Statue of Limitations (17 page)

T
oy picked up after the first ring. “Wiggins.”

“Where are you?”

“Abby! I was just about to call you. I'm at Hammerhead, White, and Sand. Mr. Hammerhead let me use of some of his contacts. You'll never guess what I just learned.”

“That Estelle Zimmerman attended the College of Charleston?”

I savored his stunned silence.

“I'm right, aren't I?”

My baby brother coughed a couple of times before finding his voice. “How the heck did you know?”

“She knows too much about the city to just be a tourist. Besides, I had a hunch. You know, sort of like the way Mama smells trouble.”

“Our mother, bless her heart, couldn't smell dinner if it was burning. Guess what else I learned.”

“That the Papadopouluses aren't really a couple, that Irena is not a gem buyer, and that both of them attended the C of C as well?”

“Abby, that's incredible! How did you come up with that?”

I told him about Ambrosia and our escapade with the yearbooks. “I'm guessing that they are brother and sister,” I said, “and that their last name starts with the letter K. But I could be way off base, even though a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man.”

Toy chuckled. “You're not wrong at all. Their family name is Keating. And the Zimmermans are really the Hansons. Estelle Hanson, Irena Keating, and Fisher Webbfingers were classmates. Nick is Irena's younger brother—seven years younger, in fact. The Hansons really do own a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Irena is a Manhattan housewife, and Nick just sort of kicks around—from what I can tell by his Social Security withholdings.”

“Ah, the black sheep.”

“Baaaaaa.”

“Sorry Toy, I couldn't resist. What about Estelle? What was her maiden name?”

“Simonson. Except for speeding and parking violations, none of them have been in trouble with the police.”

It practically scares the zip out of me when I
pause to consider how much information is available to the public in this, the computer age. But if I had to scale a wall to steal Fisher's Social Security number, how did Toy manage to get so much information, in such a short time, with no numbers for the rest of the gang? Computer age or not, it seemed suspicious to me. Of course I asked him.

“That was an easy one, sis. I called the car rental agencies. They're not supposed to give out customer information, but they usually crack, if you trot out the right story.”

“The right story? Toy, where did you learn to be a such a con man—never mind, I don't want to know. Please, continue.”

“Well, to make a long story short, the third agency I called had a rental in the name of Hanson who was staying at La Parterre. The same for Keating. If you have an address, and sweet talk whomever answers the phone, the rest is easy as taking candy from a baby.”

“You obviously haven't tried taking candy from a baby, but I get the picture. What about the Thomases?”

“Funny you should ask. John and Belinda Thomas are their real names, but they're from New Jersey, not California. Well, at least according to their photo IDs.”

“How interesting! Toy, you're a miracle worker.”

“Nah, just His disciple. Okay sis, what do you want me to do now?”

“This morning I gave Mama a job at Den of Antiquity—”

“You
what
?”

“I had to get her out of my hair. Anyway, could you pop in there in, say, half an hour to see if she and C.J. are still both alive. I mean, they're really good friends and all, but—oh my gosh! What was I thinking?”

Toy, who had nothing to lose by my business blunders, had his laugh of the day. The important thing is that he promised to check on my petite progenitor and my gal Friday. Almost as important was the fact that he didn't ask me what I planned to do next. I wouldn't have told him anyway.

 

There were three rental cars parked along the street in front of La Parterre, but Fisher's car was missing from the garage, and there was no sign of Harriet's car. Despite the heat, the tourists were out in full force, and it was obvious most of them had yet to learn the three cardinal laws of walking in Charleston during the summer: wear wrinkled linen, walk slowly, and keep to the shade. By and large, they were large. They were also pink, puffing, and dripping with sweat. A kid with a lemonade stand could have cleaned up.

I parked along the seawall again and hoofed it over the hot pavement. The Webbfingerses' garden was empty, save for one tourist, who was too busy jotting notes in a spiral notebook to notice me. Even the crunch of gravel under my feet didn't give me away.

“Can I help you?” I asked as I sneaked up to her right elbow.

Pen and notebook fell on the walkway as the tourist staggered forward in surprise. But by the time she turned to face me, she'd regained her composure and then some.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

A tourist wandering around in Fisher Webbfingers's garden was really none of my business—although, come to think of it, the man had asked me to play the role of hostess, and even a middling hostess knows who her guests are. The truth is, it irked me that she was trespassing. I periodically find smudges on my front windowpanes, left there by folks with more bucks than breeding. Once, someone even tried to take a picture of me standing
inside
my living room, just minutes after I'd exited the shower. Thank heavens I'd thought to put on a robe.

“I was just about to ask who you were,” I said curtly. “This is private property, you know.

The way she snorted and tossed her head sug
gested that in a previous life she had been one of the horses that spend their days plodding around the historic district. “The sign there says it's is a bed and breakfast,” she neighed. “Maybe I'm a potential customer.”

Having just used up my rudeness quota for the month, and having nothing to gain, or lose, by her actions, I nodded and started to walk in the direction of the main house. The wayward tourist caught up with me in a couple of giant strides, all but forcing me off the path and into the hedge.

“My name is Ramat Sreym,” she said.

I looked at her blankly. The name didn't ring a bell. There was something shifty about her eyes, suggesting that she might be a politician, or a used-car salesperson. She certainly was not one of the many movie stars that headquarter in the Holy City while on location.

“I'm a novelist,” she added when I made no response.

I think I was supposed to be impressed. The truth is that not only was the Charleston area crawling with writers, but it's home to a plethora of published authors. It's gotten to the point that one can't enter a bookstore without having to pass a table with a seated author hawking his, or her, product. Sometimes I wish those busybodies
would stay home, and let me browse the racks in peace.

“That's nice,” I said. “I'm Abigail Timberlake. I'm an antique dealer. I own the Den of Antiquity, on King Street. Just past the intersection with Queen. I also own a sister shop up in Charlotte, if you ever get up that way. Here, let me give you a card.”

The tourist-cum-novelist had the temerity to hand me a bookmark in exchange. The colorful strip listed her titles, some of which, I'm reluctant to admit, were quite clever.

“My books are available at bookstores everywhere,” she said, trumping me. “And of course you can buy them on the Net.”

I glanced at her notebook. “Are you writing now?”

“In a manner of speaking. I'm taking notes.”

“Good. I think an author owes it to her readers to get the facts right. It always stops me cold when I find mistakes in a book.”

She shook her head, but suppressed the snort. “Yes, but some of my fans have too much time on their hands. Some women—and it's always women—circle typos and then send photocopies of them to me. Little do they seem to realize that I'm not the last person to see the manuscript. It's not like I set the book in print.”

She had a valid point. “How do you respond?”

“I send them thank-you notes and pass the notes to my publisher so they can be corrected in the next printing.” She smiled, displaying a bite worthy of a Morgan. “Although perhaps I should send them lists of available men.”

I was beginning to like this woman. “This,” I said, waving my arm to include most of the garden, “is going to be the setting for your next novel?”

“At least one scene. I walked all over the peninsula, and these are the prettiest grounds.” She pointed to the flower garden in back. “It's all so tasteful.”

“My friend, Wynnell, is responsible for that.”

“Really? Tell her she did a great job.”

I motioned to a wrought-iron bench set in a recess of the parterre. She took my hint and sat. The Canary Island date palm loomed directly in front of us, providing shade from the morning sun, its trunk partially obscuring us from the curious stares of tourists.

“So,” I said, having warmed up to her considerably, “what's your new book about?”

She reared back as if she'd seen a rattlesnake. “Ms. Timberlake, a writer doesn't reveal her current plot.”

“Sorry. I didn't know.”

“But I can tell you this. It involves three loud and obnoxious middle-age sisters—from up the road a piece—who go to Paris to look for a diamond necklace their father stole and hid under a bridge on the Seine. They figure it's been so long, that even if they are caught smuggling it back to the States—and they're positive they won't be—that they won't get into serious trouble. The oldest one, Miranda, even tempts fate by wearing the jewels on the plane—oh,” she said, clamping a hoof-size palm over her mouth, “I've said too much already. We writers are like that; when we're not writing, we're talking.”

“That's all right. I'm sure I'll have forgotten by the time it comes out. So what happened? Did they get caught?”

“That was their first big mistake—they thought they were so clever, but what they didn't know is that there is no such thing as a statute of limitations on stolen property—oh, I've done it again!”

The wheels in my head were grinding so loudly that I could barely hear her. “Did you say there is no such thing as a statute of limitations on stolen property?”

“Yes, ma'am. So the sisters are arrested, but that happens only halfway through the book. Miranda has an affair with the prison chaplain, who turns
out to be—” She jumped to her feet. “Mrs. Timberlake, are you sure you're not a writer? If you are, promise me you won't use this in your own book.”

“I can't write a check without losing my concentration.”

“I hope you're telling the truth. If you're not—well, you should know that this has all been written down in a synopsis that I sent to my editor, signed, dated, and everything.”

“I understand. But please, tell me the name of the book, so I can look for it when it comes out.”

“‘An Embarrassment of Bitches,'” she said, before holding the notebook up to her face like a shield. But that didn't stop her from talking. “It's scheduled to be released next April, and you can buy it at any bookstore…”

I honestly didn't hear her after that.

 

It was too early for lunch, but it's never too early for chocolate. I'm convinced that Eve gave Adam the apple because she had a candy bar stashed away in her fig leaf purse. At any rate, I keep a Three Musketeers bar and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup in my purse for emergencies. Because I'm afraid that these provisions, like my hurricane supplies, might go stale if not rotated on a regular basis, I have taken on the discipline of renewing them on a weekly basis. Friday is my day of choice, but I have nothing against Wednesdays.

Of course a person of my height has to be especially conscientious about not putting on the pounds, so I usually perform my solemn duty while walking. And while I may not walk as much as Ramat Sreym, the blabbermouth writer, I do a fair amount. At any rate, I had a lot of thinking to do, so it looked like it might be both a bar and a cup day, so I followed Murray Boulevard from White Pointe Gardens toward the Coast Guard station. The mansions along this stretch enjoy an unobstructed view of the water, and I would trade in my house at 7 Squiggle Lane in a heartbeat to live in any one of these grand houses.

So, I mused, there is no such thing as a statute of limitations on stolen property.
If
the statue of David that I'd seen in the Webbfingerses' garden was an authentic maquette for the famous one in Florence, it could have been stolen anytime in the last five hundred years. But maybe it wasn't stolen at all. Or maybe it was stolen so long ago that its origins were forgotten. It could have been in the Webbfingers family for umpteen generations, its significance entirely forgotten by now. There are, after all, countless tales of real finds showing up at garage sales. At least that scenario explained how a priceless work of art ended up in a bed of begonias.

On the other hand, if the maquette had gone
missing more recently—say, within the last one hundred years—it was possible that the family was biding its time, waiting for a magical date to pass, after which the stolen property would legally become theirs. I took a bite out of Reeses's new dark chocolate peanut butter cup, and then popped the rest of it in my mouth. This sudden infusion of sugar and caffeine gave my tired brain a much needed boost.

“Let's say,” I said aloud to myself, “that the statue was stolen during World War Two. Lots of Europe's treasures were either confiscated by the Nazis or went missing during the chaos. And looters—every war has looters. I know of plenty of cases where American servicemen returned, sometimes unwittingly, with priceless works of art.

“Let's say that Fisher Webbfingers's daddy—or Marina's daddy, for that matter—served overseas during the war. They would have been about the right age. Let's pretend for a minute that they stole the statue from a museum—or maybe just a private collection—and one of them brought it home to Charleston, but decided to wait until—”