by Tamar Myers
Dmitri appeared to love the Zimmermans, because after finally settling in Herman’s lap, he left abruptly to explore Estelle. However, it didn’t take him too long to decide that Herman’s lap was more comfortable, and after settling in a second time, he fell right to sleep.
“Mr. Zimmerman,” I said, over the sound of Dmitri’s snores, “where is home, and what do you do there?”
“Call me Herman, little lady. And we’re from Wisconsin. We own a dairy farm—mostly Holsteins. Of course we’ve got ourselves some help now that we’re getting older. Used to sell our milk to the big cheese outfits—” He slapped his knee. “That one always makes me laugh. Anyway, still do, but ice cream’s the moneymaker now. You ever count the number of flavors at your local supermarket?”
“I can’t say that I have. So, what brings you to Charleston?”
He looked confused. “We’re on vacation.”
Estelle leaned forward. She seemed uncomfortable on her chair. Perhaps she was worried that she might perspire and stain the needlepoint with unabsorbed hair dye.
“We’ve heard so much about South Carolina,” she said. “Charleston in particular. It certainly lives up to its reputation.”
“Thank you.” I could only hope that was a compliment. “Herman, Estelle—if I may—”
“Please, call me Estee.”
“Estee, it is. And you may call me Abby. I hope the two of you don’t judge Charleston by what happened last night. It’s really a very safe city.”
Herman forgot to grin. “I had no idea I would be putting Estee in so much danger. This kind of thing doesn’t go on in Wisconsin.”
Estelle reached over and patted her husband’s knee. “It does in Milwaukee, just not where we live.”
Herman looked at me. “Tell me, little lady, why a maniac like that was running loose in the first place.”
“We heard the fight,” Estee said, before I could defend my friend. “It was horrible. At first I thought it was someone’s TV. All that screeching, and those ugly threats.”
Herman nodded. “Sounded like crazed banshees—not that we hear a lot of them up in Wisconsin, mind you.”
Fortunately for all three of us, the doorbell rang before I could formulate a careful reply. I skipped gratefully from the room to answer it. But man, was I ever in for a big surprise.
11
“Can I help you?” I asked the man on the front porch. He was wearing a clerical collar, but I’m not up on my denominations. All I know is that he wasn’t from Mama’s church. She’s drags me to Grace Episcopal on Wentworth Street whenever she can (which isn’t frequently by a long shot). I don’t think she’s interested in saving my soul as much as she is shoring up my social standing. In Charleston the big three are St. Michaels, St. Philips, and Grace. Since our pedigree isn’t quite as long as a roll of toilet tissue, she finds Grace to be the best fit. Their motto is: “There are no strangers at Grace; only friends you haven’t met.”
“Abby?” the strange priest asked.
“I gave at the office,” I blurted. “I mean, I wrote a check and put it in the offering plate.”
“Abby, I’m your brother. Toy.”
I pulled the door shut behind me. Toy? That simply wasn’t possible. Sure, I’d heard that my ne’er-do-well sibling had decided to quit drifting through life and attend an Episcopal seminary. But that took years, didn’t it? Besides, he only chose that vocation to curry Mama’s favor. He never intended to stick it out. And anyway, my brother inherited all his genes from Daddy’s side of the family. Toy was tall and lean, with movie star good looks. His thick hair was naturally blond and the envy of every girl who knew him. This man, although tall, was fleshy, like an ex-football player gone to seed. He did, however, have a fine head of golden hair.
“Abby, remember when I poured a jar of honey into the back of our piano and blamed it on you? It took you two weeks to clean the strings.”
My knees went week and I grabbed the lion’s head door knocker for support. “What was the name of the gerbil I had in the third grade?”
“You mean the one I flushed down the toilet? To be fair, Abby, I was only five. And by the way, its name was Jolie. You just thought it was a girl, but it really was a boy.”
How should one act when a prodigal brother—uh, make that a Father—returns home? Toy had been the golden boy, the apple of both my parents’ hearts. No doubt he would have remained a luminous fruit had not Daddy died prematurely. For the next thirty years my perfect little brother dedicated himself to proving that he wasn’t so perfect. He was quite successful in that endeavor. He seldom called home, never visited, and, by his own admission in the only letter he ever wrote, liked to “get high and have a good time with the ladies.” Most of what we knew about Toy we heard through the grapevine.
Mama’s heart, which hadn’t had a chance to heal after Daddy’s demise, remained broken. Still, she managed to keep a stiff upper lip—perhaps she used her crinoline starch—whenever discussing her son. She didn’t fool me, however. I knew she mourned her beloved son, and if I allowed myself, I could a dredge up a great deal of resentment—both toward Mama and Toy. For the sake of my sanity, I rarely visited that basement room in my soul.
“Are you all right?” Toy asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.
I tried to smile. “I’m fine as frogs’ hair—heck no, I’m not! Why are you here, Toy? To make amends now that you’ve apparently found religion? So help me, if you hurt Mama, I’ll—I’ll—”
Toy started to reach for me, so I flattened myself against the door, like a Carolina chameleon trying to avoid detection. I still have all my own teeth and I don’t bite my nails. If he didn’t respect my need for distance, he might require a little first aid.
“Abby, I came here to say I’m sorry.”
“You should have called first. We’re very busy.”
I saw the look of hurt in his eyes, and I am ashamed to say that I was glad. If Toy had the slightest idea of how much pain he’d caused us, he would never have just shown up out of the blue like that.
“Abby,” Mama called from behind the door, “who is it? Is it the Thomases?”
I froze. Mama couldn’t find out like this. She hated surprises, changes of any kind. If she saw Toy without first being prepared, she might suffer a heart attack.
“Shhh!” I glared at my brother. “Don’t you say a word.”
Toy never did obey me. “Mama!” he called out in a voice loud enough to wake the dead over in Berkeley County. “Mama, it’s me—Toy!”
I heard the door behind me open and then a soft “mew” like a kitten might emit. Before I spun around, she’d collapsed in a pile of crinolines.
There was nothing I could do to stop Toy. He carried Mama into the house, and since my fancy-schmancy living room doesn’t have a sofa, he laid her on her own bed. Meanwhile the Zimmermans trotted after us, all the while staring wide-eyed at what they probably considered to be typical Charleston tea entertainment. After all, just the evening before, a woman had been bashed over the head in the garden outside their bed and breakfast.
Mama—thank heavens—had not suffered a heart attack, but had merely fainted. Her voluminous skirt and petticoats had saved her from any physical injuries. They had not, of course, saved her from her prodigal son. When she came to on the bed, she clutched at her pearls, meowed like a kitten again, and fainted. Just in case we didn’t understand just how upset she was, she repeated the procedure twice.
“I told you,” I snarled. “Now leave.”
Neither the Zimmermans, nor my brother, budged.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Toy said. “She’s my mother, too.”
Mama came around the third time. Her eyes were as wide as magnolia blossoms, and her cheeks were just as white. It took her a few tries to speak, but when she did, her voice was calm, almost dispassionate.
“Would everyone please leave the room—except for you, Toy.”
“Mama,” I wailed. “Don’t listen to him. He�
�s a snake in a priest’s collar.”
Herman had the nerve to step even closer to Mama’s bed. “If you can’t trust a priest, little lady,” he said, “then who can you trust?” Never mind that Herman was holding Dmitri, who was trying to rake Toy with his claws. When an animal hates you, there is usually a good reason.
Toy cleared his throat. “I’m actually still a deacon; I have a year left of seminary. I don’t get ordained to Holy Orders until next spring.”
“So, he’s a snake in a deacon’s collar, Mama. He’ll only let you down.”
Mama sat bolt upright. “Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn. I’ve had quite enough of that. I wish to speak with your brother alone, and that’s that.”
Or what? She’d send me to my room in a house that I owned? She’d ground me from going out with my husband? She’d withold the allowance from herself that I gave her every month? Toy’s sudden appearance was bound to twist our family dynamic into an unrecognizable shape.
“The ‘or,’” Mama said, unfairly reading my mind, “is that I’ll be disappointed in you.”
“In me? Mama, I’m the one who’s always been there for you.”
She looked me straight in the eye. “Exactly. Please be there for me now.”
Although I was the shortest adult I knew, Mama had still managed to hit me below the belt. I had no choice but to follow her wishes.
The Thomases were a full half hour late, and they didn’t have the courtesy to apologize. They did, however, bring a bottle of wine. It was a good California wine, but with a Piggly Wiggly sticker, which probably meant it was purchased right here in Charleston.
It may be unfair, but beautiful people can get away with murder. The Thomases were disgustingly good-looking. John Thomas was tall, with a wasp waist and muscles that bulged beneath his crisp, baby blue shirt. His wife Belinda was also tall and with a tiny waist, but instead of muscles, she bulged with silicone. Between her improbable bosoms, and lips the size of a taco, she never need fear drowning. Both of them were blond and blue-eyed. But remarkably, it appeared as if John was the one who had to apply the bottle on a regular basis.
To determine if one is a natural blonde, besides the matching cup and saucer test, closely scrutinizing the eyebrows usually suffices. True blondes have to add color. And speaking of color, Belinda sported a deep tan, but despite the claims of sunless tanning manufacturers, you can tell the difference. Especially when several days have elapsed since the last application and the product starts to wear off. Belinda, it appeared, had missed a couple of days.
At any rate, by the time the Thomases had arrived, the Zimmermans were back in their chairs, and I had begun to lay out Mama’s spread of goodies. The two couples had already met, so ostensibly I could get right down to business. But first I had to concentrate, a near impossible task with Mama and Toy holed up in a bedroom whispering. I know, I could have just acted the part of an interested hostess—Lord knows I’d done plenty of acting during my first marriage, to Buford, but that was only five minutes at a stretch.
“Would you like some milk with your lemon?” I asked my guests. “Or would you prefer tea?”
The Zimmermans chose milk—no surprise—and the Thomases, who confessed to being vegans, elected for lemon. I had a feeling they would all have gone with beer, if given the opportunity.
Since I’d already chatted with the farmer and his wife, it was time to concentrate on the younger couple. And frankly, it was not hard to look at either of them.
“Where are you from?” I asked, trying to sound casual. What I really wanted to be doing was holding a glass against Mama’s bedroom wall.
“California.”
“That’s nice. L.A.?”
“Cambria.”
“That’s near San Simeon—where the Hearst Castle is, right?”
“Right,” John said. “Have you been there?”
“Yes. I love that part of the country. Cambria is so charming, and as for the Hearst Castle, I’ve never lusted in my heart so much—except for maybe when I visit the Biltmore. We stayed in this very reasonable motel where they served us breakfast in bed. Now what was the name of it? It was right on the ocean, and we had a spectacular view of waves crashing on rocks.”
The Thomases exchanged glances. “We just recently moved there,” John said.
“Oh, from where?”
“Santa Calamari,” Belinda said. “Have you been there?”
“I’m afraid not. What do you do?”
“We’re travel agents,” John said quickly.
“Estee and I plan to do a lot of traveling when we retire,” Herman said. He looked at his wife as if for confirmation.
But Estee’s mind was elsewhere. She poked her blue-black do with a finger, perhaps to stimulate the brain cells. Not that they needed any.
“I’ve never heard of Santa Calamari,” she said. “Calamari is squid. I don’t think the Church would name a saint after squid.”
“My Estee knows everything,” Herman said, with unmistakable pride in his voice.
John squirmed. “The founding fathers did it as a joke. All the streets are named after seafood. There’s, uh—Octopus Alley, Roe Row, Pompano Place, Lumpfish Lane—”
“Herring Heights,” Belinda said. John gave her what my children used to call “the evil eye.”
Something was rotten in California, and it wasn’t just the seafood. Something was rotten in New York and Wisconsin as well. No matter. That’s why I had agreed to entertain these folks, even before Mama interfered with her tea. Fortunately, I knew just the right question to ask next.
12
“How did y’all learn about the Webbfingerses’ bed and breakfast?”
“You mean La Parterre?” Estelle asked.
“Do they own another?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that. But Herman and I read about this one in the back of a magazine.”
“Oh? Which one?”
She shrugged and looked at her husband.
“A dairy magazine,” he said, after the slightest of pauses. “Udder Perfection, it’s called. They have ads in the back for vacation rentals, hotels, and such. Most of the stuff is up in Myrtle Beach, but there were some Charleston listings.”
I turned to the Thomases. “How about y’all?”
John’s smile revealed that either life was very unfair or else he had a very good dentist. “We travel agents get tons of brochures. But if we really want to recommend a place, we have to check it out ourselves. La Parterre sounded particularly appealing, and neither of us had ever seen Charleston.”
“Did any of you keep the ads?”
They all shook their heads.
I turned back to the Thomases. “Did y’all witness the incident last evening?”
Belinda blinked. “Which one?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, there were two incantations that I know of.”
“She means ‘altercations,’” John said quickly.
“There were?”
Belinda nodded vigorously. I was absolutely right; there were no dark roots.
“There was that fight between that crabby old maid and the woman with only one eyebrow, and then there was that couple from New York.”
“Oh yeah,” Herman said. “I nearly got involved in that one. A man shouldn’t ever talk to his wife that way.”
For a second or two I forgot all about Toy. “Tell me about both fights,” I said to Belinda. “Which took place first?”
“The two women. At first it was kind of hard to understand them because of their accents—no offense, Mrs. Washburn—”
“Abby.”
“Mrs. Abby. But then I sort of got used to the way they talked—well, screamed really. People don’t usually get that mad in California.”
“I’m sure Calamari is a very calm place, dear. Please continue. What were they fighting about?”
“Dead flowers. Can you believe that?”
I couldn’t. Wynnell
has been under a lot of stress, and she does possess a wee bit of a temper, but she is a mature woman with experience in solving conflicts—never mind that the last time she and Ed had a major tiff, she ran off to Japan to become the world’s oldest geisha-in-training. Besides, Marina Webbfingers was a blue-blooded society dame. I couldn’t imagine her getting all bent out of shape over wilted wax-leaf begonias. The dryness of her martini might be a serious issue, but not her flower beds.
“There had to be more to it than that,” I said.
“Money,” John said.
Belinda’s blond locks opened and shut like a stage curtain when she nodded. “The truth of all evil, isn’t that what they say?”
“That must be a Calamariism,” I said, suppressing a smile. I turned to John. “Money?”
“Mrs. Webbfingers shouted that she wasn’t going to pay the landscaper for a bunch of dead plants. She said if she had wanted a desert garden, she would have asked for cactus. Then the landscaper said that she was going to sue for her wages, and Mrs. Webbfingers said that would be a big laugh because she knew all the judges and they would decide in her favor. Then they started trading insults, until finally they were just cursing. Frankly, Abby, I was rather surprised by their language. Well, the landscaper’s didn’t surprise me as much as Mrs. Webbfingers’s did. I’d pegged her for a real Southern lady.”
“She called the landscaper a ‘hankie,’” Belinda said. “What’s so bad about that? Anyway, that’s when she really blew her pop.”
“Her top,” John said gently.
“Whatever.”
“Could Mrs. Webbfingers have said ‘Yankee’?” I asked.
John winked his answer. It is a good man who doesn’t want to embarrass his wife.
“Well,” I said, “calling someone a Yankee, when they’re not, can be fighting words around here. But no one would kill over them,” I added hastily. That was sort of true. The War of Northern Aggression is not over for a few folks, but they tend to come from the fringes of our society, and most of them feel cheated by life in general. Wynnell Crawford, however, is not one of them.