Baroque and Desperate (18 page)

“H
ey, good-looking,” Tradd said, and I stopped in midprance. It was all I could do to keep from whistling.

He had changed from his morning's clothes, I'm sure of that, because he looked as fresh and clean as a daylily. Like a daylily, the top half of him was clad in orange, a color not usually suited to golden complexions, but Tradd was the exception. The bright cotton golf shirt made him glow. His cotton chinos weren't even creased behind the knees, so either he had changed in the restroom, or mastered the art of driving while standing. When you're that drop-dead gorgeous, no one is going to arrest you.

“Hi,” I said, squeaking like a pubescent boy. “What are you doing here?”

“I've been remiss in my duties, Abby. I've come to take you to lunch.”

I groaned inwardly. “Sorry, but I already ate.”

“At the Purple Pelican?”

“McDonald's.”

“Then you still haven't eaten. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the door.

Okay, that's not exactly the truth. I am pretty sure he touched my wrist with at least one of his
golden fingers, and then walked in front of me to the door. I followed like a chunk of iron behind a magnet. The point is, I was powerless to do otherwise.

For the record, Tradd drove sitting, although for much of the way he managed to steer without the use of his hands. Or so it seemed. Not that they were on me, mind you, but as we sped along he gesticulated wildly, shouting the details of some story that was evidently very amusing, although the words were lost on the wind. Like an idiot I nodded and laughed periodically,

The Purple Pelican is located on Front Street in downtown Georgetown, a block south of the rice museum. It sits right out over the water, but the water in this case is not the Black River, but the Sampit. The folks in Georgetown are more modest than those in Charleston, and do not claim that the two rivers come together to form the Atlantic, as is the case with the Ashley and the Cooper.

The humble Georgetownians have built a charming boardwalk along this stretch of the river, and as it is lined by restaurants, galleries, and antique shops, it is an ideal place to while away a day. Indeed, were it not for the discordant presence of Georgetown Steel and the prevailing stench of a nearby paper mill, downtown Georgetown would have few rivals in the nation for ambiance.

Perhaps Tradd had called ahead for reservations, but it didn't really matter. The hostess at the Purple Pelican was as charmed by him as I, and proved it by immediately showing us to an outdoor table facing the water, with an espaliered camellia at least partially blocking the view of the steel plant. As we passed through the crowded main dining room I noticed a painted purple pelican prominently dis
played on the mantel above a stone fireplace.

“What's with the purple pelican?” I said to the hostess after we were seated. “Aren't they really brown?”

The hostess was a buxom young woman in a tight-fitting uniform who just happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to Flora. Her name, however, was Barbie. I kid you not. At any rate, from the moment Barbie first laid eyes on Tradd I ceased to exist. Perhaps she never even saw me. Or perhaps she saw me and decided to treat me like a child. At any rate, I longed for a long pointed stick with a sign stapled to it that said
SHORT, BUT STILL HERE
. If the sign didn't work, I could always poke her with the stick.

“Well, that purple pelican is certainly unusual,” Tradd said, bless his heart. “I've been meaning to ask about that.”

Bodacious bosoms answered immediately. “Ah, that's Jake's idea. He's the owner. It's supposed to be campy.”

“Where did he get it?” I asked.

Silence.

“I wouldn't mind having one for my beach house,” Tradd said.

Well-endowed couldn't get the words out fast enough. “Jake's brother made it. He's a wood-carver. He has a studio out on Highway 17. I could show you where it is. I get off at three.”

I know Tradd glanced at me, because what I felt was too short to be a hot flash. “Thanks, but I'm tied up for the rest of the day. Maybe some other time.”

Humongous hooters was loath to leave. “That's our sixth one, you know. Customers keep stealing them.”

“How?” I asked.

Barbie shrugged, but said nothing.

“How?” Tradd asked.

“Sneak them out under their coats, I guess.”

“You're kidding!” I said. I couldn't imagine how someone could steal something that large and not get caught. My daughter Susan, I'm ashamed to say, stole a tape deck, by tucking it under her coat and pretending to be pregnant. You would have to be as tall as Brooke Shields and as wide as Roseanne to fit that pelican under an overcoat, and even then you'd look like you were carrying sextuplets to full term.

“I hope this table will be all right,” our hostess said. Then inexplicably she threw her arms in the air and then dropped them to her sides, an action which caused her two best features to jiggle like a pair of Jello molds.

Tradd grinned from ear to ear, but said nothing.

“This will do just fine,” I said. I was hoping the brilliance of those pristine caps would blind the little tramp—well, at least temporarily. Just long enough to make her stagger off the deck, over the boardwalk, and into the river. It certainly blinded me. But, alas, when I regained my sight, there she was, unabashedly searching Tradd's left hand for a wedding ring.

“Y'all enjoy your meal, now. Your waitress will be with you in just a minute,” the hussy said, as her feet grew roots that pushed through the floor boards of the deck and down into the brackish water of the Sampit.

“Well, maybe you should run along now and seat someone else,” I said, since Tradd no longer seemed capable of speech.

The hostess with the mostest didn't even hear
me. “Y'all let me know if there is anything else I can do.”

“Scram,” I said kindly.

“Huh?” Barbie said, still not looking at me.

“Put your eyes back in your foolish young head, and get back to work, dear.”

That seemed to cut through her reverie. “
What
did you say?”

I smiled, drawing on the patience of my years. “Either you skedaddle, or I'm telling Jake you've been putting the moves on my man.”

“Well, I never!” Barbie withdrew her roots from the floorboards and stamped back to her station. You can bet that Tradd's eyes followed her every wiggle.

No sooner had our butts touched our seats, than I laid into Tradd. “You,” I said, “are a disgusting pig.”

That got his attention. “Excuse me?”

“There is no excuse for your behavior. You eyes were all over that girl like white on rice.”

He seemed puzzled. “She didn't seem to mind now, did she?”

“That's not the point. What about Flora?”

“Flora, what does she have to do with this?”

“She's dead for crying out loud! Murdered! Didn't she mean anything to you?”

“So?”

“So, don't you think it's a mite insensitive to be flirting with a restaurant hostess the same day your girlfriend is killed?”

He blinked. “Who said she was my girlfriend?”

“Well, it was perfectly obvious that something was going on, the way you two carried on. And her the maid.”

“Ah, I see. So we're prejudiced, are we?”

I must admit to being grateful that outdoor dining section was enclosed by a screen. When I open my mouth that wide, I invariably get a snootful of flies.

“I am
not
prejudiced!”

Golden eyes danced. “In fact, I'll go a step further. Not only are you prejudiced against maids and restaurant hostesses, but you're jealous.”

“Me? Of
what
?”

“Of my attention, of course.”

I sputtered like a brush fire in a drizzle. “Why you—you—you egotistical cad!”

He laughed. “Cad—now that's a word one doesn't hear very often.”

I would have gotten up and left the Purple Pelican right then and there had not our waitress appeared with a list of mouthwatering specials a mile long. Call me a masochist if you like, but I wasn't about to miss a meal I'd already paid for with my dignity. I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and then excused myself to use the ladies' room.

 

On my way back to my seat and the insufferable Tradd, I just happened to glance at the TV above the bar. Much to my surprise, given the hour of the day, it was neither a sporting event or a soap opera, yet both the bartender and a few well-dressed patrons seemed engrossed in the show. I wandered over.

“Ah, CNN,” I said aloud, reading the call letters in the corner of the screen.

“Shhh,” someone said.

“What's going on?” I asked. “It's not that Saddam Hussein again, is it?”

“Shhh!”

Properly chided, I shut my mouth and watched as the camera panned a long line of people, some standing, some kneeling, on a sidewalk in a very familiar city. Columbia, perhaps? Raleigh?

“And these are only a few of the faithful,” the handsome young moderator said, “this line extends down the street for four blocks.”

I stepped closer. The street certainly looked familiar. Wasn't that—no, that couldn't possibly be C.J.'s shop in the background! Even if news of her arrest had reached the Charlotte media, it had nothing to do with the national scene, and why would there be so many “faithful?” Unless, those were friends and relatives from Shelby!

The moderator—Chet, I seemed to recall—moved rapidly down the line. “And now we approach the Den of Antiquity, a modest—”

“That's my shop!”

The chorus of “shhhs” sounded like a steam engine gaining speed.

“But it is! I'm the owner. You see, I'm just here for—”

“Can it, lady,” the bartender growled.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and stared at the bizarre scene unfolding. Chet had entered
my
shop and was weaving his way through a crowd of the faithful—all of them on their knees now—to the rear wall.

“There!” he said, pointing solemnly at what appeared to be a blank wall, “is the so-called angel of redemption.”

“I don't see anything,” a smartly attired businesswoman remarked.

“Shhh!” I said.

“And right here,” Chet said, shoving the microphone under Mama's face, “is the woman who first
brought this phenomenon to national attention.”

“Hey, y'all,” Mama said, waving at the camera. Her first time on television and the woman was already a pro.

“Tell us, ma'am, how this was first brought to your attention and what you think it means.”

“Actually, Chet,” Mama said, taking the microphone from him, “this is the angel of the apocalypse, not the angel of redemption.”

The crowd murmured.

Chet grabbed the mike back. “How's that?”

“Well”—Mama has strong, sharp nails, and Chet was a fool to tangle with her—“it's almost the millennium, right?”

“Of course. So what?” Chet was clearly irked at not being in control.

“So, that means the end of the world.” Mama waited until the gasps subsided. “And this angel has been sent to warn us that the end times are nigh. Behold, the Almighty hath spoken.” More gasps.

Nigh? Hath?
Mama is a cradle Episcopalian, for Pete's sake. Where does she come up with that language?

Chet wrested the microphone away from Mama, but in doing so left some of his DNA behind in her nails. Chet's not all that bad looking, and I briefly considered cloning the clod.

“That's an interesting theory, ma'am, but back to my first question. How did this—this apocalyptic angel first come to your attention?”

“Shut the door,” Mama barked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Shut it!”

The camera swung around to face the door, and a very tall, thin, plain woman got up from her
knees and attempted to close the door. This did not sit well with a short, squat, hairy man whose turn it was next to enter my shop. Tall, thin, and plain pushed, while short, squat, and hairy resisted. Mama couldn't have asked for a better setup. The two devout were almost equal in strength and the door went back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball on a very short table.

“Look!” someone in my shop shouted.

The camera swiveled again to the rear wall.

“See! The angel is flapping her wings!”

There followed a chorus of moans and religious ejaculations, the like of which would have made the most successful televangelist weep with envy. The commotion was too much for tall, thin, and plain, and her attention was diverted long enough for short, squat, and hairy to get the upper hand. The door flew open and stayed that way.

“Oh,” at least fifty people moaned.

Mama snatched the microphone away from Chet, who had also let down his guard. “You see, that's what happened Thursday morning when I opened the door. The key had gotten stuck in the door and I was trying to jiggle it loose, and I looked up and there it was. Of course you might ask”—Mama waved the camera closer—“why I was even opening the door to an empty shop?”

“Ma'am—” Chet made a feeble and futile sweep at the mike.

“Because my daughter Abby was burgled, that's why—I mean, this shop was. Everything was taken. That happened Wednesday. I was here looking for clues because a certain Charlotte investigator, who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are G.W.”—Mama leered into the camera—“was unable to come up with clues.”

“Mama!” I gasped.

“Shhh!” No one at the bar even looked at me.

“Well, I didn't find any clues, but I did find the angel. And let me tell you something, the thieves who burgled my Abby's shop are going to pay dearly for their dastardly deed.”

“Amen, sister,” someone yelled.