by Tamar Myers
“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” I growled. Unfortunately an Abby growl is not all that intimidating—or so I’ve been told. “But just out of curiosity, which position would that be?”
“She was my maid, for crying out loud. After Mac’s death—”
“Mac’s murder!”
“Anyway, she quit, and before long I’d heard that she’d been hired by the Humphreys. I supposed she returned with them to Kentucky, where she became the bane of all his future wives. Well, enough of this silly chitchat. Let’s go show Miss Cox the Dead Sea scroll fragment I own. I have a translation with it, but I must warn you—you might not like what it says. It’s rather controversial.”
“I love controversy,” I said. “Lead the way!”
She led us through a multilevel maze of rooms and to the now familiar manuscript room. After ushering us in with the gun, she motioned us to a far corner, one that I hadn’t inspected when I was there the first time.
“Just so you know,” she said. “I’m not turning soft on y’all. As soon as we’re through with time travel, the two of you will be dinner buffet for the fishes. Sort of like Mac”—she cackled wickedly—“except that in his case the fishes didn’t even have time for hors d’oeuvres.”
“Heh-heh,” I said under my breath.
“What was that?” she snapped.
“I said ‘Hear, hear.’ I always toast my own death.”
30
She clicked off the safety. “Shut up. I don’t like you.” She pointed with her chin to a nearby glass case. “Miss Cox, it’s in there, if you wish to take a look.”
“Ooh, ooh, can Abby see it too? Please? Pretty please with vinegar on top? She didn’t have time to see the exhibit in Charlotte, either.”
Because it was probably the last minute of the last day of my life, I felt my heart flooding with love for C.J. Were I, by some miracle, given a second chance at life, I would try to live mine like she did hers; honestly, and without guile. I doubt if a mean thought ever crossed her prodigious mind. When God was through making her, he threw his extra-large mold away. I now think some of C.J.’s generosity must have become airborne and the particles were breathed in by Aida Murray.
“Okay,” she grunted at me, “you can see it too.” She backed away as I moved closer to C.J., the better to fix us both in her sights.
Frankly, I was disappointed by what I saw; the case was about the size of a card table, whereas the manuscript fragment was only the size of a playing card. C.J., however, was so excited she was practically jumping in place.
“Abby, just imagine, this was written two thousand years ago.”
I stared at the fragment, trying mightily to be somehow affected by its presence, but to no avail. The squiggly lines written on a tiny scrap of animal skin were not in the least inspiring. I felt absolutely no connection to the past.
“Can you read it?” I asked.
“This particular scroll was written in Hebrew, so I can read most of it. But the words are run together, so it’s hard to understand without the general context.”
Beneath the fragment was a printed page in English with the translation. …thou has forsaken me. The light from thy face has ebbed, like the sun setting behind the purple hills of Judea…
“Does it match with that?” I asked.
Bent over the case as she was, J.C. swatted me in the face with her hair. “No,” she whispered, “this says ‘stupid uneducated foreigners, we have tricked you again with our forgery…’ Abby, does that make any sense to you?”
“Plenty.”
Aida cleared her throat. “What are you two mumbling about?”
“We were talking about how stupid and uneducated you are.”
Her face turned white with rage. “What did you say?”
“I said, how much did you pay for this Dead Sea scroll fragment?”
“That’s not what you said, and how much I paid for it is none of your business.” But she hesitated only a few seconds, as I knew she would. Ostentatious consumers, by their very nature, must have their purchases validated by the envious looks of others. “Fifty grand. It is two thousand years old, after all.”
“Wow, you did good. I would have guessed at least seventy-five thousand. Unfortunately, the glass in this case has some glare. May we open the case so that Miss Cox can take a closer look? Without touching, of course.”
Again, her hesitation was brief. “I guess. But no touching. And try not to breathe on it.”
“Deal. C.J., you open it. Little ol’ me might drop the lid, but you, bless your heart, are as strong as an ox.”
As my good-natured and unsuspecting pal opened the lid, I whipped the can of wasp spray out of my waistband.
Aida turned an impossible shade of pale. “What was that? What do you have in your hands?”
“My secret weapon. I’m afraid, Mrs. Murray, that the ball is now in our court. Please be so kind as to toss your weapon on the floor. Try to get it as close to our feet as possible.”
She hesitated once more. “That’s only a can of wasp spray! What do you expect to do with that?”
While still facing her, I pointed the aerosol can in the general direction of the exposed document. “I expect to obliterate your Dead Sea scroll fragment if you don’t comply. If I’m going to die, I may as well extract my revenge. Right?”
“Miss Cox,” our hostess-with-the-leastest shouted, “you’re not going to let her do that, are you? You’re an educated woman. You can appreciate how important this fragment is.”
C.J. said nothing.
“Miss Timberlake, I beseech you. No, I’m begging you. Please don’t harm that antique scroll. You, of all people, should understand that its value is not strictly monetary.”
“What about the value of majestic animals, such as the rhinoceros, or the tiger, still roaming this world in the wild? How many rhino horns, or tiger penises, did you broker to pay for this scrap of the past?”
“But they’re only animals. God put us in charge of them to do with them what we like. It says so right in the Bible.”
“Buzz! You’re wrong. We’re to be stewards of these creatures, not their decimators. Now do something right for a change and toss me your gun.”
“No.”
“Then say sayonara to your scroll fragment.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Try me.”
“Okay, I’ll call your bluff.”
Never dare a four-feet-nine-inch woman. We’ve had to fight just to be noticed. Not physically, of course—well, maybe sometimes. But at recess no one ever called, “Red rover, red rover, we dare Abby over.” I wasn’t even chosen during gym class, but assigned at the start to the team unlucky enough to choose last. I was, in fact, the booby prize. One can be sure, therefore, that given the opportunity to strike terror in Aida’s murderous bosom, without actually doing any real harm, I needed no further urging.
The wasp spray not only stank, but hissed like a dragon when released. For Aida, there was no mistaking that the deed had been done. Shocked to the core, she dropped the pistol. C.J., who can move fast for a woman of substance, threw herself on the floor and snatched up the weapon before Aida quite knew what was happening.
I almost pitied Aida. Her howl of anguish almost struck a chord in my heart. Almost. While C.J. held the contraband smuggler at bay, I called 911 on my cell phone and then called Greg.
“Abby,” he said, before I had a chance to say anything, “are you watching a nature show?”
“No—well, sort of.”
“It’s about rhinos, isn’t it? I saw this episode recently on Animal Planet. Some poachers had just killed a female rhino, and her calf was bawling in terror. Isn’t that the one you’re watching?”
“Not even close, dear.”
Aida Murray stood trial in Charleston for the murder of Roberta Stanley. Animal rights activists, conservationists of all stripes, Miss Sugar Tit fans, and the entire state of Kentucky flooded the city for the duration. C.J. and I
both had to testify, as did Darren Cotter and Hermione Wouki. The guilty verdict came as no surprise. What did surprise me—in fact it shocked and disgusted me—was the fact that Aida Murray’s career took off like never before. Tonem Sklat jumped to the number one position on the New York Times best seller list and stayed there for seven sickening weeks.
In the course of the trial it was revealed that Aida Murray was the brains behind an international ring of poachers and contraband animal product distributors. She also smuggled stolen antiquities into the country, specializing in rare manuscripts. Aida eventually admitted to these charges in hopes of lightening her sentence. She even admitted to having created the cane mutiny in my shop in the course of two separate, hasty searches for the rhino-topped canes she believed had been stored in shed 53. She said she hadn’t bothered making off with the jade-topped stick because, like me, she didn’t recognize its value. The whack job performed her mutinous mayhem at night disguised as a ghostly pirate. I am pleased to say that the judge showed no lenience with her sentence.
Much to the media’s delight, it was revealed that Aida did not read Greek, Hebrew, or Aramaic. Purchasing the faux Dead Sea scroll was not the only time she’d been duped. While helping the authorities take inventory of her possessions, C.J. identified six full-length manuscripts that were forgeries. Aida’s receipts indicated that she’d paid over a million dollars for the privilege of owning these worthless piles of paper.
I had the distinct privilege of writing the wicked woman a letter, informing her of just how duped she’d been. When the story broke, Aida became the laughingstock of America. In Charleston, to this day, she is referred to as “that stupid author.”
31
C.J. has no father, and rather than choose among her myriad Shelby cousins, she asked the Rob-Bobs to give her away. They were, of course, happy to oblige.
It was at C.J.’s rehearsal dinner at Blossom’s that I first met Rob’s mother. I was standing in the line for the ladies’ room when she suddenly appeared behind me.
“Are you the famous Abby?” she said.
“Excuse me?” Then instantly it dawned on me that this was yet another Charlestonian who’d seen my picture in the paper, thanks to Aida. pint-size hero saves the day, the headlines in the Post and Courier screamed. That alone made me mad, as C.J. deserved equal billing. At any rate, I was trying very hard to put that trying experience behind me, but there were still folks who just had to express their admiration or, inexplicably, wanted a celebrity to acknowledge their existence. “If a celebrity knows my name,” one woman confessed, “then I know I’m someone too.”
“Guilty as charged,” I told Rob’s mother, then added quickly, “of being Abby, that is. Is there something you’d like autographed?”
She seemed startled by that. “Should there be?”
“Ma’am, I don’t supply the paper, and I’m not even sure I have a pen with me. And just so you know, I don’t sign on either skin or undergarments.”
“I don’t want your signature!”
I forced a smile. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, then…”
“I’m Rob’s mother. Mrs. Goldburg.”
Of course she was. She looked just like him, except that she was beautiful, whereas he was handsome. But the same features served them both well.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said with enthusiasm born of embarrassment.
“Abby, could we talk?”
“Sure. Are you at the dinner? I mean, I didn’t see you. If you are, maybe right after—”
“Now, please.”
I felt like I’d been given a royal command. Since Blossom’s boasts a lovely courtyard, replete with splashing fountain, I led her outside. She launched into her agenda immediately.
“You know that my son is gay.” Her voice rose barely enough to make it a question. Could she be another secret Canadian?
“Yes.”
“And, of course, you are aware that he lives with a young man from Cleveland.”
“Yes.” Bob hails from Toledo, but there was no point in correcting her.
“Abby, you know my son well. What does he see in this man?”
“Well—uh—I think they complement each other. Bob is a bit uptight, perhaps a bit obsessive-compulsive, and Rob is—well, you know—almost perfect.”
“But Abby, Rob told me that his roommate had been married once. What if that means he’s not really gay? My son could be hurt if that young fellow decided to go straight again.” She sounded hopeful that it would happen.
I’d kept my promise to Bob, by the way, and had been there when he broke the news of his failed union with a woman to the real love of his life. Rob was understandably hurt that his partner had withheld such an important detail of his past, but soon forgave him. One thing I knew for sure: Bob would “turn” straight the same day Tom Cruise turned gay.
“People are born either straight or gay,” I said. “It’s not something one chooses. Who would choose to be discriminated against, and hated, their entire life? Yes, Bob was married. Like a lot of gay people, he got married in a desperate attempt to conform to society’s expectations.”
“Maybe. But still, this Bob character”—she shuddered—“Abby, he cooks things I never even heard of. Last night he made alligator aspic followed by kudu croquettes. What the heck is kudu? I was afraid to ask.”
“I think it’s a type of antelope. They raise them on game ranches in Texas these days. But strictly speaking, ground antelope meat would be a burger, not a croquette. Bob doesn’t like to use the B word. Sounds too plebian for him. Besides, he likes his food to alliterate. What did you have for dessert?”
“Quail egg custard. Bob said it took a dozen eggs per serving. I think I ate about an egg’s worth.” She shuddered again. “Well, on the bright side, I won’t have to work hard to keep weight off.”
“I hear you. But you’re going to be here only a couple of weeks anyway, right?”
“You’re quite wrong, my dear. I plan to make Charleston my home.”
Any thoughts of having to use the powder room went poof from my mind. “What?”
“You like it here, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I have a career to keep me busy, and my own home—I mean—are you thinking of buying your own home here?”
“Me? Buy a home? Darling, why on earth would I do that?”
“Oh, so you plan to rent a condo. I see. Well, I suppose that does have its advantages. Upkeep on a house and yard are time-consuming. There is no denying that.”
Her perfectly applied lips parted in a brief smile. “Now I see why my Robby finds you so amusing. Darling, I plan to live with the boys, of course.”
“You do?”
“Don’t sound so shocked, dear. Rob is my son, after all. And this Bob fellow—well, I’ll just have to make do with him, won’t I?”
As fate would have it, the object of her disdain passed the window that looked out into Blossom’s charming courtyard. Mrs. Goldburg’s back was to the glass, and she couldn’t see Bob grimace and shrug.
I risked a wink, which thankfully appeared to go unnoticed. Little did the woman know that I had just declared war on her. What fun it would be to join forces with my buddy from Toledo to drive her crazy—or, at the least, out of the Rob-Bobs’ nest. Yes sir, saving Bob’s sanity was going to be my next big project.
“Well then, Abby, I guess we’re in agreement.”
“You’ll never know just how much,” I said. “Welcome to Charleston.”
The gods and goddesses of Charleston smiled down on C.J.’s wedding; the day was sunny and clear and remarkably cool for late spring. It was Toy’s day too, of course, but by the way she carried on, you would have thought it was Mama’s.
“Are you sure it looks all right this time, dear?” she said, fussing with her corsage for the millionth time.
“Mama, if you don’t stop, you won’t have any flowers left, only ribbon. Everyone’s going to think you stuck a Christmas bow on your dress.”
“But Abby, these aren’t flowers, they’re dandelions. Who on earth chooses dandelions for their wedding?”
“Our beloved C.J., that’s who. She claims it’s an ancient Ledbetter custom, dating all the way back to Richard the Dandelion-hearted—don’t ask—and that breaking this custom would bring bad luck to the entire clan. But you have to admit, it was a cute idea to have the flower girl blow apart the puffy seed balls as she walks down the aisle, instead of dropping rose petals.”
We were standing just outside the bridal room of Grace Episcopal Church, that beautiful Gothic-style church to which Mama belongs, and where she prays that someday I will be a member as well. I’d taken a peek into its awesome sanctuary, and had been stunned to see that not only was it full, but ushers were setting up chairs in the vestibule. It seemed like all of Shelby was there, and half of Charleston. I was pleased to see that my two much-loved children, Susan and Charlie, had already taken their seats and appeared to be anticipating the moment when C.J. would officially become their aunt.
“Mama, you need to go downstairs so the usher can walk you to your seat. It’s time for the show to begin.”
Mama nodded. Thank heavens her eyes were dry now. She’d cried so many tears since getting up that morning that I’d made her drink Gatorade to replace her electrolytes.
“Tell C.J. I love her,” she said. “And remember to stay away from that goat, or she’ll eat your bouquet.”
“She’s not a goat, Mama. Besides, I happen to think Zelda Ledbetter is very pretty.”
“Well, I do like the ribbon in her beard.” Mama gave me a kiss. “Pass that on to C.J., dear. And tell her to crack a rib.”
I did.