Larceny and Old Lace (Den of Antiquity)

Eulonia Wiggins was found strangled to death by an antique bellpull. It was afine example of nineteenthcentury needlework. On the blue velvet background,

a slendid red rooster paraded, his comb erect, his spurs as long as talons. Anelaborate crest of one of the finest noble families in England was displayedproudly above the cock. I would have charged at least $200 for the pull, more tothe right customer. I suppose if my aunt had to die by strangulation, the pullwas as suitable an implement as any. But I can't help thinking that if I hadreacted in a more rational and placating manner, my aunt might still be alive.

We — the members of Selwyn Avenue Antique Dealers As sociation — had gatheredtogether for our monthly breakfast at the local Denny's restaurant. Normally thisis just a social event, since our organization is too small to have any realbusiness. Today, however, the business was my aunt.In the interest of fairness, I am compelled to say that her shop, Feathers 'NTreasures, had seen better days. Okay, to put it frankly, it was an eyesore, butshe didn't deserve to die for it. Lightly flogged, maybe. I mean, since when ispeeling paint a capital crime? As for those tacky cardboard signs in the windows, she did change them every time she ran a sale. I'll even admit that most of hermerchandise was garage sale leftovers, but hey, this is a free country.EuloniaWiggins, age eighty-six, had paid her dues to society. If the Selwyn AvenueAntique Dealers Association had a problem with my auntwell, they could lump it, or else answer to me.

My name is Abigail Louise Timberlake, and I am going to tell it like it is. Callme mean-spirited if you want, but never call me dishonest. Life is too short forpretense.Toy lives in California and thinks of himself as an unemployed actor. In realityToy is a busboy for a sleazy restaurant where leather ties are required. AlthoughMama and I write to TOY every month, neither of us have heard from him directlyin several years. He has no phone.Buford and I were lucky enough to have two children, a daughter, Susan, and ason, Charlie. I was lucky enough to be able to stay home and raise thesechildren. I won't say I was deliriously happy, but neither did I look for a gasoven into which to stick my head. Life chugged down a fairly predictable track, and wemanaged to hang on for the ride.

One day our engine jumped the track. It happened right around Buford'sforty-fifth birthday. The obstacle in our path was a blond bimbo with huge butperky boobs who called herself Tweetie. The boobs undoubtedly had names as well, perhaps supplied by her surgeon. Our marriage was over.

Did I mention that Buford was a lawyer? He handled personal injury cases, notdivorces, but he was plugged into the good-old-boy network. The only plugs I hadwere connected to household appliances. To make a long and gruesome storyshorter, Buford managed to keep our beautiful and expensive home in the MyersPark neighborhood of Charlotte, our two teenage children, Susan and Charlie, andour dog Scruffles. I got the cat, Dmitri.

Charlie was fifteen at the time and still lives with Buford, as does Scruffles.Fortunately for her, Susan, who was seventeen at the time, is now out of the nestand safely in college.

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