Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “Please,” I begged. “That hurts.”

  “Sorry, Abby, I was just trying to be pastoral.”

  “Rob wanted to be a rabbi when he was growing up,” Bob said.

  I looked at my handsome friend. “Is he kidding?”

  “No. But it was a short-lived phase, right between cowboy and Davy Crockett.”

  My cell phone rang. Normally I turn it off when I’m in restaurants, and I absolutely always do when at the movies or in church, but we were originally only stopping by Subway for something cold to drink.

  “It’s blocked,” I said.

  “Answer it anyway,” Bob said. “I’ve got a feeling it’s important.” Apparently, before the days of caller ID, Bob had a reputation of being able to guess who was calling. But this supposed psychic ability of his did not apply to anything except telephones.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Abby?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Pretty dish.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Four and twenty King.”

  My heart pounded. “Please—whoever you are—please don’t hurt my mother. I’ll give you whatever it is you want—” I got a dial tone.

  “What did they say?” my friends demanded in unison.

  My hand was shaking so bad I dropped my cell phone, which then skidded across the table and landed in Bob’s lap. I waited until he handed it back before answering.

  “It was definitely Monet again. He said ‘pretty dish,’ and then gave me an address on King Street. Whose shop is at 24 King?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out: let’s hop in my car and take it for a spin. I’m parked in the Vendue Range garage, by the way.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bob said. He was rubbing his temples with his index fingers. It’s a habit he engages in sometimes when deep in thought, although both Rob and I think it might be contributing to his increased hair loss. “That’s not an address, that’s from a nursery rhyme.”

  “And I’m Little Bo Peep,” Rob said.

  Bob was clearly not amused. “I’m not joking. Who says ‘four and twenty’ these days, except maybe for mad dogs and Englishmen?”

  Rob and I both shrugged.

  “This better be good,” Rob said.

  “Shut up and listen,” Bob said.

  21

  “Sing a song of sixpence, pockets full of rye,

  Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie.

  When the pie was opened the birds began to sing,

  Now wasn’t that a pretty dish to set before the king.”

  “Bob may be on to something,” Rob said.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Abby, tell us again what was in the other messages.”

  I did my best to relay the information.

  Rob shook his head. “Sorry, Abby, I jumped the gun. I don’t see a connection.”

  Bob glared at his partner. I’ve never seen him that angry, except once when his culinary skills were challenged.

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “Guys,” I said, “maybe you’re both right. Maybe this time it was a nursery rhyme, and it was just meant to confuse us.”

  Neither of them responded, which was fine with me. But as they sat there sulking, a devious plan bored its way through my thick skull. As much as I appreciated the Rob-Bobs’ support, they put a crimp in my style. If I wanted the freedom to do what I pleased until Greg got back, I needed to lose them.

  I extracted the pearls gently from Bob’s hand and put them on. “Okay,” I said, drawing from my fast-depleting reservoir of false cheer, “I’m off to the ladies’ room. When I return, I expect you to kiss and make up—well, maybe Charleston’s not quite ready for that. But you know what I mean.”

  Still no response.

  “Rob, darling, you’re going to have to let me out.”

  “Sorry, Abby,” he muttered, and the second I slipped around him, he threw himself back on the bench.

  “Give it up y’all, it’s not important who’s right—”

  If their eyes had been lasers, I would now look like a four-foot-nine-inch chunk of Swiss cheese. But I know from my own life that public outbursts of emotion are usually just the tip of the iceberg. If I had to wager a bet then and there, I would put my money on a chip that read: Rob is always right and refuses to lose an argument. Whatever their reasons for this quarrel, they needed their space.

  Without further comment, I grabbed my handbag and headed toward the back of the shop where, from experience, I knew there was a ladies’ room. I also knew that there was an exit door in the back, and all I had to do was wait until more customers showed up, at which point I could easily sneak out the back unseen.

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Charleston has more jewelry stores than it has churches. True, a lot of these stores carry souvenir type merchandise, such as charms and earrings shaped like palmetto trees, but there are a lot of high-end stores as well. Studs for Studs limits its merchandise to “earrings for today’s discerning gentleman,” but right next to it is a tiny gem of a shop called Diamonds and Pearls, which is owned by a tiny woman named Sultana Habib. Her clientele, mostly word-of-mouth customers, have to reach deep into their ostrich skin handbags, purchased on their most recent visits to the swank shops of Sandton City near Johannesburg, South Africa. Diamonds and pearls are all that Sultana sells, and truly, if you have to ask the price, the odds are you can’t afford it.

  I’d met Sultana socially and we hit it off immediately, in part because we are exactly the same height. Although I am well off financially, I still do need to ask prices, so I have only ever browsed in Sultana’s exclusive shop. Nonetheless, when Sultana saw me peering through the glass door, she buzzed me in with a smile.

  “Taking a break today, Abby?”

  “Yes—actually no. The Den of Antiquity is closed.”

  “Oh? Not forever, I hope.”

  “I hope not, too. Sultana, I’m here to ask you a favor.”

  “Ask away, Abby, but you know the drill: if a customer rings the bell, then you’re on your own.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s about the pearls I’m wearing. I’d like to test them, make sure they’re real.”

  She looked me straight in the eyes—always a pleasure—and then burst out laughing. “Abby, how long have we known each other?”

  “I don’t know—a couple of years.”

  “And all this time I never thought you were the kind to play practical jokes. Well, I love it!”

  “What practical jokes?”

  “And to keep such a serious face. Really, Abby, you’re a mess.”

  Sultana’s grandparents immigrated to Charleston from someplace in the Middle East, but she is as Southern as collard greens cooked with fatback. When she uses the word “mess” in that context, she means that I’m witty and entertaining, not that I’m in need of a washcloth and comb. Alas, I’m not in the least bit amusing.

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Sultana. I haven’t the foggiest what you mean.”

  “Those hideous pearls, where did you get them? A dollar store?”

  I must have turned as red as a Cherry Smash. “Yeah, something like that. I was feeling kind of goofy this morning when I got dressed.”

  She has a delightful laugh, so I waited until she was quite finished.

  “Sultana, bear with me. And please keep in mind that I handle very little estate jewelry. How did you know these were fakes without touching them?”

  “I didn’t say they were fakes, Abby, I said they were hideous. But to be blunt—”

  “That would be a refreshing change.”

  She laughed again. “Anyway, I’ve been in this business so long that I’ve developed this—well, I guess it’s almost like an instinct. I pick up on subtle clues that are really almost impossible to explain. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m usually right.”

  “I
do know what you mean. I have a friend who collects different kinds of palm trees. They all look alike to me, but she can instantly spot a new variety when we’re riding around town. ‘There’s just something about it,’ she says.”

  “Exactly. Here, let me see that necklace.”

  She undid the clasp for me, and then did the tooth test, just as Bob had. Then she went one step further and examined them through a jeweler’s loupe, which magnifies things tenfold.

  “Sorry, Abby, I was wrong about these.”

  My heart missed a beat. “Come again?”

  “These aren’t from a dollar store—I’d say Target is more like it.” She paused to laugh at her own joke. “But in all seriousness, they are synthetic. Pretty nice clasp, though, but it isn’t gold. There isn’t a stamp.” She handed the fakes back to me.

  “Thanks, Sultana.”

  “No problem. Well, as long as you’re in here, can I interest you in some real pearls? Or maybe some diamonds. They’re all conflict-free.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That means no one has died, or been maimed, over these diamonds. What most people don’t seem to know—or care—is that, ironically, a large percentage of the world’s precious gems come from countries where the people are very poor. Many of these countries are experiencing civil wars, and control over the mines is crucial to the rebel groups. Haven’t you seen pictures of children, forced to work in the mines, who have had their arms or legs hacked off with machetes?”

  I shuddered. “No.”

  “Well, fifteen percent of the world’s diamonds come from conflict areas—places like Angola, Sierra Leone, and both Congos. Unfortunately, by the time a diamond reaches a retailer, it’s hard to trace its history. That’s why I sell only Canadian stones.”

  “Canada has a diamond mine?”

  “You bet it does. The Ekati diamond mine is located two hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle. Not only does it produce gorgeous stones, but they come with proof of origin.”

  “Wow! Who knew?”

  “I have some Russian diamonds, too, Abby, and of course the finest in the world—Golconda diamonds from India. I’m sure you’re already aware that my prices reflect the rarity of my merchandise.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sure, you might find better deals—or what you think are better deals—in other stores in Charleston, but I stock only—”

  “Go back to the G word, please.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It sounded a little bit like ‘anaconda,’ but it started with a G.”

  “Oh! You mean Golconda. That’s the name of an ancient fortress near Hyderabad, India. The world’s best diamonds come from the surrounding hills.”

  “Golconda,” I said slowly, then slurred it like Monet had on the phone. Golconda! It was the same word. A simple place name, like Charleston, or New York, or Shelby, North Carolina. No doubt that’s where Monet and his beautiful palace had originated. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was at least something.

  “Abby, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. Sultana, what’s so special about these diamonds?”

  “They lack any trace of nitrogen, which makes them the clearest diamonds in the world. Some of the most famous diamonds in history have been Golcondas; the Hope, the Koh-I-Noor, and the Archduke Joseph. That one weighs over seventy-six carats. Celine Dion wore it on a CBS special. I nearly died when I saw it.” She burst into laughter again.

  “Sultana,” I said as her peals subsided, “you wouldn’t happen to know where the Taj Mahal is located, would you? Of course it’s in India, but where exactly?”

  She shrugged. “But you know, Golconda diamonds were used in some of the decorations—embedded in some screens, I think.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “Abby, are you taking a trip there?”

  “Heck no, I own the Taj Mahal.”

  Her melodious laughter was interrupted by the sound of the door buzzer. “Gotta go, Abby. You know the drill.”

  Indeed, I did.

  I stepped into blazing sunshine, and humidity so high I wouldn’t have been too surprised to see a fish swimming by. It was the kind of weather that made one gulp for air, and both hair and clothes went instantly limp. God bless Willis Haviland Carrier, the man who invented air-conditioning.

  Adjusting to this abrupt climatic change took a minute or two, and as I stood outside Diamonds and Pearls, catching my breath, I felt someone touch my arm. If I hadn’t been quite so sapped of energy, I might well have jumped out of my sandals.

  “What the—”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Certainly Charlie—a.k.a. Blackmond—Dupree was dressed for the tropics, outfitted as he was in a white linen suit, white buckskin shoes, and a white straw hat with a guinea feather tucked jauntily in the white silk band. Frankly, he looked almost handsome enough to grab and whisk off to the land of adultery and divorce. Almost that handsome; the dyed mustache was a deal-breaker. But if Greg didn’t get his well-toned bottom home soon, and if Mr. Dupree was to shave off his dyed mustache, I might reconsider my status as a lady.

  “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” I said.

  “I apologize. Mrs. Washburn, we need to talk.”

  “Do we? But sir, I’m not sure we’ve ever met. Your English is so—well, so Lowcountry.”

  “Touché. Have you had lunch yet?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

  “May I take you to lunch?”

  “Sorry, but I’m not in the mood to have someone twitch their tummy in my face while I’m eating.”

  “I was thinking of someplace closer, like Poogan’s Porch. My treat, of course.”

  That was a dilemma. I didn’t have time for a sit-down lunch. On the other hand, Poogan’s Porch is one of my favorite restaurants. The biscuits it serves are so light that one needs to hold them down to keep them from floating off one’s plate. C.J. claims that she took her Granny Ledbetter to lunch there, and that they requested an additional basket of biscuits. Granny, who liked to hoard food, filled her enormous purse with them. After lunch, as they were walking along Queen Street, a gust of breeze came along, and when coupled with the buoyancy factor of the old lady’s purse, lifted her right off the sidewalk. Granny would have become entangled in the power lines, and possibly been electrocuted, had she not panicked and dropped her pocketbook. Fortunately, C.J., the big galoot, was standing under her grandmother and cushioned her fall. C.J. swears by this story, never mind that there aren’t any overhead power lines on this section of Queen Street.

  Willpower may have won out over biscuits had I not caught sight of the Rob-Bobs heading our way from the direction of the Market. Of course I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t think they’d spotted me.

  “Lunch would be fine, Mr. Dupree—since it’s your treat.”

  Poogan’s Porch, at 72 Queen Street, was built as a spacious home in 1888, surrounded by a lovely garden and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. In 1976 the owners sold their home and moved away, leaving behind their faithful dog, Poogan. The charming Victorian structure was subsequently turned into a restaurant, but Poogan remained, claiming a perch on the front porch, from which he greeted customers until his death. The heartbreaking story alone makes it worth a visit. Throw in an Apparition American—Poogan’s is haunted—and you have the perfect place to lunch on a hot summer day.

  I requested that our table be in the back room, which was more than fine with Mr. Dupree. I got the impression he was no keener on being seen than I was. After we’d ordered—just a salad for me so I had room for the biscuits—and I’d had several swigs of my sweet tea, I gave the restaurateur my business smile.

  “Okay, Mr. Dupree, I’m ready.”

  He glanced around the room before speaking. “I hear you talked with Simone.”

  “A beautiful woman, isn’t she? Too bad you’re not a single m
an.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I can explain.”

  “I’m not going to stop you, but there’s really no need. What you do with your life is your business.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “But Simone is a tad young for you—seeing as how you’re used to ‘old bags’—and killing someone’s orchids, their pride and joy, now that’s a little mean-spirited, don’t you think? But like I said, it’s none of my business. If you want to keep on pretending you’re a Moroccan of French descent, have at it, by all means. Just don’t blame me if, at my next cocktail party, I forget that this is supposed to be some kind of secret.”

  “Mrs. Washburn! Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “Mr. Blackmond, I do not blackmail.”

  “It’s Charlie, actually.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So you won’t squeal on me?”

  “Squealing is for pigs. Just try to work something out besides herbicide.”

  He smiled. “Sure thing. Mrs. Washburn, have I told you how pretty you are today?”

  “I’m happily married to a monogamous man, Charlie.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Black—Charlie, did you really want that birdcage to decorate your restaurant?”

  “Absolutely. Ever since I backpacked through India after college, I’ve had a thing for the Taj Mahal.”

  “You’ve seen the real deal?”

  He nodded. “It was awesome.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “It’s in India. I don’t mean to be facetious, but in India it’s easy to go on sensory overload. The smells—they can be pretty rugged. And the slums, the people sleeping on the sidewalks, the beggars, and then all of a sudden you look up and there she is, the most beautiful building in the world. It just lifts you up, makes your spirit want to soar. My only regret is that I was too young then to really appreciate the experience. I was twenty-one, twenty-two—something like that. Too young to have any sense of historical perspective, and far too young to appreciate a love that deep and abiding.”

  “The love between the Mogul emperor Shah Jahan and his wife?”