The Cane Mutiny

by Tamar Myers

  “I didn’t even know Toy was in town,” I said, trying hard to keep the whine out of my voice.

  Toy is my only sibling, and a good deal younger than I am. He is the Prodigal Son to a tee. Not only did Mama clasp this wayward child back to her bosom upon his return from the fleshpots of California, but she totally erased his slate of all his sins. Whereas my minimadre can tell you the exact date and time that I came in after my curfew that one time when I was a senior in high school, she has no recollection that Toy was repeatedly caught smoking pot in his bedroom, and that on two occasions she caught Cindy Lawhorn sneaking out of his window in the morning.

  “Sewanee Theological Seminary just started their spring break. Promise you’ll be nice to him, Abby.”

  “I promise,” I growled. The absurdity of it all was laughable. Toy an Episcopal priest? That was like me trying out for the Olympic high jump team, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t for a minute believe that it was for Heaven’s sake that “Wild Boy Wiggins,” as his friends called him, had chosen this vocation. But whatever the real reason, Mama would never see it for what it was.

  No sooner was I done growling than the doorbell rang. A second later it opened, and Toy strolled in as if he had a right to be in my house. Hard on his heels was the irrepressible C.J.

  “Ooh, Abby,” she cooed when she saw me, “we were just talking about you.”

  “Nothing good, I bet.”

  “Of course—ooh, Abby, you’re such a tease, you know that?” She gave me a bear hug—one she claims to have learned from a bear—and kissed both cheeks.

  Instead of a kiss, Toy gave me a brotherly wink, which was a sure sign that high jinks would follow. “Abby, it was sheer genius what you did, suggesting to my sweetheart that she invite Wynnell Crawford to man the guest book at our wedding.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  He slapped me on the back. “Always so modest. That’s my little sister.”

  “I’m your older sister,” I growled.C.J. was beaming. “I asked Wynnell, and she said yes. She’s also going to make sure that the punch bowl stays filled. And the nut bowls. Ooh, and those little candy hearts.”

  I’ve heard that weddings up North are often followed by elaborate dinners and dancing. This is becoming a trend in the South too, but it used to be that folks were content with cake, punch, and a few finger foods. It seems to me that instead of spending twenty thousand grand, or more, on a dress and a party, those footing the bill should spend the money on a down payment for a house. After all, fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce, and the chief cause of divorce is financial problems. But then who am I to comment, seeing that I am divorced? My divorce, however, had nothing to do with money problems, but everything to do with the fact that there were six inches of my ex-husband that could not be domesticated.

  “C.J.,” I said, “I’m really glad you’ve found something for Wynnell to do. And you’ll have her sit up front in the church too, right?”

  She nodded her leonine head. “Of course, silly.”

  “That’s wonderful, C.J. Wynnell considers you her second best friend. Just between you and me, she was hurt to think you’d have a goat as a bridesmaid and not include her.”

  “Hey sis,” Toy said with surprising sharpness, “you know that DNA test was inconclusive.”

  The next thing I knew C.J. burst into tears and commenced bawling up a storm. I’d never seen the big gal lose it, and I hope to never witness such a spectacle again. The loud rasping sobs drew Mama out of the kitchen, and Greg emerged from our bedroom wrapped in a towel. If only he had thought to bring an extra towel.

  I have never in all my born days seen a continent human being lose so much water in such a short time. Fortunately my hardwood floors were sealed, and Toy was a practitioner of the manly, but disgusting, custom of using cloth handkerchiefs. He pulled one from his pocket that was the size of a small sheet and proceeded to mop his beloved’s face.

  “C.J., sugar,” Mama said, patting her pal’s broad back, “what did Abby do to you now?”

  “Me?”

  C.J. shook her head, but Toy was unable to keep up with her, so we all got soaked. To her credit, the big galoot was able to go from blubbering to lucid speech in two seconds flat.

  “Mozella, it isn’t your sweet daughter I’m crying about. It’s Cousin Zelda.”

  “The goat?”

  “That’s just it; they did a second DNA test and it turns out she isn’t a goat at all. She’s one hundred and two percent woman.”

  “And two percent?” I asked.

  “Don’t even go there,” Toy said quickly. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Mama said. “If Cousin Zelda is a woman, then what’s the problem?”

  C.J. rolled her eyes. If I ever did that, Mama would slap me—gently, of course. I know that from personal experience.

  “You see,” she blurted, “it’s an ancient Shelby custom to dress up a goat and include it in the wedding party. That way any bad luck will stick to the goat, and leave the bride and groom alone.”

  “You’re joking,” Mama said.

  “Oh no, Mozella, I would never joke about something that serious. And now that we know for sure Cousin Zelda is a woman, I’m going to have to buy a real goat and teach it how to walk in heels.”

  Perhaps I should have minded my own business at that point, but I felt I couldn’t. “C.J., I’ve been to Shelby, North Carolina, and know for a fact that most of its inhabitants are good, sane people.”

  Her lower lip stuck out so far it cast a shadow on her saddle shoes. “And what are you saying, Abby? That I’m not good? That I’m not sane?”

  “No, no, of course not. What I’m saying is that—uh, well—”

  Greg, bless his heart, couldn’t bear to see me flounder. “She’s saying that she doubts the good, sane, folks of Shelby bring goats to their weddings.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  C.J.’s lip retreated. “I can’t believe Granny lied to me like that. She said it was a Shelby custom, and now I know it’s just because she wanted Cousin Zelda to be included in all the family weddings.”

  “And so she can,” I said.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Mama said. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

  “I am,” Toy said. “What are we having?”

  “Lamb.”

  “Not a ba-a-a-a-d choice,” I said.

  14

  On mornings he takes the boat out, Greg gets up promptly at four-thirty. I know this not because I hear the alarm ring, but because at 4:35 my sweet husband rolls our ten pound bundle of joy off his chest and onto mine. The bundle, by the way, is Dmitri. I’m nowhere as big, or generous, as Greg. After about five minutes of labored breathing I too roll over and make the poor cat sleep on the bed. Then I sleep until seven.

  But the next morning I was awakened by Greg gently touching my shoulder. “Not now,” I said. “I’m too sleepy.”

  “Hon, there’s someone here to see you.”

  I sat bolt upright, simultaneously drawing the sheet up to my neck. “What is it?” I asked, panic racing through every nerve cell in my body. “Is it the kids? Which one? What happened?”

  Greg managed a lopsided grin. “Relax, hon, it’s not the kids.”

  “Oh God, not Mama! I told her not to stop taking her Lipitor.”

  “It’s not her either. It’s you.”

  “Me?” The older I got, the more realistic my dreams become. Okay, I wouldn’t fight this one. To the contrary, I’d see just how far I could take it without waking up.

  “Hon, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Greg, darling, scrap the bad news and bring me breakfast in bed, will you? My usual will be fine. Oh, and don’t forget to put a yellow rose in the bud vase.”

  “Abby, you’re dreaming.”

  “I know. This could be one of my better ones. Tell you what, when you bring my breakfast tray—oh shoot, I’m not dreaming anymore, am I?” />
  Greg sat on the bed and stroked my legs through the sheet. “I’m afraid not, hon. Detective Gaspar is waiting in the living room. He said that a woman named Roberta Stanley was found dead in her maid’s apartment this morning. She’d been shot to death.”

  “That’s awful! But what’s this have to do with me? I don’t know anyone named”—I gulped. “She’s dead?”

  He nodded. “Apparently you were seen talking to her by the seawall yesterday.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “And?”

  “And the detective would like to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”

  “Greg, I didn’t do it! I swear.”

  He laughed. “That’s one of things I love about you, Abby. You’re disarming, you know that?”

  “Disarming, maybe. But certainly not diabolical. I don’t understand why the detective would want to speak to me.”

  “Trust me, it’s just standard procedure. They’re trained to interview anyone who’s ever known the victim. You never know what clues will turn up, and sometimes the clues come from the most unlikely sources.”

  “That would be me—the unlikely part, at least. I just met Miss Stanley yesterday. She works for Colonel Beauregard Humphrey. You know, the eccentric gentleman from Louisville who looks like Colonel Sanders, but his mustache drags in the mustard.”

  Greg’s eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Yeah, I know who he is. But you actually know him?”

  “I only met him yesterday morning. He came into my shop looking for antique canes. It turns out he’s one of the people who bid against me at the locked trunk sale.”

  “How did you meet the victim?”

  The victim again! Greg has been off the force—he used to work up in Charlotte—for a year and a half, and he still talks about perps and victims.

  “I paid the Colonel a visit yesterday afternoon, to ask him why he bid in that auction—he sent her to bid for him—and when I was done talking to him, she followed me to the seawall. I told you that yesterday at Magnolias.”

  “I just wanted to be sure that was the first time you met her.” I started to speak, but he lovingly shushed me. “In that case, you have nothing to worry about.”

  I never thought I did—until then. Moving quickly, I slipped into some capris and a T-shirt, washed my face, and dragged a brush through my hair. But I hesitated before putting on lipstick. Did I want to appear pitiful for this so-called interview, or as pretty as time permitted? I opted for pitiful. Let the detective know he’d roused me from the deep sleep that only comes with innocence. Besides, I certainly didn’t want him to think I was vamping it up for his benefit.

  I needn’t have worried. Detective Gaspar was oblivious to any of my possible charms. He looked like he’d been up all night and was badly in need of caffeine. I coaxed him into letting me make a pot of coffee (strong enough to stand a spoon in), and after serving him, poured myself a cup. Greg, who’d asked to be present, preferred to nurse a diet cola.

  “Fire away,” I said pleasantly when we’d all settled in around the dining room table with our beverages.

  “Abby!”

  Detective Gaspar managed a feeble smile. “It’s all right, sir. Your wife has a right to feel inconvenienced.”

  I kept my smug smile to myself. “What I meant to say, Detective, is that I’m ready for your questions.”

  He took a sip of black java. “This is really good, by the way. Not like the weak stuff I get at the station because we have to cut corners.”

  “Cutting corners results in an oval, in which case you should be drinking Ovaltine.”

  Greg groaned. “Sorry, Detective, she needs at least a cup before she comes to her senses.”

  “Make that a pot,” I said. I have, in fact, had two-pot days.

  “Ma’am,” Detective Gaspar said, without wasting another second, “the first question I have is: what is your relationship, if any, to the deceased?”

  Deceased? Greg was right after all. Victim was a much more descriptive term for a woman who’d been murdered. Decease was what one did when nature took its course.

  “We had no relationship. I only met her yesterday afternoon.”

  Detective Gaspar scanned the sheet of paper in front of him. “Was this a business meeting?”

  “No. She followed me from the Colonel’s house to the seawall. She wanted to tell me something. She wanted us to meet at Magnolias.”

  “Do you have any idea what she wanted to talk to you about?”

  “No—only that she said it was a matter of life and death.”

  I could hear Greg gasp softly.

  “You didn’t ask for any details beforehand?”

  “She wouldn’t give any. Look, Detective, this is a woman who hid behind a warthog’s head to spy on a man she’s been in love with since before you were born. Both of them are nuttier than pecan pies.”

  He jotted something down. “How long have you known the Colonel?”

  “I’ve seen him around town a lot, but I only met him yesterday morning when he came into my shop looking for canes.”

  “Canes? What sort of canes?”

  “Walking sticks. Apparently there are some very beautiful and valuable canes. I’m afraid that’s something I didn’t know anything about either until yesterday morning.”

  He jotted more things down. “Mrs. Washburn, how would you describe the Colonel’s relationship with the deceased?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one with the spies.” I put a hand to my face. “Oops. I didn’t mean to sound quite that snide.”

  “Yes, you did,” Greg said. He turned to Detective Gaspar. “That’s one of the things I love about her.”

  “Yes, sir.” The poor man looked anguished. “Mrs. Washburn, how long did you know that the deceased and Colonel Humphrey were—well, having an affair?”

  “I learned that yesterday afternoon. From the deceased herself. Except that she was very much alive then. Detective, now I have a question for you. How is that you know about my conversation at the seawall? Surely I wasn’t a suspect then. I mean, that was before the deceased ceased to be, as it were.”

  I’ve no doubt that the detective squirmed inside his skin. “Uh—Mrs. Washburn, I’m sure you understand that I am not free to divulge this information while the investigation is ongoing.” He set his coffee cup on a stone coaster and stood. “But I do appreciate your time. And if anything occurs to you—anything at all—that may be useful to us, please give me a call. And thanks for some excellent coffee, by the way.”

  “She liked to flirt with sailors and knew some of the ships by registry.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We both like to wave at sailors. Sometimes they wave back.”

  Greg’s grin dissolved with a quiver. “You do?”

  “Well, it’s such a harmless thing. It’s not like winking at a man at a stoplight—not that I do that, mind you. I mean, a sailor can’t very well jump off a ship and follow you home.” Then, knowing that Greg was a teensy bit jealous, I added, “To make passionate love with you.”

  The detective, bless his heart, was clueless. “Are you saying that Miss Humphrey was a sexual addict?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Because I’ve heard of such things, Mrs. Washburn. And not just on Oprah Winfrey. These things do happen. I know it for a fact.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mama couldn’t help herself—it’s a disease, you know—but it like to tore my heart out every time I found a new one in the house. Imagine coming home from a ball game, and you’re just a kid, and there’s your mama with a complete stranger. It’s no wonder Daddy left her. She always swore she’d never do it again, but then—”

  “Detective Gaspar, I think Miss Stanley was only flirting with the sailors. She was deeply in love with the Colonel.”

  He quickly rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “She was?”

  “Does that surprise you? You’ve talked to the Colonel, haven’t you?”

  “I
’m not allowed to discuss my investigation with a civilian,” he said. Nonetheless he nodded to let me—and especially Greg—know that he had talked with the Colonel.

  “Thank you for coming, Detective,” I said. I meant it as a cue that he should leave.

  Detective Gaspar needed no further coaxing. When he was gone, Greg came over and put his arms around me.

  “You’re amazing, Abby, you know that?”

  “How so?”

  “It’s obvious that this Gaspar guy is a rookie, but still, you dispatched him like a pro. You sure you haven’t lived a secret life of crime?”

  “Pretty sure. Greg, do you think that’s the end of it?”

  He looked down at me with those azure eyes that are incapable of lying. “We’ll see.”

  “That means no. It isn’t fair. If Tweedledee and Tweedledum hadn’t been so incompetent, I would never have ended up in the slammer with a hearing scheduled, which means I never would have met Roberta Stanley, and I wouldn’t be connected with her grisly murder.”

  He squeezed me tight, and I could smell fish through his cologne. “The Tweedles are getting what’s coming to them. You have my word on that. And as for this—well, you know I’ll stand by you.”

  “Stand by your woman,” I sang.

  Despite what I’ve been told is a pleasant voice, I’m a terrible singer. Dmitri, who just emerged from the bedroom and had begun to wrap around our legs, took off to hide in the kitchen. My caterwauling also woke Mama, who stumbled out from her bedroom.

  “What’s going on, dear? Abby, are you all right? I heard the most awful sound.”

  “She started to sing,” Greg said.

  “Oh,” Mama said.

  It irritated me that Greg should betray me. At the same time I was grateful that he hadn’t thought it necessary to reveal anything about Detective Gaspar’s visit. But what really hiked my hackles was the fact that Mama had called my singing awful. She’s a Mercy Member of Grace Episcopal Church. By that I mean every time she opens her mouth to sing, folks say, “Mercy, me.”