Death of a Rug Lord Read online

  “I want to see if the rug is the genuine thing, or a reproduction.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes rolled back slightly as she cogitated on the pros and cons of granting me my desire. Perhaps she’d gone to another time and place altogether. In fact, no telling where she may have wandered, lost in thought, had we not been interrupted by the forensic photographer.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m all done. Shall I tell the morgue they can haul her away now?”

  “Haul?” I said. “She’s not a load of cargo!”

  Tweedledee snapped back to the here and now. “Wait a minute. This woman from the Den of Inequality wants to get a close look at the rug. Who knows, she might even have something useful to tell us.”

  “Thank you, Detective Twaddledee,” I said, and strode in Gwen’s direction as fast as my short legs could carry me.

  “Well?” the detective demanded. “What’d you make out? Is it the real McCoy or not?”

  “It’s a genuine, handmade, Oriental rug.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There are inconsistencies in the pattern. These often—but not necessarily—show up in the corners.”

  “You mean mistakes?”

  “More likely the weaver misjudged the amount of yarn needed in a particular color, or was bored. A machine-made carpet would likely be symmetrical.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Look here—at the back. This is the warp, and these are the wefts. They’re the grid, if you will. In this case it’s kind of wobbly.”

  “Yeah, but these things make it less valuable, don’t they?”

  “Oh, not at all. If you want a machine-made carpet, then go to Home Depot or Lowe’s. There you can buy a mass-produced one for as little as three hundred dollars. If you want a handmade one, you have to go to a carpet store. Some of the best will cost tens of thousands of dollars, depending on the materials and the craftsmanship. And, of course, size.”

  “Maybe.”

  I turned away from the sanctity of Gwen’s body before raising my voice in frustration. “There you go again, Detective Tiddlywinks! I know what I’m talking about.”

  “If this one had any value at all, why would someone wrap a dead woman in it?”

  “Isn’t that your job to find out?”

  “I’m warning you, Timberlake. I’ve had all the attitude from you I can take. Do you hear me?”

  I slipped under the crime scene tape.

  “Do you hear me?” she shouted.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I tried slipping back into the crowd. One of the few advantages of being my height is that anonymity can usually be achieved in a matter of seconds. This time I was not so lucky.

  “I’m coming with you,” a voice from on high said.

  3

  It was Big Bob again—or whoever the stranger was. It certainly was not God.

  “Uh…sir, I really appreciate what you did before, but this time it feels like you’re stalking me.”

  “No, ma’am, I ain’t doing no such thing. It’s just that you being a Charlestonian—well, I was wondering if you could show me some of the sights. And I mean that totally legit, ma’am, I assure you. I am a Christian, born and bred.”

  A Charlestonian! Ha, I wish. While I happened to live in Charleston, I was by no means a Charlestonian. To be a Charlestonian, one’s forbears must have arrived on the scene before the Late Unpleasantness, and if you had to ask when that was, you were automatically disqualified. Although there is one very prominent family residing in the area—which I shall not name—that arrived a tad after the Late Unpleasantness, and which tries very hard to get around this very basic qualification by getting as many things stamped with the family name as possible. But, to paraphrase the Bard, a rose is just a rose is just a rose.

  To be top drawer Charlestonian is to be a descendant of French Huguenot rice planters who arrived no later than 1730. There are other drawers near the top, but the best were closed by the Revolution and, with the aforementioned exception, all had been nailed shut by the time the War of Northern Aggression rolled around.

  “Whether or not you are a Christian,” I said, “is not a concern of mine. One of my best friends is Jewish and he is no more, nor less, upstanding than my Christian friends. The thing is, I am not a tour guide; I am an antiques dealer. The City of Charleston has one of the best tourist offices of any city its size. I’d be happy to drop you off there if you like.”

  “Ma’am, I’d be much beholden.”

  Beholden? Who the heck talked like that these days? The giant who’d come to my rescue was certainly charming, I’d give him that. What harm could there possibly be in driving him a couple of blocks north to the tourist center?

  “Sure thing,” I said. “I’m parked over there along the Battery. And just so you know, my husband, Greg, used to be a detective for the city of Charlotte.”

  He laughed loudly and, frankly, far too long. “Is that so? Can’t say as I blame you for saying that, seeing how you’re just an itty-bitty thing.”

  “Yeah, well some days I feel ittier than others, and this just happens to be one of those days.”

  “Good one, Abby.”

  “Wait a minute! How did you know my first name?”

  “Detective Tweedledork used it.”

  “That would be funny—if she had. But she didn’t. She never uses my first name, because that would be showing me a modicum of respect. Detective Tweedledee lives to humiliate me.”

  “Okay, Abby, you busted me. My name is—Excuse me, ma’am.” With that, he leaped into the street and began chasing a slow moving tourist bus.

  What a peculiar way of running he had. I’d never seen anything like it—except perhaps on National Geographic. That’s it! He loped; he didn’t run. He loped like a giraffe.

  “Geez, what a weirdo.”

  I whirled. Normally I don’t allow judgmental statements like that to go unchallenged, but it was my dear friend Bob Steuben who was doing the judging. He kissed me on both cheeks.

  “The new manager of Pasha’s Palace was found dead in the harbor,” I said.

  “I heard; your mom just called. Is it true that she was wrapped in a rug?”

  “Unfortunately, Mama wasn’t blowing smoke rings this time. Anyway, that evil Detective Tweedledee let me go right up to Miss Spears so I could examine the rug; my thinking was that it might hold a clue as to who killed the poor woman, and why.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll never get used to death, that’s what; it makes you sick to your stomach every time. This girl was so young—barely more than a college student. Plus she looked so pale, especially with that long amber hair—Bob, if I tell you a secret, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course I won’t tell anyone, Abby. You insult me.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, the rug was an Ispahan—silk.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way. Even soaked with seawater, it is probably the most beautiful carpet I have ever seen.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Go see for yourself, if you don’t believe me. Good luck, however, dealing with Detective Tweedledee.”

  Bob blanched. If there is one person in Charleston that the detective dislikes more than me, it is the gay antiques dealer from Toledo.

  “Abby, I believe that it is what you say it is: a silk Ispahan carpet from Persia. I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense to throw something that valuable away. So how much is it worth? Thirty thousand?”

  “This one had to be worth twice that—maybe as much as seventy thousand. No, I can think of at least two clients right off the bat that would pay upwards of eighty for that rug in excellent condition. In exceptional condition…shoot, I wouldn’t feel bad asking a hundred grand for it.”

  He nodded. “Well, it’s obviously murder. Did you see any blood on the carpet? That could explain why the killer—or killers—dumped it into the harbor, along with Gwendolyn Spear’s body.”


  “No. But I only examined one corner. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Miss Spears, even though I’d only met her once, and that was at the Palace.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said, and put his arms around me. We stood embracing for several long minutes. Perhaps we gave the impression of lovers caught up in a May/September romance (I being the Virgo), but I didn’t care. He was the first to let go.

  “Abby, if you have a second, I need to talk to you about Rob’s mother.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I have a plan for how to get rid of her.”

  “Finally!”

  “It’s not going to be pretty.”

  I giggled. “The uglier the better.”

  Mama’s been frozen in a time warp since July 4, 1958. (That’s the day Daddy died in a boat accident that involved a sea gull with a brain tumor the size of a walnut.) Mama, who at five feet is three inches taller than I, is a miniature June Cleaver. She wears only dresses with cinched waists and full skirts; her feet are always clad in pumps, even at home; and she feels utterly naked without a string of pearls around her still slender neck. But although she’s as odd as a three dollar bill, she’s not senile. Not by any means.

  “Abby, sit down!”

  “In a minute, Mama. I want to put away my purse and grab a soda first.”

  “Darling, those things can wait; this can’t.”

  She sounded too ebullient for it to be bad news, so I obediently walked over to the nearest chair, which just happened to be a Louis XIV—a real Louis XIV, by the way, one that had remarkably never been recovered. His Majesty’s royal bottom had actually connected with the yellowed silk fabric. Perhaps His Majesty had even—

  “Abby, are you even listening?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  “Then what did I say?”

  “It didn’t have anything to do with Louis XIV farting, did it?”

  “Why Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn! You know how I hate the F word.”

  “Mama, everyone does it.”

  “Not everyone, Abby.”

  “Yes, Mama, even Daddy did it.” Over the years my daddy’s pedestal has grown so tall that were he ever to resurrect—even just for a second—he would be overcome by vertigo, fall off, and die all over again.

  “Abby, I will not allow you to drag your father’s name through the mud. Your father was as close to a saint as ever walked this earth, and that’s the end of this conversation. Besides, you’re ruining my surprise.”

  “Sorry, Mama.” I meant it too.

  “So guess what I’m going to be doing Saturday night?”

  “It’s something to do with church, right?”

  “Wrong!” Mama sounded positively giddy.

  “Don’t tell me! You and Connie Beth have finally got up the nerve to visit that new biker bar up in Myrtle Beach. Mama, please don’t. It may be called Arnold’s, but it’s not Happy Days. That was only a television show. Not every biker is as sweet as Fonzie.”

  “Abby, you must think I’ve got a head full of stump water. I have no intention of really going into a biker bar; I just like to talk about it. No, what I’m doing Saturday is quite the opposite. I’m getting presented to royalty.”

  We both waited patiently while this sunk in. There are many reasons to visit Charleston: it is beautiful, historic, the winters are mild. But even taking those factors into consideration, it seems to get more than its fair share of aristocratic visitors. Mama and I had been residents for only three years, and even we lowly peasants from “off” (anyplace other than Charleston) had already been invited to several functions where the guests of honor were in possession of titles. (Although to be honest, the last big reception was thrown by a “Scottish Lady” who’d bought one cubic foot of land over the Internet for ten thousand dollars, and with it, the right to put on airs.)

  “Who is it this time?” I asked.

  “The Duke and Duchess of Malberry,” Mama said. “He’s eighty-seventh in line to the throne.”

  “Which throne?”

  “I don’t know; she didn’t she say. England, I should imagine.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Kitty Bohring. She’s a cousin of a cousin of a cousin of one of the duke’s stable hands, so you see, Abby, she’s practically kissing cousins with the queen herself.”

  Using Mama’s logic, since I enjoy watching Colin Farrell movies, and there aren’t even any pesky cousins to come between us, he and I are practically having an affair. And along those lines, I own a coffee mug that once belonged to Truman Capote. I bought it at the celebrity gift store at MGM Studios in Disney World. Everytime that hot coffee passes over the rim and through my lips, I like to imagine that fame and fortune does as well; I certainly couldn’t expect any infusion of the writing muse. When you think about it, Truman and I had a lot of things in common: we both grew into diminutive adults; we both were nurtured by the South; and both our mothers—

  “Abby, there you go again; you’re off your own little world.”

  “Mama, I’m trying to work up enthusiasm, for your sake, I really am. But a distant cousin of a stable boy is hardly royalty. Why would a duke be visiting Miss Bohring?”

  Mama glanced around the room, and seeing no one, not even my cat Dmitri, lowered her voice anyway. “You know.”

  “Because she’s richer than God?”

  Mama giggled. “Abby that’s awful, but it might be true.”

  Kitty Bohring, and I hesitate to speak ill of the dead (which she is from the neck up), is Charleston’s most ambitious social climber. She blew into town shortly after Hurricane Hugo, purchased a heavily damaged mansion for a song, and then poured a large fortune into refurbishing it. Because Kitty was scrupulous in following the historical guidelines, no one could find fault with the finished product. What had been an eyesore was now a local showpiece. She then furnished the house with as many pieces made by local artisans as she could, before going abroad to get the rest.

  In addition to the money she pumped into the economy through jobs, Kitty donated staggering amounts of cash to every charitable organization she saw listed in the yellow pages and a dozen others that crept out of the woodwork. Suddenly she was everybody’s darling, as well as everyone’s favorite person to hate.

  I didn’t hate her, mind you. In fact, I was very pleased when she purchased a rice planter bed in my shop. I will, however, admit it annoys me that she honestly believes she can buy social standing in this town simply because of her vast resources, that she can be the one exception. And no, not for a second do I believe that the fact she is from Michigan—well above the Mason Dixon line—will have anything to do with her ultimate rejection.

  The highest tiers of Charleston society are forever closed to unmarried persons from “off,” divorced Charlestonians, and of course Charlestonians who are decidedly of the other color (a few venerable families are known to sport deep tans the year round, but as they are truly old families, no one dares question their status).

  African Americans from “off” are usually surprised to discover that Charleston African Americans maintain their own multitiered society that is as rigid as white society. Their cotillions are every bit as elegant, and take up just as much room on the society page of the Post and Courier, as do those of white Charleston. Black Charlestonians are expected to attend church on Sundays. The uniform for men is dark suits; for women it is white dresses and elaborate white hats, referred to fondly as crowns of glory. The services last for at least three hours, sometimes four, and are followed by a promenade down to the Battery.

  “Abby!”

  “What, Mama?”

  “You’ve been sitting there in a daze. Are you going to answer my question or not?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Dear, that answer might work on some, but I was there when you were born, remember? You are forty-six, and not a day younger.” She shook her head. “But how I can be your mother and still not be fifty? Now that’s a miracle
. My question, however, is what on earth am I going to wear Saturday night?”

  “How about that yellow dress with the cap sleeves and bell skirt you like so much?”

  “Well, I did like it until Denise Ayerston told me I looked like a tulip.”

  “I know it’s a little late in the year to be wearing velvet, but that midnight blue gown you wore to meet the Contessa d’Porquesville was gorgeous. You got a million compliments.”

  “Yes, but Jonathan Dearborn said that I looked like a drag queen doing Liza Minnelli—a bad Liza Minnelli.”

  “Jonathan only wishes he could do half as good a job.”

  “Abby!”

  “Sorry, Mama. How about we go shopping for something new?”

  “Can we go now?”

  “Mama, I’ve got to get to my own shop and check on Wynnell. Besides, don’t you even want to know about the body in the rug?”

  My minimadre patted her pearls. “Of course, dear. I’ve merely been trying to stall the unpleasant. Did you really know her?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. You did as well; it was Gwendolyn Spears, the lady from Pasha’s Palace.”

  The pearls began a slow rotation. “Oh my! And you said she was such a nice young lady, even though she did reek of alcohol.”

  “Yes, and that’s not all. The rug she sold me for C.J. and Toy’s wedding was worth ten times what I paid for it.”

  “Do you think she was trying to tell you something?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  The pearls twirled until they were a blur. “Abby, you’re going to involve yourself in another murder investigation, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, Mama. And I don’t mean to get you upset; I’m just trying to be honest. Last time, you complained that I didn’t trust you enough to confide in you.”

  “No, you’re doing the right thing,” Mama hastened to assure me. “Have you called Greg?”

  “Mama, you know he’s such a worrywart. He’ll tell me to mind my own business. Then he’ll have the police put a tail on me which, in the end, won’t do any good. Instead, it will tip off whomever I’m investigating, only making it that much more dangerous for me.”