Nightmare in Shining Armor (14 page)

“Not that there's much you can say at this point to redeem yourself.”

“
Redeem
myself?”

“Mrs. Timberlake, I'm sure you have no appreciation for the amount of pain your slight has caused us, so allow me to fill you in. It's never easy to move from one part of the country to another, but you folks here in the South have made this move a hellish experience for us.”

“How so?” I am nothing but gracious to our immigrant populace from the North.

“Well, for starters, you're all a bunch of phonies.”

“I
beg your pardon!”

“Oh sure, the South is famous for its hospitality, but that's reserved only for visitors. For people who plan to stay, it's quite another thing.”

“That's ridiculous.”

She was a short woman—even by my standards—with a thick neck and torso, but skinny legs. Seated as she was on the rococo chair, her feet didn't touch the floor. When she shook her head vigorously the spindly appendages swayed back and forth like twin pendulums.

“It's the truth, Mrs. Timberlake. You natives—or perhaps I should say ‘y'all'—resent our presence. It's like you're afraid we're taking over or something. Outwardly you're too polite to say anything, but you show it in other ways.”

“Like not inviting you to my party? Look—”

“Oh, it's not just that—although I guess that is the straw that broke the camel's back. But take this house, every neighbor within a two-mile radius has seen the inside—taken the grand tour, so to speak—and we've had a number of couples over for dinner, but not a single one has invited us to visit their home.”

“Maybe they're intimidated.”

“In that case they could invite us out to a restaurant, but the phone never rings.”

“Perhaps you have a point, ma'am, but—”

“There's more. I joined a book club—there was an ad for it posted at the library—and has that ever been an eye-opener. Maybe half the women are from the North—the others from the South—but we northern women have learned to keep our mouths shut. All the discussions revolve around the Southern woman's point of view, the Southern cultural experience, the Southern this, the Southern that.” She took a deep breath. “Well, let me tell you, Mrs. Timberlake, in my book club back home in Connecticut, we never debated the Yankee point of view. We never even thought to consider it. We just read the damn books and discussed them.”

Well—”

“All this Southern talk isn't limited to the book club, either. There isn't a day that newspaper doesn't have an article about some special aspect of the South. Radio and television do the same thing. It's as if everything has to be interpreted in some sort of special Southern context. Back home we hardly used the word ‘North' unless we were giving directions. We certainly weren't obsessed with it.”

“That's because you were never an occupied nation,” I said quietly. I really didn't intend for her
to hear that, but the rich old biddy had the ears of a bat.

“You were a separate nation for four years and that was one hundred and fifty years ago. Get over it!”

I hopped to my feet, too angry to feel pain. “Maybe we resent you because you don't make an effort to understand us. You equate our accents with ignorance and—”

“I'll have you know I do no such thing.”

“Well, you certainly interrupt a lot, which is not a Southern trait.”

Her face colored. “Point taken. But I've done everything else humanly possibly to fit in. I serve grits for breakfast, we eat hoppin' john at New Year's, and I've even learned to eat okra.”

I felt sorry for the woman. She seemed every bit as sincere as Mama's priest does on pledge Sunday.

“It's not purely a food thing, First Mate Keffert. It's well—okay, if you really want to know, I'll tell you.”

She nodded vigorously, her legs rising and falling like ripples in the wake of a speedboat.

“It's all about manners,” I said, and not without a good deal of guilt. The way I'd been acting lately, I wouldn't be surprised to wake up one morning in King Arthur's Court. “It's about saying yes ma'am, and no sir. It's about biding one's time and waiting patiently in line at the grocery store. It's about—”

“Cutting off drivers in traffic, and tailgating so close you can practically smell the breath of the person behind you?”

“Touché. Look, my mama throws a huge Christmas party every year. I'm sure I can get her to invite you.”

“Really?”

“Really. And if I know Mama, she'll be more than happy to give y'all some lessons in Southernness before then. Who knows, by the time the party rolls around, you may even be able to pass.”

The first mate beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Timberlake.”

“Please, call me Abby.”

“In that case, you may call me Terri. You know what, Abby? I think you and I are going to be friends.”

I smiled and stood, careful to put my weight on my left foot. “Terri it is. Say, are you sure your husband's out?”

She looked startled, and then frowned. “Oh yes, he's out. Abby, are you calling me a liar?”

It behooved me to tread carefully. “No, of course not. It's just that—well, heck, Terri, I may as well come right out and say it. I was hoping to get a peek at his armor collection.”

She glanced around the room nervously. My eyes followed hers to one of the gnu heads. Was it my imagination, or did I really see a faint glow in one of the beast's glassy eyes? Perhaps the captain was in after all, and spying at me through the mounted head—then again, I've always had an active imagination.

“Abby,” she said softly, “I could show you the captain's armor collection, but you'd have to
promise never to tell him. Or anyone else for that matter. Things have a way of getting around and Richard—I mean, the captain—would be very upset with me.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” I said blithely.

She smiled. “Follow me.”

I was astounded by all the space inside that stucco ship. Terri led me along passageways lined with tightly closed doors and down flights of stairs so steep, they were virtually nothing more than ladders. Finally, where one would expect to find the engine room on a real ship, she paused outside a low wood door and felt along the lintel for a key.

“Get ready,” she said as she unlocked the door. “It's quite something.”

I thought I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for what greeted my eyes when Terri finally found and turned on the light switch. Before me lay a replica of a medieval torture chamber. The walls were made out of concrete stones, of the sort often found in zoo displays. These had been shellacked in areas to make it appear as if they were dripping with moisture. Chains as thick as my wrist hung from the ceiling and extended from the walls, and attached to these by shackles were lifelike figures of people. So real were they that I couldn't help but scream.

Terri laughed. “They're just wax, Abby. Those three are castoffs from Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in London, and that one came from the
Ripley's museum in Gatlinburg. The rest we acquired from private sales and auctions.”

I stared at the morbid exhibits with the fascination of a tourist. The majority of the wax figures were merely shackled to the walls or dangled from the ceiling, but two were hooked up to instruments of torture. One man, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, was stretched across the infamous “rack.” A second figure, that of a woman, was about to be embraced by the killing hug of the Iron Maiden.

I caught my breath. “You haven't let your neighbors see this, have you? I mean, if you have, this could be why—”

She laughed again. “Heavens no. This is the private part of our—or should I say, the captain's—private collection. Personally, Abby, I find this creepy.”

That was a relief. Not that thirteen gnu heads weren't creepy enough, but I try not to be judgmental. Still, if indeed I did end up in Charleston like Greg wanted, I was going to miss folks like the Kefferts. No doubt Charleston had its share of crazies, too, but it would take me a while to ferret them out.

I glanced around the room again. “I don't see any armor,” I said warily. After all, I'd seen that
Twilight Zone
episode in which real people were encased in wax and put on display.

“The armor's through here,” she said and pushed lightly against one of the fake stones. At her touch an entire wall, including two chained
wax prisoners, swung away from us, revealing a much larger and very different room.

This new chamber contained no obvious horrors. To the contrary, it looked liked a fairy-tale version of a castle throne room. In fact, there were two thrones, one larger than the other, on a dais at the far end, and they made the rosewood throne in the living room look crude by comparison. Resting on each red velvet seat was a gold crown, and over one armrest of the larger throne lay a purple velvet robe with what looked like ermine trim. Leading up to the dais was a runner of red carpet, and on either side stood rows of life-size knights in full armor. These were not wax figures, mind you, but solid wood carvings capable of supporting the weight of their respective regalia.

This time I merely gasped in astonishment. “This is just incredible!”

The room was illuminated by wall-mounted gas torches that had presumably been ignited by the opening of the door. The flickering light was just bright enough for me to see that Terri was blushing.

“Richard and I like to pretend that he's Arthur and that I'm Guinevere. This room is our Camelot.”

“Where's the round table?”

She giggled nervously. “That's in another room. Abby, I know you must think we're real nut cases, but we never had children. What I'm trying to say is, this is our hobby. I mean, is it really any different than playing with model trains, or collecting
Raggedy Ann dolls? We're not hurting anyone.” She was beginning to sound desperate for approval.

“Except for those poor folks back there,” I said with a jerk of my thumb, and laughed.

She smiled gratefully at my joke. “Richard sometimes takes our little game too far. Not that he would ever do that to a real person—I didn't mean that.” She shook her head to signify a change of subject. “Well, here's the armor you wanted to see. Of course to us they're knights, and they all have names, but I won't bore you with that.”

“Please bore away,” I cried. In the dim light I was already examining the nearest suit. Sure enough, it had a neat little dent on the lower right quadrant of the breastplate. However, as I've already made clear, I am no expert on armature. Still, even to my untrained eye this particular suit did not look English. I expressed my observation aloud.

“You're right, it's not,” Terri said without batting an eyelash. “This is where Arthur receives visitors from all over the world. These,” she said, waving her arms at the rows of knights, “have come to petition admittance to Arthur's court.”

She introduced the steel-clad statues as if they were living men, and I, playing along, spoke briefly to each in turn. As I did so, I studied their armature. All but three bore the proof mark, but none was in so fine a shape as the suit in which Tweetie had been found dead. No wonder the
Captain had been so eager to pay big bucks for the mystery armor.

Then a chilling thought crossed my mind; what if Captain Keffert already owned the mystery suit? What if his attempt to purchase the cuirass was merely a ruse?

“Terri,” I said calmly, “does the captain—or should I say, the king—ever wear any of the suits?”

She blushed again. “Why would King Arthur dress like a knight?”

“Change can be fun.” I've said those same words to Mama innumerable times.

She looked down at the concrete floor. “Sometimes he does like to be Sir Galahad.”

“And you? Whom do you like to be?”

“Arthur,” she whispered.

“Indeed.” I didn't know what else to say.

“Richard enjoys being—well, bossed around. Sometimes if he's really naughty he has to spend time in there.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the torture chamber.

It was my turn to blush. The two of them were probably as old as Mama, for crying out loud. I wasn't about to ask if the Connecticut captain ever played the part of Guinevere.

“Do either of you ever wear the suits out in public? You know, like to Renaissance festivals and such?”

She looked up. The shock on her face was genuine.

“Heavens no. These are valuable pieces. We're
really very careful with them. These rooms are climatically controlled.”

“Just asking, dear.”

We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “How long has your husband been trying to acquire a genuine seventeenth-century Italian cuirass?” I finally asked.

It was intended as a trick question, but Terri didn't miss a beat. “Ever since he saw it on TV this morning. Frankly, Abby, my husband thinks you've been holding out on him.”

“That's ridiculous,” I cried. “I told him I don't own that suit.”

She put a hand on my arm as if to quiet me and then, much to my surprise, her bony fingers found my wrist and she began to pull me toward the thrones. I tried to slip out of her grasp without seeming rude, but the talons tightened.

“Come with me,” she all but purred, “there's a little room behind the dais you've just got to see.”

I'd reached my spookiness quota for the day. I gently pried her fingers open with my free hand, and once liberated took a quick step back, almost knocking over a knight.

“I've got an appointment,” I said. “Actually, it's a date with a Charlotte detective. I told him to meet me here, because the restaurant we're going to is in Belmont.”

Terri glanced at her watch. “It's a little early for dinner, isn't it?”

It's hard to stay on your toes, especially with a
wounded ankle. “He's an
old
detective. He likes his dinner early.”

“At three?”

“He goes to bed at seven. Look, I've really got to go.”

She stepped forward, her hands outstretched, and that's when I considered bolting. I know it was silly of me. She wasn't that much larger than I and she had a good twenty years on me. If her objective was to turn me into a wax specimen for the Keffert Chamber of Horrors, brute strength was not on her side. Of course, if she'd had a gun in her hand, that would have been another story. But who knew what was literally hiding up her sleeve? Or, for all I knew, the floor beneath me could suddenly give way and I'd plunge into a pit replete with pendulum.