by Tamar Myers
My big, yellow lug of a cat, who does nothing but sleep, yawned. A cloud of stale fish breath settled across my face and pillow.
“Off,” I said. “Get me off me.” If Dmitri didn’t immediately move, it would be a sign from above that I should sleep in.
Heaven must have had other plans, because the phone rang and Dmitri, who still has his back claws, used my chest as a springboard. I was through cursing by the time I found the phone, buried under my clothes from the day before.
“Hello!” I squawked
“Abby? It’s me, Irene Cheng.”
“Oh, my God! Where are you?” I had forgotten all about my new employee.
“In your shop.”
“But you can’t be. It’s locked.”
“Rob gave me his key.”
“What?”
“You know, the spare he keeps for you. I told him you were expecting me, and he said no problem.”
“He did?”
“Okay, let’s see. I dusted everything and swept the floor. By the way, you need a new bottle of toilet bowl cleaner for the bathroom.”
“I do? I mean—what’s that noise I hear in the background? You don’t have customers in there, do you?”
“Of course. We’re a business, aren’t we?”
“We?” If I could have reached through the phone wire, I would have wrung her scrawny neck.
“Please don’t be mad, Abby. I really need this job. My husband got fired last night.”
“Oh. Why? Where?”
“I told you he was downsized after working nineteen years as an engineer, right?”
“Right.”
“So after almost a year of job-hunting, he finally gave up and took a job as a chef.”
“He cooks?”
“He’s the best—his parents owned a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. Anyway, he found a job as a chef at this greasy spoon down in Pineville called—”
“Bubba’s China Gourmet?”
“You know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said lamely.
“Well, never eat there. The so-called Chinese food they serve is a real laugh. So guess what happens? Everything’s going fine—Mike was able to find all the right ingredients for some authentic dishes—and then some idiot customer complains and says she wants the old menu. Boom! Just like that, Mike is out of a job.”
“That’s awful!” I guess I owed her something, if only a chance to prove herself. “Irene, if anyone wants to buy anything, try and stall them. I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, no hurry. Everything’s under control.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, Abby, I sold that oak hutch for its listed price, but—”
“You’ve been selling my merchandise?” I shrieked. “How can you do that? Even Rob doesn’t have a key to my register.”
“I made the customer pay cash. There’s a bank just down the street. I’ve got the money right here in my pocket. Oh, another customer wants to know about those two Federal-style sofas with the hideous plaid fabric—”
“Dump them. Give the customer a 30 percent discount.” I’d had those two monstrosities for weeks and had been meaning to get them reupholstered, but just hadn’t found the time.
“I sold them already—full price. The customer wants to know where she can buy more of that fabric to make drapes.”
“Probably Mary Jo’s in Gastonia. She has the largest selection of fabric in the Southeast, possibly even in the world. She was written up in Southern Living, you know.”
“That’s nice, Abby, but I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got work to do.”
“What?”
I heard her say something to someone who was part of the background noise. Finally she turned her attention back to me.
“Look, Irene—”
“It’s Captain Rich Keffert and his wife, Terry. They’re from Belmont.”
“I know who they are! They’re two of my best customers. Don’t you dare say or do anything to put them off.”
“Oh, no, to the contrary. They want to buy the Louis XIV bed and want to know if it comes with a guarantee.”
“Well,” I said, a bit miffed because the Kefferts should know by now that I stand behind my merchandise’s authenticity, “tell them if they learn elsewhere that it’s not a genuine Louis XIV, I’ll cheerfully refund their money.”
“I’m afraid that’s not the sort of guarantee they want, Abby. They’re concerned about the bed breaking during—,” she paused, and then whispered, “—sex.”
I laughed. “Tell them the bed didn’t break under Louis, but that’s what insurance is for.”
“Will do. About your files—”
“Don’t you touch them!”
“I won’t, Abby, I promise. There’s no need to, anyway. I got here a little early, so I organized them.”
“You what?” Even if I could stick my arm into the phone in an attempt to strangle her, it wouldn’t reach much past the receiver.
“I took all those uncashed checks and put them in a new file I created called ‘Urgent Bank Business.’”
I tried taking deep, slow breaths. “What uncashed checks?”
“Well, there was one for $285 under Z, and…”
Z! So that’s where it was. A customer bought a Victorian side chair the day I planned to see the movie Zorro, and—well, to be honest, I seemed to have lost it. Up until now!
“How many checks did you say, dear?”
“Five. They total up to more than a thousand. If you’ll sign them, I’ll run them over to the bank after work. Oops—Rob’s here!” she hissed. I heard her say something in Chinese, but she didn’t hang up.
A moment later, Rob got on the line. “Abby?”
“Rob! What’s going on?”
“I thought I better check on Mrs. Cheng. What with her language difficulties and all.”
“She seems to be doing all right,” I said. There was no need to put an end to Irene’s little charade. Let Rob think he was fluent in one of the world’s most difficult languages.
“Say, Abby—”
“Rob, I need to say something.”
He could read my miniature mind. “You don’t need to say anything.”
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a jerk. I could really use your help in authenticating—not to mention selling—the painting, and 10 percent is a reasonable fee.”
“Yes, but I see your point. A million dollars is a lot of money to pay someone for a commission.”
“Granted, but it needs to be kept in perspective—something I’ve never been very good at. There are nine other million dollars coming my way, maybe twice that if we find the right buyer.”
“Good for you, Abby. That’s the attitude to have. Now if only you can keep perspective when Uncle Sam hits you up for half.”
“What?”
“You’d forgotten about taxes, haven’t you?”
“Why can’t we have a flat rate?” I wailed. “Maybe 10 percent.”
Rob laughed. “Perspective, Abby, remember. Half of nine million is still a lot of money.”
“I could finally afford to get those spider veins on my legs zapped with a laser.”
“Hell, you could afford a new pair of legs—not that you need a new pair. I mean, your legs are very nice as they are.”
“Not that you would notice, dear, but thank you anyway.”
“Say, Abby, if you’re feeling okay about the commission and all, I have a little confession to make.”
“Confess away!” I said breezily.
“Well, my contact in New York—Reginald Perry—is coming to Charlotte.”
“What? When?”
“Sunday.”
“You invited him down here?”
“Guilty. But, Abby, in my opinion he really is the world’s foremost authority on van Gogh. If he authenticates this painting, you can skip Sotheby’s and Christie’s. You’ll have offers coming out of the woodwork, and no auction comm
issions, either.”
“Wow, in that case—”
“But there is a possible downside, Abby.”
“I’m all ears.”
“There is always a chance the painting will prove not to be authentic. There are some damn good forgers out there.”
My heart pounded. How easily one can adapt to wealth, even wealth that is hypothetical.
“And if he says it’s not the real McCoy?”
“Well, there are other experts. But, to be honest, we would need a team of them to oppose Reginald Perry. The man is a legend.”
“So why did he agree to come here. What’s his cut?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Abby—”
“But I do.”
Rob sighed. “I’m splitting my fee with Reggie. Although frankly, once I told him the scoop, he was so eager to see your painting, he almost called you. It was all I could do to stop him. I think he’d almost be willing to pay you just to look at it.”
I briefly considered allowing Reggie to do just that. In fact, why not turn my shop into a private museum? Surely there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people who would pay to see such a masterpiece. Would fifty bucks a peek be unreasonable?
“Abby, are you there?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I had something in my eyes for a minute.”
“Dollar signs?”
“You know me too well!”
“So, Abby, his plane comes in at five-fifteen. How about dinner at my place at seven?”
“Will he examine it before or after we eat?” Bob does the cooking in that alternative family and is heavily into exotic foods. Perhaps that’s putting it too kindly. The last time I ate with the Rob-Bobs, I was served curried tripe with kiwi chutney. How was I to stomach a supper of stomach while waiting for a verdict on my financial freedom?
“Well, he’ll want to look at it first—can you blame him? But the actual examination will have to wait until after we eat. Rob’s making caramelized quail, and they get tough if you don’t eat them right away.”
I shuddered. I was going to have to down a bottle of antacid before dinner and sneak a heavyweight plastic bag to the table. Hopefully, whatever I couldn’t drop into the bag—hidden by my napkin, of course—would be neutralized.
“Terrific,” I said. I should have ignored Mama and become the actress I always wanted to be.
“Great. Well, got to go, Abby. If you have any problems with Mrs. Cheng, just let me know. And by the way, Reggie says to say hello.”
“Will do, and hello back at him,” I said and hung up. So Mohammed was coming to the mountain! It wasn’t a bad way to start the day.
Irene Cheng certainly didn’t need me to tell her what to do. She was a born saleswoman, and when she wasn’t busy bringing in the bucks, she cleaned, straightened, and organized. That woman couldn’t sit still with an elephant on her lap. I showed her my system of filing—which was vastly inferior to hers—and how to use my register, a machine she was already quite familiar with. After hovering superfluously for several hours, I came to the conclusion that I was finally free to do exactly what I wanted to do in this business, and that was to attend sales and buy, buy, buy. First, however, I had something else to do.
“Can you hold down the fort if I take off for a little while?”
Irene had the grace to smile. “I’ll lock up and give Rob back his key. I already had an extra made. I’ll be coming in early tomorrow, if that’s all right. I thought we might run a sale on the Fenton glass. It’s cluttering up the place.”
“By all means, run a sale. Sell my firstborn, while you’re at it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Sure you’ll be all right?” That was like Pat Robertson asking the Pope if he was “saved.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, dismissing me with a curt nod. I couldn’t blame her, though. A wealthy Charlotte matron whom I privately refer to as Mrs. Money Bags had just walked in.
I left the moolah matron in Irene’s capable hands and set about my errand. The Charlotte whites pages, which were to serve as my travel guide, had a number of Trapp listings, but only two for Trap with a single P. I jotted down both addresses. One was over in west Charlotte; the other, all the way up by UNCC. I followed my gut instinct.
18
Queens Road just happens to be the most beautiful stretch of urban roadway in the United States, and I took it to Morehead and followed that to John Belk Freeway. Then it was Freedom Drive all the way west to Moore’s Chapel. In the neighborhood of Paw Creek Christian Academy, I found the modest brick home with the striped awnings. A single Bradford pear punctuated the parched lawn. Unfortunately, the carport was as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
Still, I rang the doorbell. I may not have a silver tongue, but I can sweet-talk my way out of most ugly situations, and besides, few adults would dare hit a woman who is four foot nine. Children, however, are another story.
The man who answered the doorbell had the same enormous ears and buck teeth as the man in the green overalls, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. This man was a good one hundred pounds heavier than the other. He grimaced when he saw me.
“I’m looking for a Jonathan Trap,” I said, perhaps sounding a bit confused.
“Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“No.”
“Baptist?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re not Mormon because there’s only one of you, and you’re obviously female.”
“I’m Episcopalian, but we don’t do door-to-door soul-saving.”
“Then you’re not selling something, right?”
I shook my head.
“In that case, I’m Johnny Trap.”
“I’m Abigail Timberlake. You wouldn’t happen to own a white van, would you?”
“Nope.” He sounded cagey.
“With a vanity plate that says ‘Trap’?”
“Do you see a van?”
“No, it’s just that—”
“And how did you know my name?”
“I looked you up in the telephone book. There were only two Traps listed. I’m trying to find the owner of the white van.”
“What’s my brother done now?”
Sweat was streaming down Jonathan Trap’s face and collecting in one huge, viscous drop under his front chin. Just looking at him made me hotter.
“Well, I’m not sure. It’s kind of complicated. Could we possibly talk inside?”
He looked me up and down, which, considering my size, didn’t take but a few seconds. Still, it was a waste of his time. He could have laid a hand on me—I mean that literally—and I wouldn’t have had the strength to push it off.
“Okay,” he said, “but I work at home. You’re disturbing my work.”
I followed Johnny into the house and was shown to a brown leather couch that had depressions the size of bathtubs in it.
“Have a seat,” he said, sitting opposite me on a brown leather armchair. It, too, had a tub-size depression in it, but Johnny’s behind fit it perfectly. No sooner were we both seated than Johnny remembered his southern manners.
“Care for some tea?”
“Sweet?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I’d love some.”
While Johnny was off being a good host, I studied my surroundings. Besides the leather suite, there were some good used pieces but no antiques. The most interesting things were the framed posters on the wall behind me. They looked like enlarged book covers, and they all had the name Johnny Trap on the cover. Except for one. It was the cover of Hortense Simms’s dreadful tome, Of Corsets and Crowns.
Johnny caught me studying them when he returned with the tea. “Those are my book jackets.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Guilty.”
“What kind of writer.”
“A very good one. But alas, I’m underpaid. Vastly underpaid.”
“I meant what genre?”
“Ah
, a reader! I write mysteries.”
“I see. But what about that book on royal underwear? What’s Hortense Simm’s book jacket doing on your wall?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m as mum as a mummy.”
“I ghostwrote Of Corsets and Crowns. Hell, I did even more than that—I did half the research. Sure, it doesn’t have my name on the jacket, but it’s mine.”
“Is the title yours?”
“Yeah. Do you like it?”
“It’s clever. In fact, all your titles are clever. But, to be honest, I’ve never heard of you.”
“That’s no surprise. Over six hundred mysteries get published a year, but you can find me in virtually any bookstore.”
“Well, I’ll have to try one of yours. Tell me, though, do you use a lot of dialogue?”
“Well—”
“Because I don’t like books that are mostly dialogue. I always feel cheated, you know. Give me a book with nice, long descriptive passages I can sink my teeth into.”
“Like War and Peace?”
“There you go.” I was deadly serious. “And what about humor? Too much of it distracts from the story, don’t you think?”
“Not if it’s done well.”
“Which you do?”
“Absolutely. Of course, my books will never win any awards—the funnier it is, the less likely a book is to win anything. Good writing is most often equated with serious writing.”
“Mr. Trap, do you mind if we get back to the subject of your brother? He wouldn’t happen to be named Mouse, would he?”
“Yeah, that’s his name. Our parents, go figure.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I have a brother named Toy.”
“What’s Mouse done now?”
“Like I said, I don’t really know—except that he asked my daughter out.”
“Is she good-looking like you?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. I’ve already got a boyfriend.”
“That’s a real shame. He’s a very lucky man.”
I could actually feel myself blush.
“Or,” he continued, “are you just making that up, because you can’t be bothered by a fat man?”
“Of course not! Some of my best friends are fat!”
“Is your boyfriend fat?”
“No, not that’s it any of your business.”