Free Nightmare in Shining Armor by Tamar Myers

the father of my children!”
    Neither man spoke.
    â€œLook, guys, Buford is a snake, I won’t deny that. But he’s slimy, not lethal.”
    â€œUh-huh, Abby,” they said in unison.
    I stood. “Look, he didn’t kill Tweetie, okay? And I’m going to prove it.”
    â€œHow?” Rob asked softly.
    â€œI’m going to find out who owns that suit, that’s how.”
    â€œWe’ll do what we can to help,” Bob said.
    â€œJust tell us what to do,” Rob agreed.
    â€œThanks.” I thought for a moment. “I know you guys think I’m crazy, but just suppose this suit of armor isn’t a costume and isn’t a copy meant for some rich American’s foyer. Suppose it’s the real McCoy? Then the question becomes, who here in Charlotte is rich and savvy enough to own a suit of genuine seventeenth-century Italian armor?”
    The men exchanged glances.

9
    â€œW ho?” I demanded. “Y’all know something, don’t you? Is it one of y’all’s clients?”
    They sat stone-faced, mum as a pair of jade Buddhas.
    â€œCome on!” I wailed. “Out with it!”
    â€œYou’ll never believe it,” Rob finally said.
    My heart sank. “Oh no! But why? Y’all knew I was over my feelings of hate.”
    â€œAbby—”
    â€œAnd when did you get the armor? Y’all never said anything about it?” To be perfectly honest, I was feeling more left out than horrified.
    â€œAbby, we didn’t do it. We didn’t kill Tweetie.”
    â€œYou didn’t ?”
    The men burst into laughter. Rob’s period of hilarity was mercifully short, but Bob switched from laughing to braying like a donkey. He can give C. J. a run for her money any day.
    â€œStop laughing at me! Rob, you just said I’d never believe it, so what was I to think?”
    â€œNot that we killed Tweetie!”
    I waved a hand impatiently. “Okay, I’m sorry. But then what is it I’d never believe?”
    Bob brayed to a stop. “Who it is who collects genuine antique armor.”
    â€œWho?” We were beginning to sound like a bunch of owls.
    â€œThe Widow Saunders,” Rob said smugly.
    I looked at him in astonishment. Mrs. Gavin Lloyd Saunders is one of Charlotte’s most reclusive millionaires. If it wasn’t for the plaques around town denoting her many civic contributions, and the occasional photo on the Observer ’s society page, I wouldn’t have believed she existed. I have never met her, nor do I personally know anyone who has. But then again, there are many layers to Charlotte society, as I’m sure there are everywhere. The higher one climbs, the more one discovers there are new heights to scale. For a middle-class peon like myself, the pinnacle will remain forever shrouded in the mists of protocol.
    â€œHow do you know this?” I demanded.
    The men grinned. “Because,” Rob said, “we’ve been to her house.”
    â€œGet out of town!”
    Rob shook his handsome head.
    I grabbed a bony chunk of Bob’s shoulder. “He’s kidding, right?”
    â€œHe’s not kidding. She had us over to the house for an appraisal last week.”
    â€œWhat was it? What did you appraise?” Considering the widow’s reputation, I wouldn’t havebeen surprised to learn it was the Holy Grail the Rob-Bobs had been asked to tag.
    â€œSorry, Abby, but we’re not allowed to tell.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe asked we keep it confidential.”
    â€œBut we’re friends. We break confidences all the time. Just last week you told me that Linda Gettlefinger had her eyes done, and she made you promise not to tell.”
    They looked sheepish, but declined to comment.
    â€œPlease!”
    Rob spread his long patrician fingers in a gesture of finality. “Give it up, Abby. But we can tell you that the Widow Saunders has the finest private