Baroque and Desperate (15 page)

I hung my head. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “Oh, well, what's done is done, I guess. Just remember, that may be just a copy of a famous egg, but it's still worth a pretty penny. You do have a good home-owners policy, don't you?”

There is nothing more endearing then an octogenarian taunting her greedy grandchildren. I was delighted to play along.

“Yes, ma'am. And I have an alarm on the cabinet where I keep my Lalique. I'll put the egg and the vase you gave me in there the second I get home.”

Edith was turning purple. “
What
vase?”

The dreaded finger wagged at me. “Now you've really spilled the beans. That was a wedding present from Elias's mother. It was signed by René Lalique himself. I hope you haven't wrapped it up in a newspaper and just shoved it in your suitcase.”

I stuffed the egg back into my purse. “No, ma'am. I plan to get some of that bubble wrap this afternoon.”

“Grandmother, you can't just give your things away to strangers,” Harold whined.

The ancient brows arched. “I'm eighty-nine years old—I can do anything I please.”

Sheriff Thompson stood up. “On that note, I think I'll take my leave. Good day, Genevieve.”

She nodded. “Keep me informed, Neely.”

Without as much as a glance at the others, the sheriff strode from the room.

“You go, girl!” I said to my hostess, and then scampered off after the sheriff.

I
could tell that the sheriff was a loving family man by the way he drove. Buford used to drive like his rear end was in flames until Susan was born. He was even more careful after Charlie's birth, and now that he has a bride with flammable body parts, he crawls like a snail through a glue factory.

“You're quite the little actress,” the sheriff said before we had gone even a mile.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry about the ‘little.' That was just a figure of speech. As a member of an officially recognized minority, I should be more sensitive.”

“No offense taken. I want to know what you meant by ‘actress?'”

“Come on,” he chuckled, “I know Mrs. Latham didn't give you that egg.”

“How did you know?”

“It's my business, Miss Timberlake. That was a setup if I ever saw one.”

“But I played it cool, didn't I?”

“Cool? You didn't miss a beat. There's a very frustrated and confused rat back there, who is no doubt foaming at the mouth as we speak.”

We both laughed.

“You know,” he said, “you could be a big help to me in my investigation.”

“I could? How? You've already arrested your suspect.”

He tapped a mental tune on the steering wheel for a minute. “Miss Cox confessed, so I was obligated to book her. But we both know she didn't kill Flora Dubois. Miss Cox might be—uh—”

“A flower short of a bouquet?”

“Yes. But she's no killer.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mama claims that at that very second, the candles she'd placed around her bubble bath blew out simultaneously.

“So, what can I do?”

“I want you to act as my eyes and ears around that place. Snoop around—nothing obvious—and report back to me on anything you think will point to one of the grandchildren.”

“You do think it's one of them?”

“It's not likely to be anyone from the outside. That old house is too isolated for any casual visitors, and Flora Dubois was a loner.”

“Ha!”

He grinned. “Okay, so she had a bit of a reputation. But most, if not all, the men she's been involved with over the last several years were either members of the family, or their guests. She didn't hang out in bars.”

“But she did hang out,” I said, speaking ill of the dead for the second time that day. Frankly, I am surprised the grande dame dressed her in those skimpy uniforms. Perhaps she got a vicarious thrill from Flora's conquests. The elderly are not immune to urges of the flesh, mind you.

“Yeah, she did at that,” he said almost wistfully. “She was definitely a looker.”

It was time to change the subject before I learned more than I wanted to know. Sheriff Thompson was presumably a happily married man.

“Why don't you believe C.J.'s confession? I mean, beside the fact she's a float short of a parade?”

“Intuition. Years of experience. Take your choice.”

“How do you know it wasn't me? Just because I'm petite, doesn't mean I'm incapable of stabbing someone in the chest. I am a good jumper.”

He laughed politely at my self-deprecation. It is, after all, one of my most endearing qualities.

“All right. Here's the official scoop. But it is strictly confidential, so in a sense I am deputizing you.”

“Do I get to wear a badge?” If so, C.J. and Wynnell were going to be intensely jealous. Even Mama might be willing to trade in her pink frilly apron and ubiquitous pearls for a silver star. At least, temporarily.

“No, I'm afraid not. Which reminds me, your cooperation in this case has also got to remain confidential. You must agree not to tell anyone about your involvement.”

I held up my right hand. “I do so solemnly swear. So, what's the scoop?”

He laughed again. “Maybe I should make you take an oath promising not to be such a wise guy. But, okay, you saw the murder scene—what were your impressions?”

I thought hard. “Well—it wasn't very messy. I mean, there were no obvious signs of a struggle.”

“Go on.”

“Uh—well, there didn't seem to be much blood. I cut my finger slicing kielbasa last summer, and there was more blood than that.”

“Exactly. You've got a good eye. So, what do you think that means?”

I ran a couple of episodes of
Murder She Wrote
through my head. “That Flora was killed some place other than her room, and that her body was moved there after she had bled for a good long while.”

“You get an ‘A,' Miss Timberlake.”

“Abby, please.”

“Abby. But, you're absolutely right. A chest wound—that kris was buried in her heart—results in a huge loss of blood. I'd say in this case, maybe 40 or 50 percent of the body's total. The coroner will be able to tell us exactly how much. At any rate, there would have been blood everywhere. I worked on a case once where there was blood even on the ceiling.”

I shuddered. “Please, Sheriff, I'm feeling a little queasy. I haven't had anything to eat all day.”

He nodded. “Sorry. How about we stop at McDonald's on the way to the station?”

“That's allowed?”

He laughed. “We sheriffs get to eat lunch, too.”

“Sounds great, then, although I think I'll have the fish sandwich. But, since we still have a few miles to go, I do have one more question about Flora's blood. I guess it's kind of obvious, but all that blood had to go
somewhere
. Did you search the entire house?”

The sheriff stiffened. Undoubtedly I had gone too far.

“Oops, sorry,” I said. “I realize you know your
job. It's just that—well—two heads are better than one, right?”

“Right,” he said dryly.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. I looked out the window and prayed that his head was thinking constructively, and not brooding. He seemed like a reasonable man, but let's face it, sheriffs have a lot more power than antique dealers. The last thing I wanted was to share a cell with C.J.—especially if that cell was like the ones I've seen in movies with the toilet in the open.

Just when I could stand the silence no longer, and had a foot all ready to pop into my mouth, the sheriff cleared his throat. He tapped the steering wheel a few times.

“As I see it,” he said slowly, “there are two possible scenarios. Either Flora was stabbed in a bathtub or shower, or she was stabbed outside during the rain.”

“What rain?”

“That frog-strangler we had last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ah, a frog-strangler is a really heavy rain.”

I nodded. “My daddy used to call them gully-washers. But it didn't rain last night, did it?”

“Boy, do you sleep sound. The lightning was loud enough to wake the dead all the way over in China. And the rain! Whew! I turned on the porch lights, and it was like looking through a wall of water.”

“But there aren't even any puddles,” I wailed. “I pride myself on being observant, but what sort of unofficial investigator will I make if I can't even spot the aftermath of a toad-choker?”

He chuckled. “That's frog-strangler. And like I told you, you don't miss a beat. Of course, there
aren't any puddles—you're in the Low Country now. There is nothing between us and China but absorbent sand.”

“I see. So,
if
Flora was killed outside—in the rain—her blood would all have washed away.”

“Exactly.”

“And not even have left a trace?”

“Not after a rain like that.”

“But there was
some
blood left on her. I definitely saw some blood around the kris.”

“Yes, there was that. Maybe it wasn't hers though. That's another gap the coroner is going to have to fill.”

“What about her hair and clothes?”

“What about them?”

“They were dry,” I said triumphantly. “And her hair was combed—at least it wasn't very messy. Leave me out in the rain you described, and I'd look like a drowned rat.”

He grinned. “Very good, Abby. I would have missed that part about the hair. It didn't look particularly messy, at that.”

“And her makeup,” I said, gathering steam, “she was still wearing makeup.”

“Was she?”

“You bet your bippy. Now granted, she might well have been wearing a ton of waterproof liner and mascara, and she wore her foundation so thick even a tidal wave couldn't have washed it all off, but she was still wearing blush. The powder kind. It was all still there, in big clown circles.”

“You noticed that in just a few seconds? What else did you notice?”

I shuddered. I had spoken ill of the dead for the third time. Mama says that if you badmouth a dead person three times in one day, bad luck is sure to
follow. I'm not a superstitious person, mind you, but a large crow had appeared out of nowhere and was flying along the left side of the road just in front of the car. Perhaps I could undo—or at least neutralize—the trouble my tart tongue was getting me into.

“She had lovely legs,” I said quickly. “That skimpy little uniform was very becoming on her. And I don't know when I've seen such a convincing boob job.”

The sheriff said nothing, giving me a quizzical look. The crow, thank goodness, made an abrupt turn and flew into the woods.

“Well—uh—I don't swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it, of course. I just meant to say that she had some positive attributes.”

He nodded. “Like I said, she was a looker. Well, if you can think of any other details, let me know. You've already been a big help, Abby.”

“I have?”

“You bet your bippy.” He laughed, then grew serious. “You know what this means, of course.”

“That whoever killed Flora redid her makeup and fixed her hair?”

“Exactly. So we know it was a woman.”

I smiled. “Not necessarily.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I wouldn't be surprised if Harold has had a little experience applying makeup.” I crossed my fingers to keep the crow away. “Besides, Flora wasn't exactly an expert in that field herself. Any man experienced with a putty knife could achieve the same results.”

From somewhere deep in the woods the crow cawed, but I didn't see it again. Apparently one is
permitted to speak ill of the dead to prove a point.

“And, anyway,” I added, just to push the envelope, “Flora wasn't fat, but she was tall. And silicone weighs more than you think. I'd say she topped the scale at a hundred and fifty pounds. Now, I know we women are constitutionally stronger than you men, but when it comes to brute physical strength, we tend to lag a little. Brunhilde—I mean, Edith, might be able to sling a body over her shoulder, but both Alexandra and Sally would need help lifting a six-pack.” I considered telling him about my conversation with Albert, but decided to keep back one card to play close to the chest. If I've learned one lesson in life, it is this: never ever trust anyone completely, except for your Mama, and even then, be sure and count the cash in your cookie jar before she leaves the house.

“I see,” the sheriff said at last. “You know, Abby, you're really good at this. I almost feel that I should pay you for your observations.

“Enough to buy me that lunch at McDonald's?” I was broke after all. Broke and desperate.

He laughed. “Sure, lunch is on me.”

 

After lunch we drove straight to the jail. The second I walked in the door the Triplett twins pounced on me.

“She won't cooperate,” Rhett rasped.

“C.J.?”

“We told her to plead guilty,” Daniel said, “but she won't listen.”

“
What
?”

The brothers exchanged glances. Apparently it was decided that Rhett should speak.

“Your friend has changed her story,” he said.
“Now she claims she didn't do it, and wants to change her plea. But—”

“But that's wonderful! I told you she didn't do it!”

More glances. “But she did,” Daniel said quietly.

“Don't be ridiculous. You've both talked with her. You know she's not capable of murder. Now that she's finally come to her senses, it's y'all that aren't making a lick of sense.”

Little Wet Daniel looked down at his shoes. “But there's the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

Rhett pointed at the sheriff who was standing right behind me. “Don't you know? Didn't he tell you?”

I whirled. “Tell me what?”

Sheriff Thompson blinked. Then he swallowed hard. I hadn't noticed before, but he had one of those Adam's apples reminiscent of a fishing cork.

“We had plenty to talk about, Abby. I didn't see any sense in getting you more upset—not when there was a chance she'd changed her mind.”

“So tell me now!”

There must have been a big fish on the line, because the Adam's apple jerked violently. “If you gentlemen will excuse us,” he said, nodding at the twins.

“They'll do no such thing,” I snapped. Trust me on this; I am a well-bred southern lady, and I know how to snap graciously.

He glanced around the reception area. “Then, let's at least go some place private.”

Perhaps he had a point. There were others in the room now, including a couple who looked like they belonged to the senior citizen's chapter of Hell's Angels. Presumably they were there to see the sher
iff, as well. Either that, or they were there to visit prisoners in the jail behind the building we were in. I scanned the faces of the elderly bikers. There didn't seem to be any resemblance between them and C.J. At least I didn't have to worry about them filling her head with nonsense if I delayed my visit a few more minutes.

I nodded. “Okay, your office. But this better be good.”

The twins and I followed Sheriff Thompson through a door beside the dispatch window, down a long narrow hall, through a door on the left, and into a Spartanly furnished room. A desk, two chairs, and a gray, metal filing cabinet were the only furniture. Save for a photograph of Sheriff Thompson shaking hands with Governor Beasley, the plywood walls were unadorned. There were no windows. The linoleum on the floor looked like it had been used for ice-hockey practice, sans ice. The room smelled stale, underused.