Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  “I can’t believe this,” I wailed.

  “Oh, but it’s true, Abby. One of Johnny’s stories was so good that our English teacher cried when he read it.”

  “I believe you! What I mean is, I can’t believe the amount of trouble I seem to run into. Boy murderers, yet! You’d think I was Angela Lansbury.”

  “Oh, no, Abby, you’re much older than she.”

  “Thanks, dear.” I turned on the ignition and stomped on the gas pedal.

  Perhaps it was a foolish thing, calling from a pay phone in front of a convenience store. But at the time it seemed safer than calling from home, thanks to that modern horror, caller identification. C. J., who is quite good at sound effects, helped set a trap for Johnny Trap.

  “Mr. Westerman?” I was speaking through a facial tissue and using my best British accent.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but you have a wrong number.” Still, he didn’t hang up.

  “Mr. Westerman, this is Christy Marple calling from London, England.”

  “Look, I said—”

  In the background, C. J. wailed like a foghorn on the Thames.

  “Mr. Westerman, I represent Dorfman, Marple, and Daily, one of England’s most respected law firms.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “It seems you have quite a large inheritance coming your way.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. According to our records, your great-great-grandfather was the youngest son of Lord Angus Westerman, the famous English industrialist. Is that so?”

  “Well, it could be. I think my mama did have some English ancestors.”

  “This would have to have been your father.”

  “Oh, him, too. Daddy was definitely English.”

  “So he was a Westerman?”

  “Born and bred.”

  “Of the Wilmington, North Carolina, Westermans?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  C. J. tooted like the horn of a London cab.

  “Great. Now we’re getting somewhere. You see, your great-uncle Louis Westerman—not a lord, alas—died without any heirs on our side of the pond and—”

  “How much is the inheritance?”

  “Oh, millions.”

  “Pounds or dollars?”

  C. J. brayed like a British ambulance.

  “Uh…Euro-dollars. But it’s still millions. Now, Mr. Westerman, according to our records, you have a brother. Is that so?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But you do. It says so right here. Albert Westerman.”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s been a long day.”

  “Mr. Westerman, does your brother also live in Charlotte?”

  “Well, ma’am, the truth is, I don’t know where Albert is these days. He was always kind of a free spirit, you know. Kind of roamed from one city to the next. Hell, he could be out in California for all I know. Maybe even Alaska.”

  “That’s a shame, Mr. Westerman, because according to British law—”

  “Ma’am, I just remembered—”

  Unfortunately, C. J. picked that very moment to bong like a clock. That happens to be her worst imitation.

  Johnny Westerman didn’t have enormous ears for nothing. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s just Big Ben. It chimes on the hour, you know.”

  “That’s funny, because it’s not the hour here. What time is it there?”

  “It chimes on the half hour, too,” I said, grasping at straws.

  “But it’s exactly ten after. I just reset my watch this morning.”

  “Uh, Big Ben is slow today.”

  “Miss Timberlake, is that you?”

  I hung up and turned on C. J. “Now you’ve done it! He knows it was me.”

  C. J. blinked, but her face remained placid. “It isn’t my fault you can’t clip your vowels.”

  “I clipped my vowels,” I wailed. “I clipped them back to the cuticle. It was your pitiful Big Ben and your abominable timing.”

  “Well, Abby, if that’s the way you’re going to be, then just take me home. I’d have an inch of popcorn strung by now—maybe more if that popping idea of yours works.”

  “C. J., I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m scared. Albert Westerman knows I’m onto him, and if he and his brother really did kill their parents—how did they do it?”

  “Bonked them on their heads with baseball bats while they slept. The parents were sleeping, I mean, not the boys.”

  I shuddered. “You’re sure?”

  “They showed me baseball bats just like the ones they used. Like I said, they bragged about it all the time.”

  I glanced around me. A skinny blonde in platform shoes was pumping gas, and an elderly man was just walking out with a paper under his arm. The convenience store parking lot seemed as safe a place as any.

  “I think the Westerman boys might just be the ones who tried to break into my car the other night.”

  “Did they hit it with baseball bats?”

  “No. But Mouse has definitely been following me. First to the nursing home, and then there was that business with Susan. Oh, and the motorcyclist—and that black woman from church. C. J., do you ever feel paranoid?”

  C. J. rolled her bovine eyes. “Of course not. I just tune those voices out.”

  “Thanks, dear. You’re always a big help.”

  She grinned happily. “I try. Hey, Abby, maybe you should tell all this stuff to Greg.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  But I wouldn’t. Not all of it, at any rate. I would fish for bits of information, but I wouldn’t lay my cards on the table, for fear that Greg would force me out of the game. Greg can be as cautious as a chicken at a fox crossing. I wasn’t about to sit back and do nothing while he took his sweet time going through channels and following procedures. Mama claims that I was born running—ran right off the delivery table. Of course, that isn’t true, but you get the picture. I was born to do. And I would get to the bottom of this puzzle, just not tonight. Now it was time to take C. J. home to meet the new love of her life.

  C. J. and I strung eight feet of popcorn by the time Greg and Sergeant Bowater showed up, a full hour late. We would have strung a lot more, but C. J. was ravenous. She polished off two ham sandwiches—after making me sign an affidavit that pigs were not descended from dinosaurs—and three luscious Carolina peaches. The bowl of popcorn became her second dessert.

  “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” I said sourly to Greg. I’d had it with C. J. by then. One more Shelby story, and I was going to explode like a popcorn kernel.

  “Couldn’t help it, Abby. We got called to assist Officers Massey and Kurtz. There was an attempted holdup of a convenience mart.”

  “Where? Up by the Charlotte Motorway?”

  Greg gave me a funny look. “That’s way out of our jurisdiction. This was over on Providence.”

  “Well, you could have called.”

  Sergeant Bowater stepped forward. “Pardon me, ma’am, but Investigator Washburn—” Bowater stopped midsentence. His mouth hung open, and his eyes bulged. He had seen C. J.

  C. J. had seen him. “Ooh,” she squealed, “is this the hunk you were telling me about?”

  Sergeant Bowater’s myriad freckles connected, forming one vast blotch. He was still apparently incapable of speech.

  “Ooh, Abby,” C. J. said, turning to me, “he’s even cuter than you said.”

  “And he’s from Shelby.”

  C. J. moaned, sounding remarkably like Mama does when she bites into chocolate fudge cake.

  “Love at first sight,” I said.

  Greg snickered. “Give me a break, Abby. The man hasn’t even said one word.”

  “Classic symptoms, dear. And she couldn’t hear him if he did, what with all the violins playing in her head. In fact, knowing C. J., I’d say she had the Vienna Boys’ Choir in there, too.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Do? Why, nothing, of course. Except leave them alone.” I grabbed him b
y one tanned elbow and steered him to the kitchen. “You hungry? There might be a piece of ham left.”

  “Naw.” He glanced toward the living room. “You sure they’ll be all right?”

  “They’ll be fine as frog’s hair split three ways. It was a match made in heaven. Say, Greg, you ever hear of a pair of brothers by the name of Westerman?”

  Broad shoulders shrugged.

  “Albert and Johnny.”

  “Isn’t that a singing team?”

  “That’s Eddy Albert, and he’s one person. I’m talking about two men.”

  “They singers, too?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. They’re coming to Charlotte. They’ll be at the Oven’s Auditorium next Friday. I thought we might go.”

  “Whatever you say, babe.” Greg put his arms around me. “I like it when the woman does the asking. I like it when the woman—”

  I slid deftly away from his embrace. It was still silent in the other room, and while some silence was good, too much was definitely not. I had just had my upholstery shampooed.

  21

  Thanks to Irene, I could afford to sleep in. I woke about ten, because of light sneaking through the blinds, but I lolled about decadently. Friday is sheet-changing day in this house, and I’d remembered to do so before going to bed. There is nothing quite as delicious—except for maybe a cinnamon bun—as lolling about on clean sheets. I lolled, yawned, and stretched, and lolled again. Dmitri, who weighs a good ten pounds, lolled, yawned, and stretched as well, but on my chest. It was a wonder I could breathe.

  When the phone rang, close to eleven, I picked it up languidly. “Hello,” I purred.

  “Abby? Rob here. You busy?”

  “I’m lolling, dear. You, however, are at work, right?” There was no point in suppressing the glee in my voice.

  “Actually, I’m not. I’m at Charlotte Douglas International Airport.”

  “I’m here, too,” I heard Bob boom in the background.

  I pushed Dmitri off and sat up. “Are you going to New York? I thought that art expert friend of yours was coming here tomorrow.”

  “That art expert friend has a name, Abby. It’s Reginald Perry, and he just happens to be the world’s foremost authority on van Gogh. And his apocrypha.”

  “What?”

  “Works attributed to van Gogh that weren’t really his.”

  “Well, this one is!”

  “I’m sure it is. Anyway, Reginald has never been south before, and he expressed a desire to come early and then spend a couple days at Myrtle Beach.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No, I’m not. If this works out—I mean, if the painting proves to be real, Bob and I will drive him there ourselves. We could use a few days off.”

  “I can’t believe that a van Gogh authority from New York City would want to visit the Grand Strand. Besides, I’m pretty sure I read in the paper that if you’re not a native Carolinian, you have to show an Ohio birth certificate at the city limits.”

  “So, Abby, can we come right over?”

  “Now? But I have a funeral to go to this afternoon, and tonight I’m busy as well.”

  “What time is the funeral?”

  “Two, but—”

  “No problem. I’m calling from my cell phone, and I’m already out of the parking lot. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Rob hung up.

  “What? What?” I slapped the receiver with the heel of my hand. It was, of course, only a useless gesture. And it was useless to try and call the Rob-Bobs back because I didn’t know their cell phone number.

  Left with no choice but to cooperate, I decided to put my best foot forward. I had planned to wear shorts and a T-shirt until it was time to change for the funeral, but clearly that would no longer do. I took the shortest shower in history and had just pulled my black, floral print funeral dress over my head when the doorbell rang.

  I dashed to the door, pushed wet clumps of hair behind my ears, and opened it serenely—yes, I know, I should have first peeked through my specially installed peephole. At any rate, I had expected Reginald Perry to be a dapper little man, perhaps with a Maurice Chevalier mustache and a silk ascot. The man accompanying the Rob-Bobs was dressed in Madras shorts and a pink I LOVE NEW YORK T-shirt. Judging from his belly, he was nine months pregnant, and instead of wearing proper shoes, he was wearing thongs! What was the world coming to? If Mama really wanted to serve mankind, she should skip going to Africa as a missionary and join the fashion police instead.

  Rob proudly made the introductions while I shook a hand that was as hot as a freshly served bowl of chili and every bit as wet.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here,” Reginald said. He didn’t sound to me at all like a New Yorker. Perhaps he had immigrated from the hinterlands.

  I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my skirt and ushered the men in. “I’m so glad you could come, Mr. Perry.”

  “Please, call me Reggie. All my friends do.”

  I smiled graciously. “You may call me Abby. Care for some tea?”

  Only Reginald laughed. “That’s a joke, right? Tea in this heat?”

  “She means sweet tea,” Rob said, and then quickly added, “iced tea.”

  “Sounds good, but you got any beer?”

  “I might be able to scare one up. You want that in a mug, or is the can all right?”

  “Abby!” Rob gasped.

  Reggie laughed. “Can is fine. But I need to use the john first.”

  I pointed to the hallway. “First door on your left.”

  “Abby,” Rob said sternly, the bathroom door having barely closed, “do you know who you were just talking to?”

  “A potbellied man who sweats like a pig? I’m sorry, but that’s no way to dress on a plane. Every year, airline passengers are taking more liberties with their clothes. Soon you won’t be able to tell them from the folks down at the bus depot.”

  “Reginald Perry can dress any way he damn pleases! The man is a world expert in his field.”

  “And besides,” Bob whispered, his voice barely below a boom, “who are you to talk? Your hair is all greasy.”

  “Oh, the conditioner,” I wailed. “I forgot to rinse it out.”

  “Don’t worry, Abby,” Rob said kindly, “I’m sure he didn’t notice. Not with your dress being inside out.”

  “What?” I glanced down. Sure enough, the frayed rayon seams on the outside of my dress were a dead giveaway. The floral design was only barely visible on the reverse side of the material. My dress looked merely smudged.

  “Turn your backs,” I snapped.

  They obediently did so, and I turned the dress inside out. In the process, however, I got white deodorant streaks on the outside front. I barely had time to dab at them with a wet paper towel before Reggie returned. As soon as he did, I shoved a cold, sweating beer into his hand. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the water spots or the shredded bits of towel.

  “You ready to go back to the guest bedroom and see my masterpiece?” I asked brightly.

  There was absolutely no innuendo intended. Nonetheless, both Rob-Bobs gasped, and Bob put a warning finger to his lips.

  Reggie smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire professional life, Abby. If what you have really is the Field of Thistles, I will die a happy man.

  Reggie stared at the painting, his mouth open wide enough to catch a frog catching flies. Perhaps he was dead. I knew for sure that Rob and Bob weren’t breathing. That’s all I needed—three corpses in the guest room. It was going to take me every bit of my ten million dollars to get me out of that one.

  “Well,” I demanded after an eternity, “is it, or isn’t it?”

  Reggie’s mouth closed and opened several times before the first syllable squeaked out. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “It’s her, all right.”

  “Her?” Were paintings assigned the feminine gender, like ships and cars?

  “It’s Field of Thistles.”

 
“By Vincent van Gogh?” I shrieked.

  Reggie gave me a pained look. “There is no mistaking the master’s hand on this one. Those brush strokes—pure genius.”

  Rob must have resumed breathing. “You’re absolutely positive? I mean, don’t you have to scrape off some paint samples and run a few tests?”

  I all but threw myself across the canvas. “Scrape this baby, and you die!”

  “Easy, Abby,” Rob said. “The man knows what he’s doing.”

  I eyeballed Reggie, who regarded me calmly. “I do need to take some paint samples,” he said, “but I won’t really be scraping them off. A painting this old will flake naturally with just a light brushing. If it doesn’t, I have a very sharp razor that will allow me to shave a layer so thin you won’t even notice it. I will, of course, be collecting a few canvas fibers, but those will be taken from the back. Trust me, even an expert like myself would not be able to tell that samples had been taken.”

  “Be careful,” I wailed. “This is my early retirement.”

  “You want your kit in from the car?” Bob asked.

  Reggie nodded. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the van Gogh. I’m proud to say that Buford had that exact same look on our wedding night.

  While Bob ran back to the car and Reggie stared, Rob steered me to a far corner of the room.

  “You do realize, don’t you, that it could still turn out not to be the genuine article?”

  “What? But—”

  Rob placed a well-manicured hand on my shoulder. “I’m just saying, it isn’t over until the fat lady sings. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. Just in case.”

  “There is no just in case,” I hissed. I ducked loose from Rob’s hand and grabbed Reggie’s pink sleeve. “You are positive, aren’t you?”

  Reggie wiped his eyes on his other sleeve. “I’d stake my reputation on it. The art world is very fortunate, Abby, that this masterpiece”—he chuckled—“fell into your hands. But don’t worry, I’ve decided to scratch my little jaunt to Myrtle Beach. I’ll be catching the first plane back to the city that I can get a seat on.”

  “Really?”

  “And to think I remembered to bring my Ohio birth certificate.”

  “You mean I was right?” I had just made up that birth certificate thing, but you never knew these days. It had been years since I’d been down there, and it seems to me like we were mostly Carolinians back then. Now, I’ve been told, every other car is from Ohio.