A few of my brain cells must have misfired, no doubt a legacy of sleeping on curlers when I was a girl. That had to be it. For a minute there I thought my best friend had said she was in jail for the murder of Marina Webbfingers.
“Wynnell, please be a doll and repeat what you said.”
“I said I’ve been arrested for murder. Abby, I didn’t do it. You and Greg have got to help me. Ed will kill me when he hears about this. Then he’ll be in the slammer, and there will be no one to water my flowers—unless you water them for me. Will you do that for me, Abby? And now that you have C.J. as your assistant, would you mind terribly minding my shop? I mean, if worse comes to worst. You’ve already got a key, and the only thing you might need to know is that the walnut breakfront near the front door has been sold to a Mrs. Thorn-apple, and she’s promised to pick it up on Thursday. I didn’t put a sold sticker on it because—”
“Wynnell, stop it! You haven’t been convicted yet.” Carrying the portable phone, I staggered to the nearest chair and plopped my petite patootie on it. More accurately, because I’m a mere four-foot-nine, I had to first hoist myself onto the genuine Louis XV. “Besides, maybe Greg and I can post bail.”
“The arraignment is this afternoon at three. Can you keep Ed busy until it’s over?”
“Where is he now?”
“Fishing off Folly Beach pier.”
“Wynnell, he’s going to find out about this. The police will be asking him questions.”
“Abby, he’ll be furious.”
“I don’t think that should be your main concern, dear. Do you have an attorney?”
“You know we don’t have any money, Abby. Not since our stock portfolio dwindled away to nothing.”
“What about Ed’s pension?”
“It’s barely enough to cover the cost of living here in Charleston. Oh Abby, I know we should have stayed up in Charlotte. Sure it’s pretty down here, and you’ve got the ocean, but I miss the hills, and all the dogwood in spring, and—”
There was no time to argue about geography. “Don’t worry. The court will appoint an attorney.” What was I saying? Wynnell was my dearest friend in the world—outside of my husband, of course. And if you don’t count Mama. Besides, while I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough, I did have more than enough to meet my needs. “Tell you what,” I heard myself say, “I’m going to get you the best lawyer in Charleston.”
“Really? You mean that?”
“Absolutely.” If Greg objected—and I knew he wouldn’t—I’d have to remind him that it was my shop that brought in most of our money, and not his shrimp boat in Mount Pleasant.
“I knew you’d come through. So you’ll take care of it, then? You’ll call Elias Hammerhead?”
“Who?”
“The best lawyer in Charleston. Abby, don’t you watch television?”
“It’s no secret that I’m addicted to All My Children.”
“I mean the commercials. ‘So you’re in jail? What the hell! Call Hammerhead, White, and Sand.’”
“No, I seem to have missed that little jingle.”
“Well, they’re the best. Everyone says so.”
“Wynnell, are you sure they don’t handle just car accidents? Personal injury, that sort of thing.”
“Positive. Will you call them?”
I sighed. “If that’s what you really want.”
“Abby, I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“I mean it—oh, oh, I have to go, Abby.” She hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand. If I hadn’t answered the dang thing, if only I’d left for work five minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have to hire one of Charleston’s finest and, no doubt, most expensive lawyers. Unable to reach me with her first call, my friend would have settled for a court appointed attorney. And since she wasn’t guilty, a public defender would do just fine with the case.
Shame on me for thinking that. I’d made the offer, and I’d given my word. It was as simple as that.
Finding the offices of Hammerhead, White, and Sand was anything but simple. The phone book listed them as being located on King Street, and I assumed that meant somewhere south of Calhoun. Au contraire. The address I jotted down was halfway between Calhoun and the Crosstown, and there wasn’t even a number on the building. I had to stop and ask for help three times. The first two times, the folks queried had less of a clue then I did. I got lucky the third time, but only because the woman I accosted for directions lived in an apartment directly beneath the law firm.
The white frame building sagged, bulging outward toward the sidewalk. The stairwell was the perfect temperature for roasting a turkey, although it smelled of urine and bacon. Had it not been for the tarnished brass plate on the upstairs door, I would have assumed that I’d been tricked.
“Come in,” someone called when I rang the buzzer.
I opened the door to a room that looked like the remains of an exploded library. Books, papers, and folders were scattered everywhere. One document appeared to be tacked to the ceiling. It took me a few seconds to realize that in the center of this mess, behind a small desk, sat a heavyset woman with a round, pleasant face. It took me a couple more seconds to stop staring at her hair. Or rather, her lack of it. The receptionist had obviously been shorn with an electric razor and was sporting what I’ve sometimes heard referred to as the Parris Island cut.
“How may we help you?” she asked, in a voice as soothing as that of a kindergarten teacher.
“My name is Abigail Washburn. I’m here to see Mr. Hammerhead. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
She whispered something into a small box on her desk and smiled. “He’ll just be a minute. Won’t you please have a seat?”
I looked around in desperation. It was the first time I regretted not taking archeology in college. I finally located a folding chair, but it was buried under a stack of heavy law books.
“I don’t mind standing,” I said.
“Just put the stuff on the floor, darling,” she said. “It really doesn’t matter where. We’re in the process of getting new furniture. I’ll be sorting through everything anyway.”
“That’s all right, I really don’t mind standing.”
She covered the intercom with the palm of a plump hand. “I’m supposed to keep you waiting ten minutes,” she whispered to me.
I moved closer. “Excuse me?”
“Makes it seem like we’re busy.”
“But you’re not?”
“Confidentially, you’re our first new client this week.”
“What about White and Sand? They get a lot of clients, right?”
“I’m afraid there are no White and Sand.”
“Come again?”
“Mr. White moved to Atlanta three years ago, and there hasn’t been a Mr. Sand as long as I’ve worked here, which was five years in May.”
I took a step back. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but I just remembered that I have a doctor’s appointment.”
She smiled. “Most new clients say something along those lines. But those who stay are glad they did. He really is the best.”
“Then why doesn’t he have more clients?” I clapped a petite paw over my maw. Sometimes my upbringing as a Southern lady is overridden by my curiosity.
Her eyes widened. “You haven’t heard the rumors?”
I shook my head. “He’s not the one who killed his parents, is he? I remember reading something about that in the paper once. Managed to acquit himself by playing on the jury’s sympathy for orphans.”
She laughed softly. “No, he didn’t kill his parents. He cut his wife’s hair.”
“Say what?”
She leaned across the desk and used her ample bosoms to cover the intercom. “He has a hair fetish.”
“He does?” Okay, so maybe a smart Abby would have backed out of the room and taken the bacon-and-bathroom-scented stairs at breakneck speed.
She nodded vigorously. “He gets his jollies from cutting women’s hair. His wife finally divorced him, but by the time she did, she looked just like me.”
“You don’t say!” Actually, there was a good deal more I wanted her to say.
A good secretary knows how to read minds, and this woman proved the rule. “Yes, he cut mine as well. Paid me a thousand dollars each time I let him do it.”
“Indeed. So everyone in Charleston knows about Mr. Hammerhead’s fetish?”
“Oh, not everyone. You didn’t. Mostly just people of a certain—how should I put this?”
“Social standing?”
“Your words, darling, not mine.”
Before I had the chance to protest being lumped with the hoi polloi, the door to Mr. Hammerhead’s office opened. The man framed by the sill was surprisingly handsome. Tall with dark hair and green eyes, he looked entirely normal to me—not that I am qualified to judge. Even his clothes—blue and white seersucker suit and white buckskin shoes—were everyday Charleston attire. At least among the gentry.
“Ah, Mrs. Washburn, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved quickly to shake my hand. “Please, come into my office. I think I can find you a chair. Mrs. Dillsworth,” he added, “please hold all my calls.”
I thought I saw the receptionist wink just before I was ushered into the inner sanctum. She could have been winking at either of us. It didn’t matter; I’ve had experience dealing with smarmy men. That’s why I carry pepper spray in my purse.
But Mr. Hammerhead proved to be a perfect gentleman. He listened attentively to everything I said, and even jotted down notes. I haven’t been taken that seriously by a man since my courtship days with Greg.
“That about covers it,” I said, reluctantly ending my spiel.
“Yes, I’ll handle her case,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s wonderful. Forgive me for being blunt, but what do you charge? Per hour, I mean.”
He glanced at a wall calendar of Charleston. Perhaps he had seasonal rates.
“Three hundred.”
I couldn’t help but gasp. “An hour?”
He looked at the opposing wall. “Well, that’s my usual rate. Is Mrs. Crawford indigent?”
“Not exactly, but she is indignant. Anyway, I plan to cover her expenses.”
“I see. And where are you employed, Mrs. Washburn?”
“I own the Den of Antiquity on King Street. It’s an antique store.”
“Tell you what, I’ll give you my special new customer discount, which is one-third off.”
“Two hundred?”
He looked at me. “On top of that you’ll get another fifty percent off if you’ll agree to do some of the legwork. You see, I’m a little short on staff at the moment.”
“What sort of legwork?” I hoped that wasn’t a come-on.
“I seem to remember reading in the paper recently that this inn is now open for business. Am I correct?”
“Yes. La Parterre—that’s French for little garden—has already received a rave review in the Post and Courier.” There was no need to remind him that it was the landscaping for which the reviewer couldn’t seem to find enough praise. My rooms, on the other hand, were merely referred to as pleasant.
“Well then, perhaps you could speak with some of the current guests. See what, if anything, they might have seen or heard. But”—he raised a recently manicured hand, which was surely an extravagance, given his apparent lack of business—“if you encounter the police, leave as discreetly as possible. This is all on the QT.”
“I understand.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse, I’m going straight over to interview Mrs. Crawford.”
I stood. “Thank you so much, Mr. Hammerhead.”
He stood as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Washburn.”
I turned to go just as he was clearing his throat.
“Mrs. Washburn?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you don’t find this too forward of me, but you have very nice hair.”
My hair is short, and until recent years a deep chestnut brown. It’s nothing too special by any means, but it is mine, and I plan to keep it that way. I was out of that office quicker than double-geared lightning.
I drove straight to my shop, which, although on King Street, is in another rent district altogether. Before I did any snooping, I needed to touch base in person with C.J., my assistant. The girl has a 160 IQ and is a crackerjack businesswoman, but somehow still manages to be one variety short of a three-bean salad. Born and raised in Shelby, North Carolina (trust me, I have nothing against that fair city), she spins stories that make the Paul Bunyan tales seem like unassuming collections of facts.
“Abby,” she practically shouted when she saw me enter, “the most incredible thing just happened.”
“Here, or in Shelby?”
“Here, of course.”
Experience has taught me that humoring the big gal can pay off in spades. Or not.
“Do tell,” I said cautiously.
“See that William and Mary walnut highboy over there?”
“What about it?”
“I made it move—by telekinesis.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
“Abby, you don’t believe me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just that something else very important happened—”
“Watch!” C.J. is over a foot taller than me, and built like a linebacker with hips. She squared her shoulders, thrust her head forward, and screwed her face into what quite possibly resembled a constipated bulldog. For a minute I thought her eyes might pop out. Of course nothing happened.
“Maybe if you don’t concentrate so hard,” I suggested.
“Ooh, Abby, but that’s the key. Granny Ledbetter back in Shelby was able to move a mountain just by staring at it.”
“Perhaps metaphorically.”
“No, I mean for real. Abby, you remember Crowders Mountain?” She was referring to an isolated peak just west of Charlotte, North Carolina, near the South Carolina border, that offers hardy hikers spectacular views of both Gaston and York counties.
“Yes,” I said warily.
“Well, it used to be even further west, on the other side of Shelby. But Granny wanted the afternoon sun to shine on her tomatoes, so she moved it. Took her two tries, though. The first time, she accidentally dumped part of it into Lake Norman. That’s how come Crowders Mountain isn’t quite as high as it used to be, and why the lake has so many islands.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. This was her most ridiculous yarn yet. If I didn’t put a stop to things, she might well scare away customers.
“C.J., darling, imagination is a good thing, but—”
“Abby, you don’t believe me, do you?” The hurt in her large gray eyes made me instantly regret my words.
“I believe you.” Being a little too much on the perky side, I could always use a longer nose.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I—”
I was saved by the bell. The sleigh bells, that is. The person I least wanted to see at that moment had just entered the shop.