Death of a Rug Lord: A Den of Antiquity Mystery PDF
Preview Death of a Rug Lord: A Den of Antiquity Mystery
TAMAR MYERS Death Of A Rug Lord A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY To the highly esteemed and prestigious Charleston Authors Society, of which I am proud to be a member. Contents 1 When I looked the gift horse in the mouth, it… 1 2 I couldn’t get Greg on the phone, which probably meant… 6 3 It was Big Bob again—or whoever the stranger was. It… 13 4 Rob Goldburg, who is the second most handsome man in… 25 5 The burly guard didn’t even ask to see my invitation. 34 6 It took us less than a minute to google the… 42 7 Kitty, dear.” 51 8 Earth to Abby, come in, Abby.” 58 9 Excuse me?” 68 10 You’re got to be mistaken, Mrs. Washburn,” Lloyd said, and… 79 11 You’re serious?” Rob said for the bazillionth time. 88 12 It always pays to be courteous—well, most of the time… 97 13 It’s a forgery,” I sobbed in a hoarse whisper into… 106 14 Pray tell, what might that be?” I asked. You can… 116 15 For your information, Bob, they no longer like being referred… 127 16 I cupped my hands and shouted directly into Big Larry’s… 136 17 Abby, do you see what I see?” 148 18 I’m afraid there isn’t such an offer,” Bob said. “We… 158 19 I was ashamed to get on the phone when Bob… 170 20 At first the rug I got back looked identical to… 182 21 Northwoods Mall began life as a flat, one-story affair that… 192 22 Of course I want to hear what you found in… 204 23 No, don’t look!” 214 24 I saw them for a split second. No more. And… 224 25 Cousin Imogene was delighted to “receive” us. She hadn’t had… 234 26 I found Mama fast asleep, slumped low in the front… 245 27 Indeed, we did call it that. Oh Miranda Sue, I… 257 28 There were ten switches in all, and at least I… 268 29 Although I do realize that humanity is somehow connected, and… 278 30 And what was in your pill case?” Rob’s mother, Sandra… 1 When I looked the gift horse in the mouth, it was clear that she’d been drinking. I couldn’t help but take a step back. She, alas, took two steps forward. “Aren’t you Abigail Timberlake?” she said. “Guilty.” “You own the Den of Antiquity down on King Street, right?” “Right as rain in November.” “I’ve been in your shop dozens of times.” I smiled quickly over clenched teeth. I’m a tiny woman, just four-foot-nine. One good whiff of her breath could send my alcohol level over the moon. “So you saw my ad on TV, huh?” It was either give up on sobriety or appear to be rude. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, “I’ve seen your ads, and I couldn’t believe my ears. And now I can’t believe my eyes. How can y’all afford to price these Oriental rugs so low?” Gwen—that’s what was printed on her badge— glanced around the crowded room. “I believe it’s something to do with high volume.” 1 Tamr Myrs “Yes, but y’all have got to be selling these way below cost. Even if y’all sold a million, y’all still won’t turn a profit.” She shrugged. “Yeah, well, go figure.” “Take this one for example,” I said. “It’s a Persian from Tabriz, right? The traditional mahi, or fish, design.” Gwen had to flip three corners over before she found the tag, which was sewn on the back. “You’re good. Mrs. Timberlake.” “Actually it’s Washburn.” “Huh?” “The ‘Missus’ part. I keep the Timberlake for business reasons.” “You related to Justin?” “Not that we know of. But you see, Timberlake is also a married name— Never mind, it’s a long story. Now about this price, there has got to be a zero missing, right?” “No, it’s correct.” “But it says 695. Even wholesale, it’s worth twice that.” “Maybe.” She tossed her head to get some irksome hair out of her face. Her amber mane was thick and waist length, truly worthy of being envied. “But like they say,” she continued, “don’t kiss a gift horse on the mouth.” I stifled an impulse to snicker. “Still, this has to be a mistake. May I speak to the manager, please?” “Uh . . . I am the manager.” “You are? I mean, of course you are.” Funny, but I was sure the manager of Pasha’s Palace was a man. Gary something or other. 2 DEATH OF A RUG LORD A mind as small as mine is easily read. “Gary quit last month. I’m Gwendolyn Spears, his replacement.” “Oh, but then surely you must know that these rugs are underpriced.” Gwen’s eyes locked on mine. “Didn’t I read in the paper about your brother getting married recently?” “Yes.” Where could she possibly be going with this? Could she be hoping for a similar discount at my shop? Well, that just wasn’t possible; I price my merchandise fairly, but I don’t give it away. “Then it’s a wedding present for him and his lucky bride.” “Excuse me?” “Here.” She expertly rolled the rug and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ll walk you to your car.” “But you can’t.” My protest was sincere, although a part of me was excited about acquiring such a beautiful work of art. “I can, and I will,” Gwendolyn Spears said. My full name is Abigail Louise Timberlake Washburn. My first husband, Buford Timberlake, was more of a timber snake, and we divorced after he traded me in for a woman half my age. My second, and last, husband is Greg Washburn, a retired detective from Charlotte. Greg is now half owner of a shrimp boat in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. We are S.O.B.’s, and proud of it. Our lovely home is south of Broad Street in historic Charleston, South Carolina. My widowed mother, Mozella Wiggins, lives with us, as does Dmitri, an orange tabby that tips the scale at sixteen pounds. I have two grown children, Susan
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