laughed, snorting like a horse. “Just so you know, Mrs. Timberlake , there has never been a Detective Greg Timberlake on this force.”
“That may be,” I said, “but Greg’s last name is Washburn.”
Judging by Detective Krupp’s face, she didn’t like being bested. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“You didn’t ask—ma’am.”
“That’s right,” Detective Wimbler said. “We just assumed. When we assume, my mama always said, one makes an ass out of u and me . Put the three of them together and you get—”
“An ass,” Detective Krupp said. “Really, Wimbler, how did you make it on the force? Are you the chief’s nephew or something?”
“It’s my ex-husband’s name,” I said.
They both returned their focus to me.
“What?” Detective Krupp said.
“My ex-husband is the notorious divorce lawyer Buford Timberlake. I’m sure you see his smarmy ads every time you turn on the TV.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Detective Wimbler. “ Is your husband a bum? Get rid of that scum—with Timberlake. Is your wife a nag? Get rid of that hag—with Timberlake . Those are the kind of jingles that stick with you.”
“That stick in your craw,” I said. “When I was forty, Buford traded me for a younger model that was twenty percent silicone—if you get my drift. At least that. But Tweetie—may she rest in peace—met her Maker in a suit of armor—”
Detective Krupp sprang to life. “Not Tweetie Byrd Simpson from Blowing Rock High!”
“You knew her?”
“Knew her?” Detective Krupp cried. “Why we grew up together. Our houses backed up to one another. We had a ton of sleepovers and we used to take baths together as little girls. Right up until high school as a matter of fact. But I lost track of her after we graduated and she moved to Charlotte. She wanted to make something of herself—and I guess she kind of did. I read about it in the paper when she died. That’s when I decided to move down here and become a detective so I could solve murders like hers.”
“Well, you know, it was me who solved Tweetie’s murder.”
“Get out of town and back! That was you ?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You hear that, Wimbler? We have ourselves a genuine celebrity on our hands!”
“Speaking of which,” Detective Wimbler said, “there is absolutely no scientific proof equating hand size with—well, you know what.”
“Detective Wimbler has issues ,” Detective Krupp said in a loud stage whisper, “in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I do not.”
“The best thing is to just ignore him. A lot of the really tall suspects try to sleep with him—go figure—but you’re the first one in a long time who is significantly shorter than he is. I think you’ve thrown him for a loop.”
“Just shut up,” Detective Wimbler said. His face was pomegranate pink.
Detective Krupp walked over to the one-way glass window and pulled down a shade. “Mrs. Timberlake, because you knew Tweetie that makes you like family to me.”
“Uh—listen. I didn’t like Tweetie in the beginning. How could I? She stole my husband. Sure, my feelings softened somewhat later on when Buford cheated on her, but I don’t think you should count me as family.”
“But I do, and I’m going to take care of you.”
“Me too,” said Detective Wimbler. “Research does show that tall people—especially tall men—get all the breaks. Did you know that they’re much more likely to get promoted?”
“Maybe that’s because they have larger brains,” Detective Krupp said. She sounded quite serious. Then again, she was at least five inches taller than her partner.
“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t bother to legally change my name from Timberlake to Washburn when I remarried.”
“Actually, I hadn’t,” said Detective Krupp.
“My late mother kept her maiden name,” said Detective Wimbler. “It was Wiggins.”
I didn’t dare tell the poor man that this was also my maiden name. Perhaps my
Lindsay Paige, Mary Smith