Statue of Limitations by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

stopping you. Do what you have to. Just remember that we’re both here for you. You’ve got my cell phone number, right?”
    â€œRight. Hey, I’ve got to go. Love you guys,” I said, and pushed the Off button before he had achance to give me the third degree about my plans.
    But before I could drop the cell phone back into my shoulder bag, I was grabbed from behind. The phone flew out of my hand, and I literally crumpled to my knees in sheer terror. Fortunately I don’t have very far to fall.

6
    â€œM iss Timberlake, are you all right?”
    It took me a second or two to realize that the man was trying to help me to my feet. Another few seconds passed before I realized who he was.
    â€œMr. Webbfingers!”
    â€œSorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
    I steadied myself and then glanced around. “Where’s my phone?”
    â€œI’m afraid it landed in the water.”
    I staggered to the edge of the seawall. We happened to be standing at the exact spot where the Ashley and the Cooper rivers meet to form the Atlantic Ocean. Even though it was low tide in the harbor, that cell phone had sailed permanently. It is possible I cussed like a sailor.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll replace it,” Fisher Webbfingers said.
    I stared at the man. I hadn’t liked him from the moment I met him. It’s hard to pinpoint why, and Icertainly hope I’m not so shallow that I subconsciously based my opinion on his looks. And anyway, he’s not bad-looking, just sort of creepy.
    He was originally a carrot top, whose hair is now fading to grayish beige, and like Irena Papadopoulus, he is deeply tanned. But Fisher’s tan comes from the real thing—hours spent in the sun golfing and fishing—and thanks to a zillion and one freckles, has an orange cast. It’s the eyes, however, that set him apart from anybody else I know. His irises all but lack color. So pale is the blue, that the blood vessels behind them show through, like tangled clusters of red spiders.
    â€œI had so many numbers programmed into it,” I said with remarkable composure, which, hopefully, made up for at least some of my foul language earlier.
    â€œMrs. Timberlake, do you have a minute?”
    â€œWell, now that I can’t call anyone—” I forced a smile. He was, after all, a grieving widower. And on my list to interrogate. “What can I do for you, Mr. Webbfingers?”
    â€œTake my wife’s place.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œI saw you talking to Harriet, and then you went around to one of the guest cottages. You know your way around the place, Mrs. Timberlake. You know the setup. You know Harriet.”
    â€œI still don’t understand.” So help me if the manwas hitting on me. With Marina barely cold, and my cell phone in the marina—I wasn’t in the mood for sexual shenanigans. Not that I normally engage in extramarital pursuits.
    â€œYou see, Mrs. Timberlake, the police won’t let my guests leave town, and the stress—plus all the work—is too much for Harriet.”
    â€œI’m not surprised, given her age. Maybe you should get her some help.”
    â€œThose are my thoughts exactly, Mrs. Timberlake. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t know much about the domestic scene in Charleston, Mr. Webbfingers. But I believe you can find the numbers of cleaning agencies in the yellow pages.”
    â€œThank you for the suggestion. However, in addition to hiring an additional maid, I was thinking—well, I was thinking of hiring you.”
    I saw red, and it wasn’t just in his eyes. “Mr. Webbfingers, I am a professional antiques dealer. I do not clean other people’s houses—not that there is anything wrong with that. And frankly, sir—and I mean no disrespect—I doubt if your wife did much housework.”
    Pale, almost invisible