by Tamar Myers
“Oh yes, it does. You missed out on all those vitamins and minerals—and calcium. You need calcium to make bones, Abby, and you never drink milk.”
“That’s not true. I had milk with my raisin bran this morning—okay, so it was yesterday morning. And I love ice cream, and all sorts of cheeses.”
“Mrs. Washburn,” the horrible Mr. Curly interjected, “what I have to say to you is extremely important.”
“Then why don’t you take out an ad in the Post and Courier. Maybe a full page ad. That should do for an apology. Don’t you think so, Wynnell?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Curly said, “if that’s what you really want. But this is about something far more important than that. Might I talk to you alone?”
“Ha! I don’t think so. The next thing I know your goons will jump out of nowhere and I’ll be hauled off in a paddy wagon again. This time I’ll probably have fishing wire wrapped around my extremities.”
“Very well, Mrs. Washburn; if that’s what you like. But what I am about to tell you is classified information. That means that your friend here, Mrs. Crawford, can’t go blabbing it around to her friends.”
“Mrs. Crawford?” Wynnell and I chorused.
“How did you know my name?” Wynnell demanded.
“Because you, ma’am, have also been one of the subjects of our investigation.”
5
I called Greg and told him about my unwanted visitor, and then I locked the door, so as not to involve anyone else in the drama that had once been my life. In the meantime Wynnell poured cups of her infamous coffee. With her as my witness, I ushered the hateful man back to the break room, which is barely more than a cubbyhole furnished with a Craftsman table and four matching chairs. On one of the three principal walls there is a poster of The Scream, which, at the moment, seemed to be fitting.
Motioning for Mr. Curly to take a seat, I plunged right in. “As you know, sir, the case has been dropped.”
“And therefore no double identify,” Wynnell said sternly, as she plunked a mug of coffee so close to him that droplets splashed on his sleeve.
“Ma’am?” he said.
“She means double indemnity.’”
Wynnell sniffed. “That’s what I said.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned to me. “Mrs. Washburn, again I apologize for my behavior on the dock. There was no excuse for it.”
“There certainly wasn’t.”
“I was completely out of line.”
“Just be glad she’s not suing you for false arrest,” Wynnell said. “Uh, you aren’t—are you, Abby?”
“The jury’s still out on that.” I laughed feebly. “Get it?”
“Very funny, Mrs. Washburn.”
“I don’t get it, Abby. Then again, I’m not a suck-up like he is.”
“Wynnell, dear,” I said, “with a friend like you, who needs more?”
“I don’t get that either, Abby.”
Mr. Curly took a sip of his coffee. His eyes bulged and his lips puckered. He tried mightily to swallow. After a few seconds he wisely spit the brew back into his cup.
“What’s the matter?” Wynnell said. “Don’t you like my coffee?”
“Ah—hem, hem.” He made several attempts to clear his throat and then whilst swallowing in rapid succession, pounded on his chest with a closed fist. “It has a lot of flavor, ma’am.”
“Doesn’t it, though?”
I felt the blood rush to my head. Once before Wynnell had taken an extreme dislike to a customer who had treated me rudely and “flavored” the woman’s complimentary coffee with a liberal dash of Tabasco sauce. That woman was a doyenne of Charleston society, and ever since that fateful day, my faithful friend has been blacklisted (not that she stood much of a chance before that day).
“Wynnell,” I said, “is this your special blend?”
“It is.”
“Perhaps you will be so kind then as to remove the cup and bring him some water. Make that a sealed bottle of water.”
Wynnell’s eyebrows have never been plucked or trimmed, and she struggles with hormone issues. As a consequence, when she scowls, a bristling black caterpillar takes shape on her forehead, stretching from temple to temple in an unbroken line.
“If you insist,” she said, but she didn’t move.
“Now, please.”
“Oh, all right,” she huffed. “But you,” she said, pointing a finger practically in Mr. Curly’s face, “better not try any funny business with our Abby. There are cameras hidden everywhere, and if you beat up on her, I’m taking video evidence to one of the morning network shows. And maybe Dr. Phil. He’ll give you what for. He doesn’t cotton to men brutalizing women.”
The second she was out of earshot Mr. Curly got down to business. “Since the—uh—incident—on the dock, I’ve checked around, Mrs. Washburn. You’re thought of highly in this community, but what’s more important, you have an impeccable record. So again I apologize.” He paused, but not long enough for me to comment. “You see, I’ve been working on this case for going on almost five years. It seems that large shipments of illegal ivory are coming through the Port of Charleston, but sporadically, and the person—or persons—on the receiving end—are never the same.”
“Whoa, run that by me again, please. How can you tell something like that is going on if the recipient keeps changing, etcetera?”
“Mrs. Washburn, the Port of Charleston handles thousands of tons of cargo every day, and it is impossible for the U.S. Customs Office to inspect but a tiny fraction of that cargo. Since 9/11 we concentrate on detecting anything that may be a threat to public safety—”
“Like a nuclear bomb?”
“Yes, that too. And besides issues of public safety, of course we screen for drugs, for they pose a threat to society as well. Looking for contraband imports, such as ivory, is low on the list. However, during these five years we’ve been lucky on four occasions and happened upon shipments of ivory, all of it originating in Hong Kong. And all of it headed to different addresses here in the Charleston area.”
Wynnell slipped back into the room with a bottle of Aquafina and a scowl.
“Anyway,” Mr. Curly said, “stated recipients, like you, all checked out to be innocent parties, but unlike you, none of them ever showed up at the dock; they were completely unaware that their names and address had been used. That’s what makes your case so different.”
“Yes, but like I told you, I showed up to collect a rosewood commode, not contraband ivory.”
Mr. Curly chuckled. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course she is!” Wynnell snapped.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” I said. “One of her grandparents was a Yankee; she just can’t help herself.”
“Why, I never!” Wynnell said. “Abby, you take that back.”
“Well, its true, Wynnell. And there’s nothing wrong with that; it’s not like it’s a disease.”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Curly said before Wynnell could react. “My wife started hanging out with a retiree from up North and was recently diagnosed with acute Connecticutitis. All of a sudden she wants to vacation in New England.”
I fought back a smile. “Mr. Curly, I don’t think charm is going to work. You were there; you know how you treated me.”
“Like garbage,” Wynnell said. “And you treated C.J. even worse than that.”
Mr. Curly frowned. “Who is C.J.?”
“The woman who was with me: Miss Cheng. C.J. was what we used to call her. It’s a long story.”
“Might it be pertinent?”
We shook our heads.
“Perhaps I should be the one to judge. These shipments are coming through Hong Kong, and Cheng is a Chinese name. Perhaps Mrs. Cheng has connections through her husband.”
“It’s Miss Cheng,” Wynnell hissed, “and she’s from Shelby, North Carolina.”
“What?” he said. “They don’t have criminals in Shelby? Although I must admit, one would never guess that she was Chin
ese simply by looking at her. I mean, is she?”
While I am all for not being ashamed of one’s ethnicity, I am still not convinced that in polite society one should not express undo pride in one’s origins. For either we are born into a tribe, having had no say in the selection process, or else we selected our own group before birth. In the latter case, whichever group we preselected—white middle class, British royal family, one of Brad and Angelina’s children—isn’t really special, because we could have all been that. In any event, for the most part one’s ethnicity is a private matter, but Mr. Curly was going to get the answer Cheng would have most likely given him.
“She’s part Chinese, part Russian, and part goat.”
“Ha ha. Stonewalling me, eh? Mrs. Washburn, I really am trying to be nice.”
“Mr. Curly, what exactly is it that you want from me?”
“Mrs. Washburn, may I speak to you alone?”
“You most certainly may not,” Wynnell said.
His reaction was to smile. “I admire loyalty like yours, Mrs. Crawford. Mrs. Washburn is a lucky woman.”
“Wynnell,” I said, summoning up some sugar, “I have no doubt that I’ll be just fine here. But I’d be eternally grateful if you’d straighten up the jewelry case to the left of the register—the one with the amber pieces in it. I had a customer just before closing who couldn’t make up her mind, and as a consequence the display is a bit of a mess. It was worth it, though. She ended up buying that Latvian piece with three flies embedded in it.”
Wynnell whistled. “Way to go, Abby. I didn’t think anybody was stupid enough to pay three thousand dollars for a chunk of sap with insects stuck in it.”
“It was top-notch amber dredged up from the Baltic Sea, and two of the flies were mating. How sweet is that?”
“Please,” Mr. Curly said, “I have other cases to work on.”
Wynnell sighed loudly, but nonetheless complied with our wishes. Still, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she’d paused just outside with her ear pressed to the door.
“I’ll get right to it,” Mr. Curly said. “Are you familiar with The Singing Panda up the street? Forgive the stupid question, how could you not be?”
The Singing Panda! Now there was a store name chosen merely for its ability to tantalize. For one thing, Giant pandas don’t sing, but if they did, they’d most probably sing in Chinese, not Italian. Yet it is Italian opera that one hears playing on the sound system. The merchandise, however, is Chinese, and is several steps above your average gift shop. A few pieces are, in fact, of such high quality as to raise eyebrows amongst the other vendors on King Street. Where exactly was this stuff during the Cultural Revolution?
“Yes, I’ve been in there a few times,” I said. “He has some nice things. But frankly I think he would have been better off locating in a more cosmopolitan market. Charleston is still a Southern town. There is only so much Asian influence you can add without destroying the local flavor.”
Mr. Curly nodded. “Do you know the owner? Eric Bowfrey?”
“I’ve seen him a couple of times at business events, and once or twice at a party, but I wouldn’t say that I know him.”
“Still, do you have any impressions of him that you could share?”
“Nice kid.”
“Kid?”
“He can’t be more than thirty; that’s a kid to me.”
“He seem strange?”
“Yeah, but—if you already know about him, why are you asking me?”
“Please. Just answer my question.”
“Well, he’s extremely quiet. Mostly just keeps his hands in his pockets and smiles. And no matter what the occasion, he wears a forest green sweatshirt with the hood up. Then again, if I had eyes as green as his—Oh, and those dimples. I could eat custard with a spoon out of them.”
“Mrs. Washburn, the green-eyed boy with the bottomless dimples came down to the dock yesterday afternoon and signed for a large shipment from Hong Kong. I had a feeling about that lot so I had him open it. It was all run-of-the-mill stuff—some of it not too bad, and all of it on the bill of sale—except for a rosewood commode. When the kid saw it, the first words out of his mouth were, and I quote: ‘What the heck? I didn’t buy that!’”
“Too bad for the kid,” I said, “but I fail to see how this relates to me.”
“I doubt if that’s so,” Mr. Curly said. “On the day when—uh, you unfortunately landed in jail—you said that you were expecting a commode. Instead you got ivory. Perhaps this is your commode.”
“Mr. Curly,” I said politely, “for the sake of argument, let’s say that you are correct. Thank you for notifying me, but to be honest, my illegal incarceration has taken the bloom off of that rose. I no longer wish to have anything to do with a Chinese commode. In fact I’m going to stay away from any foreign imports for a while.”
“I understand, Mrs. Washburn, but believe me, your experience was atypical. I’m sure that as a successful business woman, you know that.”
I shrugged. “Am I to believe that you took time from your busy schedule terrorizing minuscule middle-aged women just to inform me that someone else got a set of dresser drawers that were intended for me?”
“And to ask your help in setting up a sting.”
“What?”
“It’s a kind of trap, Mrs. Washburn. There was even a movie by that name—”
“I know what a sting is! I just can’t believe you want me to be part of one.”
“Oh.” A light seemed to have gone off behind Mr. Curly’s eyes. He stood slowly. “In that case, I apologize for your time, as well.”
“No, you don’t get it! I’d love to be a part of a sting! When do we start?”
“We already have,” he said with a smile.
6
My hunk of burning love keeps a schedule that is in tune with both the tide and the season. But the one thing I count on is that he is always home when I trudge in at the end of the day. Not only that, but he usually waits with a drink in his hand. Sometimes he even has a drink ready for me.
That day was no different. “Hey, darling,” he said, and gave me a passionate kiss on the lips.
Immediately the other male who lives in our house rubbed his hairy body against me, as he vocalized his pleasure. I would have picked up my fifteen pound cat, Dmitri, but this was one of those days Greg had thought to make me a drink.
“It’s called a Pom-Pom,” he said. “I thought it up myself.”
“What’s in it?”
“Two parts pomegranate juice and one part pomegranate liqueur, and a twist of lime.”
“Where did you find the pomegranate liqueur?”
“I didn’t, so I used vodka.”
I took a sip. It was tart, but not unbearable. After a few seconds the astringency abated and my mouth felt fine again, so I took another sip.
“Did you and Booger have a good day?” I asked.
“So-so. We’re taking some tourists on a pleasure ride tomorrow. They want to see what it’s like to be out over the Gulf Stream. You want to come along? We’ll be doing an onboard picnic.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Oh come on, hon. Ever since I bought into this boat you’ve been complaining that I don’t take you out on it enough. Besides, have you heard the weather report?”
“No.”
“Near record warmth.”
“That figures. Snows one week, gorgeous weather the next.”
“So come, already.”
“Sorry, Greg, but I promised—there’s just some work I have to do.”
“Don’t say that I never ask.”
“Okay. Where’s Mama?”
“Uh—I think your drink needs refreshing, Abby. Here, let me have it.”
“It’s fine. Just tell me where she is? Is she out seeing friends?”
“Yes—uh, no. I guess I’d have to call him more of an acquaintance.”
There are times when I don’t catch on right away, but I’m not
completely brain dead. “Greg, dear, something smells fishy, and it isn’t just you and your work clothes.”
“Honey, sit down—please.”
My legs wobbled over to the nearest chair—a genuine Louis XIV—and the rest of me obligingly followed.
“Sweetheart,” Greg said once I was seated, “your mother has a mind of her own; I’m sure you know that.”
I nodded mutely.
“And she can be very contrary.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve always said that she reminded me of George W. in crinolines. Of course your mother keeps her body hair to a minimum.”
I gave him a weak smile. When he trots that joke out at dinner parties he at least gets polite laughter. Don’t get me wrong, Greg loves Mama, but now that she lives with us, he feels entitled to some mild humor at her expense.
“Abby, your mama is out to dinner with Buford.” He almost whispered the B word.
I wasn’t shocked; thanks to his buildup, I’d almost seen that coming. In fact, my immediate reaction was relief—relief that she hadn’t run off and married my ex-husband. That would have been an icky situation, not only for me, but for our children, Susan and Charles.
“Why is she doing this, Greg? Why is Mama dating Buford?”
Greg set our drinks down and knelt beside me. Wrapping me in his arms, he pulled my head to his chest and smothered it with kisses.
“Now honey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She’s not dating him; they’re just having dinner. And this is the first time—that I know of.”
“And the last!”
“But to answer your question, for some reason your mother has a very low boredom threshold. Couple that with a strong need to compete with you and…well, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before. Remember that time she ran off to become a nun?”
“They rejected her for wearing curlers under her wimple and for whistling on the stairs.”
“She definitely was not an asset to the abbey. I don’t think she’ll be an asset to Buford either. If he really has his eye on a public office, he can’t afford a scandal like dating his ex-mother-in-law. Even though she is very attractive—in her own way.”