Nightmare in Shining Armor Page 6

  “I’m out of here, guys. Will one of you please feed Dmitri before you lock up?”

  Greg stood. He’d loom over me even if he were on his knees.

  “But Abby, you just can’t cut out like this. You may be needed for more questioning.”

  “Try me.” I hobbled to the door and then remembered that my pocketbook containing my keys was still upstairs. “Wynnell, may I borrow your car?”

  “How will I get home?”

  “Greg will take you, won’t you, dear?”

  He sighed. “Okay, but where will I find you?”

  “You’re the detective,” I said. “Figure it out.”

  Every woman should have a sensitive male friend she can turn to when the going gets tough. I am fortunate in that I have two.

  The Rob-Bobs live in a sumptuous townhouse they love to show off. Their guest room has an authentic Queen Anne bed. According to them it belonged to Anne herself. While I’m sure a queen slept in that bed, I doubt if it was Her Majesty. Still, the pair has a superb collection of first-rate antiques and the class with which to display them to their full advantage. The only trouble is, both men suffer from bad cases of revolving-door syndrome.

  This is a chronic disease common among those in our trade. I’ve experienced severe bouts of this illness. One month I was deeply in love with a French fauteuil which I took home from my shop and placed lovingly beside my fireplace. The next month I replaced this heavily scrolled chair with a more blocky bergère that fit the location even better. It’s not that I had fallen out of the love with the former, it’s just that I had still to meet the latter. In other words, something better is always bound to come along, a point I have tried in vain to teach my children.

  When you attend weekly auctions as I do, this lesson is learned over and over again, but it is still a hard one to master. Since I own my own shop, I can draw from my inventory whenever I want. As a result my decor is constantly changing. Sometimes I envy Mama, who got locked in a time warp the day Daddy died, killed in a boating accident when a seagull with an enormous brain tumor dive-bombed us while we were waterskiing on Lake Wylie. Unlike her cronies, Mama never gets suckered into visiting furniture stores that promise no interest, and deferred payments until the cows come home. Mama never rearranges, never paints, and consequently never spends. Both her cash flow and contentment levels remain high.

  Because the Rob-Bobs are even more fickle than I, visiting them is invariably a treat. But it is their warmth and understanding I enjoy most.

  “Abby!” Rob Goldburg cried as he answered the door. He enclosed me in an embrace reeking of imported cologne commingled with party sweat. Still dressed as James Brolin, the man was undeniably handsome.

  Bob Steuben, who originally hails from Toledo, is a little more reserved. He’d shed Babs’s sequined gown in favor of chinos and a chambray shirt. Although he’d done a decent job of scrubbing off the makeup, traces of lip liner remained.

  “Hey,” he boomed in his trademark bass, “I was just stirring up a little nosh. You want a bite!”

  Rob laughed. “I’ve been teaching Bob a little Yiddish. ‘Nosh’ seems to be his favorite word.”

  I glanced at the long case Bornholm clock in the foyer. It was new to their digs, but appeared to be working. It was twelve minutes after midnight, a strange hour to be stirring up anything.

  “Didn’t Mama serve anything at her party?” I asked hopefully. Mama is an excellent cook capable of making ambrosia out of the most unlikely ingredients. She does not own a microwave, however, so instant treats are out of her arena.

  “She didn’t have time,” Rob said. “You called and then the party just sort of fell apart. Actually, it never really began.”

  I felt wickedly exultant. I love my mama dearly, but she always has to steal the show—particularly if it’s mine. She fainted during my wedding processional—somehow managed to land sprawled-eagle across the aisle—just I approached her pew. Daddy, who was used to Mama’s shenanigans, whispered in my ear to just step over her. The congregation, taking their cue from us, ignored my prostrate progenitress, and she eventually hauled herself back into her seat. At least she was no longer lying there when I walked back down the aisle with Buford.

  Bob nudged me. “So, Abby, you want to try my Down Under Surprise?”

  “Well—”

  “It’s emu egg omelets,” Rob warned me. “With kiwi fruit compote on the side.”

  I smiled. Bob is a serious gourmand. It didn’t surprise me a bit that he was able to find emu eggs in Charlotte. At the moment, however, eggs of any size were unappealing.

  “Maybe next time. Y’all mind if I crash here for the night?”

  Both men beamed. “We already put mints on your pillow,” Rob said. “Greg just called to let us know you were coming.”

  “He did?”

  Bob led me to a settee done in rococo style with a ribband back. “You can park your tuchas here,” he said. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable place to rest my derriere, but since it had a genuine Thomas Chippendale provenance, who cared?

  “What all did Greg have to say?”

  “Primarily that he knew you were heading here, and that we should tuck you in.”

  “And kiss you good night,” Rob said. Both men squirmed.

  I laughed. “I can tuck myself in, thanks.”

  Rob pulled up a silk hassock. “He also mentioned that Tweetie’s body was found stuffed in a suit of armor. Was it the same three-quarter Italian suit we saw at your party?”

  I nodded.

  Bob perched beside me on the settee. “Don’t worry, Abby. It should be really easy for the police to trace a quality costume like that. There can’t be that many rental shops in town.”

  Rob nodded. “Right. Although, it could be a privately owned costume. Abby, any theater people at your party?”

  I must confess I wasn’t really listening. “You know,” I said, thinking aloud, “maybe it’s not a costume at all, but a genuine suit of armor.”

  “What?” Both men were incredulous.

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Although I carry quality merchandise in the Den of Antiquity, I’m not even in the same league with the Rob-Bobs. Their shop is on a par with any found in London, New York, or Paris. These men are experts.

  “I just thought—well, it looked too real to be a costume. And it was heavy, too. Just lifting the visor took effort.”

  They couldn’t help but exchange “poor Abby” looks.

  “I was just thinking aloud,” I wailed.

  “Sweetie,” Rob said, sitting on the other arm of the settee, “you’re right. It might not be a costume at all. A lot of people ship these realistic copies of armor back from Europe.”

  “They do? Whatever for?”

  “To put in their foyers,” Bob boomed.

  I could feel myself blush. “What a silly thing to do.”

  “It’s some kind of an ego trip,” Rob said. He patted my shoulder. “Invite anyone who’s been to Europe recently?”

  I choked back a gasp. “Buford and Tweetie. They did the grand tour this summer.”

  Rob’s hand froze. “Abby, you’re not suggesting that—”

  “No!” I cried. “Buford would sleep with a porcupine, but he couldn’t kill anyone.”

  Bob leaned forward, looking me gently in the eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he’s the father of my children!”

  Neither man spoke.

  “Look, guys, Buford is a snake, I won’t deny that. But he’s slimy, not lethal.”

  “Uh-huh, Abby,” they said in unison.

  I stood. “Look, he didn’t kill Tweetie, okay? And I’m going to prove it.”

  “How?” Rob asked softly.

  “I’m going to find out who owns that suit, that’s how.”

  “We’ll do what we can to help,” Bob said.

  “Just tell us what to do,” Rob agreed.

  “Thanks.” I thought for a moment. “I know you g
uys think I’m crazy, but just suppose this suit of armor isn’t a costume and isn’t a copy meant for some rich American’s foyer. Suppose it’s the real McCoy? Then the question becomes, who here in Charlotte is rich and savvy enough to own a suit of genuine seventeenth-century Italian armor?”

  The men exchanged glances.

  9

  “Who?” I demanded. “Y’all know something, don’t you? Is it one of y’all’s clients?”

  They sat stone-faced, mum as a pair of jade Buddhas.

  “Come on!” I wailed. “Out with it!”

  “You’ll never believe it,” Rob finally said.

  My heart sank. “Oh no! But why? Y’all knew I was over my feelings of hate.”

  “Abby—”

  “And when did you get the armor? Y’all never said anything about it?” To be perfectly honest, I was feeling more left out than horrified.

  “Abby, we didn’t do it. We didn’t kill Tweetie.”

  “You didn’t?”

  The men burst into laughter. Rob’s period of hilarity was mercifully short, but Bob switched from laughing to braying like a donkey. He can give C. J. a run for her money any day.

  “Stop laughing at me! Rob, you just said I’d never believe it, so what was I to think?”

  “Not that we killed Tweetie!”

  I waved a hand impatiently. “Okay, I’m sorry. But then what is it I’d never believe?”

  Bob brayed to a stop. “Who it is who collects genuine antique armor.”

  “Who?” We were beginning to sound like a bunch of owls.

  “The Widow Saunders,” Rob said smugly.

  I looked at him in astonishment. Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders is one of Charlotte’s most reclusive millionaires. If it wasn’t for the plaques around town denoting her many civic contributions, and the occasional photo on the Observer’s society page, I wouldn’t have believed she existed. I have never met her, nor do I personally know anyone who has. But then again, there are many layers to Charlotte society, as I’m sure there are everywhere. The higher one climbs, the more one discovers there are new heights to scale. For a middle-class peon like myself, the pinnacle will remain forever shrouded in the mists of protocol.

  “How do you know this?” I demanded.

  The men grinned. “Because,” Rob said, “we’ve been to her house.”

  “Get out of town!”

  Rob shook his handsome head.

  I grabbed a bony chunk of Bob’s shoulder. “He’s kidding, right?”

  “He’s not kidding. She had us over to the house for an appraisal last week.”

  “What was it? What did you appraise?” Considering the widow’s reputation, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was the Holy Grail the Rob-Bobs had been asked to tag.

  “Sorry, Abby, but we’re not allowed to tell.”

  “What?”

  “She asked we keep it confidential.”

  “But we’re friends. We break confidences all the time. Just last week you told me that Linda Gettlefinger had her eyes done, and she made you promise not to tell.”

  They looked sheepish, but declined to comment.

  “Please!”

  Rob spread his long patrician fingers in a gesture of finality. “Give it up, Abby. But we can tell you that the Widow Saunders has the finest private collection of armature either of us has ever seen.”

  “Not that we spent much time looking at it,” Bob said with a nasty wink. “There were other things to occupy our attention.”

  “Bob!” Rob said sharply.

  I gave it up as Rob suggested. There was no point in trying to wrench that secret out of them.

  “Would y’all be willing to introduce me to the Widow Saunders?”

  “But Abby—”

  “I’d like to study a real suit of seventeenth-century armor,” I said quickly. “Just to satisfy myself that the armor Tweetie was found in wasn’t real.”

  They nodded reluctantly.

  “All right,” Rob said, “we’ll do what we can. But it may take a few days to come up with a good excuse. She’s a suspicious old thing. I forgot to tell her Bob was coming with me and she nearly freaked out. Thought he worked for the IRS.”

  “Tell her I’m a history buff.”

  “That might do the trick. Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

  “In the meantime,” Bob said, “there are fresh sheets on the Queen Anne, and breakfast will be brought to you at eight.”

  He was true to his word. At precisely eight in the morning I was awakened by a gentle touch on my shoulder. I sat up to find a lap table astride my hips. Atop the table was a silver tray set with hand-painted Limoges china. A neatly folded white linen napkin sported a complement of sterling cutlery in the Sir Christopher pattern.

  I studied the dishes. A pot of hot chocolate. A toasted bagel with lox and cream cheese. A rasher of bacon. A small plate of fresh sliced honeydew melon. And three tiny poached eggs.

  My sigh of relief cooled the eggs and chilled the melon further. “No more emu eggs?” I said jokingly.

  Bob blinked. “Oh, we still have plenty of those, but as everyone knows, emu eggs are for brunches and late-night suppers.”

  “Of course. I knew that.”

  “These are guinea eggs.”

  I smiled. An egg was an egg, wasn’t it? Just as long as it came from a bird smaller than I.

  “They look delicious,” I said sincerely. “Thanks.”

  Bob sat on the edge of the bed. “You need a good breakfast. Especially after what you went through last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Tweetie,” he said simply.

  “Oh my God! I can’t believe I didn’t remember!”

  “It’s normal to block things out, Abby.”

  “But I remembered the eggs—”

  “Knock, knock.” Rob stood in the doorway holding a cordless phone. He nodded at me. “It’s for you. Buford.”

  The chill that ran up my spine was enough to give Santa shivers. I started shaking all over.

  “What will I say?” I whispered desperately.

  One of Bob’s warm hands found mine. “Just tell him what you know. He can’t blame you, Abby.”

  Rob handed me the phone. “You want us to stay?”

  For some reason their kindness made me feel like a big baby. “No, I can handle this,” I said resolutely and took the phone. I waited until they’d tiptoed out of the room before speaking into the phone. “Hello?”

  “Abby?”

  “Yes, Buford.”

  “Are you all right?”

  I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Everything seemed normal to me.

  “Buford, is that really you?”

  “Of course it is. Who else would it be? Abby, Greg called me with the terrible news and—”

  “I’m really sorry, Buford. You have my deepest sympathy. I know you think I didn’t like Tweetie—hated her even—but it isn’t true. Why, we had lunch together just last week to discuss—”

  “Hey, Abby, I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “Because Greg said you were really upset. Look, Abby, I really am in Tokyo this time. Just listen.” Presumably he held the machine away from his ear because I heard the din of voices, some of which may have been Japanese. “You hear that?”

  “Yes,” I said warily.

  “I’m at the train station. I’m on a flight that leaves from Narita Airport in two hours. It’s the last direct flight to the States tonight, so I have to make this connection. I would have booked an earlier one, but everything was full. Anyway, I just needed to hear how you are, and to tell you that I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Oh, and Abby, I’ve called Malcolm and told him to get in touch with you. Whatever you need, you just tell him.”

  With that Buford hung up. I
stared at the phone in my hands until the poached guinea eggs on my plate were as cold as hail pellets. I was still staring when Rob rapped softly on the door frame.

  “You have a visitor,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “A gentleman by the name of Malcolm Biddle. Abby, isn’t that Buford’s junior law partner?”

  “His partner from hell,” I corrected him. “Mr. Satan himself. Where is he?”

  “In the living room. Shall I show him in?”

  “Not on your life. I’ll meet him out there.”

  10

  You can’t get any lower, if you ask me, than to ditch your wife while she’s in the hospital having a hysterectomy. But that’s just what Malcolm did. He dumped Jenny in favor of a tart named Miranda. And to think this man had the nerve to expect an invitation to my party!

  For any doubters of karma out there, Miranda left Malcolm just three weeks later. The new object of the bimbo’s affection was a Carolina Panther. But apparently the burly ballplayer had chimes Miranda couldn’t ring, because shortly after their tryst began, he was caught soliciting male fans at the state welcome station in Pineville.

  At any rate, I detest Malcolm. I did my best to make that clear to him. I choked down Bob’s breakfast—which might have actually tasted pretty good under other circumstances—took a long hot bath, and dressed slowly. Only when I felt totally in control did I deign to hobble into Beelzebub’s presence.

  He looked up from one of the Rob-Bob’s antique magazines. An objective person might find Malcolm attractive. He has regular features and a solid build. His hair is his own, and while I can’t vouch for the provenance of his teeth, he seems to have a full contingent. Yet, while his complexion isn’t particularly oily, he seems to exude an air of slipperiness.

  “Hey, you all right?” he asked and arranged his lips in a smirk.

  “Hey, yourself. You know, Malcolm, I really don’t need you checking up on me.”

  He closed the magazine and tossed it onto the silk hassock. “Buford’s orders.”

  “You’re his junior law partner, for crying out loud. You’re not his errand boy.”