by Tamar Myers
Moi? A natural-born dancer? Well, slap me up the side of the head and call me Betty. I couldn’t recall ever having gotten such a nice compliment.
“Beat it, kid,” the bouncer growled.
“Yeah, scram,” Simone said, and reached out to tickle the back of Blackmond Dupree’s knee.
I’d seen all I needed to see. Gathering my veils, and clutching my pantaloons tightly, I leaped from the dais and fled across the room, swerving only to miss the stage upon which the musicians sat. I don’t know what made me think the Rob-Bobs would be in the same pavilion as per our previous visit, but unfortunately they weren’t. Feeling every bit the fool, I dashed from table to table, my panic mounting.
“Abby,” I thought I heard Rob call when I was halfway back to station ten.
The next thing I knew I was flying through the air like a ninety-eight-pound bag of potatoes.
15
I hit the floor every bit as hard as a sack of spuds. Thank heavens the Chez Fez has plush carpeting; otherwise, potato chips would have flown everywhere. Even so, I was left breathless and gasping like a fish out of water. A grounded guppy, as it were.
“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Greedy,” a familiar voice said. “Coming back for seconds, are you?”
I looked up to see the belly-dancing mother of four, the housewife from North Charleston who’d had the hots for Rob the last time we were here.
“I’m—not—af—ter—him. You—can—have—”
“Okay, I believe you,” she said, and grabbed one of my arms and yanked me to my feet. “Your cousin isn’t into women. Found that out the hard way.”
Upright, the air rushed into my lungs. “My cousin?”
“Cousin!” Rob cried, appearing magically on the scene.
“Relax, honey, I’m over you,” the woman said. She turned to address me. “Gotta watch them plug outlets in the floor. At least once a night some poor waiter goes flying—just like you did. A body could sue Mr. Dupree, if they had a mind to.” She seemed to notice my costume for the first time. “Hey, when did you start working here?”
“Tonight.”
“What station are you?”
“Station ten.”
She stared at me openmouthed. Even though the room was dimly lit, I could see the glint of a gold tooth where a back molar should have been. By the time she found her voice, I knew as much about her bite as her dentist did.
“Why that no-good, lying, son of a—”
Mercifully, Rob pulled me into his pavilion and jerked the drapes closed. “Abby, are you all right?”
“Of course she isn’t all right,” Bob said. “That man-eating Amazonian stuck her foot out and tripped her. That plug stuff is all nonsense.”
I waved my arms like a maniac. “Guys, we gotta get out of here.”
“Hold on, Abby,” Rob said. “We ordered our mutton well-done. Our waitperson said it was going to be a while.”
“You ordered the mutton well-done,” Bob boomed. “Honestly, Abby, this man is a Philistine.”
“I thought he was Jewish,” I said. “But never mind that. Guys, this isn’t the time to bicker. We need to get out of here pronto. Look, I’ll treat you to dinner at anyplace you want.”
“Anyplace?” they chorused.
“You got it. Now let’s am-scray.”
Charleston Grill is arguably the best place to dine in the Holy City. That’s fitting considering its location; the best hotel in town. Occupying an entire city block, Charleston Place Hotel is downtown, smack dab in the heart of the shopping district. The bottom floor of the building is an arcade of exclusive stores that cater to brand-name wallets. During the Christmas season a large model train display is erected in the space between the two sets of sweeping stairs that connect the lobby to the second floor. Anyone who is anyone stays at the Charleston Place Hotel when in town. A few high-ranking politicians stay there as well.
I had only eaten at Charleston Grill three times prior to this, but I had fantasized about it many times. Forget the word grill if it conjures up images of backyard barbecues or greasy diners. This is a white tablecloth establishment with haute cuisine. Lay your napkin down to use the ladies’ room, and upon return you will find it replaced by a fresh one, along with clean cutlery. Between courses, complimentary minicourses are served, so that one is not left staring at a vacant place setting. Servers hover about like guardian angels, but are never intrusive. Wish for something and it will appear—well, almost. You get the picture.
We were lucky to get a table, for which I thanked my lucky stars (and you can be sure I changed my clothes first). Bob is one of the dearest, kindest men in the universe, but he takes complaining to a new level.
“Can we order any wine we want?” he asked, the second we were seated.
“Absolutely. The more expensive, and the more obscure, the better.”
“Abby, are you making fun of me?”
“Absolutely.”
He gave me a hurt look, but when the wine steward came along, Bob ordered a bottle of Chateau de Moron Neuf de Boston Pops 1949, or something like that. Anyway, it cost $189, and that was just to smell the cork. The wine itself was fifty dollars extra.
“Listen guys,” I whispered, after we placed our food orders, “you’re not going to believe what I overheard at the Chez Fez tonight.”
“Spill it,” Rob said.
“Please don’t say that word while a drop of this wine remains.” I took a sip. It was as astringent as mouthwash, and far less tasty. “Hmm-hmm,” I said, trying to clear my throat.
“You like?” Bob asked.
“It’s really special,” I said, which is Southern for “it sucks.”
“Don’t feel bad, Abby,” Rob said. “I can’t stand it, either. Drink enough of this and you won’t need to be embalmed.”
Bob started turning red, so I got right down to brass tacks. “Blackmond Dupree is a fake, and he’s hired a hit man to knock off some poor old lady in Maine.”
The Rob-Bobs exchanged glances.
“And that’s not all, guys. Simone Dupree, y’all’s assistant, is not his daughter.”
“Abby,” Rob said, “you’ve had a long hard day—heck, a long hard last couple of days. Maybe we should pass on dinner and get you home early.”
“The guest room is all made up,” Bob said. “One-thousand-thread-count sheets, just as you like them.” It’s not a secret that when Rob’s mother comes to visit, the sheets are 180 count. Mrs. Goldburg never stays long.
“Don’t patronize me! I was dancing at station ten—that’s the VIP table. I heard, very clearly, what was going on. In real life Blackmond Dupree is Charleston County born and bred. Not South of Broad, to be sure, and not aristocracy, but he’s pure Lowcountry. As for that so-called daughter of his, well, she certainly isn’t that. The two of them were exchanging tonsil juice like there was no tomorrow. And the hit man—he’s one ruthless dude. Looks the part, too, what with that dragon tattooed across his head and down his neck.”
Rob came around first. “You’re serious?”
“I swear on Dmitri’s life.”
“You shouldn’t say something you’d regret,” Bob said, before taking another sip of liquid snobbery.
“I can’t regret something that won’t happen, because every word I said is true.”
“You really are serious.”
“As serious as the plague. What do you think we should do? Call 911?”
Rob laid a hand gently on my arm. “Did you get the name of the intended victim?”
“No, but Blackmond Dupree—if that’s even his real name—said it would be slow and torturous.”
“Abby, did you hear the words ‘shoot’ or ‘stab’ or ‘kill’? Or maybe ‘poison’?”
“No.”
“Did you hear a time or place?”
“Portland, Maine!”
“A street address?” Bob asked.
“Not really.”
“Portland, Maine, probably has more than one resi
dent,” Rob said, but his eyes twinkled.
“She owns a bookstore! There can’t be that many.”
“Now we’re cooking,” Bob said. “Do you have your cell phone, Abby?”
“Hold it,” Rob said. “We’re not calling anybody just yet. No offense, Abby, but what you just told us could be interpreted a number of ways.”
“Oh really? How? He said slow and torturous.”
“Sounds like a visit from Rob’s mom,” Bob said, and then hid behind his wineglass.
“I’ll choose to ignore that,” Rob said. “But Abby, you of all people should know that the police need something concrete to go on. What would be the motive for this—long and torturous whatever?”
“It sounded like blackmail. He said something about payments—Rob, did you not hear me when I said Simone and Blackmond Dupree are having an affair?”
“I heard. But Abby, we seem to be forgetting why it is you went undercover to begin with. Weren’t you trying to see if Blackmond Dupree had anything to do with Mozella’s disappearance, not to mention that stupid bird?”
“Yes.”
“And you were hoping to maybe learn of some connection between him and the exotic stranger who brought the Taj Mahal to Charleston in the first place, right?”
“Yes,” I hissed softly.
“Instead you jumped to conclusions, blew your cover, and now instead of gathering facts, you’re sitting in Charleston’s finest restaurant.”
“Arguably the finest. Besides, it was your choice.”
“My point is that you could be back at Chez Fez rifling through Blackmond Dupree’s desk if you hadn’t lost your head.”
“Well, I’m about to lose my temper. Y’all are supposed to be my friends. But oh, no—” My cell phone rang. There are few folks ruder than those who carry on phone conversations in restaurants, especially in loud voices. The one exception I’m willing to make is myself. Besides, I had mitigating circumstances.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Washburn.”
“You must have a wrong number,” I said crisply.
“This is George. We had lattes together at Barnes & Noble, remember?”
“Yes. George, if you don’t mind, I’m really terribly busy at the moment—”
“Mrs. Washburn, I was hoping you’d agree to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning.”
Then it struck me. “George, how did you get my cell phone number?”
“The same way you found out where I worked.”
“John Norman!”
“He’s such a nice man, isn’t he? Mrs. Washburn, I called your shop, and your machine said you didn’t open until ten, and I don’t have to be at work until eleven, so I thought we might meet downtown for breakfast. I was thinking of the Bookstore Café. And how does eight sound?”
I might well have jammed the phone back into my overstuffed purse had it not been for Rob’s stinging accusation that I’d lost my head. I’d show him.
“Breakfast tomorrow would be lovely. ’Bye.”
I smiled at the Rob-Bobs. “Just keeping my head. That was one of my suspects.”
Rob waggled his neatly trimmed eyebrows. “Do tell, Abby, is George cute?”
“Very.” My stupid phone rang again. “What?” I barked into it.
“Abby, hon, didn’t you get my message?”
“Greg?”
“I called you twice. The first time I was a little out of it, but the second time I gave you a number to call and asked you to call back. Left the message on both our home phone and your cell.”
“When was that?”
“About an hour ago.”
An hour ago I was shakin’ my bacon for a fake foreigner. That would explain why he hadn’t reached me on my cell phone, a fact I was not about to try and explain to Greg.
“Silly me, I must have had the ringer turned off. So what was your message? And where the heck are you, Timbuktu?”
“Norfolk.”
“What in tarnation are you doing there?”
“Where is he?” the Rob-Bobs chorused.
Timbuktu, I mouthed. “Explain, dear.”
“Well, like I said in my message, I was drunk. Really drunk.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“Well, Mark—you know, my buddy up from McClellanville—”
“Yes, I know Mark. The one whose wife, Caroline, is at her wits’ end because he’s missing as well. What’s the deal, Greg, are the two of you having an affair?”
Two pairs of ears rotated forward, as if set on hinges.
“An affair?” Greg had the effrontery to laugh. “Come on, Abby, give me a break. He’s hardly my type. Heck no, we aren’t having an affair. I was about to tell you that the shrimping business hasn’t been panning out for Mark, something Caroline doesn’t seem to understand. She’s gotten addicted to online shopping, and that’s all she does now. Abby, you should see their house. It’s wall-to-wall stuff; a lot of it she doesn’t even bother to unwrap. Anyway, he’s had to sell his boat. The best offer was from a fellow who lives up in Norfolk, Virginia. Mark asked if I would drive up there, while he took the boat, then I would drive him back. So that’s what I did, except that we went on a bender afterward because Mark was really taking it hard. Tried to call you earlier—I think I did, actually. Just can’t remember what I said. Anyway, I’m sober now and we’re headed home. We’re in Fayetteville, by the way. I’m coming straight home after I drop Mark off in McClellanville.”
“Okay darling, I understand. Take as much time as you need.”
“Love you, hon. You’re the best. ’Bye.”
I hung up, trying to look as sad as a puppy dog in a cattery.
“Oh gawd, Abby, he didn’t!” Rob leaned forward and tried to put an arm around my shoulders.
I shrugged him away. “I’m afraid he did. They ran off to Virginia together.”
“This is unbelievable,” Bob said, although he sounded like he not only believed it, but was hoping for details.
I threw my shoulders back bravely. “Well you know what they say: Virginia is for lovers.”
“But Abby,” Rob protested, “Greg seemed so, uh—well, so hetero. I was only joking before.”
“I blame it all on metrosexuals,” I wailed. “They seduced him with their fragrances, girlie foods, manicures, and sensitivity. It was only a short leap from good hygiene and manners to another man’s arms. And to think he used to be a stinky meat and potatoes eater.”
“I’m sure he still stinks,” Bob said, doing his best to comfort me.
“You really think so?”
They both nodded.
Our meals arrived just in time. So as not to ruin what is invariably a delightful dining experience, I put on a stiff upper lip—although I let it quiver a bit. Yes, it made eating a trifle more difficult, but I’m sure it endeared me further to my friends. Every now and then one or the other of them would glance up from their food and bestow upon me a loving, supportive look. And yes, I knew I would have to pay the piper dearly when I came clean, but in the meantime it was worth it.
Of course I couldn’t keep the charade going all night, not with my darling, handsome husband expected home in three hours. I waited until the last spoonful of crème brûlée was safely down my gullet before coughing up the truth. Strangely enough, the Rob-Bobs were not amused.
“B-b-but Abby,” Bob bleated, “how could you!” He folded his arms across his chest and waited for an explanation.
“Well, it was Rob’s fault. He jumped to conclusions. I just played along.”
“For shame, for shame, for shame,” Rob said, but try as he might, he is just too suave and good-looking to do a decent Gomer Pyle imitation. “I suppose this means you won’t be spending the night with us. We were going to put you in the Queen Anne suite and serve you breakfast in bed.”
When the Rob-Bobs talk about their Queen Anne bed, they are not referring to a period or style of furniture, but to a bed in which the old gal herself counted sheep. Frankly,
it’s not all that comfortable, which is probably why she enumerated ewes. As for breakfast in bed, I was all too glad to escape another of Bob’s creative repasts.
“Thanks guys, for everything. I really mean it. I love you two like the brother I wish I had.”
“We love you, too, Abby,” Rob said.
Bob immediately concurred. We might have progressed to a group hug had it not been for the fact that we were still sitting, and the table had very sharp corners. Since it would have been wasteful to let those good vibes dissipate unused, I asked my dear friends for a favor. They hemmed and hawed, but I put on the sugar. In the end they relented, but only after I promised to be in touch by cell phone the entire time. They also insisted on following me home—not because of any criminal threat to my person, but because a humdinger of a thunderstorm was brewing. Still, I felt like I was under house arrest.
I wasn’t being stupid when I asked the Rob-Bobs to drop me off at the shop so I could pick up my car; I was merely being deceitful. If my car wasn’t home, safely ensconced in the garage, when Greg returned he would suspect that I’d been playing detective and that something had gone wrong. I would then be forced to listen to a safety lecture from a man who had just returned from a drunken spree in an unfamiliar city.
I’m pretty sure I would have kept my promise to drive straight home and lock the door behind me had it not been for the impending thunderstorm. High winds often accompany these fast-moving fronts, and while I was positive that the Den of Antiquity was locked up as tightly as a mass murderer on death row, I was not as sure about the small ventilation window in the storeroom toilet. This opening is too small and too high up to be of interest to a cat burglar, but in heavy downpours, overflow from the rain gutters sometimes finds its way inside. I once had a seventeenth-century gateleg table ruined by water seeping out from beneath the bathroom door.
Rain damage is a perfectly good excuse, and no doubt about it, I would have been more responsible and informed the Rob-Bobs of my change of plans had not a second reason to return to my shop wedged its way into my already overloaded head. What if the package I’d been bent on ignoring had something to do with Mama and her disappearance?