For what it’s worth, the tourist from the Big Apple smelled like limes and salt. Add two ounces of premium vodka, a splash of orange liqueur, and he was a walking margarita.
I may be happily married, but I didn’t park my hormones at the door of the church. Alas, my fantasy was short-lived, for almost immediately my right arm became tangled in his web of gold chains. The more I struggled to free myself, the more entangled I became. The fact that I accidentally grabbed a handful of chest hair shows you just how desperate my situation was.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, but I seem to be trapped.”
“Hold still, please, Mrs. Washburn.”
“No problemo.” I threw back my head and willed myself to go limp, like a Victorian damsel who had fainted. Except that I kept one eye open. I don’t know how long Nick held me in that position, but it wasn’t long enough.
“What the heck is going on?” Irena Papadopoulus glared at me beneath her two-tone do. I was suddenly glad there had been no recent reports in the Post and Courier of rabid skunks.
“Sorry.”
“Put her down.”
“Sorry.” The second apology, which was whispered, was for my ears alone.
Nick set me carefully on the grass in front of the window. It took him a minute to untangle the chains from my arm, which gave me time to think of an excuse for being in his arms. To be absolutely honest, I thought seriously of being wicked and collapsing at his feet, but in the end I was a good girl.
“I started to pass out,” I said. “The heat does that to me. Your husband very kindly caught me.”
Irena wasn’t buying it. “Alcohol makes people pass out, too, Mrs. Washburn.”
“I haven’t had a margarita—or a drink of any kind—all day.”
She approached and actually began to sniff me. You can bet I backed away. Of course I wasn’t looking where I stepped, or I wouldn’t have trod on a sharp twig.
“Dang!” I hopped up and down on one foot.
Irena’s beady eyes widened. “Where are your shoes?”
“My shoes?” My shoes! What a dingbat I was. I’d left my sandals behind in the Webbfingerses’ bedroom. How else could I have climbed down the vine like a mini-Tarzan, using my toes as well as my fingers? It came back to me in an unpleasant flash. I’d carried my sandals from the office to the bedroom and set them on the bed while I gathered enough nerve to slip over the ledge. I had every intention of putting my shoes back on again, but once the necessary adrenaline surged through my body, all I could think about was making it safely to the ground.
Irena had little patience. “I’m waiting for your answer, Mrs. Washburn.”
“I must have forgot to wear them.” It was, after all, the truth.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve a good idea what you’ve been up to.”
“I seriously doubt that. But I swear, it had nothing to do with your husband. I have a hunk—I mean a husband—of my own. I’m happily married. See?” I waved my left hand.
At least a little luck was with me that morning, because the sun hit my engagement ring just right, and the minuscule stone appeared much more impressive than it usually does. At least it was enough to make Irena Papadopoulus back off a bit.
“Hmm. Well, I suggest you run along to Payless and pick up another pair of shoes. We wouldn’t want you to hurt your feet.”
“I didn’t buy them at Payless,” I snapped. “I bought them from Bob Ellis on King Street. They cost me over three hundred dollars.”
With some effort, she arranged her thin dry lips into a smirk. “Just so you know, Nick and I won’t be joining this little jaunt of yours this morning.”
“Yes, we will.” The man of few words emphasized each one.
There are those who might find it exciting to watch a married couple square off in public. I am not among their number—which is not to say that I didn’t experience schadenfreude whenever Nick seemed to get the upper hand. He spoke softly and sparingly, but his steady gaze and calm spirit prevailed—although I had no doubt the two would exchange more words later. Just not equal numbers.
“I’ll see y’all at ten o’clock then,” I said, resurrecting my perky pageant voice. One of my best kept secrets is that I was once third runner-up in the Miss Kudzu contest of York County, South Carolina. I may not have been elected the Kudzu Queen, but I did bring home a trophy and the title of Miss Kudzu Personality.
Kudzu, for y’all who don’t know, is a vine with large leaves and sweet smelling flowers that grows faster than a teenage boy—up to sixty feet a year. It was first introduced in this country in 1876 by the Japanese in their garden display at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. In the early part of the twentieth century it was touted both as forage for cattle and as an effective way to control erosion. It was commonly shipped to various parts of the Deep South by mail. Today it covers over seven million acres and advances farther north each year. Due to its explosive growth rate, landowners have to be constantly vigilant about its encroachment. The South may have lost the war, but its secret weapon, kudzu, will someday strangle unsuspecting folks north of the Line. One morning, in the not-too-distant-future, Yankees will wake up to find their houses and places of business smothered in green, and by then it will be too late to do anything about it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It was already nine-thirty, so I decided to wait for Toy in my car. I also put on a spare pair of shoes. The veteran of numerous mishaps (please don’t think I’m bragging), I never go anywhere without a complete change of clothes in my trunk. I have also found large plastic garbage bags, a shovel, a high-powered flashlight, and mixed nuts to be invaluable—although that is neither here nor there.
No sooner had I changed into my running shoes than the passenger door opened and Toy slid in. “Did you get it?” he demanded without preamble.
“What?”
“Mr. Webbfingers’s Social Security number.”
“Yes! Thank you, Toy. That was brilliant—you showing up at the door like that.”
“I saw him drive up, sis. I couldn’t abandon you.”
“Did he fall for your sympathy bit?”
“It wasn’t an act. Even though you’d told me he and his wife had been having troubles—well, you just know that on some level the guy had to be hurting.”
“Even if he’s the one who killed her?”
“No one is entirely evil, sis.”
I leaned over to open the glove box.
“What is it you want, sis? I’ll get it for you.”
“There should be a plastic spoon in there somewhere. I’d like to gag myself with it.”
He grinned. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your spunk. Okay, I’ll stop the moralizing. How about you show me that number?”
I turned over my wrist. “Voilà.”
Toy groaned. “The last two digits are smeared, sis.”
“What?” Sure enough, the two numbers on the right were nothing more than blue streaks. All that work and risk had been for nothing—well, if I didn’t count the naughty moment in Nick’s arms. “Sis—”
“I couldn’t help it. The window ledge did it. But don’t worry, I think I remember that this one was an eight—or was it a three? And that was definitely a five—unless it was a zero.”
“What I was about to say, sis, is that I think we’ve got enough to go on. It will just take a little more time.”
Poor Wynnell. This meant more time in the slammer for her. On the plus side, it gave Ed more time to revamp her shop. With any luck, absence would make both their hearts grow fonder, and they’d rediscover the vampish sides of each other. Just as long as Wynnell didn’t leave a boyfriend named Bertha behind in the lockup.
“How much time?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You said you had a lawyer lined up for your friend. A Mr. White, was it?”
“Hammerhead. He’s way up on King Street, almost to the Crosstown.”
“Drop me off at the house, Abby, so I can pick up my car. I’ll pay Hammerhead a visit—maybe he can help me run down these numbers. In the meantime, you take these folks on the outing you promised them.”
“What about my shoes?”
“What about them?”
“I’m afraid these aren’t the same ones I wore into the Webbfingerses’ house. In my hurry to get out, I left my sandals behind.”
Toy’s frown was so brief it really didn’t count. “Don’t worry, how many men do you know who keep track of their wives’ shoes? Chances are, he won’t look at them twice.”
“You’ve got a point, except for one small detail—how many women do you know with feet my size?”
“No offense intended, sis, but unless it involves food, sex, or sports, he’s still not going to think anything about it. He’ll just assume your sandals were left there by a niece, or a neighborhood kid—if he thinks about it at all. He certainly won’t suspect that a four-foot-eight-inch, antique-dealing, detecting dynamo scaled the wall while he was out.”
“I’m four-foot-nine. But thanks, Toy. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“Hey, what are brothers for?”
I didn’t answer the question, lest I stick my foot in my mouth. They may be minuscule feet, but so is my mouth. Literally, that is. Instead of unloading my litany of “Where were you when?”s, I managed to stick to small talk all the way back to my house.
Before Toy hopped out to get into his own car, he gave me a peck on the cheek. “Don’t take risks, Abby.”
I dutifully promised to behave—through gritted teeth, of course. But when I returned to La Parterre a few minutes later, I saw that I already had my hands full.