Nightmare in Shining Armor (8 page)

I
n front of me was the Rob-Bob's salon. I don't mean their actual salon, of course, but a room that looked like I wish their salon had. These walls were covered in pale pink silk damask. The windows were covered with sheers, but dressed with deep rose drapes, also silk. On the gleaming parquet floor was an Aubusson, whose dominant colors were pink, rose, and a green that perfectly matched young Caleb's eyes. The furniture was rococo with embroidered upholstery, and the gilt was echoed in the elaborate frames of the myriad Impressionist paintings that decked the walls. It was definitely a woman's room. With a credit card and a good man by my side, I could live in a place like that and never go outside.

Then I noticed for the first time that one of the chairs was occupied by a small woman about my mama's age. I realize that may sound hard to believe, but she was wearing a flowered brocade suit that all but matched the furniture. Besides, was it my fault the room was so beautiful?

I gasped again. “Oh.”

The woman smiled.

I waited for Caleb to make introductions, but when I looked around, the doors were closed and he wasn't there. Fortunately the woman in the brocade bouquet took the initiative.

“You must be Mrs. Timberlake,” she said in the husky voice of a smoker—in this case probably a reformed smoker, since there was no telltale stench in the air. “I'm Corinthia Saunders. Please come in.”

I was tempted to curtsy before approaching the fabled Widow Saunders. Lord knows, she deserved one for having such good taste in furnishings. However, the last time I tried to curtsy, it was to an English duchess, and I ended up genuflecting by mistake. There is a difference, you know.

At any rate, the next time I go calling on Charlotte's crème de la crème, I'll wear something besides sweats and tennis shoes. Dressed as I was, I felt utterly unworthy to enter such a splendid room. And just for the record, I did not feel unworthy of meeting the widow. All women are created equal—a few men as well.

The Widow Saunders was an astute woman and sensed my discomfort. A true Southern lady, she saw it as her job to put me at ease.

“I'm on my way to a tea this morning,” she said. “Otherwise I live in jeans.”

“So does the Pope,” I mumbled under my breath. And then drawing on my training as a lady, I walked gracefully forward—well, given the limitations of a badly sprained ankle—and extended
my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” I said in my best modulated tones.

The widow took my hand and then gestured toward her right. A true Southern lady, I knew she would never presume to ask me about my limp without first being given an entrée.

“Please, have a seat.”

I did as bidden, although I had no right to sit on a three-hundred-year old chair in sweat pants from Wal-Mart. It felt like stacking comic books on the Bible. When, after a few seconds, I was not struck by lightning, I gathered the courage to speak.

“Ma'am, you don't know me, and I know I should have called first, but I was wondering if I could get a peek at your armor collection.”

She looked me over with the eyes of experience. The rich do not gain their wealth, nor do they hold on to it, by naivete. President Bush may have been flummoxed by a supermarket price scanner, but that was an exceptional case. The Widow Saunders, I'd be willing to bet, has seen the inside of a few groceries. Maybe not Bi-Lo, but surely the upscale Hannaford in South Park.

“Do I understand correctly, Mrs. Timberlake, that you are working with the police?”

“Oh no, ma'am. But I thought I might help them.”

The widow shook her head. “He may be cute, but he's dumb as a post.”

“Ma'am?”

“Caleb. The young man who showed you in.”

I giggled nervously. “Ah yes, your secretary.”

Her throaty laugh was anything but patrician. “Caleb is not my secretary. He's my—well, I prefer the old-fashioned term—paramour.”

“You don't say!”

She laughed again. Marbles rattling in a jar is what came to mind.

“Oh dear. Mrs. Timberlake, have I shocked you?”

I caught my breath. “Frankly, yes. But not in a bad way, you understand. I mean, you go, girl!”

“So you approve?” She sounded merely curious.

“It isn't my business to approve or disapprove of your romantic life. But I must say that I'm delighted to see a May-December relationship in which the tables are turned. In fact, it's the second one I've seen in two days.” I clamped a tiny hand over a very big mouth.

“Don't be embarrassed, Mrs. Timberlake—may I call you Abigail?”

I nodded.

“And please, call me Corie. Anyway, as I was about to say, I have no illusions about the boy. I know he wouldn't look at me twice—what with my wrinkles and wattles—if he didn't think I was loaded.”

“I beg your pardon?” I only pretended to be confused. The woman certainly had wattles. For her sake, I hope she stayed indoors the week of Thanksgiving.

“Oh, come off it, child. I'm old. There is no getting around that. And while they're right about
money not buying happiness, it can—and in this case, does—buy companionship. And”—she lowered her raspy voice to a whisper—“the best sex I've ever had.
Ever
.”

“Oh, my.” I felt the color rush to my cheeks.

“Gracious me, now I've really embarrassed you, haven't I?”

She had, of course, not that it mattered. I would be lucky to even have a sex life when I was her age. Heck, I would be lucky just to reach her age. And while normally I would think this conversation inappropriate for two strangers, I was fascinated by Corie Saunders.

She was doing what rich men have done through the ages. Men like Aristotle Onassis, for instance. And not just really old rich men, either. Does anyone really think Donald Trump could flaunt a progression of beauties on his arm if he were dirt-poor? And would fillies—er, I mean women younger than some horses—trot into Michael Douglas or Jerry Seinfield's stables, if these men worked at Arby's, making roast beef sandwiches for the minimum wage? I think not.

“It's just that I'd rather not hear any details,” I said. “If you please.”

Corie nodded and reached in the drawer of a small marquetry table of graceful proportions. She withdrew a packet of Virginia Slims and what appeared to be a solid gold cigarette lighter.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Absolutely.”

Corie grinned. “Good. I was hoping you'd keep
me on track. I haven't had a cigarette since, well—since an hour ago.”

I made a point of sniffing the air.

“Ha! You have moxie, Abigail. I like that. Reminds me of myself, when I was your age. But to answer your question, this house has a first-rate air filtration system. My late husband put it in for his armor collection. That stuff rusts if you look at it cross-eyed.”

I nodded agreeably. “And speaking of that armor, Corie”—I must confess here that addressing the fabled woman by her nickname made the hairs on my arms stand up with pleasure—“may I please see it?”

“I'm afraid that's impossible.”

“No fair,” I wailed. “You titillate me by alluding to your sex life with that stud muffin out there, but then you're unwilling to let me examine your antiques! What's that all about? You were willing to show the collection to Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben, for crying out loud. Why them, and not me?”

“Because I no longer own the collection, that's why.”

Thinking I had heard wrong, I shook my head to clear it of cobwebs. Thank heavens no spiders fell out.

“What?”

“I sold the entire collection last Monday.”

“Why?” I still couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Abigail, the armor was my husband's passion,
not mine. In fact, I've decided to sell most everything, including this house, and start over again someplace new.”

“With
him
?”

She nodded. “Abigail, it isn't easy being an icon. I'm almost seventy years old. I'm tired of shouldering the burdens of my position—a position I never aspired to by the way. So, like I said, I'm starting over. Someplace where I can be just me.”

“Where?”

“The Riviera maybe. Not the popular watering holes, of course—I'm likely to run into Charlotteans there. But I was thinking of Genoa.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You're willing to give up the A-list in the Queen City for Genoa with some gigolo?”

The marbles got a good workout. “Maybe if there was someone like you in my crowd, I'd be tempted to stay put.”

“Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment. Corie,” I said in my best getting-back-to-business tone, “to whom did you sell the armor collection? If you don't mind my asking?”

“Oh, not at all. It surprises me, however, that you know nothing about the transaction.”

“Why should I? Was the sale advertised?” As well as my business is doing, it would still have been a stretch for me to buy a single piece of authentic seventeenth-century armor, much less an entire three-quarter suit. Even had I been able to acquire, say, a helmet and visor, to whom would I sell it? Let's face it, it would have to be an eccen
tric, or someone with a strong sense of whimsy and money to burn. “Hey,” I said, before she could answer my questions, “it wasn't a gentleman by the name of Captain Keffert, was it?”

Corie shook her head.

“It's that Meredith woman! It's got to be. She may not be as eccentric as the so-called captain, but she's rolling in dough. And,” I added generously for Corie's benefit, “she, too, has a boy toy.”

“Is that so?” The corners of her mouth twitched, causing her wrinkles to dance.

“Oh yes. He's her tennis instructor. Roderick. But he's not as cute as your Caleb.” It was a harmless white lie.

I got treated to another concert of marbles in a jar. A long one. If I'd had a kazoo in my purse, we could have made some funky music together.

“Oh please, Abigail,” she finally said, “you're too much. But no, it's not Lynne. And yes, my Caleb is cuter.”

“You
know
them?”

“Certainly. Lynne and I move in some of the same circles.”

“But she's a Yankee!” I wailed. “A Buckeye from Ohio. My ancestors have lived in the Carolinas since before the Revolution and I—well, never mind.”

“No, say it.” There was definitely a glint in those beady old eyes.

“Okay, but only since you asked me to. I was about to say that
I've
never moved in any of your circles.”

She leaned in my direction and I had the feeling that had I been close enough, she would have patted me. Apparently the woman had a tender side.

“Abigail, please understand that Lynne moves in only some of my circles. The widest ones. She certainly does not number among my intimates.”

“Whew, that's a relief.”

“Now, now, dear, sarcasm doesn't become you. Besides, after I move to Geneoa I'll have whole new circles to establish. And since I won't know anyone at first, you're welcome to come over and get in on the ground floor. I'm sure I could use a sensible friend like you.”

I hoped Corie was teasing. But if she wasn't, I suppose I should have been flattered. Who would have thought a girl from Rock Hill would someday be invited to Europe, to befriend one of Charlotte's elite? Certainly not me.

“That's very generous of you, Corie. If I ever cross the Big Pond, I'll look you up. In the meantime”—I pushed up one of my sweatshirt sleeves to glance at my watch—“would you please tell me who bought your late husband's armor collection?”

Corie settled back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. Judging by the Cheshire cat grin distorting her features, she was going to relish the disclosure when it finally came.

“I
t was your ex-husband. Buford Timberlake.”

If I'd fallen off my chair, I would have cracked my skull wide open on a coffee table. Since coffee tables were not in use in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, someone—a recent ancestor, I hope, and not the old dame herself—had converted a Louis XV
bureau-plat
into one. Fortunately I teetered instead of toppled.

“Buford
? My Buford? Buford the Timber Snake Timberlake?”

She nodded, pleased at my response.

“But he doesn't know the first thing about antiques!”

“I had him out here so I could rewrite my will. You wouldn't believe how tricky it is to exclude blood relatives from inheriting one's estate, especially if one has no intention of marrying one's beneficiary.” She waved a liver-spotted hand. “But never mind that. What I'm getting to is that your Timber Snake, as you so charmingly call him, was quite taken with my late husband's collection. So
much so, in fact, he made me an offer on the spot.”

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. Buford and I once spent a long weekend in the Windy City, during which we visited the Art Institute of Chicago. Whereas I preferred to browse the Flemish masters, Buford was flat-out fascinated by the George F. Harding collection of late medieval and Renaissance armature. I couldn't drag him away from the display. It took two security guards and the threat of arrest to get him out the doors at closing time. Still, there is a big difference between appreciating a finely crafted suit of armor and shelling out the kind of bucks needed to buy an entire collection.

Still, ever since that weekend in Chicago, Buford has displayed an unnatural passion for armadillos, tanks, football helmets, and jockstraps. Never one to do things in a small way, I wouldn't put it past him to buy the widow's collection, but not without consulting an expert first. And just who would that expert have been? One of the Rob-Bobs, that's who! How cagey of them to suggest that Tweetie's metal coffin had been a fine European imitation.

“Drat!” I said, perhaps a bit vehemently.

“I beg your pardon, dear?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“But it is something. You look very annoyed.”

I sighed. “It's just that the Rob-Bobs—that's what I call Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben—misled me. I thought they were here to appraise some furniture, or maybe some artwork. They didn't let on
at all that they were in on the armor. And they're two of my best friends.”

She looked puzzled.

“Rob's the tall handsome one,” I added for further clarification. “Dark hair, just turning silver at the temples. Bob's skinny and kind of gawky, but he has a voice that would tame the Bosphorus Straits.”

“I know who they are,” she assured me. “But they did appraise my furniture. Well, most of it, at any rate. There are a few pieces I'm considering shipping to Genoa, but the bulk of it I've decided to put up for auction in Atlanta. Mr. Goldburg seems to think I'll get more for it there. Charlotteans, he says, are too conservative. Do you agree?”

“Well, uh, are you saying my friends didn't appraise the armor collection?”

“Gracious, no!” The marbles rattled briefly. “I got an armor expert for that.”

“Who? If you don't mind my asking.”

She studied me closely, which, given my size, only took a few seconds. “A dealer by the name of Wynnell Crawford.”

“Get out of town!”

She recoiled, no doubt due to the strength of my ejaculation. “You seem quite excited by this, Abigail.”

“Excited? Flabbergasted is more like it! Wynnell couldn't tell a jousting helmet from a tin can. Her specialty is Victorian furniture, for crying out loud. Late Victorian, at that!”

“Perhaps you underestimate the woman.”

“I think not! Her shop is called Wooden Wonders for a reason. Virtually everything in it is wood. She doesn't even like to stock tables with marble tops.”

“That may be, but I called several of the best museums in the country, and everyone agreed she was the woman to do the job.”

“But that's impossible. Wynnell is my very best friend in the entire world—even better than the Rob-Bobs. If she was expert on armor, believe me, I'd know.”

“Perhaps it's just something you've never discussed.”

“She's my best friend,” I wailed. “We discuss everything. Okay, so maybe not
everything
. Otherwise I would have known that Ed was diddling Tweetie, if I may be so vulgar as to use that expression.”

Corie stood. She wasn't much taller than I. Then again, she had a number of years on me. By the time I was her age I was going to have to wear stilts whenever I went out, or risk being mistaken for a first-grader by the nearsighted. Thank heavens for wrinkles.

“Mrs. Timberlake,” Corie said, her voice colder than a brass bra, “as I said earlier, I have a tea to attend.”

I hopped to my feet, too late remembering my ankle. The yelp that escaped these lips was enough to make the stud muffin come running.

“Corie, you all right?”

The grande dame blushed at her consort's pub
lic familiarity. “I'm fine.
Mr. Jenkins
, please see Mrs. Timberlake to the door.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Caleb made the mistake of grabbing one of my elbows. A swift kick to his right shin rectified that.

“Hands off, buster!.

“I didn't touch her, Mrs. Saunders.”

“You're a liar,” I snarled.

“Hey, you're not worth touching.”

“How rude! But then again, you don't know any better, do you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that not only do you look like Adonis, but you have the brains of a statue to boot.”

“Bitch.”

I gasped. “Did you hear what he just called me?”

The venerable Widow Saunders fixed us both with a look that could have frozen tomatoes to the ground in July. If she ever tired of Genoa, I'm sure Buckingham Palace would be happy to take her in.

She looked pointedly at me. “I am not amused.”

I lowered my eyes. “Sorry, ma'am.”

“You, Mr. Jenkins,” she said addressing her lover, “you and I will talk about this later.” With that she sailed regally out of the room

Caleb glared at me. “See what you did?”

“Me? You started it!”

“If that old bat dumps me, you'll pay for it.”

“I'm scared stiff, dear—
not
! And just for the record, I hope she does dump you. There have got to be a thousand other gigolos in Charlotte willing to take your place. Although if I were her, I'd wait
until I got to Genoa to pick a new one. A nice Italian stallion. Hmm, I might consider a trip myself.”

Caleb had the audacity to laugh. “Ha! Well, I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last woman on earth.”

So much for the power of stray pheromones. I hobbled from the room in a huff. I would have slammed the front door behind me when I exited the house, except for one minor detail. As I was passing through the foyer I noticed in my peripheral vision—which is excellent, by the way—that the dining room was to my right, and that the massive table in the middle was loaded with silver. Gobs of silver. I don't recall ever seeing so much of the shiny stuff in one place before. Cutlery, chalices, chafing dishes, candelabra—and not just the C words, either, but sconces, tea sets, picture frames, you name it. I felt like Ali Baba in the forty thieves' favorite hiding place.

I was admiring my reflection in an English punch bowl when I heard footsteps approach from the foyer. What was a greedy gal to do? There were two options as I saw it: I could duck under the table and make like a pedestal, or I could slip into the kitchen. I chose the latter.

Mercifully the institutional-size room was empty of people and I managed to thread my way through the maze of stoves and refrigerators and sundry counters undetected. As I was closing the kitchen door behind me, however, a long black luxury car turned into the driveway and ap
proached the house. I can sometimes think fast on my size fours, if I say so myself, and this was one of those times.

As the car neared, I smiled and waved. Then just as calmly as if I owned the place, I limped down the edge of the driveway, past the car, and out to the street.

 

When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and the weak go home to their mamas. Especially if the weak are afraid to return to their own homes. My mama lives in Rock Hill, South Carolina, which is over the state line, and used to be a city entire unto itself. It still maintains a strong identity, but during my lifetime the geographical boundaries have blurred; Charlotte has spilled over into Pineville, which in turn has, save for the Anne Close Greenbelt, merged with Fort Mill, which now sits in the lap of Rock Hill. A goodly portion of Rock Hill's population works in Charlotte, and virtually everyone shops there.

At any rate, since Mama is only three inches taller than me, there was a chance one of her dresses might fit. Besides, she has a decent shower and enormous towels of fluffy white Egyptian cotton. And last, but not least, Mama can, if the mood suits her, be downright comforting.

The mood seemed to suit her, and Mama threw her arms around me, and then threw me into the shower. I smelled like a high school kid back from a class trip, she said. While I took advantage of
her suds and electric bill, Mama hemmed one of her ubiquitous Donna Reed frocks to fit my shorter frame.

Clothed in a peach and white plaid dress with a full circle skirt poofed up by crinolines, peach pumps, with matching peach hat and gloves, I looked like a mini-Mama. Yes, I know there is an age difference, but Mama colors her hair, and mine has yet to turn. Besides, we both stay out of the sun. Sure, Mama still has a few more wrinkles, but to the casual observer, and from a distance, of say, twenty feet, we looked like two tiny peas in a pod.
Petite Seour
, if you will. The only thing I lacked to make my transformation complete was Mama's signature strand of pearls.

Mama beamed when she saw the slightly smaller version of herself. “I knew it, Abby! I just knew the potential was there. Wait until the ladies at church see the new you. Then we'll see who gets the last laugh.”

I frowned in annoyance. “Mama, the ladies at the Episcopal Church of Our Savior will not—over my dead body—get a chance to see me in this getup. This is strictly temporary, until I figure out what to do about my clothes. About my house in general. And what's this about getting the last laugh? Who's laughing, and why?”

Mama turned her pink-and-white back on my peach and white front. “No one's laughing, Abby, but Dorothy Redfern does keep asking when you're going to grow up and start acting like a lady.”

“A lady? When have I ever
not
acted like a lady?”

Mama turned just enough to look at me with one eye. “Dorothy says she saw you wearing shorts in Carolina Place Mall.
Without
hose.”

“Well, hush my mouth and hope to die. Did she call the fashion police? Because if she did, Dorothy would have been arrested herself. Blue hair and blue eye shadow have been out for years.”

Mama faced me. “Go ahead, Abby, and make fun of my friends.”

“I'm not making fun of them, Mama. I'm trying to make the point that we each have our own styles, and just because I don't dress like you do, doesn't make me any less of a lady.”

Mama sniffed. “Maybe. Oh, Abby, I don't want to argue. Not when we have more important things to talk about.”

I hugged her at arm's length. Trust me, I'm not at all adverse to giving Mama a proper hug, but our respective crinolines made it impossible for us to get any closer. An expert on starched slips, she understood.

“Yes, we do have a lot to talk about. For instance, Mama, you're not going to believe this, but I was just in Corie Saunders's house.”

Mama blinked.

“The Widow Saunders,” I said slowly, so the words could sink in. “Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders.”

Mama's first reaction was to turn the color of a perfectly ripe avocado. I'm talking about the inside of the avocado, of course, not the peel. Her
second reaction was to gasp so hard she deprived her bedroom of its oxygen and I felt myself go light-headed. Mama's voice, when she finally found it, sounded like it was come to me through a tin can tied to a string.

“Abby, you wouldn't lie to your poor old mama, would you?”

“Of course not, Mama. Why would I do that?”

Mama hung her head. “Because of the Mel Gibson thing.”

She was referring to the fact that Mel Gibson filmed a portion of the movie
The Patriot
right here in York County, South Carolina. The production required hundreds of extras, most of whom played the part of Colonial era infantrymen. There were very few roles for women, but Mama claimed she got one of them, as a mature British housewife who seduces Mel in the steamy opening scene.

Why Mama thought she could get away with that claim is beyond me. I happen to think Mel Gibson is a hottie, and I was the first in line to buy a ticket when it premiered in Charlotte. I dragged Mama to the theater with me, kicking and screaming, and complaining of a migraine headache. I should have known something was wrong then, because Mama thinks Mel's hot, too. Imagine my smug disappointment, not to mention her embarrassment, when the opening scene unfolded to reveal very little steam, and not a trace of Mama.

“Yes,” I said, “it's the Mel Gibson thing. Can you blame me?”

“Of course not, dear.” Mama risked squishing
her crinolines and grabbed my hand. “Abby, were you really in
her
house? Did you get to meet her?”

“Indeed, I did. And Mama, guess what? She sold her armor collection to Buford! And she used Wynnell as her appraiser!”

“That's nice, dear. What was she wearing?”