Statue of Limitations Read online

He pivoted. “Something on my line?”

  “No, it’s about a job.”

  “Abby, don’t go there. I didn’t work my butt off for forty years to take orders from some kid at Burger King.”

  “That wasn’t going to be my suggestion. Ed, I think you should work in Wooden Wonders alongside Wynnell.”

  That finally brought a laugh. “Good one.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He cocked his head, like a puppy hearing a particular sound for the first time. “Abby, selling antiques is ladies’ work.”

  “The Rob-Bobs are great at it.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Now that’s just mean. They’re every bit as manly as you are. You don’t see them roll over and whine when the going gets tough.”

  He glared at me. “Wynnell can’t even make a go of it as it is. What the heck am I supposed to do at the store, stand around and twiddle my thumbs?’

  “How about charm the customers?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “You bet. But you could, you know. Turn on that Southern charm of yours—you’d have ladies offering to pay twice the asking price just to hang around you.”

  “Shoot. You sure know how to spin one.” A twinkle had appeared in his eyes.

  “I’m serious. A husband and wife team—you’d have all the bases covered.”

  “Just one thing, Abby.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t mean to badmouth my wife, but most of the stuff she’s got for sale is pure crap. At least compared to what you and the boys handle.”

  “That can be fixed. We can take you to auctions and point out the bargains—only quality stuff, of course.”

  He sighed heavily. “Yeah, but that takes money. Serious money we don’t have.”

  “I could spot you the money.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I could loan you the money—I’d even charge interest if you prefer.”

  He cogitated on my offer for moment. “What if we can’t pay it back?”

  “Oh but you will. I’ll only let you buy merchandise that has a high probability of resale at a profit. Of course it can’t be all heavy wooden pieces, like Wynnell sells now. You need a little glitz in that shop. Some crystal chandeliers, original oil paintings, objects d’art—you know, a little pizzazz. My customers like to feel that they’re about to make an important discovery every time they walk through the door.”

  Ed nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Like maybe they could take your stuff to the Antiques Road-show and find out it was worth a mint.”

  “Exactly. So how about it, Ed? You want to give it a shot?”

  He nodded more vigorously. “Yeah, I think I do. It could be fun at that. How do you think Wynnell will react to this idea, or have you already run it past her?”

  “You’re the first. Say Ed, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I was going to fish for another hour or two—what the heck, I’ll quit now and run by her shop.” He started to reel in his line.

  “No, don’t!”

  Ed turned immediately. “Abby, what’s wrong? Is Wynnell in trouble?”

  I knew he could read my face as well as my tone. The dang cat was already out of the bag. The only sensible thing to do was let him help. Besides, he had every right to know.

  “She’s in jail, sweetie.”

  “Not street-walking again!”

  Who knew Ed could joke? “Murder,” I said quietly.

  He made me repeat it. I did, then he asked, “Who is she accused of killing?”

  “Marina Webbfingers. The woman for whom she did that landscaping job.”

  “Where’s she being held?”

  “City jail, I guess. I’ve already gotten her a lawyer—a Mr. Hammerhead on King Street.”

  When he reeled his line in without saying another word, I knew I’d done the right thing. Edwin Crawford now had two projects to work on, of course one much more urgent than the other. But with Wynnell’s husband fully on board, I felt better about throwing myself into the investigation.

  Even though he had his gear to pack, Ed made it out of the parking lot before I did. Although it was the middle of summer vacation, it was a late Tuesday morning, which meant it was the slowest time of the week for traffic. Mine was the only car I could see in my lane when I crossed the bridge over Folly River. Ahead of me lay Oak Island, with its tidal flats, and then Folly Creek. I lowered my window again to savor the smell of the pluff mud, but in the second or two it took to do so, a pickup truck appeared in my rearview mirror.

  “What the heck?” Perhaps I used a stronger word, since one need not worry about being a lady while alone.

  There was simply no reason why the truck couldn’t pass me. Didn’t the fool ever take driver’s education? Although there are only three people in the entire state of South Carolina who don’t tailgate—all three of them are nearsighted nuns—there is a limit to how close we follow cars. Less than one car length is just too close.

  I stepped on the gas. So did the driver of the truck. Pushing the pedal further, I strained to get a better look in the rearview mirror. Faded blue overalls, no shirt, and a head the size of Crowders Mountain—before Granny Ledbetter dumped half of it into Lake Norman. Then he grinned, and I saw more spaces than teeth.

  “I can ID you, you S.O.B,” I screamed. I was not, by the way, referring to Charleston’s choicest neighborhood.

  He appeared to laugh. I am ashamed to say that I responded by flipping him the bird. In fact, I pumped my middle finger up and down several times for emphasis. For your information, this is not how I raised my children, Susan and Charlie. My excuse, feeble though it may be, is that I was pretty sure he would understand the gesture. And I was right, because he flipped the bird right back at me.

  But what he did next came as a total surprise.

  8

  At first I thought I’d hit a pothole. Although uncommon this far south, where freezes are infrequent, they do occur. At any rate, that’s when I decided it was more important to keep my eyes on the road then it was to vent. Besides, who knew what jerks like him were capable of if they got angry?

  It didn’t take long to find out. The next time he hit the car, the jolt made my head snap forward. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “You idiot!” I screamed. “Stop it, stop it!”

  Of course he couldn’t hear me. Not that it would have made a difference. He backed off just enough to accelerate, then he rammed me again. If this kept up, my air bag would deploy, and it would probably smother me when it did. I had to get away. I literally pressed the pedal to the floor, and my car shot ahead. But it remained ahead for only a few seconds. Whatever make of pickup he was driving, it had a lot more pick-me-up than I would have thought.

  What was I to do? I couldn’t very well pull over, because there was virtually no shoulder to the road. Neither could I call the police on the spare cell phone I kept in the car, because I needed both hands to steer. It’s not easy to handle a car hurtling down a rough asphalt road at ninety-plus miles.

  “Use your head, dummy,” I shouted aloud. “Don’t freak out, dear. Use your head.” Incidentally, I often call myself “dear” when talking to myself. If I don’t consider myself precious, who will?

  Fortunately, I often take my own advice as well. This time I took it literally. I had to stand on the gas pedal and crane my neck in order to get my brow to make contact with the center of the steering wheel, but when I did, I found the horn immediately. If I hadn’t expected the blast—and there was just one short one—I would have veered off the road for sure. Lord knows I came dangerously close while honking with my head.

  I looked in the rearview mirror as soon as I felt back in control. My intention had not been to startle my tormentor, but to draw attention to us. Although we still had not encountered traffic, there were some homes ahead, scattered along the edge of the marsh, and hopefully some kind soul, looking out his or her p
icture window, would summon help. Unless two vehicles mate—a rare occurrence even in car-crazy South Carolina—such close proximity would be a certain indicator of foul play. The same thought must have occurred to the tailgater. After a few seconds he dropped back a dozen yards, and then in a cloud of smoke he roared past me and into the horizon.

  “But you pulled over and called the police the instant you could, right?” The concern on Bob’s face was touching, but his tone reminded me of my high school algebra teacher, Mr. Sawyers, when he asked the class to turn in their homework.

  “Of course not. I have my lunch date, and you know how time-consuming filling out a police report can be.”

  We were standing on the sidewalk in front of Slightly North of Broad. Both the Rob-Bobs and I had shown up five minutes early, but unless both of the Papadopouluses had popped in to use the potty, they had yet to arrive.

  Rob laid a protective arm around my shoulders. He is the younger brother I wish I had.

  “Abby, darling, Bob and I don’t fill out a great deal of police reports. Yet when we do, you’re always somehow involved.”

  I was about to protest when I spotted the well-dressed couple strolling up East Bay. Apparently they had elected to walk to the restaurant.

  “Okay, you guys, go on and get yourselves seated. They’re coming.”

  Rob slid his arm down my back. “Where? Not that pair of giant marshmallows wearing identical shorts and tank tops! Slime green and purple spandex—that was so 1990s.”

  Bob shuddered. “There should be a law against men who dine in tank tops. Underarm hair does not mix with food.” He shuddered again. “Surely a restaurant this nice has a dress code.”

  “Relax guys, that’s not them. It’s the couple behind them. Tall, good-looking man—”

  “You mean the stud?” Rob asked.

  “Hey!” Bob is the less physically blessed half of the Rob-Bobs, and therefore a mite insecure.

  “Guys, hurry up. I don’t want them to know you’re with me.” I gave Rob a gentle push.

  “All right, darling. Just make sure you seat him facing me.” Of course he was only teasing his partner. They have been together eleven years and are as faithful as any heterosexual couple—hmm, perhaps I shouldn’t take Rob’s fidelity for granted.

  At any rate, my friends slipped inside the restaurant while I straightened my clothes and pasted a cheery Charleston smile on my face. Every Southern girl of good breeding is skilled in the art of faux friendliness, so I had no doubts that mine was convincing.

  The New Yorkers were quick to respond with porcelain smiles of their own, and when Nick shook my hand, I felt a jolt of electricity that traveled well beyond the length of my arm. If Irena noticed the spark between us, she didn’t let on.

  “Is it always this humid?” she demanded.

  I slipped out of Nick’s grasp and opened the door for them. “Not always, dear. If a low front stalls along the coast, it can get a great deal more humid.”

  She didn’t say anything else until we were seated and it was time to give our drink orders. “A dirty martini,” she snapped to the waitress. “Vodka. Three olives. And it better be cold.”

  Even Nick blushed with embarrassment. Yet when he ordered his beer, he insisted that the foam head be no less than a quarter inch thick, and no more than an inch.

  I ordered a sweet tea (ice tea with tons of sugar, for those of you who live north of the Line). This, not coffee, is the liquid that keeps the South running. There are folks who firmly believe that in the absence of the right blood type, sweet tea may be used for transfusions.

  The Papadopouluses were a little less sure of themselves when it came to ordering from the lunch menu. After driving our waitress, a sweet young girl from Savannah, to the brink of madness, they both decided to begin their meal with chilled gazpacho soup, to be followed by poached mussels in white wine and garlic sauce. Irena selected the sautéed grouper glazed with whole mustard as her entrée, and Nick finally decided on the sautéed duck breast with plum glaze and mashed sweet potatoes. Much to my surprise, neither of them ordered the roast rack of lamb.

  Yours truly had only the jumbo lump crab cakes, served over a sauté of corn, okra, and roasted yellow squash. I intended to save some room in my tiny tummy for the establishment’s to-die-for crème brûlée.

  As a matter of course we were all served a delightful sourdough bread, in which Nick seemed to take a special interest. He broke off a bite-size piece and smelled it, before rolling it into a little ball, which he popped in his mouth. His smile was a pretty good indication that he approved of the selection. That, and the fact that he hogged most of the loaf.

  “So, tell me about yourselves,” I said casually when the meal was well under way.

  Irena, who was gorging on her grouper, dropped her fork. “Like what?”

  “Well, what do you do for a living?” It is, I believe, the most frequently asked question in America, and therefore entirely safe.

  “You already know that my husband is a stock market phenomenon.” The fork was not only back in Irena’s hand, but on the way to her mouth. It was soon apparent that the woman had no compunctions about chewing and chatting at the same time.

  “But what about you, dear? Are you employed outside the home?”

  Irena stabbed at her fish. “I’m a gem buyer.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I glanced at my engagement ring. Medieval theologians used to argue about how many angels could fit on the head of a pin. Well, only half of a very small angel could fit on the only diamond Greg could afford on his policeman’s salary. And now that he was a shrimper—well, if I wanted to upgrade my stone, I’d have to pay for it myself.

  “What does a good diamond go for these days? I know one has to take into account the four C’s, but I just want a ballpark figure.”

  The skunk on her head came alive as she recoiled in horror. “I don’t handle CZ. My gems are the real thing.”

  “I meant cut, clarity, carat, and color. Those are the four C’s, aren’t they?”

  “Uh—certainly. But lately I’ve been dealing mostly with secondary gems. You know, emeralds, rubies, sapphires. That sort of thing.”

  “How interesting. I’ve never met a gem buyer before. Does this mean you have to do a lot of traveling?”

  She nodded. “Constantly. It’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to soon get extra pages glued into my passport—what with all the stamps I’ve accumulated.”

  “Do you go with her?” I asked Nick.

  “Every chance I get,” he said. They were the first words he’d spoken all meal, discounting instructions to the waitress.

  “But isn’t that difficult, given your job on Wall Street?”

  The dead skunk lurched forward. “Mrs. Washburn, did you invite us here to give us the third degree?”

  “No, I’m only trying to be friendly. Down here the first three questions you ask new folks are: who are your people, where do you go to church, and where do you work. You’d already made it clear you didn’t want to discuss religion, and I didn’t feel comfortable leading with the ‘who are your people’ question, on account I always lose out when it’s put to me.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because although my family has been in the South for generations, I’m the first to live in Charleston.”

  “I hear you,” she said with surprising sympathy. “Manhattan has its pecking order, too. Fortunately my Nicky is so successful that we don’t have that problem—not that we would anyway.” She took a sip of her third dirty martini. “You see, my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

  “All the way from Greece?”

  The dead skunk scowled, but I swear Nick snickered. “Mrs. Washburn,” Irena said, “do you make it a habit of insulting your guests?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Say, did either of you happen to witness the argument yesterday between Mrs. Webbfingers and her garden designer? I
hear it was quite something.”

  Irena gave Nick what I could only construe as a warning glare. “I’m afraid we were out,” she said. “Went to some plantation. Boone Farm, I think it was.”

  “That would be Boone Hall, the most photographed plantation in America—well, that’s what they claim. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Actually we did. They have a cotton patch where you can pick your own cotton—although they said it was too early in the season. Still, who knew cotton grew on plants?”

  Hadn’t the woman ever cracked open a history book? Had she never read about slaves toiling in the broiling sun as they picked cotton? Had she not been forced to memorize the name of Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin? Or did she think that was the name of a cocktail?

  “There’s another plantation nearby that has polyester bushes,” I said wickedly. “They also have special plots where they hybridize cotton and polyester bushes to produce a cotton-poly blend. It’s really quite interesting.”

  “Maybe we could see that tomorrow.”

  “Oh—and I forgot, there’s a rayon farm just south of here on James Island. Rayon grows on trees, you know. The leaves are smooth and shiny, and the color is spectacular, but they tend to wrinkle when it rains.”

  Irena pushed her now empty plate aside. “Mrs. Washburn, I realize you’re a businesswoman, and probably have a full schedule, but would you consider showing us around the area—for a fee of course?”

  I pretended to ponder her question. “Yes,” I said after a long pause, “I suppose I might be able to rearrange my schedule.”

  “Excellent.”

  Feeling that I had made a little progress, I quite enjoyed my crème brûlée. Irena made no comment about her Key Lime Tart, although she wolfed it down in exactly four bites. Nick, on the other hand, carefully dissected his triple chocolate cake before eating it crumb by crumb.

  I assumed that since the Rob-Bobs left the restaurant during our dessert, they had concluded that I was in no kind of danger. But when I called them the minute I was free of my guests, I learned just how wrong my assumption was.