Baroque and Desperate (2 page)

I
stared at what remained of my shop. The Den of Antiquity was as empty as Buford's heart. Mama had not been exaggerating. All my carefully selected merchandise was gone, as was the cash register. Believe it or not, the thieves had even swept the floor; either that, or I kept a lot tidier shop than I remembered.

“See!” Mama said, pointing triumphantly to the far wall.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The angel, of course. Can't you see it?”

“No, Mama, all I see is a blank wall.”

“Then get closer, Abby. The first time you see it, you need to be pretty close. After that, it just jumps right out at you.”

Just to humor her, I trotted over for a closer look. It was my turn to gasp.

“Now do you see it?”

“Hey, I see a bunch of scratches,” I growled. “And look at that gouge. Just wait until I get my hands on those burglars!”

“Those aren't just scratches, Abby. They're the outline of an angel. See, there's its left wing, and there's its head, and over there is its right wing, all
stretched out.” Her voice rose with excitement. “And see, in his—I can't tell if it's male or female—hand is a banner announcing the end of the world.”

“Still just looks like a bunch of nicks and scratches to me, Mama. And that's not a banner, that's a scrap of newspaper.”

“It says
END
T
IMES
,” Mama practically shouted. “And in bold print. Abby, the writing is on the wall, and you're suddenly blind as a bat.”

“I can see perfectly well, thank you. Mama, lots of the stuff I buy comes wrapped in old newspaper. And that's exactly what this is.” I reached to peel it off, but Mama slapped my hand away.

“Don't you dare, Abby. This is a message from God.”

“On newsprint? Mama, that scrap of paper is probably from the
South Bend Times
—or some other city with the same letters in its name. As for your angel—well, it was just the light playing tricks on your eyes.”

“That's it! The light!” She scurried across the room and flicked on the overhead light. She returned panting. “Now look!”

I rolled my eyes and then focused them slowly on the illuminated wall. “Oh, my God!”

“It's not the Lord, Abby. It's just an angel.”

“It's pure cheek,” I wailed. “The burglars, damn their miserable hides, even took my phone jack!”

I thought Mama would jump out of her skin. “You mean you
still
can't see it?”

“Not even a feather. Now Mama, if you don't mind, can we please change the subject? I mean, here I am, standing in an empty shop—everything I own is gone—stolen—and you want to stand around and talk about fairies.”

Mama's mouth opened and closed silently several time. Finally she managed to produce a few faint squeaks.

“What?” I said with remarkable patience.

The squeaking grew louder. “Not fairies, angels!”

“Just stop it!” I screamed. “This isn't about you, or what you think you see on the wall. It's about me!”

Mama drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch. “If that's the way you feel, then I'm going straight home.”

“Goodbye, Mama. Thanks for picking me up at the airport, but I can take a cab home from here. Or hitch a ride with Wynnell or C.J.”

She stomped to the door, angrier than I'd ever seen her. Well, the nerve of that woman! I was the one whose life had come unraveled, for crying out loud. I was the one facing bankruptcy.

Mama opened the door. “It's not too late to say you're sorry, Abby.”

I gaped at her in disbelief.

“Well, then, I'm gone!” she said, and the door slammed behind her.

 

An hour later I was still gaping, this time at Inspector Greg Washburn. Take it from me, the man is a hunk; six feet tall, blue eyes, black hair, muscles in all the right places, which is to say, none between the ears. We were an item for a while, but I broke it off because—well, the truth is, we didn't trust each other. Of course Greg had no reason for his doubts, while everyone knows Greg had the hots for a bimbo named Hooter Fawn. I'm not saying he acted on his impulses, but I want a man who
not only has eyes just for me, but who will kindly avert those eyes on a bad-hair day.

“I thought you were with homicide,” I said.

“Very funny, Abby.”

“It wasn't meant to be.”

“You didn't know?”

I sat down on a floor so clean Mama could serve bridge-club cake on it and no one would complain. “I've been out of town. Or didn't you notice?”

“Of course, I noticed. I just thought that your mother, or some of your friends—never mind, it's a long story. Yes, I've been assigned to your case.”

“Well, let the investigation begin,” I said. Try as I might, I couldn't pry my peepers off him. I had tried dating other men—including a drop-dead-gorgeous detective from Pennsylvania—but it was no use. All I could think of was Greg, who seemed to have no trouble thinking of women other than me. If only there was some way to make him
really
jealous.

To my surprise, Greg sat down cross-legged opposite me. He pulled a small leatherbound notepad from the pocket of his navy blue shirt.

“As you can see, Abby, the person or persons who robbed your shop, made a clean sweep of things—uh, sorry, Abby, no pun intended.”

“Can you tell me something I
don't
know?”

He shrugged. “We dusted for prints—there aren't any. No sign of forced entry. No evidence of a truck or moving van in the alley, although of course they undoubtedly used one. We even had a guy climb up on the roof—”

I waved my hand like a schoolboy with a right answer. We schoolgirls were far too polite to wave in my day, even though
we
had all the right answers.

“Wait a minute! What do you mean they undoubtedly used a truck or van?”

He closed the notepad and slipped it back in his pocket. “It was definitely a pro job, Abby. If I were to hazard a guess, the contents of your shop are halfway to California by now.”

“
California
?”

He nodded. “I'm surprised you don't know. What do we have in the east that the Californians don't?”

I bit my tongue. There are plenty of Californians with sense. My brother Toy just happens not to be one of them.

“A hundred and fifty years of English colonial history.”

“What?”

“We're talking about the resale of history, here, Abby. Apparently it happens with some frequency. Especially up north. I thought you would—”

I tuned Greg out. It had finally sunk in. The czarist samovar I bought at an estate sale in Myers Park last month, and hadn't even gotten around to pricing, was going to end up gracing the credenza of some Hollywood mogul. I found myself hoping that the purveyor of my stolen goods scalded himself where the sun didn't shine. Unless, of course, he or she was innocent, and especially not if he was Steven Spielberg. I'm still waiting for the sequel to
E.T
.

“I don't get it,” I said.

“Damn it, Abby, don't you listen to a word I say?”

“Of course, I do.”

“I just got through telling you that this was a professional job, possibly even part of a national
ring. You're probably never going to see your stuff again.”

“They were treasures, not
stuff
.”

He nodded.

“How did they know I was going to be gone?”

“Maybe they overheard you talking to your travel agent, or one of the other antique dealers on this street. It could even have been someone from church. They're not all saints, you know.”

“But they had a key, right? You said there was no sign of forced entry, and—”

“Where do you hide your key, Abby?”

“
What
?”

“Your key.”

“Who said I hide a key?”

The Wedgwood eyes rolled impatiently.

“All right, but I don't hide it on a doorsill. Or under the front mat. I'm not that stupid!”

He sighed. “One of those fake stones you order through a catalog?”

“Of course not!”

“Show me.”

I sheepishly took Greg to see the clever hollow brick I keep in the alley by the back door. It is much more subtle than those fake stones, and it's a real brick. I bought it at the Southern Home & Garden Show last spring.

But except for a rolled-up pill bug and a squashed cricket, the spot was as bare as Mrs. Hubbard's cupboard.

“Well—uh—it was there!”

“Abby, Abby, Abby, whatever am I going to do with you?” Greg shook his handsome head.

“Not a damn thing!” I stamped back into my empty shop, my very footsteps mocking me with
their echoes. Greg trotted after me, adding to the mockery.

I was in no mood to see Jane Cox, aka Calamity Jane, standing in the middle of my display area. Given the circumstances, she was, of course, delighted to see me.

“Oh Abby, dear,” she wailed, and draped herself over me like a flag on a casket, “it's just so awful. Is there anything I can do to help?
Anything
?”

I bit my tongue, which takes some doing in my case. As the mother of two college kids, I have permanent indentations in my lingual organ.

“Don't worry, Abby, my cousin Orville back in Shelby had the same thing happen to him, and it turned out just fine. You'll see.”

I struggled free from her embrace. “Your cousin Orville had an antique shop that was burgled?”

“Gracious no, Abby. Cousin Orville dabbles in the future, not the past. He makes organic dentures.”

Greg and I couldn't help but exchange glances. Calamity Jane—“C.J.,” we call her—is as loony as a lake in Maine.

“Don't tell me he makes teeth out of ivory,” I chided. “Elephants may be making a comeback in some countries, but—”

“Oh, no, of course not ivory. Cousin Orville Ledbetter uses pig teeth.”

“And someone swiped his stock of sow incisors?” I asked incredulously.

Greg chuckled. “Perhaps the perpetrator was Porky.”

“Or Petunia,” I peeped.

C.J. gave us scathing looks. “As a matter of fact, the thieves were…”

The door to my shop swung open and in strode Tradd Maxwell Burton. Either C.J.'s voice trailed off, or my ears temporarily stopped working. As for Greg, the little vein on his left temple was now the size of Europe's chunnel.

Tradd Maxwell Burton was even more handsome when viewed through sober eyes. He wasn't tall as Greg, and was blond, rather than dark, but nature had certainly smiled on him nonetheless. Golden hair, golden skin, thick gold chain around thick golden neck, gold-brown eyes—everything about him was gold, except his teeth, which were milk white, and may have been artificial. They certainly weren't pig's teeth. At any rate, his shoes, socks, and polo shirt were as white as his teeth, and either he'd just stepped off a tennis court, or he made his living advertising bleach.

“Abby!”

What cheek to address me so familiarly in front of Greg. I loved it. Never mind that he'd stiffed me on those drinks. I'd wring his golden neck later.

“Tradd!”

He bent and gave me a quick kiss. The subtle scent of expensive cologne did not escape me. The stuff Greg wore came in big bottles and had one-syllable names.

“So this is the famous shop, huh?”

“
Was
,” I said. “I've been cleaned out, as you can see.” Frankly, I don't remember having mentioned to him that I owned a shop. Although, given my condition on the plane, anything was possible—well, almost anything. I am fairly positive I
didn't
join the mile-high club.

A sharp nudge from C.J. reminded me of my manners. “Tradd, this is Jane, Jane this is Tradd, and that,” I said nodding at Greg, “is Inspector
Washburn. He's investigating the burglary.”

C.J. cooed like an amorous pigeon. Greg grunted.

As well-bred as he appeared, Tradd responded appropriately. He cooed briefly, but not too flirtatiously back at C.J., grunted perfunctorily at Greg, and empathized deeply with my woes.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I know just the thing to get your mind off what happened.”

“I already ate a Snickers bar,” I said.

He laughed and putting a golden hand on my shoulder, turned me so that I faced the front window. “Look out there.”

“Oh, my God,” C.J. squealed, “is that white Jaguar yours?”

Tradd fished a set of keys from the pocket of his tight, white shorts.

“And you're
giving
that to Abby?”

“Whoa, not so fast.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Sorry, little lady, but this one is spoken for. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice long ride.”

“Where to, Anchorage, Alaska?” C.J. was incorrigible. She was also grass green with envy, which, frankly, was a nice contrast for her apple-red lipstick.

“He's talking to me,” I snapped.

“The South Carolina low country,” Tradd said.

“You mean the beach?” C.J. wailed. “Man they were sure right about life not being fair!”

Tradd chuckled, obviously enjoying C.J.'s attentions. “Not the beach, exactly, although it's about eight miles away as the crow flies. I'm headed down to an old rice plantation just outside of Georgetown.”

“I love Georgetown,” I said.

“Abby, don't be ridiculous,” Greg muttered.

I whirled. “Excuse me?”

Greg literally took a step back. “Georgetown is at least a seven-hour round-trip.”

Tradd rocked casually in his white sport shoes. I'm not up on brands, but this pair looked like they might easily cost my monthly mortgage.

“Well, we wouldn't do it in one day,” he said. “I had a weekend trip in mind.”