“So you recognize Nick?”
“Didn’t say I did. But that thing on his chin, the other man had one just like it.”
“What thing?”
“Clef, I think it’s called.”
Treble or bass, I wondered, before my heat-drained brain was able to make sense of the word. “Cleft! Just like Kirk Douglas.”
“That’s what I said. Anyway, Mr. Keating had him one of those.”
“Keating!”
“I just said that, too. Anyway, Fisher Webbfingers Senior and Mr. Keating were like two ticks in a dog’s ear. The boy, he was just a little thing. Cute as a button, but you ain’t never seen a kid that shy. His big sister—that would be the one that calls herself Irena—she had enough brass to make up for him. Never liked her as a young woman, don’t like her now.”
I caught myself nodding and stopped. “Harriet, can you think of any reason any of these people would be here under assumed names?”
She cocked her head, perhaps the better to think. “It’s the end times,” she finally said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Bible warns us that there will be strange happenings.”
“That’s it? That’s the only explanation you can think of?”
“Ain’t that enough? Mrs. Washburn, I suggest you get right with the”—she jumped up—“Lord have mercy, I didn’t realize how late it’s getting. I’m supposed to be over at the church right now seeing to the eats. Although the Webbfingerses don’t have no family to speak of, they have plenty of high society friends.”
“You don’t say.”
“You may not know this, Mrs. Washburn, but them blue bloods is mighty picky eaters.
“When is the funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow, eleven o’clock. But I ain’t been to this fancy church before, so I gotta check out the kitchen.”
I stood as well. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem. Just remember what I said. Judgment Day is coming, and them that ain’t ready…”
I let the rest of her sermon go in one ear and out the other. Nodding my head and murmuring “Yes” every few seconds seemed to speed things along. I have no idea what I might have agreed to, but when Harriet finally left, she appeared quite pleased with herself.
Obviously, it had been a productive encounter for me as well. I started to call Toy on my cell phone with my big news, but changed my mind before pressing the Send button. This was going to be too much fun to share.
Fisher Webbfingers’s car was in the garage when I returned, and all three rentals cars were parked along the street. I headed straight for the Hansons’ a.k.a. Zimmermans’ suite.
“We’re busy,” Estelle called out in answer to my knock. I paid close attention to her accent. One thing was for sure, whoever she really was, either she had not been raised in the South or had one heck of a voice coach. Her R could have cut through three-inch plywood.
“It’s me, Abigail. Your tour guide for the day.”
There followed a period of mumbling and rumbling, after which Herman came to the door. But he did not open it.
“We’ve decided not to go out today, little lady. Estee, here, isn’t feeling so good.”
“No problemo,” I said, with true tour guide vivacity. “May I come in for a minute?”
“That wouldn’t be such a good idea, ma’am, seeing as how it might be catchy.”
“Don’t worry about me, dear, I’ve had all my shots.”
“Well, I was hoping not to have to say this—you being a lady and all—but I’m not dressed.”
“I don’t mind. Besides, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” It had to be the chocolate speaking.
There was more mumbling than rumbling this time. Although I couldn’t hear what she said, it was clear that my flip comment had rubbed Estelle’s fur the wrong way.
“Ma’am,” Herman said, while his wife’s gums were still flapping, “maybe you better leave.”
“Not until I’ve spoken to at least one of you. This isn’t about sightseeing—it’s about a vandalized yearbook at the College of Charleston.”
The door opened immediately. “Come in,” Herman said.
He was fully dressed, by the way, except he wasn’t wearing shoes or socks. Estelle was wearing a pale pink linen shift and pink Gucci leather shoes. A matching handbag lay on the freshly made bed.
I entered saying a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the man who invented air-conditioning. Without this invention the South would never have attracted the economic growth for which it is now known.
Herman motioned to an overstuffed chair that I had had recovered in Brunschwig & Fils fabric. The vibrant fruit colors gave a touch of pizzazz to an otherwise muted decor. It was one of my favorite pieces, and one I had yet to enjoy.
“Thank you very much,” I said, but getting seated was no easy task. When it was time for me to leave, I would have to use a rope and rappel down.
Estelle sat on the bed beside her purse, as if to guard it, and Herman chose the desk chair, a rather frail Biedermeier. I was about to suggest that we switch, but Estelle spoke up.
“I had every right to take that picture, Mrs. Washburn. If you let me explain, I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“That’s why I’m here. Explain away!”
She glanced at her husband and then back at me. “Perhaps I didn’t mention that I attended the College of Charleston.” She waited for my reaction, but I wisely refrained from making any sarcastic remarks. “Well,” she said, when it was clear I wasn’t there to play games, “I had a terrible case of acne when I was growing up. Persisted far too long, into college even. Makeup wasn’t enough to cover it. In fact, it just made things worse. You should have heard the names the kids called me throughout high school. Pizza Face, Hamburger Girl—anyway, the day they took the yearbook pictures, I planned to be absent, but my roommate told the dorm representative, and—well, to make a long story short, I got pressured into having it taken.”
“My Estee’s got a smooth face now,” Herman felt compelled to interject. “Dermabrasion, it’s called. See? Her face is as smooth as custard. Cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it.”
I tried not to stare. Her skin was actually fairly smooth. Maybe only the slightest hint of scars. Just why the plastic surgeon hadn’t touched the bags beneath her eyes was a whole other story.
“You look very nice,” I said.
“Oh, but I didn’t then. Believe me. For years I regretted having that picture taken. Nobody forced me, of course, I just wasn’t strong enough to resist pressure. Then there comes a point in life when you say ‘screw it’—pardon my French, Mrs. Washburn, but I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I did. Last year I gave up panty hose for Lent. My legs aren’t perfect, but neither are they hideous. Why should I feel obligated to encase them in plastic, as if they were giant hot dogs? But still, this newfound freedom to express myself did not extend to the destruction of someone else’s property.
“But Mrs. Zimmerman, the yearbooks don’t belong to you.”
“My likeness does. So, what are you going to do, Mrs. Washburn, turn me in?”
Herman lurched to his feet, knocking over the Biedermeier. “Little lady, I can’t let you do anything that’s going to get my Estee in trouble.”
I was pretty sure that the big guy was too much of a gentleman to do me any physical harm. Besides, if that was his intent, he could have turned me into pâté in the length of time it took me to get out of the chair. My best defensive move was to snuggle back into the down-filled cushions, making myself even more inconspicuous than ever.
“I’m not going to turn her in—not if she can tell me why she cut out pictures other than her own.”
Herman froze. With one arm extended and one foot just leaving the ground, he reminded me of the game “statues” that we used to play when we were children. Estelle had gone rigid as well. Had it not been for the bags beneath her eyes, one might have surmised she’d been the recent recipient of beaucoup Botox injections. C.J. refers to this as the Lot’s Wife Syndrome. She also, bless her heart, believes that Shelby and Gastonia, North Carolina, are the Sodom and Gomorrah mentioned in the Bible. But that’s a whole different story as well.
At any rate, Estelle sprang to life first. “Okay, so maybe I cut an extra page or two out of that dang book. I fail to see what this has to do with you. Are you just a nosy woman with too much time on her hands? Is that it, Mrs. Washburn? Come up to Wisconsin and we’ll show you how real American women spend their days.”
It was the moment of truth. It was not, however, my place to confront the suspects, no matter how convincing the evidence. Besides, I had only one piece of what was undoubtedly a very complex puzzle. One wrong word out of me and Herman would undoubtedly whack me over the head with the Biedermeier and throw both me and the chair into the harbor. What a waste of a perfectly fine piece of furniture.
Alas, there are times when I just can’t hold my tongue. “It’s my business because Wynnell Crawford is my best friend. I’m not about to let her take the rap for you.”
Herman’s body thawed enough to let him pick up the fallen chair, which he did, but he did not sit. “Let me get this straight, little lady. You think we killed Mrs. Webbfingers?”
“Did you? Oh, and just so you know—I’m wired.”
Estelle blinked rapidly, the Botox phase well behind her. “We didn’t kill anyone, Mrs. Washburn. And it was never part of our plan.”
Herman cringed. “Estee—”
“No, Herman, it’s time we came clean. We can’t be indicted for a crime we never got the chance to commit.”
Herman’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times but no sound came out. Finally he turned to me. His eyes said everything.
“She’s right,” I said. “If you didn’t commit a crime, and haven’t been covering up for one, there really is no reason to worry. Now the yearbooks—that’s another story. I’m afraid that’s between you and the College of Charleston. But you’re going to have to tell them what you did. Is that understood?”
They nodded.
“So,” I said, waving my hand like a grand poobah on her overstuffed throne, “who would like to go first?”
“It’s mostly my story,” Estee said. “I should be the one to tell it.”
I made a show of looking down the front of my sundress, supposedly at a microphone. What I saw was a pair of rather nice but otherwise unremarkable breasts, and a very pretty bra from Victoria’s Secret.
“Speak nice and loud,” I said. “And take it from the beginning.”