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wound my way through the parterre, and entered the gardenWynnell had reclaimed. The friend who I had imagined had no taste had turned out to be rather talented—if you discounted the hideous knockoff statue of David which, incidentally, was no longer in evidence. In the weeks since I’d last seen the garden, the annuals had come into their own; masses of flowers bloomed everywhere. It was a scene deserving of its own month on a Charleston calendar. Thank heavens someone—no doubt the deceased—had removed the silly sculpture.
    â€œWell done, Wynnell,” I said softly to myself.
    â€œIt is kinda pretty, ain’t it?”
    I whirled. It was Harriet Spanky, the Webbfingerses’ overworked maid. I’d gotten to know her quite well during the decorating process, because the elderly servant had seen to it that Wynnell and I were well-supplied with sweet tea—the Southern elixir of life.
    Judging by her perpetually tired eyes and the deep creases on her face, Harriet had played with God when He was a child. Perhaps she’d even baby-sat for Him. I knew she was a widow whose husband had died in a war, but which war was anybody’s guess. It would have come as only a mild surprise to learn that he had perished in the war, sometimes referred to hereabouts as the War of Northern Aggression.
    If Harriet needed to work, for whatever reason, that was her business. It was, however, my right tothink it shameful of the Webbfingerses to require such an elderly woman to wear a uniform. Except for the length of the skirt—which mercifully came down to her knees—it resembled the classic French maid’s uniform. How degrading this must be to a woman who should have been at home baking cookies for her great-grandchildren, not scrubbing the toilets of the aristocracy.
    â€œHi Harriet,” I said warmly. “How’s the arthritis today?”
    â€œCould be worse. I could be dead like the missus.”
    â€œYou have a point there.”
    â€œSo you heard? Ain’t that awful?”
    â€œWere you here?”
    â€œNo ma’am. It happened sometime last night—after I got off work.”
    â€œBut you’re still living on the third floor of the main house, right?”
    â€œYeah, but it was my birthday. My son Nolan took me out to dinner.”
    This was my golden opportunity, so I can’t be blamed for what I said next, can I? “Harriet, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the magic number?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œHow many years did you celebrate?”
    â€œSixty-three.”
    â€œNot your son, dear…” I realized just in time that she wasn’t referring to her son. “I mean,happy birthday.” I paused an appropriate length of time before switching back to the somber purpose of my visit. “Your employer’s murder must have come as quite a shock.”
    â€œYes, ma’am, it sure did.”
    â€œDo you know how it happened?”
    Her tired eyes gave me the once-over. “So then you haven’t heard.”
    â€œJust that she was dead, and it was murder.”
    â€œIt was your friend who done it,” Harriet said in a tone that was remarkably unaccusatory.
    â€œMaybe that’s what the police think, but it isn’t true. And even if she did, how did she do it? Wynnell hates guns.”
    â€œOh, it weren’t no gun, ma’am. The missus was blood-joined with a statue.”
    It took me a second. “Bludgeoned. With a statue?”
    â€œThe police won’t say for sure with what, but I know that’s what it was. Look there”—she pointed to the center flower bed—“it’s gone.”
    â€œI saw that, but I thought maybe Mrs. Webbfingers had ordered it removed.”
    â€œWhy would she do that? It was such a pretty thing. Told my son I wanted one just like that for my birthday—I seen them at the flea market, you know, and they ain’t all that