Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “If one had a brain in one’s head,” Bob boomed, almost making me jump, which would indeed have given the officer an eyeful. “I keep telling my friend that the dog is a basenji, but I might as well be talking to the walls.”

  “A basenji?” the officer said. “My sister has one of those.”

  “You’re kidding! A red and white, a black and white, or a tricolor?”

  “The kind with all three colors. What kind is yours?”

  “Red and white?”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Man, I sure wish you could,” Bob said, “but the little bitch has taken to biting lately. That’s where we’re headed right now, to obedience school.”

  “Yeah? They say biting is a hard habit to break.” I could hear the policeman rip a page from his book. “Mr. Goldburg, I’m going to give you a warning ticket this time, on account of you had a legitimate reason to be distracted.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Rob said, with just the right amount of sarcasm.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank your little four-legged friend in the backseat. Lucky for you I have a soft spot for dogs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I heard the window close, then open again. “Hey,” the cop said, “just one more thing. How come you got the bitch in a suitcase and not in a crate?”

  Bob spoke up. “Like I said, sir, the bitch bites a lot. Chewed up the crate so bad you can’t close the door. This is just an old suitcase I wasn’t using anymore. I plan to swing by Pet Smart in North Charleston after her training session and get a new crate.”

  “Good move. Those basenjis are something else, aren’t they? The little rascals come from Africa, where they use them as hunting dogs. Even use them to hunt lions and elephants, my sister says, because they aren’t afraid of anything. Interesting reason why they can’t bark—”

  “They can’t bark?” Rob asked.

  There was a long period of silence.

  “Mr. Goldburg, you led me to believe the dog was yours.”

  “It is! I thought the rascal was silent all the time because she didn’t like me.” He turned and stuck his finger through a hole not far from my face. “Does daddy’s little girl like him after all? Does her? Does her? Oh, there’s a good widdle girl.”

  I despise baby talk when not issued from the mouths of babes. Plus which, the finger came dangerously close to jabbing me in the eye. Can this little bitch then be blamed for what she did next?

  “Damn!” Rob jerked his finger from the hole. “She bit me!”

  “Serves you right,” Bob said.

  I could hear the officer chuckling as the window went back up.

  “What the heck, Abby,” Rob said, “was that all about?”

  “This widdle bitch bites a lot, didn’t you hear?”

  “Bob said that, not me.”

  “Bitch,” Bob said, “is the preferred term for a female dog. Ask any breeder. Go to any dog show.”

  “What’s a male dog called?”

  “A dog.”

  I made Rob pull into the nearest parking lot and release me from the valise. If the maniacal kidnappers saw me, so be it. I was through with suitcases and canine identities.

  The Mount Pleasant shrimp industry is based on Shem Creek, a tidal creek that bisects the old part of town like a jagged sword. Years ago the docks were jammed with shrimp boats. Today restaurants almost outnumber the boats, and the seafood they serve is not always local. The shrimpers—many of them Vietnamese—struggle to stay in business. I don’t know how Skeeter and Bo manage to survive financially. If Greg and I didn’t own the Den of Antiquity (and its sister store in Charlotte), we could never afford to live like we do. At any rate, Greg’s boat, the Brown Pelican, was deserted except for an ornery, territorial bird of the same name. But it was there. How could Greg have lied to me like that? How could he say he had the boat up in McClellanville, and that it was giving him engine trouble, when it was tied up at its home berth? Greg didn’t even have it in him to tell a white lie, for Pete’s sake. I learned early on in our relationship never to ask him if I look fat or if my hair looks nice.

  We checked all the parking areas within half a mile of the creek. I even thought to push the horn button on my set of keys. I got no response—well, I got one. A Hummer took to bleating like an oversized lamb and unfortunately there was no way to make it stop.

  “Let’s get out of here, guys!”

  Rob was still smarting from his warning ticket, plus he can be stubborn upon occasion. I can run faster than he drove away from the Hummer.

  “This reeks,” I said, on the edge of despair. “First the stupid bird, then Mama, and now Greg. What’s next? Will my shop burn down?”

  “You forgot Dmitri,” Rob said.

  “Thanks a lot. But at least he disappeared at home. He’s probably leaving me a little present of apology right now—in my shoes.”

  “This girl needs something to eat,” Bob said.

  My heart pounded. I knew that the Rob-Bobs had put at least four suitcases in the trunk of their car before stashing me in the backseat. I had assumed those suitcases were empty, but like they say, when you assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me.” Perhaps Bob had packed a picnic lunch, in which case the already horrible day was going to get even uglier. I had no stomach for sweet and sour llama brains, or whatever Bob had dreamed up.

  “I want to go to IHOP,” I practically shouted.

  My buds were stunned. Their philosophy of restaurants can be covered in one sentence: if it’s part of a chain, it’s cool to disdain. But I had a hankering for flapjacks, and what better place to get them than at the International House of Pancakes?

  Rob found his voice first. “You’re kidding, Abby, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. And there is an IHOP on Route 17, just before you get to Towne Center.”

  Rob drove even slower, if that was possible. I had to remind him that one can be ticketed for driving too slowly. I had to say it about a dozen times. When we got to the restaurant, I was in such a hurry to get inside that I stubbed my toe on the curb. As a consequence, I hopped into the IHOP hopping mad. Fortunately, a plate of pancakes was all it took to placate me. As the sugar surged through my body, my brain became functional again. Although it may be fleeting, there is nothing as immediately satisfying as a high-carb high.

  “Sorry if I was bitchy, guys.”

  “No prob,” Rob said. “How else should a widdle bitch be expected to act?”

  “Very funny. Guys, I want to get serious for a minute. Greg never, ever lies to me. He said he was spending the night with a buddy up in McClellanville, that he had the boat up there when it had engine trouble. But he never even showed up. That is so not like him. And why would his buddy, Mark, say he was going to be staying with us? Nobody told me.”

  The Rob-Bobs exchanged looks. They both cleared their throats, but Bob spoke first, all the while smearing leftover syrup around his plate with a fork.

  “Abby, has it ever occurred to you that Greg might be one of the boys?”

  “He’s in his late forties, for crying out loud, and he’s happily married. I’m not saying I’m against a boys’ night out from time to time. But all night? Give me a break!”

  Bob smiled. “I meant gay. Do you think Greg might be gay?”

  “Save it, Bob, this is no time to joke.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not,” Rob said.

  “We had a friend in Atlanta,” Bob said, “who told his wife he was going to church. Well, he did go to church. That’s where he picked up the pastor, who had his bags waiting there, and the two of them took off across the country.”

  “That’s cowardly.”

  “Agreed, that’s why I said ‘had.’ I was just trying to illustrate that these things happen.”

  I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself. The thought of my Greg being gay was absurd. They may as well have been trying to convince me that Greg was really a chimpanzee that was into heavy-duty body waxing.

&
nbsp; “You think it’s absurd, don’t you?” Bob asked.

  “Yes, of course!”

  “But it’s not. We could tell you so many stories—”

  “I’m sure you could. I know a few myself. But guys, you’re forgetting that I don’t have a homophobic bone in my body, and neither does Greg. If he and Mark Gallentree were having an affair, there would be no reason not to tell me.”

  “Would he tell you if he was having an affair with a woman?”

  The three pancakes I’d eaten, plus the bacon and eggs they came with, felt like a bowling ball in my stomach. I couldn’t breathe, thanks to the pressure on my lungs.

  “You’re turning gray, Abby,” Rob said. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Do you need to lie down?”

  “I’m fine guys, really.”

  “Take a deep breath, Abby. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Keep breathing like that until you stop feeling light-headed. I know this is a lot for you to deal with—”

  “I’m not feeling light-headed.”

  “Denial is also a part of the process,” Bob said.

  “Denial is in Egypt,” I snapped, “and Greg is not gay.”

  “Abby, we’re your friends. We only want to help you.”

  The bowling ball left as fast as it had arrived, and I could breathe again. “If you two are though yapping, you might want to turn around and see who is seated two booths behind you.”

  12

  “But don’t let her see you,” I whispered.

  Bob is as subtle as a marching band. His glasses nearly flew off he whipped his head around so fast.

  “That’s Catherine Deephouse.”

  “Indeed. Look who’s with her.”

  “I don’t know him, Abby, do you?”

  “He’s definitely a hunk,” Rob said. “Uh—if you don’t mind robbing the cradle, which I don’t—do, that is. I definitely do mind.”

  “Good save,” Bob growled. He was only half kidding.

  “So, Abby, who is he?” Rob demanded.

  “I don’t know. But don’t you think it odd that in all the restaurants in the Charleston area, Catherine Deephouse would show up at the same one that I choose? And with a musclebound hunk in tow?”

  “She’s got to eat breakfast someplace.”

  “Yes, but Catherine lives on Wadmalaw Island,” I said, referring to a community that is so posh, dirt roads are considered chic. “That’s all the way over on the other side of Charleston. Frankly, I’m surprised she has the energy to keep her shop downtown. That commute would kill me.”

  Rob shook his head as he geared up to poke holes in my theory. “Catherine is an interior decorator. She has clients all over the tristate. As long as they have the bucks, she’s happy to oblige.”

  “That could be her son,” Bob said. “I see a family resemblance.”

  “Otis and Catherine Deephouse don’t have children,” I said. “I’m telling you, this guy’s some kind of bodyguard—no, make that a thug.”

  “He’s married,” Rob said. “Not that I pay attention to ring fingers. I just happened to notice.”

  Bob glared at him. “Abby, coincidences do happen. I bet she doesn’t even know you’re here.”

  “We’ll just see about that.” I put my napkin down beside me on the banquette and slid across the faux leather.

  “Stop,” Rob hissed. “Come back.”

  I don’t take orders. Looking straight ahead, I walked to her booth, stopping when I was halfway past her. Feigning responses, especially surprise, has always come easily to me.

  “Catherine! I almost didn’t see you there.”

  She did a pretty good job of faking as well. “Abby, how nice to see you.”

  “Do you come here, to the Pleasant side, very often?”

  “You know how this business is, Abby. You go where it takes you.” She must have caught a glimpse of the Rob-Bobs. “Heavens, there’s a crowd of you here.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Why on earth would the three of you drive all the way over here to eat breakfast?”

  “But I was just—”

  “What gives, Abby? Some big auction I don’t know about? Some collector die and leave his estate to the wolves?”

  “I’m not a wolf, thank you. But the answer is yes. There’s a fabulous yard sale going on down on Pitt Street in the Old Village. You wouldn’t believe the quality of the merchandise, or the ridiculously low prices. Supposedly the couple is going through a nasty divorce and the husband, who collects, is overseas. I just bought an eighteenth-century writing desk for two hundred dollars!”

  Catherine Deephouse and her male companion, whomever he was, slid out of their booth like butter from a hot pan. They must have already been given their check, because they made only a brief stop at the register before bolting out the door.

  I returned to my seat feeling as stupid as the woman who claimed to have given birth to a circumcised child she’d stolen from a hospital.

  “What’s with them?” Bob asked.

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Rob sighed. “Abby, Abby, Abby, what are we going to do with you? Catherine said something that pissed you off, so you fired back with a volley of your own. It was obviously a good shot, little Miss Big Shot, but the question remains: did you find out what you need to know? Namely, what she’s doing all the way over here, and just who the heck the hunk is?”

  “Hey!” Bob said. “He wasn’t that cute.”

  I hung my head. “Okay, I screwed up. I blew it. But they obviously aren’t following me. Let’s leave it at that, can we?”

  We finished our second carafe of coffee in silence.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Bob said.

  “Uh-oh,” Rob and I said in unison, and then slapped palms. I might have gotten a little syrup on him.

  “This is serious. I want us to review what we know so far. First, there is this furious auction over a birdcage. Then the bird gets stolen, then Mozella disappears, and then Abby starts getting phone calls from the bird, then C.J. disappears, then Greg, but do you know what’s not missing from this picture?”

  “What?” I said.

  “The birdcage,” Bob said.

  “Duh,” I said, and slapped my forehead. There was indeed syrup on my hand.

  “Abby,” Rob said, “I hate to say this, but he is so right. On the way over here you said that there are five people who wanted that darn thing so bad they could taste it. Enough even to make them seem suspicious. But the cage has just been sitting there in your shop. It wasn’t taken when Monet was filched. It wasn’t taken last night, or the night before. It probably doesn’t have anything to do with this case, so you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Make that a forest,” I said.

  “Nonetheless, if you don’t mind my suggestion, I think you should put it someplace safe until we solve this mystery.”

  “Let us keep it for you,” Bob said.

  “Thanks, guys. I’ll take you up on that. But Rob, you’re wrong about one thing: one of those trees could stand a little more barking. I told you that Bubba Johnson owns a string of dry cleaning stores, but I didn’t tell you that he is obsessed with birds.”

  Rob smirked. “How obsessed? Two parrots and a canary? Or one of those terrariumlike deals that you rent from some service that comes in the house and cleans it for you?”

  “I’m talking hundreds of cages, maybe thousands of birds. You’ve got to see his house to believe it.”

  “Where does he live? Out in the country someplace?”

  “Downtown, South of Broad.”

  The Rob-Bobs whistled, but not together, and not in the same key. It sounded a lot like a wolf whistle, and heads turned. I pointed at myself and smiled.

  Bob, as usual, sounded the first sour note. “Whoever took Monet didn’t do it to add a new species to his, or her, collection. They did it as a means to get something else. After all, they could have gotten a mynah from any pet shop—even off th
e Internet. They would have us think that the bird Monet leads to the real Monet—possibly one of his paintings. But we all know that Monet’s paintings were huge. It’s not like one could be hidden somewhere inside the cage itself. Just the same, Abby, how well have you searched the cage?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Could there be a false bottom?”

  “There is a tray that slides out, of course. That’s how you get rid of his droppings.”

  “Have you ever held the tray up at eye level?”

  That was a silly, if thought-provoking, question. Who, in their right mind, holds a birdcage tray at eye level? Perhaps the same folks who behold their toilet rims at eye level. I haven’t done that since college.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Perhaps we should go do that.”

  I felt like a fool, but a hopeful fool. Perhaps Bob was on to something. I would find what it was my mamanapper was looking for and get her back, Greg would return to me straight away, and even the prodigal C.J. would come home. Then, if I could get my daughter Susan married off to a doctor, and my son Charlie married to the second or third woman president, I could begin to live happily ever after.

  “Lunch is on me,” I said generously.

  But the Rob-Bobs were already headed for the door, while our check remained on the table. Oh well, IHOP had been worth those few extra bucks.

  All the way to my shop I worried that the Taj Mahal would be missing. I couldn’t even enjoy the spectacle of a massive container ship passing directly below us as we crossed on the new Thomas Ravenel Bridge, the longest single-span suspension bridge in North America. I couldn’t enjoy the pair of dolphins that arched and looped near the shore between Drum Island and the peninsula. Worst of all, I couldn’t enjoy the residual bits of bacon caught in my teeth, or the aftertaste of sweet maple syrup.

  At my direction, Rob parked in my reserved spot behind the shop. My heart was beating so hard I couldn’t concentrate to put the key in the lock. I certainly did not pay much attention to the package by the door. I get deliveries, or returns of small purchases, on a daily basis. When at last I got the door open, I kicked the package inside, and then ran through the storeroom and out into the selling area. The miniature replica of the most beautiful building in the world was right where I’d left it! I collapsed into a Biedermeier armchair while I caught my breath. This particular chair is a favorite of mine because, like me, it is functional without being frilly.