A Penny Urned

by Tamar Myers

  “Miss Timberlake, you given it any thought?”

  “You mean about selling this house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I list only high-end properties, and it would be an honor.”

  “I’m sure it would, Mr. Lizard. However, I have barely had a chance to look the place over. I’m not ready to make that decision just yet.”

  He squinted, and so did I. A sunbeam glancing off his shiny bald head would be enough to destroy the sight in these sore eyes. Not to mention the fact that the impossibly large stone in Raynatta’s ring was blinding in broad daylight.

  “Ma’am, you’re not listing it with someone else, are you?”

  “No, I am not. Like I said, I haven’t made a decision. What do you want? That statement in blood?”

  Raynatta giggled, and then realizing her mistake, clamped a pudgy paw over her scarlet maw. I noticed for the first time that she had lime green fingernails with iridescent purple dots centered just above each cuticle.

  Ralph cocked his head while he sucked on the stogie. “Ma’am,” he said at last, “you aren’t thinking of actually living here, are you?”

  “And what if I am?”

  “Well—uh—ma’am, it’s not that folks in Savannah aren’t hospitable. We’re a very friendly bunch when you get to know us. It’s just that we tend to be—well, somewhat clannish.” He whispered the evil word. “Do you know what I mean?”

  I did indeed. Both Atlanta and Charlotte have been overrun by Rust Belt refugees to the point that their natives are imperiled and thus protectively silent. But Charleston, South Carolina, is another story. No amount of money can buy one entrée into Charleston society. That city is sociologically divided between “north of Broad Street” and “south of Broad Street.” NOB and SOB, as Mama refers to them. Ironically, NOB residents are not the nobility of Charleston. It is a SOB address that is so desirable, but there is a world of difference between just owning a house south of Broad and belonging to the gentry. You may well sit next to your neighbors in church, greet them on the street, and even treat them as patients, but you will never be invited into their homes. Even in little Rock Hill, where I was born and Mama still lives, natives and transplants peacefully coexist but seldom, if ever, break bread together in private. True, I had just that morning sat in the Quarles parlor, but that was a family tainted by Yankee blood.

  “I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Lizard. However, I was thinking of maybe keeping this as my second home. You know, a getaway. I’d keep my friends in the Carolinas.”

  Ralph smiled, supporting the cigar with his thumb and first two fingers. His teeth were tiny and pointed like those of a fish.

  “I hear you. But with all due respect, Miss Timberlake, I’m not sure even that would be such a good idea. The taxes alone are going to be a killer, and a house this old—well, it may look all right on the surface, but it’s going to take a lot of upkeep. And then, of course, there are criminals to consider.”

  “Does Savannah have a particularly high crime rate?”

  “No, ma’am. But keeping a house empty most of the time just invites trouble.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. And I’ll certainly keep that under advisement. In the meantime, however, I have come nowhere near to making a decision.”

  Raynatta poked Ralph in the side with one of the green and purple claws. “Just make her the offer, why don’tcha?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Ralph growled.

  “Offer away,” I said patiently. “But it isn’t going to make a bit of difference right now. I need time to think.”

  “Ma’am, I’d like to buy your house flat out. Direct from you to me. There won’t be any commission to take into account, and I’ll pay the closing costs and any other pertinent fees. Fair market value of course.”

  “Why?”

  Ralph blinked, which may or may not have had anything to do with the wad of ash that fell on a bare foot and slid into his loafer. He kicked off the shoe but managed not to look down.

  “Well, you see, ma’am, Raynatta and I are getting married. Raynatta, show Miss Timberlake your ring.”

  Before I could protest or ask to borrow a pair of sunglasses, Raynatta thrust the rock beneath my nose. “It’s five carats.”

  “It’s very impressive, dear. Congratulations.”

  “Anyway, ma’am, we really like this location, and while I have never actually been inside this house, I’ve sold enough like it to have a good idea of the floor plan. Historic houses like this don’t come up on the market very often, and I—well, I want to give it to Raynatta here as a wedding present.”

  Raynatta giggled. I tried to imagine her platinum tresses and leopard spandex in such an important house. Unfortunately, thanks to Aunt Lula Mae’s penchant for pink, it was not hard to imagine. The newlyweds wouldn’t even have to redecorate. Raynatta’s tastelessness would be the icing on Aunt Lula Mae’s unpalatable cake.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to get back inside.”

  Ralph’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have another agent inside now, do you?”

  “No.”

  Raynatta poked her intended in the ribs again. “Make her a better offer.”

  “There is no need for that,” I snapped. “Not that it’s your business, but my mother’s waiting for me inside.”

  Little did I know how wrong I was.

  12

  “Mama?”

  She wasn’t in the pink living room. Nor was she in the dining room or any of the bedrooms. Of course, I checked the predictably pink powder rooms. I even checked the closets. Once Mama and I took a tour of luxury homes in Charlotte, and while I was gazing at the fourteen-foot ceilings, she wandered off. After a futile and frantic search I was about to call the police when one of the tour directors discovered Mama asleep in a walk-in closet. Aunt Lula Mae’s house did not have walk-in closets, but given the fact that Mama can sleep while virtually standing, I even checked the broom closet. I went so far as to check underneath the beds. Nada.

  “Mama, if you’re hiding somewhere, come out now, or I’m never speaking to you again!”

  My angry words echoed through the three-story house, but they were followed by sepulchral silence. While I have always been fond of hide-and-seek (especially when my boyfriend Greg is involved), I didn’t find my current predicament at all amusing. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts—I mean Apparition-Americans—but neither am I declaring that I don’t. All I’m saying is that a disappearing progenitress in an all-pink house in which an unknown aunt has committed suicide is—well—spooky. I needed a breath of fresh air.

  I ducked out the back door and into a courtyard that separated house from garage. It might once have been a beautiful little garden centered on a goldfish pool, but three months of neglect was starting to show. Leaves and twigs blown in from a neighbor’s oak crunched underfoot, and the pond water was mossy and ripe with the scent of decaying vegetation. Either the fountain had been turned off, or the pump was broken. At any rate, the bronze boy no longer micturated, although he still smiled mischievously.

  Mama has an aversion to spiders, so there was little need to check the boxwood bushes, but I poked them with a stout oak limb nonetheless. Hearing no painful squeals, I turned my attention to the garage. As far as I knew, Aunt Lula Mae had not owned a car at the time of her death—at least, there was no mention of it in her will—so I expected to find it empty. Boy, was I wrong! The surprisingly narrow space was stacked to the rafters with paint cans. And not only cans of pink paint either, but just about every hue imaginable. Apparently Aunt Lula Mae had gone through a chartreuse phase, a cobalt blue phase, and much to my surprise, a beige phase.

  “Mama, are you in here? ’Cause if you are, you’re putting us both in danger. There is paint thinner in here too, and as you know, it can be highly flammable. Just these fumes are enough to make one sick. Mama, you don’t want to make us both sick, do you?” To be absolutely honest, I didn’t smell an
ything except for dust and perhaps the odd rat-dropping, but my mother is very sensitive to the power of suggestion.

  Mama didn’t have the grace to answer.

  “The fumes will eat away at your pearls,” I shouted. Okay, so it was a lie, but it wasn’t far from the truth. Pearls are organic gems and really rather fragile. They should never be subjected to hair spray or come in direct contact with perfume, and if one should accidentally dribble salad dressing on them in a restaurant, the best thing to do is to immediately dunk the necklace in a glass of plain water. This is, of course, easier accomplished if the necklace is first removed. Those folks with very small heads or who find themselves in restaurants with exceptionally large water glasses may use their own discretion.

  When Mama didn’t respond to the potential threat to her pearls—no matter how bogus—I was forced to conclude she was not hiding in the garage. I trotted back to the house and slammed the kitchen door loud enough to wake the dead over in Bonaventure Cemetery. It was time to drag out the big guns.

  “Mama! If you don’t answer this minute, I’m going to tell the ladies in your book club that you color your hair.”

  Nothing. Not even a clock ticked in that old house. It was so quiet you could hear a mouse belch. Clearly Mozella Wiggins had flown the pink coop.

  I would have called the Heritage and checked to see if she’d taken a cab and returned to the room, but Aunt Lula Mae’s phone service had long since been disconnected. And since Savannah, beautiful as it is, has more one-way streets than hell, it took me a half-hour to get back to the hotel.

  The room, alas, was empty.

  “Did you check the bar?” Ashley Hawkins, the young receptionist with the strawberry-blond tresses, hadn’t recognized me at first. Me! How many four-foot-nine-inch strikingly beautiful brunette adults does she run into on a daily basis?

  “My mother doesn’t drink—well, not before five in the afternoon, and even then it’s only half a glass of wine topped off with water.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “Did you try the gift shop?”

  “I did. You sure there aren’t any messages?”

  “No, ma’am, there aren’t any messages.”

  “Well, if you see her, tell her I’ll be down on River Street, grabbing a bite of lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ashley was starting to sound testy.

  I turned, took about three steps, and turned again. “Miss Hawkins, have I done something to offend you?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Well, yesterday you were so friendly and helpful. You recommended a place where I could board my cat, and you had extra bedding sent up and—”

  “Ma’am, it’s your friends.” She said it so softly I wouldn’t have heard her had I not had a good go at my ears with a cotton swab that morning.

  “My friends? What about them?”

  Ashley glanced around. The manager had his back turned.

  “Miss Timberlake, your friends paid a visit to Club One last night.”

  I shrugged. “What is that? A bar?”

  The manager disappeared into an office, and Ashley was able to speak up. “It’s a gay nightclub. The one Lady Chablis used to perform at. You know, the female impersonator mentioned in The Book.”

  That certainly surprised me, but I tried not to show it. “Well, it is still a free country, isn’t it? What they do is their business.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m not saying that. Lots of tourists drop into Club One. It’s just that generally they don’t jump up on stage during the drag show and critique the performers.”

  “My friends did that?”

  “They were drunk, ma’am. Drunker than a marine on a three-day pass. But that’s still not an excuse for the things they said. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life.”

  “You were there?”

  Ashley glanced nervously at the office door. “They were critiquing me!”

  “You mean—I mean—well, you certainly look convincing.“

  The red mane shook vigorously. “No! I really am Ashley Hawkins. But this job doesn’t pay a whole lot, so I’ve been pretending to be a guy named Wade Johnson whose stage name is Connie the Barbarian. To make a long story short, last night I got fired.”

  “Wow! I’m sorry.”

  “The young one tugged on my hair. She said it was the worst wig she’d ever seen.”

  “C.J. is just jealous. She has hair like shredded wheat. But tell me something, weren’t you afraid that someone from the Heritage would recognize you moonlighting at Club One?”

  “Nah. I don’t wear much makeup on this job, as you can see, and after my sister works her magic—well, you wouldn’t recognize me.”

  “Your sister is a beautician?”

  “Used to be. Still does makeup for some of the movies filmed around here, but her kennel keeps her pretty busy.”

  “Her kennel?”

  “Yeah, the one you took your cat to.”

  “Lougee Hawkins is your sister?”

  Ashley nodded. “Lougee took after Mama in her looks, I took after Daddy. I guess that’s why I’m so good at playing a drag queen. Well, I was—until last night.”

  “Sorry again about that. But thanks for reminding me. I need to check on my cat.”

  “Well, I can tell you he is doing just fine. I stopped by my sister’s this morning, and she had him out in the run. When he saw me, he came right up to me and rubbed against my legs, just begging to be picked up.”

  “And did you?” I asked incredulously. Dmitri was meant to be born a Japanese chef. He can slice and dice along with best of them, only instead of steak, his specialty is strangers. Especially strangers who foolishly make the first move.

  “Oh, yeah. He purred his little heart out. Just hated to be put down. Not that he’s lonely or anything. Lougee spends a lot of time with her boarders.”

  “Well, in that case, I guess I could postpone my visit.”

  “Absolutely. He’s in good hands.”

  I thanked Ashley for her time and skedaddled just as her manager stuck his head out of the office. Far be it from me to get Ashley fired twice in one twenty-four-hour period.

  I took the back elevator down to River Street. The Heritage Hotel is built along the Savannah River bank and straddles a significant change in elevation. The lower entrance opens on a quaint cobbled street, whose stones were brought as ballast on early sailing ships. The bluff side is lined with old warehouses that once served as cotton and naval stores but are now restaurants, gift shops, and art galleries. Along the river is moored a replica of a pirate ship and a veritable flotilla of yachts. The lucky boat-owners who hail from half a dozen states up and down the eastern seaboard sip their cocktails on polished teak decks while studiously avoiding the gaze of tourists. Every now and then a huge cargo ship passes up or down the river, and the anchored boats bobble in its wake. The young at heart wave at Greek and Italian seamen, and if the waving tourists are attractive enough, the seamen wave back.

  There is a long tradition of waving along the Savannah River. From 1887 until 1931 a woman by the name of Florence Martus waved a greeting or farewell to every ship that passed through the port of Savannah. Today a bronze statue of Florence and her dog mark the spot where she stood. The monument is appropriately called the Waving Girl.

  I was walking along River Street, just yards from the Waving Girl, when I spotted the Tom Hanks look-alike. He was sitting on a bench, of course, but his head was thrown back, and his eyes were closed. How he could be sleeping was beyond me, because just beyond him was a ruckus the likes of which would wake a mummy with earmuffs.

  I scurried silently past the ubiquitous bench-sitter to see what was going on. Imagine my surprise when I spotted C.J. and Wynnell. Both women were soaking wet, their hair plastered against their heads, and Wynnell was missing her left shoe. A group of tourists with Tokyo emblazoned on their T-shirts stood off to one side, the shutters of their cameras clicking nonstop.

  Wynnell saw me first. “Abby! Jus
t look what your friend did.”

  I pretended the inquisitive tourists were shrubs. “What happened?”

  “She pulled me into the river,” Wynnell barked, “that’s what happened!”

  “What do you mean, pulled?” I turned to C.J. “What were you doing? Going for a swim with the dolphins?”

  “I was waving at a ship, that’s what. I guess I got too close to the edge and fell in. I didn’t mean to pull Wynnell in.”

  I surveyed the scene of the supposed accident. “There’s a railing. Y’all weren’t sitting on it, were you?”

  C.J. snorted—or she may have merely been trying to clear her nose of water.

  “Well?”

  “We couldn’t help it,” C.J. whined. “This Italian freighter went by, and the deckhands were so gorgeous.”

  “I can’t believe this! Wynnell, you’re married, for crying out loud!”

  Wynnell hung her head in shame. “There isn’t any harm in looking, is there?”

  “Apparently there is. Just look at you. You might have drowned, and who knows, you could very well come down with some horrible bacterial infection. That isn’t exactly spring water.”

  “Oh, no!” C.J. clamped her hands on her midriff. “I could be pregnant!”

  “What?”

  “There were porpoises, Abby.”

  “So?”

  “My cousin Tina back in Shelby fell into a frog pond and—”

  “Let me guess. Nine months later she gave birth to a baby boy with webbed feet, right?”

  Several of the Tokyo tourists gasped.

  “How’d you know?” C.J. demanded.

  “Because I read about it in the National Intruder, that’s how. The same place you read it!”

  “Yes, Abby, but that really happened. I used to baby-sit for little Freddy all the time. He always wanted me to take him down to the creek in our backyard. Boy, was he ever a good swimmer!”

  I laid a calming hand on C.J.’s glistening arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I guarantee you have not been impregnated by a porpoise.”