Gilt by Association (7 page)

“No dear, of course not.” It was the truth.

“I could stay home, Mama. I don't mind, really. It's just that I'm taking French in school you know, and Miss Wells—”

“You go ahead and go, honey. I'll spend Christmas with Grandma.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

There was a distinct pause. “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, dear.”

Charlie had given me my Christmas present early.

D
espite what my critics say (Buford in particular), I am not a haphazard nitwit who flops along through life without a plan. I do sometimes have a plan. My plan then was to systematically talk to every single one of the Barras clan and find out what they knew about my new furniture. In retrospect this was a nitwit plan—there was no reason for me to suspect a Barras was involved, but it was a place to start. And I had to do
something
.

My next victim, as Mama began to call them, was Dr. Robert Barras Bowman. He is a prominent Charlotte heart surgeon, who once made national news when it was revealed that he had been charged with exposing himself to elderly cardiac patients of both sexes. Dr. Bowman, the tabloids claimed, was directly responsible for three of his patients' heart attacks. At his trial it was revealed that he had also slept with thirteen area prostitutes (who knew there were that many?!). Dr. Sex—the tabloids dubbed him that—got off scot-free. Who do you think his defense attorney was? None other than Buford Timberlake.

By the time I was done talking to Charlie it was too late to catch Dr. Bowman at his office, and since it was Tuesday, and not his golf day, I decided to chance it on catching him at home. I know, it is terribly rude to just drop in on folks as I'd been doing, but it is also terribly
rude to kill somebody and stash him in someone else's armoire. As far as I was concerned, everybody I planned to talk to was possibly the murderer.

Dr. Bowman lived in a rambling Tudor-style house in Myers Park,
the
neighborhood to live in Charlotte if you are old money. His is the kind of house that was meant for a family with children, but none are in residence. The children have long since grown and flown the coop, and his wife flew the coop as well when she found out about the thirteen prostitutes. At any rate, the shiny black Jaguar in the driveway seemed out of place.

Just as I was walking up from the street the doctor came outside and took down a large American flag that had been hanging by the front door. Although I had never met him, I had seen his picture many times in the paper. Still, I was lucky to recognize him at dusk, and without his toupee.

“Dr. Bowman, I'm Abigail Timberlake. Buford Timberlake's wife.”

It was a painful lie, and a waste of words. “You mean ex-wife,” he snapped. “Buf filled me in on the divorce.”

In the interest of my investigation, I bit my tongue. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?” I asked politely.

He gave me a quick once-over. I felt like something in the butcher's case.

“Come on inside,” he said, and turned and went in.

I followed, understandably nervous. I had no desire to see whatever it was that supposedly gave three people heart attacks. And if the man laid a hand on me, one or both of us was going to be sorry. I once took a self-defense class and know how to do unspeakable things to the soft round organs on a man's body (their eyes included), but I certainly didn't want to put my knowledge to the test.

It took only a few seconds to see that Dr. Bowman was not into antiques. The living room, which was dutifully enormous, was filled with Italian leather couches and au
diovisual systems that would make a Japanese weep with envy. It was very much a man's room.

He invited me to sit and we did a brief little dance (choreographed by me) that ensured that we sat on two different couches. Mama may have raised a nitwit, but she didn't raise a fool. I made sure my couch was nearest the door. In fact, we sat on opposing couches with a naked bronze woman kneeling between us. The bronze beauty was holding a thick slab of glass in her outstretched arms, and was presumably a coffee table. Her eyes were closed and metal lips had been cast to give her a
Mona Lisa
-like smile. She appeared to be waiting for something.

“What's this about?” he asked. He was sitting with his legs crossed—ankle on knee—and I was careful not to even glance anywhere near the trouble zone.

“I'd like to ask you some questions about the furniture that belonged to your aunt, Lula Mae Barras,” I said pleasantly.

He frowned. “I don't give a rat's ass about that.”

“Yes, well—I bought that furniture at an auction yesterday and when it was delivered today there was a body inside.”

“Some kid hiding out from the cops, eh?”

“No, a
dead
body. A murder victim.”

He scratched his thigh. I studied the bronze maiden. Thanks to a lascivious sculptor, she was doomed to have erect nipples for all eternity.

“I don't see what this has to do with me,” he said.

“Well, it doesn't,” I hastily assured him. “I just had some questions that I hoped you might be able to answer. As a personal favor,” I added dangerously.

He sized me up again. I am four foot nine and not spectacularly endowed, so it took only a few seconds. Clearly his bad reputation had left him desperate.

“Yeah?”

I took that as permission to proceed. “Your mother—
what a sweetie pie—thinks that my new furniture had special significance to the family. Unfortunately she can't remember any details. You wouldn't happen to know them, would you?”

He laughed. “Mama, a sweetie pie? You been nipping at her Jack Daniels, have you?”

“I had
tea
,” I said indignantly. “And that is no way to talk about your mother.”

“Maybe not, but Mama's an alcoholic, plain and simple. Anything my mother says is suspect. Just ask my sister, Hattie.”

“I just might,” I said. “Is that Hattie Bowman?”

“Hattie Bowman Ballard.”

I forced a smile. “I don't suppose you'd mind giving me her address and phone number.”

He gave me a smarmy smile in return. “I don't mind at all, but you won't need them. You can find her at the perfume counter at Belk's in South Park Mall.”

I glared at him. “Not all women hang out at perfume counters, you know.”

“This one does.”

“How would you know, unless you hang out there, too?”

His smile had changed from smarmy to smug. “Hattie works there.”

“Well” was all I could think to say. Crow is not a tasty dish.

“So go to Belk's and talk to Hattie. She'll corroborate what I said. Our mama is a lush.”

“How you talk!”

“Now, I'm not saying she outright lies; the old bat probably believes the crazy things she says. But if a flying saucer hovered over her backyard on Halloween night, don't you think someone else in Charlotte would have seen it as well?”

I stood up. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I
said, “calling your mama names to a stranger.”

He looked far from ashamed. More like a cat that had caught the mouse and was about to devour it for dinner.

“I've got a new CD,” he purred. “
Sensual Sounds of the Twentieth Century
. There's an expanded version of ‘Bolero' on it. Why don't you sit back down and I'll put it on.”

“Why don't you jump into Lake Norman, you oversexed cretin,” I said and darted for the door.

There are certain advantages to being small. I was able to dodge through the maze of leather sofas without getting caught, whereas he whacked his knee against the thick glass plate of the coffee table. I am fairly certain that it was he who yelped, and not the bronze lady with the
Mona Lisa
smile.

 

It had been a long, hard day and I was in need of a book fix. Nothing can transport me from my problems quite like a good book, unless it's food. Since both books and food can be purchased in South Park Mall, it seemed like a good time to drop in on Hattie. I picked up the latest thriller by Gwen Hunter and had a slice of pizza—pepperoni, double cheese—in the food court. I held the book with my left hand and ate with my right. I am one of those picky people who hates getting grease stains on the printed page. When I was done with the pizza I reluctantly pocketed the book and dropped by the perfume counter at Belk's.

Perfume counters in large department stores can be intimidating, even for experienced shoppers. They are invariably confusing. But those stories of country girls losing their way among the bottle-topped islands, only to be found years later, dead—but smelling rather pleasant nonetheless—are exaggerated, I'm sure. It took me only five minutes to find the sample bottle of Shalimar cologne. I found Hattie in ten.

“Mrs. Ballard?”

“Yes, ma'am. Can I help you?”

The speaker was a remarkably average woman. She stood about five feet five, had shoulder-length medium brown hair, just starting its fade into gray, and brown eyes. Her features were regular, except that the very tip of her nose was missing. It was as if a sculptor had chiseled off one small wedge too many. She was dressed in moderately expensive clothes, but all off the rack. She did not look rich enough to be Lottie Bell's daughter, or seamy enough to be Robert's sister.

“Could you please direct me to the Shalimar?”

She smiled. “Honey, I think you already found it.”

I had the decency to blush. I can afford my own cologne, I assure you. But those sample bottles call to me with siren songs.

I introduced myself and told her the predicament I was in. I talked fast so that I could at least highlight everything before she tuned me out. I need not have worried.

“How terrible,” she sympathized. “I once opened our hall closet to hang up my coat and Ed—that's my husband—was in there, behind the coats, with his chin resting on the bar and a flashlight shining up at his face. It about gave me a heart attack, and Ed almost died laughing. Of course that was about thirty years ago, when we were first married. Today Ed's chin couldn't fit over the bar.”

“Buford's couldn't, either.”

She looked me up and down.

“Okay,” I said, “I couldn't get my chin over a closet bar if I tried.”

We both laughed.

“I spoke with your mother this morning,” I said casually.

“Oh?” For the first time she seemed wary.

“'I wanted to get as much information as I could on the four pieces of furniture. I know it's a long shot, but I
thought knowing something about their history might give me some clues that—”

“What kind of clues?”

I shrugged. “Well, I don't know of course. I'd have to hear the clues first.”

“I don't know any clues,” she said, and started rearranging a bevy of bottles that graced a silver-plated tray. I noticed that the tip of her right index finger was stained yellow.

“Your mother seems to think that the furniture has some sort of historical significance.”

She looked up. “You used the key word, Mrs. Timberlake. ‘Seems.' Mama
seem
to think. But she doesn't, not anymore. Since Daddy died—almost three years ago—Mama lets old Jack do the thinking for her.”

“Jack Daniels,” I said knowingly. “Your brother feels the same way.”

“That's the
only
thing Bobby and I agree on.”

“I see.”

She set a bottle of White Diamonds down with a thunk. “Do you? I married a machinist, Mrs. Timberlake. A man who went no further than high school. Bobby took my parents' side on that one.”

“I take it none of them was very pleased.”

“Edward may not have a wall full of diplomas, or a pedigree that goes past his grandparents, but he's pure gold. I couldn't have asked for a better husband, and my children couldn't have asked for a better father. And speaking of my children, all three of them went to college, and all three of them are happily married and productive citizens.”

She took a deep breath.

“Now you take Bobby. A Harvard graduate married to a Vassar graduate. What did they produce? Three spoiled brats, two of whom couldn't hold a steady job if their lives depended on it. But then, what could one expect
from the examples they were shown? Bobby—well, I'm sure you know all about Bobby. But as bad an example as he is, he doesn't hold a candle to Elise, his ex-wife.”

She paused to catch her breath.

“Do tell,” I said quickly.

“Elise is a Yankee. But if my parents objected to that, they never said a word. Not to me, at any rate. That's because Elise is a blueblood, and a college graduate. And not just any college, either, but a blueblood college graduate. They didn't seem to care that Elise was—and probably still is—the biggest snob on either side of the Mason-Dixon line. She wouldn't even let her kids stay over at my house because she was afraid they would absorb middle-class values. Can you believe that?”

I reached out to pat her arm but she jerked it away. “Unfortunately I can, dear,” I said. “It sounds like you have a lot in common with Amy, your cousin Squire's wife.”

She stared at me, and I stared back. Her innocuous looks had been transformed by intense emotion. She seemed bigger and brighter. The tip of her chiseled nose was a vivid red. “Don't even talk to me about
that
woman,” she spat.

I nodded. It was obvious she was jealous. Amy had been accepted by her in-laws, albeit reluctantly. Edward Ballard had probably always been an outsider.

“I loved Squire since we were kids,” Hattie said softly.

“What?” The woman could change subjects faster than a trapped teenager.

“Of course, we were cousins, so nothing could come of it. But Squire and I were soul mates. If I had been married to Squire”—she half-sighed, half-whimpered—“he wouldn't have done what he did. I could have stopped him.”

“There's no use beating yourself up about that,” I said
firmly. “People who commit suicide are responsible for their own actions.”

She shook her head. There were tears in the brown eyes. “Oh, I don't blame myself, honey. I blame Amy. She obviously wasn't there for him in the same way I would have been.”

I struggled to think of something to say that wasn't critical. It was like dealing with a trapped teenager again.