Death of a Rug Lord (22 page)

Finally I couldn't stand feeling helpless anymore and began inching my way farther into the dark unknown. If their graces possessed a motion detector and suddenly pounced on me, so be it. The worst they could do was kill me—no, torture would be worse, and that's exactly what waiting in the dark was: torture.

My left hand felt its way along the wall like a giant fleshy spider, one equipped with five of the most complex sensors in the universe. Coupled with our large brains, human fingertips can coax music out of wood boxes with horse hair bows, cut up and safely stitch back together fellow humans, and weave intricate designs out of wool and caterpillar secretions. Without any other stimuli to divert attention from my hand, I
felt every tiny imperfection on the surface of the wall, every pinprick-size bubble in the paint.

When my left hand pressed up against a doorjamb, I nearly jumped out of my sandals. I could swear that I gasped so loudly that Mama and Miranda Sue must have heard it. I froze for another eternity, waiting to feel the consequences of this involuntary action across my back—or maybe my head. In the movies it was usually a long-handled flashlight, or a shovel. After two minutes—or an hour—when nothing happened, I again threw caution to the wind and groped for the doorknob.

What were the chances that it too would be unlocked? Or that there would be a light switch inside, just to the right of the door, and that Abigail Wiggins Timberlake Washburn would be stupid enough, or curious enough, to cut it on? The chances were pretty good if it was a trap, and yes, yours truly is just that stupid.

T
here were ten switches in all, and at least I wasn't stupid enough to flip them all on in rapid succession. The first fluorescent bulb to kick on was in the far right corner of the room, so that by the time all the lights were fully operational, my eyes had adjusted enough so I was no longer seeing floating images.

“Lord have mercy!” I said, no longer concerned about who heard me or from how far away.

Before me spread a vast room full of enormous looms, one that reached almost from the floor to the ceiling. Three-quarters of the looms were empty, but stretched across the remainder were Oriental carpets, or the beginnings of Oriental carpets. Immediately adjacent to each loom was a work station, each with its own computer and monitor, and an assortment of large, yarn-bearing spools overhead. A pile of carpets matching the one on the loom or, it could be reasonably supposed, the space for such a pile, was on the floor beside each work station.

I am not the quickest study, but even I was able to
put two and two together and get sixteen. Or even twenty. The folks who owned Magic Genie Cleaners couldn't care less about cleaning and preserving carpets. Somewhere in this vast building they had scanned the “borrowed” carpets into computers and were feeding the images into the individual computers that operated these. I already knew that the quality of good bogus antiques could fool the general public, so depending on their distribution system…

“So what do you think?”

It was a woman's voice, and it seemed to be coming from above; had I been as religious as Mama, I might have thought it was God. I was fairly certain it did not belong to the same woman I'd heard in the blackened hallway.

“You must be tired, Abby. Wasn't your bed at the Princess and the Pea comfortable?”

I scanned the upper reaches of the towering space for a balcony but had no success. “Who are you?” I demanded. “And where are you, damn it?”

“I'm speaking to you from Charleston, Abby, but you can look at any of the television monitors.”

I strode indignantly—yet with dignity—to the nearest work station. “Heavens to Betsy,” I exclaimed. “I can't believe it's you.”

“I wish I could say the same about you, Abby. I was rather fond of you in the beginning. I actually thought we might grow to be friends. This woman is different, I told myself. She isn't stuck up like the other Charleston folks. But no matter how many breaks I cut you—and believe me, I cut you plenty—you just couldn't seem to mind your own business.”

“For example? I mean really, what did I ever do to you?”

“You mean besides dump shrimp cocktail sauce on my Savonnerie carpet and then announce to the world that it was a copy? Oh of course you do. You had to begin a whole new career running all over Charleston and Timbuktu—” She laughed bitterly. “Timbuktu, now that's a good one! I'll bet you'd find some pretty decent carpets there. Anyway, what business was it of yours if people were too stupid to figure out that they'd been scammed?”

“Would the death of a young woman make it my business? Because I do believe that a very nice young saleswoman named Gwen, who worked for Pasha's Palace, was trying to warn me that she'd figured out your scam, on account of at least one if not more rather costly originals slipped through your quality control procedures.”

I had the distinct displeasure of watching Kitty Bohring react on a half-dozen monitors simultaneously. The way she threw back her head, her throaty laugh—Vincent Price couldn't have done a better job.

“It was such a shame getting rid of that rug, but by the time we got that
nice
young woman ready to swim with the fishes, it was beyond repair. Really, Abby, you might consider giving your friends etiquette classes; my people had to put six bullets in her at close range before she quit struggling.”

“You want me to teach courses on how to be murdered peacefully?”

“You're spunky, Abby, I like that; I could use you in
this business. Your mother, on the other hand, is downright annoying.”

“
Mama
? What have you done with Mama?”

“Relax, Abby. Cynthia is serving her coffee and cake, just as she promised, so that you and I could visit. By the way, dear, there are no grandchildren named Marner and Silas. I was hoping you were educated enough to catch that, and I see that you were. However, your mother's story about you suffering from brain atrophy disease was a little over the top. You see what I mean?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma'am. In addition to my Manners for Victims class you want me to train my mama to lie better.”

“In a nutshell, yes. And next time—should there even be a next time—I don't want her tagging along. That's extremely annoying for everyone involved, and I dare say, it has absolutely ruined a perfectly good Sunday for a great many folks—including that poor demented cousin of yours.”

My mind raced through my family tree. Cousin Willard over in Florence had been falsely accused of flashing, but his reputation was forever ruined; Aunt Marilyn down in Savannah had long since crossed the divide that separates eccentric from peculiar, but she had yet to slide into full-blown dementia; and Uncle Norbitt from up in Kannapolis pretended to be crackers to get out of Korea, but since then his only odd habit was that he preferred to walk on his hands instead of his feet. Once you got used to that, and didn't try to make him clap while standing on a stairs, he was a perfectly ordinary man. That was pretty much it except for…

“You didn't!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the cavernous room.

“But I did. I thought the tale she told you last night provided the perfect means of disposal.”

“You were there? At Cousin Imogene's?”

“Don't be silly, dear—you don't mind if I call you dear, do you, dear? It's such a Southern thing to do, and I'm trying so hard to lose my brittle Yankee ways. Anyway, I wasn't there in Rock Hill in
person
, of course; that's what a staff is for. That's why I'm hoping to hire you. By the way, please thank your mother—or should I say your mama—for calling your auntie from a pay phone and repeating the directions in a voice so loud I almost heard it down here. They were good directions too: much better than Mapquest's. My people had no trouble getting in place before you all showed up.”

“That's
y'all,
Kitty.”

“Right.”

“And whatever you do, only use it in a plural context.”

“Will do. So Abby, here's the deal: I understand that your business at the Den of Iniquity is doing well—”

“Antiquity,”
I grunted through clenched teeth. “
Iniquity
would be your cup of tea.”

“Good one. Now where was I? Oh yes, I figure, now that you have some employees to help out, you are free to delegate some of that responsibility and take on a job that would be a lot more challenging.”

“Such as strangling the Devil with a spool of white yarn?”

“Good luck. That spool weighs in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. Now where was I? Oh yes,
your duties would involve a fair amount of traveling—since you no longer have children at home, I don't see that as a problem. You'll be establishing markets for our—uh, higher end products.”

“You mean, fencing the
real
antique carpets?”

“How crudely, yet delightfully, put. Abby, I've no doubt that you and I will get along famously.”

I seethed with hatred for the woman who wanted so badly to be loved by Charleston. “
This
is no way to make friends, Kitty.”

“Oh, I know that. But do try your best, darling, otherwise your poor mama might suffer an early stroke. As advanced as medicine is these days, we still have far too many cases of people dying from causes that are never properly explained. My own sister's death was a bit of a mystery.”

“You killed her?” I asked the question not out of shock, or because I was morbidly curious, but because I needed to know if there were limits to the things Kitty Bohring would do.

“You better believe it. She didn't want to move to the South. Can you imagine that? She thought y'alls were all a bunch of uneducated rednecks who talk like Larry the Cable Guy. Do you know, he's not even from down here?”

“I do, and
y'all's
is a possessive.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” What kind of fool was I, anyway? Not that it would ever happen, but did I ever want Kitty Bohring to blend seamlessly into Charleston society? I delivered a quick mental whipping to my mind with a couple of stalks of sweetgrass. “Seriously Kitty,
speaking as your new best friend, don't you think our relationship would work better if one of us wasn't always under the gun—so to speak.”

“You'll be handsomely paid, Abby—not that you need it. I know that you enjoy your work, making the sale, and not only will this job constantly give you such opportunities, but you will be moving amongst the crème de la crème of society. And don't forget that I've had the distinct pleasure of watching you interact with society—even fake aristocracy—and I know you can more than hold your own.”

I pirouetted so Kitty Bohring and her evil minions could see the mocking smile on my petite mug from all angles. “Kitty,
dear
, a padded cell is far too good for you. You belong in a regular state penitentiary where you can make lots of close friends. And although I don't approve of the death penalty, there is a part of me that almost wishes that you've killed someone in Texas and you'll get extradited there. I hear they have a special rehabilitation program for convicted murderers, but you have to be dead first to apply.”

“Tsk tsk, Abby,” the would-be grand dame said, shaking her head on a dozen or more screens, “is that any way to speak to your employer?”

“You stupid, social-climbing bitch,” I hissed. “You are not
now
nor will you ever
be
my employer.”

“I've had enough of your impertinence for now,” Kitty Bohring said, “but don't think that this is the last you've seen of me. Miss Kitty gets what Miss Kitty wants, and she wants you, Abby.”

The screens blackened, and before I could gather
my thoughts, a single door to my right opened and in strode the giant himself, Big Larry.

“There's no use running, little lady. All the outside doors are locked, and I got me a gun, see?” He waved an automatic weapon of some kind. Then again, it could have been one of those superduper water pistols available at Wal-Mart. My nerves were stretched as tight as a gnat's ass over a steel drum—pardon my vulgarity—so my powers of observation were not at their keenest.

“You can't get away with this,” I said. The second my lips closed I realized how stupid that must have sounded; that was a line straight out of a very grade B movie.

“I'm not going to argue with you, Abby.” The wicked giant had long legs, so he was approaching rapidly. “But you must admit, it's really rather a clever racket. We literally pull the rug out from beneath the customer”—he laughed diabolically—“make dozens of exact copies, which we sell all over the globe; then we sell the original to some idiot with too much money to spend. Meanwhile, we've replaced the original with a cheap knockoff and everyone's happy. Well, that was the case until you came along.”

“I doubt if you'll be very happy where you're going, Big Lar—”

From somewhere to the left of the nearest work station two people, dressed all in black, including ski masks, popped out of nowhere and positioned themselves between Big Larry and me. One of them was pointing a gun at Big Larry, while the other began to approach me, frantically waving her hands.

“Freeze! FBI,” I heard her partner shout. He sounded remarkably like the ding-dong duke who'd been tailing us for the last day.

“Mrs. Washburn,” the female purred, “don't worry, we really are FBI.” Somehow, despite the fact that she was wearing gloves, she managed to flip open a badge.

“Why I'll be hog-tied and dippity-doodled,” I said. “So you
are
! But you're faux nobility, aren't you?”

“Very faux. You really make a much better queen of a make-believe country than I do the Duchess of Malberry. Although, in my defense, my feeble attempt at portraying her grace has met with better results before.”

It suddenly occurred to me—much to my extreme horror—that the humongous weapon Big Larry was carrying might shoot more rounds than the smaller guns the FBI agents held. If so, then I was playing right into his hands by making small talk with her daffiness.

“Shouldn't you get back to work, sweetie?” I tried to keep my tone light, but there was a heck of a lot of commotion happening behind her, none of which I was able to see. Whichever direction I leaned to get a gander, the female FBI agent leaned as well. It was as if she was purposely blocking my vision.

I felt and heard a thud simultaneously. It didn't take a genius to know that Goliath had fallen, even though I hadn't heard a shot being fired. My agent must have received a message through an earpiece because shortly after that she nodded and stepped aside.

“The FBI always gets its man, Mrs. Washburn. Its
woman too; although I am sorry to say that Miss Kitty Bohring took her own life rather than surrender to our agents in Charleston. For your sake I hope that she really wasn't a personal friend of yours.”

“I could take umbrage with you for even asking that, Agent, uh, Agent Whatever-your-name-is.”

She whipped off her mask but kept on her black kidskin gloves. “Whew, that thing is hot! Agent Krukowski—Elizabeth Krukowski. Since I don't even know what the word ‘umbrage' means, I'll choose to interpret your answer as a no. By the way,” she said, shaking her long brown hair, “you would have made one heck of an agent—with the proper training of course.”