by Tamar Myers
“Sorry,” Darren Cotter said, “I didn’t mean to lay a guilt trip on you. Most folks don’t realize what it really entails. But please, keep it in mind for the future.”
“Do you tell fortunes as well?”
“What?”
“You just said what I was thinking. Is it printed on my forehead?”
He laughed. “No, but you have a very expressive face. I like that, by the way. I can’t stand the masks people wear.”
“I hear you. But most of the time, those people are just trying to protect themselves, aren’t they? Take your giant pussycat here, Catrina the Great. If she got sick, she’d do everything she could to not let on she was ailing, like hiding under the bed. If animals show that they are weak or vulnerable, they will be attacked by others. People are like that too, I think.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. So, Miss—uh—sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Call me Abby.”
“Then you call me Darren.” He paused, regarding me for a moment with those blue Siamese eyes. “So, Abby, aren’t you afraid of showing your vulnerability?”
“To be honest, I don’t give it much thought. But I hate public speaking. I wonder if that’s the same thing?”
“It’s the number one fear in America. Did you know that some people actually fear that more than death?”
“Wow. Well, I certainly wouldn’t choose death over—”
I’d let my guard down for a moment, and now the cat was back. But instead of swatting and spitting, she was rubbing her head against my knee. Cats have scent glands in their cheeks, and by rubbing their cheeks against someone, or something, they are claiming that object as theirs. Marking their property, if you will. Now the monster, having given up on the idea of consuming me for brunch, was pacing back and forth, rubbing her cheeks hard against both knees, and purring louder than Greg can snore. Heck, this was even louder than Buford, my chubby ex, could snore.
Darren laughed. “She loves you!”
“I think she’d love to eat me if you weren’t here.”
“Seriously, Abby, she’s never warmed up to anyone that fast.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Darren, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. Business related questions.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ll start with the easy ones. First, why would someone, the person who rented shed fifty-three, for example, just walk away from their possessions?”
He shrugged. “That’s not an easy one, because there are so many answers. Financial reasons, of course. Sometimes it’s death, sometimes divorce. Believe it or not, some people just have so much stuff they forget where everything’s stashed, or they just don’t care anymore. But rest assured; if they haven’t claimed their stuff within a year, I do everything I can to locate them, before putting it up for auction. But shed fifty-three was an exception.”
“How so?”
“Because he’d been renting that space over thirty years, yet to my knowledge he never showed up.”
“I don’t understand.”
Darren looked deep into my eyes, as if trying to get a fix on my character. “I normally don’t discuss my business with strangers, Abby, but I feel that I can trust you.”
“You can. Please go on.”
“Well, Safe-Keepers Storage is a family business. My father ran it until he died almost ten years ago. When I took over—I was a lazy son who hadn’t paid squat to the business—I found out that I’d inherited a bundle of headaches. Poor record-keeping was one of those headaches. And some things just didn’t make sense from a business standpoint. Shed fifty-three, for instance, was listed as being paid up until the year 2000. After that, there was no record of monthly or even yearly payments.
“I managed to locate the original lease, but immediately discovered that the address and phone number listed were fake—no, I take that back. But I had to call the number a zillion times and finally got an answer; it was a pizza supply company.”
“Do you remember the name on the lease?”
“Yes. It was Ken Yaco. One would think that would be an easy name to trace, but there aren’t any Ken Yacos on any search engines that I know of.”
I fished in my purse and found a pen and a grocery receipt to write on. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Not at all. I don’t have anything to hide. Abby, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you trying to trace him?”
“I’m just curious. I thought I might write a book about the antiques business. Of course then I would want to include some of the more interesting things that I’ve encountered.”
“I see.”
But it was clear from his expression that he didn’t. It was time to gather my thoughts and vamoose.
“May I ask you just one more question?” I said, pushing my luck.
“Sure.”
“Marvin Leeburg said you sent him an e-mail hinting that there might be canes in shed fifty-three. Did you do that?”
Meanwhile Catrina the Great was giving her scent glands a real workout. When I got home, Dmitri was going to be furious with me, maybe even to the point of leaving a deposit in one of my shoes.
“Marvin,” Darren said, “is one hell of a nice guy. He’s terrific at business, but still manages to keep it real. As you probably know, he’s something of an expert on canes. Anyway, yes, I did send him an e-mail telling him I thought there might be some canes in this lot. Sent the same e-mail to a few others as well, including Colonel Humphrey. You see, my daddy tried to keep a record when he could of what folks were storing. Just to cover his—uh, butt, so to speak.”
“But that’s unethical!”
“How so?”
“Isn’t that like insider trading?”
“Abby, I’m one person trying to sell a bunch of junk that some jerk didn’t care enough about to keep his payments up. I haven’t committed a crime.”
“Maybe, but still, it doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“Would you feel any better if I bought everything back from you?”
“No! I mean, what good would that do?”
He smiled. “Just checking. Abby, I can tell by your accent that you’re from off—”
“You can?” That was disappointing. “From off” is anywhere other than Charleston, and particularly the peninsula part. Even though I am a South Carolinian born and bred, I will always be “from off.” But ever since moving here I have made a concerted effort to exchange my charming Upstate accent for the flatter sounds of the Lowcountry. Proper Charlestonese, spoken by native Charlestonians, bears little resemblance to the pseudo-Southern accents of Hollywood. To my tin ear it is closer to the Tidewater sounds of Virginia, and yes, for some words, even Canada. That is to say, the word “house” is pronounced “hoose,” and rhymes better with “goose” than any other word in the American lexicon.
“Abby, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. What I was getting to is that some years ago, before you moved here, my daddy had a renter who fell in arrears for some years. Ha, guess I’m a poet. Anyway, Daddy knew he had some good quality paintings in there. Really large ones. Impressionist stuff. He knew that for a fact because he helped store the paintings—although I suppose the renter could have removed the paintings at night, or when Daddy was gone. Like I said, I was too lazy to pay attention to anything, or anyone, but myself. At any rate, when the time was right Daddy contacted dealers from around the area whom he knew handled Impressionist paintings and asked them for bids. Over 160 responded.”
“And was there anything of value in the shed?”
“Absolutely, but it wasn’t a painting. The police removed just under a ton of marijuana.”
“Holy smokes! Or brownies, or whatever. You’d think who’d ever rented that shed in the first place would have kept up on his rent.”
“He tried, but he was on death row in Texas.”
“A very crowded place, I hear. So what happened to the pot—I mean, marijuana?”
“Whatever it is that the Charleston police do with it. I heard once that they burn it someplace. I’d love to find that location and stand downwind.”
It was time for me to go before the jungle cat wore my kneecaps to useless nubs. “Thanks for your time, Darren. It’s been interesting.”
A Southern gentleman—it matters not if he hails from the uplands or lowlands—always rises when a lady does, as well as when she enters a room. Darren did not let our region’s reputation down.
“Abby, before you go, I’d like to ask you a somewhat delicate question.”
“How to back out of your date with my mother?”
“What? No! I’m looking forward to it. But since I know what you paid for the shed’s contents, do you mind telling me what was in there?”
Darren had not been present when I opened the shed. He’d handed me the key and then wandered off, presumably to give me privacy. Since I’d waited to open the gym bag, it was possible he had no idea what was in it. If that was the case, Charleston’s finest had yet to interview him.
“Pornography,” I whispered.
“Excuse me?”
I said it louder.
“That’s what I thought you said. And by the way, Her Majesty, Catrina the Great, does not speak English. Look, Abby, I had no idea there was porn in there. It’s time to fess up, though. Not all my units are rented by antiques dealers. I rent a fair number to anonymous people. Because the units are climate-controlled, a few of these people spend a suspicious amount of time in their sheds—if you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do. But Darren, don’t you think it could be dangerous?”
“You mean blindness and hairy palms?”
I tried not to smile. “No, I mean terrorists. We are a port city, after all. The third largest in the nation. Terrorists could be assembling parts of a nuclear weapon they smuggled in on a cargo ship.”
He fought back a smile as well. “No, I don’t see it. If terrorists wanted to assemble, or even just to stockpile weapons of mass destruction, they’d rent a cheap apartment, or a house out in the country. They wouldn’t risk a run-in with my security team.”
Call me a fool, but he was going to find out anyway. I knew I might as well have the benefit of seeing his reaction.
“It wasn’t pornography,” I said.
“No?”
“It was canes.”
“Well, so at least part of my memory works.”
“But it wasn’t just canes.”
Darren rolled his eyes. “Fiddlesticks and damnation,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I was brought up not to swear in front of ladies. Abby, you found the skull, didn’t you?”
18
If I didn’t close my mouth soon the cat was going to get my tongue. Literally. But it would be only a snack for a feline that large.
“Uh—”
“You seem at a loss for words.”
“Uh—you’re darn right! You know about the skull? You must, since you brought it up.”
“Abby, relax. It’s no big deal.”
“Are you nuts? I mean—well, that’s exactly what I mean. I might be in a lot of trouble because of that skull.”
His hands were raised as in self-defense. “Whoa! I’d forgotten about Hortense, I swear.”
“You knew her name?”
“No. I never even saw the skull, but Daddy did. He told me about it, but it was never written on the file, like the canes were. It’s been years, and I forgot about it, Abby. I swear on a bag of cat litter.”
Darren Cotter was driving me crazy. I wanted to leap up, grab him by the lapels and shake him. However, he wasn’t wearing lapels; just a navy blue pocket T-shirt that accentuated a rather buff physique for a man his age. Besides, if I did shake him, Catrina the Great was bound to make mincemeat of me. Cats are not the most reliable of allies.
“There’s no need to get your knickers in a knot, Abby,” he said, which, of course, did not improve my mood. “Mr. Yaco was a sculptor. He bought the skull from a medical supply company. Well, at least that’s what my daddy said. He told me about Mr. Yaco and the skull because Mr. Yaco had named it Hortense. That was the name of my daddy’s sister. It isn’t a very common name, is it?”
“That depends. In Dorset County, England, there are thirty-five Hortenses per square mile.”
He smiled broadly. “You’re sure of that?”
“Pretty sure. But it is a statistic, and sixty-five point three percent of all statistics are made up.” I stood. “Thank you for your time. I’ll tell Mama to be expecting you.”
Much to my astonishment he reached down, grabbed the jungle cat, and hoisted her up unto his shoulders. “As long as she’s up here she won’t be making a mad dash for the door. If she ever got out, she’d be shot in a heartbeat. Some yokel would have his picture in the paper with her, claiming he’d shot a cougar. There have been rumors of cougars in the Francis Marion National Forest for years. No evidence, though. But it wouldn’t surprise me. You can buy a cougar cub online. If you ask me, they should shoot the jerks who get rid of their so-called problem cats after a year when the cuteness wears off. A lot of people think they can just turn their cats loose into the wild and they’ll be fine. After all, there are plenty of squirrels and rabbits in the woods to eat, right? And cats are great hunters. The truth is, the cats usually starve to death. A cat of any species has to grow up watching its mother hunt. No, I say shooting is too good for the jerks. Turn them loose in the woods without a gun, and see how long it takes them to starve.”
“Amen and glory hallelujah,” I said. I wasn’t the least bit sarcastic.
“Wynnell. Wynnell!”
My shaggy-browed buddy was not in the car, nor was she anywhere in sight. Frantically, calling her name, I raced along the side of the parking lot that fronted the rows of buildings that comprised Safe-Keepers Storage. My only response was a shrill mockingbird.
I dashed back to my car. It was still devoid of a passenger. My heart in my throat, I began driving slowly back up River Road, in the direction from which we’d come. There was no sign of Wynnell. My pal has a reputation for being geographically challenged, so after about five miles I reversed my course for ten miles. At that point I’d not seen a living being along the highway with the exception of a limping armadillo. In desperation I called Greg.
“Yes,” he said, picking up after the fourth ring.
“Sweetheart, I can’t find Wynnell anywhere. Has she called you?”
“Abby, what kind of an apology is this?”
“Apology? For what?”
“Try the fact that you barged out of here in a snit and for the last two hours I’ve called your cell phone a million times and all I get is your voice mail.”
Oops. I always turn it off at night for a bit of peace, and in the unpleasantness of the morning, I’d forgotten to turn it back on.
“I had it turned off, dear. And about that so-called snit—”
“Abby, I know your mother goes too far when it comes to Toy. But that doesn’t mean I have to be your whipping boy.”
“Greg! You are not my whipping boy. And I’m sorry, I really am. Will you forgive me?”
I meant it. But even if I hadn’t, I probably would have apologized anyway at that point. I have found that a sudden, and complete, apology will disarm just about anybody. And once they are disarmed, and no longer gunning for you, it makes it easier to apologize for real. Therefore, putting the cart in front of the horse can be the wisest course of action.
“I’m sorry, too, hon. Dang, but I hate fighting with you. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Wynnell was coming up the steps when I barged out, as you put it. I had a breakfast meeting with a cane collector on the Isle of Palms and she came with. Then I went back to see Darren Cotter, the guy who held the locked trunk sale, but Wynnell wouldn’t go in on account of a silly old cat. When I came out, she was gone. I couldn’t find her anywhere.”
“Hm
m. I heard that silly old cat stands sixteen inches at the shoulder and weighs twenty-five pounds. I can’t say as I blame her, Abby.”
“Yes, but she’s really a sweetheart—Greg! Is Wynnell there?”
“No, but she called. She said that she’s pissed at .you for making her wait so long. She hitched a ride with a friend from church, and that when you apologize you should bring a dozen Krispy Kremes, still warm from the bakery.”
“Then I’ll have to buy two dozen.” Krispy Kreme doughnuts on Savannah Highway displays a sign when there are fresh warm doughnuts to be had. While normally I can stop after just one or two doughnuts, if they are warm, I can eat to the point of bursting. “Death by Doughnuts” might well be my epitaph.
“Hon, just after you left I got a call from one of my contacts in the department. Tweedledee and Tweedledum have been given a two week suspension without pay. He also said he’s going to keep an eye on Detective Gaspar. The guy is a rookie who’s in a hurry to make a name for himself. He doesn’t even want to stay in the area. Once he’s made it, he’s going to apply to the L.A. Police Department. Of course all this is on the QT. If you’re ever asked, you don’t know anything about this, right?”
“Right.”
“Oh, and another thing. C.J. was right: the skull you found in the gym bag is the skull of a female mountain gorilla.”
“Get out of town!” Having this confirmed didn’t bring the relief I’d expected. In fact, it opened up a very large can of worms. What other of my future sister-in-law’s fantastic stories were true after all? Well, no matter what, I refused to believe that she caught Granny Ledbetter kissing Santa Claus under the stairs one Christmas Eve.
Greg, bless his heart, tries to give everyone a fair shake. “Due to a comparable size with a human skull,” he said, “an amateur—I mean, someone without forensic, or anthropological, training—might temporarily mistake a female gorilla skull for human. But these yokels, Tweedledupe and Tweedledope, should have known better.”
“I guess I should have left it alone,” I said. “If my impetuousness was in any way responsible for Roberta Stanley’s death—”