Table Of ContentTAMAR 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
