Nightmare in Shining Armor (2 page)

T
here was a white stallion in my foyer. It wasn't a real horse, of course, but two people in a very realistic costume. Astride the magnificent beast sat Lady Godiva—wearing nothing by yards of synthetic hair, and
pearls
!

I tottered breathlessly over to the threesome. “Mama?”

My petite progenitress smiled proudly. “Do you like it?”

“Mama!”

“That's my name, dear. Please don't wear it out.”

“Mama, how could you!”

“How could I what, dear?”

“You're naked!”

“No, she's not,” the horse's head said. “Look closer, Abby. She's wearing a body stocking.”

I scrutinized Mama. She was indeed covered, but the fabric matched her skin tone perfectly. It was almost the same texture. Were it not for the fact that she was now anatomically incorrect, I wouldn't have believed my eyes.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief and turned my attention to the talking stallion. “C. J., is that you in there?”

“I didn't say anything, Abby.”

“C. J., it is you! Fess up!”

The horse shook its head and pawed at my parquet floor with an oversize hoof. It was C. J., all right. No other woman I know has feet that large.

“C. J., I know you're the horse's front half, but who's his patooty?”

“That's Sergeant Bowater, Abby. You know, the guy I've been dating.”

“Aha, so it is you!”

“Abby!” Mama said sharply. “Leave the girl alone!”

“Okay, okay. Sorry, C. J.”

The horse nodded. I couldn't help but smile. Even though Jane Cox, AKA Calamity Jane, and therefore nicknamed C. J., is a pickle or two short of a barrel, this isn't to say the woman is mentally challenged. She is in fact a brilliant businesswoman who, at the tender age of twenty-three, started up her own antique shop, and now, a mere two years later, nets nearly as much as I do.

Mama gave me a disapproving look and then tapped the rear of her steed with a genuine riding crop. Sergeant Bowater swore softly.

“Straight ahead,” Mama said. “There's room for us over by the fireplace. But mind your tail.”

“Not so fast, ma mere—and her mare.” I laughed at my little joke. “You don't get away from me that easy.”

“Giddyap!” Mama gave the sergeant a fairly good whack.

“Damn, Mrs. Wiggins, that hurt.”

I snatched the crop from Mama and grabbed her by an arm. “Mama, you're seventy-eight, for crying out loud. You sure you want to make a spectacle of yourself?”

“Absolutely. When you get to be my age, you're beyond caring what people think.”

“You go, girl,” C. J. grunted.

I gave my pal a gentle kick in the fetlock. “Stay out of this. But, Mama, everyone's staring.”

“Sure they're staring. But that's because you're making a scene, dear.”

“
Me?
I'm not the one in a flesh-colored body suit.”

“Which, you must admit is very flattering—considering my advanced age.”

“But it isn't you! You're supposed to wear full-circle skirts puffed out with crinolines. That's all you've ever worn since the day Daddy died—well, except for your brief stint as a novice in that Cincinnati convent.”

“Oh, I wore them then, too. That's one of the reasons they asked me to leave. That and the fact I wore curlers under my wimple. But I didn't whistle on the stairs and I was never late to chapel. Those were totally trumped-up charges.”

I sighed. “Okay then, make a fool of yourself. But don't blame me if my friends laugh at you. Or even worse, if a photo of you shows up in the
Char
lotte Observer
. The paper said they might send someone over, and for all I know, they could be here right now.”

Mama straightened in her papier-mâché saddle and tossed her head vainly. The heavy gold tresses remained relatively still, but a stray strand whipped me soundly across the mouth. I sputtered with surprise and indignation.

“Giddyap!” Mama barked.

The white steed moved with surprising grace and was soon swallowed by the crowd of admirers.

 

I sought refuge in the kitchen. The Rob-Bobs—well, Bob, at any rate—were doing a bang-up job of keeping both food and beverages flowing. I was grateful for their help considering that by then Wynnell was not only in her cups, but was in the punch bowl as well. I mean that literally.

Rob lifted her head gently out of the well-drained bowl. “She's dead drunk. Do you know what's wrong, Abby?”

“I haven't the slightest. It isn't like her at all.”

“It's Ed,” Bob said. He had opened a jar of cheap, supermarket-variety caviar I keep in the pantry and was deftly mixing it with the expensive but minuscule amount the caterer had supplied.

“Ed?”

“Haven't you heard, Abby? Ed's been seeing another woman.”

“
What?
”

“Shhh,” Rob said, as he picked Wynnell up and
cradled her in his James Brolin–like arms. “We'll fill you in later. In the meantime, where shall I put her?”

I led him upstairs to my best guest room. Believe me, it is no small feat climbing stairs in stilts, but I'd been practicing for weeks and was really quite good if I took my time. By the time we got to the guest wing, Wynnell was sawing logs like an Oregon lumberjack. Rob removed Wynnell's shoes and then looked discreetly away while I slipped that horrible costume over her head and wrapped her in a fresh terry robe. Together we tucked an antique Amish quilt around our friend.

As I closed the door behind us, I turned to Rob. “Now tell me about Wynnell.”

“I'm surprised you didn't know, Abby. That's why I asked. Wynnell's been over to the shop every day—several times a day—for the last week or so. A couple of times she's even called us at home.”

I almost slapped myself off those silly stilts. “But I don't understand! Wynnell's my best friend. My
very
best friend. We share everything. I can't believe I didn't have a clue.”

Although my hoops contrived to keep us apart, Rob did his best to lay a comforting arm around my shoulder. He's in his early fifties and, when not made up to look like James, has thick dark hair just starting to turn at the temples. Were it not for Greg, and the small fact that Rob prefers Bob to Babs, I'd be tempted to throw myself at him.

“I think she didn't want to rain on your parade.”

“What parade? You mean the clowns downstairs?”

“It was more than just your party she was worried about spoiling. She didn't want to make you feel sorry for her—now that things are going so well between you and Greg.”

“Damn that woman!” I said and stomped a foot. Unfortunately my petite pointed pump pulled loose from its strap and slipped off its perch. I teetered for a second, but despite a frantic flailing of my arms, I failed to fly. Rob caught me just in time.

“I didn't mean to do it. Honest.”

Rob laughed. “Whoopsy daisy,” he said, as he propped me back up.

“Thank you, Mr. Grant—I mean Mr. Brolin.”

“You're welcome, Miss O'Hara.”

“Would you be a gentleman, Mr. Brolin, and tighten my foot strap?”

“I'd be delighted too.”

I hoisted my hoops. There is a trick to it, but I'd been practicing that as well. Suffice it to say, one tries to avoid the ladies' room, although even that is manageable. I've been to Civil War (Wynnell calls it the War of Northern Aggression) reenactments and seen ladies in period costume enter and exit the Port-O-Johns. Clearly they have a feel for such a thing. At any rate, Rob knelt and set to work.

“Tighter, dear. Greg must think I have larger feet than I do.”

Rob shook his head. “These barely count as feet. What are they? Size two?”

“Four. Would you mind tightening the other strap as well?”

“My pleasure.”

“So tell me, Rob, who is this woman Ed is seeing?”

“Tweetie.”

I dropped my skirts, entombing the man in metal rings and layers of crinolines and heavy taffeta. From where I stood, all I could see were the backs of his legs. Unfortunately for the two of us, at that very moment Bob came bounding up the stairs, his own skirt hiked around his knees.

“Abby, where's your garlic press—oh, my God!”

“It isn't what you think,” I wailed.

“Abby, how could you!”

“I didn't do anything! I just dropped my skirts.”

Meanwhile Rob was trying to fight his way out of the tangle of metal and fabric without tipping me over. I'm sure it looked much worse than it was. When Rob finally emerged his face was the color of good Merlot.

“I was tightening her shoe straps,” he sputtered.

Bob put his hands on his hips. The sequined sheath dress he'd chosen was surprisingly flattering.

“Yeah, right.”

“He's telling the truth, Bob. This man only has eyes for you. Besides, I'm taken.”

Bob softened and offered Rob his hand. “The least you can do is get up quickly before someone else sees you. This isn't the White House, you know.”

Rob jumped to his feet. “Now what were you saying about garlic?”

“Forget the garlic,” I snapped. “What's this about Ed and Tweetie?”

The Rob-Bobs exchanged anxious glances.

“O
ut with it, you two!”

Bob cleared his throat. “I hate to be the one to tell you this but, uh, uh—”

“Tweetie's a slut,” Rob said.

“And the Pope's Catholic,” I said.

“I didn't know about Wynnell's husband, but of course I know about Tweetie. She slept with Buford while we were still married, didn't she? One doesn't just fall into monogamy. One works at it. And Tweetie doesn't work at anything except her hair color.”

Bob made a sizzling sound. “Ouch! You sure you're not a gay man in drag, Abby?”

“Pretty sure. Look, I don't dislike the woman. I really don't. In fact, we have this weird kind of connection. She is, after all, stepmother to my children. Plus which, we've both been victimized by Buford.”

“Yes, but Tweetie seems to give back to him as good as she gets.”

“Then I say bully for her! Not that I'm condoning adultery, mind you. I'm just glad Buford finally knows what betrayal feels like from the other side of the fence.”

Rob had amazement written all over his face. “You sound like you've forgiven Tweetie.”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure that's the right word. Tweetie's a twit. I feel sorry for her more than anything.”

Rob whistled softly. “That's more than Wynnell can say.”

“Give her a chance, dear. How long has this affair been going on, and how long has Wynnell known about it?”

“Affair?” Bob boomed, in his not-so-Barbra voice. “Is that what you told her?”

Rob spread his hands. “Well—”

“It's not an affair?” I demanded.

“Apparently it was just a one-time thing. But that counts, doesn't it?”

“In my book, yes. Go on.”

Rob looked triumphantly at his partner. “It happened after the Christmas party. Wynnell just found out about it.”

“How?”

“Apparently Ed doesn't clean his suits very often. Now with the weather getting cooler Wynnell took a couple in and, well, you can guess what happened.”

“She found a motel receipt in the pocket?”

They both nodded. “Very cliché,” Bob said, “but so is the entire situation. Older man, younger
woman. Pot-belly, silicone. Sounds like B-grade movie material.”

I snorted. “Sound like Ed's a bit of a twit, too.”

Rob cleared his throat. “Maybe—but maybe not. He may be kind of a dull man, but he's also very conscientious.”

“You mean he wanted to be caught?”

“Now you're cooking with gas, Abby.”

“But why? And why wait so long?”

“Permit me.” Bob tugged on a bra that was obviously riding up. “Wynnell says their marriage has been flat for a long time. She thinks Ed might just be tired of her, but too chicken to ask for a divorce.”

“The ironic thing,” Rob said, “is that Wynnell has been unhappy, too. She was thinking about divorce as well, until she found out about Tweetie. Suddenly she's appreciating what she has, and wants to keep it.”

“Doesn't make any sense,” Bob said. “We think she's just afraid of being lonely.”

I can't begin to tell you how hurt I was to hear the Rob-Bobs say these things. Wynnell has been my best friend for years. We share
everything
—or at least I thought we did. How could she confide in the Rob-Bobs, and not me? And speaking of friends, why didn't the guys tell me earlier that Wynnell was hurting? They tell me everything else, and often in far too great detail.

I was about to give them a piece of Scarlett's mind when the phone rang.

 

I took the call in my upstairs den. It's where I retreat to read a book, listen to music, and yes, even watch television. It was in my La-Z-Boy recliner by the phone where I watched Marian Colby lock Adam Chandler in his Y2K shelter, and where I tried to warn Erica Kane to stay away from that self-involved heart surgeon.

“Abby's house of pandemonium,” I said breezily.

“Mrs. Timberlake!”

“Just a minute,” I let Scarlett say. “I'll see if she's in.”

“Mrs. Timberlake, that is you speaking, isn't it?”

“Is it?” I said cagily.

“It is! And do you know who this is?”

“Do I?” I knew who it was all right. There is no confusing Captain Keffert with anyone else. Since he is a valued customer I try hard to think of his brusqueness as a charming by-product of his Connecticut origins. That is certainly how I explain his and his wife's eccentricity.

“You're darn tooting, little lady, so I'm going to stop beating around the bush. I want to know why you didn't invite my wife and me to your party.”

“Party?”

“Darn it, Mrs. Timberlake, you're going to force me to use stronger language.”

I sighed. “Okay, so I'm having a little get-together. But it's only for a couple of close friends.”

“Lynne Meredith is your friend?”

I gulped. “You know Miss Meredith?”

“We met in your shop, Mrs. Timberlake. You introduced us. Thought we might know each other because we're both from beyond the pale.”

“The pale what?”

“The
pale
, as in—oh, never mind. My point is she's just another collector. Isn't that right?”

“Captain, I fail to see how this is your concern.”

“It is my concern because my wife and I are big customers of yours as well, and we didn't get invited. We bought that Queen Anne period walnut secretary from you last week. The one with the Boston provenance. Didn't you joke that you could send your son to Harvard with your profits?”

“Did I say Harvard? I thought sure I said Yale.”

“Mrs. Timberlake, this is no laughing matter. My wife is sitting here weeping as I speak. She's convinced her position in Charlotte society has been permanently stunted thanks to you slighting us.”

I was both stunned and thrilled. I'm just a little old gal from the backwaters of Rock Hill, South Carolina. I'm a relative newcomer to Charlotte myself. I barely know the boundaries of Charlotte society, much less have set a toe in that exclusive realm. I certainly—and you can bank enough to send your child to Harvard on this—am not in a position to influence anyone else's standing in the community.

“Captain Keffert, I have not slighted anyone. And I'm sure your wife's standing in Charlotte society has not been affected.”

“Ha! That's easy for you to say. You rub elbows with the elite on a daily basis, while we, just be
cause of our transplant status, must content ourselves with the hoi polloi.”

I didn't know which misconception to address first. In the end I decided not to dissuade the captain of his conviction that I hobnobbed with the crème de la crème of Charlotte society.

“Sir, I assure you that your immigrant status has little to do with your position. This is Charlotte, after all, the banking center of the southeast. All you have to do is buy your way in. It is only in Charleston—and that's in South Carolina—that you have to be born to the manor.”

He seemed to cogitate on that for a moment. “How do I do that?” he finally asked. “I mean, buy my way in.”

“I don't know,” I said honestly. “Not having done it myself. But I can make some guesses.”

“Please,” he begged, “tell me what you think.”

I love giving solicited advice. “I think you might consider donating a large amount to some charity. Maybe several charities. And join the right church, of course.”

“Episcopal?”

“Close. Episcopal is front line in Charleston, but second line here. First line here is Presbyterian.”

“Well, I guess we could manage that. Anything else?”

“Do you belong to a country club?”

“Neither of us plays golf.”

“Oh dear. You're missing the point. You need someplace to eat Sunday lunch. Some place to be
seen
.”

“There is a nice restaurant on the lake we've been meaning to try.”

“Heavens,” I said in mock horror, “that won't do at all. It can't be a public restaurant. The hoi polloi eat there.”

“Mrs. Timberlake, are you making fun of me?”

“Perhaps just a little,” I confessed. “Look, Captain, it's been interesting, but I really have to get back to my guests.”

“Ah, your guests. Mrs. Timberlake, for my wife's sake is there any way I could get you to reconsider? You know, to expand your guest list.” He started to whisper. “For a reasonable fee, of course.”

I was shocked. The nerve of that man trying to buy his way to my party! Okay, so I was flattered as well, but I really couldn't accept paying customers at my party. Who knows where that trend could lead? And yes, I know, I could have just capitulated and told the couple to hustle their bustles over, and that I wouldn't charge them a farthing, but I hate being bullied.

“Captain Keffert, the answer is no, and I'm afraid this conversation is over.”

“Mrs. Timberlake, I hope you realize that you just may be losing a customer.”

“Is that a threat?” I snarled. I really try to mind my manners, but enough is enough.

“It's more than a threat, Mrs. Timberlake. This is the end of our doing business together—well, almost the end. The end will be Monday when I return that Queen Anne period secretary.”

I gasped as he hung up the phone. I gasped again a second later when it rang a second time.

“You can just forget my next party, too!” I barked.

“Abby? Is that you? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said warily.

Malcolm Biddle is Buford's junior law partner. Buford Timberlake may be as treacherous as a snake, but Malcolm is as slippery as a slug soaked in olive oil. While we were married, whenever the snake went on a business trip, he'd have the slug call me. The purpose of the call was ostensibly to check on my welfare, but I knew Buford's main concern was whether I was cheating on him. What Buford didn't know was that what Malcolm really did was hit on me.

“You don't sound fine, Abby.”

“I'm just tired. It's been a long day. Is there something you want, Malcolm?”

“I hear you're having a party.”

“Yes, I am. It's an absolutely delightful party and you're not invited.”

“Abby, is that nice?”

“Was it nice of you to ask me to bed when I was married to your boss?”

“I think it was. Abby,” he purred, “there's no reason to sleep with the rest when you can sleep with the best.”

“Malcolm, this conversation is over.” I started to hang up but stopped when I heard the intensity of his protest. You might think it was foolish of me to
engage him in conversation again, but there was a slim chance Malcolm was charged with delivering a message from Buford. One that somehow involved our two grown children. Just for the record, you never stop being a parent.

“Abby, you still there?”

“Yes. But you have exactly three seconds.”

“It's about Tweetie.”

“What about her?”

“Is she there?”

“Aha! So now Buford has you checking on her. Are you going to make a pass at her as well?”

“Abby, don't be silly. She's just a little girl.”

“Yeah, a twenty-four-year-old one with a forty-inch bust.”

“That means nothing to me. It's a woman's brain I find sexy, and you, Abby, have a—”

“Bye-bye, Malcolm.”

“Don't hang up! Just tell me if she's there.”

I sighed. “Yes, she's here.”

“Did she come by herself?”

“She came with a sheep.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is a costume party, Malcolm. The
little girl
came as Little Bo Peep.”

He laughed. “This sheep is some shaggy-haired dude, right?”

“No, it's a sheep. Baaaaaaa.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

“Look, Malcolm, tell your boss his bimbo is safe and sound, and unless that sheep turns out to be a ram, she's probably chaste as well. Also tell him
that if the beast eats my camellias, I want replacements.”

Malcolm laughed again, but promised he'd pass on my message. He also made a very obscene suggestion. I'm pretty sure, however, that I managed to slam the phone receiver down hard enough to do some damage to his ear.

 

The party went downhill from there. C. J. and Sergeant Bowater decided they were tired of being Mama's white steed and preferred to be a bucking bronco. Unfortunately Mama was still astride the pair when they leaped into the air, but alas, not for long. Mama was sent flying across the room, landing in Geppetto's lap. Neither of them was hurt, but Mama became tangled in Pinocchio's strings, and in the process of extricating herself ripped her flesh-colored body suit. Unfortunately her faux blond locks came just down to, but didn't cover, her ample Wiggins bottom.

The sight of Lady Godiva's real derriere caused the Statue of Liberty to drop her torch. Unfortunately Miss Liberty, AKA Irene Cheng, had disobeyed my order, and while I was upstairs with Wynnell and the Rob-Bobs, she'd relit her pyrogenic prop. Although my fire-retardant carpet did not go up in flames, it did start to smoke. Lynne Meredith, the mermaid, was well-meaning when she slapped the smoldering spot with her tail, but she only succeeded in fanning the fibers into a proper flame.

It was Moses who saved the day. He beat my
Berber with his tablets of the law, and when that failed to extinguish the fire, he dumped the bowl of nonalcoholic punch on the conflagration. This not only put out the fire, but produced a pleasingly pink stain about three feet across. Along about this time my smoke alarm finally kicked in.

Instead of frightening my guests, the smoke alarm's shrill sound sent them into paroxysms of laughter. A few incorrigibles, like Mama, tried to outshriek the device. By then I'd had it.

“Everybody out!” I screamed. “Out, out, out!”