Baroque and Desperate (11 page)

I struggled to free myself of the Armani prison. “Let me out! I'm okay!”

Daniel whipped the jacket off my head, nearly removing my ears with it. “You sure?”

“I'm fine. I just need to sit down for a minute.”

They guided me to the row of faux-leather seats by the front door and made me sit. Rhett brought me a mug of water from the restroom, which I politely refused. Stephanie's lipstick was all over the rim.

“Jane Cox is just a baby,” I wailed. “She's too young for the chair.”

Rhett turned to Daniel. “Buford didn't say anything about a baby, did he?”

I grabbed Rhett's sleeve. “That's just an expression, you nincompoops.” I drawled the offensive word to soften it; I am a southern lady, after all. “C.J. is twenty-four. I know she's a successful businesswoman and all that, but in some ways—actually, in most ways—she's very young for her age. But she's definitely not the type who would murder.”

Daniel blessed me with a smile worthy of a TV commercial. “Abby, there probably isn't a soul alive who wouldn't commit murder if the circumstances were right.”

“Could you?” I snapped.

“Absolutely.”

“Me, too,” Rhett said.

They were right, of course.
If
circumstances were right. Mama, wearing her pearls, would kill in a heartbeat, if it meant protecting me. I would do the same for her and my children. And maybe Wynnell. But Mama and I would only become killers if it meant saving loved ones' lives. We certainly wouldn't kill anyone simply because they were obnoxious. Neither would C.J.

“Someone has to have a motive to kill,” I said. “C.J. had no reason to kill anyone in the Burton-Latham clan.”

“So it might seem,” Rhett said.

“What is that supposed to mean? She only met the gang yesterday—well, except for Tradd. She's only known him a couple of days longer.”

“That you
know
of,” Daniel said.

Contrary to some folks' opinion, I do not have a short fuse. My temper and my height have nothing in common. But this was just too much.

“The poor girl is innocent!” I shouted. “If all you can do is make innuendo, then thanks, but no thanks. I'll find C.J. another lawyer.”

I jumped to my feet and headed for the phone.

“W
e're sorry,” Rhett rasped.

I turned and gave him the evil eye.

“Yeah, sometimes we get a little carried away,” Daniel said quickly. “But you see, we refuse to defend a client we know is guilty. So we have to be careful.”

I sat again. “Do y'all at least believe me? I mean, do you believe that I believe she's innocent?”

They looked at each other, and then nodded. “We believe you,” Rhett said, “but we haven't even met the client. We can't agree to take her case until we've talked to her. After all, your husband said she confessed.”

“
Ex
-husband,” I hissed. “And yes, she did confess, but she was lying.”

“Why would she lie?” Daniel asked. He sounded genuinely perplexed.

I shrugged. “Maybe she saw the murder happen. Maybe the murderer threatened her life if she didn't confess. Maybe she just—well, had a breakdown.”

“Like a psychotic break?”

It was clear I needed to choose my words care
fully. “What I mean is, maybe Jane
thinks
she did it—but she certainly didn't do it. Like I said, she didn't have a motive.”

Rhett cleared his throat, but of course it did no good. “Look Abby, even if she just thinks she did it, she would still have to have a reason in her mind.”

Daniel saw that I was about to bolt again. “But of course that reason wouldn't necessarily have to make sense.”

I smiled gratefully. “Exactly. Maybe she didn't like the color of Flora's hair, so in her mind, she killed her. But in her
mind
, only. But even that is hard to believe. Like I said, her elevator might not go all the way to the top, but it's still functional.”

They looked confused.

“Put it this way,” I said, “in the pinball game of life, her flippers are a little farther apart than most, but she can still score points.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. So what do we do now?”

The brothers exchanged glances. Either they were able to communicate with their eyes, or they enjoyed looking at themselves.

“I'll take care of business at this end,” Rhett said. “Daniel will drive you back to the Latham estate.”

I swallowed my disappointment. I was beginning to find Rhett's scratchy voice attractive.

“But what will I do there?”

“Spy,” Daniel said.

“On whom?”

“Everyone.”

“Even the old—I mean, Mrs. Latham?”

“Especially the old crone,” Rhett said.

“Guys, now you're being ridiculous. The woman is ancient—almost a century old. She couldn't stab
an angel food cake with an ice pick. Besides, they all hate me out there. I have no reason to snoop around if I'm not with Tradd.”

“Tradd?” Daniel asked.

“Oops. I guess Buford didn't fill you in on everything. Tradd's the hunky guy I'm with. He's my date for the weekend.”

Their eyes swept the room. There were a few wanted posters tacked to a cork bulletin board, but Stephanie was the only other warm-blooded person in sight.

“Ah, he went off to see if he could find a lawyer,” I said sheepishly. “I guess this could be awkward if he comes back with one, wouldn't it?”

“Don't worry,” Daniel said, “if your friend prefers him to us, we'll gladly step aside.”

“Hey, that wouldn't happen to be Tradd Burton?” Rhett rasped.

“As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”

They both laughed. “We used to call him Little Wet Tradd,” Daniel said. “He was the scrawniest, goofiest-looking kid there was. Used to spend summers with his grandmother, who is a friend of our grandmother. We were driven over there almost every day and forced to play with him and his brothers and sister.”

“Why Little
Wet
Tradd?”

“He cried a lot,” Rhett said. “Of course it was our fault; we were pretty mean to him.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah, we were at that. It's because we were trying to get the attention of his older sister.”

Rhett turned to his brother. “What was her name?”

“Edith,” I said.

“That's it! Prettiest girl we ever saw.”

“Edith and I once played ‘doctor,'” Daniel said, blushing. “Of course, we were just little kids then.”

Rhett punched his brother on the shoulder. “You did not!”

“Did, too. Remember how we always played hide and seek?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Remember that time no one could find me? Not for hours and hours? Well, at least it seemed that way to me.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, I was hiding in this great big wooden chest in the boathouse. Edith found me and, well—you know.”

“Get out of town,” Rhett said, and slapped his brother on the back.

“Gross,” I think I said.

“She still pretty?” Daniel asked.

“Gag me with a spoon,” I said.

He scratched his head. “There was another girl, too—a cousin, I think. We used to call her Dog Face.”

“Gee, you guys were a barrel of laughs.”

Rhett snapped his fingers. “Alexandra! That was her name.”

“She's still called Dog Face,” I said. I know it was unkind of me, but this is a dog-eat-dog world, and I can be a bitch at times. The competition out there is fierce, after all. They say a hunk in the hand is worth two in the bush—or something like that—and I wasn't about to casually turn Rhett over to the beautiful Alexandra until I was sure I had no use for him in my bush.

“Oh, man, I'd like to see that Edith again.”

I looked Rhett straight in the eye. “
You
drive me out there, and you might. I have to go pick up my
cat anyway. But we still have one major problem: what's my excuse for staying there more than a few minutes?”

“Your things,” Daniel said.

“What?”

“Your husband—I mean, Buford—said you came down for the weekend, right? So, you have things there, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just take your time collecting your stuff. In the meantime I'll renew some old acquaintances.” Daniel winked at his twin. “Between the two of us we might come up with something.”

“Lucky stiff,” Rhett muttered, but he didn't argue with his brother.

 

Take it from me. Never date a man who can't lie. It was bad enough just driving in the same car with one. Halfway out to the Latham estate, on the private road, I checked myself out in the passenger-side mirror of Daniel's brand-new Lincoln Town Car. Having a jacket wrapped around one's head is seldom good for one's coiffure.

“Lord have mercy!” I cried, pressing back into my seat. “I look just awful, don't I?”

Daniel glanced at me. “Yes, ma'am.”

“
What
?”

“Well-uh—I—uh—” he struggled with his damning tongue.

“Just spit it out, dear. I just read somewhere that pent-up veracity can be fatal.”

“Well, your hair's all messed up, and that black stuff around your eyes is smeared. You remind me of that raccoon Rhett ran over last night on our way back from Charleston. But the raccoon didn't have
lipstick on his teeth.” He breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. I am not the outdoor type—I find the open spaces in malls intimidating—but that morning the drive through the vast, uninhabited pine woods was food for my soul. Birds sang, the sun shimmered off the soft needles, and the pungent scent of sap filled the air, all regardless of what was going on in my world. Here there was order. Death, if not expected, was accepted. There is nothing like Mother Nature to dish out perspective.

“I suppose I've been overreacting,” I said.

“No, you haven't.”

I stared at Daniel. “What do mean?”

“You should be scared. Your friend, Miss Cox, is in deep trouble.”

“But just minutes ago you said you and your brother could help.”

“I said
might
. And that's only if she's innocent—”

“Which she is!”

“Yes, but even innocent people get convicted and punished. It happens more often than you probably think.”

Until then I hadn't allowed myself to think beyond C.J.'s possible arrest. I certainly hadn't thought of a trial or, God forbid,
punishment
.

“Punishment? What kind of punishment?”

Daniel's hazel eyes seemed to light up from behind. “South Carolina has the death penalty, you know. Although it's unlikely they'll carry it through on a woman.”

I was practically in shock. “It is?”

“Oh, yeah, nobody likes to kill a woman—le
gally, that is. Especially if she has a religious experience in jail. Your Miss Cox isn't already born-again, is she?”

“How should I know?” I wailed. “I'm an Episcopalian! C.J. and I don't talk religion.”

He nodded. “That's good, then. If she was born-again, you would have heard about it. So, if she's convicted, we'll have her stage a dramatic jailhouse conversion. No state official is going to kill a sobbing woman with Jesus in her heart.”

“I thought you didn't believe in lying!”

“It's not that I don't believe in it, Miss Timberlake—I'm incapable of it. I have no compunctions about encouraging others to lie. As long as it's for a good cause, of course.”

“Like saving an innocent woman's life.”

“Exactly.”

 

A moment later we met the coroner's car—actually it was a dented blue pickup held together by rust and baling wire—returning from the scene of the crime. The dirt lane was barely wide enough for the Town Car, so Daniel pulled over on the sandy shoulder, and in the process mowed down several longleaf-pine saplings. The coroner did the same. Both vehicles stopped.

“Hey, Buster,” Daniel said, lowering his window.

“Hey, Daniel. Where's Rhett?” The battered old truck didn't have glass on the passenger side, so there was nothing to roll down.

“Back at the sheriff's office, waiting to talk to his principal suspect.”

I stiffened at the “s” word.

“And who's this pretty young lady?” Buster asked with a grin. Come Christmas Santa would
have to bring him two front teeth
and
several molars.

“Remember Buford Timberlake?”

Buster shrugged.

“Big fat lawyer from Charlotte with beady little eyes like a snake? Always has dark sweat stains under his arms when he takes off his suit coat?”

“Don't hold back, dear,” I urged.

But Buster was shaking his head. “Nah, those Charlotte lawyers all look alike.” He grinned at me again. “But, like I said, who's this?”

I leaned toward him. “I'm Abigail Timberlake. Ex-wife, but no blood relation to the aforementioned reptile.”

“She's an extremely short antiques dealer,” Daniel said.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am. My real name's Floyd Busterman Connelly, but folks call me Buster.” I could feel his eyes zeroing in like heat-sensing lasers on my empty ring finger.

“Likewise,” I mumbled.

“You going to be in the area long?”

“I don't think so.”

Buster frowned, frankly an expression much more becoming on him. “Aw, that's a real shame. There's a whole lot to do here, you know? Have you seen the historical district yet?”

“No, sir.”

“We got houses that date back to the mid-1700s. Blocks and blocks of them. Folks say we're a mini-Charleston.”

“How interesting,” I said. I wasn't just being polite, either. Where there're old houses, there are often old things—like at Latham Plantation Hall.
If
C.J. was incarcerated and I needed to hang around for a spell, I would at least check out the antique
shops. Maybe even scan the classifieds in the local paper.

“I'd be more than happy to show you around, Ms. Timberlake. I've lived here all my life, and know a lot of interesting stories that you won't hear on an official tour.”

“That's very nice of you, Buster, but I don't think I'll be around that long.”

“Ah, that's a shame. I'm going to be having lunch at my Aunt Amelia's tomorrow. She lives in one of the oldest houses in Georgetown—1758—has the date on a plaque right on the front wall. Anyway, it's supposed to be a secret, but she's fixing to move into one of those retirement condos at the end of the year. She wants me to look over her stuff and choose what I want, before she puts it all up for sale. I was thinking maybe you'd like to come along and help me.”

I reluctantly shook my head. “What a sweet invitation, Buster. But I really can't commit. Not until I know what happens to my friend.”

As much as I appreciated his attention to my marital status, I was not interested. The man was simply not my type. Now, don't get me wrong and think that I eliminated Buster from my list of potential suitors simply because he lacked a full contingent of teeth. I am not that shallow—I once dated a man with no teeth of his own, although he had a beautiful store-bought smile. And I never would have known that wasn't his real hair if he hadn't gotten in the way of my shop vac when I was cleaning out my car. Not that that made a difference. Besides, if a smile was that important, I knew where to find C.J.'s cousin Orville. The best hog's teeth are hard to tell from first-rate dentures.

Okay, okay, I confess! I am prejudiced. Buster
was short. I could tell that just by looking at his arms. And I don't just mean short like Michael J. Fox, I mean
short
—like me! If I dated Buster we would be subjected to constant comments about what a cute couple we made. In the event we married, some well-meaning, but thoughtless friend or relative, would give us his ‘n' hers step stools. What kind of foundation was that upon which to build a solid marriage?