I couldn’t get Greg on the phone, which probably meant he was too far out at sea. Sometimes when the shrimping isn’t good, he and his cousin, Booger Boy, head out do to some deepwater fishing. As long as I don’t have to skin or scale what he catches, I’m fine with the way he spends his days. After all, it’s not like we need the money.
Plan B was to make a beeline to the harbor before the police had a chance to seal off East Bay Street—if they hadn’t already. Unfortunately I was a few seconds too late, and even then I had to park my car in someone’s driveway along Zigzag Alley. From there to the sidewalk that traces the harbor, I had to slip through (and even under) a tangle of tourist bodies. That’s the downside of getting pulled from Charleston Harbor in April: your friends will have to work very hard to watch them drag your waterlogged body out of the drink.
I got trapped in a forest of polyester-clad legs belonging to a group of women trying to get back to their cruise ship. The forest was anything but enchanted.
“What the heck was that thing?” a woman from one of the square states said.
“I heard someone say it’s a mermaid,” her companion said.
“Mermaids don’t exist,” the first woman said.
“Then maybe it’s a manatee.”
“It’s a woman, for crying out loud,” I said.
“You know they’re not going to let us back on the ship for another couple of hours. We may as well return to the market and kill time there. I saw a coral bracelet in one of the booths that was really nice. I’d like to get it for Cindy.”
“Cindy! After what she did to you?”
“Ladies, please,” I said, “I need to get through.”
“Don’t be so pushy.” The speaker shoved me hard enough to knock me off my feet. Fortunately I landed on someone’s feet, instead of the hard concrete walkway.
Strong arms jerked me to a standing position. “You children need to larn ya manners,” their owner said. “Hey, you ain’t no child; you’re a woman. Full growed and mighty purty too.”
“Thank you.”
“Where ya trying ta get to, little lady?”
“The woman they pulled out of the harbor—I know her.”
“Ya wanna get up close? That it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then as we say where I come from, no prob, Bob.” Without further ado he gripped my waist with one massive hand, grabbed my ankles with the other, and hoisted me straight up into the air as if I was a flag and he was a member of the color guard. My first thought was: thank goodness I’d worn jeans that day, and not the skirt I usually wore to work.
Big Bob—or whatever his name was—was truly a godsend. Despite some rather audible grumbling from the crowd, I was soon deposited gently on the seawall, just inside the yellow crime zone tape.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“My pleasure, little lady.”
But before I’d taken one step in the recovered body’s direction, someone else tapped me rudely on the shoulder. “Oh no you don’t, Timberlake.”
I turned slowly, knowing I would find myself eye-to-bosom with the very unpleasant Detective Tweedledee of the Charleston Police Department. What can I say, except that the woman just plain doesn’t like me? Okay, so perhaps there’s a bit more to the story.
For some bizarre reason the universe insists on throwing the corpses of murder victims into my path. It’s as if I’m walking in the shadow of Jessica Fletcher—although given my size, it would have to be her noon shadow. At any rate, almost invariably it’s Detective Tweedledee who becomes involved in these cases, and not with the best results. Usually her poor performances stem from the fact that I solve the crimes first. It’s not that I simply want to; I have to, in order to stay alive.
I’m sure it should be remembered that Detective Esmeralda Tweedledee is some mother’s daughter. She might even mean well—in her own sort of way. That said, she is so stupid, bless her heart, that she couldn’t pour water out of her boots, even if the instructions were written on the heels. She’s also as ornery as a snake, possesses a memory like an elephant’s, and jumps to conclusions faster than my friend Magdalena Yoder who lives up in Pennsylvania.
“I know this woman,” I said, infusing my voice with enough respect to soothe the savage breast of a third world dictator.
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“Because her blouse is thin and I can see the outline of her bra—because I recognize her, that’s why.” I was, in fact, not ten yards from the body. Although Gwen’s face was turned away from me, her long amber hair was a dead giveaway.
“What’s her name?”
“Gwendolyn Spears. She is—was—the manager of Pasha’s Palace.”
“That rug warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“I know you’re making this up, Timberlake, because Gary’s the manager. ‘It’s not scary, when you buy from Gary. Au contrary…’ I’ve seen the ads on TV.” Although she didn’t touch me, she still managed to push me back behind the yellow tape. I’m not sure how that happened—perhaps she moved inside a bubble of anger that had its own force field.
“Gary quit last month.”
“Yeah? Says who?”
“The woman rolled in the rug. She told me herself last week.”
“We’ll see.” She stomped off and made a couple of calls. Upon her return she looked even more cross. “How do you know so much about the deceased?”
“She sold me a carpet. We had a brief conversation.”
“Is that the only time you spoke to her?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“So which is the right word? Rug, or carpet?”
“They’re pretty much interchangeable, although more often the larger ones are referred to as carpets, and the small ones are called rugs.”
She must have found that not only immensely interesting, but worthy of extensive commentary. Knowing her as well as I did, I waited patiently while she filled several pages on a metal clipboard in the loopy handwriting reminiscent of a teenybopper. Finally, sighing from her efforts, she looked up.
“You still work at the Den of Iniquity on King Street?”
“Den of Antiquity—yes.”
“That’s what I said.”
“May I pay my respects to Ms. Spears?”
“You mean get closer?”
“Yes.”
“Now why would you want to do that? You didn’t even know the woman; you only had one brief conversation with her. Said so yourself not a minute ago.”
“Okay, Detective Tweedledoo,” I said, deliberating mispronouncing her name, “I confess. I have no interest in seeing the corpse of someone I’ve only just met. However, I am interested—”
“It’s Tweedledee.”
“What?”
“My name, you idiot. That’s how it’s pronounced.”
“Are you sure? I have a friend up in Charlotte who pronounces her name doo. Jasmine Tweedledoo. Do you think the two of you could be related?”
“Timberlake, get to your dang point! Why do you want to get closer to the recovered body?”
“I want to see if the rug is the genuine thing, or a reproduction.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes rolled back slightly as she cogitated on the pros and cons of granting me my desire. Perhaps she’d gone to another time and place altogether. In fact, no telling where she may have wandered, lost in thought, had we not been interrupted by the forensic photographer.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m all done. Shall I tell the morgue they can haul her away now?”
“Haul?” I said. “She’s not a load of cargo!”
Tweedledee snapped back to the here and now. “Wait a minute. This woman from the Den of Inequality wants to get a close look at the rug. Who knows, she might even have something useful to tell us.”
“Thank you, Detective Twaddledee,” I said, and strode in Gwen’s direction as fast as my short legs could carry me.
“Well?” the detective demanded. “What’d you make out? Is it the real McCoy or not?”
“It’s a genuine, handmade, Oriental rug.”
“How do you know?”
“There are inconsistencies in the pattern. These often—but not necessarily—show up in the corners.”
“You mean mistakes?”
“More likely the weaver misjudged the amount of yarn needed in a particular color, or was bored. A machine-made carpet would likely be symmetrical.”
“Anything else?”
“Look here—at the back. This is the warp, and these are the wefts. They’re the grid, if you will. In this case it’s kind of wobbly.”
“Yeah, but these things make it less valuable, don’t they?”
“Oh, not at all. If you want a machine-made carpet, then go to Home Depot or Lowe’s. There you can buy a mass-produced one for as little as three hundred dollars. If you want a handmade one, you have to go to a carpet store. Some of the best will cost tens of thousands of dollars, depending on the materials and the craftsmanship. And, of course, size.”
“Maybe.”
I turned away from the sanctity of Gwen’s body before raising my voice in frustration. “There you go again, Detective Tiddlywinks! I know what I’m talking about.”
“If this one had any value at all, why would someone wrap a dead woman in it?”
“Isn’t that your job to find out?”
“I’m warning you, Timberlake. I’ve had all the attitude from you I can take. Do you hear me?”
I slipped under the crime scene tape.
“Do you hear me?” she shouted.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I tried slipping back into the crowd. One of the few advantages of being my height is that anonymity can usually be achieved in a matter of seconds. This time I was not so lucky.
“I’m coming with you,” a voice from on high said.