Poison Ivory

by Tamar Myers

  “Jeepers creepers, Pagan, this is moving awfully fast. How did you know to bring papers here? You didn’t know to expect me, did you?”

  “Miss Timberlake, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m somewhat of a psychic. Now before you get freaked out, I’ve got to explain what I mean by that: I’m not the woo-woo, here’s your fortune, kind of psychic, but I get these really strong feelings, you see. Oh heck, why am I trying so hard to convince you? Why don’t I just resort to my backup plan? I know you’re tempted to think of them as your competition, but—I don’t mean to be cruel here—they’re in another class altogether.”

  “Whom are you referring to? Are you referring to my friends at The Finer Things?”

  “The name says it all, doesn’t it?”

  “Give me those papers!” The Rob-Bobs are my best friends, but they are also my chief competitors, and they didn’t have a show.

  I scribbled where told to, but barely heard another word she said. I might as well have been sitting in Mama’s church on a spring day listening to her priest drone on and on about our fallen natures, while outside just plain old nature beckoned me to take a walk along the waterfront.

  It was my cell phone that brought me back to reality. A man’s deep voice—a soothing voice, despite a lot of background noise—politely inquiring about the ad in the paper. Yes, I’d said, looking Pagan straight in the eyes, the ivory was still available, and yes, I’d be happy to meet with him. Just tell me when and where.

  “You can’t do this,” Pagan Willifrocke said. She had the temerity to grab my wrist as I stood back from the table.

  I snatched the papers with my free hand. “Yes, I can. I didn’t even have a chance to read these.”

  “And you won’t!”

  The moral to this story, if there is one, is never play keep away with someone whose reach far exceeds yours. Pagan recovered the papers as easily as if she’d taken candy from a newborn baby. Then, upon stuffing them safely back into her faux Gucci tote, she strode angrily from the room, sticking me with the check.

  I stared at her retreating bottom: it was disgustingly tight, like a snare drum. “Are you still there?” I said to the caller.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m at Poogan’s Porch now,” I said. “Are you downtown?”

  “Yes, ma’am; I have a stall in the City Market.”

  The City Market is a two-hundred-year-old institution that is a tourist’s delight—unless said tourist is claustrophobic, or has a migraine. Then it’s like wading in ankle-deep molasses through a maze, while hundreds of very large people pop up right in front of you. At least this is what I hear from my dear sweet husband, Greg. He says he’d rather roll on a bed of hot coals that stretches from Charleston to India than have to look for me in the City Market during the Christmas shopping season.

  “How interesting,” I said to the soothing voice. “What is it you sell?”

  “Velvet paintings.”

  “Even more interesting. There used to be a woman who sold velvet Elvis paintings, velvet Jesus paintings—”

  “I bought her out.”

  “Wow. So you do the same stuff?”

  “A lot of it the same. But this year velvet political paintings are the hot sellers. Velvet Obamas, velvet McCains, of course for a long while there it was velvet Hillaries.”

  “Cool beans! Are they campy?”

  “They’re supposed to be. Of course some folks think they’re as serious as a three car collision, and that’s all right with me too, on account of it’s the paintings that pay the bills. Who am I to interpret art—even if I created it? Right?”

  “You’re darn tooting.”

  “So, Miss—uh—”

  “Nagpa Frockewilli,” I said. Perhaps I could think faster on my feet if they weren’t a mere size four.

  “Now that’s a new for me. What is it, Greek?”

  “Israelian”

  “You mean Hebrew?”

  “Yes, of course. Silly me, I keep forgetting my English translations.”

  “My name is Phillip Canary,” he said. “Like the bird. Hey look, I’ll be here until six, so you can just come by anytime you like and we can talk. How does that sound?”

  “Super. I’ll see you in twenty.”

  Poogan’s Porch is said to be haunted by the spirit of a lonely, frustrated woman. While I am seldom lonely, I do get frustrated from time to time, and it seemed that this particular afternoon the Apparition American resident of Poogan’s Porch was doing her best to assist in the process. I’m not sure I can even enumerate all the things that happened to slow my departure—besides my credit card dropping from my fumbling fingers and getting wedged between two boards of the restaurant floor—but it took me much longer than twenty minutes to even leave the place.

  Once outside, into fresh, unhaunted air, I strode quickly up Queen Street and turned left on Meeting. Two blocks later I crossed Meeting and went over to where the famed Market Hall stands as a majestic landmark. On the second story of this picturesque building is the Museum of the Confederacy, which is run by the Daughters of the Confederacy (although I doubt if many of them are really old enough to have been part of it), and behind it stretch the four long sheds of the actual market.

  The Charleston City Market is not a flea market, nor is it, as some have suggested, a place to buy upscale gifts at bargain prices. It is, however, the place to buy “something” for that person or persons back home who stayed behind to water the lawn, take in the paper, or scoop the litter box.

  If you want to buy an authentic pashmina and spend well over a hundred dollars for it, shop on Kings Street. Buy an even prettier shawl for a fraction of the price in the City Market. As for the authenticity of either shawl—they both bear very similar, if not identical, labels. Some items are peculiarly Charlestonian, like benne wafers and sweetgrass baskets; some things are generically coastal, like carved pelicans and porpoise sculptures. There are leather wallets, handbags, T-shirts, costume jewelry, and, for at least the last four years, velvet Elvis paintings.

  Phillip Canary’s stall was exactly where I remembered it. I could see velvet paintings hanging from a clothesline and perched on easels, but I couldn’t get anywhere close enough to get his attention because of the crush of people that had gathered to watch him paint. In such a situation, what was a well-bred Southern lady to do? Holler? I think not.

  “Achoo!” It was a fake sneeze, but very convincing. I followed it with five more, in quick succession. Although most folks haven’t caught on to the role that handshakes play in spreading disease, the sound of a sneeze, especially one that is up close and personal, is enough to making anyone recoil. Every time I sneezed, when someone pulled back in either alarm, or disgust, I slipped right past him. Or her. Before you could say gesundheit, I was in the front row.

  Phillip Canary had neglected to mention that he was an extraordinarily handsome man. He was built like a quarterback, and his shoulders and pecs strained against a sweatshirt that appeared to be a size too small, although the bright yellow color of the garment was the perfect foil for Phillip’s dark brown skin. His tightly curled black hair was cropped short. His skin was clear, his nose broad and symmetrical, and his lips full and well-defined.

  He had yet to spot me, so I studied his work. There were indeed a number of velvet Elvis paintings: young Elvises, mature Elvises, fat Elvises, a presumably dead Elvis with wings. There were also several velvet Jesus paintings, including a black Jesus, and a black Jesus with Elvis standing together under a rainbow. But it was his political paintings that drew the most comments from the crowd.

  “Now looky there, at that painting of President Bush standing in a pit surrounded by all them flames. What in tarnation do you reckon that’s s’pose to mean?” The speaker was male, and may well have been from the sticks of South Carolina.

  “I think that it means that he’s in hell, where he belongs,” said a woman, whose rigid control of her diphthongs tipped me off to her status as
a tourist from one of the square states.

  “Well, he ain’t dead, so there.”

  “Oh my, what do we have here? Nancy Pelosi pole-dancing? Now that’s disrespectful!”

  “Serves you right, missy.”

  “Hey, watch who you’re calling missy, mister!”

  I might have called a time-out on the quarreling, middle-aged children, but Phillip looked up then and we made eye contact. Perhaps he’d seen me leave or enter my shop sometime and I looked familiar. At any rate, he stopped painting, and oblivious to the stares and murmurs of the crowd, he walked over to me.

  “It’s in the trunk of my car. If you’ll keep an eye on my money box, I’ll go and get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Your painting, of course.”

  “What painting?”

  “The nude Hillary. You wanted her on the unicorn, but without Josh Brogan, am I right?”

  “Absolutely.” I winked. Oh what fun! I’d only met this handsome man, and I’d been recruited to be in on a game of some kind. This was my kind of sleuthing.

  Phillip was gone one minute, and upon his return he handed me something wrapped in plain brown paper. Instinctively, I opened it.

  “Oh my stars!” I exclaimed. “It is Hillary in the nude—and she’s riding sidesaddle, no less. You could have at least crossed her arms. When a woman reaches a certain age, those puppies relocate. Really, Mr. Canary, no one looks good with their nipples in their lap.”

  The crowed roared with laughter.

  Emboldened by the thought that I might someday be a stand-up comedienne, I continued. “Who, pray tell, was your model for this depressing take on the female form?”

  Phillip frowned. “Why you, of course, Mrs. Dougherty.”

  13

  What?” I cried in alarm

  That’s when Phillip Canary took a really good look at me and his jaw muscles twitched. “Shoot a monkey,” he said, “you’re not Mrs. Dougherty, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Miss Frockewilli.”

  “Hmm. Is this how you treat everyone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you weren’t coming. Twenty minutes—that’s what you said an hour ago.”

  “That is not the case!” I glanced at my watch. “Oops, sorry! I honestly don’t know where the time went.”

  Our tones must have been somewhat strident, because the crowd just kept getting bigger. Thankfully, that irritated Phillip as much as it did me. He jumped on his stool and clapped his hands.

  “People,” he boomed. “The show is over. Now move along, please. There are some really fine sweetgrass baskets at entrance to shed three. Don’t forget to shop along the way for the most unique gifts you’ll find in the Southeast.”

  Then he hopped down and began turning all his velvet paintings so they faced away from the main flow of traffic. Meanwhile the assembled folk dispersed with a good deal of mumbling and backward glances. As long as at least some of them were jumping to very wrong conclusions, that was fine with me.

  “I think some of them suspect something is going on between the two of us,” I said.

  He turned. “Miss Frockewilli, I don’t mean to be cruel, but please don’t flatter yourself.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m a healthy young man; I can sense when someone has the hots for me.”

  “Why you arrogant little twerp. You’re not even dry behind the ears. How dare you say that?”

  “Just so you know, Miss Frockewilli—and I don’t think that’s your real name—I’m already in a relationship. You might even know her; she was a local celebrity of sorts, before she moved back to Charlotte. Her name is Ramat Sreym.”

  “The author? Ha! Now there’s a laugh. That woman couldn’t write her way out of a paper bag. Her books are zany—they’re like situation comedies. They’ll never get her nominated for any kind of award, and everyone knows that awards are what counts. That’s where publishers put their money: behind award-winning books—uh, well that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Ramat’s books are delightful, and so is she. The point is, Miss Frockewilli, that I’m taken.”

  “Okay, I get your point! And for the record, you’re right: I’m not really Miss Frockewilli. But listen, if I promise to keep my middle-aged libido in check, can we still discuss the I word?”

  “Incorrigible?”

  “Very funny. By the way, isn’t ‘most unique’ a bit redundant? Either an item for sale is one of a kind, or it’s not.”

  “Touché.” He looked around before motioning me over to a side exit that opened onto Market Street. “Look, if I’d known that you were going to be this much aggravation, I wouldn’t have bothered to call.”

  “Me? Aggravation?”

  “We’re practically outside, so I know that I’m not hearing an echo.”

  I took a deep breath, and counted to ten in my head, but it did no good. When I reached ten, I exhaled a good deal of carbon dioxide along with the last of my patience.

  “You know, I’m the one who doesn’t need this tsuris.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Yiddish; with a name like Ramat, your girlfriend should know what it means.” With that I clutched my indignation tightly around me like a cloak and strode across Market Street.

  I knew better than to attempt a conversation, especially with someone whose perception of the world was slightly off kilter, but of course that didn’t stop me. The fact that I hadn’t been able to reach C.J. since leaving Chopsticks made me want to get in touch with her all the more. It’s not that I was worried about the big galoot—she has size going for her, in addition to some awesome brain power—it was purely the fact that she was unobtainable, and I was every bit as stubborn as a Democratic Congress.

  But finally, as I passed the candy shop that hands out fresh praline samples—I had two huge chunks—C.J. answered. “International House of Bitter Remorse and Abject Apologies,” she said in a remarkably soothing tone. If I hadn’t been so angry, and in such a hurry, I would have hung up and redialed, just to hear her say it again.

  “C.J.!”

  “Abby, I said that I was sorry.”

  “Where did you go? What happened to you?”

  “You’ll never believe it, Abby.”

  “Just try me,” I growled.

  “Well, you know that a lot of celebrities come to town, right?”

  “Yes, C.J. Please get to the point.”

  “And you know that I have a crush on Rob Lowe, right?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “So anyway, I see this guy walk past the window at Chopsticks who looks just like Rob, so I jettisoned my mission—but only because I thought it was Rob. Abby, I love Brothers and Sisters.”

  “Isn’t Rob Lowe a little old for you, C.J.?” Perhaps it was my loyalty to my own jilted brother that made me ask that.

  “Don’t be so silly, Abby. Rich men marry younger women all the time.”

  “But Rob Lowe is married,” I said.

  “Praline sample?” A gangly but well-meaning young man lowered a dish in front of my nose again.

  “C.J.,” I snapped, “we seemed to have gotten off track. Are you all right? And do you still want your job?”

  “I’m fine as frog’s hair, Abby, and of course I want my job.”

  “Well, where are you now? In the Rob Lowe look-alike’s boudoir?” That was, admittedly, a punch beneath the belt. C.J. is anything but a floozy.

  “I’m helping Mr. Hartman load his truck.”

  “Say what?”

  “Mr. Hartman is the man who favors Rob Lowe. You see, I sort of followed him a bit, then he caught on and turned around so we started talking, and when I told him I worked in an antiques store, he wanted to see it. Well, he liked a bunch of the stuff he saw, and he just happened to have his truck, so he bought that English oak bookcase—the one you keep saying we’ll never sell—the mahogany sideboard that’s signed by William Moore, and that set of six Gothic
side chairs. Isn’t that a hoot, Abby? All those different periods going into one house?”

  “Yes, but think of all that money going into my bank account—ack! You did get him to write a check before you started loading, didn’t you? Oh C.J., dear, please say that you did.”

  “Sorry, Abby, no can do.”

  The pralines passed within two feet and I snatched two in lieu of a stiff drink. “Get one now! Call the cops if you have to.”

  “Abby, there you go, being silly again. I don’t need to get a check from him, because he paid me in cash.”

  “Huh?”

  “And before you have more kittens, Abby—and that really did happen to a woman in Paris in 1926—we went to the bank and he withdrew the money, and I got it directly from the teller, all fifteen thousand dollars of it.”

  “C.J., I’m so sorry—”

  “Oops, gotta go, Abby. Mr. Hartman wants my help in selecting a few smaller accent pieces—you know, like lamps and things.”

  She hung up.

  One of the problems with hailing a cab in Charleston is that it is a walker’s paradise. Should a cab eventually come along, the odds of it seeing me are about the same as those of a politician sticking to his, or her, pre-election platform. Thus it was that I was pretty much committed to a long walk back to the Den of Antiquity on King Street, or an even longer walk back to my house.

  When a car pulled up alongside me and a young lady rolled down a window and said, “Abby, get in, I’ll give you a ride,” you can bet that I accepted.

  The fact that she looked only vaguely familiar didn’t matter—at first. But when I stole a second peek and realized that I didn’t know her from the Prime Minister of Canada, I began to panic.

  “Uh—you can let me off here.”

  “Please wait.”

  “I want out.”