Nightmare in Shining Armor (9 page)

“Mama!”

“Abby, don't keep me waiting. Is it true she doesn't wear slips?”

“I didn't see her underwear!” I wailed. “I was there on business.”

Mama's expression was identical to the one she wore the day my brother Toy left to seek his fortune in California. “Abby, does it always have to be about you?”

I sighed. “Okay, Mama. I'm sure you'll be delighted to know the old biddy has a boy toy named Caleb, and that the two of them will be running off to Genoa, Italy, any day now.”

Mama stamped a pink pump. “Shame on you for making fun of your Mama. I endured thirty-four hours of excruciating labor to bring you into this world, and this is the thanks I get?”

“It was thirty-
six
hours, Mama.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mama, I was there, remember? Okay, so I made up that stuff about Widow Saunders and her boy toy. The truth is, I didn't even get to see her. I only met her secretary, who happens to be a woman older than God.”

“Really. Oh Abby, describe the secretary!”

I thought of my seventh grade teacher, Mrs.
Turnipseed. “Well, she has thick tortoise shell glasses and she wears her hair in a bun.”

Mama shuddered. “What color was her dress?”

“Gray like her hair. Incidentally, Mama, she uses brown bobby pins to hold that ugly bun in place. Can you imagine that?”

Mama smiled. “Oh, Abby, it's going to be so much fun having you live right next door.”

“Say
what
?”

“Didn't I tell you? Oh dear, I must have forgotten.”

F
orget the crinolines. I would have grabbed Mama by her lapels, had she been wearing any. The last time she “forgot” to tell me something was shortly after I was divorced from Buford. Mama had put a full-page ad in the
Observer
, advertising for a husband—not for her, which would have been bad enough, but for
me
. Little did either of us know that the newspaper is available at specialty stands in every state, and that in every state there resides at least one kook.

“Mountain Man from Montana” wanted to know if I shave my legs, a reasonable question given that he proposed I join him in his unheated cabin at a nose-bleed altitude. “Arnie in Alaska” invited me to run with his dog sled team—in the traces! And just so you don't think all the kooks are from the wilder, or more open, states, “Nick in New York” proposed we get married on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Nick would dress as King Kong, and I as Faye Wray. And by the way, did I mind being his thirteenth wife?

“What have you so conveniently forgotten to tell me?” I demanded.

Mama smiled coyly. “Louise Melton is selling her house. Plans to move to Texas to be near that no-good daughter of hers. Amber. You remember her, don't you, Abby? Anyway, if you ask me, Louise should have washed her hands of that girl years ago. This is her third drug conviction, you know. Still, I guess somebody has to look after the grandbabies. Lord knows Freddy—that's Amber's husband—isn't fit to take care of the little ones. Last month he was arrested for impersonating a policewoman. A police
woman
.”

I borrowed from tomorrow's patience. “That's all very interesting, Mama, but what does that have to do with me?”

Mama's eyes were a study in innocence. “Abby, didn't I tell you?”

“Out with it!” I shrieked.

“Okay, dear, but there's no need to get yourself in a state. This is good news. I convinced Louise to sell it to you direct, which saves her a bundle in Realtor fees, which means a savings for you as well. Plus I got her to agree to a generous allowance for window treatments. Even she knows that those so-called drapes in her living room are uglier than homemade sin.”

“You
what
?”

Mama, who has mastered the art of selective hearing, patted her pearls proudly. “Abby, there's no need to thank me, dear. Never mind that I
saved you a good ten thousand dollars. How does November thirty sound as a closing date?”

I found myself literally gasping for air. It felt very much like the time Buford held me under the waterfall on our honeymoon. He claimed later it was a joke, but he wasn't amused that the only way I could free myself was to punch him in the family jewels.

“You didn't!” I finally managed to say.

“Oh, Abby, I knew it would thrill you. But I never dreamed you'd be speechless with joy. By the way, while I'm thinking of it, Louise wanted five thousand down as earnest money, so I wrote her a check.” Mama put up her hands in a stopping gesture. “There's no need to pay me back right now. Just whenever you get around to it.”

“I'll pay you back all right—”

Mercifully, for Mama, the phone rang. I could tell by the delight in her voice that the caller was Greg. After my son, Charlie, Greg is Mama's favorite male, and she dotes on his every word. I had to goad her with the heel of my peach pump—it was a size too big and slipped off easily—to get the phone.

“I want to speak to him when you're done,” she said reluctantly and handed me the heavy black rotary phone. The instrument, incidentally, is not a replica, but the real thing.

I flattened my ear against the receiver and turned away from Mama. “Greg?”

“Hey, Babes. You feeling better this morning?”

“As well as can be expected. Under the circumstances.”

“Good. Abby, are you sitting down?”

“No, I'm in mama's bedroom. If anyone sits on her bed she gets upset. You know that. Just hates wrinkles on her spread.”

“Abby, sit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Abby, sit on your mother's bed.”

“Greg, you like Mama. Why do you want me to tease her?” Lord only knew why I was arguing. Mussing up the woman's covers was the least I could do to pay her back. Heck, that would be only the tip of the iceberg.

Greg couldn't read my mind. “Sit, damn it.”

I sat. “Greg, what is it?”

“It's the Widow Saunders,” he said gravely.

“What about her? I was just there, you know—”

“That's what I thought. Abby, Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders is dead.”

“What? When?”

“Abby, can you meet me for lunch?”

“Well, I suppose—”

“I'm at Bubba's. Get here as quick as you can.”

Mama got her phone back.

 

Bubba's China Gourmet on Pineville Mathews Road may not serve up the best food in the Charlotte metropolitan area, but its dishes rank among the most interesting. Where else can one find stir-fried collard greens, sweet and sour okra, and moo goo gai grits? Adventurous diners may wish to
sample General Tsao's possum, or perhaps the Thousand Year Old Crawfish (make sure they're fresh first!). Finicky eaters need not dismay. There is always the dynamite salad bar with all the iceberg lettuce you can eat, and if you're really lucky, Bubba will have gotten it into his head to make lime gelatin squares that day.

Parking is always at a premium, thanks to Bubba's low prices, and I had to the circle the lot for at least ten minutes before finding a space. But since I spotted Greg's car right off, I wasn't worried. Finally a Buckeye family of five waddled out and crammed themselves into a mini-van, leaving me with plenty of room, along with the smug satisfaction that Bubba was beginning to get famous above the Mason-Dixon line.

A faux Asian waitress with bottle-black hair and a Japanese-style kimono pounced on me the second I pushed the greasy door open. “I'm your hostess, Kimberley,” she said in far too eager tones. “How many in your party?”

“Two, but it doesn't matter, dear. My boyfriend's already seated.”

“Oh, but it does matter. Your name, please?”

“Timberlake,” I said crossly. “Look. My fiancé is the hunk sitting right over there, so if you don't mind, I'll just join him.”

I started toward Greg, but Kimberley grabbed my elbow. “You need to be seated,” she said.

“And you need to let go of my arm.”

Kimberley did as she was bidden. “I'm only trying to keep my job,” she whined. “Bubba—I mean,
Mr. Jenkins—said I have to take everyone's name and seat them in order of arrival.”

“I'm your only arrival at the moment, dear.” The door opened and a family of four entered. “Well, I was. And since when has Bubba gotten so particular?”

Kimberley whispered behind a smudged menu. “He's going upscale to capture the South Park market. He plans to change the name to Bubba's Asian Buffet and wants to add a few Thai dishes to the menu. He's already added a couple of Japanese delicacies.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Hush puppy sushi.”

“What the heck is that?”

Kimberley talked to her menu again. “They're Mrs. Paul's fish sticks, but he cuts them in half and rebreads the ends so that you can't tell.”

I thanked Kimberley for the warning, told her to attend to the waiting party of four, and ducked out of her reach. Greg, who was sipping an iced green tea with lemon stood when he saw me hobbling toward him.

“That was fast.” He kissed me before sitting again. “No offense, Abby, but for a moment there I thought you were your mother. What's with the getup?”

“I don't want to go home. Not just yet. And since Mama is almost my size, and has such good taste…” I let my voice trail off, hoping to be contradicted.

“Speaking of whom, how is your mama?”

It is a question he asks me every time I see him. I know he's just showing that he cares by asking it, but this time it irked me.

“You just talked to her,” I snapped. “She's fine, as you could tell. So fine she went ahead and bought me a house in Rock Hill.”

“You're kidding!”

“Well, she made an offer at any rate. But I didn't almost break my neck getting here to talk about her. Tell me about Corie Saunders.”

Greg settled back in the booth. “You sure you don't want to order first?”

“Greg!”

He spread his large, strong hands. “Okay. I was on my way over here to eat anyway, and I got a call from Investigator Sharp. She in turn had just gotten a call from Investigator McClendon, who was calling from the Saunders mansion. According to McClendon, you were seen at the house just minutes before her body was discovered. Abby, is this true?”

My head was spinning. “Yes, I was out there to see Widow Saunders, and yes, it must have been just moments before she died, because I drove straight from there to Mama's.”

“How long did that take you?”

“Maybe forty minutes. Forty-five at the most.”

“And then?”

“And then I took a shower. Then Mama and I argued about clothes, and then we argued about the house she wants me to buy. Then you called. I guess I was at Mama's about half an hour.”

He nodded. “That fits in with the witness's report.”

“What witness? You mean the boy toy?”

“The chauffeur. He was coming back from getting the car gassed—said the widow had an appointment—when he saw you leave by the kitchen door. What was that about, Abby?”

I had no choice but to tell Greg the entire story. You can bet I left nothing out. To his credit, Greg didn't once interrupt me.

He whistled softly when I finished. “An old lady like that running off with a kid. I don't see it.”

I decided to test him. “But what if their ages were reversed?”

He shook his head. “I still don't see it. What would we talk about? She wouldn't know my music. Hell, she probably wouldn't even know what a drive-in was.”

I beamed. The guy was a keeper. I needed to remember that.

“Well, I won't run off with a younger man,” I promised.

Greg laughed. “Not even with a boy toy like this Caleb guy?”

“Tight buns aren't everything.”

Greg beamed like the refurbished lighthouse on Cape Hatteras. For a second I thought the smile was for me.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I turned in surprise. Investigator Sharp was standing behind me, looking sharper than ever in
a baby blue suit. The column skirt was split so high that if I wore it, my cleavage would show—along with everything else. What, pray tell, do you think the department head would do if the men started dressing like that?

“Hello, Gregory.” The pair of well-dressed legs had shed her high girlish voice in favor of what she must have supposed was a sultry one. To me she sounded like Lauren Bacall on steroids.

“Hey, Barb.” Greg pointed at me. “You remember Abby, of course.”

“Mrs. Timberlake,” I said in tones crisper than Bubba's lettuce.

Greg patted the bench beside him. “Have a seat.”

The blond flashed me a triumphant look and did what she was bidden. I glared at Greg.

“Well, Abby,” Investigator Sharp said, “I see you're going to another costume party.”

“
What
?”

“I've been admiring your dress. That fifties retro look is so cute. I have a picture of my grandmother courting in an outfit just like that.”

“Your grandmother courted in a Conestoga,” I growled.

“Abby!” Greg was not amused.

“Well, she started this.” I turned to the woman. “This,” I lied, “is my favorite everyday dress. It may look quaint to you, but it allows me to move without exposing my hinney. Besides, not all of us look good in pencil cases.”

Greg rolled his eyes helplessly.

Investigator Sharp seemed surprisingly pleased with herself. “Well, shall we get down to business?”

“By all means,” I said. “I'd like to hit the salad bar before the Great Wall of Cheddar disappears altogether.” I was referring to Bubba's edible centerpiece which is carved fresh daily.

“Good. Abby—”

“Mrs. Timberlake.”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Timberlake, I'm afraid you have some explaining to do.”

I sat on the edge of my seat. Then again, given my height, that's where I usually sit if I want to cross my legs.

“If you must know, I went to see Widow Saunders about her armor collection. I wanted to see if she had any seventeenth-century pieces I could compare with the suit Tweetie was found in.”

Barbie appeared baffled. “Why would you do that?”

“Because if it was really an antique, it would narrow your search. There aren't that many people in Charlotte who could afford such a piece, just for the sake of art. Say, is there any possibility I could take another look at that suit?”

Investigator Sharp frowned. “The armor is evidence. We had our own expert examine it.”

“You have a medieval armor expert. Who?”

“Mrs. Timberlake, this is not your concern.”

“Is it Wynnell Crawford?”

“Cool it, Abby,” Greg muttered.

I chose to ignore my beloved. “Because Wynnell
may, or may not, be the expert she claims, but you have to remember she was the one who found the body.”

And yes, I did feel guilty for having suggested my best friend might not be a reliable witness. That she might actually have something to hide. The truth was, though, that Wynnell
had
been hiding a lot of things lately. Who knew what remained to be uncovered?

Tweetie's twin twittered. “We don't use suspects as expert witnesses.”

“So she
is
a suspect?”

“That's privileged information.”

“Fair enough. Can you at least tell me what your expert determined? Was that genuine period armor?”