Free Statue of Limitations by Tamar Myers Page B

have to soon get extra pages glued into my passport—what with all the stamps I’ve accumulated.”
    â€œDo you go with her?” I asked Nick.
    â€œEvery chance I get,” he said. They were the first words he’d spoken all meal, discounting instructions to the waitress.
    â€œBut isn’t that difficult, given your job on Wall Street?”
    The dead skunk lurched forward. “Mrs. Washburn, did you invite us here to give us the third degree?”
    â€œNo, I’m only trying to be friendly. Down here the first three questions you ask new folks are: who are your people, where do you go to church, and where do you work. You’d already made it clear you didn’t want to discuss religion, and I didn’t feel comfortable leading with the ‘who are your people’ question, on account I always lose out when it’s put to me.”
    â€œOh? Why is that?”
    â€œBecause although my family has been in the South for generations, I’m the first to live in Charleston.”
    â€œI hear you,” she said with surprising sympathy. “Manhattan has its pecking order, too. Fortunately my Nicky is so successful that we don’t have that problem—not that we would anyway.” She took a sip of her third dirty martini. “You see, my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”
    â€œAll the way from Greece?”
    The dead skunk scowled, but I swear Nick snickered. “Mrs. Washburn,” Irena said, “do you make it a habit of insulting your guests?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. I’m sorry. Say, did either of you happen to witness the argument yesterday between Mrs. Webbfingers and her garden designer? I hear it was quite something.”
    Irena gave Nick what I could only construe as a warning glare. “I’m afraid we were out,” she said. “Went to some plantation. Boone Farm, I think it was.”
    â€œThat would be Boone Hall, the most photographed plantation in America—well, that’s what they claim. Did you enjoy it?”
    â€œActually we did. They have a cotton patch where you can pick your own cotton—although they said it was too early in the season. Still, who knew cotton grew on plants?”
    Hadn’t the woman ever cracked open a history book? Had she never read about slaves toiling in the broiling sun as they picked cotton? Had she not been forced to memorize the name of Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin? Or did she think that was the name of a cocktail?
    â€œThere’s another plantation nearby that has polyester bushes,” I said wickedly. “They also have special plots where they hybridize cotton and polyester bushes to produce a cotton-poly blend. It’s really quite interesting.”
    â€œMaybe we could see that tomorrow.”
    â€œOh—and I forgot, there’s a rayon farm just south of here on James Island. Rayon grows on trees, you know. The leaves are smooth and shiny, and the color is spectacular, but they tend to wrinkle when it rains.”
    Irena pushed her now empty plate aside. “Mrs. Washburn, I realize you’re a businesswoman, and probably have a full schedule, but would you consider showing us around the area—for a fee of course?”
    I pretended to ponder her question. “Yes,” I said after a long pause, “I suppose I might be able to rearrange my schedule.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    Feeling that I had made a little progress, I quite enjoyed my crème brûlée. Irena made no comment about her Key Lime Tart, although she wolfed it down in exactly four bites. Nick, on the other hand, carefully dissected his triple chocolate cake before eating it crumb by crumb.
    I assumed that since the Rob-Bobs left the restaurant during our dessert, they had concluded that I was in no kind of danger. But when I called them the minute I was free of my guests, I learned just how wrong my assumption was.

9
    â€œI don’t like them,