I’d driven by double 0 Legare hundreds of times, always admiring its architecture, but never dreaming that someday I would be privy to the secrets that lay behind its wrought-iron gates. The mansion is a superb example of the Greek Revival style, with two-story columns topped by Corinthian capitals. In Charleston, porches are called piazzas, and this magnificent structure had ground and second floor piazzas across the front. In the side garden, which was to the left, a fountain splashed in the center of a boxwood parterre. A main path led past a massive Canary Island date palm to a second, more informal garden—well, to be honest, it was more of a jungle of overgrown azaleas. Peeking above them were several brick structures clad in creeping fig vines. I guessed these outbuildings to be a carriage house and servants’ quarters.
Wynnell and I were five minutes early, and so as not to be too obvious, we parked along the seawall on Murray Avenue and strolled along South Battery Street. It was obvious, at least to us, that we were not tourists. We both wore dresses, unlike most of the milling throng. Tight shorts and either T-shirts or tank tops seemed to be the preferred uniform. I do believe that one can view more wedgies per capita in the historical district of Charleston than anywhere else in the country.
“Yankees,” Wynnell hissed.
“You don’t know that,” I said. My friend is not a racist, and harbors no prejudice against gays, but anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon line gets her knickers in a knot. Never mind that—and I know this for a fact—she has a Yankee in her woodpile.
“Abby, look at that woman. She’s spilling out of her clothes in every direction. A Southerner would never disgrace herself like that.”
“Want to bet?”
“I’ll bet tonight’s movie. I’ll even buy the snacks.”
“You’re on.” As short as I am, I had to run to catch up with the woman, who was walking rapidly the other way. “Excuse me,” I called after her.
She stopped and turned. “Ma’am?”
“Do you know how to get to the Gibbes Museum?”
“No ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m just a tourist myself.”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I live here. I’m only—”
“Directionally challenged,” Wynnell said. She had had no trouble keeping up.
I smiled at the stranger. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”
“Nawlins.”
“Nawlins, Louisiana?” I presumed she meant New Orleans.
She smiled back at me. “Is there another?”
“Not in my book, at any rate. So what do you think of Charleston?”
“It’s so interesting. I had no idea.”
Now that I had established that she was indeed a Southerner, I had to decide if it was worth it to me to decipher what she’d said. We Southerners—especially we women—have been brought up to always be polite, even if that requires telling a white lie or two. By saying that she found my adopted city “interesting” and that she had “no idea,” the lady from Louisiana could have been saying one of a dozen things. Perhaps she found it interesting that sections of King Street smell like garbage on Sunday mornings, and that she had no idea there would be a dearth of public rest rooms along the Battery. On the other hand, she could have meant that it was interesting that a local person would not know her way around, and that she had no idea that Charleston was the most beautiful—not to mention the friendliest—city in the nation. In the end I decided it wasn’t worth it. Not if we were going to get to Marina Webbfingers’s house on time.
But I couldn’t resist rubbing it in to Wynnell when we were alone. “I told you.”
My friend frowned, the hedgerow all but obscuring her eyes. “She could be a Yankee spy.”
“A what?”
“You heard me, Abby. I read that there is a special training school—up in Michigan, someplace—where they teach Yankees how to speak correctly. Make them insert the proper number of vowels, soften the R’s, that kind of thing. If we should ever decide to secede again—”
“Which we won’t!”
“But if it should happen, they’d have their people in place.”
“Then what about her clothes? Wouldn’t she have been trained to dress properly?”
“Maybe that was just to throw us off track.”
Perhaps it was Charleston’s heat and humidity that had gotten to her. At any rate, I was beginning to think Wynnell’s trolley had leaped its tracks. Thank heavens Marina Webbfingers was not a Yankee, or the Late Unpleasantness might indeed have begun all over again. And only yards from its original birthplace.
Marina may not have hailed from up the road a piece, but her behavior was definitely atypical. We were only fashionably late, yet there she was on her lower-level piazza, waiting for us. She even waved when she saw us, and practically ran down the steps to open the metal gate.
“Mrs. Timberlake, how nice of you to come.”
“Well, actually my name is—”
Wynnell thrust out her hand. “I’m her assistant, Mrs. Crawford.”
Marina smiled. “How nice. I’m sure the work will progress a lot faster with two of you.”
I gazed up at the towering house. “How many rooms will we be decorating?”
“Oh my, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. The bed and breakfast will not be part of the main house.” She pointed to the outbuildings. “Two above the carriage house, and three in what used to be the servants’ quarters. We made a nice little apartment on the third floor for Harriet—that’s our maid.”
The third floor was the attic, for crying out loud. What kind of people would stuff a maid under the eaves when a perfectly good quarters already existed? People who were strapped for cash and didn’t want strangers invading their home, that’s who. I’d seen it happen before. The best bed and breakfasts in Charleston can charge as much as three hundred dollars per night, and the demand is constant. Even if the Webbfingerses averaged only three guest rentals on a daily basis and charged just two hundred dollars a night, their gross income for the year would be over two hundred thousand clams—which is not such a gross figure. Not if poor Harriet was going to do all the work.
I confess to being very disappointed as Marina led us around the side of her mansion. One of the perks of my job is the peeks I get into other people’s homes. While it is true that for some folks possessions are just things, in many cases home furnishings tell fascinating tales about their owners’ lives.
“Will we be using any of your pieces from the main house?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” she said. Her one word answer made it clear that my question had somehow been inappropriate.
“What a lovely garden,” Wynnell said, obviously trying to curry favor.
Marina shrugged. “The front garden is. Some of my husband’s ancestors were French. They have a thing for formal gardens. He does all the work on the parterre himself.” She waved a manicured hand. “But the back garden is going to need a lot of work. Would either of you happen to be knowledgeable about landscape design?”
“Not me,” I said. “If I just look at a plant, it dies. I’ve even thought about hiring myself out as a weed killer.”
No one even chuckled at my little joke. But Wynnell, who has farther to climb on the social ladder than I, was quick to jump at the opportunity.
“I don’t have professional experience,” she said, “but I had a prize-winning garden back in Charlotte. Didn’t I, Abby?”
“I do recall that you won some sort of prize.”
“Not just any prize, but the blue ribbon for the prettiest yard in my subdivision. There was even an article about it in the paper.” What she neglected to say is that it was her neighborhood rag, and not the Charlotte Observer, that covered the story.
Marina may have been desperate for cheap help, because she stopped dead in her tracks. “Mrs. Crawford, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. You may call me Wynnell.”
“Mrs. Crawford, would you be willing to handle the garden aspect if Mrs. Timberlake does the rooms?”
Wynnell sneaked a glowering glance at me. “I could do both.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask that.”
“But I don’t mind at all.”
Perhaps because I am a very small woman, my wicked streak is small, but it does exist. “Come to think of it,” I said, “that was a first-class garden you created up in Charlotte, Wynnell. But didn’t it take you awhile?”
“I took my time because it was for a contest,” Wynnell said. I gathered from her tone that she would no longer be buying the snacks at the movie. In fact, we might even be attending separate features.
Like my mama, Marina had selective hearing. “Well, then we’re in agreement. You’ll do the garden, and Mrs. Timberlake will do the guest rooms.”
Wynnell’s withering look took a few precious millimeters off my already compromised height.
To say that Wynnell and I didn’t speak to each other for a spell would be only partly true. Although we no longer exchanged pleasantries, there were harsh words on more than a few occasions. My best friend likened me to Attila the Hun, Judas Iscariot, and Martha Stewart all rolled into one. I chose to take the Martha part as a compliment.
I tried not to react to her vehement verbiage, but it was tough. Still, I like to think of myself as a fair-minded woman, and I couldn’t help but admire the job she did on that garden. She whipped those azalea bushes into shape, installed a brick walkway all by herself, and even built a raised planting bed as a focal point. In this circle, she planted colorful annuals, which I must admit were a nice touch, especially now that azalea season was over. But I could no longer hold my tongue when she placed a really tacky statue in the middle of a bed.
It was David. You know, the David by Michelangelo? Of course this wasn’t the original, which is over fourteen feet tall and is housed in the Accademia museum in Florence, Italy. This replica—and it wasn’t a very good one—was only about three feet tall. At least it appeared to be made of marble, and not plaster or concrete, like the ones you can buy at garden centers.
“What an interesting choice,” I said to Wynnell at the earliest opportunity.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Abby?”
Even though I was irritated with my buddy, I couldn’t very well tell her that this particular statue was the ultimate cliché. “Well, it’s just that since you’ve done such a beautiful job on the plantings, I’d hate to see the statue detract from them.”
“What you’re saying is that you don’t like it.”
“No. I merely meant—”
“That my taste isn’t as good as yours?”
“Wynnell, I didn’t say that!”
“Then give me one good reason why I shouldn’t use this statue.”
“Feng shui.”
“Come again?”
Believe me, I’m no expert on this ancient Chinese philosophy which deals with, among other things, the placement of objects in such a way that they facilitate the positive flow of energy. But it was a safe bet Wynnell knew even less than I.
“You see, Wynnell, the chi will have no problem flowing along that beautiful path you made, but when it reaches the statue—well, I’m afraid it will all puddle up.”
“It’s a statue, Abby, not a dam.”
“It’s a damn knockoff statue, Wynnell. That’s probably not even real marble. Composite at best. You can buy one at any flea market in the country.” That’s when I sank to my lowest—so low that any chi present flowed right over me. “Is that where you bought it, Wynnell? At a flea market?”
Wynnell stared at me while her face underwent a plethora of changes. The look she finally settled on was one of pure disdain.
“For your information, Miss Know It All Big Shot Antiques Expert, I found this statue under one of those azalea bushes over there. It was buried under dead leaves.”
That, I’m ashamed to say, was the last time I spoke to my buddy for well over a month. My husband Greg, Mama, my friends C.J. and the Rob-Bobs—they all tried to get Wynnell and me to kiss and make up. Neither of us would budge, even after our work for Marina Webbfingers was done. And we both stupidly boycotted the Grand Opening reception the Webbfingerses threw, an event that would have supplied the social contacts we both craved.
In retrospect, our stubbornness was a sure sign of our friendship. I had absolutely no doubt that Wynnell would remain my friend no matter what. This afforded me the luxury of waiting for her to apologize. I’m sure the feeling was reciprocal. I am told that friends and family actually began to bet on who would cave in first—my friend with the pedestrian taste, or me, the big shot know-it-all.
Unfortunately, our standoff came to an unnatural conclusion. On day forty the phone rang at the house, just as I leaving for work. I wouldn’t have answered it, except for the intriguing fact that my caller ID listed the city of Charleston as the calling party. Perhaps—and I’ll be the first to admit that I tend to have an active imagination—Mayor Joseph Riley wanted to invite me to some prestigious shindig. One that would finally get my picture on the society page.
“Hello?”
“Abby, this is Wynnell.”
“Where are you?” So it wasn’t the mayor, but a contrite friend. Well, at least she’d crumbled first.
“I’m in jail,” Wynnell said, clipping her words to near Yankee brevity. “You’re my one call. What do I do?”
“Jail?”
“Marina Webbfingers was murdered yesterday afternoon. They think I did it.”