Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “Dolls, I can see. Birds, I can’t.”

  “People collect matchbooks, sheet music, orchids, palm trees, cars—anything you can think of. Even husbands. There’s that unbeatable excitement of the next acquisition.”

  “It sounds like you know from experience, Abby.”

  “Merely observation. Well, at least we know why Mr. Johnson was interested in the birdcage. It was unique, and it was bird-related. That was enough.”

  “Where to next, Abby? The beautiful blonde named George Murphy?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, and jumped from the seawall to the sidewalk.

  Unfortunately, my body objected to the rude jolt, forcing me to limp back to the car.

  George Murphy was a licensed physical therapist who worked at the Lowcountry Arm and Shoulder Therapy on Ben Sawyer Boulevard in Mount Pleasant. To get there we had to cross the Cooper River. This is, by the way, one of the most important rivers in the world. At the southern end of the Charleston peninsula, the Cooper joins with the Ashley River, where together they form the Atlantic Ocean. That this important piece of geography is not taught in classrooms is yet another sign of the great power the Northern States continue to wield. While it’s not on the tip of my tongue at the moment, I do remember reading about the two rivers that come together to form the Pacific Ocean. Do you see what I mean?

  At any rate, Mount Pleasant, which lacks a mountain, was until just two decades ago a sleepy, moss-festooned fishing village. Today it is home to thousands of retirees, many of whom were fortunate enough to cash in on their nest eggs while still in their fifties, and before the dot-com crash. With money to burn, and in relatively good health, this new generation of retirees eschews rocking chairs for golf, jogging, tennis, and that most revered physical activity, “the workout.” But where there are workouts, there are injuries, and thus in Mount Pleasant there exists a plethora of physical therapists.

  I’d confirmed over the phone that George Murphy was indeed a woman. My purpose for calling, I told her, was that I was having second thoughts about the birdcage. She got off at four and agreed to meet Wynnell and me at the Starbucks in the Barnes & Noble in Towne Center. She described herself as blond and ordinary looking, but the blonde at Starbucks at the appointed hour was a woman who looked like a young Dolly Parton. I, who have never had a hankering for other women, found that it was almost impossible to look her in the eyes.

  “Mrs. Washburn?” she asked.

  “George?”

  She had an easy, pleasant laugh. “It was my mother’s maiden name. She loved her daddy very much and wouldn’t even consider Georgia, or anything like that. I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”

  I introduced Wynnell, who was similarly transfixed by the woman’s attributes. In fact, my dear friend couldn’t look at George at all, so although her head was turned in the young therapist’s direction, Wynnell’s eyes were doing something her mother had no doubt warned her against as a child.

  “She suffers from a rare disease known as putyoureyesbackinyourheaditis,” I explained to George.

  “I do not!” Wynnell said.

  “Forgive her,” I said. “It’s the medication. Would you care for some coffee or a snack, Miss Murphy? My treat, of course.”

  She allowed as how she did, so we all got lattes and scones before cornering the most secluded table. While I did the hostess thing and removed a pile of magazines from the table, Wynnell slid in next to George Murphy. I was thereby forced to confront the Himalayas head on, or settle for a side view, which was even more unsettling. I chose the tips of twin peaks.

  “George,” I said, “you’re probably wondering why we asked you to meet us here.”

  “No, ma’am. You said it was about the birdcage. That you’d changed your mind.”

  “I said I was having second thoughts. I didn’t say I’d changed my mind.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” She took a long sip of her latte and smiled. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was going on. To have made it to the final five contending for the Taj took fast and furious bidding. It showed she was serious about owning that splendid work of art. But now suddenly she didn’t care about it? What was up with that?

  “George, don’t you want the Taj Mahal?”

  “The what?”

  “The fancy birdcage.”

  “Yeah, well I did want it. But that was then, this is now. Hey, have you guys seen that new movie everyone’s talking about?”

  “Scary Movie Six?”

  “No, I think it’s called Blonde, Blonder, and Blondest. Hey, would you guys like to go?”

  “Excuse me?” Wynnell said.

  “We can see another one if you want. The Palmetto Grande theater is just around the corner.”

  “I know where it is,” Wynnell said. “I just can’t figure out—”

  “How we could possibly fit it into our schedule for today,” I said.

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “If we have an opening, I’ll give you a call,” I said. I made a show of looking at my watch. “Goodness me, look what time it is already. If we don’t hurry, Wynnell, we’re going to be stuck in rush hour traffic.”

  “But Abby, most of the rush hour traffic at this time of the day is coming into Mount Pleasant, not—”

  George gasped. “Ouch!”

  Silly me. I’d tried to kick Wynnell, but in sliding down into my chair in order to reach, I’d inadvertently changed course by a few inches. It was George’s knee my tootsie jabbed.

  They say the best defense is a good offense, but I’d like to suggest flight as a solution. Unfortunately Wynnell had yet to start on her scone, so I had to grab her by the arm and pull her from Barnes & Noble.

  “What the heck is going on, Abby?” she demanded as I virtually stuffed her into my car.

  “That buxom blonde is trying to stall, that’s what.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Abby. Did you slip a little something special into your latte?”

  “I did not! Think about it, Wynnell. Why would a complete stranger invite us to the movies with her?”

  “Because she likes us?”

  “Think again. She’s trying to keep us away from the Den of Antiquity as long as possible.”

  “Now you’re being paranoid, Abby.”

  “C.J.!” I dialed the shop number, and when I got the answering machine, I left a cryptic message, commanding my assistant to lock the doors and stay put. Then I tried to dial her cell phone.

  “No answer either place?” Wynnell asked, her unibrow bunched together again.

  “She could be using the restroom,” I said, trying to keep hope afloat. I couldn’t press the pedal to the metal in traffic that heavy, but I did try to drive nine miles above what the law allows. In my experience, it’s that tenth mile that will get you the ticket. But both lanes on Route 17 southbound were bumper-to-bumper and, for some inexplicable reason, moving along at well below the speed limit. I was about to bust a gut with frustration.

  “It’s a Yankee plot,” Wynnell said, shaking her head.

  “What is?”

  “This traffic jam—all these retirees. Sure, they sent down a few carpetbaggers after they won the War of Northern Aggression, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. They were really just biding their time until air-conditioning was invented. Now they send us their old folk by the thousands, maybe even millions, and there is nothing we can do to stop them. If we were still the Confederate States of America, we could refuse them visas.”

  “Now who’s being paranoid?”

  “Oh, Abby, I was just kidding. You know that.”

  “As much kidding as you think you can get away with, given that one of your granddaddies hailed from north of the Line.”

  My buddy snorted and crossed her arms. It bothers her something fierce that she’s not one hundred percent Dixie. But all was forgiven, if not forgotten, when we pulled into my private parking space behind the Den of Antiquity.

  “C.J.,” I cried
, letting myself in the back entrance, “are you all right?” Wynnell was right on my heels, sometimes literally.

  We were still in the storeroom when we heard the loud, off-key sounds that signify the big galoot is attempting to sing. Although I’ve never heard one, this noise brings to mind a donkey in heat. At any rate, I was right: C.J. was in the john.

  I pounded on the door. “Are you okay?”

  The door opened unexpectedly, and I staggered backward, knocking over a stack of dining room chairs. If Wynnell hadn’t been so quick to react, I could have spent the rest of the summer in traction.

  C.J. grinned with delight at seeing us. “Hey guys, what’s up?”

  “You,” I said between pants. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. You know the cord doesn’t reach that far. You should buy a cordless phone, like I keep telling you.”

  “What about your cell phone? I tried to call that, too.”

  She shook her giant head. “Everybody knows that talking on cell phones in bathrooms is dangerous. Abby, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a thing.”

  “It’s not dangerous. Tell her, Wynnell.”

  “I’m having too much fun watching,” Wynnell said.

  “You see, she knows. But I guess I can’t blame you, Abby, because I didn’t know either until Cousin Olea Ledbetter slipped away.”

  I refused to respond.

  “She’d taken her cell phone into the bathroom with her, you see, and was standing on the seat, because she could get better reception that way. Suddenly she slipped and slid right down that hole. Her husband had to break down the door, and all he found was the cell phone floating in the bowl.”

  “Are you sure that wasn’t Cousin Olive Oyl Ledbetter?” I asked.

  “You don’t need to be mean, Abby. You know Cousin Olive Oyl died by choking on a pit.”

  The outside front buzzer rang, and I had never been so happy to answer it in my life. I literally left Wynnell and C.J. behind in the dust (my storeroom needs a thorough cleaning). But my steps slowed when I saw the navy blue uniforms of Charleston’s finest through the beveled glass. Good news, I’ve learned, most often comes by phone. Bad news begs to be delivered in person. One major exception, I am told, is Publisher’s Clearing House. I’ll have to take someone’s word for that.

  I turned the dead bolt slowly. My stomach turned as well.

  “Yes, Officer Tweedledum?” I used his real name, of course.

  “Police business,” he said.

  “Duh!” I said cheerfully. With enough forced cheer, one can get away with saying just about anything. It’s much like saying “bless your heart,” but with fewer words.

  For a moment they were so relieved to be in from the blistering heat that they acted almost human. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken precautions,” Officer Tweedledee said.

  “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any cold sodas on hand, would you?” Officer Tweedledum asked. I believe that’s the longest string of nonhostile words the man has ever spoken to me.

  “Sorry, I don’t. But I can send my assistant out for some.”

  “Yes, please,” they said in unison.

  “Would you like her to bring back a couple of Krispy Kremes as well?”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke, ma’am?”

  What a relief. It was business as usual. No more worrying about the Stepford police.

  “C.J.,” I called. “Come here, please.”

  “In a minute, Abby.”

  “Come now, please.”

  “No can do, Abby. Wynnell and I are arm wrestling.”

  I shrugged. “Good help is hard to find these days,” I said, stalling the inevitable.

  “Mrs. Washburn, I think you should sit down,” Officer Tweedledee said in a rare moment of kindness.

  My knees were suddenly incapable of holding up a mynah bird, much less ninety-eight pounds. I stumbled backward until my bottom connected with a Shaker chair. It took every ounce of strength for me to hoist my patootie, petite as it may be, up to the seat.

  “It’s about Mama, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  10

  I closed my eyes and balled my fists. “Let me have it. Straight up.”

  “We found her rented wheelchair.”

  “And?”

  “That’s all. We thought you might like to know.”

  My eyes flew open. “What do you mean ‘that’s all’? What about Mama’s body?”

  “There was no body, Mrs. Washburn. Just the wheelchair. By the way, the rental company says you owe them $79.82 in late fees.”

  I felt the resurgence of energy. It was just enough to enable me to leap at them and knock their heads together, or to continue my investigation once they left. For Mama’s sake, I chose to be a lady.

  “Where did you find the chair?”

  “I’m afraid that’s on a need-to-know basis,” Officer Tweedledum said.

  “Give her a break,” Officer Tweedledee whispered, earning her my temporary gratitude.

  “St. Philip’s cemetery,” Officer Tweedledum growled. “A parishioner discovered it yesterday, but didn’t report it until this afternoon.”

  “He confessed to taking it home for his wife to use,” Officer Tweedledee said, “but she couldn’t fit. Then his conscience started bothering him, so he turned it over to the department. You’d be surprised how many times that sort of thing happens.”

  “Makes you proud to be an American,” Officer Tweedledum said. “Yes, ma’am, right proud.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, as a thought came to me, “lots of people use wheelchairs. How do you know it’s the right one? Did you check for prints?”

  “We’re not stupid,” Officer Tweedledum said. “We just look that way. Of course we checked it for prints.”

  “And?”

  “There weren’t any.”

  “But we called the rental company,” Officer Tweedledee said. “On the backs of the chairs they advertise a book they publish—Geriatric Sex for Dummies—along with their phone number. Anyway, your mother’s was their only rental last weekend.”

  “May I assume you turned the chair back in so that the rental fee won’t accrue?”

  “Look, Mrs. Washburn,” Officer Tweedledum said, “we don’t all have your kind of money. My wife’s been needing a bigger chair for a long time now and—”

  Officer Tweedledee poked her partner in the ribs.

  “Sorry you folks have to run,” I said, and at the earliest opportunity locked the door behind them.

  C.J. finally answered my call. By then her hair was mussed and her red face was bulging with so many veins it looked like she’d dipped it in a bowl of spaghetti.

  “Where’s Wynnell?”

  “She went out the front way. She said to tell you she was going home to make supper for Ed. Personally, Abby, I think she’s no longer interested in sleuthing.”

  “It has been an extraordinarily long day. How was business?”

  “Pretty good. But just about everyone asked where the bird is.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said we sent it over to Berlitz so it could learn to speak a lot of languages.”

  “Good one.” It was an inside joke; C.J. speaks seventeen languages fluently. At least she claims she does. Who is to know if the Sino-Tibetan dialect she rattles off is really gibberish?

  “Abby, I don’t care if a million customers stop by, it gets lonely here without my little friend.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get Monet back, dear. It’s just a question of time.”

  “I meant you.”

  Does it get any sweeter than that? “C.J., what are your plans for this evening?”

  “I was going to go home and wait for your brother to call. Abby, do you know what it’s like to be in love with the handsomest, sexiest man in the world, and not be able to hold him in your arms every night? I long to feel Toy’s lithe body—if I overlook the love
handles—pressed hard against mine, his full, but somewhat rubbery lips—”

  “Ew! That’s my brother!”

  “But it will all be worth it someday. I’ll be Mrs. Toy Wiggins, and you’ll be my sister-inlaw. How cool is that, sis?”

  “Cooler than an unheated igloo in January. C.J.—sis—he can call you at my house just as well.”

  She hesitated just long enough to make me repeat my invitation, and then we were off. When we got home I was doubly glad to have the big gal for company. Greg had left a message saying his boat was having engine troubles and that he’d be spending the night with a buddy, Mark Gallentree, up in McClellanville. Of course I trusted my husband, but I will admit that it helped that I knew Caroline Gallentree, Mark’s wife. The fact they were neither politicians nor preachers added to my comfort level.

  Dmitri adores C.J., and while I kicked my shoes off and dug through the freezer for a couple of Lean Cuisine dinners, he kneaded her lap and purred. “I had a cat once,” C.J. said loud enough so I could hear from the kitchen.

  “What was his name?” I called.

  “Liger.”

  I brought her a tall glass of sweet tea. “That’s a cute name. Short for Little Tiger, right?”

  “Oh, no, Abby. We called him Liger because that’s what he was—half lion and half tiger.”

  “C.J., please. I’m too tired for Shelby stories tonight.”

  “But it’s true, Abby. Granny Ledbetter bought him from a traveling menagerie. Of course he was just a cub when we got him, but then he got so big that granny put a saddle on him and let me ride him. Ligers, you know, are the biggest cats in the world.”

  “Stop it. Lions and tigers are different species and they come from different places. Lions are from Africa and tigers from Asia. They can’t interbreed. There is no such animal as a liger.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Abby?”

  “No, just highly imaginative.”

  “You are calling me a liar.” She pushed Dmitri off her lap and stood.

  I wasn’t in the mood to play games. Neither did I wish to be mean. But if we constantly let C.J. get away with her preposterous tales, we weren’t doing her any favors.