The Cane Mutiny

by Tamar Myers

  “This is the United States of America,” the woman from Pittsburgh said. “This is my home.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, ma’am. Y’all won the war. As far as I’m concerned, the United States of the Confederacy is an occupied nation.”

  “Did everyone hear that?” the Pittsburgher yelled. “This is treason!” Without further ado she attacked the Biloxi belle by swinging a handbag the size of a small suitcase.

  The belle fought back, swinging her purse, which was the size of a large suitcase.

  I had no choice but to join the fracas in order to achieve peace. Alas, my pocketbook was barely larger than a pocket, so I was forced to do the old Timberlake one-two. Balling my fists, I flew at the nearest lady, the one from Mississippi, and socked her in the soft spots behind both knees. The belle buckled, bawling with rage as she toppled directly across the Pittsburgher, provoking a plethora of profanities.

  I drew myself up to my full four-foot-nine inches. Aided by two-inch heels, I must have been a formidable sight.

  “Ladies,” I said sternly, “look over there, just beyond the spot where the two rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean. That’s Fort Sumter out there. That’s where the War Between the States began. But here is where it’s going to end. Do I make myself clear?”

  The women exchanged glances, then they both glared at me. “I ought to sue you,” the Pitts burgher said. “My husband is a well-known lawyer who specializes in personal injury cases.”

  “My husband is an orthopedist,” Mississippi said. “He’ll testify that you’ve given me whiplash.”

  “So sue me,” I said, and forced a little laugh. “It’s obvious you don’t know who I am.”

  “Who is she?” a bystander whispered.

  “I think she’s Sarah Brightman,” someone else said.

  “No, Sarah is much prettier than that. Taller too.”

  A man jumped into the discussion. “I know I’ve seen her somewhere. On television, I think.”

  “It’s Katie Couric,” a second man said. “I’m almost positive.”

  “Katie is prettier too,” someone else said.

  “Yeah,” the first man said, “but that’s with her TV makeup. No, Ed is right. That is Katie Couric. I did the Today show once. It was a segment on my new book, How to Catch Your Dream Man in Ten Days.“

  The woman from Biloxi gasped. “You wrote that?”

  “Get out of town,” the Pittsburgher said, as she too turned her back on me.

  I scurried away unnoticed. But I hadn’t gotten as far as East Bay Street when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled. Had I been a cat, I would have led with my talons. The tourist women were taking their lawsuit threats too far.

  “Listen ladies—oh, it’s you. The Colonel’s housekeeper.”

  The woman, who towered over me, was breathing heavily. Her large, flat face was red from exertion.

  “I need to talk to you,” she gasped.

  Not knowing her intentions, I kept walking. “Then talk.”

  “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

  Relenting, I led her over to the seawall. Steps, half hidden by flowering oleanders, open to an elevated walkway that offers spectacular views of Charleston harbor. She settled herself on a concrete ledge and leaned back against a metal railing. Behind her an enormous container ship, like a floating skyscraper—no, make that a floating city—glided by.

  I tried to keep my attention on her and not the handsome Greek sailors that scurried about on deck. “What is it you’d like to talk about? But first, just so you know, I am not in the competition for Colonel Humphrey.”

  Her mouth opened and closed rapidly several times in mute surprise, then she cackled. “And you think I am?”

  “Without a doubt. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Why that’s just downright cheeky of you Miss—uh—”

  “Call me Abby.”

  “Roberta,” she said, and tapped a chest so speckled with age spots it gave the illusion of a deep tan. “Roberta Stanley. That’s my maiden name. Unlike the Colonel, I’ve only been married once, but I’m not going to tell my ex’s name. He was a real slimeball.”

  “Been there, done that. My ex was the slime on the ooze on the muck at the bottom of the pond. However, I still use his name for business purposes. I figure I’ve earned the right to benefit however I can from that fiasco of a marriage.”

  She cackled again. “I like you Abigail. I’m a good judge of character, and I think I can trust you.”

  “Roberta, if you saw my husband, you’d know you could trust me.”

  She waved a hand impatiently. “I’m not talking about men now. I’m talking business.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I understand you sell antique canes.”

  “Well, yes, but—who told you that?”

  “The Colonel. He came back from your shop with a bunch of them, gloating like there was no tomorrow. Said you wouldn’t know an antique cane if it rose up and hit you. Had himself a good laugh.”

  “He did?”

  “Novice, that’s what he called you. Anyway, as it happens, I have a special cane I’d like to sell, but not to the Colonel.”

  “Why is that, if I may ask?”

  “Because the Colonel wants to buy it so darn badly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s the way we do things, Beauregard and I. Been that way ever since the beginning, thirty years ago when I first started working for him. He was married to the first Mrs. Humphrey at the time. A real slob, if I may be so frank. A slut too. Cheated on the poor man more times than I care to remember. Anyway, he and I started teasing each other all the way back then. Fool that I am, I didn’t see it for what it was.”

  “You were attracted to each other?”

  “Yes. Did you ever see the movie Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

  “Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor?”

  “That was us. Loved each other fiercely, but couldn’t stand each other at the same time.”

  “You were better off than I. I thought I was happily married—for twenty years—until my husband traded me in for a younger model. One with bigger headlights, I might add.”

  She snorted her laugh. “I married my slimeball as a way to make Beauregard jealous—I guess that makes me a slimeball as well. Anyway, Beauregard upped the ante by acquiring two more wives.”

  What a pair of idiots, I thought. Why didn’t they just marry each other and get it over with?

  “Bless your heart,” I said. “So, if you sell me this cane, you can stick it to the Colonel?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It must be very special. But why me? Why not sell it to any number of area dealers that have a higher profile than myself? Like, for instance, Hermione Wou-ki who owns The Jade Smile.”

  “Because Beauregard didn’t flirt shamelessly with her in front of my eyes.”

  “Actually, only one of the eyes was yours. The other belongs to a warthog.”

  “A small point, but one taken. There is another reason, as well. But I can’t discuss it here. I have tomorrow afternoon off. Could you meet me at Magnolias restaurant for tea? Say, four o’clock?”

  “Actually, I’m very busy right now. Something unexpected landed in my bag—I mean, on my plate.”

  “Abby, this is extremely important. I can’t emphasize how much.”

  “I understand, but sometimes a gal just has to say no.” That, I believe, is one of the most difficult life lessons I’ve had to work on to date.

  “Did I mention tea was on me?”

  Now that irritated me. Magnolias is a fine restaurant, and the chef is guilty of making the world’s tastiest crème brûlée, but one doesn’t have to sell one’s firstborn to afford taking tea there. Frankly, I was a mite offended by her offer. Did I look like I couldn’t afford even dinner at Magnolias? I may not buy couture, but I do buy most of my things at Dillard’s and Neiman Marcus.

  “I can affo
rd to pay for myself, thank you. But you still don’t understand. I don’t have time at this point in my life.”

  “Abby, it’s a matter of life and death. You must do it.”

  13

  The “must” word rattled my teeth like a Yankee saber. “I think I heard wrong.”

  “No, you didn’t. Abby, it is imperative that we meet somewhere more private. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “Roberta, I don’t have time for any more of y’all’s shenanigans. The two of you should be ashamed of yourselves for dragging a stranger into your bizarre War of the Roses. And to think I missed out on a perfectly good opportunity to watch some Greek eye candy go by.”

  “They weren’t Greek, they were Albanian.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I know that ship’s registry. I even recognized some of the crew.”

  “From this far away?”

  “I have a thing for faces, Abby. I never forget one, even if I just see it at a distance. That’s really why I’m here.”

  “Really, Roberta, I’ve got to get going.”

  My answer was to walk away. Unfortunately a tour bus had just disgorged a horde of pale panting bodies from one of the square states, and a quick, graceful exit was out of the question.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I tried to squeeze my way out of a fortress of hot flesh.

  “Okay,” she called at my retreating back, “I’ll tell you now! Some of those canes Beauregard bought from you are contraband.”

  I turned, but so did the tide of tourists. Apparently someone had spotted a pod of dolphins farther up, toward the Charleston Yacht Club. What had begun as a group of sweaty individuals was now a giant sweaty cell, of which I was the nucleus. The cell swept me along with it until it reached private property and couldn’t go any farther. Then it melted like a snowball in Dixie, depositing me on the sidewalk like the product of an unleashed dog. By the time I got back to where I’d left Roberta, she was nowhere to be seen.

  I was so frustrated, and angry at myself for having started to walk away from the woman, I could have kicked myself. A few minutes later that’s exactly what I did. But first I walked across the street to White Point Gardens and sat on a bench, under the spreading branches of a live oak tree. It was near the spot where the notorious pirate Stede Bonnet and thirty-nine of his men were hung in 1718. At any rate, before kicking myself, I removed my sandal.

  “It would be more effective if you kept your shoe on.”

  I whirled. The love of my life was standing there, having materialized out of nowhere, like the ghost of Stede Bonnet. Other than his ability to appear unexpectedly, my beloved shares very little with your average Apparition American. Greg is flesh and blood, and the flesh is very well shaped in my opinion: long and lean, but still muscular. His features are reminiscent of Cary Grant, but his hair is blacker, and his eyes like the finest Kashmir sapphires. He was dressed now in a shirt the color of his eyes, white chinos, and rawhide sandals. It was immediately clear that he had just showered, otherwise the odor of fish would have announced him—either that or a flock of hovering seagulls.

  “Darling! What are you doing home so early?”

  “Goober got sick,” he said, referring to a nephew who sometimes goes along as a cabin boy. “Abby, how about an early supper?”

  “At this hour? It’s not even four.”

  “Then how about a mid-afternoon snack? There’s a crème brûlée at Magnolias that’s calling your name.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why Magnolias? And why crème brûlée?”

  “Because that’s your favorite restaurant, and that’s your favorite item on the menu. Or have you changed it again?”

  “No, no. I thought maybe you’d overheard.”

  “Overheard what?”

  I hate lying to the love of my life, but sometimes it just makes life a whole lot easier. “Uh—just some tourist. Darling, don’t you hate it the way tourists show up in our white-tablecloth restaurants wearing shorts and tank tops?”

  “Men tourists, or sexy young women tourists?”

  “Beep, you got the wrong answer.”

  “Yes dear, I hate it. How about supper somewhere else?”

  “Greg, I need to get back to work.”

  “Come on then, I’ll drive you back. I’m parked—”

  “I have my own car. Thanks.”

  “Hon, we need to talk.”

  “Later, dear? I’m really in a hurry.”

  “Abby, I have a confession to make. Goober did get sick, but that was last night. I came back into port because your mom called.”

  The hair on my neck stood up. I stood up to keep it company.

  “She what?” Mama knows she is not allowed to bother Greg when he is out shrimping unless there is a genuine emergency, or when she has gift ideas to give my husband. Since it wasn’t anytime near my birthday, or Christmas, she could only have called about one thing.

  “Hon, we can talk about it here in the park, where my emotions can run wild, or we can discuss it civilly over dessert, in a posh restaurant where I wouldn’t dare make a scene.”

  “Crème brûlée it is.”

  Normally, whenever we go to Magnolias we request a window seat so I can people watch. Now I asked for the seat so people could watch Greg. Not that Greg is a bully; he can, however, blow things out of proportion.

  We settled into our usual spot. I ordered coffee with my crème brûlée. Greg opted for a fudge cake and ice cream concoction and an imported beer. Under normal circumstances I might have pointed out that I thought it an odd combination. Now I simply smiled and asked to taste the beer when it came.

  “Hon,” Greg said, almost before the waitress was out of earshot, “did you really think you could sneak this one past me?”

  “Hope can spring eternal in even the smallest breast, can’t it?”

  “Apparently. Now let’s hope that I can help you clear up this mess. Please, babe, start at the beginning and don’t leave out anything. Anything.”

  I did as he asked. Magnolias has excellent service, so I’d finished my dessert before I was done with my tale. Greg, listening intently, interrupted only a few times, and never once pontificated.

  “Those two are acting like idiots,” he said, referring to Tweedles Dee and Dum. “They don’t have a case and they know it. I’ll speak to the chief and have this whole thing dropped by suppertime. I’ll make sure Reuben assigns someone competent to investigate the skull, but frankly, it’s a nonissue. Gorillas may be one of our closest kin, but they are just animals in the eyes of the law. And even if C.J. is wrong, and the skull proves to be human, there are any number of explanations for it, from Hamlet to a first year medical student. Sure, they’ll run a computer check, but the odds are that they’ll end up giving it back to you.”

  “Did you say Hamlet?”

  “Yeah. I handled a case like it up in Charlotte once. The skull in question had been a prop for a high school drama department for as long as anyone could remember. Then one day some squeamish parent called the police, but there was nothing for us to do. At least not after the principal found a record saying that the skull had been donated by an alumnus in medical school—almost sixty years earlier.”

  “Wow. I never realized—give it back?”

  Greg grinned. “I was wondering how long it would take for that to sink in.”

  “I don’t want it back!”

  “Then donate it to the College of Charleston Drama Department. They do a fair amount of Shakespeare. Sixty years from now some other squeamish parent can report it.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t seem right. That was once a real person—or a real gorilla, or whatever.”

  “If it makes you feel better, we can have it buried. However you want to play it is fine with me.”

  Tears filled my eyes. How stupid I’d been for not calling Greg within seconds of opening the gym bag. But how could I have known
he’d be so reasonable; more like a friend, or a husband, rather than a stern, bossy parent?

  “Thanks, darling,” I murmured.

  He reached across the table, grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “My pleasure, hon.” He paused, massaging the back of my hand with a thumb as coarse as sandpaper. “But you have to promise me two things.”

  I snatched back my hand. “Silly me. Of course there would be a catch.”

  “No catch, hon. I just want you to promise that you’ll stop investigating this case.”

  Before promising I took time to blot the tears with a tissue. One of these days I’d learn my lesson and start wearing waterproof mascara.

  “What’s your second ultimatum?” I asked.

  “It’s not an ultimatum. I just want you to promise that you won’t take any of this out on Mozella. She was just being a good mother. You’d do the same if you thought Susan and Charlie were getting in over their heads.”

  “I don’t think so. I respect my children.”

  Shame on me. I knew that the use of “my” stung Greg. On the other hand, “our” would not have been appropriate since Greg had no part of raising my two children, who are now both adults. Two very nice adults, I might add. Yet someday I fully expected Greg to be the grandfather of my grandchildren. Remarriage, especially when children are involved, can be riddled with minefields, requiring one to tread carefully from time to time. Until now I’d always referred to my children as “the” children, hoping someday to slip in an “our.”

  Greg was silent for a time. “Well,” he said at last, “do you agree?”

  “Yes, sure, I agree. Greg, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right, hon.”

  The tears came again, this time in rivulets, and I had to sop them up with my cloth napkin. If I’d known I was going to cry, I would have asked for a back booth.

  “I love you, Greg.”

  “I love you too,” he said, and squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.

  Mama felt so bad that she’d tattled on me to Greg that she stewed the dishrag—that is to say, she cooked up a storm. While I appreciated her effort to make amends, I was a mite put out by the fact that she invited my brother, Toy, and C.J. to dinner. Without asking me first!