”

“Which we won't!”

“But if it should happen, they'd have their people in place.”

“Then what about her clothes? Wouldn't she have been trained to dress properly?”

“Maybe that was just to throw us off track.”

Perhaps it was Charleston's heat and humidity that had gotten to her. At any rate, I was beginning to think Wynnell's trolley had leaped its tracks. Thank heavens Marina Webbfingers was not a Yankee, or the Late Unpleasantness might indeed have begun all over again. And only yards from its original birthplace.

 

Marina may not have hailed from up the road a piece, but her behavior was definitely atypical. We were only fashionably late, yet there she was on her lower-level piazza, waiting for us. She even waved when she saw us, and practically ran down the steps to open the metal gate.

“Mrs. Timberlake, how nice of you to come.”

“Well, actually my name is—”

Wynnell thrust out her hand. “I'm her assistant, Mrs. Crawford.”

Marina smiled. “How nice. I'm sure the work will progress a lot faster with two of you.”

I gazed up at the towering house. “How many rooms will we be decorating?”

“Oh my, I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression. The bed and breakfast will not be part of the main house.” She pointed to the outbuildings. “Two above the carriage house, and three in what used to be the servants' quarters. We made a nice little apartment on the third floor for Harriet—that's our maid.”

The third floor was the attic, for crying out loud. What kind of people would stuff a maid under the eaves when a perfectly good quarters already existed? People who were strapped for cash and didn't want strangers invading their home, that's who. I'd seen it happen before. The best bed and breakfasts in Charleston can charge as much as three hundred dollars per night, and the demand
is constant. Even if the Webbfingerses averaged only three guest rentals on a daily basis and charged just two hundred dollars a night, their gross income for the year would be over two hundred thousand clams—which is not such a gross figure. Not if poor Harriet was going to do all the work.

I confess to being very disappointed as Marina led us around the side of her mansion. One of the perks of my job is the peeks I get into other people's homes. While it is true that for some folks possessions are just things, in many cases home furnishings tell fascinating tales about their owners' lives.

“Will we be using any of your pieces from the main house?” I asked hopefully.

“No,” she said. Her one word answer made it clear that my question had somehow been inappropriate.

“What a lovely garden,” Wynnell said, obviously trying to curry favor.

Marina shrugged. “The front garden is. Some of my husband's ancestors were French. They have a thing for formal gardens. He does all the work on the parterre himself.” She waved a manicured hand. “But the back garden is going to need a lot of work. Would either of you happen to be knowledgeable about landscape design?”

“Not me,” I said. “If I just look at a plant, it dies. I've even thought about hiring myself out as a weed killer.”

No one even chuckled at my little joke. But Wynnell, who has farther to climb on the social ladder than I, was quick to jump at the opportunity.

“I don't have professional experience,” she said, “but I had a prize-winning garden back in Charlotte. Didn't I, Abby?”

“I do recall that you won some sort of prize.”

“Not just any prize, but the blue ribbon for the prettiest yard in my subdivision. There was even an article about it in the paper.” What she neglected to say is that it was her neighborhood rag, and not the
Charlotte Observer,
that covered the story.

Marina may have been desperate for cheap help, because she stopped dead in her tracks. “Mrs. Crawford, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am. You may call me Wynnell.”

“Mrs. Crawford, would you be willing to handle the garden aspect if Mrs. Timberlake does the rooms?”

Wynnell sneaked a glowering glance at me. “I could do both.”

“Oh, I couldn't ask that.”

“But I don't mind at all.”

Perhaps because I am a very small woman, my
wicked streak is small, but it does exist. “Come to think of it,” I said, “that was a first-class garden you created up in Charlotte, Wynnell. But didn't it take you awhile?”

“I took my time because it was for a contest,” Wynnell said. I gathered from her tone that she would no longer be buying the snacks at the movie. In fact, we might even be attending separate features.

Like my mama, Marina had selective hearing. “Well, then we're in agreement. You'll do the garden, and Mrs. Timberlake will do the guest rooms.”

Wynnell's withering look took a few precious millimeters off my already compromised height.

 

To say that Wynnell and I didn't speak to each other for a spell would be only partly true. Although we no longer exchanged pleasantries, there were harsh words on more than a few occasions. My best friend likened me to Attila the Hun, Judas Iscariot, and Martha Stewart all rolled into one. I chose to take the Martha part as a compliment.

I tried not to react to her vehement verbiage, but it was tough. Still, I like to think of myself as a fair-minded woman, and I couldn't help but admire the job she did on that garden. She whipped those azalea bushes into shape, installed a brick
walkway all by herself, and even built a raised planting bed as a focal point. In this circle, she planted colorful annuals, which I must admit were a nice touch, especially now that azalea season was over. But I could no longer hold my tongue when she placed a really tacky statue in the middle of a bed.

It was David. You know,
the
David by Michelangelo? Of course this wasn't the original, which is over fourteen feet tall and is housed in the Accademia museum in Florence, Italy. This replica—and it wasn't a very good one—was only about three feet tall. At least it appeared to be made of marble, and not plaster or concrete, like the ones you can buy at garden centers.

“What an interesting choice,” I said to Wynnell at the earliest opportunity.

“What's that supposed to mean, Abby?”

Even though I was irritated with my buddy, I couldn't very well tell her that this particular statue was the ultimate cliché. “Well, it's just that since you've done such a beautiful job on the plantings, I'd hate to see the statue detract from them.”

“What you're saying is that you don't like it.”

“No. I merely meant—”

“That my taste isn't as good as yours?”

“Wynnell, I didn't say that!”

“Then give me one good reason why I shouldn't use this statue.”

“Feng shui.”

“Come again?”

Believe me, I'm no expert on this ancient Chinese philosophy which deals with, among other things, the placement of objects in such a way that they facilitate the positive flow of energy. But it was a safe bet Wynnell knew even less than I.

“You see, Wynnell, the chi will have no problem flowing along that beautiful path you made, but when it reaches the statue—well, I'm afraid it will all puddle up.”

“It's a statue, Abby, not a dam.”

“It's a damn knockoff statue, Wynnell. That's probably not even real marble. Composite at best. You can buy one at any flea market in the country.” That's when I sank to my lowest—so low that any chi present flowed right over me. “Is
that
where you bought it, Wynnell? At a flea market?”

Wynnell stared at me while her face underwent a plethora of changes. The look she finally settled on was one of pure disdain.

“For your information, Miss Know It All Big Shot Antiques Expert, I found this statue under one of those azalea bushes over there. It was buried under dead leaves.”

 

That, I'm ashamed to say, was the last time I spoke to my buddy for well over a month. My husband Greg, Mama, my friends C.J. and the Rob-Bobs—they all tried to get Wynnell and me to kiss and make up. Neither of us would budge, even after our work for Marina Webbfingers was done. And we both stupidly boycotted the Grand Opening reception the Webbfingerses threw, an event that would have supplied the social contacts we both craved.

In retrospect, our stubbornness was a sure sign of our friendship. I had absolutely no doubt that Wynnell would remain my friend no matter what. This afforded me the luxury of waiting for her to apologize. I'm sure the feeling was reciprocal. I am told that friends and family actually began to bet on who would cave in first—my friend with the pedestrian taste, or me, the big shot know-it-all.

Unfortunately, our standoff came to an unnatural conclusion. On day forty the phone rang at the house, just as I leaving for work. I wouldn't have answered it, except for the intriguing fact that my caller ID listed the city of Charleston as the calling party. Perhaps—and I'll be the first to admit that I tend to have an active imagination—Mayor Joseph Riley wanted to invite me to some prestigious shindig. One that would finally get my picture on the society page.

“Hello?”

“Abby, this is Wynnell.”

“Where are you?” So it wasn't the mayor, but a contrite friend. Well, at least she'd crumbled first.

“I'm in jail,” Wynnell said, clipping her words to near Yankee brevity. “You're my one call. What do I do?”

“Jail?”

“Marina Webbfingers was murdered yesterday afternoon. They think I did it.”

A
few of my brain cells must have misfired, no doubt a legacy of sleeping on curlers when I was a girl. That had to be it. For a minute there I thought my best friend had said she was in jail for the murder of Marina Webbfingers.

“Wynnell, please be a doll and repeat what you said.”

“I said I've been arrested for murder. Abby, I didn't do it. You and Greg have got to help me. Ed will kill me when he hears about this. Then he'll be in the slammer, and there will be no one to water my flowers—unless you water them for me. Will you do that for me, Abby? And now that you have C.J. as your assistant, would you mind terribly minding my shop? I mean, if worse comes to worst. You've already got a key, and the only thing you might need to know is that the walnut breakfront near the front door has been sold to a Mrs. Thorn-apple, and she's promised to pick it up on Thursday. I didn't put a sold sticker on it because—”

“Wynnell, stop it! You haven't been convicted yet.” Carrying the portable phone, I staggered to the nearest chair and plopped my petite patootie on it. More accurately, because I'm a mere four-foot-nine, I had to first hoist myself onto the genuine Louis XV. “Besides, maybe Greg and I can post bail.”

“The arraignment is this afternoon at three. Can you keep Ed busy until it's over?”

“Where is he now?”

“Fishing off Folly Beach pier.”

“Wynnell, he's going to find out about this. The police will be asking him questions.”

“Abby, he'll be furious.”

“I don't think that should be your main concern, dear. Do you have an attorney?”

“You know we don't have any money, Abby. Not since our stock portfolio dwindled away to nothing.”

“What about Ed's pension?”

“It's barely enough to cover the cost of living here in Charleston. Oh Abby, I know we should have stayed up in Charlotte. Sure it's pretty down here, and you've got the ocean, but I miss the hills, and all the dogwood in spring, and—”

There was no time to argue about geography. “Don't worry. The court will appoint an attorney.” What was I saying? Wynnell was my dearest friend in the world—outside of my husband, of
course. And if you don't count Mama. Besides, while I wasn't exactly rolling in dough, I did have more than enough to meet my needs. “Tell you what,” I heard myself say, “I'm going to get you the best lawyer in Charleston.”

“Really? You mean that?”

“Absolutely.” If Greg objected—and I knew he wouldn't—I'd have to remind him that it was my shop that brought in most of our money, and not his shrimp boat in Mount Pleasant.

“I knew you'd come through. So you'll take care of it, then? You'll call Elias Hammerhead?”

“Who?”

“The best lawyer in Charleston. Abby, don't you watch television?”

“It's no secret that I'm addicted to
All My Children
.”

“I mean the commercials. ‘So you're in jail? What the hell! Call Hammerhead, White, and Sand.'”

“No, I seem to have missed that little jingle.”

“Well, they're the best. Everyone says so.”

“Wynnell, are you sure they don't handle just car accidents? Personal injury, that sort of thing.”

“Positive. Will you call them?”

I sighed. “If that's what you really want.”

“Abby, I couldn't ask for a better friend.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I mean it—oh, oh, I have to go, Abby.” She hung up.

I stared at the phone in my hand. If I hadn't answered the dang thing, if only I'd left for work five minutes earlier, I wouldn't have to hire one of Charleston's finest and, no doubt, most expensive lawyers. Unable to reach me with her first call, my friend would have settled for a court appointed attorney. And since she wasn't guilty, a public defender would do just fine with the case.

Shame on me for thinking that. I'd made the offer, and I'd given my word. It was as simple as that.

 

Finding the offices of Hammerhead, White, and Sand was anything but simple. The phone book listed them as being located on King Street, and I assumed that meant somewhere south of Calhoun.
Au contraire.
The address I jotted down was halfway between Calhoun and the Crosstown, and there wasn't even a number on the building. I had to stop and ask for help three times. The first two times, the folks queried had less of a clue then I did. I got lucky the third time, but only because the woman I accosted for directions lived in an apartment directly beneath the law firm.

The white frame building sagged, bulging outward toward the sidewalk. The stairwell was the perfect temperature for roasting a turkey, although it smelled of urine and bacon. Had it not
been for the tarnished brass plate on the upstairs door, I would have assumed that I'd been tricked.

“Come in,” someone called when I rang the buzzer.

I opened the door to a room that looked like the remains of an exploded library. Books, papers, and folders were scattered everywhere. One document appeared to be tacked to the ceiling. It took me a few seconds to realize that in the center of this mess, behind a small desk, sat a heavyset woman with a round, pleasant face. It took me a couple more seconds to stop staring at her hair. Or rather, her lack of it. The receptionist had obviously been shorn with an electric razor and was sporting what I've sometimes heard referred to as the Parris Island cut.

“How may we help you?” she asked, in a voice as soothing as that of a kindergarten teacher.

“My name is Abigail Washburn. I'm here to see Mr. Hammerhead. I have a ten o'clock appointment.”

She whispered something into a small box on her desk and smiled. “He'll just be a minute. Won't you please have a seat?”

I looked around in desperation. It was the first time I regretted not taking archeology in college. I finally located a folding chair, but it was buried under a stack of heavy law books.

“I don't mind standing,” I said.

“Just put the stuff on the floor, darling,” she said. “It really doesn't matter where. We're in the process of getting new furniture. I'll be sorting through everything anyway.”

“That's all right, I really don't mind standing.”

She covered the intercom with the palm of a plump hand. “I'm supposed to keep you waiting ten minutes,” she whispered to me.

I moved closer. “Excuse me?”

“Makes it seem like we're busy.”

“But you're not?”

“Confidentially, you're our first new client this week.”

“What about White and Sand? They get a lot of clients, right?”

“I'm afraid there are no White and Sand.”

“Come again?”

“Mr. White moved to Atlanta three years ago, and there hasn't been a Mr. Sand as long as I've worked here, which was five years in May.”

I took a step back. “I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I just remembered that I have a doctor's appointment.”

She smiled. “Most new clients say something along those lines. But those who stay are glad they did. He really is the best.”

“Then why doesn't he have more clients?” I
clapped a petite paw over my maw. Sometimes my upbringing as a Southern lady is overridden by my curiosity.

Her eyes widened. “You haven't heard the rumors?”

I shook my head. “He's not the one who killed his parents, is he? I remember reading something about that in the paper once. Managed to acquit himself by playing on the jury's sympathy for orphans.”

She laughed softly. “No, he didn't kill his parents. He cut his wife's hair.”

“Say what?”

She leaned across the desk and used her ample bosoms to cover the intercom. “He has a hair fetish.”

“He does?” Okay, so maybe a smart Abby would have backed out of the room and taken the bacon-and-bathroom-scented stairs at breakneck speed.

She nodded vigorously. “He gets his jollies from cutting women's hair. His wife finally divorced him, but by the time she did, she looked just like me.”

“You don't say!” Actually, there was a good deal more I wanted her to say.

A good secretary knows how to read minds, and this woman proved the rule. “Yes, he cut mine
as well. Paid me a thousand dollars each time I let him do it.”

“Indeed. So everyone in Charleston knows about Mr. Hammerhead's fetish?”

“Oh, not everyone. You didn't. Mostly just people of a certain—how should I put this?”

“Social standing?”

“Your words, darling, not mine.”

Before I had the chance to protest being lumped with the hoi polloi, the door to Mr. Hammerhead's office opened. The man framed by the sill was surprisingly handsome. Tall with dark hair and green eyes, he looked entirely normal to me—not that I am qualified to judge. Even his clothes—blue and white seersucker suit and white buckskin shoes—were everyday Charleston attire. At least among the gentry.

“Ah, Mrs. Washburn, I presume.”

“Yes, sir.”

He moved quickly to shake my hand. “Please, come into my office. I think I can find you a chair. Mrs. Dillsworth,” he added, “please hold all my calls.”

I thought I saw the receptionist wink just before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. She could have been winking at either of us. It didn't matter; I've had experience dealing with smarmy men. That's why I carry pepper spray in my purse.

 

But Mr. Hammerhead proved to be a perfect gentleman. He listened attentively to everything I said, and even jotted down notes. I haven't been taken that seriously by a man since my courtship days with Greg.

“That about covers it,” I said, reluctantly ending my spiel.

“Yes, I'll handle her case,” he said, without a moment's hesitation.

“That's wonderful. Forgive me for being blunt, but what do you charge? Per hour, I mean.”

He glanced at a wall calendar of Charleston. Perhaps he had seasonal rates.

“Three hundred.”

I couldn't help but gasp. “An
hour
?”

He looked at the opposing wall. “Well, that's my usual rate. Is Mrs. Crawford indigent?”

“Not exactly, but she is indignant. Anyway, I plan to cover her expenses.”

“I see. And where are you employed, Mrs. Washburn?”

“I own the Den of Antiquity on King Street. It's an antique store.”

“Tell you what, I'll give you my special new customer discount, which is one-third off.”

“Two hundred?”

He looked at me. “On top of that you'll get an
other fifty percent off if you'll agree to do some of the legwork. You see, I'm a little short on staff at the moment.”

“What sort of legwork?” I hoped that wasn't a come-on.

“I seem to remember reading in the paper recently that this inn is now open for business. Am I correct?”

“Yes. La Parterre—that's French for little garden—has already received a rave review in the
Post and Courier.
” There was no need to remind him that it was the landscaping for which the reviewer couldn't seem to find enough praise. My rooms, on the other hand, were merely referred to as pleasant.

“Well then, perhaps you could speak with some of the current guests. See what, if anything, they might have seen or heard. But”—he raised a recently manicured hand, which was surely an extravagance, given his apparent lack of business—“if you encounter the police, leave as discreetly as possible. This is all on the QT.”

“I understand.”

“Now, if you'll excuse, I'm going straight over to interview Mrs. Crawford.”

I stood. “Thank you so much, Mr. Hammerhead.”

He stood as well. “Thank
you
, Mrs. Washburn.”

I turned to go just as he was clearing his throat.

“Mrs. Washburn?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you don't find this too forward of me, but you have very nice hair.”

My hair is short, and until recent years a deep chestnut brown. It's nothing too special by any means, but it is mine, and I plan to keep it that way. I was out of that office quicker than double-geared lightning.

 

I drove straight to my shop, which, although on King Street, is in another rent district altogether. Before I did any snooping, I needed to touch base in person with C.J., my assistant. The girl has a 160 IQ and is a crackerjack businesswoman, but somehow still manages to be one variety short of a three-bean salad. Born and raised in Shelby, North Carolina (trust me, I have nothing against that fair city), she spins stories that make the Paul Bunyan tales seem like unassuming collections of facts.

“Abby,” she practically shouted when she saw me enter, “the most incredible thing just happened.”

“Here, or in Shelby?”

“Here, of course.”

Experience has taught me that humoring the big gal can pay off in spades. Or not.

“Do tell,” I said cautiously.

“See that William and Mary walnut highboy over there?”

“What about it?”

“I made it move—by telekinesis.”

“That's nice, dear.”

“Abby, you don't believe me, do you?”

“I didn't say that. It's just that something else very important happened—”

“Watch!” C.J. is over a foot taller than me, and built like a linebacker with hips. She squared her shoulders, thrust her head forward, and screwed her face into what quite possibly resembled a constipated bulldog. For a minute I thought her eyes might pop out. Of course nothing happened.

“Maybe if you don't concentrate so hard,” I suggested.

“Ooh, Abby, but that's the key. Granny Ledbetter back in Shelby was able to move a mountain just by staring at it.”

“Perhaps metaphorically.”

“No, I mean for real. Abby, you remember Crowders Mountain?” She was referring to an isolated peak just west of Charlotte, North Carolina, near the South Carolina border, that offers hardy hikers spectacular views of both Gaston and York counties.