Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  “You go, girl!”

  She sighed heavily. “That is, until Daddy died.”

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t be. He died on the way home. Fell asleep in first class and never woke up.”

  “We should all be that lucky.”

  “Exactly. Still, I can’t help but think that Daddy might be alive today if Francis hadn’t stood me up. That unexpected vacation was a little hard on Daddy, especially all those late nights in the casinos.”

  “I can’t believe you still belong to the same club as Dr. Whipperspoonbill.” I suppose I could have called the man Francis—he couldn’t hear me, after all—but I loved the workout his name gave my lips. Heck, saying it three times in a row was practically as good as a collagen injection.

  Thelma looked down at her empty glass. “It’s like following through with the reception and the trip to Aruba. Living well is the best revenge. Isn’t that what they say? I figure the best way to come out ahead is to act as if Francis never hurt me.”

  Now this was a wise woman. I wish I’d done that when Buford dumped me—although my circumstances were quite a bit different. For all intents and purposes he’d had our son taken away from me, not to mention my home.

  “How does Francis act, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “That’s the maddening part. He doesn’t act any differently. It’s like nothing ever happened.”

  “And you’re all right with that?”

  “Of course not. But if I let on that I’m hurt or angry, then he wins, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded. We all do what works for us, and because I understand that, I try to make allowances for people whenever I can. But palling around with someone who had embarrassed me in front of family and friends, not to mention Charleston society, was beyond my ken. Passing judgment on Thelma Maypole, however, was not why I’d gotten the Rob-Bobs to drive me all the way down to Kiawah Island.

  “The night of the séance—did you see anyone go into the dining room alone?”

  She stared at me. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could tell she wasn’t even blinking. No aurora borealis.

  “Well?” I asked patiently. Time was getting away from me, and the Rob-Bobs were due back any minute.

  “Abby—may I call you that?”

  “By all means.”

  “Abby—you know it’s funny, come to think of it, but I live on Glen Abbey Drive. Although why it is named that is beyond me. Strictly speaking a glen is a narrow, secluded valley, while an abbey is a monastery governed by an abbot. And since there are no proper valleys here on Kiawah—”

  “The séance,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “Who was alone in the dining room that night?”

  “Francis,” she said softly.

  “You sure?”

  “Quite. I was on my way back to the kitchen to get another of those delicious ham and biscuit sandwiches when I noticed him standing hunched over the table, his buttocks toward the door.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “I couldn’t see. But I spoke his name and he straightened and turned—whirled actually. It was like I caught him at something.”

  “Did you mention this to anyone?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I mentioned it—casually, mind you—to your mother.”

  “Mama? Why her?”

  “Well, I thought someone should know. But Abby, please don’t think I’m telling you this to get back at Francis in any way. That sort of getting even is not my style.”

  “I understand totally,” I said. There were, indeed, many things I understood totally. But Thelma Maypole and her continued association with Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill was not among them.

  We chatted for a few more minutes. That is say, she began a lengthy geological description of the Carpathian Mountains. The only reason I didn’t cut her off at the pass was that I was trying to figure out how she’d made the switch to such an esoteric subject. I never did make the connection, but I came to my senses and beat a hasty retreat. When I got to the car the Rob-Bobs were already in it, looking as glum as if they’d both been stood up at the altar.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Y’all are pissed at each other because you both made goo-goo eyes at a cute guy on the beach.”

  “I wasn’t looking at him,” Rob said. “I was admiring his swim trunks. They were Calvin Klein.”

  “It wasn’t his trunks you were admiring,” Bob boomed.

  Rob slapped the steering wheel with an open palm. “You’re the one who pointed him out. Said he looked like Tom Cruise.”

  I tried in vain to whistle with two fingers in my mouth. “Guys!” I finally shouted. “Give it a rest. What if I carried on like that about some stranger I’d seen?”

  Rob glanced at me. “Abby, I hate to remind you, but before you married Greg, you walked around with your tongue hanging out half the time.”

  “I did not!”

  Bob’s basso profundo made me jump. “You did so.”

  “At least I gave it up when I got married. You two have each other, it’s the same thing.”

  They were silent for a few miles. “Where to next?” Rob asked when we were well off the island, and headed back up Bohicket Road.

  “I don’t know the address for this one, so we need to stop at a gas station so I can look it up. All I know is his name, Whipperspoonbill.” I bit my lip. “Oops, I just broke Rule Number Three, didn’t I? No details.”

  Bob cleared his throat. “Uh—there can’t be that many Whipperspoonbills, can there?”

  I didn’t know to whom he was addressing the question, but I took the liberty of answering. The cat was already out of the bag, wasn’t it?

  “This is Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill. He’s a veterinarian, not a people doctor.”

  Rob slowed the car. “Abby, we know this guy.”

  “You do?”

  “We were at a party at his house just last week.”

  “Bald head on top? Speaks like he has lockjaw?”

  “That’s him all right.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “It was a coming-out party,” Bob said.

  “He has a daughter in cotillion? I knew he was a widower, but I’d pegged him for older than that.”

  “Not that kind of coming-out party,” Rob said. “Francis is gay.”

  “Oh. Well, that certainly explains some things.”

  “Like what?” Someone was owed yet another Coke.

  “I’m not allowed to tell you, remember? No details.”

  “Abby,” Rob said sternly, “this is different.”

  “No, it isn’t. You just want to hear gossip.”

  “Please,” Bob begged.

  I threw up my hands in mock resignation. “Okay, but if I break this rule, then the whole deal is off. Rules One and Two go out the window as well.”

  We drove about another mile in silence. A pregnant sea turtle could have made better time up that highway. Rob finally pulled over to the shoulder to let an SUV pass.

  “Okay,” he said. “But there has to be a new rule—one where we all keep mum.”

  “Deal.” I signed locking my lips and throwing away the key. It was such a juvenile gesture that had a mime done it, within my reach, I would have slapped him. It has always been my fantasy to slap a mime—but I digress.

  “So spill, Abby.”

  I dutifully filled the guys in on my conversation with Thelma Maypole.

  The Rob-Bobs wanted to come in with me when I called on Dr. Whipperspoonbill, but I refused to let them. Their presence would change the dynamics of the situation, possibly even removing certain elements of surprise. Since the veterinarian lived within a stone’s throw of their own house, they parked in their driveway and I hoofed it over.

  There was a genteel shabbiness about Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill’s house. The eaves needed sanding and repainting, and several of the wooden hurricane shutters had slats missing. The minuscule lawn needed cutting, the shrubs needed pr
uning, and the wrought iron patio furniture was peeling and could, at the least, use a good hosing down. In another part of town—say, north of Broad—the word derelict might creep to, but not necessarily out of, one’s lips. Three blocks back from South Battery, one could afford to be forgiving.

  The doorbell also seemed to be out of commission, so I knocked with a ring suspended from the jaws of a bronze lion head. My timid taps went unanswered, so I gave the brass receiving plate a couple of hard raps before giving up. I was halfway down the steps when I heard the door open.

  “Mrs. Washburn, is that you?”

  I turned. Thelma Maypole’s former fiancé was standing in the doorway, wearing his striped cotton seersucker suit and silk bow tie. I scrambled back up the steps, and as I got closer I could see that he was wearing his white bucks as well. Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill was a true Charleston gentleman at home, as well as out. The only thing missing was the white straw hat, which, of course, would have been bad manners to wear indoors.

  “Sir, I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time.”

  “By all means,” he said, without moving his lips. “Please, come inside.”

  I did as bade and stepped into the previous century. No—make that even earlier. Everything was Victorian, from the dark heavy drapes to the carved and curved furniture with lace doilies pinned to strategic places. Even the dust was Victorian. I didn’t know how the late Mrs. Whipperspoonbill died, but suffocation would have been my guess. It occurred to me that the reason the doctor spoke through clenched teeth was to avoid ingesting a mouthful of dust mites.

  “Would you care for a drink?” my impromptu host asked, after I’d chosen what looked to be the cleanest chair.

  “No thank you, I’m fine.” The truth is I would have leaped at the offer under more hygienic circumstances.

  “Well then, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ll come straight to the point, doctor. The night of the séance—did you see anyone alone in the dining room before it began?”

  He stiffened. “No. I don’t recall seeing anyone in there. Why do you ask?”

  I stiffened as well. I hadn’t intended to be so direct, and I certainly didn’t expect him to give tit for tat.

  “Well—uh—okay, doctor, I won’t play games. My friend Jane Cox can’t sleep because the police haven’t figured out who Madame Woo-Woo’s killer is. Since I’m married to a former detective, and have had a little experience in these matters, I thought I’d give them a helping hand. Unofficially, by the way.” That last was meant for my protection, as well as his comfort level.

  “Like I said, I didn’t see anyone in the dining room. Not until Mozella—your mother—called us in with her interpretation of a town crier.”

  “That was amusing, wasn’t it? However, Dr. Whipperspoonbill—and I don’t mean to put you on the spot here—somebody did say that they saw you in there.”

  “Who?” His lips actually opened.

  “Thelma Maypole.”

  “Oh, her.” He was back to playing ventriloquist. “She would say that.”

  “Why? Does she have a bone to pick with you?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mrs. Washburn. I’m sure she told you about the wedding fiasco. And no doubt she embellished the story.”

  “She did indeed tell me, but I have no idea whether she embellished it or not.”

  “Would you care to hear the truth?”

  16

  “I’d love to hear your version.”

  He frowned. “You’re a clever woman, Mrs. Washburn.”

  “Thanks. Too bad my ninth grade algebra scores didn’t reflect that.”

  The frown softened. “May I begin my account?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He’d been standing, and before continuing he selected a chair. When he sat the air was filled with motes.

  “Thelma and I were engaged for three years, although it seemed like ten. She’s the one who kept postponing the wedding, not me. Then when she finally committed to the ceremony and we started making plans—well, can you believe she wanted her daddy along on our honeymoon to Aruba?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Then the night of the rehearsal dinner she got dead drunk, and guess who she toasted?”

  “A former boyfriend?”

  “Her daddy again. Said he was the only man she’d ever truly loved, and would probably ever love.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Of course she said a lot of other crazy things too—because like I said, she was really drunk. So anyway, I thought I’d chalk it all up to the alcohol, but then when she was two hours late for the actual ceremony—well, can you blame me for having second thoughts?”

  “You mean she stood you up?”

  “I waited at the empty church—everyone else had long since gone home—because I felt that if I was patient long enough, she would somehow show up. In the meantime tourists came in and out. They probably thought I was nuts standing there in my tuxedo. Finally Thelma did show up—with her daddy, of course. She was wearing her wedding gown, but she looked—well, disgusting. Like she’d been sleeping in it or something. You can bet she was still hung over.”

  “Wow. I’ll say this, y’all’s stories don’t jibe at all.”

  “Well, I have witnesses—a whole church full of them. At least for the first hour.”

  I nodded. “In that case, let me ask you this—and it’s the same question I asked her. Why did you stay a member of the Heavenly Hooters—I mean, Hustlers—after that? Didn’t you hate her guts?”

  “Not really. To tell you the truth, I felt sorry for her. Besides, it was her daddy’s money that was wasted, not mine. I hear that the reception food was donated to a homeless shelter, so I guess somebody actually benefited.”

  “Still, you Hustlers must be a tight little bunch.”

  He cocked his head to consider the validity of my statement. The light from a dusty rose Victorian lampshade cast a strangely appealing glow on his bald pate.

  “We are. Except for your mother, we’ve known each other for years. Palled around. It’s hard to make friends these days—you don’t want to dump the ones you have.”

  “But you grew up here. In Charleston.”

  “Yes, but you lose friends—to death—or they move away. And I guess some folks just find it easier to make friends than others.”

  That’s when I did something terribly inappropriate. Just for having brought up the subject, I should be slapped by a hundred mimes, none of them wearing gloves.

  “From what I hear,” I said, “you’ve been making new friends lately.”

  The color of his pate deepened to a brick red. “What do you mean?”

  “Uh—nothing.”

  “Wait just one minute. You’re friends with Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben, aren’t you? I should have known.”

  “Busted,” I said.

  “Well, for your information, Mrs. Washburn, I am not a—well, I am not gay, as they say these days.”

  “Your sexual orientation is none of my business, doctor. And I apologize for having even gone there. I must say your reaction surprises me, however. From what I hear, Charleston is a fairly tolerant city, as long as one doesn’t confront anyone directly with one’s lifestyle. You know, get in their face.”

  His pate was still an unnatural red. “The party was for a young friend of mine, not me. I can see now that it was a huge mistake.” He stood. “Mrs. Washburn, I will not allow my reputation to be tarnished.”

  I stood as well. “It’s unfortunate, doctor, that you think one’s sexual orientation—one way or the way—can somehow be tarnishing. It’s not like committing a crime. It’s not murder.”

  He didn’t appear to be listening. “That Madame Woo-Woo was a fraud. Everyone knew it. If someone hadn’t murdered her, I would have sued.”

  It was time to abandon my wagon, and jump into his. It promised to be a more interesting ride.

  “Sued her for what?”

  “We
had this group reading—that’s what led to the séance, you know. Everyone was impressed with her. Why shouldn’t they be? The Riffles were told they were going to make a million-dollar profit on some ridiculous car. Ella was going to hit the New York Times best-seller list. Thelma was going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger and—”

  “And Mama?” I asked anxiously.

  “She was finally going to get the great-grandchild she’s been wanting.”

  “Not on your life! Not anytime soon. Neither Susan nor Charlie are married.”

  “Like I said, she was a fraud.”

  I remembered whose wagon I was riding in. “What about you? What did she predict for you?”

  The pate faded to an ashy pink and he studied a doily on the arm of a chair. “The same thing she told Thelma.”

  “That you would meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger?”

  He cringed. “Ella Nolte is a writer. They repeat everything—put it in their books. What you said before—about not advertising your personal business. My friends, I can trust. Ella Nolte is another matter.”

  “I thought she was your friend. Isn’t that what the Heavenly Hustlers is all about?”

  “Yes, but you know what I mean.”

  I said good-bye. I did indeed know what he meant. Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill, not unlike the rest of us, had more than one circle of friends. The various circles were not intended to intertwine. Madame Woo-Woo’s prediction had sounded an embarrassing note in the wrong circle.

  “Do you think the doc is capable of murder?” I asked. It was a silly question. I believe anyone to be capable of the act, given the right circumstances. And even though we were no longer playing by the rules, I knew the Rob-Bobs were not about to incriminate a friend.