Nightmare in Shining Armor (6 page)

“W
ho?” I demanded. “Y'all know something, don't you? Is it one of y'all's clients?”

They sat stone-faced, mum as a pair of jade Buddhas.

“Come on!” I wailed. “Out with it!”

“You'll never believe it,” Rob finally said.

My heart sank. “Oh no! But why? Y'all knew I was over my feelings of hate.”

“Abby—”

“And when did you get the armor? Y'all never said anything about it?” To be perfectly honest, I was feeling more left out than horrified.

“Abby, we didn't do it. We didn't kill Tweetie.”

“You
didn't
?”

The men burst into laughter. Rob's period of hilarity was mercifully short, but Bob switched from laughing to braying like a donkey. He can give C. J. a run for her money any day.

“Stop laughing at me! Rob, you just said I'd never believe it, so what was I to think?”

“Not that we killed Tweetie!”

I waved a hand impatiently. “Okay, I'm sorry. But then what is it I'd never believe?”

Bob brayed to a stop. “Who it is who collects genuine antique armor.”

“Who?”
We were beginning to sound like a bunch of owls.

“The Widow Saunders,” Rob said smugly.

I looked at him in astonishment. Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders is one of Charlotte's most reclusive millionaires. If it wasn't for the plaques around town denoting her many civic contributions, and the occasional photo on the
Observer
's society page, I wouldn't have believed she existed. I have never met her, nor do I personally know anyone who has. But then again, there are many layers to Charlotte society, as I'm sure there are everywhere. The higher one climbs, the more one discovers there are new heights to scale. For a middle-class peon like myself, the pinnacle will remain forever shrouded in the mists of protocol.

“How do you know this?” I demanded.

The men grinned. “Because,” Rob said, “we've been to her house.”

“Get out of town!”

Rob shook his handsome head.

I grabbed a bony chunk of Bob's shoulder. “He's kidding, right?”

“He's not kidding. She had us over to the house for an appraisal last week.”

“What was it? What did you appraise?” Considering the widow's reputation, I wouldn't have
been surprised to learn it was the Holy Grail the Rob-Bobs had been asked to tag.

“Sorry, Abby, but we're not allowed to tell.”

“What?”

“She asked we keep it confidential.”

“But we're friends. We break confidences all the time. Just last week you told me that Linda Gettlefinger had her eyes done, and she made you promise not to tell.”

They looked sheepish, but declined to comment.

“Please!”

Rob spread his long patrician fingers in a gesture of finality. “Give it up, Abby. But we can tell you that the Widow Saunders has the finest private collection of armature either of us has ever seen.”

“Not that we spent much time looking at it,” Bob said with a nasty wink. “There were other things to occupy our attention.”

“Bob!” Rob said sharply.

I gave it up as Rob suggested. There was no point in trying to wrench that secret out of them.

“Would y'all be willing to introduce me to the Widow Saunders?”

“But Abby—”

“I'd like to study a real suit of seventeenth-century armor,” I said quickly. “Just to satisfy myself that the armor Tweetie was found in wasn't real.”

They nodded reluctantly.

“All right,” Rob said, “we'll do what we can. But it may take a few days to come up with a good excuse. She's a suspicious old thing. I forgot to tell
her Bob was coming with me and she nearly freaked out. Thought he worked for the IRS.”

“Tell her I'm a history buff.”

“That might do the trick. Like I said, I'll think about it.”

“In the meantime,” Bob said, “there are fresh sheets on the Queen Anne, and breakfast will be brought to you at eight.”

 

He was true to his word. At precisely eight in the morning I was awakened by a gentle touch on my shoulder. I sat up to find a lap table astride my hips. Atop the table was a silver tray set with hand-painted Limoges china. A neatly folded white linen napkin sported a complement of sterling cutlery in the Sir Christopher pattern.

I studied the dishes. A pot of hot chocolate. A toasted bagel with lox and cream cheese. A rasher of bacon. A small plate of fresh sliced honeydew melon. And three tiny poached eggs.

My sigh of relief cooled the eggs and chilled the melon further. “No more emu eggs?” I said jokingly.

Bob blinked. “Oh, we still have plenty of those, but as everyone knows, emu eggs are for brunches and late-night suppers.”

“Of course. I knew that.”

“These are guinea eggs.”

I smiled. An egg was an egg, wasn't it? Just as long as it came from a bird smaller than I.

“They look delicious,” I said sincerely. “Thanks.”

Bob sat on the edge of the bed. “You need a good breakfast. Especially after what you went through last night.”

“Last night?”

“Tweetie,” he said simply.

“Oh my God! I can't believe I didn't remember!”

“It's normal to block things out, Abby.”

“But I remembered the eggs—”

“Knock, knock.” Rob stood in the doorway holding a cordless phone. He nodded at me. “It's for you. Buford.”

The chill that ran up my spine was enough to give Santa shivers. I started shaking all over.

“What will I say?” I whispered desperately.

One of Bob's warm hands found mine. “Just tell him what you know. He can't blame you, Abby.”

Rob handed me the phone. “You want us to stay?”

For some reason their kindness made me feel like a big baby. “No, I can handle this,” I said resolutely and took the phone. I waited until they'd tiptoed out of the room before speaking into the phone. “Hello?”

“Abby?”

“Yes, Buford.”

“Are you all right?”

I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Everything seemed normal to me.

“Buford, is that really you?”

“Of course it is. Who else would it be? Abby, Greg called me with the terrible news and—”

“I'm really sorry, Buford. You have my deepest
sympathy. I know you think I didn't like Tweetie—hated her even—but it isn't true. Why, we had lunch together just last week to discuss—”

“Hey, Abby, I believe you.”

“You
do
?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Because Greg said you were really upset. Look, Abby, I really am in Tokyo this time. Just listen.” Presumably he held the machine away from his ear because I heard the din of voices, some of which may have been Japanese. “You hear that?”

“Yes,” I said warily.

“I'm at the train station. I'm on a flight that leaves from Narita Airport in two hours. It's the last direct flight to the States tonight, so I have to make this connection. I would have booked an earlier one, but everything was full. Anyway, I just needed to hear how you are, and to tell you that I'll be there as soon as humanly possible.”

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

“Oh, and Abby, I've called Malcolm and told him to get in touch with you. Whatever you need, you just tell him.”

With that Buford hung up. I stared at the phone in my hands until the poached guinea eggs on my plate were as cold as hail pellets. I was still staring when Rob rapped softly on the door frame.

“You have a visitor,” he said.

“Who?”

“A gentleman by the name of Malcolm Biddle. Abby, isn't that Buford's junior law partner?”

“His partner from hell,” I corrected him. “Mr. Satan himself. Where is he?”

“In the living room. Shall I show him in?”

“Not on your life. I'll meet him out there.”

Y
ou can't get any lower, if you ask me, than to ditch your wife while she's in the hospital having a hysterectomy. But that's just what Malcolm did. He dumped Jenny in favor of a tart named Miranda. And to think this man had the nerve to expect an invitation to my party!

For any doubters of karma out there, Miranda left Malcolm just three weeks later. The new object of the bimbo's affection was a Carolina Panther. But apparently the burly ballplayer had chimes Miranda couldn't ring, because shortly after their tryst began, he was caught soliciting male fans at the state welcome station in Pineville.

At any rate, I detest Malcolm. I did my best to make that clear to him. I choked down Bob's breakfast—which might have actually tasted pretty good under other circumstances—took a long hot bath, and dressed slowly. Only when I felt totally in control did I deign to hobble into Beelzebub's presence.

He looked up from one of the Rob-Bob's antique magazines. An objective person might find Mal
colm attractive. He has regular features and a solid build. His hair is his own, and while I can't vouch for the provenance of his teeth, he seems to have a full contingent. Yet, while his complexion isn't particularly oily, he seems to exude an air of slipperiness.

“Hey, you all right?” he asked and arranged his lips in a smirk.

“Hey, yourself. You know, Malcolm, I really don't need you checking up on me.”

He closed the magazine and tossed it onto the silk hassock. “Buford's orders.”

“You're his junior law partner, for crying out loud. You're not his errand boy.”

“That's easy for you to say. You're divorced. He still signs my checks.” He laughed. “Come to think of it, I guess he still signs yours, too.”

“Not hardly. If you pulled your weight in the firm you'd know better. Buford played his good old boy card and got out of paying alimony altogether.”

Malcolm whistled. “Man, that had to hurt. But if you hook up with me, Abby, I won't treat you that way.”

“What?”
I couldn't believe my ears.

“What do you say, Abby? Just one date.”

“Not for all the bran in St. Petersburg,” I growled. “You're supposed to be comforting me, not hitting on me.”

“Why can't it be both?”

“Out!” I pointed to the door.

“Calm down,” he had the nerve to say.

“Don't tell me what to do!” I hobbled forward threateningly. “I said ‘out'!”

“Who's going to make me?”

“Me. And if I need to, I'll get help.”

“You mean
them
?”

The Rob-Bobs had discreetly disappeared into what they so charmingly call “the salon.” The muted strains of classical music could be heard through the closed door.

“Either one of them could wipe the floor with you,” I said through clenched teeth.

He had the temerity to laugh.

I shook a finger at him in warning. “Rob has a black belt and Bob a brown.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not.” And I wasn't. Rob did indeed have a black belt. It went nicely with his best suit. As for Bob's brown belt, I bought the matching corduroys myself.

Malcolm slid out of the rococo settee. Mercifully, there were no grease stains left behind.

“Okay, I'm outta here. But if Buford asks, I did my duty, right?”

“If you say so.”

“Too bad about Tweetie,” he said, in the same tone he might have used to refer to milk gone sour.

“Tweetie was no saint,” I said tightly, “but she didn't deserve to die.”

“Yeah, well, we all have to go sometime.”

“You got that right.” I gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the door.

Caught off guard, Malcolm staggered a few steps. But when he regained his balance, he spread his legs in a stance of defiance.

“We have to talk,” he said.

I wasted no time. “Rob! Bob!”

My buddies must have been sitting with their heads next to the speakers. No help was forthcoming.

“We have to talk,” Malcolm said again.

I glared at closed salon doors. “We have nothing to talk about, Mr. Biddle.”

“I think we do. I think there's been a big misunderstanding.”

“On your part maybe,” I snapped.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What?”

“You're right, Abby. I got it all wrong.”

“You can say that again.”

To my astonishment—and disbelief, I might add—Malcolm underwent a metamorphosis right in front of my eyes. The slime just seemed to melt away, uncovering a man who looked as vulnerable as my Charlie did his first day of school.

“I'm sorry, Abby,” he said. There was not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “I was given the wrong impression and never bothered to check things out for myself.”

“What things?” I hissed. The man better not be playing me for a fool.

“Buford—well, let's just say I was led to believe that you had the hots for me.”

“What?”
If my shriek didn't bring the Rob-Bobs running, nothing would.

The doors to the salon stayed tightly closed as Malcolm continued. “It's all my misunderstanding, of course, but I thought you were just playing hard to get.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!”

“Yeah, I realize that now. Again, I'm really sorry.”

I took a deep breath. “Look, even if that were true, this would be a hell of a time to hit on me. Finding a dead woman under your bed is traumatizing.”

“Yeah, you're right. That was really stupid of me. There is no excuse for my behavior.”

I stared at Malcolm. He hardly looked like the same man. Was it possible I had been at least partly wrong about him?

“What you did to your wife was despicable,” I said. “Do you have an excuse for that?”

He shook his head remorsefully. “I shouldn't have left her at a time like that. Sure, she was having an affair with her doctor—”

“Come off it!
You
were having an affair with a bimbo named Miranda.”

He blinked. “Say what?”

“Give it up, Malcolm. Everybody knows. The fact that you got dumped is only half of what you deserved.”

As if wounded by my words, he clutched his middle dramatically. “I need to sit.”

“I said give it up. Your heart, if you ever had one, would be higher than that.”

He pushed past me and virtually threw himself down on the settee. “It's not my heart,” he gasped. “It's an ulcer.”

“Right.”

“You don't have to believe me.” He took a couple of deep breaths, his handsome face twisted in a grimace. “What you said before—I never touched Miranda.”

“Sure you did. Tweetie told me.”

He smiled crookedly. “Ah, Tweetie. She would have said that. Miranda was her best friend. The doctor was Miranda's husband. Apparently Tweetie twisted things around a bit.”

“Is that right? Well, I'll just ask her!” Realizing what I'd said, I clapped a hand over my mouth. I clapped it hard.

“Well, you can't do that now, can you?” he said softly.

I plopped my mouthy self on the hassock. Tweetie had told me the tragic details of Malcolm's affair over lunch at the Red Lobster. I remember that day clearly; the restaurant had inexplicably run out of shrimp scampi and I'd had to console myself with an extra cheese biscuit. At any rate, my ex-husband's current wife had made me promise not to tell a soul, and so far I'd kept my word. They only people I'd shared the sad story with were Mama, Wynnell, C. J., and my daughter, Susan. Oh, and the Rob-Bobs, but that goes without saying. Surely Tweetie hadn't meant that I not tell
them
.

“You really didn't cheat on your wife while she was in the hospital for a hysterectomy?”

He looked stunned. “A hysterectomy? Is that what Tweet said?”

“Yes. You could have at least waited until she was home again.”

“It was liposuction, and she didn't even stay overnight.”

“Oh my.”

He shook his head. “That Tweetie. She really had it in for me, didn't she?”

“Why was that?” I asked weakly.

“Because I convinced Buford not to run for the Senate. Apparently she had big dreams. Senator's wife, then governor's wife, and then finally First Lady.”

The thought of Tweetie Bird in the White House made me shudder. I don't mean to be disrespectful of the dead, but if that had happened, during the very next election America would have voted into office a communist government. Either that, or a fundamentalist right-wing government so strict they required their head of state to take a vow of celibacy.

“I'm so sorry, Malcolm. I got the story all wrong.” I didn't know what else to say.

Although Malcolm smiled, I could see he was still in pain. “That's all right. Now that everything's straight, between us, let me ask you again. Are
you
all right, Abby?”

 

I told Malcolm that I was not all right. How does one erase such a gruesome sight from one's mem
ory? How does one go to sleep in a house where a woman was brutally murdered? Now I'm not saying I believe in ghosts, and I'm not saying I do—well, okay, I do.

It seems perfectly logical to me that a soul which has been forced from the body under sudden and unusual circumstances might be confused, unable to find its way to the spirit realm. Or in some cases, unwilling. I was touring the Civil War battlefield of Manassas—where the Battle of Bull Run was fought—one foggy morning when I got separated from my group. As I was stumbling about the moors, barely able to see my feet, I encountered a beautiful young woman in period costume. Thinking that she was a guide, I asked her for directions back to the exhibit hall. After all, the dewy grass was soaking my shoes and I had to use the restroom—desperately—or even more of me was going to get wet. There is no shame in cutting one's losses, you know.

The auburn-haired beauty had a wicker picnic hamper hanging on one arm, a coarse brown blanket tucked under the other. Her large gray eyes appeared to see right through me.

“Which way to the front?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My Edward is serving under Brigadier General Irvin McDowell. I have come to watch righteousness prevail.”

“Oh, a Yankee,” I sniffed on Wynnell's behalf.

Instead of responding, the young woman sim
ply disappeared. Just like that, she evaporated before my eyes, melding with the fog. As she did so, I felt the hair on my arms stand up.

Later, back at the information center, I learned that the women of Washington had come out in mass, laden with picnic baskets, to monitor the battle's progress from distant hills. Much later, in a poem, the title of which I now forget, I read of a maiden named Emily “with eyes so fair” who, while on her way to watch her lover triumph at Bull Run, wandered afield and was killed by a stray cannonball. According to the poem, the missile was launched by the Federals, quite possibly by her sweetheart himself.

At any rate, even if you do not believe in ghosts, surely you will agree that the joy I once experienced living in my new house was now a thing of the past. Tweetie herself might not return to haunt me, but the memory of her corpse would. No, there was nothing left for me to do but sell the house. Undoubtedly news of the murder was in the morning
Observer
and on television, and only a ghoul would make me an offer.

Malcolm gave me hope, however, because before he left he gave me the name of a contractor who could remodel the master bedroom in such a way that I wouldn't recognize it, yet the integrity of the house would remain unchanged. Apparently this fellow made a living redoing rooms in which folks have died, and murders were his specialty. I thanked Malcolm, apologized again, and
was in the process of closing the front door behind him when I heard the voices in the stairwell. So loud were they that even the Rob-Bobs, sequestered behind their salon door, heard them—or so they told me later.

“Abby's not going to forgive us just because you promise to give her a ride,” the first one said.

“What if I promise not to buck?”

I sighed in resignation. There was no point in trying to avoid Mama and C. J. It would be like a child trying to outrun puberty. Unless you were Michael Jackson, you didn't stand a chance.

“Abby's always been afraid of horses,” Mama said. It wasn't true, of course. “Maybe that's where we went wrong last night.”

“My Granny Ledbetter always wanted to own a horse,” C. J. said, launching into one of her infamous Shelby stories. “Only she and my granddaddy were too poor to buy one. Then one day, for Granny's birthday, Granddaddy dressed up the milk cow, Clarabelle, to look like a horse. He tied a fake mane around the cow's neck and glued some extra hair to her tail.

“Man, did Granny ever love her horse. She rode Clarabelle—only she was called Trigger now—around the farm so many times that the poor thing up and died. Of course Granny was very upset, but she was a practical woman, and like I said, she was very poor. Anyway, she had Granddaddy butcher Trigger, and that night they sat down to the best meal they'd had in years.

“Well, Granny couldn't get over how good the
horsemeat tasted. This was right after the war, and folks in France had even less to eat than we did here. So Granny canned what was left of Trigger and sent it to our French cousins in Paris. Back then no one in France had ever tasted horsemeat, you see. But they all thought they had when they tasted Trigger, and, well, the rest is history. To this very day horsemeat is very popular in France, and all because Granny wanted a horse.”

“I don't think Ledbetter is a French name,” Mama said skeptically.

The women emerged from the stairwell onto the landing and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mama was back in her uniform of Donna Reed–era duds. The vintage ensemble consisted of pink and white gingham dress with full circle skirt held aloft by layers of crinolines, pink hat and gloves, pink shoes, and her ubiquitous pearls. The last was a gift from my daddy, and to my knowledge Mama has never taken them off. Not even to shower.