Splendor in the Glass: A Den of Antiquity Mystery

249 Pages·2007·1.38 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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Tamar Myers
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher

A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY
In memory of my father-in-law,
Charles E. Myers
Contents
I left Charlotte, North Carolina,
1 1
to become an S.O.B. I…
“It’s pronounced ‘Shay-bark,’ ”
2 4
I said.
swooped me up and… C.J.
3 13
caught me. “Oopsy, Abby.” She
jumping up and… “Ooh, Abby,
4 23
what is it?” C.J. was
It’s amazing how fast the human
5
body can move when… 32
“You what?” Bob Steuben
6
boomed. The man has a deep…
42
7 “Say what?” 54
Evangeline drained her second
8 64
glass. That is to say, her…
“That’s beautiful! Where did
9 74
you get it?”
10 I was late getting back to work.
Homer Johnson, bless… 83
11 “What do you mean?” I try not to be shrill. 93
12 There are currently two bridges that span the Cooper River…
103 13 Orman Shadbark Jr. might well prove to be a big… 114 14 “Don’t be
ridiculous, C.J! Sergeant Scrubb knows I didn’t kill… 125 15 I shuddered.
“How?” 136 16 I gasped. “Excuse me!” 14717 “When did that woman give you
a massage?” 158 18 “Sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 167 19 “I beg
your pardon?” 178 20 Yes, I should feel guilty for what I did, but… 187 21 “Oh
my God! Where did you get this?” 199
22 The traffic to Mount Pleasant was 209
light that time of…
23 Ingebord’s English, while fluent,
did not stretch to include all… 219
24 “Who?” My loved ones sounded
like a Greek chorus. Even… 229
25 I felt as if the concrete slab floor
241
of The…
26 “Arcadian Designs,” she said.
“It’s located on Savannah Highway
down… 251
27 Shards in one’s sole are not nearly
262
as distressing as…
28 “What happened next?” 271
Acknowledgments About the Author
Other Books by Tamar Myers Cover
Copyright About the Publisher
1
left Charlotte, North Carolina, to become an S.O.B. I
now live south of Broad in the beautiful, historic city of
Charleston, South Carolina. My new hometown boasts so
many churches that it is fondly referred to as the Holy
City, and it is no secret that God lives here—south of
Broad, of course. Just blocks from my house is the
Battery, where the Ashley and Cooper rivers meet to form
the Atlantic Ocean. Everywhere I turn I see historic
buildings and lush semitropical gardens. There is no need
for me to ever travel again. After all, I am here.
My business is here, as well. The Den of Antiquity, which was a successful
antique store up in Charlotte, now has a sister store on prestigious King Street,
slightly north of Broad. I never dreamed sales would be this good. I can barely
keep up with demand, and find myself in need of a shop assistant.
My two best friends, Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben, are also antique dealers
from Charlotte. They moved here a month after I did, and bought a shop on King
Street adjacent to mine. They have the same problem— more business than they
can handle. We are not complaining, mind you. We all knew we were moving to
1
heaven, but not necessarily to the land of silk and money. It seems too good to be
true.
In fact, the last six months have been a virtual fairy tale. It began when I married
the man of my dreams, Greg Washburn. He was an investigator with the
lotte police force, but retired from that position to
Char
pursue his lifelong dream of becoming a shrimp boat
captain here in the Charleston area. Judging by the
perpetual grin on Greg’s handsome face, he is deliriously
happy.
Even my mother, Mozella Wiggins, is happy. She adores Greg and loves
Charleston. This is fortunate because Mama lives with us now at Number 7
Squiggle Lane, and, trust me, a miserable mama is not someone with whom you
want to spend time. In addition to Greg and me, my petite progenitress has her
new church—Grace Episcopal on Wentworth Street—to keep her spirits up.
Within days of moving here, Mama had her membership transferred and had
volunteered for every committee. I see less of her now that we live together than
I ever did before.
Last, but not least, my cat, Dmitri, approves of our new address. How could he
not? Half of the second story piazza is warm and sunny, while the other half
offers him a bird’s-eye view of—well, birds. The mockingbird nest in the
magnolia is just out of reach. Mama and papa birds seem to know this, and while
they keep up a steady stream of chatter whenever my ten-pound bundle of joy is
outside, they have yet to dive-bomb him. On his part, Dmitri has never been
happier.
In addition to wealth and happiness, we all have our health, which, according to
that old Geritol commercial, means we have just about everything. I won’t
contest that. I, too, should be walking around with a goofy grin on my face. And
I am happy, I’m just not delirious.
Alas, I realize that much as I love my adopted city, I can never be considered a
real Charlestonian. Even if I live to be a hundred—which means I would have
lived here over fifty years. My children’s children, assuming they were born
here, would be natives of Charleston, but they would not be real Charlestonians.
Three hundred years from now their descendants might lay claim to that title.
Might.
Don’t get me wrong. Not everyone in Charleston— even those fortunate enough
to live south of Broad— can claim colonial antecedents. In recent years
numerous natives have moved to the cheaper ’burbs, making way for an influx
of the wealthy. What began as a trickle became a flood as property taxes soared
in keeping with rising real estate values. Today the historic district south of
Broad contains the fifth highest concentration of wealth in the nation.
Like me, these new citizens of Charleston—many of them retired doctors and
lawyers—only become real Charlestonians when they travel, and then only to
folks who don’t know better. They may lead happy and productive lives, and
quite likely rub shoulders with the real McCoy at the theater, or in restaurants,
but they will forever be outsiders. And no doubt, like me, many of them gaze
longingly into ancient windows, wishing with all their hearts that they were
inside. Truly inside. Imagine my great joy, then, when I received an embossed
invitation to tea from Mrs. Amelia Shadbark, Charleston’s most distinguished
citizen.
2
t’s pronounced ‘Shay-bark,’ ” I said. My friend C. J., who was visiting from
lotte the day the missive arrived, wrinkled her button
Char
nose. “Why, that’s just silly, Abby. What happened to the
D?”
“This is Charleston, dear. It doesn’t have to make sense to us. The family has
pronounced it that way for three hundred years. That’s all that matters.”
C. J.—her friends lovingly refer to her as Calamity Jane—fingered the heavy
paper as if it were the Holy Grail. Still, I held my breath. More often than not, C.
J. lives up to her name.
“Abby, who will mind your shop while you’re away?” “I’ll close early, dear.”
“But won’t you lose some business?” “Undoubtedly. But this tea is my entrée
into
Charleston society. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” She nodded. “Abby, it
says here that you can bring a guest. Who is it going to be? Your mama?”
“Mama’s at a church retreat in the mountains. She doesn’t get back from Kanuga
until the following day.”
4
C. J.’s eyes glittered. “Then who are you going to take?”
It was time to tread carefully. While I wouldn’t hurt my pal for all the tea in Mrs.
tainly didn’t want C. J. coming with me.
Shadbark’s larder, I cer
The girl is— how shall I put this delicately—a sandwich
short of a picnic. No, make that a cucumber sandwich shy
of high tea.