Estate of Mind: A Den of Antiquity Mystery

247 Pages·2007·1.16 MB·English

by  Tamar Myers

Title Page
Dedication Page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Den of Antiquity Mysteries by Tamar Myers
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher

ESTATE OF MIND
A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY
TAMAR MYERS
For Gwen Hunter
Contents
1 I’ve been in sorrow’s
kitchen and licked out 1
every pot.
2 You already know that my
name is Abigail Timberlake,
but… 11
3 “You can have it,” Greg said
and gently picked up…
21
4 Much to my surprise, Hortense
Simms answered on the first… 33
5 C. J. followed my instructions
to the letter. She slowed to… 41
6 Some folks think that just
because I’m in business for… 51
7 “It’s real?” I shrieked.
60
8 70
It was only eight blocks to Mrs. Cheng’s, but it might…
9
I much prefer back roads. During rush hour, I-77 is… 82
10
I drove straight to Pine Manor, which sits all by… 95
11
“Is there a back door?” 104
12
I drove straight to the Queen’s house. She is, after… 111
13
“That’s it, all right.” Buster spoke in a whisper, as… 124
14
“Abby, what is it?” 133
15
I got on Eden Terrace at Sullivan Middle School and… 145
16
Magdalena Yoder was wrong. I had a lot of hunches,… 152
17
Greg wasn’t in when I got home, so I left… 162 18 172
Queens Road just happens to be the most beautiful stretch…
19
There is no use having connections if one doesn’t use… 180
20
Southpark Mall has a Cinnabon shop, and I practically overdosed… 188
21
Thanks to Irene, I could afford to sleep in. I… 198
22
Time got away from me. I had to iron another… 210
23
Actually, it was more of a shriek, but I’ve got… 222
24
I had barely enough time, and not nearly enough energy,… 235
25
“Dead?” 250
26
Mama and I exchanged shocked glances. 261
27
It is not my place to judge others, but I… 270
28
“That shot,” Mama said proudly, “was fired by Freddy.” 279
About the Author Other Books by Tamar Myers Cover Copyright About the
Publisher
1
’ve been in sorrow’s kitchen and licked out every pot. But I haven’t 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. “It’s just junk.”
“Shh, Abby. Someone will hear you.”
“So what, Mama? Feel this sweater. It’s 100 percent acrylic. You could grate
carrots with it.”
“It’s 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.
gland.”
“I don’t think she can hear all the way from En
“Priscilla Hunt is not in England, dear. She’s 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
city’s 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 doesn’t have a lineage worthy of a horse thief, but she is the Episcopal
Church of Our Savior’s 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, it’s a wonder she doesn’t require an oxygen mask. Confidentially,
Hortense doesn’t 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 hadn’t mentioned it in passing. A woman who describes
underwear for a living has no cause to put on airs, if you ask me.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the high and mighty Hortense chipped in with these
cracked wooden salad bowls.”
“I gave those,” Mama said.
“Mama, you didn’t!”
“I asked you if you wanted them, remember?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I did. Last Thanksgiving. And you said, ‘no.’ So don’t blame me if
somebody else snaps them up for a song. Abby, I would have let you have them
for fifty cents apiece.”
“I don’t want the salad bowls.” I waved my arms at the clutter spread across
eight folding tables that flanked the room. “Mama, we’re Episcopalians. Can’t
we do better than this?”
“What did you donate, dear? This auction is to benefit the youth group, you
know. They’re 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 area’s finest stores, I had plenty to donate to a church fund-raiser.
Mama gasped and clutched her single strand of pearls. “You didn’t donate
anything, did you?”
“I was going to, Mama, but I’ve been busy. It sort of slipped my mind.”
“Bet that new boyfriend of yours hasn’t slipped your mind, has he?”
I must have looked guilty.
“I knew it. Well, Abigail Louise Timberlake, I’m ashamed of you.”
“Oh, Mama, you just don’t like him because he’s short.”
“You said it, dear, not me.”
“But, Mama, he’s three inches taller than I!”
“You’re four-foot-nine, dear. And besides, we don’t know who his people are.”
“Mama, you’ve met them, for crying out loud. You had lunch at his aunt’s down
in Georgetown.”
Mama sniffed. “Appearances can be deceiving, dear. You aren’t 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 anyone’s standards, and drop-dead gorgeous.
Buster, on the other hand, has a face only a mama can love—his mama, not mine
—and is a coroner. But Buster is someone I can count on, while Greg is as
faithful as a buck rabbit—just like my ex-husband. I had a trump card that I
knew would sway Mama over to Buster’s side, but I wasn’t 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 I’m not letting you off the hook for a prayer. We’ll 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 father’s
lips, the crowd reenacted the Oklahoma land rush. Not that I can blame them.
Episcopalians rank among the world’s 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
Bubba’s China Gourmet up in Charlotte, was more than just a memory. Bubba’s
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 you’re going to eat?” Mama demanded, once we were seated.
“Shhh, Mama, the bidding’s started.”
“Do I hear a dollar fifty for these salad bowls?” Father Foss was saying.