Statue of Limitations Page 12

  “Uh-oh, I can’t see them.”

  “Who?” Herman’s thick neck was almost as malleable as Linda Blair’s in the Exorcist.

  “John and Belinda.”

  “You’re right. I just see them folks from New York.”

  I slurred over a minor cuss word. Now I had to turn around as soon as I got across and hunt down the disobedient sightseers. What part of “keep up” didn’t they understand?

  Summer traffic in this part of the Palmetto state is about as bad as winter traffic in the Sunshine state. The chief difference between Florida’s horde and ours is that our visitors tend to be a younger bunch with families, and many of them come from the inland areas of the Carolinas. They also tend to drive SUVs (or SAVs, as Greg calls them—Suburban Assault Vehicles), which make it impossible to see stoplights and street signs until the last second. Even a native can become disoriented when familiar landmarks are obscured by so-called recreational vehicles the size of elephants.

  Okay, so I’m not a native of Mount Pleasant, and might have had trouble retracing my route anyway. But nonetheless, I couldn’t find a spot in which to safely turn around until we got to Houston North-cut Boulevard, and by then I was in such a foul mood that I was no longer slurring my words. In the meantime, Irena Papadopoulus was leaning on the horn and mouthing the very same words.

  Herman Zimmerman rapped on the back of my seat, barely missing my neck with his hairy knuckles. “My Estee is opposed to swearing,” he said without a trace of jollity.

  “Then perhaps one of you should drive,” I snapped.

  Of course, I immediately apologized. Not only was my rude behavior wrong, but if reported to the right ears (or wrong ones, depending on one’s point of view), I might well be stripped of my Southern Bellehood. This happened to Mama’s cousin Nattie Lee in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, when, in the middle of a shopping mall, she stepped in a wad of gum while wearing a brand new pair of shoes. That very evening a band of grim-faced ladies showed up at the door of her home and demanded her resignation from the National Association of Southern Belles.

  In order to be reinstated in this organization, cousin Hattie Lee had to host a family from Michigan for two weeks, eat corn bread with sugar in it, drink unsweetened tea, and pronounce her state’s name in just four syllables. In other words, live Wynnell’s worst nightmare—until she landed in a Charleston clinker. At least in jail my buddy was served sweet tea. I’d be willing to bet my life on that.

  “Well, see that you don’t swear again,” Herman said. Thanks to the review mirror, I could see that he was smiling. No doubt his crotchetiness had all been an act put on for the benefit of the “little lady.”

  I found the Thomases huddling inside their car just off the entrance ramp to Route 17. A black and white automobile with a revolving light was keeping them company. When I tried to pull over, the officer attempted to wave me away, but having finally found my lost charges, I wasn’t about to lose them again. With one final blast of her horn, Irena Papadopoulus and her handsome, but henpecked, husband joined us.

  Fortunately for everyone involved, it turned out that I knew both the officers that went with the squad car. Delbert Dittlebaum is Detective Bright’s nephew, and his female partner is—let’s just say I met her under unpleasant circumstances. With any luck, she wouldn’t remember me.

  Instead of waiting in my car like common sense dictated, I foolishly opened my door and started to climb out.

  “Wait where you are,” Officer Dittlebaum ordered.

  “It’s me, Abby Washburn. I’m a friend of your uncle—Detective Bright.” Okay, so that was a gross exaggeration, but passing cars were beginning to slow, as their occupants stared goggle-eyed at us. Why is it that folks feel compelled to rubberneck? Don’t they realize that it’s not only dangerous, but accounts for most of the delay whenever there is an accident?

  Officer Dittlebaum’s partner stared as well. “It’s you,” she finally growled. It’s not like she encounters four-foot-nine-inch adult women on a daily basis. Perhaps she thought I was a child who had stolen a car.

  “Good morning, officer.”

  “Causing trouble again, are you?”

  “No ma’am. I’m showing these visitors our beautiful city and some of our Lowcountry landmarks.”

  “I just bet you are.”

  “Honest. You can ask them.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Did you know, Mrs. Washburn, that Mr. Thomas here is afraid to drive over the bridge?” She said it loud enough that poor John couldn’t help but overhear.

  “No ma’am. But that’s not so unusual, is it? From what I understand, not a day goes by that someone doesn’t need help getting over.”

  The contentious woman snorted. “If they’re your guests, and if you had described your itinerary properly, you would have known one of them had agoraphobia.”

  “Acrophobia.”

  “What?”

  “Acrophobia is the fear of heights. Agoraphobia is the fear of open spaces.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, at the very least I should issue you a ticket for improper parking, endangering the lives of fellow motorists, and—”

  “I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  She glared at me an interminable length of time. Meanwhile Officer Dittlebaum twiddled his thumbs. Were it not for the angry glint in the policewoman’s eyes, I might have thought she was daydreaming. Or even sleeping. There are a few folks, I am told, who can nap while standing, and with their peepers open.

  To pass the time I ran a couple of game plans through my mind. Bribes were out, but contributions to a widows’ fund—now surely there was nothing wrong in suggesting that. And if that seemed too obvious, cheerful acceptance of my punishment, and a warm invitation to dinner, might induce her to tear up the ticket and issue a warning in its place. If that failed, and the fine was really high, I could sell my hair to Mr. Hammerhead in lieu of recompense, and he could plead my case in court. Oh, if only Toy were here. He could charm a snake out of its skin. How else could a pettifogger like him gain admittance to one of the South’s most prestigious seminaries?

  “Mrs. Washburn!” she barked, suddenly emerging from her daze.

  I roused myself from a petite fog of my own. “Yes?”

  “I’ll drive these folks across myself, and Sergeant Dittlebaum will drive me back, but from then on you’re responsible for them. I suggest that if they don’t find someone else to drive them back over, you make sure they take I-526 around. Those bridges seem to be less intimidating.”

  “Yes, sir—I mean ma’am.”

  “Well, what are you standing there for? Get back in your car before you cause an accident.”

  I lit out of there like I was carrying a shovel full of coals.

  Ever since Hurricane Floyd, when I spent eleven hours (I was one of the lucky ones) in a traffic jam on I-26, my philosophy of life has been “Pee whenever you can.” After saying good-bye to the officers, I led our caravan directly to Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island. The fort, now a national monument, has free, if somewhat hot and stuffy, rest rooms attached to the Visitors’ Center. It also has free parking.

  We vied for a shady parking spot. After using the facilities, we revived ourselves with the air-conditioning inside the Visitors’ Center, while enjoying the exhibits and browsing through a selection of historical books for sale. Herman Zimmerman wanted to watch the fifteen minute video (also free) but I vetoed his request. I had other things I wanted them to see.

  I led them out the front door to the right, and just opposite Stella Maris Catholic Church, we turned left on a dirt lane that leads to the water. This easy-to-miss spot is one of Charleston County’s best kept secrets, and I pray that it remains so. Thus far it seems to be the haunt only of fishermen and a few summer renters who lounge in front of beach houses that have unparalleled views of Fort Sumter and passing ships.

  It is here that the harbor opens to the ocean. The mix of waters, an
d the resulting currents, make this an unsafe place in which to swim, but very attractive to aquatic life. I am particularly fond of the dolphins that leap and dive for their dinners near the end of a rocky groin. Somehow these beautiful mammals manage to stay in approximately the same spot for long periods of time. I could stand and watch them all day.

  Herman Zimmerman was enthralled as well. “Why, just look at them big fish.”

  “They’re dolphins, not fish, dear,” Estelle whispered, but the cool breeze blowing in from the ocean blew her words back to me. “They’re air-breathing mammals, like you and I. They’re supposed to be very intelligent. Maybe even more intelligent than chimpanzees.”

  “Just the same, I’d like to catch me one.”

  Belinda Thomas definitely heard that. “Hey, I love dolphins. Flopper was my favorite movie.”

  John put a protective arm around his wife. “That’s ‘Flipper,’ dear.”

  A wise guide knows when it’s time to change the subject. “Over there,” I said, pointing to the east, “is Fort Sumter. That’s where the Late Unpleasantness began. And just behind us, to the left, is Fort Moultrie. It was first constructed out of palmetto logs in 1776. The British attacked it, but since palm logs are fibrous, and not woody like real trees, they absorbed most of the impact from the cannon balls. The British fleet was defeated. That’s why South Carolina is known as the Palmetto state.”

  Irena Papadopoulus swatted her arm. “Something just bit me.”

  I smiled reassuringly. “It was probably just a no-see-um.”

  “No-see-ums don’t come out when it’s this hot,” she snapped.

  I shrugged. She was certainly right about that; biting midges prefer the more moderate temperatures of spring and autumn. But the scourge of the Lowcountry, if there is one, has got to be our insect population. Where else does one find biting insects so small they can barely be seen, roaches as big as kittens (which we graciously refer to as palmetto bugs), and mosquitoes so swift a track star couldn’t outrun them?

  Although nobody else was attacked by microscopic vermin, Irena started to do the dance of misery. Footwork isn’t important in this Lowcountry jig (unless one has stepped in a nest of fire ants), it’s the flailing arms that count. If she entered a competition, I’d say the tourist from the Big Apple stood a fair chance of winning.

  Even if she’s not being paid, a good tour guide should always be mindful of her clients’ comfort, so I got the show on the road as soon possible. We stopped briefly to view the triangular black and white lighthouse farther up the island, but remained in our vehicles when passing the two hurricane-proof “flying saucer” houses, and the World War II bunkers that had been converted to spacious homes.

  The bunker houses are a favorite of mine. Through the glass entry of one these subterranean mansions, a magnificent chandelier can be observed, while on the roof, grass and shrubs grow happily. Even small trees.

  After the lighthouse we didn’t get out again until we reached Coconut Joe’s on the Isle of Palms. This restaurant has the best ocean view east of the Cooper, and is the perfect place to have lunch on a hot summer day. Because the outdoor deck is high off the ground, and close to the sea, there is usually a breeze. However, just to be on the safe side, we unanimously voted to eat indoors. It was our hope that the air-conditioning would recharge our batteries.

  While we feasted on coconut-breaded shrimp and sipped margaritas (just half a one for me), we watched the swimmers and sunbathers take full advantage of their holiday on the beach. There was very little wave action at the time, but that didn’t stop visitors from Ohio and Pennsylvania from trying to surf. Neither did extra poundage prevent the majority of people from wearing swimming garb, much of which was not to their advantage. One exceptionally large woman, who spilled out of her bikini like rising dough infused with too much yeast, was trying in vain to control a frisky little black dog on a leash. Finally the contrary canine broke loose and immediately started running frenzied figure eights across the supine bodies of sun-worshipers. Bedlam followed. A lot of bellowing as well.

  “This certainly is entertaining,” John said. He had an amused glint in his eye.

  Belinda nodded. “Nothing like this happens back home.”

  “In Cambridge?” I asked, just to be wicked. It was the half a margarita’s fault.

  “That’s Cambria,” John said.

  “Right.”

  Perhaps because she didn’t have to drive, Estelle Zimmerman was well into her second drink. “What’s the water temperature like there?” she asked.

  Belinda tossed her naturally blond locks. “Nice and warm. I swim almost every day.”

  Estelle Zimmerman whipped her head around to look at me. It took another second for the bags under her eyes to catch up.

  “This woman is not from California,” she said.

  18

  John and Belinda exchanged glances. “Of course she is,” he said.

  Estelle’s penciled brows disappeared into the creases on her forehead. “I don’t think so, dear.”

  The handsome travel agent attempted to smile, but his blue eyes revealed his true feelings. “Are you calling us liars?” he asked softly.

  The farmer’s wife would not back down. “I read in the paper this morning that water in Charleston Harbor was eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Nowhere along the coast of California does the Pacific Ocean get that warm.”

  “Estee knows everything,” Herman said proudly. He seemed oblivious to any ramifications of his wife’s accusation.

  John Thomas put a well-muscled arm around Belinda’s shoulders. Then the couple rose to their feet in unison, as if they’d choreographed the action.

  “Come on, darling, we don’t need to listen to this.” John’s protective persona made me think of Greg.

  “But you can’t go yet,” I said quickly. “How will you get back to Charleston?”

  “We’ll take the long way around, like the policewoman said.”

  “What if you get lost?”

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  It was time to be pragmatic. “But we haven’t got the bill yet. We need to divide—”

  He tossed a pair of twenties next to my plate. “Keep the change, Mrs. Washburn.”

  There was nothing I could do to stop them, had I wanted to. The funny thing was, now that I’d been reimbursed for lunch (Coconut Joe’s is very reasonable), I didn’t care if I ever saw them again. They were as fake as a four dollar bill, as phony as a photo of Tammy Faye without makeup. But my gut feeling was (and the tinier the gut, the more accurate, if you ask me) that the Thomases had nothing to do with the death of Marina Webbfingers. Stereotypes of blondes aside, they didn’t seem to have the brain power. Besides, John’s hair color wasn’t even his own.

  Yes, I know, there are a lot of stupid crooks out there. One might even go so far as to say that most crooks at least lack discernment, or they wouldn’t put themselves in situations that involve such penalties as prison or, in some cases, capital punishment. But the Thomases came across as particularly inept. They were nice to look at, sure—if you like bulging biceps and straining bosoms—but let’s face it, they couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag if you gave them both scissors.

  As Belinda’s backside cleared the door, Irena Papadopoulus smiled smugly over the salted rim of her glass. “I didn’t trust those two from the start.”

  “Really?” I didn’t want to tip my hand, but I’d had my own doubts about the Calamari couple.

  “They’re fakes. Complete fakes. If you ask me, the police should be investigating them, instead of that crazy woman with just one eyebrow.”

  “Wynnell has two eyebrows—they’re just closely spaced. And she isn’t crazy.”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Washburn.”

  What I wanted to say next was that I didn’t trust the Papadopouluses, either. No legitimate gem buyer would be ignorant of the four C’s. And if the tall, dark, and usually silent man by her side was her husband, I
’d eat my chapeau (I keep an easily digestible paper hat on hand for just such occasions). As for the Zimmermans…

  A cell phone rang. Since mine had ended up in the drink, it took me a moment to remember that I had taken the backup phone from the car and slipped it into my bag before entering the restaurant. This is an older, somewhat unwieldy model, with an annoyingly loud ring. Normally I think it is very rude to have one’s phone turned on in an enclosed space, particularly this phone, but my best friend’s freedom was at stake. Maybe even her life.

  I didn’t recognize the number at first. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Washburn?” I didn’t recognize the voice, either.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Veronica Dillsworth. I’m—uh, Mr. Hammerhead’s receptionist.”

  I knew now who she was; the bosomy, nearly bald woman, who was quite likely more than just the attorney’s receptionist. If that was indeed the case, her job title suited her just fine. But it was not my place to judge.

  “What trouble has my brother gotten into now?”

  “He’s not in any trouble that I know of—although he certainly is cute. Too bad he’s a priest.”

  “He’s only a priest-in-training. I’m sure the training he’s had so far can be undone.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m supposed to pass a message on to you, Mrs. Washburn. Mr. Hammerhead said you might find it important.” She paused, presumably for dramatic effect.

  “Don’t keep me in suspenders, dear.”

  “Suspenders?”

  “That was a joke. What is this important message?”

  “The murder weapon has been located.”

  “The murder weapon?”

  Five pairs of eyes locked on to me. Four, of course, belonged to my companions. The fifth, a remarkably large pair, were owned by our waitress, who had finally arrived with our bill.