Baroque and Desperate (19 page)

Mama nodded approvingly. “Because, you see, the Good Lord hath chosen my daughter's shop to be the place of his final revelations.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Glory be!”

Mama held up a hand for silence. “But y'all—the people of Charlotte, Gastonia, and Rock Hill—no, make that America—can be blessed by making a pilgrimage to the Den of Antiquity on Selwyn Avenue in beautiful Charlotte, North Carolina. Admission price to this holy shrine is only ten dollars per person, but y'all can get a family discount for—”

Apparently CNN was not in the mood to provide free advertising for Mama's latest harebrained scheme. The screen went momentarily blank and then lit up with coverage of a dingo roundup in Western Australia.

“Ah, shit,” one of the Purple Pelican's well-dressed patron's muttered.

The bartender clicked off the set. “What kind of name is Den of Iniquity for a holy shrine?”

“It's Den of
Antiquity
,” I snapped, “and it isn't a holy shrine. It's my antique shop.”

Heads finally turned my way.

“My name is Abigail Timberlake,” I said quickly, “and that was my Mama you just saw on TV.”

“And I'm Tom Cruise,” said the bartender.

“But that really is my shop!”

“Lady, you're not getting anything else to drink today. You've already had enough.”

I wheeled and stamped off to rejoin Tradd. His chair, however, was just as empty as Buford's heart.

“H
e just left,” the waitress said. She paused. “I guess he thought you weren't coming back.”

“
What
?”

She bit her lip. “Don't worry, I didn't cancel your order yet, and he already paid for both meals.”

I may not have Mama's ability to smell trouble, but I can read faces pretty well. It's a useful skill in the retail business. At any rate, I sensed there was more she wanted to tell me. All I needed to do was to establish a connection. Her name, Youneequekah, filled her entire badge. It seemed like a good place to start.

“You have a very interesting name,” I said. “How do you pronounce it?”

“
Unique-ah
. It was my mama's idea. She wanted it to be original. Someday I'm going to get up enough nerve to change it to something else. You know, something more ordinary like LaTisha or Tomika. My husband, however, is dead set against me changing it.”

“Mamas,” I said sympathetically, “can be a pain in the you-know-where. And so can husbands.”

She laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“So, dear, did the gentleman who was with me leave alone?”

She shook her head.

“That figures,” I growled. “You wouldn't happen to know who it was he left with?”

“Oh, sure. He left with Barbie.”

“The hostess?”

“She's the owner's niece. She comes and goes as she pleases.”

“Probably steals pelicans, too,” I said. “Keeps her daddy in business.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind, dear. I was just being catty. If you bring me my lunch, I'll put something else in my mouth besides my foot.”

“You want Mr. Burton's lunch too?”

“Gracious no!” Then it hit me. “You know Tradd Burton?”

“Girlfriend, everyone in Georgetown knows
of
Tradd Burton. Isn't he a fox?”

“He's gorgeous,” I agreed. “Unfortunately he knows it.”

“Isn't that the truth. Still, if I wasn't married, well-I guess I'd be tempted.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Okay, so I'm tempted now. Aren't you?”

“Yes, and I'm ashamed of myself.”

Youneequekah glanced around the outdoor pavilion. No one seemed to need her.

“There are probably more little Burtons running around this town than there are tadpoles in a swamp.”

“You don't say!”

“Every time he comes down here to visit his grandmother, he—well, you know—finds someone new to be with.”

“Yuck.” I was remembering the touch of Tradd's hand against my skin. We hadn't, of course, become intimate, but still, you know what they say. When you have sex with someone, you are also having sex with everyone they've ever had sex with, and on down the line. In other words, I had thrilled at the touch of a thousand strangers—half of them women.

Youneequekah nodded. “Yeah, as far as I'm concerned, Tradd Burton is a ‘look but do not touch' kind of man. Bet Flora Dubois (Youneequekah pronounced it
do-boys
) wishes she hadn't.”

Shame on me, I hadn't even bothered to learn the girl's last name. Dubois! Maybe she really was French.

“Did you know she was dead?” I asked gently.

“You're kidding! I mean—no, I didn't know. When did she die? How?”

“Sit down, dear.”

Youneequekah took Tradd's chair. “Tell me what happened.”

“Last night—or maybe early this morning—Flora was killed. Murdered.”

“
Murdered
? By who?”

“That I don't know.”

“Does
he
know this?”

“Tradd? Of course. He found the body.”

“Why, don't that beat all, and him sitting here like nothing happened.”

I gulped. “I hardly knew the girl. Really.”

“Oh, honey, I'm not blaming you. But him—he's the daddy.”

“The
daddy
? He's Flora's father?”

Youneequekah couldn't help but snicker at my stupidity. Really, I was not offended.

“No, he wasn't Flora's father, he was the father of her baby.”

“You mean—”

“Like I said, there are a lot of little Tradd Burtons running around. I call them Traddpoles.”

“So Flora had a baby!”

“No, girlfriend, she didn't have it yet. From what I hear, she was due along about Thanksgiving.”

“But that's less than three months from now!”

Youneequekah nodded. “Carried it well, didn't she?”

“It was her height,” I said bitterly. Leave it to me to be jealous of a dead woman. But both times I was pregnant I looked like a cantaloupe with a head. A strawberry-size head. Mama disagrees, but I swear I showed within the first month.

“Yeah, it must have been her height. Of course I'm pretty tall, but when I was pregnant with Jamal, I showed more than that.”

“Miss. Oh, Miss,” a man called from a table across the pavilion. We both ignored him.

“So, you knew Flora?”

“She comes in to the Night Tide—well, she did—that's a club my Sammy and I hang out at sometimes. I've seen her there.”

“Pregnant and still drinking?”

“We're not talking prime mother material here.”

“Oh, Miss!”

Youneequekah glanced grudgingly at her customer. “Hey, I got to go.”

“I know, but just one more question. You know a woman named Adrianne Menlow?”

She stood up. “Never heard the name before.”

“Deep voice? Ugly as sin?”

“Several people come to mind.”

“Looks like a walking vegetable garden?”

“Ah, you mean Addy! She's a friend of Flora's, and she's bad news.”

“How so?”

“Drugs, prostitution—you name it, I bet she's done it. She shows up at the Night Tide, too, but usually manages to get herself thrown out. Ends up in jail half the time. The Night Tide isn't that kind of place.” She stood up. “Well, too bad about Flora. Wonder who the old lady is going to name in her will now?”

“Excuse me?”

“
Miss
!” Both the man and his voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I am terrible at placing people out of context. Besides, I didn't know any men in the area outside of Burton-Latham men, and he certainly was not one of those.

“Hold your horses!” I called to the impatient customer. “Please explain,” I said to Youneequekah, “about this will stuff. Are you saying Flora is named in Mrs. Latham's will?”

She shrugged. “That's what Flora had everyone believe. I didn't hear her say it myself, but that was the buzz. Apparently the old lady feels her grandchildren don't really love her—that all they want is her money. Of course, that's what Flora wants—I mean wanted—too. But at least she was honest about it.”

“How terribly sad.”

“Yeah, but can you blame the grandmother? Just look at Tradd.”

“A loser with a winning smile.”

Youneequekah snorted. “If it wasn't for those caps on his teeth, he'd have a smile like fish.”

“That does it!” The customer, now irate, was on his feet and headed our way. Perhaps he was headed straight to Jake the manager to get You
neequekah fired. It was, of course, all my fault. I jumped up to intervene, and then suddenly it dawned on me why the man was so familiar. He was only my height, for heaven's sake.

“Oh, my gosh!” I wailed, “it's Buster!”

“Who?” Youneequekah—and I can't blame the poor woman—had taken refuge behind me.

“Buster Connelly, the coroner.”

 

“Hey, I'm really sorry,” I said to Buster.

“I bet you are.”

It was a sour response from someone who had just consumed a free meal—Tradd's to be exact, and had been plied with enough gin and tonics to satisfy a congressional fact-finding team. Not to mention that I had carried his stack of phone books over to my table, which was the better of the two.

“No, I mean it. I don't know what got into me. It's been a crazy weekend.”

“Yeah, yeah. You say no to my invitation, and the next thing I know I see you mooning all over that Burton kid.”

“Believe me, I wasn't doing the mooning. Now, that cheap little hostess—”

“Is my niece.”

“Oops. You don't happen to carve pelicans in your spare time, do you?”

“No, and Jake is not my brother—he's my brother-in-law.”

“And I thought Charlotte was a small town. Well, you're not going to report Youneequekah's apparent inattentiveness to Jake, are you?”

“It would be a waste of time. Jake and I don't get along so well. I only come here because the food is good.”

“And today it was free,” I said pointedly.

Buster ignored me and started in on a slab of Girdle-buster pie, a specialty of the house. How he managed to pack so much into such a small space, was beyond me. Next time I took an extended trip I was going to ask Buster to pack my suitcases.

“Well, I'm sorry again,” I said. “And I'm just going to keep on blathering until you forgive me.”

“Will you reconsider my invitation for tomorrow?”

“Certainly not. I do not give in to coercion.”

“Good, then I forgive you. I despise weak-willed women.”

“Well, I loathe dictatorial men.”

We looked at each other and laughed. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter so much that he lacked a few teeth. I mean, we all do at some time or another, don't we? Besides, like I said, C.J.'s cousin Orville could fix that in a jiffy.

He took a huge bite of pie. To his credit, he was able to speak without spraying me with crumbs.

“So, Ms. Timberlake—may I call you Abigail?”

“Please call me Abby. May I call you anything else
but
Buster?”

“No. Buster is going to have to do. Anyway, just what is it you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something from you?” I snapped. “Maybe I have something to offer.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I was hoping we could, uh—swap information.”

He shoveled the last hunk of Girdle-buster pie into a mouth no larger than mine. Even David Copperfield could learn something from Floyd Busterman Connelly.

“I'm a government employee, not a news service.
I'm not in the habit of giving out information to just any old Tom, Dick, or Harry.”

“My name is Abby, as you'll recall, and I'm not asking you to
give
me anything. I'm asking you to swap certain pertinent facts in the Flora Dubois case. Besides, you might say I already paid for this information with lunch.” There was no need for him to know that Tradd was footing the bill, was there?

Buster glanced at the illustrated dessert card stuck in a metal holder in the middle of the table. “Okay. But it's going to cost you a little extra.”

“How much extra?” I was broke, and almost desperate enough to steal a purple wooden pelican. Apparently there was a market for such things.

“Hmm. It's going to cost you coffee latte and a Key lime pie.”

“You mean a slice of Key lime pie, don't you?”

“I mean a whole goddamn pie. It's to take to my aunt tomorrow. The latte is for here.”

“Deal. Now, what do you have for me?”

He snapped his fingers, and Youneequekah, bless her heart, appeared out of nowhere. Clearly she was looking out for me. When she left with his order, Buster turned to me.

“You go first. You said we were going to swap facts along with the free lunch, remember?”

“Well, I've only got one fact, which, no doubt, you already know by now.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Flora Dubois was pregnant.”

He didn't even blink. “That's your fact? Ha, I didn't need to do an autopsy to determine that.”

“So it's old news?”

“I don't mean to be crude, Abby, but all of Georgetown knew the second the sperm hit the
egg. A Burton baby seems to have been Flora's goal in life.”

“Slut,” I said. I was speaking of Tradd. “Well, now, Buster, what do you have for me?”

“You have to be more specific. I haven't had a chance to give the sheriff a call—in fact, I'm not even done with the autopsy. Still, a few interesting facts have come to light. But you're going to have to fish for them with yes or no questions. I'm not at liberty to say a single word.”

You have to admire a man who can pause for a lunch in the middle of an autopsy. “Okay, how's this—did Flora Dubois die from a stab wound involving a kris?”

He shook his head.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“But she did die from a stab wound?”

He shook his head.

“Poisoned, then stabbed?”

He shook his head more vigorously.

This was getting to be fun. “Smothered with a pillow and then stabbed?”

He stared at me.

“Am I close? Was a pillow involved?”

He nodded in astonishment.

“All right! Let's see—was she beaten to death with a pillow.”

He gave me a pitying look.

“Of course, not,” I said quickly. “Or else no one would survive summer camp. But a pillow was involved, right?”

This time he shrugged.

“Okay, so maybe it wasn't the pillow itself, but the pillowcase. Was she strangled by a pillowcase?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, did I say
by
a pillowcase? I mean
with
a pillowcase, of course!”

He frowned.

“Well, then maybe it was something inside that pillow that killed her. Now what could that be—I know! She died of an allergic reaction to feathers, and
then
was stabbed with the kris?”

Esssssssss
. He sucked in his breath sharply.

Quite by coincidence Youneequekah appeared then with a cup of frothy cappuccino.