Tamar Myers - Estate of Mind: A Den of Antiquity Mystery

TAMAR MYER S

For Gwen Hunter

It was only eight blocks to Mrs. Chengs, but it might

I much prefer back roads. During rush hour, I-77 is 82

I drove straight to Pine Manor, which sits all by 95

Is there a back door? 104

I drove straight to the Queens house. She is, after 111

Thats it, all right. Buster spoke in a whisper, as 124

Abby, what is it? 133

I got on Eden Terrace at Sullivan Middle School and 145

Magdalena Yoder was wrong. I had a lot of hunches, 152

Greg wasnt in when I got home, so I left 162

Queens Road just happens to be the most beautiful stretch

There is no use having connections if one doesnt use 180

Southpark Mall has a Cinnabon shop, and I practically overdosed 188

Thanks to Irene, I could afford to sleep in. I 198

Time got away from me. I had to iron another 210

Actually, it was more of a shriek, but Ive got 222

I had barely enough time, and not nearly enough energy, 235

Dead? 250

Mama and I exchanged shocked glances. 261

It is not my place to judge others, but I 270

That shot, Mama said proudly, was fired by Freddy. 279

About the Author Other Books by Tamar Myers Cover Copyright About the Publisher

ve been in sorrows kitchen and licked out every pot. But I havent suffered half as much as Mama, to hear her tell it. So out of guilt I went along with her to the Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Rock Hill, South Carolina. I go to church regularly, mind you, but this was to the annual white elephant sale and potluck supper, and it was a Wednesday night.

Junk, I whispered. Its just junk.

Shh, Abby. Someone will hear you.

So what, Mama? Feel this sweater. Its 100 percent acrylic. You could grate carrots with it.

Its a very pretty pink.

Speaking of pink, can you believe this pink flamingo night-light?

Lower your voice, dear. You Know Who donated that.

You Know Who?

The Queen.

I glanced around the parish hall, looking for a dowdy little woman with a hat and an obviously empty handbag. There were no hats to be seen.

I dont think she can hear all the way from En gland.

Priscilla Hunt is not in England, dear. Shes right over there.

Oh, that queen.

Priscilla Hunt is the uncrowned queen of Rock Hill. At least in her eyes. Not only is she the wealthiest woman in town, but she descends from one of the citys earliest settlers. Frankly, I have always been baffled by the amount of power Priscilla is able to wield, especially considering the fact that nobody likes her. She was standing alone, as usual, glaring at her archrival, Hortense Simms.

Hortense doesnt have a lineage worthy of a horse thief, but she is the Episcopal Church of Our Saviors resident celebrity and the second-wealthiest woman in the parish. She is also a confirmed spinster with a reputation for holding her nose so high, its a wonder she doesnt require an oxygen mask. Confidentially, Hortense doesnt deserve to be famous just because she published a book on antique undergarments, even if the ones she wrote about were worn by famous people. Of Corsets and Crowns never would have made the New York Times best-seller list if Oprah hadnt mentioned it in passing. A woman who describes underwear for a living has no cause to put on airs, if you ask me.

I wouldnt be surprised if the high and mighty Hortense chipped in with these cracked wooden salad bowls.

I gave those, Mama said.

Mama, you didnt!

I asked you if you wanted them, remember?

I shook my head.

Well, I did. Last Thanksgiving. And you said, no. So dont blame me if somebody else snaps them up for a song. Abby, I would have let you have them for fifty cents apiece.

I dont want the salad bowls. I waved my arms at the clutter spread across eight folding tables that flanked the room. Mama, were Episcopalians. Cant we do better than this?

What did you donate, dear? This auction is to benefit the youth group, you know. Theyre badly in need of a new van.

I hung my head in shame. As the owner of the Den of Antiquity, one of the Charlotte areas finest stores, I had plenty to donate to a church fund-raiser.

Mama gasped and clutched her single strand of pearls. You didnt donate anything, did you?

I was going to, Mama, but Ive been busy. It sort of slipped my mind.

Bet that new boyfriend of yours hasnt slipped your mind, has he?

I must have looked guilty.

I knew it. Well, Abigail Louise Timberlake, Im ashamed of you.

Oh, Mama, you just dont like him because hes short.

You said it, dear, not me.

But, Mama, hes three inches taller than I!

Youre four-foot-nine, dear. And besides, we dont know who his people are.

Mama, youve met them, for crying out loud. You had lunch at his aunts down in Georgetown.

Mama sniffed. Appearances can be deceiving, dear. You arent really serious about this man, are you?

Mama has her heart set on my marrying Greg Washburn, a handsome Charlotte police investigator. Greg is tall by anyones standards, and drop-dead gorgeous. Buster, on the other hand, has a face only a mama can lovehis mama, not mineand is a coroner. But Buster is someone I can count on, while Greg is as faithful as a buck rabbitjust like my ex-husband. I had a trump card that I knew would sway Mama over to Busters side, but I wasnt ready to play it.

Maybe we should head over to the food tables, I said, by way of diversion. Father Foss is about to say grace.

All right, dear, but Im not letting you off the hook for a prayer. Well talk later. Can you make it for supper Saturday night? Or do you and that little man have plans?

Saturday will be fine, I said and, grabbing her arm, steered her toward the food tables.

We barely made it in time. As soon as the word Amen passed the good fathers lips, the crowd reenacted the Oklahoma land rush. Not that I can blame them. Episcopalians rank among the worlds finest cooks, after all. Potluck at the Church of Our Savior can be a treat.

But I was feeling a little off my feed that night. Lunch, earlier that day at Bubbas China Gourmet up in Charlotte, was more than just a memory. Bubbas moo goo gai grits and Beijing barbecue were still in my stomach, which in turn felt like it was somewhere down around my knees. But just to be sociable I put a watercress sandwich on my plate. Normally one would not find finger food at an evening potluck, but I blessed the kind soul who had provided it.

Is that all youre going to eat? Mama demanded, once we were seated.

Shhh, Mama, the biddings started.

Do I hear a dollar fifty for these salad bowls? Father Foss was saying.