by Tamar Myers
She nodded, a wistful smile spreading across her massive face. “I was on the swim team in college. We made the national swim team finals.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Those were the good old days. Abby, do you ever miss your college days?”
“Sort of, but not really. I met Buford in college; that colors things a bit. Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that you and your cousin are both very bright. I don’t think she’d let that information drop accidentally if she had anything to hide.”
“So what do we do now, Abby?”
“We—I mean, I—swallow my pride and solicit help from a real detective.”
Greg could tell by the caller ID that it was me calling, but he still got points for picking up after the first ring. He sounded breathless, which probably meant I caught him on his treadmill.
“Abby!”
“Greg, I know I’m stubborn and have no business playing Sherlock Holmes. You are absolutely right not to want me—”
“Can we cut to the chase, hon?”
“I need a favor, dear.”
“Abby, you’re going to have to work things out with your mother by yourself.”
“You’re right. But that isn’t the favor. What I’d like is for you to look in the phone book and see if you can find a listing for a James Aikenberg in Charleston. There might not be a residence number, so also please look in the yellow pages. He’s an attorney.”
“With which firm?”
“He works by himself, I think.”
“Gotcha. What’s this about, Abby?” Before I could answer he spoke again. “I know, it’s a long story and you don’t have time to go into it now and yadda.”
“You need at least one more yadda, dear, and you’re right, it is a long story. And I would really appreciate it if we could talk about this later. But in the meantime, did I ever tell you that you are the most wonderful husband in the world?”
“Every time you need a favor, hon.”
“Right. I love you, Greg.”
“Back at you, hon. Hey, before I forget, you got a message from a Ms. Wou-ki. That’s spelled W—”
“That’s all right; I know who she is. What did she want?”
“Something about you coming over to see her this morning.”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Beats me. She didn’t say.”
“Shoot. I’m all the way out on Wadmalaw Island and—”
“She’s on Kiawah Island, at her house. That’s not too far out of the way, is it?”
“Her house? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did, hon.”
“’Bye, dear.” I hung up before either of us had a chance to further irritate the other. I knew I hadn’t made an appointment to see Hermione Wou-ki. If I had agreed to meet her at home, you can bet I would have been thinking about it all morning. I love seeing other folks’ houses, the way they decorate, and the way they live. I think I was born that way. Mama said that when I was a little girl I’d go up and down the block asking to use the neighbors’ bathrooms. It wasn’t that I had a bladder problem, either; I was just curious.
Driving down to Kiawah Island would not be a problem, except for the fact that the barrier island community is gated. One can’t even get on the island just to drive around without a pass code. This meant I had to swallow some pride and call Greg back in hopes he’d been given the code.
They say that it is natural to gain a few pounds every year as one grows older. Believe it or not, I’ve been very careful about counting my calories to prevent this, but have added a few pounds anyway. Therefore I must conclude that this unwanted weight comes from swallowing so much pride in recent years. I called Greg.
“It’s 9857,” he said, without even saying hello or waiting for me to ask. “Of course it’s temporary; just for today.”
“Thanks!”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and hung up.
Being justifiably annoyed is a luxury that must be savored. I had only a few seconds of this before the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hon, I forgot. You had another message.”
“Oh?”
“It’s your mom. She said she smells big trouble ahead.”
“She always smells trouble.”
“Yes, but she told me to tell you that this time she means it literally.”
“Like how? I’m going to get hit by a Mack truck? Or maybe a grand piano’s going to fall on me from a ten-story building?”
“Beats me. I’m just doing my part in passing it on.”
“Thanks, Greg.”
“Hon?”
“Yes?”
“This is going to sound weird, but I have a bad feeling this time too.”
All of a sudden I also had an impending feeling of dread. It was the proverbial goose walking over my grave. A two thousand pound goose wearing army boots.
21
Abby. Abby. Abby!”
I started. “What?”
“Are you all right?” C.J.’s look of concern was touching.
“No—I mean, yes. Sure I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You look as pale as my Uncle Fester.”
“I thought he was an Addams.”
“No, silly. That’s just a TV and movie character. But come to think of it, my Uncle Fester was bald.”
“Did he wear a robe?”
“Only in the courtroom.”
“Your uncle was a judge?”
“Yes. Judge Knott. Have you heard of him, Abby?”
“I’m afraid not. C.J., I have to drive down to Kiawah Island. Would you like me to drop you back at your car?”
“No, Abby. I’m yours for the rest of the day.”
I was afraid of that. Well, at least I wasn’t going to be lonely.
“Oh crap,” I said, thinking aloud. “I forgot to ask Greg for Hermione Wou-ki’s address.”
“No problemo, Abby. I’ve been to her house oodles of times.”
“You have?”
“Ooh, Abby, she gives the best parties. Do you know Tara Lipinski?”
“No.” There was no use disguising the hurt I was feeling. And there is no denying that feeling hurt was really stupid of me, because I hadn’t even met Hermione Wou-ki until yesterday, so I couldn’t very well have been on her A list, now could I?
C.J., bless her heart, picked up on my feelings. “Don’t worry, Abby, I’m sure that from now on she’ll invite you to all her parties. And anyway, a party is just a party, unless of course Oprah throws it. Then it’s more like a cruise—oops, did I say the wrong thing?”
“Absolutely not, dear. But at the moment I’m too busy recalling my fabulous weekend with Tom Cruise to pay attention. But when we get to Kiawah Island, and I need directions, I’ll be all ears.”
“Ooh, Abby, isn’t spending time with Tom wonderful?”
“The best,” I said, through gritted teeth.
The guard at the gate was very pleasant, if a bit irritating. “Good to see you, C.J.,” she cooed. “Where’s that boy toy of yours?”
“Toy is invited to those parties as well?” C.J. chose to answer the guard first. “He’s interviewing for a position at Grace Episcopal Church.”
“Wow,” the guard said, “that would be so cool if he gets it. My aunt goes there, and I visit sometimes.”
You can bet your bippy that as soon as we were granted permission to enter the stomping grounds of the rich and famous, albeit most were not as famous as Tara Lipinski and Tom Cruise, I was on C.J. like a hen on a June bug.
“What do you mean Toy is interviewing for rector of Grace Church? He hasn’t even graduated from seminary yet. And do you really know Tom?”
“Ooh, Abby, don’t be silly. Toy isn’t applying to be rector. But eventually when he is ordained as a deacon, he will need a church to spend his apprenticeship in, and he wants it to be Grace. Then who knows? Maybe he will be rector of Grace Episcopal Church someday. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
<
br /> “Weird is more like it,” I said. “Then my mother will have to call her son Father.”
C.J. giggled. “Maybe I should call him father too. And so should you.”
It was time to change the subject. “So what about Tom? Do you party at his house a lot? Can you show it to me?”
“Abby, Tom doesn’t live on Kiawah Island. Toy and I see him—oops, turn here.”
“But you said—”
“Now turn left.”
I did as C.J. directed, and after going through a second gate, soon found myself on a part of Kiawah Island that I never knew existed. The part of the island I was familiar with was home to the merely “comfortable.” That this new enclave was the playground of the fabulously wealthy was driven home when I passed a new Mercedes with the Merry Maids logo on the side.
“Abby, you better put your tongue back in before it gets caught in the steering wheel. That happened to Cousin Cornelius Culpepper once—”
“Where do these folks get their money?” I moaned.
C.J. shrugged. “Abby, you really wouldn’t want to live this way, would you?”
“Try me.”
“But just think. They’ve probably never been to Wal-Mart, or Arby’s, or to a garage sale. Think of all the fun they’ve missed.”
I stopped thinking about this fun when C.J. directed me to turn onto a property that looked like the movie set of Tara—and not the Lipinski variety—before the Yankees burned it down. Of course Scarlett’s family didn’t have their own helicopter pad.
I gave C.J. the honor of ringing the doorbell. Just as I had reached the conclusion no one was home, despite the plethora of cars, the door was opened by a butler in full livery who looked like he chewed nails as a hobby. But one glance at C.J. and his dour features rearranged themselves into an almost handsome visage.
“Good morning, miss.” He caught sight of me. “Deliveries around to the back door, please.”
“Ooh, you’re so silly, Rufus. This is my best friend, Abby. We’re hear to see Hermione.”
“Ah, yes. You must be Mrs. Timbersnake,” he said.
“Actually, it’s—close enough. But now it’s Washburn. I save Timbersnake for my business dealings.”
“I believe that’s why you’re here, madam.”
“Yes, of course.” If it wasn’t for the fact that I was a lady, I might well have kicked him in the ankles.
Lurch—or Rufus—or whoever he was, led the way through cavernous rooms kept cool by thick velvet drapery and furnished in early Victorian style in the English mode. If I caught a glimpse of the stout monarch herself, it would take a few seconds for me to register surprise.
Noticeably absent was anything Oriental. There was not even the occasional Chinese vase, something that would have been quite at home in the rather eclectic collections of that period. Since my mind was obviously getting easier to read as the day progressed, the dimness of these great rooms did not pose a challenge to C.J.
“Her mother was English,” she whispered, “and so was Mr. Wou-ki’s grandmother. Trust me, Abby, their California home is very Chinese.”
“Keep reading, dear, you’re not done.”
“Of course she doesn’t have to work, silly. She works because she enjoys it. Wouldn’t you want to keep busy even if you didn’t have to?”
“Charities, or fun busy?”
“Hermione does lots of stuff for charity, Abby. But just like you might want to go bowling for fun, Hermione likes running her shop. That’s what makes it so successful. Antiques are her passion, not just her business.”
“Bowling? I haven’t been bowling in thirty years.”
“Granny and I used to bowl with cabbages,” C.J. said wistfully. “Then one day Cousin Cole Ledbetter came to visit, and while Granny and I were off to church, he shot up all the cabbages with his double gauge shotgun. Splintered them all over the place. Granny was very practical, and when she saw all those shredded cabbages, she mixed what she could with mayonnaise and served it for Sunday dinner. ‘Cole’s Slaughter,’ she called her recipe. Well, the pastor and his family were eating with us that day, and before you know it everyone in Shelby was wanting to try this new dish. Soon everyone with a shotgun, and even a couple of people with axes, were busting up their cabbages. Over the years the name got changed to Cole’s Slaught and then finally coleslaw. You can bet Granny about hit the roof when she learned that someone had sent her recipe into lots of different cookbooks and not given her credit.”
Rufus stopped abruptly, causing C.J. to plow into him, and me into her. Fortunately we all remained standing, so no real damage was done.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Cox and Mrs. Timbersnake to see you, madam.”
I peered around two sets of elbows. What I saw made me gasp.
22
Hermione Wou-ki sat resplendent on a green and gold sofa on the far side of a palatial room. Perhaps it was a ballroom. She was wearing a shimmering, pink silk pantsuit, and her thick, dark hair cascaded free over her shoulders. Her porcelain face and hands gave the impression that one was looking at a doll. A very large and expertly crafted doll. At this great distance that might well have been what I was looking at.
“Ah yes,” she said, “please come in.”
Rufus, who was as powerfully built as a Neanderthal, managed to slip around us and disappear, all in the blink of an eye. As C.J. and I crossed the polished hardwood floor, my nervousness escalated. I felt like I was approaching the queen.
C.J. did not share my state of mind. “Hey Hermione,” she said, her loud voice echoing in the sparsely furnished room, “did you get the invitation yet?”
“To your wedding? Yes, how lovely. Unfortunately, C.J., I’ll be in England then. Prince Harry has a significant birthday coming up, and after all, I am his godmother.”
C.J. squealed with excitement. “Give him hugs and kisses from his Auntie C.J.”
Auntie C.J. indeed! It’s one thing to have a trolley that skips the tracks every now and then, but to have one capable of getting airborne for bizarre flights of fancy is downright admirable. I was going to have to get a list of the big gal’s meds and see if my doc would prescribe me the same. If that didn’t work, I would try and steal her address book.
“I sure will,” Hermione said with a straight face. She turned to face me. “And how are you today?”
“Would you like to hear the polite, Southern version, or the wicked unvarnished truth?”
She patted the sofa beside her as she laughed. “Come, sit with me. C.J., be a darling and pull up a chair for yourself.”
My buddy had to walk practically the length of a football field to get a chair, but she did so without complaining. Hermione made good use of that time.
“I expected you to come alone,” she whispered.
“But I thought you liked C.J.”
“I do. However, this is a very delicate matter. Can she be trusted?”
“Absolutely. I’d trust her with my life.”
“What about my life? Can she be counted on not to gossip?”
“Sure. But you’ll have to tell her it’s not for anyone else’s ears. No, be more direct than that. C.J. is very literal.”
That was an understatement. Once, I sent my assistant to an estate sale to buy a particular French commode I’d seen listed in the inventory list that was published in the Post and Courier. My instructions were that she buy the piece at all cost.
She did just that, paying three times what the commode was worth for resale. This shocked me because normally the big galoot is a savvy businesswoman. But instructions are instructions, and I was counting on her to bring the piece home. I might have remained annoyed at her for a long time had it not been for that fact that as I was cleaning the commode I discovered a “secret” drawer that contained a bundle of letters, tied up with a rose-colored ribbon.
The letters, written in 1848, were to a prominent Charleston housewife from her lover, an escaped slave who managed to find his way north to Pennsylv
ania. I offered this treasure trove to the housewife’s descendants, who currently live in Charleston. They wanted nothing to do with the letters, and threatened to sue if I even implied to anyone that they might be descended from this escaped slave. So vehemently did they deny any connection that I concluded they were, indeed, the product of this unorthodox union.
Eventually I put the letters up for sale at an auction house, with an international reputation, in New York City. There the letters fetched three times what I had to pay for the commode. Thanks to C.J. It was literally found money.
When my big-spending employee returned with a chair, Hermione Wou-ki wasted no time in getting down to business. “I assume you’ve both heard that Roberta Stanley was murdered.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we said in unison.
“Abby—I believe you gave me leave to call you by your first name?” Her voice rose at the end, forming a question out of what sounded like a statement. Perhaps Hermione was secretly a Canadian. I’ve heard there are a great number of Canadians living in stealth in this country. Someone even suggested to me that these hidden Canadians are planning to take over the U.S. and turn it into their country’s eleventh province.
“By all means,” I said.
“I understand that you are a sleuth, as well as a collector who is held in high esteem by her colleagues.” Again the rising inflection.
“I am? I mean, they really say that?” I was turning into a Canadian as well. A couple of “eh’s” and I would be totally assimilated.
“Abby, in this business tongues wag all the time. Fortunately for you, they wag in admiration.”
“Wow. Who would have thought?” Wisely, I took a moment to bask in the good news. Good news, like a really tasty fortune cookie, is a rarity in my experience.
“Cousin Dewlap changed his skin every year,” C.J. said, apropos of nothing.
“That was your Cousin Monty Python,” I said, and gave her the Timberlake glare. That glare, and my two beautiful children, were all I got out of my twenty year marriage to Buford.