Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  “Hey, I heard that! Don’t believe a word of it, Abby. I’m not telling you what it really is—it’s a surprise. But here’s a hint. When it was alive, it had three heads.”

  That did it. That’s when I decided to be naughty and take advantage of my friends.

  “Speaking of scavenger hunts,” I said. “I just remembered I’m supposed to be on one.” I glanced at my watch and gasped. “Right now!”

  The men exchanged incredulous looks. “Abby, are you on the level?” Rob asked.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” I know, that’s a horrible oath, and I was taking a chance, but we all have to go sometime, don’t we? Just as long as that needle part didn’t come true.

  “Is this for some kind of club initiation?” Bob asked. “I’ve heard about all these secret Charleston societies, but I thought one’s family had to live here for centuries before they even considered asking you to join.”

  “Something like that,” I said. He was right about the societies—or so I’ve heard. At least that part wasn’t a lie.

  Rob whistled. “Wow, I’m impressed. What do you have to collect on the hunt?”

  I’ve always prided myself on my ability to think fast on my feet, despite the fact that they are size four. This time I outdid myself.

  “The first item is a photocopy of a pedigree—a very old pedigree. Let’s see, then there’s a crystal ball, a toy car, a thesaurus, a doggy chew toy, and a stock market tip.”

  “Abby, that sounds like fun. I don’t suppose that we can play as well?”

  “Officially no, but you can drive me from house to house.”

  I caught Bob preening in the reflection of a glass door as he passed. “Do we get to come inside?”

  “I’m afraid not, but you can help me navigate. You see, the candidate who travels the least miles, and in the least length of time, gets extra points.” I glanced at my watch again. “Oh, dear, I’m running out of time.”

  “Let us be off then,” Rob said gaily. Whenever the dear man gets excited he affects a British accent, even though he’s Carolina born and bred.

  Off we went.

  I remembered that chiseled cheeks Chiz had an upstairs office on Meeting Street. I’d seen the discreet real estate sign any number of times, and thought to myself that if I ever needed to sell my home at number seven Squiggle Lane, I’d choose Chiz. It was my theory that a sign that small and classy meant there had to be an opulent office somewhere, paid for by a booming business.

  The Rob-Bobs parked on Society Street and remained in their car, listening to classical music, while I trotted over to Meeting. If they feared that I would bolt, they gave no sign. It was wonderful having folks trust me so much, and yes, I felt guilty for betraying that trust. But it was for a good cause, was it not? Besides, the guys were having fun.

  My instincts were right. Chisel Cheeks had an office that was better appointed than most homes I’ve seen. The dark paneling was mahogany, the lamps antique Tiffany, and the royal blue carpet so plush and soft, I lost an inch of height. That, I would have to change.

  Chiz’s secretary was also well-appointed, but not about to let me see her boss without an appointment. Her silicone bosoms bobbled as she shook her bleached blond head.

  “This is an exclusive agency, Mrs. Washburn. We don’t allow walk-ins.”

  “Tell him I flew.”

  “You don’t understand, Mrs. Washburn. This is an exclusive establishment.”

  “Gotcha. This is an excluuuuusive place. Now, may I please see Mr. Banncock—or Chiz, as we like to call him.”

  A professionally plucked brow rose. “You’re a friend of Mr. Banncock?”

  “Well—”

  I’d hesitated too long. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment, Mrs. Washburn. Did you bring your credentials?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your credentials.” She said it so slowly, exaggerating the syllables, that I was able to count every one of her capped teeth.

  I graced her with a sweet smile. “I heard you the first time, ma’am. What credentials would that be?”

  She threw her hands up in despair. The multicolored acrylic nails flashed like a Roman candle.

  “Your lineage—your family tree.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She tapped the desktop with those awful nails. “Were they here, in the Holy City, before the war?”

  Charleston is fondly referred to as the Holy City because of its myriad church steeples. But I wasn’t sure what she meant by the “war.” Elsewhere in the South it would undoubtedly be the Civil War—or the War of Northern Aggression, depending on your point of view. Charleston is, however, much older and more genteel than most of the region.

  “Do you mean the Late Unpleasantness, or the Colonial Rebellion?”

  “That last one—the Revolutionary War. Do you have proof your family settled on the peninsula before then? Mr. Banncock handles only those clients who can prove their families resided in the Holy City before the war.”

  If brains were dynamite, I wouldn’t have enough to blow my nose. I should have known all along that she was talking about bloodlines.

  “Why, that’s discrimination!” I cried.

  She pretended to shuffle papers on her desk. Since she had only one paper, that was a pretty neat trick. I was tempted to ask her to clap with one hand.

  “It’s not discrimination,” she said. “For your information, Mr. Banncock has lots of black customers. Plenty of African Americans were here before the war.”

  “Against their will! Besides, I know for a fact that not all of his clients come from old families.”

  That got her attention. “Like who?”

  “Like my friend C.J. Jane Cox, her real name is. Chiz,” I said, taking the opportunity to use his first name, “sold her a house.”

  Acrylic claws tapped on the computer keyboard for a few seconds. “Actually, you’re wrong, Mrs. Washburn. It says right here that her great-great-great-great grandfather, Cornelius Willow-Worth Ledbetter was a tea merchant who built a house on Legare Street in 1708.”

  “Let me see that!” I remembered my manners. “Please.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve already said too much, Mrs. Washburn. Client information—”

  “Did I mention that you have beautiful hair?”

  The claws stroked the lacquered do. “Really?”

  “Have you ever thought about acting?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I was an extra in The Patriot. You know, that Mel Gibson movie they filmed here.”

  “Get out of town!” My enthusiasm was genuine. I would never cheat on my husband Greg, but if I did, it would be with Mel.

  “Honest, I was.”

  “Did you get to meet Mel?”

  “Nah. But one of the cameramen said I was real cute, and he’d be happy to take some pictures of me—you know, for my portfolio.”

  “And did he?”

  “Nah. Made me sleep with him for nothing.”

  “Men are pigs.” Not all men are pigs, of course. But I could speak from experience about one. Buford was the king of porkers—when he wasn’t busy being a timber snake.

  She paused, as if chewing gum, but there was nothing in her mouth, that I could see, except for those fabulous fakes. “Oh, what the hell.” She printed what was on her computer screen, which comprised several printed pages, and handed it to me. “You said she was a friend—and this will give you an idea of what we’re looking for. Besides, and I wasn’t going to tell you this, Mr. Banncock isn’t in today.”

  “Out showing houses?”

  She shrugged her God-given shoulders, causing her manmade mammae to bobble again. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. He’s been really secretive these last couple of days. Not that he ever talks very much—and the phone…well, he might as well not even have one. I haven’t gotten a call all day. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  “So business is bad?”


  “Oh no, we sell plenty of houses—just not as many as other real estate agents I’ve worked for, on account of our—uh—”

  “Exclusivity?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But don’t get me wrong, Mr. B makes a bundle off the ones he sells.”

  I looked around at my plush surroundings. “I’m sure he does. You said that Chiz had been secretive the last couple of days. Do you mean since the séance?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I really do know Chiz. I was at the séance too, you see.” I sighed. “I was hoping he could give me the address of a couple that was there. I seemed to have lost it.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Riffle. Hugh and Sondra.”

  This time the clacking was music to my ears. “Yeah, here they are. Say, isn’t he the one who does those car commercials? You know, with the dead celebrities’ cars?”

  “That’s him. Gross, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. I was thinking how cool it would be to buy one of those cars, because not everyone would have one, you know. Do you think he has any late model Porsches?”

  “Possibly.” For all I knew, he did.

  The keys clacked one last time. “Here. That’s their home address.” She stood. “Promise not to tell?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to—cross it again.”

  “I’m off to buy me a brand-new car—well, a brand-new used car. Mr. Banncock can answer his own damn phone.”

  “Did you get it?” They’d switched from classical to oldies and I could barely distinguish Bob’s bass from one of the Righteous Brothers.

  I turned off the radio and waved the papers the lonely receptionist had given me. “And you wouldn’t believe whose pedigree this is.”

  “Babs?” Bob boomed.

  “Guess again. It’s our very own C.J.”

  Rob snatched the Ledbetter family tree from my hot little hand. He scanned it, mumbling to himself. Finally he passed it back to Bob, who was sitting in the rear seat.

  “That’s impressive.”

  “If you can believe it,” I sniffed. “All she ever talks about is Shelby. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made up that pedigree, just like she makes up everything else.”

  Bob reached forward and patted my shoulder. “Now, now, Abby, let’s not be too hard on her. Some of the stories we thought she made up have actually turned out to be true.”

  “Name one!”

  “Well—like the time she bet us she could lick her ears with her tongue.”

  Rob laughed. “That was something! I still think she should make it into the Guiness Book of World Records for that.”

  “Harrumph,” I said, borrowing from Ella Nolte. “And it doesn’t prove that she’s part giraffe. Those little bumps you can feel on her head are not horns.”

  Rob winked. “Sounds like our Abby is a bit jealous.”

  “I am not! Who needs a stupid pedigree anyway? So what if I never get invited to join Charleston’s inner circle? I still have loser friends that can’t get in either. I have you two.”

  “Touché!” Bob boomed.

  “More like touchy,” Rob said, but he winked again. “Okay, how about we get this show on the road. What’s next? The crystal ball?”

  “Toy car,” I mumbled.

  “I’d swear you said it was going to be a crystal ball. Didn’t she, Bob?”

  “That she did.”

  “Well, I was mistaken.”

  The truth is, I’d decided to pay my visit to Sondra Riffle at home, rather than Hugh at his place of business. She seemed less intimidating. The only problem was that I knew Hugh gave away toy cars to every customer that visited his grisly lot, but I doubted if Sondra dispensed them to uninvited visitors. If she didn’t, I was going to have to find a way to buy one.

  Staying ahead of the Rob-Bobs was going to be a challenge.

  11

  The Riffles lived in a magnificent Greek Revival mansion right on East Battery, arguably the city’s most desirable location. The couple were not natives, hailing originally from Louisiana, and were part of the influx of latter settlers that has raised real estate values throughout the peninsula. Their house, if I remembered correctly—I comb the real state transaction page religiously—was sold to them for 7.2 million dollars. Chiz Banncock was not their agent, by the way, seeing as how they lacked the proper plasma. But the very fact that they were in his electronic address book was proof that there was a degree of exclusivity that could be purchased.

  The High Battery is a sea wall that protects the southeast corner of Charleston from hurricane tides. It is here that the Ashley River and the Cooper River come together to form the Atlantic Ocean. The wall derives its name from the battery of guns that defended the city during the war of 1812. Between the sea wall and the first row of stately homes is a park, officially known as White Point Gardens. At the east end is a marker commemorating the hanging of the so-called “gentleman pirate,” Stede Bonnet in 1718. The Holy City was suffering from a rather pesky pirate problem, and by the end of the year a total of forty-nine pirates were hanged at that location and buried nearby. Stede Bonnet was perhaps the most interesting of the lot because he was a man of letters, and owned a profitable sugar plantation on the island of Barbados.

  The Battery, as White Point Gardens is commonly called, is today a pleasant park graced by sweeping live oaks, and spectacular views of the Atlantic’s birthing. It would be a peaceful place to stroll were it not for the hordes of tourists that descend on it each summer, despite the wilting heat. In addition to the buses, cars, and foot traffic, there are horsedrawn carriages. The last, although charming, lend a redolence to the air that can, at times, assault one’s olfactory senses. Sure, the horses wear nappies, but they don’t always hit the mark, if you know what I mean.

  We found a place to park on East Battery Street opposite the harbor, and a popular stop for tour buses. When I got out of Rob’s car a group of happy Japanese were taking pictures of other members of their party taking pictures of far-off Fort Sumter. I volunteered to take a picture of the ones photographing picturetakers, thus making everyone all that much happier. It always warms my heart to do a good deed, and I was in an upbeat mood when I rang the Riffles’ doorbell. The Rob-Bobs, by the way, had elected to sit on a bench in the park and critique tourists.

  The Riffle mansion had a double staircase leading to the front door. Some tour guides would have you believe that the stair on the left was for gentlemen, the one on the right for ladies, lest the former glimpse the latter’s ankles. Architectural historians will tell you that this is nonsense; the two stairs provide balance. Just to be contrary, I took the gentlemen’s stair.

  I fully expected that a liveried butler—or at least a maid—would answer the door. I was surprised to see Sondra standing there. Perhaps she had been expecting a UPS delivery, because she seemed surprised as well.

  “Oh,” we said simultaneously, “it’s you.”

  “Jinx, you owe me a coke,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing—it’s just a silly saying. I know it’s terribly rude of me to just drop in like this, but I really need to speak to you. Do you have a minute?”

  Although it was almost noon, she was dressed in pink silk pajamas and had a bad case of bed hair. Curiously, she seemed torn by my question.

  “Of course,” she finally said, and ushered me through a hall lined with black marble statues on white pedestals and into a grand salon. I’d expected tacky from a couple who sold dead celebrity’s cars, but boy howdy, was I wrong. The grand room was done in green; not the so-called burnt shades so popular in the nineties, or the ubiquitous hunter, but a refreshing mint. The furniture was predominantly French, although besides the slew of Louies, there was a small walnut William and Mary bureau with a herringbone border. It was the sort of piece that would have given the twins on Antique Roadshow spasms of joy, had they seen it when they were in town. Clearly, Sondra had been one of the thousands unable
to get a ticket to that event.

  She saw me eyeing the piece. Fortunately, I had my mouth shut, so I was not drooling on the Aubusson carpet.

  “That piece came with the house,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

  I shook my head. “It’s exquisite. Have you had it appraised?”

  “I don’t intend to sell it. Actually”—she bit her tongue before continuing—“Hugh won’t let me sell it.”

  “I had a husband like that once—a real control freak.”

  “Mr. Washburn?”

  “Gracious, no! Greg’s a sweetheart. My first husband, Buford—I just remembered he’s in town right now—dumped me when I got too old for him. Traded me in for a bimbo with silicone parts—” My mouth snapped shut like a frog on a fly. I couldn’t believe I’d mentioned silicone to a woman with more plastic parts than Barbie.

  Again, Sondra was on to me. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re absolutely right. I have had plastic surgery. Tons of it, in fact.”

  “You have?” It was the only polite response.

  She nodded. “Care for a drink?”

  That explained the pajamas and rumpled look so late in the day. I seldom drink—finding the aftereffects unpleasant, not to mention fattening—and almost never before five.

  “Have any tea?” In South Carolina, that word, without an modifiers, refers to what y’all north of the Line call iced tea. Unless otherwise specified, it is served sweetened—sometimes too sweet for Yankee tastes, which is odd, when you consider they put sugar in their cornbread and we don’t.

  At any rate, Sondra wrinkled her modified nose. “I believe there is a pitcher in one of the fridges—Hugh likes that stuff.”

  While she padded off in her bare feet to fetch me a glass of the noxiously innocuous beverage, I admired my surroundings. I couldn’t have put together a better room—even with the Rob-Bobs’ help. Of course my room would have a different life-size painting above the mantle. However, the portrait of Sondra, showing her seated from the waist up, was expertly done. She looked to be about twenty, her face glowing with youth and newfound wealth.