The Glass Is Always Greener Page 3

  “Well, you wanted Robbie to move down there too.”

  “Of course; I wanted all my friends to move down there. What’s wrong with that? I didn’t force them to come.”

  “Yes, but I had other plans for them. Robbie was supposed to be my companion during these golden years—seeing as how he had chosen not to take on the burdens of a wife.”

  “But he had a partner!”

  “Oh Lord, now look what Jerry’s done,” Rob’s mother said, frantically scanning the yard for someplace other than this table under which to hide. “Rob, she’s outed you!”

  “Is Cousin Rob gay?” a teenage boy asked.

  “Yes, dear, now shush,” his mother said.

  “Cool! ’Cause so am I.”

  “You see what you’ve done!” the boy’s distraught mother shouted.

  “It’s your fault,” the boy’s father said to his wife. “I read that in a book.”

  “Rob didn’t do anything to turn your son gay,” I said. “It just happens. Now go on with your story, Aunt Jenny.”

  “That’s Jerry—oh, the heck with it. I deserve whatever name you choose to call me. There’s not much to the story. I offered Robbie an enormous amount of money if he’d stay in Charlotte and squire me to the occasional event—you know, charity balls and such, and make himself available for a dinner party now and then. But oh no, he turned me down for you. Of course I took it very hard, so that’s when he tried to make me feel better by putting you down—you know, with the two-pint comment.”

  Words can describe how I felt, but I would never share such vulgar thoughts with anyone. Rob’s betrayal had hit me in the pit of my stomach, and that’s the doorway to bile. The best thing for everyone was for me to just keep my mouth shut—for now.

  “Listen to me, Abby,” Rob pleaded, “I didn’t mean it. I just said it to get her off my back. I mean the proof is in the pudding, right? I moved down to Charleston, didn’t I? I sold my shop up here, and bought a new one down there. Hell, that’s more than most men would do for their spouses and I got Bob to move down there as well.”

  “That’s right. What was he, a three-quart Moondoggie?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Abby. Moondoggie was Gidget’s boyfriend.”

  I turned to Aunt Jerry. “You can have him back. Of course, with the real estate slump it might take him a while to unload his shop down there.”

  “Oh honey, where I’m going he can’t follow.”

  “You going to Columbia?” someone called out. “I hear that’s built over the gates of Hell.”

  Aunt Jerry smiled, revealing lovely laugh lines. “That’s what they say, all right: Columbia, South Carolina is the most miserable place to spend a summer. But I’ve already been there, done that. But you know what, Allie? Not only can’t Robbie come with me, but none of my stuff can come with me either—not just my money. So here, I want you to have this.” Having said that, she slipped off an enormous emerald ring and tried to slip it on one of my fingers.

  “No, no, I can’t.”

  “Don’t be silly, of course you can.”

  “Something like that should be kept in the family.”

  “This family should be kept to themselves, that’s what. Here, take it. I insist.”

  “But that’s got to be a ten-carat stone—at least.”

  “Twenty-two-point-five-carat, grass green, and almost eye-clean. Even Queen Elizabeth doesn’t have one this nice—okay, so maybe she does, but I very much doubt if anyone else in Charlotte has one that comes even close to this.”

  “All the more reason for you to keep it. It must be worth a queen’s ransom.”

  “Seven figures.”

  I felt my knees go weak, which is not such a good state of affairs when one is viewing the world from atop a picnic table. “Well then you can’t give it to me. I’m not related.”

  “I can give it to whomever I want, and I want to give it to you. But since you’d rather not wear it now, then fine; I’ll wear it in the meantime. But it is still yours.”

  “Fine,” I said, and jumped off the table. That was the last time I saw Aunt Jerry alive.

  I am not one for gruesome details; therefore I feel no compelling reason to describe the scene of the crime in all its grisly accuracy. I shall, however, describe it truthfully, for the two terms are not mutually exclusive.

  Because of our rift I was pretty much stuck at the event until I prevailed upon Rob to return me to the hotel, or until I could arrange for a cab. But it occurred to me early on in the game that this two-pint player stood a better chance of winning by not only outlasting my opponent, but appearing to have a better time.

  To that end that I flitted and flirted about, making talk so small that even a microbe couldn’t hear it. The more I laughed and giggled, the more Rob glared. And even though Jerry was nowhere to be seen following the tabletop performance, not a soul left the premises. It seemed that the Ovumkoph clan desperately needed an excuse—any excuse—to party. Besides, there was always the chance Aunt Jerry might change her mind, return, and make someone’s day.

  Eventually, however, I grew hot, tired, and bored. I can see how being the guest at someone else’s family gathering might possibly be fun for a gossip columnist, or maybe even a novelist, but for a little ol’ no- account antiques dealer, it’s about as much fun as a Brazilian wax, and without the benefits. Yes, I’d been given that fabulous emerald ring—but bear in mind, the giver was a lunatic; that gift was never going to be accepted as valid by the rest of the clan.

  So at any rate, when no one was looking, I ducked into the walkout basement. It was hard to believe that I was the only one there. For heaven’s sake, there was a Ping-Pong table, an air hockey table, an enormous flat-screen TV! And, of course, there was that damn front-loading freezer!

  Of course there was a refrigerator, and it was well stocked with beverages of many varieties, both alcoholic and non, and there were dips, and cheeses, and summer sausages, and who knows all what—it’s not like I took inventory. But everyone knows that a basement freezer in the South usually contains some part of a deer, some barbecue, and ice cream.

  However, the first thing I noticed when I opened that damn freezer was poor Aunt Jerry. She’d been crammed in there in a fetal position, on her back, her face turned away from the door, so that only a shelf or two had to be removed. Sure enough, above her was a shelf of packages wrapped in white butcher paper and clearly labeled “dear steaks.” I can only hope that Ben was a bad speller, and not in the custom of freezing women. But back to Aunt Jerry, I am eternally grateful that I never saw her face; it was her outfit I recognized, the gorgeous mustard-colored sari. At this point she was minus the paper crown from Burger King, but the orange and purple faux leis still hung from her neck, for when the freezer door opened they spilled forth, adding to the drama. Again, was it any wonder that I screamed?

  But try getting any sympathy from homicide detectives Krupp and Wimbler. They were polite enough, but I needed more than politeness; what I needed was a hug from my husband, Greg. At the very least I needed to have him talk to them—but these two detectives didn’t care two ripe figs that I was married to a former member of their department. They couldn’t even be bothered to call him to verify my claim.

  Using the one-way glass wall of the interrogation room as a mirror, Detective Krupp scratched a bit of crusted makeup from the corner of her mouth with her pinkie fingernail before speaking. “So what were you doing in the basement, Mrs. Timberlake?”

  “My answer is the same as the last time you asked,” I said, trying to both express my exasperation yet not be too antagonistic. “It was hot. I was bored. The basement door was unlocked.”

  Detective Wimbler was a small man who seemed delighted by the fact that I was even much smaller than he. This went unsaid, but I had a strong hunch that if we’d met under other circumstances, and if I wasn’t married (he wasn’t wearing a ring), he would have asked me out.

  “Mrs. Timberlake, were you aware that
there was a large watermelon on a tub of ice in the kitchen?”

  “Yes—sir. But I was a bit upset, and when I get upset, my metabolism speeds up—never mind. I guess I was operating on automatic when I cut myself a slice of watermelon.” How stupid was that, telling him I was upset? I may as well have painted a bull’s-eye on my forehead in neon orange!

  “I hear you. Being smaller means we have to eat more often; it’s not something the rest can understand.”

  “Give me a break,” Detective Krupp muttered, as she gouged the crud from the other side of her mouth. “Ma’am, how did you manage to sneak the knife downstairs? Did you hide it under your clothing?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The one you used to stab the victim—before she was dumped in the freezer.”

  “Your prints are all over the handle,” Detective Wimbler said.

  “You mean the watermelon knife?” I asked. “That was the murder weapon?”

  “No, it was the candlestick in the drawing room,” Detective Krupp said. “Give us a break, Mrs. Timberlake. For someone who is supposedly married to a former detective, you ought to know that playing coy will get you nowhere.”

  “Not just supposedly,” I said hotly. “Greg was on this force. And he was one of the best, unlike some—”

  “Small people like us have a hard time catching a break sometimes, don’t we, Mrs. Timberlake?” Detective Wimbler had placed a miniature man’s hand on my shoulder in an effort to calm me. Whatever the department height requirements were, he had to have been fully extended—on a good day—in order to meet them.

  “Oh shut up with that tiny crap,” Detective Krupp said. “Five dollars and a stepladder will still buy you a cup of coffee at Starbucks—if they notice you.” She laughed, snorting like a horse. “Just so you know, Mrs. Timberlake, there has never been a Detective Greg Timberlake on this force.”

  “That may be,” I said, “but Greg’s last name is Washburn.”

  Judging by Detective Krupp’s face, she didn’t like being bested. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “You didn’t ask—ma’am.”

  “That’s right,” Detective Wimbler said. “We just assumed. When we assume, my mama always said, one makes an ass out of u and me. Put the three of them together and you get—”

  “An ass,” Detective Krupp said. “Really, Wimbler, how did you make it on the force? Are you the chief’s nephew or something?”

  “It’s my ex-husband’s name,” I said.

  They both returned their focus to me.

  “What?” Detective Krupp said.

  “My ex-husband is the notorious divorce lawyer Buford Timberlake. I’m sure you see his smarmy ads every time you turn on the TV.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Detective Wimbler. “Is your husband a bum? Get rid of that scum—with Timberlake. Is your wife a nag? Get rid of that hag—with Timberlake. Those are the kind of jingles that stick with you.”

  “That stick in your craw,” I said. “When I was forty, Buford traded me for a younger model that was twenty percent silicone—if you get my drift. At least that. But Tweetie—may she rest in peace—met her Maker in a suit of armor—”

  Detective Krupp sprang to life. “Not Tweetie Byrd Simpson from Blowing Rock High!”

  “You knew her?”

  “Knew her?” Detective Krupp cried. “Why we grew up together. Our houses backed up to one another. We had a ton of sleepovers and we used to take baths together as little girls. Right up until high school as a matter of fact. But I lost track of her after we graduated and she moved to Charlotte. She wanted to make something of herself—and I guess she kind of did. I read about it in the paper when she died. That’s when I decided to move down here and become a detective so I could solve murders like hers.”

  “Well, you know, it was me who solved Tweetie’s murder.”

  “Get out of town and back! That was you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You hear that, Wimbler? We have ourselves a genuine celebrity on our hands!”

  “Speaking of which,” Detective Wimbler said, “there is absolutely no scientific proof equating hand size with—well, you know what.”

  “Detective Wimbler has issues,” Detective Krupp said in a loud stage whisper, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I do not.”

  “The best thing is to just ignore him. A lot of the really tall suspects try to sleep with him—go figure—but you’re the first one in a long time who is significantly shorter than he is. I think you’ve thrown him for a loop.”

  “Just shut up,” Detective Wimbler said. His face was pomegranate pink.

  Detective Krupp walked over to the one-way glass window and pulled down a shade. “Mrs. Timberlake, because you knew Tweetie that makes you like family to me.”

  “Uh—listen. I didn’t like Tweetie in the beginning. How could I? She stole my husband. Sure, my feelings softened somewhat later on when Buford cheated on her, but I don’t think you should count me as family.”

  “But I do, and I’m going to take care of you.”

  “Me too,” said Detective Wimbler. “Research does show that tall people—especially tall men—get all the breaks. Did you know that they’re much more likely to get promoted?”

  “Maybe that’s because they have larger brains,” Detective Krupp said. She sounded quite serious. Then again, she was at least five inches taller than her partner.

  “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t bother to legally change my name from Timberlake to Washburn when I remarried.”

  “Actually, I hadn’t,” said Detective Krupp.

  “My late mother kept her maiden name,” said Detective Wimbler. “It was Wiggins.”

  I didn’t dare tell the poor man that this was also my maiden name. Perhaps my late daddy, who was also diminutive, had been kin to Mrs. Wimbler. The revelation of such a possibility was sure to start a never-ending conversation—on second thought, that little tidbit would be my ace in the hole.

  Detective Krupp was clearly annoyed whenever the conversation veered from her control. “What I’m trying to say, Mrs. Timberlake, is that Wallace here and I have your back.”

  Wallace? How cruel can some parents get? (June and Ward Cleaver exempted.) No wonder the poor man had a complex; it wasn’t his height after all. Daddy was only five feet, and that included the one-inch chip on his shoulder—but it came from the fact that the service wouldn’t take him, not because of his stature per se.

  “Mrs. Timberlake,” Detective Krupp said, her annoyance clearly growing, “are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Good. Because I’m trying to tell you that my partner and I are going to take it easy on you, on account of you and I have this special connection. And you’re a native Southerner—like us. It’s not like you just moved down here six months ago from someplace like Boston or New York, and started calling yourself a North Carolinian.”

  “Or worse yet,” Detective Wimbler said, “is when you don’t.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got that right.”

  “And this means exactly what?” I said. I knew I was being played, and not like a Stradivarius either.

  “It means we’re going to release you on your own recognizance,” Detective Krupp said, “but we want you to stay in the area.”

  “That means no taking any side trips to visit LEGOLAND,” Detective Wimbler said.

  I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that the miniature village built out of LEGO blocks that’s in Denmark?”

  “Sometimes it’s best just to ignore him,” Detective Krupp said. “Like now.” She moved to the door, indicating my interrogation was over. “Oh, just one more thing,” she said. “Her bazoomas were real.”

  “I beg to differ, Detective Krupp. That’s how I caught my husband having the affair. The bill from the plastic surgeon came to our house; it was for nine thousand dollars.”

  “Did you take
the time to read it carefully, Mrs. Timberlake? I bet dollars to doughnuts that was for Tweetie’s reduction surgery. In the fourth grade that girl began to blossom like nobody’s business, and by the time we started middle school she could have posed for Playboy. Then they just got out of control—her breasts I mean. They were right painful, I suppose. I know she got excused from gym on that account.”

  “Why, slap me up the side of the head with a mess of greens and call me late for dinner.”

  “Are you mocking me, Mrs. Timberlake, because I’m trying to like you?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just ashamed of myself for having been so judgmental of her, and didn’t know what else to say.”

  “Just lay low, Mrs. Timberlake,” Detective Wimbler said. “Don’t say anything more here; we’ll be in touch with you.”

  When I returned to the grand lobby of my hotel, I expected to get on the elevator, walk down a long plushy carpet to my door, enter my suite of rooms, take a scalding hot shower, and then flop onto my bed with the remote in one hand and a contraband bag of Peanut M&M’s in the other. Instead I was accosted. Right there in the lobby, I was practically jumped by three people—one of whom had been stalking me virtually my entire life!

  Chapter 4

  Surprise!” Mama said.

  “I don’t like surprises, Mama. You know that.”

  “Abby, don’t be such a grouch,” Wynnell said. After Rob, she was my closest friend in the whole wide world, and knew a lot better than to drive up from Charleston unannounced like that.

  “We’re your backup team,” C.J. said. C.J. is my ex-sister-in-law, but a dear friend as well. She is also from Shelby, North Carolina, and has the stories to prove it.

  The three of them had surrounded me, but I managed to slip under C.J.’s long, gangly arms. “What the heck is going on? Who called you?”

  “Why nobody, dear,” Mama said. “You know how I have this ability to smell trouble? Well, I began to get a whiff of it last night when I was watching TV, so I called C.J. and Wynnell and told them to be on standby, and then this morning when I was frying bacon I couldn’t even smell it on account of the scent of trouble was so strong.”