Larceny and Old Lace (15 page)

“Who then?”

“You.”

God gave us attached tongues on purpose. Still, I came awfully close to swallowing mine. When I thought Charlie was in danger I didn't feel scared, I felt angry. I would have fought a tiger with my bare hands—and quite possibly torn it limb from limb—in order to protect my child.

Now suddenly I felt vulnerable. Thanks to Tweetie and four pounds of silicone I was alone in the world. Even Mama was too occupied with her mysterious giggler to come to my aid.

“Me?”

“You.”

“You can't be serious. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

“To make you back off. Whoever killed your aunt wants
you to stop playing private eye. And I agree with them. You should leave that up to us.”

“Just what am I supposed to do when my aunt is murdered and a friend thrown in jail? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs?”

“In law enforcement we work as a team.”

I ignored the twinkle in his eye. “So?”

“So, you let us investigate the suspects, and you concentrate on what you know best. You find out anything more about that antique lace your aunt supposedly had?”

My face burned. I'd been far too busy planning a funeral and trying to clear a friend, not to mention being evicted, to give the lace much more thought. Fortunately I had learned from my teenage children that the best way to defend oneself is to counterattack.

“She didn't supposedly have it—she
did
have it. Charlie wouldn't lie. Not about something like that.”

He nodded. “Find out what you can. It's always better to have someone working on each end of a case. Maybe we'll meet in the middle.”

“Any bets that the middle is wearing a silk orange jumpsuit and snakeskin boots?”

He chuckled. “I don't suppose you remember details, other than her clothes?”

“Hey, you've seen her, too, so don't ask me to describe her to a police artist. I might not be kind.”

“How old would you put her at? Thirty-five?”

I do not bray like a donkey when I laugh, no matter what Buford says.

“Forty?”

“That woman was born when God was young,” I said kindly.

“She was blond, I remember that.”

“Miss Clairol number seventy-four. I hear it covers gray the best.”

“About average height for a woman.”

“Average is relative.”

“One hundred and thirty pounds?”

“Without her hips, maybe.”

“Well, I've gotta run. Remember, I'll investigate the people, you stick to the lace. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

I locked the door behind him and turned the sign around. It was time to go to work.

R
ob's bear hug left me smelling like cologne for the rest of the day.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I didn't have time to shower, and you know how jails smell.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“Right. Anyway, Bob here told me how you went to bat for me.”

“It was nothing.”

“Taking on the entire association single-handedly is not nothing. I don't know how I can ever thank you.”

“Another night's lodging?”

The Rob-Bobs exchanged nervous glances.

“Okay, dinner again sometime,” I said charitably. “Maybe something with
four
feet.”

“Deal!” Bob boomed. That man really ought to consider broadcasting.

“In the meantime, I have a small favor to ask.”

“Anything. Except a bed for tonight.” Rob laughed.

“What do you know about lace?”

I swear both men blushed just a little.

“What kind of lace?”

“Old lace. Antique lace.”

Bob stepped forward. “Most of it is crap, from a collector's point of view. Machine-made stuff less than a hundred years old. You can buy it anywhere for a couple of dollars. Hell, most of the time it's even cheaper than the new stuff.”

I shook my head vigorously. “This isn't what I have in
mind. The lace I'm talking about is handmade and
old
.”

Rob chuckled. “How old is old?”

“Four hundred years. Maybe more.”

They whistled in unison. Bob is a better whistler, too.

“So, what do you know about that kind of thing?”

“That it's more common than you might think,” Bob said. “It was made for people to wear—rich people, granted—but there were a lot of them, even back then, and they wore a lot of the stuff. I read someplace that King Henry the third had state robes trimmed with four thousand yards of pure gold lace. Sometimes even horses wore lace back then.

“However, most of it was made with natural fibers that deteriorate with time. As a consequence most lace from that period shows up as scraps and isn't worth all that much.”

“But what if one came across a piece of lace that old in mint condition. Say a fancy neck ruff, or a pair of sleeve ruffs?”

“You're talking big bucks then. Is this lace yours?”

“How big is big?”

“That all depends. There are other factors besides age and condition.”

“Like provenance?”

“Exactly. History means a lot to some collectors. I know a dentist from New Jersey who paid a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for one of Charlemagne's teeth.”

“You're kidding!”

“He's kidding,” Rob said. “But seriously, people do pay a lot extra for lace if there's a story attached, and, of course, depending on whether or not it is point.”

“Point?”

“The term used to mean needle lace, as opposed to bobbin lace, but now it can mean either thing if it is of exceptional quality and design. Old Venice point generally brings the highest prices.”

“I see. Okay, let's say the lace has no known history, but it's point lace. And the best. How much then?”

Bob scratched his head. “That's like trying to guess what's behind door number one.”

“Please guess. It's important.”

“Maybe forty, at the right auction.”

“Forty dollars?”

Both men laughed. “Forty thousand. If it was an exceptional piece.”

I felt lightheaded and braced myself against a French highboy. “And if it was worn by some king, maybe even the Pope? How much then?”

“Up to ten times that,
depending
. Look, you know this business. This isn't a supermarket where you've got fairly standard prices for standard items that everyone has to have.”

“I get it.”

“But do you have it?” Rob asked. “You still haven't answered that.”

“Not yet. Oh, by the way, did a blond woman come in this morning who was wearing an orange silk jumpsuit and black snakeskin boots?”

“Mother's here?” Bob asked.

“He's kidding,” Rob said. “What about this woman?”

“She said you sold her your Regency chairs. Did you?”

“No, the chairs are right there.”

“I can see that. However, she said she bought them and returned them. According to her she bought them Monday afternoon, just prior to my aunt's murder. For some strange reason she claims to be your alibi.”

Bob glanced at Rob, who looked away. Too casually, if you ask me.

“The world is full of lunatics,” Rob said. “People who get vicarious pleasure from associating themselves with tragedy. Isn't that right, Bob?”

Bob nodded vigorously. “I know a woman in Manhattan who hangs around the emergency rooms of hospitals squirting ketchup on herself. They call her Bloody Mary. And she's a stockbroker with a six-figure income.”

“How
is
Mary?” Rob asked.

“Fine, now that Letterman has shown an interest in her shtick.”

“Very funny, guys. I'd love to hang around all morning and chat, but some of us have more important things to do. If you see the woman in the orange silk jumpsuit—she also likes
to wear woolly things—give Greg Washburn a call.”

“Why? Is she in some kind of trouble?” Again, Rob sounded about as casual as Mama did when she first tried to talk to me about sex.

“Let's just say something is rotten in Denmark, and I think it's fish.”

“Rotten fish can taste surprisingly good,” Bob said. “In Iceland they bury shark on the beach for a month and then dig it up and serve it for dinner. They consider it a delicacy. It's kind of hard to find in this country, but it's worth the search.”

“He isn't kidding,” Rob said. “It smells worse than hell, but it tastes kind of sweet. Like Thai fish sauce.”

I glared at them, wishing them both a mild case of diarrhea. “The fish I'm talking about wasn't shark, and it wasn't buried for a month. It was stuck through my mail slot.”

“Ooh.”

“With a threatening note.”

“What did it say?”

“It threatened my Charlie, that's what.”

“Whoa,” Rob said. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Apparently they don't like me looking for my aunt's killer.”

“That's heavy stuff,” Rob said. “Did you see the woman in orange deliver the fish?”

“No. She'd be orange juice if I had.”

“Ah, so then it could have been anybody.”

“Absolutely anybody,” Bob agreed.

Rob practically waved a fistful of papers in my face. “Well, I'd love to chat, but I have a whole lot of catching up to do.”

“Ditto,” Bob said.

I couldn't get anything else out of either of them, not even a dinner invitation for that night. I would have bet Buford's bank account that they both knew the lady in orange, but unless I could find a way to tie them down and insert flaming bamboo slivers under their fingernails, they weren't going to squeal.

It was time to pay my respects to the Major. His shop was directly across the street from mine, and if anyone had seen
the blond pumpkin slip something through my door slot, it was him. Besides, someone had to put a stop to his expansionist plans. Our block was supposed to be populated by genuine antique stores selling upscale merchandise. The last thing we needed in our midst was a paramilitary store frequented by tattooed men with no necks. Since no one else in the association had the gumption to stop him, it was up to me. And stop him I would, no matter what it took.

 

The Major was in a good mood. Either he'd finally gotten Peggy into bed or he'd sold Hitler's pajamas. I'd forgotten to look at the dummy in the window when I went in. Not that it mattered, however, because the dummy came bounding over to meet me at the door.

“That guy just bought them,” he bubbled. I've seen percolators with less verve.

“Bought what?”

“The Führer's nightwear.”

“You're kidding! Adolph's pj's finally sold?”

“For my asking price, too, if you can imagine that.”

It was hard to imagine. The proud new owner of the Führer's flannels didn't look like he had two nickels to rub together. If he did, he surely didn't have a place to keep them. The man was naked except for a pair of very brief spandex shorts and flip-flops.

Call me old-fashioned, but I didn't count the rings through both nipples, and the three in his nose, as clothes. Nor did I consider the thirty-some wire hoops in his ears anything but ornamentation. As for the large zirconia stud on his tongue, it undoubtedly spent as much time inside as it does out. Clothes, by my definition, are external things.

“The poor fellow could use a pair of pajamas,” I said kindly.

“The diamond is real,” the Major said smugly. “The ‘poor' fellow is Malcolm Deiter the third. He could buy all of Selwyn Ave, and half of South Park Mall if he wanted to, and not miss a buck.”

I couldn't help but stare. Malcolm Deiter the third went to high school with me in Rock Hill. M. D. Three, as we called
him, was the poorest boy I knew. Since his career aspirations never went beyond changing tires at a hole-in-the-wall garage, M. D. Three remained poor.

It was only recently that he had the good fortune of spilling a bowl of chili on his crotch while dining out at a fast-food restaurant. I never did learn how Buford found out about it, but it was the best thing that ever happened to Malcolm. Just the week before I'd read in the beauty parlor that M. D. Three was well on his way to becoming one of the richest men in the Carolinas.
If
he made it through all the appeals, then Buford would be very rich as well. No doubt then he could buy himself an entire flock of Tweetie birds. I, however, would remain poor, unless I spilled a bowl of chili on my crotch. Given my sex life over the past three years, it was an option I might do well to consider.

“It's rude to stare,” the Major said needlessly.

“Some folks would say the same thing about public nakedness.”

“Mr. Dieter is not naked. He's wearing shorts. After all, it is almost ninety degrees out there.”

“Ninety-two. We're looking to set a record. Incidentally, do you know a blond woman who dresses just the opposite from Malcolm?”

“You mean no jewelry?”

“No, I mean too many clothes. This morning she was wearing an orange silk jumpsuit and black boots. She is maybe fifty and has bleached blond hair.”

“Nope.”

“Wednesday she was wearing—”

“I don't keep track of my customers' clothes, Abigail.”

“Well, maybe you should. That,” I pointed to Malcolm, “has got to be against the law.”

I spoke softly, but Malcolm had good ears. “So sue me,” he said.

“I just might do that, M. D. Three.”

“Abby!”

The man came straight at me, arms open and rings clanking. I'm sure he meant to hug me, but I stepped deftly behind the Major.

“Long time no see, M. D. Three.”

“Abby, you hear about my case?”

The Major is on the plump side, and I made no attempt to look around him. I am not a fan of punctured body parts. When I first got my ears pierced, it was all I could do to look at myself in the mirror. As for a close view of pierced nipples—I would rather eat ostrich again.

“I heard,” I said. “Maybe if you wore clothes the chili wouldn't have burned you.”

Fortunately the man has a short attention span. “Hey, you got any S.S. uniforms the same size?”

The Major pointed to several racks in the back, and Mal-colm trotted off happily.

“So Major, have you seen the woman I was describing, or not.”

“Not. Most of my customers are men, and the women who come in are with them. You know—”

“Tweetie birds.”

“What?”

“Young women. Very young women.”

“No, bald.”

“Bald young women?”

“That's right. It's a free country, girlie.”

“You mean skinheads? White supremacists, that kind of thing?”

“I don't ask them their politics.”

“And they obviously don't need to ask yours.”

“You have a problem with that, girlie?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

He drew back. I wouldn't go so far as to say he clicked his heels together, but he puffed his pudgy little chest out and stood at attention.

“My politics is none of your damn business.”

“You are quite right. However, as a fellow member of the association, your expansion plans are. How come you didn't bring them up at our last meeting?”

He deflated. “Peggy tell you about this?”

“Yes. And frankly, Major, I think you're going to have a
hard time getting us to agree to it, much less the zoning board.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“Well, for one thing, you don't sell real antiques.”

He looked stunned. “You said before that I did.”

“Well, I lied then.”

“The hell you say! What's that?” He pointed to a German helmet, circa World War I.

“An old hat, Major, but not an antique. According to the bylaws of the association an antique must be a minimum of one hundred years old, and at any one time, over fifty percent of our stock must be antiques.”

“Screw the bylaws.”

“Be my guest, Major, but then I'm afraid you are going to have to relocate.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I smiled calmly. “May I remind you that this is primarily a residential neighborhood, and that it was the association that pressed for the zoning variance. Now, if you were to expand your shop further, you would be flaunting your violation of the current ordinances. In other words, Major, someone might notice that you aren't selling proper antiques.”

“The hell I'm not! I've got a musket over there from the War Between the States.”