Ed Crawford was either dead or in a coma. In either case, a phone call made a lot more sense than screaming. Still, a good scream has therapeutic value, so I held off summoning help until I was quite sure I’d exhausted all the benefits of vocalization. Then, as I was halfway across the room to use Wynnell’s phone, it occurred to me that calling on my backup cellular, outside and in the bright sunshine, was the only way to go. Someone could have been hiding behind the heavy wooden stacks being peddled as furniture, or a dangerous substance might have been smeared on the receiver, which he had touched minutes before he died.
But outside in the glare reflected from parked automobiles, and the heat rising from the asphalt, death seemed far away. Still, just to be safe, I waited in the Subway, in the greasy Formica booth nearest the front door. The only other people in the shop were a pair of teenage employees, who were too busy popping toppings into each other’s mouths to notice me. Lord only knows why they hadn’t heard me scream.
The men in blue showed up almost immediately, which made me think I’d been followed. Before I could address the issue—like why the heck didn’t anyone respond to my screams—Sergeant Scrubb walked in. My sigh of relief may have carried with it a few disobedient pheromones.
Sergeant Scrubb is a dead ringer for actor Ben Affleck, a man for whom he is constantly mistaken. The sergeant treats these cases of mistaken identity with good humor, as does his lucky wife, Aleena. The two give the impression of being happily married, which is good news for American women of all descriptions. Trust me, Aleena Scrubb looks nothing like Jennifer Lopez.
“Abby,” he said “an ambulance is on its way.” A second later it arrived. Sergeant Scrubb excused himself to confer with EMTs and watch them load Ed’s body into the vehicle. When they left, sirens screaming, he immediately returned to me. “Okay, Abby, from the beginning.”
I had many beginnings, because no sooner would I get started than one or another of the men in blue popped in to report to Sergeant Scrubb, or to ask him a question. I began to feel like the Pause button on a remote control. Finally the sergeant issued orders for us to be left alone.
“Sorry, Abby.”
“No problemo. I’d kind of forgotten, but we mothers are used to that.”
“One more time, if you will.”
“You sure you don’t want a sandwich first? This might take awhile.”
“We prefer doughnuts, but what the heck. A roast beef with extra jalapenos sounds pretty good right now. How about you? Can I get you something?”
It seemed wrong for me to chow down while my best friend’s husband was literally cooling his heels in the back of an ambulance. Besides, the kids hadn’t been wearing disposable gloves during their food fun. On the other hand, the promise of an alpaca supper wasn’t much to look forward to, and an empty stomach was only going to make me crabby and difficult to deal with later on that evening. Thinking only of others, I had the detective buy me a white chocolate and macadamia nut cookie, and a diet soda. Chocolate has been proven to contain medicinal properties, and the sugar-free beverage washes away any residual guilt.
While Sergeant Scrubb made short shrift of his spicy sandwich, I described what had transpired at Wooden Wonders. Uninterrupted, it took only a few minutes.
“So,” I said, as I deftly licked a dainty finger, “that was it. He just slumped to the floor. One minute he’s alive and well, and the next minute he’s dead.”
“How do you know he’s dead?”
“Well, I don’t. Isn’t he?”
His eyes answered my question, without committing him to an answer. “Abby, I realize there is no point in demanding that you back off this case”—he paused—“is there?”
“None. Wynnell is my best friend—after Greg, of course.”
“That’s what I thought. But we can agree that you want her cleared and Marina Webbfingers’s real killer caught.”
“Of course. That would be Ed’s killer, too, right?”
I couldn’t tell if he winced or winked. “Trust me, Abby, we will find this person—or persons. And as much as we appreciate your willingness to help, it’s our job, not yours.”
“Yes, but—”
“You could help us out a lot, Abby, if you concentrated on your area of expertise.”
“Oh?” Flattery will get anyone just about anywhere with me. That’s how I ended up with the surname Timberlake.
“You’re an authority on antiques, am I right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that—although there are those who would.”
“Abby, what I’m about to say is confidential.” He let his gaze linger on me until I broke eye contact. Another couple of seconds and I would have offered to raise his child by another woman.
“I won’t breathe a word,” I gasped softly.
“Something was found in the harbor this morning—a little statue of some kind. It has what appears to be a bloodstain, and it was recovered only a short ways from double 0 Legare Street. The lab is checking it now to see if there is a tissue match.”
I nodded. Knowledge is power, but silence is the most powerful tool of all. As far as I was concerned, there was no need for the agreeable Scrubb to know just how much—or little—I already knew about the case.
“How can I be of help?”
“I want you take a look at a Polaroid of that statue. See if it rings a bell.” He extracted a photo from his shirt pocket and handed it across the table. The picture was still warm from his chest. If I’d been by myself, I might have given it a quick sniff.
Instead, I pretended to examine it closely. “Yes, I’ve seen that statue before.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. It’s a copy of Michelangelo’s David. They’re as common as garden gnomes. More so even, because a lot of people decorate indoors with them. Can you believe that? I mean, not that I’m being snobbish or anything—but you know what I mean.”
He gave me no sign that he did. “Is it possible you’ve seen this very one?”
I shrugged. “There was one in the Webbfingerses’ garden, but like I said, they’re ubiquitous. And they all look alike.”
Sergeant Scrubb was far more skilled than I when it came to the silence game. He sat entirely motionless, like one of the statues in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum in New York City the last time I was there. The figures are eerily realistic; even the vein patterns in the eyes have been duplicated, and each hair is reportedly applied by hand. Some of Madame Tussaud’s statutes seemed more likely to move than the detective did just then.
“Well, it’s the truth,” I wailed. I practically flung the picture back at him.
He sprang to life. “Abby, please keep the photo. Study it. There might be an important clue in there.”
“Right.” I thrust the photo in my purse. “But if it’s clues you want, then I suggest you interrogate that bunch of so-called guests staying at La Parterre.”
The artists at the wax museum could have applied a new hairline to their Scrubb version in the time it took him to respond. “Would you like to tell me more?”
“I’m sure there is no need to. You probably have bulging files on every one of them.”
“Let’s say I did. What would be in them?”
“Well, the Papadopouluses aren’t who they pretend to be, for one thing. Irena is not a gem buyer—unless it’s baubles for herself—and I doubt if that studmuffin sidekick is her husband. If the Thomases are really travel agents, I’ll eat my—alpaca without complaining. As for the Zimmermans—”
A sharp rap on the window from one of the men in blue made me spill the dregs left in my soda cup. Sergeant Scrubb scowled at the intrusion and tried to wave the young officer away, but the man was insistent.
“What the hell?” Sergeant Scrubb mouthed behind cupped hands. He was obviously unaware of his reflection in the glass.
The young man on the other side also cupped his hands to his mouth. “Phone!” he yelled, his face just inches away from the window.
“You idiot,” Sergeant Scrubb yelled back. He strode outside and carried on a conversation that grew more animated by the second. Finally he turned to the window, his face all smiles.
I waited patiently until he came back inside. “What gives?” I asked.
“Abby, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“Officer Ditzski was just on the phone with one of the EMTS—anyway, it seems that Mr. Crawford has a pulse—”
“What?”
“Did you know he was a diabetic?”
“No! And Wynnell has been my best friend for years.” Frankly, I felt betrayed.
“Well, he should have been wearing a medical alert tag. They save lives, you know.”
I was about to open my mouth, to tell him he was preaching to the choir, when a Channel 2 news truck pulled up. Sergeant Scrubb excused himself yet again.
Being four-foot-nine does have its advantages. I slipped out of the Subway unnoticed by anyone. Certainly not by the teenagers, who had progressed from food popping to tongue swapping. I thought I heard someone call my name just as I was closing my car door, but I knew better than to turn around. They say there is no such thing as bad publicity, and while that may hold true for people in the arts, such as film stars, musicians, and even writers, those of us in the retail sector know that even a little bad press can shut your business down overnight. Especially when murder is involved.
Sure, a few ghouls might stop by the Den of Antiquity to get a gander at the woman whom death and disease seem to follow like a pack of snarling hyenas, but discerning folks who have a choice where to shop are more likely to choose a store with a prestigious reputation. Another mug shot of me in the Post and Courier was the last thing I wanted.
I drove quickly, but not recklessly, to the Rob-Bobs’ mansion south of Broad. My wealthy friends do not even pretend not to be pretentious. They purposely picked the house with the grandest columns, the finest ironwork, and the lushest garden they could find for under five million. Then they sprang for a million dollars in “home improvements.” Maison de Robert has been the backdrop for three movies of which I am aware, and has been featured in eight magazines.
What was once the carriage house now serves as a three-car garage, which in this part of town is as rare as hoarfrost. The two stalls on either side were taken, so I parked in the middle. I must confess, it usually gives me a thrill not to have to park on the street, along with the tourists and those of lesser means. Tonight, however, I was numb.
Bob saw me through the kitchen window and rapped on it, motioning for me to take the side entrance. “Hey,” he said, pressing his six o’clock shadow to my cheek. “You’re just in time to help with the salad.”
“Great. Let us begin.” It wasn’t meant to be funny; I needed to keep my hands busy, if not my mind.
“Oh no lettuce, Abby. We start with a layer of baby endive, then a scoop of Albanian albino artichoke aspic, sprinkle a few sun-dried tomatoes over that, and top it off with a drizzle of basil-infused olive oil.”
“Albanian albino artichokes?” I was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.
Rob laughed as he entered the kitchen from the dining room. He bussed my cheek briefly.
“I thought I heard you in here.”
“Just arrived.” I turned back to Bob. “What kind of artichokes did you say?”
“You heard him right,” Rob said. “Guess where he got them?”
I shrugged.
“Go on, guess.”
“You had them shipped in from California?”
“No, I picked them up from a specialty shop in Mount Pleasant, but they were grown in Albania. You see, it’s a very labor intensive process, because although they’re not really albino, they’re shaded from the sun as soon as they start to form flower heads.”
“Sounds delicious,” I said, without the least bit of sarcasm.
The younger partner nodded vigorously. “They’re the perfect accompaniment for alpaca.”
Rob made a face. “I say that we hog-tie Bob, throw this mess into the harbor, and then make a beeline for McCrady’s.”
“Do that,” Bob said, “and after I gnaw myself free, I’ll make a fleet of paper boats from your collection of Broadway Playbills. See which one floats furthest out into the harbor. I bet Cabaret makes it halfway to Fort Sumter.”
Normally I would have joined in the good-natured banter, but I had just witnessed my best friend’s husband slip into a diabetic coma. The jokes, the alpaca sizzling away in the oven—it all seemed so trivial. I gripped the edge of the island table with both hands.
“Guys, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Rob clasped his hands in mock joy. “We’re going to be uncles again!”
Bob pushed a ladder-back chair to my derriere. “Sit,” he ordered. “And here I was about to put the mother of our nephew to work.”
I kicked the chair away. “Stop that! I’ve got something important to tell you.”
Rob winked at Bob. “Ah, it’s a niece, not a nephew. Well, we can handle that, can’t we? At last, a legitimate excuse to shop at Victoria’s Secret.”
“I suppose she’ll start out as a baby,” Bob said. “Maybe we should begin by shopping at baby stores.”
“Right. But I hear they grow up fast. We’ll have to start planning for her coming-out party right away.”
“We don’t know yet if she’s going to be a lesbian,” Bob said. “Or were you referring to a debutante ball?”
I toppled the chair. “Shut up, please!”
That got their attention.
“And keep it shut until I finish—please.”
The two clowns were now the picture of concern. They nodded silently.
I set the chair upright and hoisted myself to the seat. “It’s about Ed Crawford. He almost died this afternoon.”
They stared, open-mouthed, while I related the afternoon’s events. Neither of them had known Ed very well, and neither had they been particularly fond of him, but tragedy seems to have a way of drawing folks together. When I was through with my narration, they made sympathetic sounds, asked a few relevant questions, but then seemed eager to get on with the evening.
“Holy smokes!” Bob said. “The alpaca! I forgot to set the timer.”
Rob nudged me. “Maybe McCrady’s isn’t out of the picture after all. I’ll call and see if they have a cancellation.”
“Over my dead body,” Bob growled. He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Abby. It’s just that I can’t stand to see good food go to waste.”
“Neither can I,” Rob said. “That’s why I want to call McCrady’s.”
I found my friends’ preoccupation with themselves strangely comforting. That’s what the living should do—live. How they reacted to an acquaintance’s brush with death had no bearing on my life. Just because I felt unsettled didn’t mean they had to. Besides, if we didn’t consume the camel’s cousin now, it would show up later under another guise. Perhaps as alpaca pâté.
“Guys,” I said, “let’s stick to the original plan. But first I need to show you something.” I fished the Polaroid of the stupid statue from my purse. “Believe it or not, this is what the police think was used to bludgeon Marina Webbfingers.”
Bob tapped the picture with the business end of a wooden spoon. Thank heavens it was a clean utensil.
“Well, I’ll definitely have to remove your name from my list of suspects, Abby. That monstrosity has got to weigh at least twenty pounds.”
Instead of contributing his own wisecrack, Rob snatched the picture from my hand and held it closer to the overhead hanging light. In the process the spoon was sent flying across the room, where it smacked against a Baccarat crystal vase filled with summer roses. The vase didn’t shatter outright, but from the sound of the collision, I knew it was cracked.
But Rob was oblivious to the damage he’d done. “Somebody get me a magnifying glass,” he shouted.
“Rob,” I said patiently, “I may not have seen as many as you, but trust me, when you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
“I’m not talking about a plaster putz, Abby. This statue could be worth a fortune.”