Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  “Pretty, wasn’t I?” she asked, appearing suddenly. She handed me a glass dripping condensation. Apparently she’d forgotten a napkin.

  “Beautiful! You look so happy.”

  “I was.” She motioned for me to sit, so I chose a Louis XV fauteuil chair with upholstered seat and back and carved legs. The fabric background was cream with pale pink roses on vinelike stems. If I spilled the sugary tea, I might stick to the chair, and thus would have a good excuse for taking it home with me. “And then,” she said, picking up the thread of conversation again, “along about my fortieth birthday, everything went south—no offense, you understand.”

  “No offense taken.”

  “So, as you’ve already noticed, I tried doing something. Fat lot of good it did.” Despite her soft, cultured voice, she had a grating laugh, not unlike an electric pencil sharpener.

  “You certainly have a beautiful home,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “Who is your decorator?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  The pencil got shorter. “Yes, I was a beauty queen—Miss Kudzu, Miss Regional Okra, and first runner-up in the Miss Hell Swamp contest, but I’m not stupid.” She took a sip of something a lot stiffer than sweet tea. “I started out as a zoology major in college, because I love animals. But I switched to art history my first semester when they made us dissect frogs. Anyway, art history is not a very marketable education, so I got a job as an interior decorator. That’s how I met Hugh. I decorated his first house. He was really into dark wood paneling and Italian leather sofas.”

  I smiled. Buford was pretentious enough to want antique furnishings, but Greg, bless his shrimp-catching heart, would love wood paneling and leather sofas. Throw in a large-screen TV, and he’d think it was heaven.

  “How long have you two been married?” I asked.

  “Twenty-eight years.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time. I mean, that’s longer than Buford and I were married.”

  She took a swig of comfort. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Well—”

  “He made me sign a pre-nup.”

  “Get out of town!” Buford didn’t make me sign a prenuptial agreement, but he might as well have. He was a lawyer, and one of the good old boys. Need I say more?

  Sondra managed a rueful smile. “I didn’t know anything about money then. I’d always been poor. Miss Regional Okra doesn’t pay anything—well, except for a year’s supply of gumbo. I put myself through college on scholarships—academic scholarships. When I met Hugh I fell head over heels in love. He could have asked for my right arm, and I’d given him my left arm as well.” She took a long drink of liquid courage. “Now, I’m afraid he doesn’t want any part of me.”

  Having walked that road, I knew there was nothing I could say to make her feel better—not in the long term. It is, however, always a comfort to have one’s feelings validated, and I could have bet on what she was feeling.

  “Maybe we could get the diaper bag from one of those carriage horses and stash it in your husband’s most expensive car.”

  She stared at me, not comprehending at first. When she did, her face lit up like a jack-o-lantern with two candles in it.

  “We’d dump the contents out of the bag,” she said, before giving that pencil a good sharpening.

  “Of course. And we’d rub it into the seats.”

  We had ourselves a good laugh. We were on the verge of bonding—and why not, given the similarity of our unscrupulous husbands—when I remembered I was a woman with a mission.

  “Tell me,” I said, perhaps a bit too abruptly, “is there anyone in that little group of yours—the Heavenly Harlots—who might have had it in for Madame Woo-Woo?”

  “That’s Heavenly Hustlers,” she said, still laughing. Her face grew serious. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me—so it had to be one of you.”

  “It could have been our hostess. Just between me and you, Abby—may I call you that?”

  “By all means.”

  “Call me Sondra. As I was about to say, I’m not sure her elevator stops at all the floors.”

  I get very defensive when anyone, other than myself, or folks I know to be C.J.’s closest friends, comment on her mental condition. Her elevator does stop at all floors, including the penthouse. It’s just that there are a few unscheduled stops as well.

  “Jane Cox is a brilliant woman. She’s minding my shop right now, singlehandedly.”

  Apparently Sondra couldn’t decide whether to drink, laugh, or speak. She did a messy combination of all three.

  “Damn,” she said, referring to the stains on the Aubusson, and then returned her attention to me. “If Miss Cox is as bright as you say she is, then why is she totally clueless to the fact that we’ve been fixing up her house for the last three weeks.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d been praying, in my lapsed Episcopalian sort of way, that Gladys Kravitz had been full of baloney. Given that her address was north of Broad, it would be a second-rate brand, of course.

  “We—the Heavenly Hustlers—have been hustling our bustles off renovating that house.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said lamely.

  “I wish I was. I have splinters and blisters to prove it.” There were no end tables handy, so she held her drink between her knees and held up both hands. “I even broke a nail.”

  I shook my head. Mama’s antics never cease to amaze me, and I’d bet my bottom dollar she was behind this. When she ran off to become a nun, she was actually accepted into an Episcopal convent, only to be expelled shortly thereafter for wearing curlers under her wimple, and singing on the stairs. The following year she became a torch singer in a seedy motel lounge, and was fired for singing altogether. She has tried to become a contestant on all the Survivor shows thus far; this last time receiving a letter from Jeff Probst begging her not to submit any more audition tapes. Apparently one of the producers had got ten a hernia from laughing too hard at one of her submissions.

  “Why are y’all remodeling C.J.’s house, and whose idea was it?”

  “It was your mother’s idea—”

  “I knew it!” Pretending to be surprised exonerated me from any culpability.

  “We have a yearly project, you see. Mozella thought it would be fun—‘a learning experience’ is how she put it. I told her I’d had plenty of experience remodeling, and that even just from the customer’s point of view, it could be a royal pain. And I was right. I tell you, Abby, your mother is a taskmistress to be reckoned with.”

  “Tell me about it. When I helped her shell peas as a kid, she had me sort them according to size and depth of color.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. But anyway, you get my original point about Miss Cox, don’t you? A normal person would think it strange to find a wall replaced, or to have new ceiling fans magically appear.”

  “Did you say wall?”

  “In a third floor bathroom. Water had gotten behind the wallboard, so we had to rip the whole thing out. Jeez, what a mess.”

  “Oh. Y’all didn’t touch the kitchen wall?”

  “The one with all the tiles?”

  I nodded.

  “No. Like I said, your mother kept us to a tight schedule. She wanted to make us start in the attic and work our way down, but we rebelled. It’s just too hot for attics now. She settled for the third floor.”

  “And you all pitched in? Even your husband? I mean, I thought he was busy selling cars.”

  “Hugh helps out now and then. He’s sort of a peripheral member of our group. He’s got his work—so he’s not as lonely as the rest of us. But Abby, you still haven’t answered my question. Why hasn’t she noticed?”

  “She has, actually. She thinks it’s a ghost.”

  Sondra rolled her eyes in a gesture worthy of any teenager. “Give me a break.”

  “You don’t believe they exist?”

  “Officially, or un?”

  “Both.”

/>   “Well, officially I have to go along with that nonsense—Hugh’s business depends on it, and that whole urban legend thing. But I’ve never seen a ghost, Abby. Have you?”

  “I haven’t actually seen one—but I’ve heard one.”

  This time, the eyes that had once gazed lovingly on the Miss Regional Okra tiara rolled so far back into her head they looked like Ping-Pong balls. “I’m afraid I’d need scientific proof.”

  It was pointless to argue. Besides, I’d strayed far from my mission.

  “The night Madame Woo-Woo died,” I said, “did you happen to notice anyone alone in the dining room? Between your arrival, of course, and the start of the séance?”

  “Ella Nolte,” she said without a second’s hesitation. She drained the froth from the bottom of her glass of fortitude. “And don’t unnecessarily read anything into that. Ella is a mystery writer, after all. She’s supposed to be curious. She was probably just in there doing the same thing you did.”

  If she could roll her eyes, then it was perfectly all right for me to open mine wide in mock surprise. “What would that be?”

  “Abby, we all know it was you who planted that recorder there.”

  “But it was just a joke.”

  “It’s possible Ella had a joke or two of her own up her sleeve. You might want to ask her.”

  I hopped to my feet, and then realized, with a rush of joy, that my caffeine in the tea had gone straight through me—not literally, of course. But I always enjoy checking out folks’ powder rooms. Especially the powder rooms of the very rich. The composition of bathroom fixtures can say a lot about someone. Solid gold, in my opinion, means the owner isn’t really concerned about world hunger, or finding a cure for all forms of cancer. On the other hand, gold paint in a multimillion-dollar house means the owner may be putting on a show, and could be well on the way to bankruptcy. Gold plate, or a good-quality base metal, represent a balanced approach to life.

  At any rate, while I am perfectly willing to ask to use the bathroom when I don’t need to go, it always feels better if there is a genuine need. I raised my hand like a schoolgirl.

  “May I use your bathroom before I go to see Ella?”

  Sondra looked as if I’d asked something extremely personal—like her age. Or maybe her shoe size.

  “Uh, I’m not sure it’s very tidy. Heather—that’s my housekeeper—has been off all week. Her mother up in Monck’s Corner is sick.”

  “I promise not to look at anything—well, beyond what’s necessary.”

  She led me to the room, which was much farther back in the house than I had expected. It delighted my soul to see that her good taste wasn’t limited to the front rooms. Outside the bathroom door she stopped and laid a manicured hand on my shoulder. We were standing close enough so that I could smell the booze on her breath.

  “The truth is,” she said, “that Hugh spends a lot of time in this room.”

  “No problemo. I’ll hold my nose.”

  I stepped inside and turned on the light. For a few seconds I thought I was hallucinating.

  12

  “And then what?” Rob asked. The men had been waiting patiently for my return, thanks to the Musical Muscle Boys, a men’s glee club from San Francisco. The group was taking a self-guided walking tour of the city, and stopped to ask the Rob-Bobs directions. I’m sure my friends were able to give the visitors a couple of good pointers.

  “You’re not going to believe this, guys. Everything in that bathroom was cars.”

  “Cars?” Bob boomed.

  “Cars. It was actually more than a powder room. It was a full bath—a very big bath. The tub was the inside of a little roadster. There was a little seat, and the spigot handle was a steering wheel. The outside had chrome bumpers. The toilet was hooked up to one of those machines you see in arcades, where you can test your driving skills. The sink was the inside of a very deep hubcap. Oh, and there was even a car-shaped terrarium on the vanity, with icky live things in it. And of course there were these.” I pulled a small hand towel out of my blouse.

  “Abby, you didn’t!” they cried in unison.

  “Jinx, you owe each other Cokes.”

  “You stole a towel?” Rob asked, his voice tinged with admiration.

  “Borrowed. I fully intend to return it.”

  “But why? And Abby, isn’t that stealing?” Bob, who hailed originally from Toledo, has solid Midwestern values. Which is not to say that we native-born Southerners don’t have morals. It’s just that we—oh heck, I was wrong, and I couldn’t defend it. The best I could do was try and explain my actions.

  “Because it has cars embroidered along the border,” I said.

  “Yes, but the rules call for a toy car?”

  “Who says toys have to be three-dimensional?” I waved the towel. “Vroom, vroom.”

  “You’re sick, Abby,” Rob said, but he winked. “Oh, and speaking of sick, you’ll never guess who we saw during our interminable wait.”

  “Besides the singing studs?”

  “Only two were studs; the rest were duds. But yes, besides them.”

  “I give up, who?”

  “I’ll give you a hint.” Rob held up his hand, which was made into a fist, save for his index and middle fingers, which were uncurled halfway. He shook his hand. “Hisssssss.”

  “Buford Timber Snake.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “No. He came into the shop the day of the séance—oh my God! I stood him up!”

  “Serves him right,” Bob said. The Rob-Bobs are extremely protective of me. They are indeed the brothers my flesh and blood brother, Toy, should have been.

  “But you don’t understand. He seems to have changed. The very fact that he didn’t make a fuss when I stood him up—well, that’s not the Buford we all knew and hated, is it?”

  “Got a point there.”

  “Well?” I demanded. “What did he say? Did he ask about me?”

  Rob stood and laid a comforting arm around my shoulder. “We didn’t speak to him. We saw him ride by in one of those horsedrawn carriages. We waved, and he waved back. That was it.”

  “I feel awful.”

  Bob was on his feet now, his arm around my other shoulder. I’m sure that to folks passing by, it looked like we were having a group hug. Or, if they couldn’t see little ole me, they might have gotten the impression that the South was a lot more liberal than is normally believed to be the case.

  “You could call him at the hotel,” he said helpfully.

  “No, I can’t. I didn’t even ask him where he was staying. Guys, I’m a self-absorbed witch, aren’t I?”

  They didn’t argue.

  “Guys!”

  Rob squeezed the shoulder he’d appropriated. “No, you’re not. But there’s nothing you can do about it now. You can’t very well be expected to call every hotel and motel in Charleston, now can you?”

  “Buford would only stay at the best.”

  “Yes, but doesn’t he have a history of staying in hotels under assumed names?”

  “What?”

  “You know,” Bob practically bellowed, “like when he was cheating on you with Tweetie—oops!”

  I shrugged their arms away. “I could call his Charlotte numbers. He was always compulsive about checking his voice mail.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Rob said. For a non-thespian, he was able to conjure up a remarkable amount of false enthusiasm. “But do it when we break for lunch. I figure we have just enough time for one more quest before then. What’s next, Abby, the thesaurus, right?”

  “Right!”

  “But we still haven’t collected the crystal ball!” Grown men with bass voices should refrain from whining.

  “We’ll get to the ball, dear,” I said and gave Bob a smile full of sugar. “But the thesaurus is next.”

  It was almost scary how well my plan was working.

  Ella Nolte was obviously a successful mystery writer. She lived only a few blocks away on Tr
add Street, in a pre-Revolutionary War house. The street got its name from Robert Tradd, thought to be the first child of English descent born there. The houses front right up to the sidewalk, giving it a European feel, and today it is still a highly desirable address. The Rob-Bobs, who had never been in a Tradd Street home, were dying to come inside with me.

  “We could pretend that I’m your husband,” Rob said. I’d never heard him sound so desperate.

  Bob pushed his partner gently aside. “What about me?”

  “Relax, guys. Neither of you gets the honor. She’s already met Greg.”

  “When?” they chimed together. Coca Cola was going to make out like a bandit.

  I couldn’t very well tell them the truth now, could I? If they learned that Greg had met Thelma the night of Madame Woo-Woo’s murder, they’d realize I was working on the case. I had to think creatively.

  “You see,” I said, “we were thoroughly prescreened for this test. We had to meet all the club members.”

  Rob’s blue eyes narrowed as he gave the matter some thought. “Let me get this straight,” he said, without a hint of irony, “you knew the people at the last stop?”

  “Of course.”

  “And a towel was the best they could do?”

  Bob scratched his head, which is beginning to lose its hair. He does it with some frequency, which answers for me the question of which came first, the chicken or the egg.

  “Abby, what is the name of this secret society?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “But we’re two of your best friends.”

  “We’re also your transportation,” Rob said. “Not to mention, your guardians until Greg gets home.”

  “Okay, okay—uh, they call themselves the Tradd Street Irregulars.”

  “But they don’t all live on Tradd.”

  “Which is why they’re called irregulars.”

  Not only could Rob smell that something was rotten in Denmark, he could smell Copenhagen’s city dump. “The rules of this scavenger hunt seem to be a tad flexible. What exactly are they?”