by Tamar Myers
“As a friend, yes. I thought it could turn into more than that if I just tried harder.”
“Why haven’t you told Rob about this?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“Abby, you won’t understand. It’s complicated.”
“Robert Vaughn Steuben, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to rip your tonsils out.”
He laughed nervously. “Okay, here goes. When we first met, I didn’t want Rob to think I could be so stupid. I mean, he knew who he was ever since he hit puberty. Anyway, after we were dating awhile, it seemed kind of awkward bringing up something that maybe I should have mentioned in the beginning. Then the longer I kept it secret, the harder it got to tell. I started thinking he might get angry if he ever did find out—not angry about the fact that I was married, but because I hadn’t shared. Abby, you’re the first person I’ve told since I left Ohio. It just kind of slipped out, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump this on you. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
I unbuckled my seat belt so I could hug him. “Bob, believe it or not, I do understand. I have All My Children to thank for that.”
“The soap opera?” He said it in the same tone he would use to describe a TV dinner.
“Yes, and it’s not a dirty word. The characters on All My Children are always keeping secrets from each other. Invariably the secrets come out and the lies are exposed. Of course that makes the people who’ve been lied to extremely angry. They claim that if only they’d been told the truth up front, they could have handled it. But the thing is, those characters who do learn the truth up front don’t handle it any better than the ones who’ve been lied to. I’ve actually thought a good deal about that, and the conclusion I’ve come to is that bad news will always have a bad reaction, no matter when it’s shared. That being the case, one may as well hang onto the bad news as long as possible—as long as no one is getting hurt. Especially children.”
His burst into tears. “Thank you, Abby,” he said between sobs.
I patted his scrawny back. “But you do realize that there is still a bomb ticking away in your cellar, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“If you ever do decide to tell Rob, I’ll do all I can to help him understand.”
He squeezed me so tight I found it hard to breathe. “Abby, you’re the best.”
I struggled free. Bob had enough on his plate, bless his heart. If he accidentally suffocated me, it might send him over the brink, and they’d ship him back to Ohio. That would be South Carolina’s loss as well, because Bob, his marital secret aside, is truly one Yankee we are happy to have living in our midst.
“Fasten your seat belts,” I said, as I did just that. “Hermione Wou-ki, here we come!”
The Jade Smile has its own parking lot in back, but Bob asked to get out just as I was pulling in. “I need to get back to the shop, Abby.”
“I thought you wanted to hang out all afternoon.”
“Well, I do, but—” He shrugged, looking as sheepish as any ram.
“But now that you’ve used me as a sounding board, you no longer have time for me? Is that it?” I was only half kidding.
He cringed. “Abby, how could you say that? You’re my friend. I wouldn’t do that to you. The truth is, if you must know, Ms. Wou-ki kind of scares me.”
I checked to see that my car doors, which lock automatically when the vehicle is in motion, were still secured. Bob wasn’t going to bolt without spilling even more of his guts.
“Scares you? How?”
“She has this way of looking at you that makes it feel like she’s looking right into your mind. That she can read your thoughts.”
“Uh-oh.”
“How so?”
“Lately it seems like everyone can read my mind. I’m almost surprised that strangers on the street don’t confront me with what I’ve thought about them.”
“You think bad things about strangers?”
“Not bad things. Just things like, ‘Wow, if those shorts rode up any higher, people might think you’re wearing nothing but a thong.’ Or, ‘If I were you I’d dump the rest of that ice cream cone in the nearest trash bin.’ Or—and this is really bad—‘Did you ever hear of shampoo?’ That kind of thing.”
“Trust me, Abby, those are pretty mild thoughts.”
“Really?”
“Toodle-doo, Abby,” my friend from Toledo said as he punched the unlock button and leaped safely out of reach.
“I hope she loves your cooking,” I hollered after him, only half in jest.
One has to ring in order to gain admittance to The Jade Smile. I used to think this was pretentious, but that’s before my friend Kim had a car full of women double-park directly in front of her shop. Before she could think clearly, they barged through the door, two at a time, grabbed every single piece off a rack of vintage clothing, and then skedaddled before Tweedles Dee and Dum could be summoned. Since then I’ve been thinking of replacing my cow bells with a buzzer.
At any rate, having seen Ms. Wou-ki’s picture in the paper, I knew that the dour woman who finally opened the door for me was not the owner. When I asked to see Ms. Wou-ki, Mrs. Crabcakes expelled a lungful of stale air in my face.
“My employer is busy,” she snapped.
“Tell her that makes me very happy. Busy is good, right?”
“If you say so. What do you want?”
“I want you to give Ms. Wou-ki a message for me. Please tell her that her assistant has a nasty disposition, bless her heart, and is as homely as a toad in the high speed lane.”
“I am her assistant.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Don’t be silly, dear, you’re very nice. I could tell that right away. But her assistant—wow, Ms. Wou-ki needs to rethink that decision.”
The woman mumbled something about me having it all wrong, but she immediately headed for the back. I took advantage of her absence to poke around. The shop was short on space but high on value. Everywhere I looked museum-quality merchandise met the eye. From stunning rosewood carved furniture to the finest porcelain vases. I could just hear Ms. Wou-ki’s register go ca-ching with the sale of each Ming.
When an uncomfortable length had passed since the assistant had disappeared into the back room and not returned, I stood on my tiptoes, cupped my hands to my mouth, and hollered. “I’m no one important. Never mind that I have a bundle of cash with me that could choke a horse.”
Immediately Ms. Wou-ki swooped out of nowhere. “How may I help you?” she said, her voice as clear and delicate as a crystal bell.
“I’m Abigail Timberlake,” I said, and offered to shake hands.
She regarded my hand with some distaste, but took it nonetheless. “Hermione Wou-ki.” It was very much apparent my name didn’t ring a bell, crystal or otherwise.
“Yes, I know. I understand you’re an expert on walking sticks.”
She was a beautiful woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with flawless ivory skin and dark brown hair that fell beneath her shoulders. Her smile seemed genuine enough, and if she could read my thoughts, perhaps she’d chosen not to look into the wasteland that is my mind.
“I don’t consider myself an expert on anything,” she said. “But I do have some lovely canes I could show you.”
Without waiting for a response, she led me to a nook that was lighted from above and roped off with a golden cord. The walls of the nook were covered in blue velvet and mounted with clear Plexiglas rings that were not in the least bit obtrusive. Lining the walls of the nook, like soldiers on parade, were canes of every description. At first glance even my untrained eye could tell that these walking sticks were a step above even the finest I’d recently acquired.
There were canes with highly glazed porcelain handles, enameled handles, ivory hands, pewter handles, silver handles, vermeil handles, even jeweled handles. The designs ranged from brightly painted flowers to three-dimensional lifelike anima
l heads. Even the simplest were works of art. I strained to read one of the tiny price tags without having to lean forward or touch it.
“Sixty-nine hundred.”
I tried not to show my reaction. She’d read my mind through the back of my head, which was pretty darn unnerving.
“It’s very beautiful,” I said. And it was. The handle appeared to be carved from ivory or bone, and it depicted what looked like a water buffalo.
“The handle is vegetable ivory, which really isn’t ivory, but made from palm nuts. This cane comes from the Philippines and was commissioned by a veterinarian. Inside the shaft is a long, sharp piece of metal, like a large needle. He used it to poke the stomachs of domestic water buffalo to relieve them of excess gas.”
“You don’t say.” I found it both gross and engrossing.
“It’s both gross and engrossing.”
I clapped a hand to the back of my head. I still had hair, but it wasn’t doing a very good job of covering my mind. Maybe I should consider converting to the Amish way of life. My soul could use a dollop of gentleness, and the bonnet might help protect my meager mind from rearguard readers.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Timberlake?”
“Everything’s peachy.” I concentrated on a new cane. It had a straight silver handle that was entwined by silver vines that terminated in fleur-delis, which were surmounted by a vermeil lioness’s head. The lioness’s tongue was hanging out, and her eyes were closed. The tongue appeared to be carved from a pink sapphire of exceptional clarity. Good pink sapphire can demand a hefty price, but even so, the price was a staggering twenty big ones.
“I know that twenty thousand might seem like a lot to pay for a cane, but this one has a fascinating provenance. The story is that this walking stick belonged to the executioner who cut the head off Marie Antoinette. The lioness represents Marie, and the closed eyes and protruding tongue portray death. The sapphire used for the tongue was supposedly plucked from Her Majesty’s crown. The small amount of gold to gilt the silver came from one of the dead queen’s teeth. I am still working on gathering the physical evidence to support this claim, but the word of mouth comes from a very dependable mouth.” Crystal bells tinkled as she laughed.
“Wow, you really have some interesting things.”
“Ms. Timberlake—do you mind if I call you Abby?” For the first time I detected a slight British accent.
“I insist.”
“Well then, Abby, is there one cane in particular I can show you?”
I steeled myself for the moment of truth. “Ms. Wou-ki, I’m not here to buy anything—not today, at least. You see, I own the Den of Antiquity, just down the street.”
Her eyes brightened. “Lovely! I’ve been in your shop several times.”
“You have?” I’m not claiming to remember every face that walks through my door, but encountering a woman as classy and beautiful as Hermione is not an everyday occurrence.
“Your assistant, C.J., and I have become quite good friends. Did you know she speaks perfect Mandarin?”
“Actually, I did know that. She speaks seventeen languages, in fact. Do you speak Mandarin as well?”
“Abby, do you have time for a cup of tea?”
Did I ever! Skipping out on my lunch entrée had been a bad idea. If possible, I’d load that tea up with milk and sugar.
“With biscuits, of course. Cookies to you, I guess.”
“Call them anything you want,” I said gaily. “They all go down the same.”
“Indeed. Please, this way.”
She ushered over me to a pair of heavy red velvet drapes trimmed with gold tassels. Pushing them aside, she opened a door and stepped through into the most unusual storeroom I’d ever seen. While the back half appeared to be fairly typical of an inventory storage area, the front half had been roped off and, with the use of lacquered Chinese screens, in simple black and red geometric designs, turned into a cozy, albeit exotic room. Deeply carved rosewood divans upholstered in yellow silk damask were arranged around a mother-of-pearl inlay coffee table that was centered on a Kazakh rug that was predominately bottle green. The somewhat odd juxtaposition of cultures and colors worked beautifully. I actually gasped in appreciation.
“Do you like it? It’s based on my father’s office in Hong Kong—although his was a much larger space. Not to mention that it had a breathtaking view of the South China Sea.”
I was about to babble something inane when I noticed that at one end of the room within a room was yet a third room, an alcove that contained a table-mounted microwave, a coffeepot, and a hot-water-making machine. Standing still as a statue, a mug in her hand, was the less than gracious assistant I’d encountered out front. Her expression was one of controlled antagonism. I had a feeling that if Hermione were to abandon me here, her assistant would leap on me like a rabid cat and scratch my eyes out. I stared back at the sullen woman, willing her to disappear.
“Natasha, please go back up front. Ms. Timberlake and I will be having tea.”
The banished employee glowered as she slipped out of the alcove and within striking distance of me. I leaned back unconsciously.
When the door closed behind the sullen woman, Hermione sighed softly. “She’s a hard worker and knows her antiques, but she rather lacks in the social skills. I’m afraid that’s off-putting in a gracious city like Charleston. Tell me, Abby, do you have any suggestions?”
“Well, I—uh—I’m not sure what to say.” My friend Wynnell would accuse the acerbic assistant of being a Yankee insurgent, or at the least as being from “up the road a piece.” But I’ve met many surly Southerners in my time, and more than a few fine Northerners. I was sure Hermione Wou-ki did not intend it that way, but I felt like she’d put me on the spot.
“Oh dear, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said, moving toward the alcove. “Which do you prefer, lemon or milk?”
“Milk, please.”
“One lump or two?”
“Three, please.” I was too hungry to be ashamed.
She reached under the microwave table and produced a brightly colored tin. “These shortbread cookies are to die for. If you like Walker’s, you’ll love these. You don’t even need to swallow; all that butter makes them melt in your mouth and slide right down your throat.” She procured a saucer, also from beneath the table, and started piling on the rich treats. “Just say when.”
I didn’t say when nearly as soon as I should have. If she didn’t already think so, Hermione was bound to conclude that we Americans were gluttons.
“Now then,” she said when we were both settled in our respective divans, our teacups balanced carefully on our knees, our biscuits beside us, “what really brings you to see me?”
“Would you believe the desire to give you a warm, Charleston welcome?”
“Absolutely not. I know you feel threatened by my shop.”
“Why that C.J.!”
“There’s no need to blame her, dear. I would have read it in your eyes, anyway.”
For once she was wrong! “I don’t feel threatened; I’m jealous.”
The cookies didn’t interfere with her tinkling laugh in the least. “Jealous? Of me? I’m the last person on earth you should be jealous of.”
“Well, not you, exactly. I’m jealous of the reception you’ve received. When I got here—well, it was a total nonevent.”
“Abby, don’t you see? That’s because you’re one of them; a fellow Southerner, a regular American. I’m the exotic thing that blew in on the trade winds. They’ll tire of me soon enough. Do you know that I have yet to set foot inside a private home?”
I’d like to think it’s General Sherman’s fault, but we Southerners, famous for our hospitality, are reluctant to invite folks we don’t know well—i.e., went to grade school with—into our inner sanctums. We are, however, quick to bake them a peach pie, and deliver it with “Ya’ll come on over sometime, hear?”
“I’m sure it’s just because everyone is so
busy,” I said, “but I’d be honored to have you over sometime, hear?”
Dark eyes twinkled briefly. “Thanks, Abby.” She leaned forward, her features hardening, turning to jade. “Now, tell me the truth: why are you here?”
Sometimes, not only is truth the best policy, it’s the only one available. “You bid in the locked trunk sale. So did I; mine was the winning bid. I want to know why you participated in such a rinky-dink auction.”
“Rinky-dink?”
“Insignificant. A woman of your taste and sophistication interested in a musty old storage shed—it doesn’t add up.”
Her stone visage began to crack. “What about you, Abby? Why did you bid?”
“The thrill of the hunt.” My visit to the oak-dwelling gnome had not been a total waste.
“Touché. I once bought a real locked trunk that contained a museum-quality eighteenth-century kimono. My ten dollar buy netted me ten thousand dollars. That kimono, by the way, was featured in a sushi western titled Show Gun. Did you see it?”
I shook my head. “I prefer spaghetti westerns.”
“So Abby, what was in the storage shed?”
“Some canes. That’s another reason I came. I’m going to need some help in evaluating them. One can’t know everything, cane they?” I laughed at my own joke.
“Uhm. My instincts tell me that you know a lot more than you let on.”
And my instincts told me that Hermione was hiding something a lot more interesting than a secret parlor. And she wasn’t going to be an easy nut to crack. Thank heavens I hadn’t wasted my formative years reading silly books, electing instead, over Mama’s loud protests, to watch Perry Mason on our black and white Motorola TV.
“I think it’s drugs,” I said, just to see her reaction.
“What?” Her composure shattered altogether.
“White stuff in bags. Lots of it. What should I do?”
“What should you do? Call the police of course! Really, Abby, I’m surprised. I had you pegged as a very competent woman.”
“But I am! Really. Just ask anyone I know. Ask the Rob-Bobs.”
She took a sip of tea, her eyes speaking volumes over the bone china rim.