Baroque and Desperate (14 page)

“Maybe she was outside checking the boathouse again and somehow snagged it.” I didn't want to get my hopes up.

“There's one more thing, Miss Timberlake.”

“Yes?” My heart was pounding like a madman on a xylophone. Albert Jansen might well be the key to C.J.'s release.

“There was blood on her nightgown,” he whispered.

“A
re you
sure
?”

“Positive. The first things she did was go into the bathroom and wash the nightgown. When she got into bed she was wearing another one.”

“Wait a minute. How could you see all that—the messy hair and the blood—in the dark?”

He scooted sideways on the bench, and I had no choice but to hop off. “But the room wasn't dark, you see. Edith is afraid of the dark. We always sleep with the bathroom light on.”

I could very easily believe that someone as hulking and belligerent as Edith would be afraid of the dark. Buford was terrified of insects, after all. Once, as a gag, I gave him a tequila-flavored lollipop with a worm inside. When he took off the wrapper he nearly fainted.

“Why are you telling
me
this? And why now? My friend C.J. confessed this morning, remember? Why didn't you say something then?”

“Well—uh—like I explained, I've always been on the outside looking in, so to speak. I couldn't just bring this up, without talking to somebody else first.”

“It's the sheriff you should be blabbing to, not me, dear.” Suddenly I was furious. “You had no right to sit on this information, damn it! It's obstruction of justice. Don't you know that they could charge you with something.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know—aiding and abetting, or something like that. The point is, it was wrong of you to keep that information to yourself.”

“But you saw how Grandma Latham and the sheriff get along,” he whined, “the two of them are thick as thieves. I want to be sure I'm not jumping to conclusions.” He put his glasses back on. “Besides, I love Edith,” he added in a small voice.

This was no time to lecture him on taste. “Come on,” I said, and almost grabbed his hand.

We were halfway back to the house when we heard the car drive up. I must confess, that despite the gravity of the situation, and my extreme vexation, I found myself hoping that it was Alexandra returning from her shopping trip into town. Perhaps she had thought to pick up some bread and a package of pickle loaf. No doubt the Latham kitchen already stocked catsup. Flora wasn't going to get any more dead, or C.J. any deeper into trouble, if I indulged in a pickle loaf and catsup sandwich.

 

Both my heart and my stomach sank when I saw Sheriff Thompson's car parked in front of the manor house steps. The sheriff was still in it, but C.J. was nowhere to be seen. I sprinted for the car.

Sheriff Thompson got out to greet me. He looked as happy as a possum in a traffic jam.

“Where is she?” I demanded. The sheriff glanced at Albert, who was still trudging back from the gar
den, and not yet within earshot. “I'm sorry, Miss Timberlake, but Jane Cox signed a full confession.”

“And you
believed
her?”

“Personally, I think something is rotten in the state of Denmark, but I had no choice but to book her.”

“But why? You know she didn't do it, don't you?”

“Sometimes it pays for the mouse to play dead.”

“What does a rat have to do with this?” I wailed.

He put a finger to his lips. Albert seemed to be walking faster.

“You mean you think
he
did it?”

“Look, we can't discuss this now. But believe me, Miss Timberlake, when I say you have a fine pair working hard on your friend's behalf.”

I looked at him stupidly.

“Lawyers,” he said quickly. “The twins.”

I'm sure I blushed. “Yes, the Tripletts. My ex-husband said—”

The massive door to the house flew open, and out stepped Edith. No doubt she'd been watching us through the peephole, and couldn't stand being excluded from our conversation any longer.

“Why, Sheriff Thompson, how nice to see you,” she boomed.

The sheriff tipped his hat, reconsidered, and removed it altogether. There was business to be conducted inside the house.

“May I have a word with you?” he called.

“Please, come in.” She sounded almost gay.

I followed the sheriff into the house. By then pudgy Albert had caught up with me and was panting at my heels. Edith glared at me but held her tongue.

She led the sheriff toward the drawing room, but
then too had a change of mind, and opened the door directly across the hall. It was the library. I had seen libraries like that only in pictures; the dark wood shelves from ceiling to floor filled with leatherbound tomes, the enormous antiquated globe, and the heavy Edwardian furniture, most of it leather covered as well. And of course the ladder!

Maybe it's because I am vertically challenged, but I have this thing for ladders. A hardwood ladder that rolls around the room guided by a track is positively seductive. Therefore, I cannot be blamed for trotting right after the sheriff with my tongue hanging out, Albert still in tow. Now there were two of us panting.

Edith loomed suddenly over me. “What are you doing here?”

“I—uh—”

“I'd like her to stay,” the sheriff said quickly. “In fact, I'd like to see everyone.”

Edith scowled. “Grandmother Latham's taking a nap, and Alexandra is off shopping. I'll get the others.”

Sheriff Thompson cleared his throat. “I want Genevieve to be here as well.”

“Really, Sheriff!” She caught herself. “I mean, is that really necessary?”

He nodded. “I'm afraid so, ma'am.”

 

Despite her age, and the fact that she had been awakened from a deep sleep, Mrs. Latham was not the last family member to make an appearance. Tradd, of course, had still not returned from recruiting his lawyer friend, Billy, but that's not whom I'm talking about.

“Where is that boy?” she said, tapping her slippered foot impatiently.

She was referring to Rupert, he of the shiny dome and pierced ear. According to Harold and Sally, Rupert had last been seen rummaging around in the attic.

“He wouldn't admit it,” Sally said, “but I know he was looking for the—uh—you-know-what.”

Edith shot her sister-in-law a warning look.

“Ah, the treasure,” Sheriff Thompson said.

Heads turned.

The sheriff winked at Mrs. Latham. “I've been interviewing one of the players all morning. Of course, I know about the treasure.”

Sally, who was sitting on a high-backed leather chair, crossed her arms. “Well, I think it's disgusting—I mean that Rupert is still playing the game. Someone is dead, after all.”

Edith arched a sparse eyebrow. “And what were you doing all morning, Miss High-and-Mighty?” she growled.

“Wouldn't you like to know, Miss Bossy?” Sally snarled.

Frankly, I was shocked. We southerners maintain a degree of politeness in public (mass murderers excepted). Sure, we snap and hiss at each other from time to time, but to snarl and growl, is practically unheard of. And name calling? That has got to be a custom imported by latter-day carpetbaggers fleeing the Rust Belt.

Mrs. Latham was shocked as well. It was a good thing she was sitting. She had turned the color of cuttlebone and was swaying from the waist up.

“Children!”

“But, Grandmother! You've said yourself that Sally is nothing but a vamp who got her claws into Harold just so she could reel in the family fortune.”

Mrs. Latham's mouth opened and closed several
times before any sound came out. “I most certainly did not,” she finally managed to say. “Perhaps you misunderstood me. I said I found it interesting that our Harold would choose to marry a woman with certain financial liabilities.”

“It's the same thing,” Edith said triumphantly. She turned first to the sheriff, then to me. “Sally has a gambling problem.”

Harold, who had been sitting with his chin in his hands, jumped to his feet. “Grandmother, this time Edith has gone too far.”

The grande dame said nothing. The black shiny buttons were even shinier now that they were reflected through tears.

“Edith!” Albert said, on the old lady's behalf.

The eldest of the Latham-Burton grandchildren turned to her husband. I once saw a pit bull in Charlotte with much the same expression, seconds before he took a bite out of his master.

“What the hell business is this of yours, anyway? You signed a goddamned premarital agreement.”

Albert, bless his pea-picking heart, looked just like the pit bull's owner the second after those nasty yellow teeth reduced his thigh by an inch.

Sally, meanwhile, was treating her sister-in-law to a cryogenic stare. I half expected Edith to shatter into a million freeze-dried pieces.

It was Sheriff Thompson, bless his badge-wearing heart, to the rescue. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

Sally continued to stare, and Edith mumbled something under her breath. The rest of us gave the officer our full attention.

“There has been an arrest made in the murder of Flora Dubois. Miss Jane Cox of Charlotte, North Carolina, is now in custody in the Georgetown
County jail awaiting a hearing to set her trial date. As for Miss Dubois, her body will be released to relatives following a complete autopsy.”

Harold sat down again. “Did you say an autopsy?”

Sheriff Thompson turned to him. “Yes.”

“But an autopsy isn't necessary, is it? I mean, we all know Flora was stabbed to death with a kris. Right?”

For some reason the sheriff glanced at me. “That would appear to be so. There are, however, certain findings that warrant an autopsy.”

Sally found her tongue. “How does Flora's family feel about this?”

“At this point we have their full cooperation.”

“Grandmother, do something,” Edith whispered.

Mrs. Latham responded by closing her eyes.

“It just isn't right,” Albert said softly. “Flora was a family friend.”

I fully expected Edith to turn on her husband and accuse him of being more than a friend to the unfortunate Flora, but that was not the case. Not only did she affirm his assertion, she went on and on about how close the deceased was to the family—“practically blood”—she put it.

Sheriff Thompson merely shrugged and turned to me. “Miss Cox asked if you would pack a few personal things for her.”

“What kind of things?” Surely in jail there were restrictions. C.J. might well like to wear her ball gowns in the big house, but I didn't want to make a fool of myself by packing them.

Mercifully, the sheriff had anticipated just such a question and handed me a list.

1. toiletries (shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush, etc.—NO makeup)
   
2. prescription medications (prescriptions must be included)
   
3. socks (4-6 pair)
   
4. brassieres (optional)
   
5. underpants (4-6)
   

That was it. No dresses, no slacks, no tops. And no makeup! I hoped the sheriff did indeed supply polka dot uniforms to his inmates. Without makeup a gal needs something to make her pretty.

I sighed, blinking back the tears. “Can do,” I said, in a voice that sounded like I'd swallowed a frog.

 

It took me all of five minutes to gather C.J.'s essentials and stuff them in the overnight bag I brought with me. I grabbed my purse as well, since I intended to bum a ride back to the jail with the sheriff.

When I returned to the library, I found that the cast had been increased by one player. Tradd, handsome as ever, sat on the arm of his grandmother's chair, his own arm protectively around her.

“Hey, Abby,” he said almost casually.

I thrust the overnight bag at the sheriff. “
So
?”

Tradd shook his head. “No dice. The guy I had in mind has a full caseload. But I hear Rhett and Little Wet Daniel are good. We used to play with them as children, you know?”

“Is that so?” I turned my back on him and faced the sheriff. “I'd like to ride back with you to the station, if you don't mind.”

He bit his lip. “All right. We usually don't allow visitors until after the arraignment unless they're
immediate family, but I guess an exception can be made.”

“That's what exceptions are for,” I said. I know, I can sometimes be too cocky—but it was either exude a little sass, or blubber like a baby.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” I waved my purse jauntily.

The Fabergé egg that flew out of my purse and landed on the Aubusson carpet was a complete surprise, I assure you. I do not tote million-dollar items in my pocketbook along with car keys, facial tissues, hand lotion, and other items I am too much of a lady to mention. If I were to transport something that valuable, I would stash it in my bra—people seldom look there.

Everyone gasped, myself included.

“She's a thief!” Edith barked. “Grandmother, isn't that yours?”

I gently scooped up the precious egg. Crafted of gold, with blue enameled panels, it stood about six inches high, including base. One of the panels had swung open to reveal a quartz replica of the czar's winter palace.

“Nicholas gave that to me,” the old lady said wistfully.

I caught my breath. “The czar himself?”

She cackled. “Child, I'm not that old! Nicholas was my chiropractor—although he fancied himself my one true love. That was after my Elias passed on, mind you. Anyway, that's not a real Fabergé egg, child. But it's a nice copy, isn't it?”

For some reason Sally looked like she'd been slapped. “It
isn't
real?”

“Of course not. Even I'm not crazy enough to leave a genuine Fabergé egg lying around.”

“But it doesn't matter if it's real or not,” Edith screamed, “she still stole it!”

“Nonsense! I gave her that egg.”

“But you didn't—” Edith clamped a brown paw over her own mouth.

The grande dame smiled tightly and turned to me. “Miss Timberlake, I told you to keep that out of sight until you got it home. Now look what you've done.”