Baroque and Desperate (21 page)

T
here was no one to blame but myself. It was as clear to me now as the handwriting on someone else's wall. I should have put my size-four foot down and forbidden C.J. to come down with us. I should have spent Friday evening conducting a systematic investigation, instead of obsessing on Tradd and Flora's relationship and Edith's rudeness. I really had no choice but to visit C.J. in jail, but I certainly didn't need to put on the feed bag at the Purple Pelican.

“So, what was it?” I heard Tradd ask, as though through a tunnel. “Not that old rocking horse in the nursery? I didn't see it around this time, but I didn't want to waste my guess on it.”

“Oh, that old thing,” Alexandra said, shaking her mane again. Perhaps her neck itched from all that hot, heavy hair. “It was all scarred and banged up. I don't see how that could possibly be worth a hundred thousand dollars. Funny, I didn't even remember it until just now.”

Rupert shook his chrome dome. “It had a real leather saddle,” he said wistfully. “I could ride that boy for hours.”

I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue.

“Miss Timberlake”—she of the perfect jeans finally glanced my way—“you don't suppose a wooden rocking horse could be worth that much?”

I shrugged. I wasn't trying to be rude, but answering that was like asking a deaf doctor to diagnose a skin condition over the phone based on a blind patient's observations. It was madness. Actually, the treasure hunt itself was madness, and I was a raving loon for having gotten myself involved in it. If C.J. was a banana short of a split, I didn't even have the ice cream.

“Well, that all depends—”

The front door to the manse opened again, this time with a slam. Edith stood there growling like a gorilla in a Chanel suit. Her chubby hubby was nowhere to be seen.

“Tradd! Where have you been? Grandmother wants to talk to you!”

Golden boy remained immobile as an Oscar. “
Well
? Were you right? Did you win?”

Edith glared at me. I know, there are some who will contest my ability to discern a glare at fifty feet, but all I can say is, thank heaven I was wearing sunglasses.

“What is
she
doing here?” she shouted.

“Why, Edith,” Alexandra said, clearly shocked, “she's grandmother's guest, remember?”

“She's Tradd's guest, you twit, and she doesn't belong here.”

“You lost, didn't you?” Rupert, bless his West Coast heart, could not contain his glee.

Edith answered by slamming the door behind her. The woman was clearly blessed with upper body strength. It's a wonder the old house was still standing.

Tradd grinned. “Never a dull moment around
her. Well, grandmother beckons.” He tipped an imaginary hat at me and trotted off to do the old biddy's bidding. Just between you and me, it is possible to admire a guy's buns
and
be spitting mad at him at the same time.

“Hope y'all don't expect me to stay out here and chew the fat,” Rupert said quickly, “when the real show is inside.” He darted after his older brother.

“So, that just leaves us,” Alexandra said. “Good. I was hoping we'd have a chance to have a private chat.”

“I'm flattered, dear.” Indeed, I was. “But I have to find my cat, before the gators do. Have you seen him lately?”

Periwinkle eyes regarded me innocently. “Which cat would that be?”

“You've got to be kidding, dear. That big yellow cat your grandmother's been clutching like an overnight bag in a crowded airline terminal?”

“Oh, that cat? He's inside with grandmother now.”

“You're sure?”

She nodded, and the auburn tresses rose and fell like a billowy sea, yet not a hair left its place. “That was very nice of you to give him to grandmother.”

“I didn't give her my cat,” I snapped. “I loaned him to her for the weekend. Tomorrow afternoon that ten-pound fur ball goes home with me.”

“Well, you'll have to take that up with grandmother, I suppose.”

“There's no taking up anything, dear. That flea bag is mine.”

It's a rare woman that can look stunning
and
stunned at the same time. “Oh, my! Yes, I'm sure he is.”

“You bet your bippy, toots.” I would have strid
den on into the house to see Dmitri for myself, except for two small impediments: one, these legs are incapable of striding, and two, the elegant Alexandra had my arm in a vise grip. Apparently upper-body strength ran in the family.

“Miss Timberlake—do you mind if I call you Abigail?”

“Not if I can call you Andie.”

“Miss Timberlake, I know we hardly know each other, but I feel so comfortable talking to you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. One gets the impression that you are both a sensitive and intelligent person. Surely, you've heard that before.”

“All the time,” I said. By rights my nose should have grown an inch, and if I were truly my mother's daughter, I would have been overwhelmed by the odor of trouble.

“Well, in that case, do you mind if we talk in the garden? It is so pleasant there this time of the year and besides”—she gestured toward the house—“this is a very personal matter.”

“Oh?” I'm a sucker for secrets. I'm good at keeping them, too. For instance, I have yet to divulge whether or not anything happened between me and the president on his last visit to Charlotte.

“Come, we'll talk on the bench.” Her tone was not imperious, merely assuming.

I trotted acquiescently after the elegant Alexandra. I had to take two steps for every one of hers.

We sat together on the bench, me cross-legged as before. The river was much higher than it was during my chat with Albert, which meant that alligators were undoubtedly closer. I scanned the water for black “logs.”

“Isn't it lovely?” Alexandra said in her patrician accent.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She turned, focusing her large orbs on my humble face. “That's such a delightful scent you're wearing. What is it?”

“Desperation,” I said. No need to add that it was also the scent of fear, as well as the odor of an unwashed body, a visit to the county jail, and enough garlic lunch to keep even the most voracious of vampires at bay.

“Ah, yes, I believe I've heard of that,” she said quite seriously, “I'll have to see if the Dillard's back home carries it.”

“I'm sure you can find Desperation at Dillard's, Macy's, Neiman Marcus, you name it. It's in all the better stores.”

“Wonderful! I've always said you can tell the status of a woman by the quality of her perfume.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you might be interested to know that for the past thirty centuries, back to the days of King Solomon, the finest perfumes have used, as a base, oil scooped from the anus of the civet cat.” A fact is a fact, after all.

Alexandra's alabaster visage seemed in danger of cracking. “Surely, you're joking.”

“I kid you not. But, you didn't bring me here to talk about feline extracts, did you?”

She shook her head slowly.

“So, dear, what's on your mind?”

“Uh—well”—she looked away—“it's not easy for me to talk about.”

I may possess the patience of a saint; I just happen to lack a saint's self-control. “Spit it out, dear.
‘Time and tide wait for no man,' remember?”

“Miss Timberlake, are you in love with my cousin?”

“
What
?”

She repeated the question, something she richly deserved. But she deserved even more.

“I most certainly am not in love with your cousin, dear. Trust me, Edith is not my type.”

“No! I mean Tradd.”

“Spare me.” Thanks to having raised two teenagers, my derisive snorts rank up there with the best of them. “Tradd Maxwell Burton is of philandering pheromones. I will admit that he lights my fire, so to speak, but a woman would have to be a fool to be in love with him.”

“Then I'm a fool,” she said quietly.

“You can't be serious!”

“Oh, but I am! I've been in love with Tradd since—well, since we were little children. And he was in love with me, too. We vowed we were going to get married when we grew up. Look over there”—she pointed across the river—“see where the reflection of that old dead tree trunk forms a V? We were going to build our house there.”

I patted her alabaster arm. “Isn't that illegal, dear? Marriage between first cousins, I mean.”

“Oh, no. It's not illegal in South Carolina.” She sighed. “Of course, it takes two to tango, doesn't it?”

“And Tradd wouldn't dance?”

“It was all that hateful floozy Flora's fault. Always laughing and carrying on, mocking me by throwing herself all over Tradd. But, she's dead now, isn't she? Now we'll see who gets the last laugh.”

I stole a glance at her long, slender hands. A
well-manicured finger can pull a trigger just as easily as a grubby digit can.

“Did you kill her, dear?”

She stiffened. I may as well have invited her to partake in a belching contest.

“I most certainly did not! Oh, I know, she managed to turn Tradd's head, but it wouldn't have lasted. His infatuation with her, I mean. Class eventually finds its own level, don't you think?”

“Well—”

“Of course, it does. Silly me, then, for worrying about you and Tradd.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“No offense intended, Ms. Timberlake. I simply meant that birds of a feather will flock together—that kind of thing. We are cousins, after all. I certainly had no intention of putting you down because you're a merchant. It isn't your fault you weren't born a Latham or a Burton. We can't help our ancestors, now can we? Although these days, what with cloning and all—”

I didn't hear another word of her pathetic prattle. All my senses were tuned to the V she'd pointed out. It hadn't been there at low tide, but now that the shiny black water was high, the single slanted trunk of an ancient tree formed not a V, but an arrow! It had to be. Didn't that quote mention the tide? But, where—the garden shed. The arrow was pointing directly at the dilapidated garden shed. Of course! Everything about gardening was time-related. When to plant, when to water, when to fertilize, when to prune…gardening and time went hand in hand like Buster and me—I slapped myself for even thinking such a ridiculous thing.

“Mosquito bite you?” Alexandra asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” I said, thinking as fast as I did that time I absentmindedly walked into the
men
's room at the Carolina Outlet Mall at Carowinds. Then a cheery “Where's Waldo?” and a quick exit did the trick.

“Funny,” Alexandra said, focusing the periwinkle orbs on me again, “but mosquitoes don't usually come out in the heat of the day. Do you think it's because of El Nino?”

I slapped my poor, undeserving cheek again. “Maybe it's just a class thing. Maybe we hoi polloi are sweeter. But, be a doll, dear, and run in and get me some bug screen.”

“But wouldn't it make more sense if you got it? I mean, you might get bitten again if you stay here.”

“Yes, it would make more sense if I went inside,” I said, as slowly as Yankees
think
we talk, “but I'm having an allergic reaction. If I move, it only gets worse.”

“Oh, my gosh! This is terrible. Shall I call 911?”

“No need to, sweetie,” I drawled. “I keep a vial of antivenom serum in my purse. It's—”

“Your purse is right beside you. There on the bench!”

“Did I say purse? You see, it's happening, already. I meant to say overnight bag. You see, the vial is more like a jar, on account of how allergic I am. It won't fit in this purse.”

“Be back in a flash,” the dear heart said, and sprinted toward the house.

Fine breeding, indeed! No doubt about it, but if you shook the Latham family tree a Cox would fall out.

The second I heard the house door slam, I sprinted for the garden shed. Why the U.S. Olym
pic officials don't recruit middle-aged women with a mission, is beyond me. I would have made Carl Lewis bite my dust. At any rate, I flung open the garden shed, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Almost immediately—well before the house door slammed a second time—I saw what I'd come to Georgetown to find. It was all I could do to suppress a scream.

“I
t's the most elaborate Swiss clock I've ever seen,” I burbled.

Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III nodded. Dmitri, snuggled safely in the crook of her leathery arms, purred like the works of the finest Swiss clock.

“It's by Emanuel Brugger,” the old woman said proudly. “It's even signed by him. And dated—1764. The works are made of beech, you know. Elias and I bought it on our honeymoon.”

“I thought you honeymooned in the sultanate of Bandar?”

“Heavens, child, one goes to more than one destination on one's honeymoon! We made a proper grand tour that year. Switzerland was, of course, one of our stops. We picked up the clock in Zurich, in an antique shop that sold a lot of baroque pieces. Elias was very fond of fancy things.”

“Look at the detail. The painting. See, these four figures represent the four seasons.”

“Exactly. You would have thought that the John Heywood quote would have been a dead giveaway.”

I shrugged. “And speaking of dead, this lower
painting—the skull here—symbolizes death.”

“Especially Alexandra.”

“Come again?”

“It was always one of her favorite things.”

“Alexandra Latham has a thing for death?”

The ancient eyes flashed. “Don't be ridiculous. Alexandra was always fond of the clock.”

“So, she is familiar with this baroque Swiss clock—”

“Of course, she is. All the grandchildren are. It's been on the mantel in the nursery for over sixty years.”

“Wow. And not one of them noticed its absence.”

A single tear trickled down a cheek as leathery as Mama's pan-fried steak. “I expected Alexandra to. In fact, I was counting on it. I know one isn't supposed to have favorites, but sometimes it can't be helped.”

“You
were
?” I lowered my voice. “Why was it so important that Alexandra find the clock?”

Dmitri squirmed, forcing Mrs. Latham to set him down on her bed. We were in her bedroom, with the door closed. Although I had yet to hear anything suspicious, or see a shadow flicker by the bottom of the door, I just knew someone was out in the hallway. Watching. Listening.

“You see”—the octogenarian said, matching my tone—“there's something hidden here in the back.” She slid open a painted wood panel and withdrew a business-size envelope.”

“It's not a will, is it?”

She recoiled in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I saw the movie, dear. Or was it some book I read? Anyway, all the ne'er-do-well heirs kill each other trying to find it. Gracious me—” I clapped my
hands to my cheeks involuntarily. “Flora Dubois wasn't one of your heirs, was she?”

“Heavens, no! She was my
maid
. And that's all she was. It's a pity though that Tradd couldn't get the picture. Someone had to put a stop to her.”

My knees shook. “So
you
killed Flora?”

She sat down heavily on the bed. Unfortunately for poor Dmitri, she sat squarely on his tail. It couldn't have hurt all that bad, the bed was soft, after all, but you would have thought she'd driven an eighteen-wheeler rig over those eight inches of bony fluff.

“Yes, I killed Flora,” she said. I didn't actually hear those words, but I'm a fair lip reader. Grandmother Wiggins was as deaf as a turnip.

I waited until my precious ceased his pitiful yowls and was merely hissing. “How did you kill her?” I asked quite sensibly. As far as I knew, Buster had yet to make the details public.

She straightened and raised her chin. “I shot her, of course.”

“Where? I mean, what part of her body?”

“Well—okay, but I really had no choice. I shot her in the back of the head.”

“I don't suppose firing her was good enough.”

“Firing her wouldn't have done anything about the baby. She absolutely refused to get rid of it.”

I nodded. “So, you knew about that, too. And you wanted to make doubly sure the little brat wouldn't somehow end up inheriting all this. Well, Mrs. Latham, I think you went to an awful lot of trouble. Why didn't you just give everything to Alexandra now? That's the new thing, you know? Die broke, the experts are saying. That's the only way to go.”

“You don't understand,” she said. I heard frus
tration, but not an ounce of remorse. “I wanted the will to be found by someone who loves me. Someone who remembers all the stories I told them in the nursery. About the clock their grandfather and I brought back from our honeymoon. It didn't have to be Alexandra, I was just hoping it was.”

It was time to put away the violins; a woman was dead, after all. Even strumpets deserved to be avenged.

“Tell that to Flora's parents,” I said sharply. “Tell that to someone who really cares.” I eyed the distance to the door. Unless she had the gun hidden in her bra, and was one hell of a quick draw, I was assured of a safe getaway. “You know, of course, I'm going to have to turn you in.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” she said flatly.

I took several steps backward. “And just because you played with God as a child, doesn't mean they're going to let you off the hook.”

She actually smiled. “I'm eighty-nine. I could use a rest.”

Two more steps. “South Carolina has the death penalty, you know.”

She had the audacity to laugh. “I've had a heart condition for the past ten years. How much longer would I live, anyway?”

“But what about C.J.!” I wailed. “Don't you give a damn about her? Don't you understand that you're ruining her life?”

“Nonsense, child. Neely Thompson and our young coroner—Buster, they call him—are no fools. By now they must have discovered that Flora wasn't stabbed to death. But what she was doing with the sultan's kris is beyond me. Anyway, I doubt that a few hours in jail will have ruined her life. After all, she isn't one of us.”

“One of
us
? Just what is that supposed to mean? Look, C.J. may be an egg or two short of an Easter basket, but she has feelings.”

The dowager waved a biscuit hand. “Don't get me wrong, I find the girl delightful. But girls of her class don't have that much to lose, now do they?”

“Her
class
?”

She nodded. “Now, you—that's a different story. I can tell that you come from a good family. And Timberlake—Bob Timberlake is a famous North Carolina artist, isn't he? So, you married well, too.”

“I didn't marry Bob,” I screamed, “I married Buford. They're no relation. And Buford has about as much class as you do! No, I guess he has a trifle more, because he has yet to kill anybody.”

One giant step backward and I was at the door. Dmitri, however, had decided to forgive the doting dowager and had curled up on her pillow.

“Dmitri! Come to mama!”

My fickle friend opened one eye.

I turned the knob and gave the door a push. “Now!”

My feckless feline closed his eye. A satin pillow and someone to cater to his every whim, versus a fur-covered blanket in a wicker kitty basket and an owner too busy to even keep track of her shadow, much less a cat, what was there to choose?

“Traitor!” I shrieked, and stepping backward into the hall, pulled her heavy door shut.

I didn't even have a chance to turn around. The blow to the back of my head came as a total surprise. And that's when the lights went out in Georgetown.

 

I awoke in degrees. Bright flashes of color and intense pain alternating with darkness and an over
whelming need to sleep. Gradually the colors dimmed, and I became more alert, but my surroundings were still as dark as Tweetie Bird's roots. The pain, incidentally, never left me. I felt like the Carolina Panthers were using my head to practice kicking field goals.

After dozens of kicks—most of them undoubtedly winners—I began to feel the sensation of movement. Short, hard jerks that coincided with the field goals. Apparently I was locked inside something. Possibly a large box of some kind.

“Hey, let me out!”

“Not on your life,” someone said and laughed. The jerking continued.

I will admit I entertained the idea that I might be dead and was, in fact, in hell—but the thought lasted only a few seconds, mind you. I am an Episcopalian, after all. For us hell is having to use plastic cutlery at a tailgate party.

“Let me out now!”

“You're a fiery little thing, I'll give you that.”

“
Albert
?”

“Hell, I guess it doesn't really matter if you know it's me. You're not going to live long enough to do anything about it.”

“Albert Jansen! You let me out, right this minute. Did Edith put you up to this?”

“Edith—that's a laugh!”

Before I could ask what was so funny, the box, or whatever it was that contained me, pitched forward and fell a good two feet. My lights flickered again as all eleven Carolina Panthers kicked me simultaneously. You can bet your bippy I screamed like there was no tomorrow.

Albert pounded on my prison. “Shut up!”

“Make me, you idiot! What did you do, drop me off a cliff?”

“I dropped you in Grandmother Latham's rowboat. You're a hell of a lot heavier than you look.”

Sure enough, I could feel myself rocking. “Ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, you wuss. Edith could sling me over her shoulder with one hand. Besides, this box has got to weigh a ton.”

“I'm not a wuss, and this isn't a box. It's a chest.”

“Ah, the one with all the lifesavers and junk.”

“That's the one. But it's empty now, except for you.”

But if I recalled correctly, it was no ordinary chest. I had only ever seen two of them before. Both Bavarian-made, and both intended to serve double duty as chest and cradle.
Kinderkaschete
they were called. If a small child was inadvertently trapped inside, they merely needed to slide open a ventilation panel. And I, as I've been reminded far too often, am barely larger than a small child.

“You ready to take a little boat ride?” Albert called.

“Not until I've got a lifesaver on, dear. It's the law, you know.”

“It isn't where you're going.”

He had pushed off from the dock and I could hear the faint splash of oars. “And where might that be?”

“First out to the middle of the Black River, and then straight down to the bottom.”

“Why, that's stupid,” I said stupidly. “Out in the middle of the river folks are going to see you.” I tried to slap my face in the darkness of the trunk, and ended up banging my elbow.

“Oh, there's a little detail I forgot to mention,” Albert said, putting his face sadistically close to the
lid, “but it's night now. A nice, dark moonless night.”

“But, that's impossible!”

“You were out a long time, Abigail. Stashed safely away in the attic. Of course, everyone else thinks you've gone home. That's what I told them, you see. I told them you said you had had enough of the Burton-Latham clan. I told them you called a cab.”

Try to keep your assailant talking—I'd heard that on
Oprah
or some other talk show. “There really is no need for this, dear. The old lady confessed to everything. Surely, you heard that. You were waiting right outside her door.”

“Yeah, I heard all right. She was weak.”

“So, you were in this together?”

“Not hardly. She killed Flora, not me.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“Like I said, Grandmother Latham is weak. She's bound to talk sooner or later.”

“What's it to you if she talks?” I screamed. “She killed Flora, not you.”

“Oh, but I was there.”

“You saw it?”

“I was
there
.”

“Repetition is the cardinal law of learning, dear, but with you, I'm afraid it's a sign of senility.”

“I was
with
Flora. Flora and I were lovers.”

“Oh.” It was no doubt unproductive to point out that Flora and half the male population of Georgetown County were lovers.

“The old bag came downstairs in the storm expecting to find Tradd. Under other circumstances it might have been funny. I certainly didn't expect her to shoot Flora.”

“Pow. Right in the back of the head,” I said. If
he couldn't be overcome by guilt, maybe gore would do the trick.

“Yeah, pow. But then she had this witness, see? And I had this major problem.”

“Ah, yes, her money. You're afraid she's going to tell Edith, who will drop you like a hot potato. Then it's bye-bye big bucks.”

“You're a smart woman, Abigail. I would have enjoyed being married to someone like you.”

“In your dreams, dear.”

He let my sarcasm roll off him, like black water from a gator. “Anyway, for a minute, I thought the old crone was going to shoot me, too. You should have seen the look on her face! But, fortunately, your fruity friend came into the kitchen—” He stopped talking, and I heard the faint splash of paddles again. “Middle of the river.”

“That's nice, dear, but finish your story. So, C.J. came along, carrying the kris for protection and—”

“And—over you go!”

My lights barely flickered when I hit the water. What came as a shock was how quickly the chest began to take on water. Apparently Mrs. Latham neglected to put the boathouse on her annual termite-inspection list. Nonetheless, it was imperative that I wait until Albert had seen the chest sink out of sight. So, although it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, I stayed put until the water sloshed into my nostrils. The trapdoor opened easily, and just as easily I slipped out and into the cool black water.

To be honest, I didn't have time to be scared. Besides, I'm a decent swimmer, thanks to all those afternoons spent at the Fort Mill water park when Buford and I were courting. Buford, who was over
a foot taller than me, was so dazzled by my charms that he never noticed me treading water in places where he could easily stand.