Larceny and Old Lace (9 page)

“Clay, dear, I am no longer trying to sue Buford for custody of the kids. Susan is nineteen, and Charlie will be eighteen before we know it. This is a different matter altogether. This client can pay.”

Robert David Goldburg had a lawyer.

B
ob Steuben's need for company outweighed his resentment toward me. He allowed me to help him clear the table, and when I made a halfhearted attempt to leave, he stopped me promptly.

“That's a real Queen Anne,” he said pointing to the sofa, “so it doesn't unfold into a bed. But if you don't mind sleeping on it, we have some fresh sheets and pillows in the hall closet.”

I didn't mind. It would serve Aunt Marilyn right if I didn't come home that night, my tail between my legs, dragging my camellias behind me. She would undoubtedly call Mama to ask if I was there, which would, in turn, serve Mama right. Imagine having sex so close to seventy! And only sixteen years after Daddy died.

After Rob made his one allotted call to Bob, who in turn called Rob's mother, I monopolized the horn. My first victim was Peggy Redfern.

“Hrrun?” Peggy was eating again, so at least
she
wasn't having sex.

“Peggy, dear, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Rob Goldburg's been arrested for my aunt's murder.”

She gasped appropriately.

“Of course he didn't do it, dear. And that's why I'm calling. I thought some of us could meet tomorrow morning at Denny's again. If we put our heads together, maybe we can come up with proof he didn't do it.”

Peggy took another bite of something. “Whangwha?”

I waited patiently for her to swallow. “Seven-thirty then?”

“Abby!”

I hung up before she could protest further, and dialed Gretchen Miller. As long as there was food in the picture, Peggy Redfern would be there.

 

“Abigail? Do you know what time it is?”

“Nine or thereabouts.

“Eight fifty-eight to be precise. Do you realize that
Masterpiece Theatre
starts in just two minutes?”

I spoke rapidly. “Rob Goldburg was just arrested and I think we all need to get together tomorrow morning at Denny's and see what we can do for him since he's obviously not guilty.”

Gretchen is a fast listener. “What is so obvious?”

“The man is a talking teddy bear, Gretch. He might growl, but he doesn't have claws.”

“Well, I don't know if I can make this breakfast, Abigail. I always watch
Good Morning America
before I go into work, and tomorrow Charles Gibson is interviewing Sir David Frost.”

“You have a VCR, don't you? So, see you there?”

“Oops, have to run now.
Masterpiece Theatre
just started.” She hung up.

I took that as a yes and called Wynnell Crawford.

 

Wynnell was undoubtedly busy sewing herself another pitiful outfit when I called. She didn't stop. I could hear that Singer humming away the whole time. Please don't misunderstand me. There is nothing wrong in wearing homemade clothing. But Wynnell, who can afford as many store-bought clothes as she wants, can't sew two consecutive stitches in a straight line. What's more, she chooses the gaudiest material I have ever seen. Bright oranges, iridescent greens, pulsating purples, all mixed together in one fabric. At any rate, her clothes are forever falling apart, shedding whole sections like a giant molting parrot. Women in some bars get paid for what she does unintentionally.

“Abigail, what do you mean he's innocent? He's living
with a Yankee now, isn't he? Some fellow named Sherman.”

“Yes, Bob is from Ohio, but his last name is Steuben, not Sherman.”

“Abigail, dear, didn't your mother teach you anything? You can't trust Yankees. Any Yankee south of the line is out to get something from us. Even tourist Yankees want what we have—our sun, our mountains, our water, our golf courses. But do you think any of them hung around when Hurricane Hugo blew through in 1988? Do you think any of them would be willing to subject themselves to the New Heritage Festival of Lights tour come December?”

I listened to her thread a new bobbin while I composed myself. “Wynnell, dear, Bob Steuben hasn't been arrested, Rob Goldburg has. And Rob Goldburg's great-granddaddy fought in the War Between The States. On
our
side.”

I heard a scissors snipping several times. Perhaps she was making threatening gestures.

“Well, this Sherman guy is probably one of them—what do they call them—hit men. You know, one of those Mafia boys they send down here from up North. Does he have any scars that you can see?”

I dug around in the bottom of my psyche for a scrap of patience my kids had yet to use up. “Tell you what, dear. I'll invite him to that breakfast, too. Then you can take a good look at him. If he seems at all greedy, shifty, or threatening, I'll personally drive him back to Ohio.”

That satisfied her. That and a promise that I would display at least one Confederate flag somewhere in my shop. Well, I am a proud southerner, but I don't want to offend anyone. I do display the Stars and Bars—on an inside wall of my storage closet. Only those coming out of the closet get to see it.

 

Herr Major was a harder sell.

“There's no way in hell I'm going to come to that damn breakfast. The guy is as guilty as—”

“Hitler?”

“The Führer was only exercising the will of the German people, you know. He had no choice.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “That demon knew exactly what he was
doing, and I hope he's burning in hell. If I could, I'd throw his pajamas down in after him. Might make the fire burn hotter.”

The Major sputtered around for a while, which wasn't half as pleasing as Wynnell's sewing machine. Finally he said words that I couldn't repeat to Mama (although now that she'd become a sex fiend, her standards may have dropped). Still, they were terrible words.

“What?” I gasped. “You think Rob Goldburg's kind can't be trusted?”

“Get a grip on it, girlie. I'm not talking about his blood-lines. I'm talking about you-know-what.”

“Well!” So it was gays who got his goat.

“Those folks are the slipperiest, slimiest, most conniving sons of bitches. Hell, they're capable of anything.”

“Takes one to know one,” I said. Very few other sayings ring as true now as they did in the third grade.

He had the affront to laugh off my accusation.

“Well, if the truth hurts,” I said, skipping up to the fifth-grade level.

He laughed again. “You don't really think I'm one of them, do you?”

“It has occurred to me,” I said. “Among other things.” There was little need to worry about the Major's feelings. If elephants had hide that thick they wouldn't be facing extinction.

“Come on, now! Me?” He sounded almost flattered.

“If the shoe fits,” I said, trotting out an adult axiom.

There was silence on his end. I preferred it to sputtering, but it still wasn't as soothing as the purr of Wynnell's Singer.

“So you really think I'm an antiques expert?” he asked at last. “A bona fide expert, eh?”

“What?”

“Say, as much of an expert as Goldburg?”

“I beg your pardon?”

There was an odd sound. Possibly a stifled sob, which I prefer not to think about. “You don't know just how much this means to me, Abigail. I always thought you looked down
on me because I sold military antiques. That you thought my merchandise was somehow inferior.”

“Well, I—”

“But that's what I've been trying to tell you and the rest of this bunch all along. I mean, just because I don't sell Louis the fifteenth this, or Louis the sixteenth that, doesn't mean I don't know my antiques. It just means that I have chosen to narrow the scope of my shop down. It certainly doesn't mean that I'm not an authority on antiques in general.”

I was beginning to see the dawn. “Certainly not.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, I'm glad that's all been cleared up.”

“Glad enough to come to breakfast?”

“What the hell—why not? We experts need to stick together. Right?”

“Like grease on Teflon,” I said, and hung up.

Anita Morgan must have been praying. “Amen,” she said after the eighth ring.

“Anita, dear, don't you have any customers?”

My concern was genuine. Anita's shop, The Purple Rose, sells middle-of-the-road antiques, some very fine estate jewelry, and a good deal of religion. Anita's customers are always complaining that they find religious tracts tucked in the nooks and crannies of her furniture pieces. Consequently she gets few repeat customers. This doesn't seem to bother the poor dear, who simply gets down on her knees and prays for more customers.

Now, none of this would be any of my business except that Anita has been thinking lately of switching over entirely to estate jewelry. This is where she gets her only repeat customers. Of course the reason for that is most jewelry items are too small to have pamphlets wadded up inside them. Again, I would be perfectly content to stay out of this matter if it were not for the fact that Anita wants to call the new shop Gems for Jesus.

“Well, I'm never alone, if that's what you mean,” Anita said in response to my question. “The Lord is always right here in the shop with me.” She laughed perfunctorily. “You might say he's my best customer.”

“But does he pay cash?”

“Abigail! That isn't funny!”

“Sorry, dear. I couldn't help myself. Listen, why I called is because I wanted to invite you to breakfast tomorrow morning at Denny's. Same time as on Monday, same crowd.”

There was a moment of silence. Perhaps she was praying for patience. Although she is the president of our little association, Anita Morgan disapproves of our breakfast meetings. Apparently they cut into her early morning personal devotions. Anita has made sure that we all understand the spiritual hard-ship one morning a month has inflicted on her soul.

“Abby, what is the reason for this?”

“Rob Goldburg has been arrested, dear. I want us all to put our heads together and see what we can do for him.”

There was another moment of silence, during which I prayed for the grace to hold my tongue, and to respond graciously to what was undoubtedly about to happen next. Anita has made it clear that she believes Rob Goldburg is going to burn forever in the fires of hell because of his lifestyle. Of course it's nothing personal, or so she would have you believe. It was God who made the rules, not she.

At the same time, Anita is very much a southern lady and would never confront Rob, or any other sinner, directly to their face. The wadded-up tracts are about as direct as she gets,
except
that she has been known to bend my ear from time to time. I am ashamed to confess that I have given the woman an audience, but only because she was such a good listener when Buford first took up with Tweetie. And it didn't hurt that Anita assigned the two of them to eternal flames as well. Adulterers rank down there on a par with homosexuals, or so says Anita. According to her, God agrees.

Anita coughed. “Abby, this could be the Lord's judgment on his life, you know.”

“Could be, dear. It could also be that he was framed by that bell pull. Anyway, if you don't want to come for his sake, come for ours. We need you to say grace.”

“Well—”

“His new friend, Bob Steuben, is going to be there. Look at this as a perfect opportunity to witness.”

“Yes, but—”

“Besides, I wanted to go over some hymn selections with you. For Aunt Eulonia's funeral. You are going to sing at her funeral, aren't you?”

That was like asking a six-year-old if he was going to eat his Halloween candy. It was also a tremendous sacrifice on my part, and on the part of anyone attending my aunt's funeral. Anita Morgan claims to be in her church choir, but I don't see how that's possible. Even Mother Teresa would be tempted to throw an old shoe at Anita if she sang outside the nun's window on a moonless night. But as bad as she sounds, Anita Morgan must be given an A for enthusiasm and willingness to perform at the drop of a hat.

“Is this going to be at your Episcopal church, Abby?”

“Yes, dear, the one down in Rock Hill.”

I could hear her catch her breath. The way she smoked, she may have been gasping for it.

“Would it be an Episcopal hymn?”

Mama and I had already gone over the congregational hymns with the priest and the musical director. Nothing had been said about a visiting soloist, but I assumed that neither of them would object. At least not until they heard Anita. However, I had no idea how they would feel about her singing a hymn that was not in our hymnal.

“Of course, dear,” I said just to be on the safe side.

She sighed deeply. “Well, in that case, I just don't know. Y' all's hymns tend to be kinda—well, you know—”

“Dignified?”

“Uh—”

“Staid?”

“Uh—”

“Boring?”

“Yeah, that's it. And I mean it in the nicest way.”

“Of course, dear. Look, why don't you pick one of our hymns, and if you're willing to sing a cappella, then liven it up however you want to. Okay?”

“I don't know, Abigail. The truth is, the Lord might not approve of me singing an Episcopal hymn.”

“Then sing anything you want!”

I was going to owe our music director big-time for that. It's bad enough that I talked Mama into singing in the choir after Daddy died. At the time I thought of it as a perfect way to get her back out into the world, at least on choir practice nights and Sunday mornings. Of course back then it never occurred to me that my Mama would feel so comfortable in the world that she would bring six feet of it home with her to bed. But anyway, at least Mama gives to the church, and rather generously I might add. I was going to have to donate rather generously myself to the organ fund if I expected to show my face around there again after the funeral.

“Does it matter what key I sing in?” It was sweet of her to be concerned.