Baroque and Desperate (22 page)

At any rate, the Black River in summer is delightfully warm. Much warmer, if you ask me, than the water at Myrtle Beach. But Albert was right—it most definitely was night. Had it not been for the lights of the Latham house in the distance, the water, the shore, and the sky would have all blended together. I couldn't even see Albert in the boat.

I listened for the slap of oars against the surface. Nothing. Perhaps he was sitting motionless in the boat waiting. The man was an engineer, after all; they're sticklers for details.

Then something brushed against my foot. Something that might have been a fish, or a piece of wood, or an
alligator
. I broke the world's record for free-style swimming getting to shore.

“A
nd then what happened?” Mama asked.

She'd come down to pick up C.J. and me, and Buster's aunt, bless her soul, had invited her to lunch, as well. Why on earth our hostess had to include C.J.
and
both Triplett brothers is beyond me. What's more, Buster didn't seem to mind one bit.

“Well, then I sneaked into the house—taking great care to avoid the grande dame, of course—and told the entire story to Edith. She was very helpful.”

“She wasn't mad because you killed her husband?” C.J. really should remember to swallow her food before speaking.

“Abby!” Mama dropped her fork and her hand flew to her pearls. “You killed Albert?”

“Of course, not, Mama. Albert drowned when he threw me overboard. He lost his balance and the boat tipped over. Apparently he had never learned to swim. Besides, the boat was leaking so fast, he didn't have a chance anyway.”

Buster's Aunt Amelia handed me a large bowl of mashed potatoes. They were the homemade kind,
heavy with butter and cream. Even Mama would be hard pressed to make better.

“My nephew Floyd, here, was a swimming champion in high school,” she said pointedly.

C.J. popped another bite of pot roast in her mouth. “I thought your name was Buster.”

I gave C.J. a warning look. “It is. Buster is his middle name.”

“I have a cousin Floyd—”

I cut off her off at the pass. “Turns out Edith Jansen is a pretty nice woman. She just comes across strong with outsiders because she's trying to protect her family. As soon as she called the sheriff she marched right into her grandmother's room and rescued Dmitri for me.”

“Considering that Flora is dead,” Daniel Triplett said solemnly, “Edith should have protected outsiders
from
her family.”

“So,” Mama said, picking up her fork, “everyone in the family suspected Mrs. Latham had hidden her will in that fancy clock?”

“They
knew
she'd hidden it in the missing piece, they just didn't know what that piece was. But nobody knew the terms of the will—except Flora. She was the old bag's witness.”

Mama poked me with her fork. “Abby, how you talk!”

“Sorry,” I looked first to Mama, and then Buster's Aunt Amelia. Of course, neither of them were anywhere near eighty-nine.

“So, what were the terms?” Buster asked.

“I know, I know,” C.J. said waving both arms. “She left everything to Alexandra, didn't she?”

“Yes and no.”

“It can't be both, Abby.”

“Yes, it can. You see—”

“But, maybe you're right. There's a building in Shelby that is the world's shortest skyscraper and—”

“Excuse me,” Mama said, and stretching across Aunt Amelia's broad table poked C.J. with her fork. “Let Abby finish her story.”

“Well, like I was about to say, the will divided everything equally between all four grandchildren—the children themselves were left entirely out—but there was a codicil that stated the entire will was null and void if Alexandra found it first. If that was the case, the old—I mean, Mrs. Latham—was going to have a new will drawn up leaving everything to the lass with the auburn locks.”

“Is that legal?” Buster asked turning to Rhett.

“We'd have to look it up,” Daniel said, saving his brother the trouble of rasping. “We lawyers rely heavily on books.”

“And legal assistants who have to comb through the books,” Rhett said anyway. By the way C.J. was making goo-goo eyes at him, he must have deduced she found his voice charming.

Aunt Amelia nudged me with a veritable vat of gravy. “I've known Genevieve Latham's grandchildren since they were born—they came to visit her just about every summer. Anyway, I must say I'm shocked at the way young Rupert turned out. That shaved head, and all. Are you sure he didn't have anything to do with the maid's murder?”

“Positive.” I passed the gravy to Mama. “By the way,” I whispered, “you might be interested in knowing that Toy no longer parks cars for Fallen Stars.”

“Oh, I know,” Mama said, just as calm as could be. “He hasn't worked there in over a year.”

“
What
?” Of course everyone looked my way.

“Abby's brother Toy is becoming an Episcopal priest,” Mama announced proudly.

“
What
? Mama is this supposed to be a joke? I mean, you would have told me long before this, if it was true.”

“This is no joke, dear. Your brother is in the top 10 percent of his class at seminary.”

“But Toy's a ne'er-do-well,” I wailed. “A sower of wild oats. A prodigal son!”

“I knew you'd say that, Abby. That's why I never told you. It's a shame you and your brother never communicate.”

“I bet y'all don't have that problem,” C.J. cooed to Rhett.

Aunt Amelia mercifully distracted me with a tureen of green beans and fatback. “Buster said you'd help him pick out a few good pieces. Personally, I'd pick that highboy over there. I think it's worth a pretty penny.”

“It's a beautiful piece,” I said, feeling put on the spot. I'd noticed the highboy the minute I walked into the house—noticed that it was a reproduction, as were most of Aunt Amelia's “antiques.” But the dear lady had graciously allowed me to bring Dmitri into her house, and he reposed at that very moment on my lap, beneath the tablecloth.

“My Abby knows her stuff,” Mama said proudly.

C.J. unglued her eyes from Rhett. “You never did say, Abby. Did you get to keep that eighteenth-century Swiss baroque clock?”

I shook my head. “The old lady—I mean, Mrs. Latham, reneged on her promise. She never intended for anyone but Alexandra to have it, and now—well, I've torn her family apart, haven't I?”

“There, there,” Mama patted my arm for a
change instead of her pearls. “You don't need to worry about losing out on some dumb clock.”

“That clock would have sold at auction for over two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Is that all?” She sounded positively cheerful.

The phone rang.

“I'll get it,” Buster said to his aunt, who was busy trying to tuck a silver-plated serving spoon into a heaping bowl of collard greens.

Buster was back in a Mississippi minute, which is even longer than a Carolina minute. “It's your boyfriend,” he said to me.

“I don't have a boyfriend,” I snapped.

Buster frowned. “Someone named Craig Washburn?”

“That's Greg, and he is
not
my boyfriend.”

His face relaxed. “That's what he said you'd say. He also said you weren't likely to take his call.”

“He was right about that.”

“So, he said to give you a message.”

I waggled my eyebrows. “Not
here
,” I muttered.

Buster was a bust at reading faces. “He said to tell you they found the contents of your shop.”

I stood up, spilling Dmitri on the floor. “They
what
?”

He put a strong, warm hand on my arm. “I'm afraid it's not good news, Abby. The truck the thieves were driving overturned on I-40 in the mountains west of Asheville. According to Craig—I mean, Greg—the contents of the truck were pretty much pulverized. But, one of the thieves confessed.”

I felt faint. This bit of news was the final nail in the coffin that had been my career. “Fat lot of good a confession does,” I said bitterly.

“Well, at least it's closure, isn't it?” C.J. said.
“And don't worry, Abby. I can loan you some money. I've got oodles saved.” To her credit, she was just trying to be helpful.

“Forget it, dear, it's over.”

“No, it isn't!” Mama grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard. “Remember that angel I showed you, Abby?”

“
Pleeeeease
,” I wailed. “I saw you make a fool of yourself on TV—”

“Well, this fool,” Mama said, squeezing harder, “charged thirty thousand people ten dollars each to see that angel. Abby, dear, you're rich.”

“You're joking,” I said, and fainted. Not a mere swoon, mind you, but an out-and-out dead faint.

If it weren't for Mama's grip, and the surprisingly strong arms of Buster, I would have slid under the tablecloth to join Dmitri.