The Cane Mutiny

by Tamar Myers

  “Madam, are you aware of this walking stick’s value?”

  “A lot?” I squeaked.

  “Several thousands of dollars, I imagine. The jadeite is superb in every way except for the obvious bands of darker color that cut diagonally across the stone. They give character to a cane head, but make it somewhat useless for jewelry. If the color was consistent, the stone could be cut down to a number of sizable cabochons worth several hundred thousand dollars.”

  First the silence, then a squeak, and now a gasp. I clapped a tiny hand over the offending aperture, and then just as quickly removed it.

  “I had no idea that canes were made from such valuable materials.”

  “My dear, then what on earth are you doing running an antiques store?”

  “One can’t know everything. Why even my assistant, who practically does knows everything, thought the knob on this cane was some type of polymer.”

  Colonel Beauregard Humphrey snorted, an action that set his mustache to flapping. “I tell you what. I’ll give you five for the whole shebang.”

  “Five what.”

  “Thousand, madam.”

  I’d already placed a price tag of fifty dollars on each cane, and there were ten of them on display. Even if the one with the jadeite was more valuable than the Colonel was letting on, I still stood to make a huge profit. Easy come, easy go, as they say. Besides, the canes on display were only the tip of the iceberg. In my storeroom, wrapped in plain brown paper, were at least a dozen more. Several of those were a bit unusual, and I’d intended to do some research before putting them out.

  “You have a deal, sir,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind.

  “Oh, by the way,” he said in parting, “that’s a real elephant’s foot you’ve got there. You should be ashamed of yourself, madam, for trafficking in endangered animal parts.”

  I was more stunned by this latest revelation than I’d been by the good news regarding the jade.

  There is no one quite as capable at derailing a good day than a mother on a mission. Mine literally blew in off the street, propelled by a stiff spring breeze that had connected with her crinolines. Mama, you see, only wears dresses with full-circle skirts puffed up by enough starched slips to keep all of England’s upper lips stiff for years.

  Mama barely glanced at C.J., who was with a customer, and sailed right over to me. “Abby! We have to talk.”

  “I’m all ears, Mama.”

  “No, privately.”

  “Can we do this at home? I have a business to run.”

  My petite progenitress recoiled in well-rehearsed shock. “This is how you talk to the woman who endured thirty-two hours of excruciating pain to bring you into this world?”

  “It was thirty-six, Mama. Last time you said it was thirty-four. One of these days I’ll just pop right out of you like bagel halves from a toaster.”

  Mama tipped her head in C.J.’s direction and waggled her almost nonexistent eyebrows. “It’s about her.”

  I sighed. “Five minutes. And this better be good.”

  “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  I led her into the storeroom and offered her the use of a Louis XIV gilt chair that was awaiting refurbishment. When she refused, I was happy to sit instead.

  “Spill, Mama.”

  “Ivory,” Mama said.

  “Ivory? Make sure that it comes from a source that guarantees it hasn’t been poached. Better yet, stick to very old ivory—pre-1950—or a good imitation.”

  “Not that kind of ivory. I mean the color. C.J. wants to get married in an ivory white dress with a ten-foot train!”

  “Good for her.”

  “Abby, you can’t mean that. She’ll be the laughingstock of Charleston.”

  What C.J. wears to her own wedding is not my mother’s business, although whom she will marry is—well, to a certain extent. My younger brother, Toy, spent only six hours inflicting pain on our mother, a fact of which she is quick to remind me. At any rate, Toy and C.J. are to be married at Grace Episcopal Church in downtown Charleston this August. I’m going to be the maid of honor and Mama’s going to be a nervous mother of the groom. As far as I know, that’s the limit of Mama’s involvement in the upcoming nuptials.

  “Mama, I’m sure a lot of Charleston brides have gotten married in ivory gowns, and I bet some have had even longer trains than that.”

  “Yes, but C.J. isn’t a—well, you know what. She shouldn’t be wearing white. Even ivory white.”

  “So what if she’s not an Episcopalian?”

  “That’s not what I mean. She isn’t a—” Mama waggled the scant brows in what, after much pondering, I understood to be a suggestive manner.

  “How do you know, Mama?”

  “She told me.”

  “She did?” It’s not my place to judge C.J., and it wasn’t the extent of her involvement with my brother that bothered me; it was the fact that my friend and colleague had shared this information with my very prim mother, and not me.

  “C.J. tells me everything, dear, just like a good daughter.”

  “Mama, if I told you everything I did, you’d have both hands over your ears while screaming la-la-la-la-la. Anyway, times have changed. I mean, you don’t expect her to wear a scarlet dress, do you?”

  “Of course not, dear. What I have in mind is a very nice pastel skirt suit with dyed-to-match pumps. I was thinking baby blue. I saw just the thing at Dillard’s last week.”

  My patience was wearing thin. “Mama, if every bride in Charleston County who wasn’t a virgin—there, Mama, I said the word—wore something other than some shade of white, the bridal shops would go out of business. This is C.J.’s special day, and with any luck, it will be her only wedding day. She has a right to wear what she wants.”

  “Then I have a right not to be a part of this.” Her eyes puddled up.

  If it were not for the fact that my minimadre was a master at manipulation, I would have felt sorry for her. Instead, I felt wary, knowing full well that there was another shoe about to be dropped, perhaps one of those with the long pointed toes that come in so handy for killing roaches here in Charleston.

  “I suppose you’d like me to tell her, right? I mean, there is no use in her worrying about a corsage for you if you’re going to be a no-show.”

  The tears somehow managed to disappear into thin air. “I will most certainly not be a no-show at my only son’s wedding!”

  “Suit yourself, but you’re not going to do to her what you did to me.”

  “What did I ever do to you, dear?”

  “You sewed a black thread into the hem of the dress I wore when I married Greg.”

  “That’s because it was your second marriage, Abby.”

  I hopped out of the Louis XIV. As beautiful as that chair is, it lacks in the comfort department and can lead to irritability. No wonder the royals in those days were forever lopping off heads.

  “Sorry you have to run, Mama.”

  “I don’t need to do any such thing.” She started picking her way down along the right side of my storeroom, the area where I keep my new purchases that have yet to be marked. Even though she lives in my house, Mama frequently raids my storeroom for home furnishings. “What’s this, Abby?” she said, pausing at the brown paper package that contained the rest of the canes.

  “Nothing. Just some junk I picked up at a locked trunk sale.”

  “What fun,” she said, and began unwrapping the contents.

  “Mama!”

  “I’m only trying to help, dear.” But when she saw what the parcel contained, she immediately lost interest. “How can you sell such ugly things, dear?”

  “Because people buy them.”

  “Sachets tied up with silk ribbons, and fancy soaps, that’s what people want to buy. And scented candles.”

  “Not everyone is Donna Reed.”

  “Did you know that there is a shop in Mount Pleasant called Nose Stoppers where you can create your own scent? Suzy Tutweil
er said she had them reproduce the smell of her pot roast. She said it keeps her husband home in the evenings, even when she serves him TV dinners.”

  “No offense, Mama, but Suzy Tutweiler needs all the help she can get to keep her husband home.”

  “One cannot work too hard on one’s marriage,” Mama said pointedly.

  “Greg and I are doing just fine, Mama. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Well, I never! Dismissing your own mother, like she was a servant.”

  “At least a servant would leave when asked.”

  “Ha!” Mama would leave when she was good and ready, and not a minute before. To remind me of this, she pulled a cane from the parcel, using just her index finger and thumb. “This is disgusting.”

  The walking stick she’d selected was disgusting, but in an interesting sort of way. The shaft was ebony and tipped with ivory, and frankly rather elegant, but the handle was carved from some hideous material that I could not identify. At first I thought it might be the horn of a large animal, such as a Cape buffalo, but now, seeing it for a second time, I’d changed my mind.

  “That’s dried hippo hide,” I said. “At least I think it is.”

  Mama dropped the stick, which clattered to the floor.

  “Mama! That’s my livelihood.”

  “All right, dear, I’m leaving. You don’t need to get so bent out of shape.”

  She fluffed her skirts, hoping to catch a breeze, but finding none, was forced to exit the storeroom on her own power.

  No sooner did the swinging door close behind her than it swung open again, admitting an even stronger personality.

  3

  Wynnell Crawford is my oldest and dearest friend. When I moved to Charleston two years ago, she sold her antiques shop up in Charlotte and followed me down to open a shop west of the Ashley River. Unfortunately, Wynnell’s new store, Wooden Wonders, has not met with the same level of success that the Den of Antiquity has enjoyed. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with the fact my business is located on lower King Street in the prestigious heart of peninsular Charleston. As a result I have to work really hard to keep the green from appearing in my friend’s normally brown eyes.

  “Hey there,” I called cheerily.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “You mean Mama?”

  “She looked fit to be tied.”

  “That’s because I evicted her. Not to mention she’s upset that C.J. wants an ivory white gown.”

  “It’s C.J.’s wedding. She should have what she wants.” Wynnell picked up the cane Mama had dropped. Without being told, she slid it back into the partially open parcel. “But on the other hand, if she wants to have friends—well, enough said. I’m sure you can take it from there.”

  “What?” I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly, and if I had, I was very sure I didn’t like what had just been said.

  “She adores you, Abby. She’ll do anything you say.”

  “Were not talking about dress color, are we?”

  “Next to you, Abby, I’m her closest friend.”

  I nodded. “I thought so. Wynnell, you shouldn’t take it personally. C.J. has invited her entire clan to come down from Shelby. As it is, she’s having six bridesmaids, so as not to offend anyone.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, because you’re her maid of honor. Besides, her Cousin Zelda isn’t even a woman, but a goat.”

  “We’re not sure about that; the DNA report is inconclusive. Look Wynnell, I know for a fact that C.J. feels really bad about having to exclude you from the wedding party. That’s why she wants you and Ed to sit up front with Mama on the groom’s side.”

  “She said that?”

  I nodded vigorously. The truth is that C.J. would have said that, had it occurred to her. And it was going to occur to her just as soon as I got the chance.

  Defused, Wynnell extracted a different cane from the bundle. “Abby, this is exquisite.”

  “You know about antique canes?”

  “Just because I sell used dressers and armoires, some of them barely old enough to qualify as antiques, doesn’t mean I’m ignorant about other areas in this business. Take this seemingly plain walking stick. Did you know that it’s also a pistol?”

  “Get out of town! You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “No. Look.” My buddy turned the handle until I heard a click, and then gently pulled it back, slowly revealing the barrel of a pistol.

  “Well, I’ll be dippity-doodled. How did you know to do that?”

  “Ed’s granddaddy had one of these. Said he got it from his daddy who fought a duel over a woman in downtown Charlotte. He won, by the way.”

  “How romantic,” I said, dripping enough sarcasm to ruin my four hundred dollar Bob Ellis shoes.

  “Actually, it was. You see, the guy Ed’s great-great-granddaddy killed was a carpetbagger. The man had made a pass at Ed’s ancestor’s wife. Great-Great-Granddaddy Crawford had already lost his first wife from cholera during the War of Northern Aggression. He said that while he had no regrets in laying down his wife for his country, he’d be damned if he did it again for a Yankee.”

  “Wynnell, that’s an old joke.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, this pistol—” She set the weapon down gently. “Abby, what’s in that barrel?”

  The barrel was one of the items in the locked storage shed. It, the canes, a broken space heater, two lawn chairs in need of reweaving, a painting of dubious quality, and boxes of old magazines, dried-up pens, balls of string, and assorted junk too useless even to remember: that’s what I’d received for my winning two thousand dollar bid.

  “It’s part of a locked trunk sale. That’s where I got the canes.”

  “Abby, how come nobody ever tells me about these sales? I’m a dealer too. Why is it I’m always left out of the loop?”

  The truth is that my buddy is not intentionally being left out of anything. She is privy to the same newsletters and sale information that I am; she just chooses not to pay attention. Some days, like today, she doesn’t even open her shop, although she can ill afford not to do so.

  “Wynnell, who’s minding the store?”

  “Ed.”

  “Really?”

  “It was your idea, Abby, remember? You said I should ask him to help because he was bored with retirement. Well, I did, and he loves it. Not only that, but he’s better at it than I ever was. So, now guess who’s retired? Unofficially, of course. Anyway, that’s why I’m here—to see if you want to go to lunch later.”

  “That, and to ask me to intercede on your behalf with C.J.”

  “You know me too well.” She walked over to the barrel, which had a padlock on top. “Just how do these locked trunk sales work, Abby? I mean, this isn’t exactly a trunk.”

  “Touché. Well, I can’t speak for all locked trunk sales, but this one advertised that the contents of a storage shed were being sold sight unseen. Apparently the person renting the facility was many years behind in the payments. Anyway, we submitted bids on slips of paper, like at a silent auction, and then the five highest bids were put in a drum—the kind they use at bingo games—and the one pulled was the winner. I won, of course. Wynnell, it was in the Post and Courier.”

  She ignored my last comment. “Abby, if you didn’t know what you’d be bidding on, why did you even go to this sale?”

  “Because I thought it would be fun. And it was a chance to meet other bargain hunters.”

  “Other gamblers, if you ask me. Not you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Wynnell tapped on the barrel with her knuckles. “When are you going to open this, Abby?”

  “Just as soon as I get the time to call a locksmith, or get Greg out here with his toolbox. But in any case, I’m not expecting to find a king’s ransom. It feels practically empty, although you can hear something when you tip it. For all I know, there’s a human skeleton in there, and nothing else.”

  “Would you like me to pick it o
pen?”

  “You can do that?”

  She grinned lopsidedly. “Maybe you don’t know me that well after all. My daddy was a locksmith, remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “When I was a little girl he was my hero. During school vacations I went with him on all his house calls. Believe me, Abby, I can pick any padlock with a paper clip, and as for combination locks, I once opened one with my toes.”

  Wynnell, bless her heart, is a bit on the hirsute side. Her eyebrows are like hedges—make that one long hedge—and joint trips to the beach have made me painfully aware that this is one woman who eschews waxing. Just the thought of her hairy toes picking at a lock made me want to poke out my mind’s eye. I dashed back into the showroom to grab a paper clip from my desk drawer.

  My friend was true to her word. It took her less time to open the lock than it took me to retrieve the paper clip.

  “What do you say to that, Abby?”

  “I say you’re a wizard, and that it’s a good thing you’re on the right side of the law.”

  She laughed happily. “Okay, Abby, go on and open it.”

  The truth be told, I would rather have opened the barrel when I was alone. Then I could have savored the thrill. But since Wynnell had just saved me a locksmith’s fee, I couldn’t very well exclude her from the event. But I’d be damned if she was going to get the first peek. I jokingly told her to stay back in case there was a live snake in there, and then, with hands trembling from excitement, released the metal band and pried off the lid with my fingertips.

  Wynnell, who was supposed to have stayed back, somehow managed to stick her head into the barrel before I could react. “It’s only a gym bag,” she bellowed, her voice thankfully muffled by the barrel.

  “Let me take it out.” If it sounded like an order, so be it.

  Wynnell stepped back obediently, but her prodigious brows puckered in the middle, displaying her true feelings. “I was only trying to be helpful.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful.” I should have asked Wynnell, whose arms are nearly twice as long as mine, to hoist the bag out of the barrel. Instead I had to tip it, and unfortunately lost my grip. Fortunately, my Bob Ellis shoes were of the closed toe variety, or I might well have gone from a size four to a size two.