Baroque and Desperate (10 page)

“C.J. killed someone, Mama. A maid named Flora.”

“Nonsense, Abby.”

“What?”

“That's not at all what my nose smelled. It smelled you, dear. You're the one who is in trouble.”

“I didn't kill anyone,” I wailed. “And I'm pretty sure C.J. didn't either.”

“Pretty sure? You should be ashamed of yourself, Abby. After all that girl's done for you.”

I bit. Blame it on the fact I was feeling weak and vulnerable, and didn't see how I could feel any worse. Blame it on the fact that I had yet to eat breakfast.

“What has C.J. done for me, Mama?”

Pearls clicked against the receiver of Mama's phone. “Shall I be blunt, dear?”

“Lay it on me, Mama.”

“It's what she does for your image, Abby. Having C.J. as your friend makes you look good.”

“How does hanging around with C.J. make me look good? She's a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, Mama, or haven't you noticed?”

“Of course, dear. But you're a sandwich short yourself. Hanging out with C.J. makes you look more normal by comparison.”

“
This
from a woman who wears pearls in the shower?”

“I didn't call just so you could insult me, dear.”

“
I
called
you
, Mama,” I shouted, and hung up.

 

“Abby, you all right?” Tradd tried to fold me into a sympathetic bear hug. Any other time I might have welcomed such a move, maybe even lingered a little to breathe in his cologne. Today, however, I was not in the mood.

I pushed myself gently, but firmly, out of his embrace. “I'm fine. Well, hell, no I'm not! I don't know what to do, Tradd.”

He cocked that handsome head. “Geez, I don't know what to say. I live in Charlotte—only come down here to visit Grandmother—I don't know anything more about local lawyers than you do.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, there is a guy I went to school with. Not a lawyer himself, but I bet he knows a couple.”

I slapped the receiver in his hand. “Call him.”

“I can't, Abby. Billy's got an unlisted number, and I don't have it with me. But it shouldn't be hard to find him. It would have to be raining Persians and poodles to keep him off the course.”

“Go get him. I'll wait right here.”

“Uh—he plays at Litchfield Plantation Country Club. That's a good twenty minutes from here. By the time I find him and bring him back, it could be over an hour.”

I ran that by my gray matter. “Go anyway. In the meantime, I'll make a few more calls back home. Somebody is bound to know the name of a good lawyer.” I hoped Billy wouldn't be too mad if I'd already found one by the time Tradd returned.

“W
ynnell's Wooden Wonders,” the voice said cheerily, and then accepted the charges just as cheerily. Wynnell would never do that.

“This is Abby. Get me Wynnell.” Perhaps I was a bit brusque, but Wynnell's new assistant, Lydia, suffers from chronic happiness. This wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the fact that the woman is a zealot, and will stop at nothing to bring a smile to one's lips. There are days when my lips prefer to remain absolutely horizontal.

It took at least five minutes for Wynnell to get to the phone, during which time I had to listen to Lydia singing along to a Captain & Tennille recording of “Muskrat Love.” It must have been on cassette or disk, because no sooner did my torture end, than it started all over again. If indeed I do end up in hell—as some folks have threatened—I want five years knocked off my sentence.

Finally, a breathless Wynnell got on the line. “Abby, you won't believe what's going on over at your shop.”

“Not you, too, dear! Wynnell, I really don't have time for flights of fancy. The most horrible thing
has happened here—C.J. killed a maid.”

“Was she a Yankee?”

“Wynnell!” The woman should be ashamed of herself. She has an unreasonable hatred of northerners. According to Wynnell the U.S. Immigration Service should transfer their focus from the Mexican border to the Mason-Dixon line.

“I don't know the victim's bloodlines,” I wailed, “but she sounded local to me.”

“Uh-oh. Then C.J.'s in trouble.”

“Of course, she didn't really kill the maid.”

“But you said—”

“That's what she's confessed to. But you know our C.J.: she couldn't step on a roach if it was armed with a gun and aiming at her ankles.”

“You're right. Remember last year when she got head lice? She didn't shampoo for three weeks because she was afraid of killing them.”

“Ah, so that explains it. Wynnell, listen, I need your help.”

“Sure, Abby, anything. You're my best friend, so name it.”

“Thanks, Wynnell. Say, you used to live in Georgetown, didn't you?”

“Of course. That's where I got married. Abby, you know that.”

“And you and Ed lived there for a while, didn't you?”

“Three years, while Ed worked for the paper mill.”

“That's what I remembered. So, here goes—I need you to help me find C.J. a lawyer.”

“
Me
? You want me to help you find C.J. a lawyer?”

I rapped the receiver on the counter a couple of times. “There was a nasty echo, Wynnell. Yes,
that's what I want. I was hoping you remembered the names of some Georgetown lawyers.”

“Why should I remember any lawyers' names?”

“Well, I admit it's a slim chance, but what about the guy who did your will, for instance?”

“I don't have a will.”

“Of course, you do! Everyone makes out a new will when they marry, silly, and anyway that's not my point. My point is—”

“But I
don't
have a will, Abby.”

“You
don't
? What if you or Ed were to suddenly die? Who would get your estate? I mean, what about your children? What about
me
?”

“Oh, stop it Abby. Ed's not even sixty, and I'm as healthy as a horse. All this will talk is just plain unlucky.”

Under better circumstances I would have read her the riot act. There is no excuse for not having a will. Any one of us could get run over by a cement truck tomorrow, or, like Daddy, dive-bombed by a seagull with a tumor in its brain.

I sighed. “Okay, what do I do now? Pick a lawyer at random from the Yellow Pages?”

“That would be a good place to start. Just make sure you pick a good lawyer—C.J. can afford it. I know she's young and, uh—well, a scoop short of a sundae—but she's a regular genius when it comes to money.”

“I'm glad to hear that, but how do I find a
good
lawyer?” I will admit to being prejudiced in this area. But I was married to a lawyer, remember? Most of the lawyer jokes out there can ultimately be traced back to me.

“Perhaps I should restate that,” Wynnell said quickly. “Forget about finding a good lawyer, find an
effective
lawyer.” She paused. “Abby, if you re
ally want to do C.J. some good, call you-know-who.”

Wynnell is a Baptist and on the surface, at least, more religious than I. “Okay, so I'll pray,” I promised, “but as they say, God helps them who help themselves.”

“Abby, you're not hearing me.”

“Yes, I am. The connection is just fine. Maybe a little static—”

“Call Buford!”

“
What
?”

“Now, you heard me. Listen Abby, I know you think the man is pond scum, but he's the best at what he does, and he's bound to know the best criminal lawyer in Georgetown County.”

“The man is beyond pond scum,” I growled. “He's the slime beneath the ooze beneath the sludge at the bottom of the pond.”

“That may be,” Wynnell said patiently, “but if you're really C.J.'s friend, you'll give Buford a call.”

“Thanks for nothing,” I snapped and hung up.

Okay, so I treated Wynnell shabbily, but that's what best friends are for. They're there for other reasons as well, of course, but if you can't mistreat your best friend now and then, and do so without fear of losing her, then she's not worth having. Wynnell knew that when I got back to Charlotte I would make it up to her. In the meantime I was able to work some of the panic out of my system, and replace it with pure, unbridled hostility.

That was exactly the emotion I would need for me to call Buford.

 

“Hello?” It was the Tweetie Bird.

“Tweetie, this is Abby. Let me speak to Buford, please.”

“I can't, Abby. He's in the little girls' room.”

“You mean little boys' room, don't you?”

“Uh—yeah.”

“Reading the paper, I suppose.”

Tweetie popped a bubble in her gum. By the sound of it, the wad she was chawing was big enough to produce biosphere.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“I was married to him for twenty years, remember?” C.J. and I may be short a couple of picnic items, but poor Tweetie is missing at least one bulb in her chandelier.

“Buford won't like it if I disturb him, Abby. Not until he's done with the comics.”

“Take the cordless phone to him, dear. Tell him it's a matter of life and death.”

She trotted off, and I could tell from the echo of another popped bubble when she had turned the hall corner. I didn't need a bubble to tell me when she reached the bathroom door. Buford was his usual nasty self.

Five minutes later, Buford was on the phone. “This better be good,” he growled.

“It's C.J. We're down here in Georgetown County at Latham Hall Plantation. C.J. has just confessed to murder.”

“Holy shit! You don't mean she did Mrs. Latham in!”

“No, not her ladyship, but the maid.”

“Flora?”

“You
know
her?”

“Uh—no. I mean, not really. I was at a reception the old lady gave—why the hell am I explaining this to you?”

“Funny, but Mrs. Latham never mentioned you,” I said.

“It was a big reception and I didn't stay long. So, C.J. killed Flora, did she?”

“You know she didn't. That's why I'm calling you. You've got to help her out.”

“Hell, I'm strictly a divorce lawyer, Abby—you know that. It wouldn't do a damn bit of good if I came down there.”

“I'm not asking for you to come here, Buford. Just put me in touch with one of your local cronies—the best criminal lawyer you know in Georgetown County.”

Buford had the temerity to laugh.

“It isn't funny, Buford. Now, who do I call? Better yet, you make the call.”

“Get real, Abby. The best criminal lawyers in South Carolina live in Georgetown—the Triplett brothers—who just happen to be twins.” He chuckled. “Anyway, they aren't going to waste their time on small fry like C.J.”

“They will, if you tell them to.”

“Abby, give me a break. I have a reputation to maintain. I can't waste good contacts on some psycho antique dealer.”

“C.J. is not psycho! She's merely one food group short of a balanced breakfast. So, either you get those hotshot twins working for C.J., or I tell Tweetie about you and Flora.”

I heard a gulp that could have swallowed Minnesota. “I'll talk to the twins,” Buford said quietly.

“Good.”

“And you'll keep your mouth shut about Flora?” It was as close to begging as I'd ever heard him get. Well, I'm not counting those times right after my babies were born, because my sex life is really none of your business.

“You swear
you
didn't have anything to do with her death, Buford?”

“I swear on my Mama's grave.”

Trust me, that was Buford's most solemn oath. The man and his sainted mama were attached by the umbilical cord until her death the year before Buford and I met. From what I hear—not from Buford, of course—she was an itty-bitty woman with a tongue that could slice cold butter into neat pats. Come to think of it, that's why he married me; he still didn't have his mama out of his system. But he must have done a thorough job of mother-cleansing during our twenty years of marriage, because the Tweetie Bird and I are nothing alike.

Buford made the call to his lawyer friends and called me back within five minutes.

“Stay right where you are, Abby. The twins will be there in a minute. I got them on their cell phone. They're only about a mile away.”

“Thanks, Buford. You really came through.”

“Now, you come through for me,” he grunted.

“A deal is a deal,” I said calmly, “unless I ever get wind of you cheating on Tweetie again.”

“I thought you hated her.”

“I did, but not anymore. Tweetie's too dumb to know what she does half the time. You, on the other hand, had my heart. Then you stomped on it with both feet, and threw it in the trash. And as if that wasn't enough, you tore my babies from my bosom and gave them to that nitwit to raise. Lord, somebody could write a country-western song about the things you did to me.”

“I didn't tear any babies from your bosom. Susan was ready to start college, and Charlie was a rising junior in high school.” There was a long pause. “Abby, tell me something. If something were to
happen to Tweetie—uh, I mean, if she and I were to split or something—would you take me back?”

“Not if you were the last male in the solar system,” I said without a second's hesitation. “Why? Is something going on between you and the Bird?”

He hung up.

 

The Triplett twins were not at all what I expected. They were, however, very familiar. Classic white-bread looks, gleaming smiles, impeccably groomed, they could have stepped out of a magazine or catalog ad. They were absolutely identical—not even mirror images—even their own Mama couldn't tell them apart.

“Weren't y'all in that commercial?” I asked. “You know, that gum ad. Something about two tastes in one.”

“Hey,” one said, extending his hand, “I'm Daniel Chapman Triplett.”

“Abigail Louise Timberlake,” I said, “née Wiggins.” When folks throw three names out at me, I see no reason not to counter with four.

“Gene Everett Triplett,” the second one said in a raspy voice quite unlike his brother's. Frankly, it was rather sexy. “Call me ‘Rhett.'”

“Call me Abby,” I said, upping the ante.

“No doubt you're wondering why I sound this way,” Rhett said.

Of course, he was right. “Bad cold?”

“I swallowed bleach when I was four.”

“You don't say?”

“I made him drink it,” Daniel said. “I told him it was magic juice. It could have burned his vocal cords beyond repair.”

“My, y'all are certainly forthcoming,” I said.

“We never lie, Abby,” Rhett said.

Daniel frowned. “That's not true. We told Mrs. Lippman we would have her contract dispute settled by Monday, but we didn't have a ruling until Thursday.”

“That wasn't a lie, bro. It wasn't our fault Hurricane Hugo came through.”

I gasped. “Hurricane Hugo was over ten years ago. You mean you haven't told a lie in all that time?”

Daniel fixed his hazel eyes on mine. “You don't have to be smarmy to be a lawyer, ma'am.”

“But—”

“We're smart,” Rhett rasped. “We use our brains to navigate the system.”

“It actually works in our favor,” Daniel said. “Folks find the truth disarming.”

I stared at them. “You're for real, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they said in unison.

“Well, I'll be.” I was certainly disarmed. The
truth
! What an eccentric notion. And people say that mystery writer friend of Mama's—the one with the frizzy blond hair—creates characters too eccentric to be believable. Why, all one has to do is look around; the world is full of bizarre people. Except for you and me, of course.

“Has the sheriff booked your friend yet?” Rhett asked.

“Not that I know. He's been asking her a few questions.” I nodded in the direction of the sheriff's office. “But they've been in there a long time. I'm really worried.”

Then, for the first time in my life, I began to hyperventilate. It began as uncontrollable heavy breathing—not unlike sex—and progressed to the point where I thought I was going to rupture my throat. Or worse, stop breathing altogether.

“Somebody get a paper bag!” Rhett shouted.

Alas, the day of the paper bag is gone. Stephanie, the dispatcher, had only a plastic bag to offer. Fortunately the Triplett twins are indeed smart. Daniel ripped off his jacket, flung it over my head, and put me in a headlock. I'm not sure if it was the increased flow of carbon dioxide to my brain, or the smell of his cologne, but almost immediately my breathing returned to normal.