The Cane Mutiny Read Online Free PDF

between walls of stacked treasure, plump moist fingers and long gnarled ones trailed along, feeling everything in their paths. If anyone dusted my stuff for prints, the two cops would have a lot of explaining to do.
    Before I’d opened the back door, C.J. had returned the skull to the bag and the bag to the barrel. I asked her to retrieve it.
    Tweedledee nearly had kittens. “Nothing doing. This is a crime scene. From now on my partner and I will be taking over.” She turned to Tweedledum. “Call the boys at Forensics. And get an ambulance over here. Stat.”
    A snicker or two may have parted my wee lips. “An ambulance? She’s been dead for decades, for goodness sake.”
    â€œMrs. Washburn—or is it Timberlake again—if you don’t stay out of police business, I’m going to arrest you for interfering at the scene of a crime.”
    â€œMoi?”
    Out came the cuffs.
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    My name is Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn. I was born in the textile mill town of Rock Hill, South Carolina, and attended Winthrop College. During my senior year of college I met a law student from UNCC by the name of Buford Timberlake. What I didn’t realize was that Buford was a timber snake in Timberlake clothing. Two children and two decades later he traded me in for a woman twice my size and half my age.
    Tweetie, the new Mrs. Timberlake, experienced an untimely death, and Buford has since remarried. He and I have buried the hatchet (and not in his neck) for the sake of our children, Susan and Charlie. I too have moved on by marrying the very handsome, and only occasionally annoying, Greg Washburn.
    We used to live in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I owned and operated the Den of Antiquity,an antiques shop on Selwyn Avenue. Then Greg, who’d been a detective, retired and got a hankering to move to the coast and pick up shrimping, something his family has been doing for generations. Not only did I decide to keep my shop, but I opened one just like it on King Street in Charleston.
    It has been both a terrible and wonderful life. I am currently in a wonderful patch—knock on wood—and I aim to do everything in my limited power to keep it so. The last thing I needed was to be arrested and hauled off to jail. After all, when one is only four feet nine inches, horizontal stripes can make one look like they’ve practically melted into the concrete floor.
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    The actual charge was obstructing justice, and even though everyone involved knew it wouldn’t stick, I got to see the inside of a jail cell close up. C.J. got thrown in the slammer with me, and we briefly shared quarters with two prostitutes and a pickpocket.
    Both of the hookers appeared bored and indifferent, and after ascertaining that C.J. and I hadn’t encroached on their turf, left us alone. The petty thief did not.
    â€œMy name is Geraldine,” she said. “My parentsnamed me after President Ford. Can you believe that?”
    â€œActually, I can,” C.J. said. “Cousin Georgette Ledbetter was named after—”
    â€œCharleston is a great city. I’m from Jackson, Mississippi. Pickings are pretty slim there.” She laughed at her own joke. “Pickings, get it? But man, this place is da bomb. All you have to do is stand down there by the dock, where those cruise ships come in, and you can rake in the cash.
    â€œThe best time to do it is at the end of the day. The tourists are tired and in a hurry to get back to the ship. There’s not a passenger on those ships that doesn’t worry about getting left behind. Anyway, they’re always loaded down with plastic bags filled with crap they bought at the Market, or better yet, really expensive things they splurged for on King Street.
    â€œThey’re feeling the weight of those bags, see? At that point they aren’t even thinking of their purses. If they’re thinking about anything, it’s the fancy dinners