Baroque and Desperate (20 page)

“I said ‘latte,'” Buster growled. “This crap is all fluff.”

That triggered something. “Fluffy. Think fluffy,” I said to myself. I must have been speaking aloud as well, because Youneequekah gave me a worried look before disappearing again with the offending drink.

Then it hit me. “C.J. was tricked into stabbing a pillow!” I all but shouted. “And—because she's a piling shy of a pier—she was led to believe she had actually stabbed Flora. What did you do, find a bit of down stuck to the kris blade?”

He was beaming like a jack-o'-lantern. Given his dental state, I mean that literally.

“Damn, I'm good,” I crowed. “So, someone else stabbed Flora and pinned it on poor C.J.—”

He had started to shake his head again.

“But you just as much as said so!”

He leaned forward and stared at me, like he was willing me to read his mind. It was a waste of time. Like I said, I'm good at deciphering facial clues, but unlike Mama, I can't see inside to someone's thoughts. Of course, I can read my children's minds, but that's only because the script changes
so infrequently. At any rate, all I could see was a blank, sweaty forehead.

“You're close,” he said, no longer able to restrain himself. “Now this is what really happened.”

“
Y
es
?”

“There was in fact a three-millimeter piece of down stuck to the kris blade, just beneath the handle—static electricity will do that, you know. So, yes, my guess is someone did trick your friend into stabbing the pillow. But Flora Dubois was not killed by a stab wound.”

He paused to chase some Girdle-buster pie crumbs around his plate with the fork. I was tempted to grab him by his polyester lapels and shake the words out.

“Go on!”

“Well”—he licked the fork—“Flora was stabbed all right, but
after
she was dead.”

“You don't say!”

He nodded. “She was shot first. A bullet to the head.”

“Oh, my god!” I swallowed back an impulse to be sick. “But she looked all right. I mean, her head was still there and everything. Wouldn't a bullet have made a terrible mess?”

Buster sucked the fork tines clean. “It was a twenty-two-caliber bullet to the back of the head.
It left only a small entry hole, just ten millimeters in diameter.”

“Speak English, man!”

“Uh—that's about a half-inch across.”

“No exit hole?”

“Twenty-two-caliber pistols don't pack a lot of punch. The bullet ricocheted inside her cranium—tore up her brain real bad—but lacked the oomph to burst its way out.”

I shuddered. “You make it sound like a live thing. The bullet, I mean.”

He smiled pleasantly. At least
he
didn't have to worry about food stuck between his teeth.

“I've been doing this for eighteen years. I've come to respect the means of death, as much as death itself. Oh, sure, folks think a twenty-two-caliber bullet is just a glorified BB—but a BB in the brain can be just as fatal as a shotgun blast to the face. Just about anything can kill. Last week I did an autopsy on an elderly woman who suffocated when her pet mastiff sat too long on her chest. Two weeks ago it was a teenager who choked on a pencil eraser.”

I nodded somberly. “My daddy was killed by a seagull.”

“Ah, yes, birds and aircraft do not mix.”

“Daddy wasn't in a plane. He was water-skiing on Lake Wylie when the seagull dive-bombed him. Daddy crashed into a pontoon boat and, uh—well, broke his neck. The seagull, as it turned out, had a brain tumor the size of a walnut. According to wildlife experts, it shouldn't even have been airborne.”

“Wow!” His eyes shone with admiration. “I don't have any stories that top that.”

I suddenly felt guilty. Trotting out Daddy's
death is not my custom, mind you. Why I needed to “one-up” a pint-size coroner is beyond me.

“Back to Flora Dubois,” I said quickly. “So, she was killed by the bullet only? The kris had nothing to do with her death?”

“Not physically, at least. She was dead at least two hours before she was stabbed.”

“You're sure of this?”

“It's my job,” he said evenly.

“Of course, it is. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” he said and glanced at his watch. “How long does it take to make latte?”

I hoped a long time. I was actually enjoying Buster's company. Perhaps it was because I could relax with him; retire my feminine wiles to a back burner, so to speak. I know, it's a terrible thing to say, but there is something to be said for dating an unattractive man, and Buster was not easy on the eyes. Not that Buster and I were dating, of course—but if we were, I imagined we'd race go-karts, take walks in the rain, and eat funnel cakes while perusing flea markets. Wind, water, and grease are all things to avoid when out with a superficial man.

“I'm sure your coffee will be right out, dear. So, Flora was shot in the back of the head, then two hours later someone rolled her over and stabbed her in the chest. Right?”

Youneequekah appeared out of nowhere with a wink and a mug full of proper latte. Buster took the beverage without comment.

“Wrong. She was laid on her back soon after being shot. Blood had collected along her back, as well as the backs of her arms and legs.” He slurped loudly. “There was virtually no leakage from her stab wound.”

I willed my lunch to stay put. “But, she was
killed in her little room, right? Where she was found?”

Buster shook his head. “I found particles of silica embedded in the entry hole and sticking to her scalp. My guess is the victim—I mean, Flora—was shot outside, and then drug indoors before the storm hit. Whoever shot her did a good job of brushing sand out of her hair, but they weren't thorough enough.”

“I see. And then the shooter—or possibly even someone else—tricked C.J. into stabbing a pillow.”

“No doubt it was easier than getting her to stab the corpse. But apparently one piece of the puzzle is still missing.”

“What's that?”

“The pillow. There was no pillow on the bed—stabbed or otherwise—when I removed the victim.”

“Funny, but I didn't even notice that. Then again, I'm not as used to seeing dead bodies as you are.”

“I should hope not.”

“But I have seen a few,” I hastened to say. “Anyway, since there was no pillow on Flora's bed, one might conclude that the pillow C.J. stabbed belonged to Flora. I mean, at least it went with her bed.”

“
Which
”—he slurped again—“would lead one to conclude that the second crime—it is undoubtedly against the law to stab a corpse—was not premeditated. But, you'll have to ask the sheriff about that.”

“Come again?”

“I'm only guessing that it's against the law to stab a corpse. I don't remember covering that in medical school.”

I may have blinked. I certainly didn't gasp.

“You're a doctor?”

“In South Carolina we have a dual system of forensic pathologists and coroners. The former are state appointed; the latter elected. As both a doctor trained in pathology and a coroner, I save the county a lot of money. But, this coroner stuff is only part-time. My day job is a staff position at Georgetown Memorial Hospital.”

“Wow—I mean, well—I didn't realize you were a doctor, too.”

“Ah, it's that old pickup, isn't it?” He pointed to his mouth. “Or maybe my lack of teeth? Maybe both?”

When caught with your pants down, there are two options as far as I can see. Either jerk those suckers up, or pretend you are making a fashion statement. Maybe even go ahead and take off your top as well. I decided to strip to the bone.

“You're right, it's both. I've seen better vehicles at the scrap-metal yard, and, well, you do look like your gene pool could use a little chlorine. I mean, you're a doctor, for crying out loud. You can afford to drive a Jeep Cherokee
and
visit a dentist!”

Buster sat back in his chair. “Never judge a book by its cover. You above all people should know that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You may not have noticed, Abby, but I'm a little on the short side myself. So, I know what it's like to be treated as a child, just because one's head barely clears the counter at a teller's window.”

“That happens to you
too
?”

He nodded. “And for the record, I was in the dentist chair, getting my bridge repaired when
Neely tracked me down. Tell me something, have you always been this shallow?”

“Who,
me
? Shallow?”

“I've seen parking-lot puddles deeper than you. And I thought we had a lot in common.”

“But, we do!” I wailed. “I'm only shallow around strangers.”

“Which is what we still are, apparently. And I'm not sure I want to know you any better.”

“Does this mean lunch tomorrow at your aunt's is off?”

“You turned me down, remember?”

My cheeks burned. Why was it suddenly so important that Floyd Busterman Connelly like me? Because he was an unmarried doctor? Was I really that shallow?

“Well—uh—I reconsidered. I mean, you do need help going over your aunt's antiques before she puts them up for sale, don't you?”

He studied my flaming face. “You know, a doctor on staff at Georgetown Memorial Hospital—even one who moonlights as a coroner—doesn't make as much as a big city doc.”

“I'm not asking you to marry me, for crying out loud! I'm trying to make up for being so rude.”

“Is this an apology?”

“Yes.”

Buster smiled broadly. So what was an incisor or two between friends?

“Apology accepted. I'll pick you up at the Latham Hall Plantation around noon.”

“If I haven't been evicted.”

“No need to worry about that. The old lady is genuinely fond of you and your friend. She finds your candor refreshing.”

“She also loves my cat.”

“That yellow-orange monster is yours?”

“His name is Dmitri, and he's very sensitive about his weight.”

“Don't get me wrong, I happen to love cats—so maybe you and I really do have something in common—but—oh, never mind. Maybe she'll be more careful with your cat.”

Buster may as well have leaned forward and said, “Pssst! I have an important secret I'm
not
going to tell you.”

“What?” I wailed. “What does she do to her cats?”

“She tends to lose them.”

“But, that's silly. Cats have a strong homing instinct. Dmitri could find his way back up to Charlotte if he had to.”

Buster sucked air through what remained of his teeth. “She didn't misplace her cats. She lost them to those damn alligators in her backyard.”

I shook my head. “Surely, you're mistaken. Albert Burton told me they're a danger to dogs and small children.”

“And cats,” he said softly. “They have a special fondness for sunbathing cats.”

I leaped backward from the table so fast that not only did I knock over my chair, but I fell flat on my back on the hard wooden planks. In doing so, I somehow managed to take the tablecloth with me. Fortunately, Buster was holding his latte cup, so only the Girdle-buster pie plate went sailing.

“Abby, are you all right?”

I struggled to my feet. “Forget about me! It's Dmitri who's in peril!”

Despite Buster's attempts to make me count his fingers, and Jake's decree that I needed to ante up for a new latte cup—the airborne one having shat
tered—I was out of there in a New York minute. An alphabet-chanting Yankee couldn't have made it to the letter D before I reached the door.

Not that my speed record did any good. I didn't have a car, and I wasn't up to sprinting eight miles to the Latham estate.

“Taxi!” I screamed stupidly. Even in a city the size of Charlotte, one generally needs to call for a cab.

“At your service, ma'am.”

I looked up into the golden face of Tradd.

 

Why is it that a man will drive fast to show off, or when he's angry, but creep along like a snail when he's in a good mood?

“Step on it,” I ordered. “You can gloat about your conquest later.”

“There was no conquest. She was feeling sick so I drove her home.”

“She didn't seem sick to me. Not physically, at least.”

“She's pregnant.”

“Slut.”

“Hey, that's not fair! You hardly know her.”

“I meant you, dear.”

The golden visage dimmed. “I don't have to take this crap from you.”

“Then don't. Because frankly Tradd, I've had all of you I can stomach for the weekend.”

He seemed surprised. “It's that midget doctor, isn't it?”

“He's not a midget, and even if he were, he's ten times the man you are.”

“That's a laugh.” But instead of laughing, Lothario pressed the pedal to the metal, and I in turn was pressed against the seat, pinned there like a
butterfly to a board by the G-force. The stupid top was down, of course, and my hair day went from worse to some place off the chart.

But to be entirely honest, although Tradd was a cad, he delivered me right to his grandmother's door. A man of lesser breeding would have turned around and redeposited me at the door of the Purple Pelican. Or worse yet, dumped me off by the side of the road. True to his heritage, Tradd even trotted around to my side of the car to open the door.

True to my baser nature, I opened the door just as he reached for the handle. “So,” I said, “does this mean our deal is off?”

Tradd froze. “Uh—I don't think it does, do you?”

I allowed visions of a hundred grand to dance through my head while Dmitri, no doubt about it, languished in the belly of a gator. “A deal's a deal. We'd both have to change our minds. I, for one, haven't.”

“I haven't either. But Abby, you haven't been looking very hard for the missing treasure, have you?”

I stood up, still in the Jaguar. That put us about eye to eye.

“
Me
? What about you? You spent the morning God-only-knows where, and then wasted precious time being ambulance driver to a round-heeled hostess. In the meantime, my second best friend in the whole world is languishing in the county jail.”

“Hey, it's not too late to call this whole thing off.”

Who knows? We might have done just that, had not the door to the Latham manse opened, and the lithe and lovely Alexandra stepped out onto the
porch. At her heels was the bald and bare-bellied Rupert. They both seemed at first surprised, and then relieved to see us.

“Oh, there you are!” Alexandra cried, tossing her auburn hair. “You're never going to believe what's happened.”

“Try me,” I growled, and glared at golden boy.

“Edith just found the treasure—the missing antique. Isn't that wonderful?”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Tradd said.

I sat back down in the car.