So Faux, So Good Read online

  So Faux, So Good

  A Den of Antiquity Mystery

  Tamar Myers

  For the love of my life,

  Jeffrey C. Myers

  Contents

  1

  Billy Ray Teschel became a buzzard buffet along I–77 on…

  2

  I was born Abigail Louise Wiggins forty-eight years ago, but…

  3

  It wasn’t a dead faint, mind you, but more of…

  4

  I have a boyfriend—okay, a manfriend, but you know what…

  5

  Greg pulled up just as I slammed shut the trunk…

  6

  I didn’t have that much to do to get ready.

  7

  I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Purnell…

  8

  It was my turn to have a heart attack. Those…

  9

  Peggy and C. J. were not nearly as patient as…

  10

  There is a small museum with an information desk at…

  11

  Dmitri was thirsty, but fine—certainly in far better shape than…

  12

  “I beg your pardon?”

  13

  Leona Rose Grady came into the world with wide-open eyes…

  14

  According to Mushroom Man, I returned to the Roach Motel…

  15

  “You can call him back from our room,” Peggy said,…

  16

  Richard Nixon ran his free hand through the graying thatch…

  17

  “What? I didn’t do it!” I screamed. Fortunately there was…

  18

  “You’re joking!”

  19

  I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself by…

  20

  I gasped. Surely I had not heard right.

  21

  Magdalena Yoder was not happy when I showed up at…

  22

  I nearly fell off my rocker. “Get out of town!”…

  23

  Peggy’s Lincoln Town Car was going to make the perfect…

  24

  No one should set an eighteenth-century epergne atop a sticky…

  25

  Adrienne Wheeler followed us back to the Roach Motel. All…

  26

  I immediately dialed back.

  27

  “More tea?” Mama asked.

  Other Books by Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Billy Ray Teschel became a buzzard buffet along I–77 on a Monday afternoon at precisely 4:01 Eastern Standard Time. Eyewitnesses say his car careered down that steep incline between Elkin, North Carolina and Hillsville, Virginia, ricocheting first off the guardrail and then the opposite embankment. When it hit the guardrail the second time, the Honda Accord opened up like a pull-top can and parts of Billy Ray were strewn along the highway like a trail of Vienna sausages.

  Since I had yet to even hear of the man, and had no idea how he would affect my life, I had no compunction about hosting a party at that exact moment in my shop, the Den of Antiquity, in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was a victory celebration. I, Abigail Timberlake, had just that morning come into possession of an exquisite antique English tea service. It had been a fast and furious auction at Purnell Purvis’s Auction Barn in nearby Pineville, but I had been uncharacteristically reckless with my resources. Everyone gasped at my final bid, but it was the winner. At the party a few diehards were still gasping.

  “You paid twenty thousand for that?” Wynnell Crawford asked for nearly the twenty thousandth time.

  “You were at the auction, dear,” I said, my patience wearing thin.

  Wynnell is a fellow antiques dealer and my dearest friend, but she is stuck in a time warp when it comes to money. She is genuinely shocked each time we go out for coffee and the bill tops a dollar. The woman makes her own clothes—frightful creations all—because she refuses to pay even Goodwill prices. But trust me, Wynnell is well heeled, and in no need of your pity. Her otherwise tight fist opens up considerably when it comes to marking up her merchandise.

  “Twenty thousand is more than I paid for my first house,” Wynnell said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “That was in 1956, dear. Besides, I already have a customer lined up who will pay thirty.”

  “Thousand?” Wynnell’s hedgerow eyebrows were arched in mock surprise. It was all an act. She would gladly sell it for forty grand if it were hers.

  A sudden whiff of deodorant working overtime reminded me of the fact that we were not alone. Half the antique dealers on Selwyn Avenue had shown up for the impromptu bash—we are a close-knit community, after all. But that is not to say that we all like each other equally. Frankly, if it wasn’t for his charming English accent, I wouldn’t be able to stand Major Calloway, our local antique arms expert.

  “Don’t tell me it’s that couple up in Belmont again,” the major said. “That man who calls himself a captain?”

  I smiled pleasantly. “That’s confidential, dear. And anyway, who are you to question Captain Keffert’s rank?”

  The major claims to have served in the British army in Punjab, back in the days of the raj, and even dresses in uniforms of that period. Nobody in Charlotte believes him. Unless the man has had a total makeover by Cher’s plastic surgeon, he isn’t a day older than sixty, and even that would mean he was only an infant when he was assigned to his first posting on the Indian subcontinent.

  “I’ll have you know I was commissioned by the viceroy himself,” he snapped.

  “Captain Keffert was commissioned by Captain Crunch,” I snapped back.

  “Very funny,” he growled.

  “Our Abby’s a hoot,” Wynnell said kindly, although I really didn’t need her to come to my defense.

  “Yeah? Well, she doesn’t let anyone else get a crack at the good stuff when it shows up at Purvis’s Auction Barn. Just because she has big bucks, she thinks she’s hot stuff.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. The man was actually bitter at having lost his bid for the silver. It didn’t make a lick of sense because the major doesn’t stock merchandise even remotely resembling English tea sets.

  “I don’t think I’m hot stuff,” I hissed, “and my bucks are none of your business!”

  The major turned sourly away and I glared dutifully at his back. Meanwhile more of my true friends circled round me like a string of prairie schooners.

  “Congratulations, Abby!” Peggy Redfern squealed and wrapped me in her arms.

  I gently pushed her away. Peggy attended the Tammy Faye school of makeup, and I was wearing a white linen jacket.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You were bidding pretty fast and furious against me there for a while. What happened?”

  Bright blue eyelids fluttered as she shrugged. “I guess it’s that ‘cash and carry’ rule mean old Purnell Purvis insists on. With those renovations I did to my shop last month, that much cash is a little hard to come by.”

  I nodded. The truth is, that woman is always hard up for cash thanks to her penchant for buying expensive presents for handsome young men. Rumor has it that Peggy has more notches in her bedpost than cable has channels.

  A faint cough behind me was the signal that Gretchen Miller was gearing up to speak. I turned and smiled at her. She is the current president of the Selwyn Avenue Antique Dealers Association and a woman of few words. Precisely because she is such a taciturn woman, I treasure each of her words as if they were pearls.

  “You did well, Abby.”

  “Thank you, dear,” I said. “I know you wanted the tea set. Better luck next time.”

  Gretchen raised and lowered her oversized tortoise-rimm
ed glasses in acknowledgment. Apparently four pearls were all she was willing to dispense that day.

  “Hey, doll,” a tall handsome man said, “I want you to know I covet your set.”

  I arched my back and poked Rob Goldman in the stomach. With my finger.

  “They can be yours for the right price, dear.”

  “Hey, watch it there,” Bob Steuben boomed. He is Rob’s life partner, as well as business partner, and has a jealous streak as wide as the swath Sherman’s troops cut through Georgia.

  “I got a good deal, didn’t I?” I asked exultantly.

  Rob nodded. He is the expert on our street. On everything. His shop, the Finer Things, is quite possibly the most upscale antique shop in the metropolitan area.

  “That’s a genuine William Cripps creation, all right. Circa 1760. I’m not really fond of rococo, but the workmanship on this tea set is something else. It’s definitely one of a kind.”

  I beamed.

  “A toast is in order,” Bob said, uncorking the first bottle of champagne.

  My coworkers gathered around, their plastic goblets at the ready. Confidentially, it was Wynnell who supplied the faux glasses, but I supplied the champagne and had spared no expense. In fact, each of those three bottles of bubbly bore a double-digit price tag.

  “To Abby!” Bob boomed, when we were all served.

  “To Abby!”

  My guests’ cheers warmed the cockles of my heart. It had been a difficult year, but at last things were looking up. And I don’t mean just in business matters, either. In two months and three days I was going to marry the handsomest man in the Carolinas.

  “To me!” I said foolishly.

  I should have remembered my Sunday school lessons. Even in the Episcopal Church we learn that pride precedes a fall. Just about the time I was toasting myself, a rescue worker walking along I-77 discovered Billy Ray Teschel’s wallet. In that moment, the course of my life changed dramatically.

  2

  I was born Abigail Louise Wiggins forty-eight years ago, but for over half of those years I have used the surname Timberlake. I got it from my ex-husband, Buford. His name and his seed were the only good things I got from him.

  On my forty-fifth birthday Buford dumped me for a bimbo named Tweetie who was half my age. That would have been a good time for me to dump Buford’s name. However, we had two children who shared that name, and I had just purchased—call it a birthday present to myself—a set of expensive, monogrammed towels made from the finest Egyptian cotton. Name changes could wait.

  Susan and Charlie are both in college now, and so do not live with me. Well, if the truth be known, Buford got custody of both children and our dog, Scruffles. It’s not that he was the better parent, I assure you. Buford just happens to be a crack divorce lawyer, and is plugged into the system more ways than there are to fix beans. I should have known something was fishy when I walked into the courtroom that first day of the proceedings and found Buford and the judge slapping each other’s backs and laughing like schoolboys sharing a dirty joke. But I surely didn’t expect to be left penniless and childless in one fell swoop.

  At any rate, I live alone with my cat, Dmitri, in Charlotte, North Carolina. Call me old-fashioned, but I will not allow my fiancé, Greg Washburn, to move in with me until after the wedding. Not that it’s your business, but I won’t sleep with him until then either. One has to draw the line somewhere, especially when one expects one’s children to toe it.

  The Den of Antiquity is my life. Not only does my antique shop supply me with a livelihood, but through my business dealings have come some of my closest friends. Like Wynnell Crawford, for instance. And C. J.

  Therefore I was not surprised to find C. J. waiting for me outside my shop Tuesday morning, the day after my impromptu bash. I was not entirely pleased, either. C. J. may be a friend of mine, but she has the annoying habit of telling interminable, depressing stories. If she made prison-visiting one of her ministries, capital punishment would be moot.

  I had no time to die of boredom just then, but I couldn’t very well be rude. “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked and turned to unlock the door.

  “Didn’t you miss me yesterday, Abby?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The second the key turned, C. J. pushed right inside in front of me. “I wasn’t at your shindig yesterday, or didn’t you even notice?”

  I smiled. C. J., whose real name is Jane Cox, is only twenty-four. Tell me, how many normal twenty-four-year-olds know, much less use, the word shindig?

  “Of course I noticed,” I said, “and I did miss you. Where were you?”

  “I guess we Coxes are easily overlooked,” she said, ignoring my question. “Did I ever tell you what happened to my Great Aunt Jane from Shelby?”

  I glanced at the ship’s clock behind my counter. “I don’t believe you have, dear, but can we save it for another time?”

  Alas, there is no stopping her once she’s on a roll. “This is the same aunt I was named after, of course. My grandmother’s sister. Anyway, last year she took the bus into Charlotte and visited one of those new mega-bookstores we have here. When the store closed they made an announcement, but Aunt Jane is deafer than a white cat wearing earmuffs. Next thing she knew, she was locked in.”

  “Bless her heart,” I said, hoping to preempt the tale.

  “Oh, she made out just fine. Aunt Jane likes a hard bed, so sleeping on the floor was no problem. And this store had a coffee bar that sold cookies and little cakes. When Aunt Jane got hungry, she just fixed herself a snack.

  “Truth is, Aunt Jane had such a good time, that when the store opened the next morning, she hid behind the magazine rack until there were enough customers for her to blend in. She lived in that store, Abby, for two solid weeks.”

  “Get out of town!” I said.

  “Scouts honor. Just like I said, she was just plain overlooked. Even Uncle Elroy back in Shelby didn’t notice she was gone. At least not until the end of the first week when he sobered up enough to give her another beating.”

  I shook my head in sympathy.

  “Aunt Jane might well have spent the rest of her days happily reading, if it weren’t for that all-night inventory the store took. One of the clerks finally found her, curled up asleep in the bathroom on a bed of paper towels. It was the only place she could think of to hide. Anyway, they didn’t press charges or anything, but they did make her pay for a pound of coffee, and six dozen cookies. Then they drove her home.”

  “The poor dear.”

  “Oh, by then it was all right. Uncle Elroy had choked to death on a hamster bone, but that’s another story.”

  “Spare me,” I begged. “Besides, you still haven’t told me where you were.”

  “I was at home. Doing my laundry. I wasn’t here because you didn’t invite me!” she wailed.

  I was taken aback. Those were real tears in her eyes.

  “Bless your heart,” I said and gave her a quick hug. “These postauction parties are always spontaneous. Anyone can come—no one is invited. Didn’t you know that?”

  She blinked back the tears. “No.”

  C. J. is the newest vendor on our street. Apparently the gathering at my shop was the first impromptu bash since she joined our ranks.

  “I promise to invite you next time I hostess a gathering, official or otherwise,” I said solemnly.

  “You swear?”

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

  “Oh, don’t do that, Abby. My cousin Maynard back in Shelby—”

  I showed her politely, but firmly, to the door.

  When I called the Kefferts to check on a convenient time to deliver the tea set, I got their answering machine. It took me a minute to figure out that the voice on the machine was Captain Keffert pretending to be a butler, and that it was not, in fact, a real butler. In the spirit of the game I pretended to be a maid, calling about an interview. Of course I left my name and phone number.

  Ju
st as I was hanging up the phone my mother struggled through the door, laden down by an enormous tote bag. It looked like an army duffel bag, but it was orange instead of green. At five foot one, Mama towers over me, but this bag was even too much for her to handle.

  Mama lives just twenty-five miles away in Rock Hill, South Carolina, but she usually knows better than to show up at the shop uninvited. She may have given birth to me, but customers always come first. Something extraordinary—possibly even tragic—must have happened.

  I am thoroughly ashamed to say that my first thought was that dear, sweet Mama had gone totally off her rocker, killed someone, and then brought the body to me so that I could dispose of it. While I won’t go so far as to say that my mother is a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, she does at times run shy in the slaw department.

  “Mama!” I cried. “What have you done?”

  “I brought your wedding presents,” Mama panted.

  “You what? But Mama, my wedding is two months away!”

  “Better early than late,” Mama said.

  I trotted over to help her. “What do you have in here? A washing machine?”

  “All right, it’s not just wedding presents. I have some of my clothes along as well.”

  I patted her arm appreciatively. “We’re not the same size, Mama. I’m only four-nine and—well—not quite as developed you-know-where.”

  “Leave my bottom out of this,” Mama snapped. “Anyway, I’m not giving you my clothes. I’m taking them with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To the convent, of course. They won’t issue me a habit right away.”

  “What are you talking about, Mama?”

  “The Episcopal Convent of the Good Hope in Dayton, Ohio. Didn’t I tell you? I’m going to be a nun.”