Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

  I turned and gasped. Just inches from me, lined up on a Louis XV marquetry commode, were three glass vases. The center vase was the tallest—approximately nine inches high—and had a frosted background, upon which perched life-size opalescent parakeets molded in high relief. To the left of this magnificent piece reposed a spherical vase in brilliant cherry red, which had a fish motif. To the right stood a translucent footed spherical vase in pale peppermint green.

  “Lalique,” I whispered in awe. “René Lalique, the French jeweler and glassmaker who contributed greatly to the Art Nouveau movement.”

  “I know who he was,” C.J. said. If she sounded a bit miffed, she had a right to be. The big galoot might be missing a bulb or two in her chandelier, but her business acumen is sharper than mine. Not many twenty-five-year-olds can own and operate a highly successful antique store.

  “Sorry, dear, I was just excited and—”

  The richly paneled doors open and Brunhilde stood there in all her imposing glory. “Zeeth vay,” she ordered.

  We followed her meekly into a large, brightly lit room. Again, my eyes had to adjust. But when they did, it was not for long. My head swam, and the room began to spin. I could feel myself crumple, like a soufflé when the oven door has been slammed. At least I didn’t have far to fall.

  3

  C. J. caught me. “Oopsy, Abby.” She swooped me up and set me back on my feet in one smooth move.

  I struggled to remain upright. Glass cabinets with backlighting lined all four walls. Arranged tastefully, with just enough space between pieces, were several dozen exquisite works of art, all of which appeared, at first glance, to be the creation of René Lalique.

  “C.J., tell me I’m dreaming!”

  “You’re not, Abby. I see it, too.”

  “Then it is heaven.”

  C.J. sniffed the air. “Ooh, Abby, I don’t smell chocolate.”

  “Forget the chocolate!” I cried. “Look at all that Lalique!”

  C.J. has a one-track mind. Unfortunately, it’s off the track half the time.

  “Abby, I’m pretty sure this isn’t heaven. Maybe my nose is stopped up and I can’t smell the chocolate, but I sure don’t see any ducks.”

  “Ducks?”

  “Well, I had this little duck named Sparky, you see. Granny Ledbetter gave him to me for Easter, the year I turned eight. Abby, he was the cutest little thing you ever saw. I played with him all time. Even put him in the tub with me when I bathed—only I had to be careful not to get the water too hot. Then one day—my birthday—I couldn’t find Sparky anywhere. That night at supper Granny served duck a l’orange.”

  “How awful.”

  Her big head nodded vigorously. I wasn’t supposed to know, of course, but I did. Right away. You see, Sparky had a crooked wing, on account of one time I got the water too hot and he banged his wing getting out of the tub real fast. Anyway, that was the piece Granny served me. Course I cried for days and days, until Granny told me that ducks—and even some chickens—that get eaten go to heaven.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Well, not all ducks—there are some bad ones, you know. And definitely not chickens. But I know Sparky is there. So we aren’t.”

  “Heaven was just a metaphor, dear. This is Mrs. Amelia Shadbark’s private museum.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” a strange voice said.

  I whirled, as did C.J. She has hands the size of Ping-Pong paddles, and one of them hit me square in the back. I shot forward like a Ping-Pong ball. If it were not for the spike heels of my petite pumps, which I dug into the thick carpet like crampons, I would have confronted our hostess head-on. Literally.

  “Sorry,” I gasped, as I struggled to right myself.

  The woman smiled. Her face had more wrinkles than a dried peach, so it took a few seconds to arrange them all in the appropriate pattern. I had a feeling, however, that the grande dame’s contour lines were due to advanced age, rather than the sun. Or maybe both.

  Whatever the reason, she was a class act. Her snow-white hair was pulled into a chignon, from which not a single strand escaped. Her pale blue dress was textured silk, possibly from Thailand. And around her throat hung a single strand of opera-length pearls, tied once into a knot with a five-inch loop. Matching pearl drops dangled from drooping earlobes. Each pearl, in my estimate, was worth a small fortune.

  “I’m Abigail Timberlake,” I gasped.

  She extended a withered hand. It felt as light and dry as one of Mama’s homemade biscuits.

  “Amelia Shadbark,” she said, still smiling. “Please call me Amelia.”

  “Then you must call me Abby. And this is Jane Cox,” I said, introducing my young friend by her correct name. “She’s my assistant.”

  “Ooh, Abby, really?”

  “Later,” I whispered from one corner of my mouth. I returned Amelia’s smile.

  “I just can’t get over your collection. It’s mind-boggling.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, child.”

  At that moment the massive Brunhilde materialized out of thin air. Amelia didn’t seem to notice.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said.

  I hadn’t even noticed the furniture. Sure enough, in the middle of the room was a suite of three chairs and a coffee table. They were Danish Modern in style, built of blond wood, and all but blended into the beige carpet. They certainly did not detract from the fabulous glass collection. At any rate, I slipped quickly into the nearest chair. In the game of musical chairs I was always the first one out, even when I played it with my children. Brunhilde was not going to beat me at this game.

  I need not have worried. C.J. sat at right angles to me, Amelia across. Thank heavens Brunhilde was not invited to sit.

  “Bring the tea things now,” Amelia ordered.

  Brunhilde glared at us—me in particular—but she did as she was told.

  Amelia waited until the maid was gone before speaking again. But the second the door closed, the craggy face came to life.

  “I hope you will forgive me, Abby, but I’ve invited you here under false pretenses.”

  I stiffened. The last time those words were directed to me was when my college math professor tried to kiss me. He was a tall man, and I was sitting down. I managed to head butt him in the—well, let’s just say, if he ever becomes President, there’ll be no need to worry about a scandal in the Oval Office.

  “Oh dear,” Amelia said, “I hope I haven’t offended you. “It’s just that in addition to tea, I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss.”

  My heart pounded. “Please, go on.”

  Amelia glanced at the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I talk fast. I’m afraid Brunhilde is fond of eavesdropping, although getting the tea things should keep her busy for a while.” She giggled. “I hid the Earl Grey.”

  “I can’t believe my ears!”

  “You must think me awful.”

  “Not at all. What I can’t believe is that your maid’s name is Brunhilde.”

  “Oh, but it is. Brunhilde Salazar. She’s Brazilian of German descent.”

  “That certainly explains the accent.”

  C.J., bless her heart, could not stand to be left out of the conversation. “I had a Brazilian cousin,” she said. “Carmen used to put a bowl of fruit on her head and—”

  “Not now, dear,” I said gently. I turned to Amelia. “You said you had to make this fast. What’s your proposition?”

  “Well, honey, believe it or not, I’m seventy-six years old.”

  “Get out of town!” I said. I wouldn’t have pegged her for a day under ninety.

  Amelia smiled so wide, I feared her face would shatter. “Oh, but I am. Celebrated that birthday just last week. Anyway, I decided it’s finally time to take it a little slower. Downsize a little bit, too. So I’ve made up my mind I’m moving into Bishop Gadsden.”

  “I beg your pardon? Did you say you were moving in with a bishop?” That seemed a little eccentri
c, even by Charleston standards. Unless, of course, said bishop was a relative, and the relationship platonic.

  Amelia laughed. “Abby, you’re such a mess.”

  Being called a mess where I come from, in the Upcountry, is a bit of a compliment. It means one is a cutup, a “card,” entertaining—you get the picture. I wasn’t quite sure, however, if the term meant the same here in the Lowcountry. The Lowcountry, incidentally—and it is all one word—is the name applied to the coastal strip of South Carolina, particularly the area around Charleston. The name is really a geographical description, as the highest point in Charleston County is less than thirty feet above sea level.

  “You think I’m funny?” I asked.

  “You’re a stitch. Of course I’m not moving in with a bishop—although I’ve known a few over the years who might have been able to tempt me. Anyway, I’m moving into the Bishop Gadsden Episcopal Retirement Community here in Charleston. They have a nice cottage reserved for me—they ought to, after all the money I’ve donated to them over the years.”

  I waved my arms around my head. “You’re giving all this up?”

  She sighed. “I’ve enjoyed my life, but there comes a point when one wants to simplify. To strip down to the essentials, so to speak. This may be hard for someone your age to understand, but I no longer want the responsibility of things.”

  “What will you do with your things?” C.J. asked in a little-girl voice. She was on the edge of her Danish Modern chair.

  “C.J., how impertinent!” I snapped.

  Amelia laughed again. “It’s all right, dear. I don’t mind the question. In fact, Abby, that’s why I invited you here. I want you to help me dispose of some of these things. Particularly this collection.”

  It’s a good thing I wasn’t sitting on the edge of my chair, or I would have fallen off. Thanks to my short legs, I’d been forced to settle well back into the safety zone.

  “Please, go on,” I said in a little-girl voice of my own.

  Amelia nodded. “Yes, I better move this conversation along. Brunhilde may have found the tea by now. So, as I was saying, Abby, I’d like you to broker this collection for me.” She paused. “That is, if you’re willing.”

  “Of course she is!” C.J. practically shouted.

  Amelia ignored the girl. “Are you interested, Abby?”

  I shivered. It was like having Mel Gibson proposition me, naked, a rose between his teeth, a bottle of Hershey’s syrup in one hand, whipped cream in the other. In that case, however, I’d have to say no. I am, after all, wed to Greg, whom I love dearly. But I wouldn’t be breaking moral or religious laws by brokering the fabulous Lalique collection.

  “Why me, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, I’ve only been in town a few months.”

  “That’s precisely why I’ve chosen you,” she said. “I know most of the dealers on King Street. Been to their christenings, watched them grow up. It wouldn’t feel right, picking one over the others.”

  “I see. Well, just how much of the collection do you want to part with?”

  “Virtually all you see here. I’ve saved out several pieces—you may have seen them in the hall—that I plan to take with me.”

  I caught my breath. “Well, I’d certainly like to try selling some of the pieces in my shop. But the bulk I’d like to turn over to Sotheby’s. Frankly, you’d probably get a better price that way, since there’d be a larger pool of potential buyers. You wouldn’t be paying me a commission on those pieces, of course. Just the ones I sell personally. I charge twenty percent of the selling price, which I think you’ll find is really quite reasonable.”

  She nodded. “So you’ll make the arrangements? With Sotheby’s, I mean?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  That very second the door to the little museum flew open and in stumbled Brunhilde Salazar. Balanced atop her head was, not a bowl of fruit, but a huge silver tray. The woman staggered in our direction, but much to my amazement she managed to plunk the heavy object on the coffee table without losing a single item. A few drops of milk may have been spilled, but that was all.

  “Thank you, Brunhilde,” Amelia said graciously. “That will be all.”

  “But I muth pour zee tea, yah?”

  “I’ll pour,” Amelia said firmly.

  Brunhilde scowled. “But zeeth is my yob, no?”

  Amelia sighed softly. “Very well, Brunhilde. You may pour.”

  The maid grunted her satisfaction. First she served Amelia, who took her tea with milk and sugar, in the proper English fashion. Then she served C.J., who took her tea with lemon and sugar, and more sugar, in the popular Shelby fashion. At last the formidable woman turned to me. “Meelk or limon?” she snarled. It was clearly a challenge.

  “Milk and sugar,” I said confidently.

  Brunhilde glared. “Vell, eef you vant it zat vay.” Then she proceeded to fill my cup so full that it was a miracle she was able to get it to me without spilling. However, the mere act of transferring it from her hand to mine caused a tidal wave of steaming liquid to surge over the edge and into my lap.

  I yelped and leaped to my feet. In the process I dropped the cup. Fortunately the beverage missed Brunhilde and me, but it drenched the carpet.

  “Zee vaht you haff done!” she roared.

  “Ooh, Abby, that has got to hurt.” C.J. sounded sympathetic, but she hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Abby, honey, are you all right?” Amelia was surprisingly spry for a woman her age. Before I knew it her biscuit dry hands were patting my wet loins with cloth napkins.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. The hot beverage stung, but I wasn’t seriously burned. Merely mortified.

  “Zee carpet, senora,” Brunhilde said stubbornly. “Vaht about zeeth lovely carpet?”

  “Forget the silly old carpet, Brunhilde. My guest may have been burned.”

  “But I’m not,” I wailed. I looked around in vain for a crack in the floor into which I could crawl. For someone my size that’s sometimes a real option. Only not with wall to wall carpet.

  “Your beautiful dress,” Amelia said. “I hope it’s not been ruined.”

  “Eeth yooth polyeshter, señora.”

  “Brunhilde, that will be enough.” Amelia was too much of a lady to speak sharply to her servants, but she didn’t have to. There was a crispness in her tone that sent Ms. Salazar slinking from the room.

  When the maid was gone, and I was dabbed reasonably dry, Amelia Shadbark herself served me tea. She also served me scones with butter and peach preserves, dainty little sandwiches with the crusts removed, and chocolate cake.

  Then, as C.J. stood up to say our good-byes, the grande dame gave me a present. Just the gift wrapping would have knocked my socks off, had I been wearing any. As it was, my pantyhose slipped southward several inches.

  “A little extra something for your trouble,” Amelia said, working her wrinkles into a smile. “But wait until you get home before you open this.”

  4

  “Ooh, Abby, what is it?” C.J. was jumping up and down like a little girl on Christmas morning.

  I unwrapped the gift carefully—that is to say, about as fast as the leaves change color here in Charleston. I wasn’t trying to agitate C.J., mind you; it was simply habit. Mama made my brother Toy and me fold our wrapping paper. On subsequent gift-giving occasions Mama would steam iron the paper under the protective surface of a thick towel. In the Wiggins household, even plain wrapping paper stood a good chance of outlasting the gift.

  “Ooh, Abby, can’t you go any faster?”

  The poor girl was about to bust a gut, which believe you me, is far messier than spilling milk tea on a beige carpet. I ripped the paper off like it grew on trees. Inside was a white box six inches square. Inside that was tissue paper, and since Mama saved, but never ironed, tissue, that came out in a flash. I reached in and gently removed the most beautiful perfume bottle I had ever seen.

  “Oooooh!” C.J.’s voice
rose like a fire engine siren. I stared at the treasure. Only René Lalique would think to make a flask in the shape of a peacock. The head was the stopper, and the broad tail, which was not fully expanded, the bottle’s base. The colors ranged from the simple green of the peacock’s crest, and the iridescent blue of his head and neck, to a rainbow of shimmering hues.

  “I think his eyes are emeralds,” I said.

  “What did you say, Abby? You’re croaking like a frog.”

  “I think his eyes are emeralds.”

  This time she heard me. “They look like emeralds. Too bad it’s not a real Lalique.”

  “Of course it is.” I turned the bottle over. “There, you see? The signature is as plain as the ticks on a hairless dog.”

  “But Abby, you have a cat—”

  “It’s just an expression. René Lalique began his career as a jeweler. Have you ever been to the Gulbenkian Museum, C.J.?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Portugal.”

  C.J. hung her massive head. “I’ve never been out of the Carolinas.”

  “You haven’t missed much, dear. Anyway, I had the privilege of visiting a friend in Lisbon—oh, about five years ago, before I met you—and she took me to the Gulbenkian. There’s a whole section devoted to jewelry and small decorative items by Lalique. I think I remember—”

  I stopped in midsentence because the love of my life, Greg Washburn, had just entered the room. I was surprised to see him home so early. The shrimping season in South Carolina lasts from June to December, but it was only the tenth of August. To my knowledge shrimp were still quite plentiful. On a good fishing day I didn’t expect to see Greg until seven or eight in the evening.

  “Is something wrong, dear?”

  Greg shook his handsome head. He has thick dark hair and sapphire-blue eyes. The sun the past few months had turned him cigar-brown. I was tempted to run over and kiss him, but I knew better. Boy, did I know better! His nets haul up a lot more than just shrimp. After a day catching, and sorting, the sea’s bounty, my dearly beloved smells like a sushi bar in the Sahara Desert. One to which the electricity has been off for a week.