Monet Talks Read Free Page B

it?” I knew that was stupid of me, but seeing is supposed to be believing, and I was trying my darnedest to believe.
    To her credit, the big gal chuckled only briefly. “That’s a stuffed bird, Abby. Like the kind taxidermists make.”
    â€œI’m calling the police.”
    â€œI already did that. They should be here any minute.”
    â€œGood. I know I’m going to regret saying this, but I was getting used to Monet. It’s going to seem very quiet around here until we get him back.”
    â€œShouldn’t that be if we get him back? Somebody obviously went to a lot of trouble to do this. This wouldn’t have happened, Abby, if you’d given him to me.”
    Mercifully, the shop phone rang. I ran to get it.
    â€œHello?” I said, hoping it was the police, telling me they were just seconds away.
    â€œIs this Mrs. Timberlake?”
    â€œIt’s Washburn now, but yes, this is the place that was burgled. I know it was just a bird, but I feel violated—”
    â€œDo you want Monet back?”
    â€œExcuse me?” I stared at the caller ID box. The number was blocked.
    â€œIf you want him back, Mrs. Timberlake, then you have to give me the real Monet.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    I got a dial tone in reply.

3
    T he Charleston police force has officers who number among the finest in the world, but none of them were on duty that day. Officers Tweedledee and Tweedledum could not get it into pumpkin heads why I should be so upset over the loss of a bird. A real bird pooped, they bothered to inform me. At least a stuffed starling couldn’t spread disease. Nevertheless, they dusted for prints between calls on the loudest walkie-talkies on the planet. The only way I could get the cops to leave was to toss a box of day-old Krispy Kremes into the street.
    After I locked the door behind them, I tried calling Greg, but by then he was well out into the ocean and couldn’t be reached. I needed comfort then, not harebrained schemes, so the next person I called was my best friend, Wynnell Crawford (I have several best friends, by the way). Wynnell is also an antiques dealer, although her shop, Wooden Wonders, is in West Ashley, not on the peninsula.
    â€œThat’s terrible,” she said, after I explained what had happened. “Abby, you must feel so violated, having your shop broken into like that.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I feel. But the police didn’t seem to care about that. All they wanted to do was flirt with C.J.”
    â€œLet me guess…Officers Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”
    â€œYou got it. Wynnell, it makes me sick to my stomach to think that someone not only has the key to my shop, but knows my security code.”
    â€œAbby, do you know that for sure?”
    â€œThe lock wasn’t forced. And it was locked again when C.J. arrived this morning. I guess it’s possible I forgot to set the alarm last night, but you know how I am.”
    â€œOne check short of obsessive-compulsive?”
    â€œAnd that phone call—it didn’t make a lick of sense. The real Monet. I’ve never had a Monet painting in my shop, and I’ve certainly never owned one. And that creepy stuffed starling.” I shuddered. “Wynnell, what kind of demented person would do such a thing?”
    â€œIs that a question, Abby, or do you just want to be heard?”
    â€œBoth!”
    â€œWell, I hear you. I’m also afraid you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
    I sighed. “You’re not going to blame it on a Yankee, are you?”
    â€œThey’re a strange bunch, Abby. Just yesterday a group of Yankee tourists came into my shop. They were headed out toward Middleton Plantation but had gotten lost. Of course I gave them directions, but do you think they bought anything? All they did was use my bathroom.”
    â€œTo be fair, Wynnell, you only sell furniture. And you don’t ship.