Tamar Myers - Nightmare in Shining Armor: A Den of Antiquity Mystery

A Den of Antiquity Mystery

Try that as your opening line sometime. It is

a 242

I bought a silk animal print scarf at Dillards

for 255

If I may sit. Both my ankle and head were 264

I still cant believe youre moving to

Charleston, Wynnell said 274

Cover

t isnt every day that a headless woman rings my doorbell. You can be sure, therefore, that I exam ined this one closely. She was about five feet, six inches tall, sans head, which she held in her right hand. Her severed neck was abnormally large, especially considering the fact that there was a bit of it still attached to her noggin. I peered harder. Yup, there were two eyeholes about five inches down.

Wynnell! I cried delightedly. Im so glad youre early. I can use all the help I can get. The caterer got sick at the last minute, and although I have all the food, it needs assembling.

The bloody stump blinked. How did you know it was me?

Because youre my best friend. Id recognize you no matter what you wore. It would not have been kind of me to mention that it was Wynnells bushy eyebrows poking through the vision slits that had tipped me off.

My buddy sighed and stepped over the threshold. Then, really seeing me for the first time, she gasped.

Abby! How did you do it?

Do what? I said with a coy smile.

Youre a foot taller. At least!

Am I? I smoothed a portion of my antebellum skirt, which, suspended as it was by hoops and crinolines, puffed in all directions like an organza igloo. Incidentally, I wasnt alone under all that material. My yellow tomcat, Dmitri, had been tickling my ankles with his tail ever since Id gotten dressed.

Abby, tell me, or Im going to peek.

No need, I said and hoisted my hemline.

Dmitri took one look at my headless visitor, hissed, and shot out of the room like there was a pack of dogs in pursuit.

Wynnell laughed and peered more closely. Stilts?

Greg made them. Ive been practicing all week.

Perhaps I should explain that I am normally only four feet, nine inches tall. My fianc, Greg, is just over six feet. We would have made an odd Scarlett and Rhett without my wooden appendages. This not to say we make an odd couple in real life, but you know what I mean. Besides, if the hooped skirt gave me the opportunity to experience the rarefied strata to which the rest of you folks are accustomed, why not go for it?

How do you manage to keep your balance? Wynnell asked, as she bumped against the hall console.

I dont always, I said, remembering my bruised right knee. I can balance about as well as you can see. But I cant walk at all in this dress without the stilts, so Im stuck until the partys over. You, however, are another story. Why dont set your head down on that console, take off your mask, and help me in the kitchen?

Be glad to. Wynnell whipped off her rubber neck. Youd be surprised how hot it is under here.

I patted my voluminous skirt. Fifteen yards of fabric is no cool breeze.

Wynnell nodded. Her hair was damp with dewwe Southern women do not sweatand her face the color of a radish.

So what do you want me to do first?

Stir the punch. And taste the bowl on the left to see if it needs more pizzazz.

Champagne?

Vodka. I want this party to rock.

Abby, youre so bad. What will your mama say?

She gave me the recipe.

Speaking of her, did you find out what she plans to wear tonight?

I shook my head. Her lips are sealed tighter than a clam at low tide. All she would say is that I was in for a big surprise.

Wynnell frowned, her damp brows fusing like giant spiders. Doesnt that make you nervous?

You bet it does. Last year she came as Mother Teresabut that was during her nun craze.

Wynnell, having tasted the bowl of spiked punch, decided it need an extra wallop. She added enough imported spirits to keep Kiev humming for a month. And this from a Baptist!

What does she want to be now?

A jockey.

A disc jockey?

The kind that ride horses. Her goal is to win the Kentucky Derby before her eightieth birthday.

Which is how far away? Wynnell asked cagily. We Southern women would rather sweat than reveal our ages.

Shes seventy-eight.

Then she could make it. I wouldnt put anything past your mama.

Me, either! I wailed. Thats just what Im afraid of. Shes liable to show up tonight at my Halloween party dressed as a jockey. A woman her age shouldnt wear those tight pants if you ask me.

Your mamas in good shape, Abby.

I know. I clomped over to my new oven to take a peek at the lasagna. It was ready to come out. But shes so embarrassing. If I know her, shell bring a real jockey with her as her date. Then who knows what the two of them will do. At least last year, when she was a nun, that wasnt a problem.

Thats only because the priest she brought with her was gay. At any rate, youre lucky to have her, Abby. Both my parents are dead.

I know, I mumbled, Im a very lucky woman. Ive been telling myself that all day.

And I was a very lucky woman. I, Abigail Louise Timberlake, had not only survived my divorce from Buford the Timber Snake, but I was now engaged to Greg Washburn, the sexiest detective on the Charlotte police force, if not the sexiest man in the entire city. My business, the Den of Antiquity, was doing gangbusters, allowing me to buy a brand-new home in the exclusive neighborhood of Piper Glen. Whats more, my relationship with my two adult children had recently progressed from one of foe to one of friend.

What was that, Abby? I couldnt hear you.

Maybe thats because your ears are in the other room.

Good one, Abby, but seriously, what did you say?

Ive got this bad feeling, I said.

About? Wynnell took a long draft from her punch cup. At that rate, there would be none left for the other guests.

About tonight.

Youre not talking about your mama now, are you?

A cold chill ran up my corseted spine. What makes you say that?

I didnt want to say anything, Abby, but I feel it, too.