Nightmare in Shining Armor (11 page)

I
gasped. “Who were they?”

“This is supposed to be privileged client/ dealer information, you understand. It can't go any further.”

“My lips are sealed with concrete.”

Wynnell sighed. “Captain Keffert is one of them. He buys mostly small pieces in Europe and brings them back for me to identify. To my knowledge he doesn't have a three-quarter suit of—let's see, from what little I can remember, it was meant to look like early seventeenth-century Italian armature.”

“That's right,” I said. “The Rob-Bobs have confirmed it.”

“They have?” The left hedgerow shot up to meet her hairline.

“Well, not that this piece was genuine. But that it was seventeenth century in style.”

She smiled with satisfaction. “They may know a lot, but I didn't think they knew everything.”

“Wynnell, I'm going to ask Greg if I can examine the piece. Is there anything—any telltale mark, I should be looking for?”

“
You?
”

“I'm not an idiot, Wynnell. If you tell me what to look for, I can find it.”

“Abby, you've been in this business long enough to know that there are generally lots of subtle clues that one goes by when judging the authenticity of just about anything. It's not like I can just say, ‘Look for this, look for that.' You really need the piece in front of you while I list all the possibilities. You need me there to point them out.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “But there is one thing a real piece would have that a tourist copy wouldn't.”

“What's that, besides a higher price tag?”

“A hole.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's more of a dent, really. You see, Abby, in the sixteenth century firearms were just beginning to become accurate. This created a market for bulletproof armor. In order to withstand a bullet, manufacturers made armor much thicker, which in turn made it much heavier. A full suit could weigh as much as eighty pounds. To compensate for the extra weight, combatants began wearing fewer pieces, and concentrated on protecting the abdomen and head. That's why the three-quarter cuirassier became popular—the legs became expendable.”

“Ouch!”

“True. But better one's leg than one's liver. At any rate, manufacturers needed to prove that armor was bulletproof, and to do this, they shot at
the breastplate point blank. The dent caused by this was the proof mark. Get it?”

“Got it. But what if the bullet went all the way through?”

“Then you didn't buy the piece.”

“Duh. So theoretically, if the cuirassier in which you found Tweetie was genuine, there would be a dent somewhere on the breastplate?”

“Yes, that's the most likely spot. But bear in mind, Abby, that the proof mark was exhibited by only the highest quality armor. There were plenty of lesser pieces made. Most warfare still consisted of hand to hand combat with swords or lances.”

“I see. Wynnell, you said there were
three
collectors other than the widow who owned authentic pieces. Captain Keffert was one. Who are the other two?”

“Donald and Regina Larkin and—”

“Get out! Geppetto and Pinocchio?”

“A small collection. But as I recall, they have some museum quality pieces.”

“Wow!” I was practically, and uncharacteristically, speechless. The Larkins, perhaps in an attempt to hide their Yankee origins, collected primarily Southern pieces. Their brick home in Myers Park was filled with Civil War–era Charleston furniture and period memorabilia of all kinds. The most European thing I'd seen in their house was the cup of French roast coffee they served me on my last visit.

But Wynnell was not through. “I'm counting them as one collector, even though they're really
both into it. It's unusual, you know, to find a woman that interested in armor.”

My heart was pounding with excitement. “So who's the third?”

“Jerry Wentworth.”

“The dice?” I was, of course, referring to his party costume.

“That would be die, Abby, since his wife is not a collector at all. Still”—Wynnell laughed—“the dice are loaded. They can afford the best.”

I laughed, too, grateful for the information. When one thought about it, it made sense. Just as the Larkins were trying to bury their unsavory Northern past beneath mountains of antebellum mementos, no doubt Jerry Wentworth was trying to erase his blue collar Carolina past by purchasing expensive European antiques. And not just any old thing, either, but the very symbol of nobility. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that a Wentworth coat of arms, either copied or fabricated, hung in their newly constructed South Park home.

Wynnell laughed a little too long. “So, Abby,” she finally said, “you forgive me?”

“For holding out on me?”

“If that's how you choose to look at it.”

I sighed. “Sure, I forgive you. But you have to do penance.”

The incomparable brows bristled in alarm. “I'm not Catholic, Abby, you know that. I'm not even Episcopal, like you.”

“Not that kind of penance! I want you to drive me out to the house so I can pick up my car.”

We could hear the door to her shop open, even if we couldn't see it. I have a string of authentic Swiss cow bells dangling from a hook on the back of the front door of the Den of Antiquity. Wynnell, as you might guess, has a set of wooden wind chimes. I hate to admit it but her door opens melodically, whereas my door opens with a clang.

“Abby, I've got customers. Look, you can keep my car all day if you like. I'm not planning on going anywhere.”

“Thanks, dear, but it's not just about my car. I need some of my things, and I want to poke around a bit and—well—”

“You're afraid?”

I nodded shamefully.

“Of what? Oh, I get it! That thing about the killer always returning to the scene of the crime, right?”

“Well—”

“Ghosts,” someone immediately behind me said. “She's afraid of Tweetie's ghost.”

I whirled. As I spun, my wounded foot gave out on me and I lost my balance. Fortunately the interloper was none other than C. J., who just so happens to have a generous middle. My forehead bounced off the woman's stomach and I was upright again. The pain in my foot, however, was excruciating.

“Damn! C. J., don't you believe in announcing yourself?”

The big girl grinned. “Scared you good, Abby, didn't I?”

“You
startled
me,” I said irritably. “There's a difference. Wynnell, didn't you see her coming?”

Wynnell shrugged. “I guess I was distracted. I mean, I heard the door open, but I was hoping it was a customer. C. J., did anyone else come in with you? Any customers?”

C. J. shook her head. “Hey you guys, I've asked you to stop calling me C. J. My name's Crystal now.”

Our young friend was looking right at me, so I let Wynnell do the eye rolling. The three of us, along with Mama, had recently taken a road trip to Savannah, Georgia. The purpose of our visit was for me to collect an inheritance left me by my late daddy's sister. While in that atmospheric city we'd met a woman named Diamond—a voodoo priestess of sorts—who claimed that C. J. had been gifted with the second sight. The girl's new name was to be Crystal, she said.

I'm sure that sounds like a lot of malarkey to you, too, but C. J. takes it seriously. She may be one of the most intelligent people I know—in terms of raw IQ scores—but her emotional chandelier is missing—well, a crystal or two.

“At any rate,
Crystal
,” I said, “it's impolite to sneak up on people.”

“Sorry. But I heard what you were talking about and I was anxious to help.”

“With what?”

“Well, I'm not doing anything special today, so why don't I drive you over to your house?”

“Makes sense to me,” Wynnell said.

It didn't to me. C. J. usually spends her Sunday mornings doing
New York Times
crossword puzzles. Not
solving
them, mind you, but
creating
them.

“C. J.—I mean, Crystal—why aren't you home thinking up brain teasers?”

“They never print them, Abby, so what's the use? They claim they're too difficult.”

“That's a shame.” I was sincere.

“Yeah, well, the editor at
Pravda
says he might be interested. He's going to let me know for sure next week.”

I felt sorry for the kid. It had probably never occurred to her that one can't just translate a crossword puzzle from one language into another.

“Crystal, dear, I hate to tell you this, but translating them into Russian isn't going to work.”

“Don't be silly, Abby, I know that. These are new puzzles I wrote in Russian.”

“You know Russian?”

C. J. nodded. “Not as good as I know Hungarian—but about on a par with my Hebrew and Greek. Definitely better than my Mandarin Chinese, but not nearly as good as my French, Spanish, and Portuguese.”

Wynnell's facial shrubbery shot up, while my jaw dropped. “You're putting us on,” I said.

C. J. shook her big blond head. “I speak seventeen languages, Abby. How many do you speak?”

“Uh—at least one.”

“Good one, Abby. You see, Granny Ledbetter thought we would get bored with our music
lessons if she taught us only in English. When I took up the tuba—”

“You play tuba, too?”

“I play ten musical instruments, Abby. How many do you play?” There was no guile in the big gal's voice.

“Well, uh, I played the kazoo in Mrs. Anderson's third grade class. And I play the radio.”

“Very funny, Abby. How about you, Wynnell?”

Wynnell must have done something kind for someone that day. While she was struggling for words the mellifluous tones of the wooden chimes announced a customer.

“Oops, sorry, gotta go!” Wynnell said and skipped off, grateful to be out of C. J.'s grasp.

I had no choice but to accept the girl's offer of transportation.

 

I fully expected to find my house wrapped in yellow crime scene tape and at least one uniformed officer patrolling the premises. Much to my disappointment, my house and its environs looked no different than on any other day. But a murder had been committed in my home, for crying out loud. Why didn't it rate the same sort of treatment I'd see other crime scenes receive on the six o'clock news?

Perhaps C. J. really did have the second sight. “Don't feel bad, Abby,” she said. “It just means that Greg is satisfied he has all the information he needs.”

“It's not Greg who's in charge,” I snapped, “but a blond bimbo named Barbie.”

We were still in the car, sitting in the driveway. C. J. unbuckled her seat belt and turned to me.

“I know, Abby. I talked to her this morning. I was just trying to make you feel better. You always seem so happy when Greg's name is mentioned. Your face just lights up. My granny gets like that when you say asparagus.”

I waved a hand impatiently. “You spoke to Investigator Sharp?”

“Abby, she spoke with everyone who was at the party.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, okay, I don't know if she spoke to
everyone
, but your assistant Irene says she spoke with her. The Kefferts said the same thing. And—”

“What did she ask? What did you say?”

“She asked about your relationship with Tweetie, and did I know anyone else who might have had a motive.”

“I didn't have a motive to kill Tweetie,” I wailed. “It's been at least a year since I stopped hating her.”

“That's what I told Ms. Sharp. Only I said it had been eight months. But I told her that you were not a violent person, because if you were, I'd know. It seems that I sort of bring out the worst in people in that regard. A woman back home in Shelby even said she wanted to punch my lights out.”

I shrugged. C. J. could get under one's skin, like
chiggers on a raspberry bush, but I had never felt even the slightest bit violent toward her. And I have certainly never felt like striking her.

“Abby,” C. J. continued, “I've been thinking.”

“Always a dangerous thing,” I said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, but this time I've
really
been thinking.”

I unbuckled myself. “About?”

“I was thinking maybe someone was trying to frame you.”

“
Me?
”

“Well, face it, Abby. You get under people's skin, too.”

“I do not—okay, maybe some folk's skin, but if that's the case, they deserve it.” I was only kidding, of course. I braced myself within the contours of the bucket seat. “You're not thinking of anyone in particular, are you?”

“Nah—well, there is Irene Cheng.”

“She said that?”

“She thinks you're bossy.”

“That's because I'm her boss!” I wailed. “Besides, she has a lot of nerve! She's practically taken over my shop.”

“You're right, I don't think it's Irene. But maybe it's somebody who thinks you overcharged them for something. Or maybe you promised to sell a client a one-of-a-kind, big ticket item—something really rare—and then turned around and sold it to another for even less because you forgot your promise to the first person. Then maybe when the first person complained, you stuck out your
tongue. Then maybe they called you childish, and you began crying like a baby. Then maybe—”

“Crystal, this is beginning to sound like your story.”

She blushed. “Well, I was way younger then. It happened over a year ago. My point is, Abby, that you need to stop and consider who your enemies might be.”

“Point taken, dear.” I got out of her car and she clamored after me.

“Abby, whatever happened to Tweetie's sheep?”