Poison Ivory

by Tamar Myers

  “Aha! How much was that?”

  “Eight dollars and thirty-six cents.”

  “Surely you’re joking! I mean—isn’t Lady Bowfrey rather well off?”

  “Oh my dear, you must be nouveau riche, like the carpetbaggers and most especially the developers. We play for pennies because—well, what else is there to do with them?”

  There is an old saying in my family: “If the ugly baby is yours, embrace it .” Mama says she heard it from her mama, who heard it from her mama. I’ve given that saying some thought over my forty-eight years, and have come to the conclusion that either we’ve given birth to a plethora of ugly children in our family’s history or else we have refused to hug them.

  Mama claims that nary a one of her ancestors was anything less than photogenic, and that the saying simply means own up to your shortcomings. Instead, I decided to own up to one of Dora’s shortcomings, and that was her obvious distaste for developers.

  “Just so you know, I am not entirely nouveau riche, because my family did have money before the Late Unpleasantness.”

  “Well, that is an improvement.”

  “And I despise developers.”

  “Then we see eye-to-eye.”

  “But speaking of Lady Bowfrey—”

  “She’s the salt of the earth; the savory substance that adds that special exotic zing to the Old Village. Ah…” She sighed, and sipped deeply from the orange mug. “Of course there were a few old fossils—like me—who didn’t cotton to her from the beginning, but I think most of us have eventually come around. Did you know that on the first Wednesday morning of every month she serves an enormous breakfast buffet that is open to the entire community?”

  I was stunned. “No, I didn’t. How?”

  “She doesn’t actually cook it herself. She has it catered. White tents and everything. It’s become an Old Village tradition. Wednesday Mornings with Lady Bowfrey. Perhaps you saw it on the Today show?”

  “I prefer Good Morning America.”

  “You know, dear, you should come as my guest.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  She cradled the orange mug in her mottled hands. “I don’t suppose that you—no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

  “To do what?”

  Dora looked down and shook her head. “Please forget that I said anything. It was just an old foolish woman talking.”

  “I doubt that. And anyway, I love foolish talk, so talk away!”

  “In that case, would you be willing to pose as my daughter? At the breakfast next Wednesday?”

  That caught me off guard. “Uh—”

  “Abby, my daughter, Clara, hasn’t been home to see me in thirty-two years. We had a falling out, you see, and—”

  “Stop, please. You don’t need to explain.”

  “Just once, Abby, I don’t want the neighborhood to look at me as the woman whose daughter won’t even come home to see her old mama.” She took a deep breath, which sounded a bit like a gut-wrenching sob. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t even have brought this up.”

  “Can we say serendipity?”

  “No, dear, her name is Cassandra.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  “I don’t know what got into me. Marilyn Douglas, that’s what—or I should say, who. She’s always bringing family from out of town. She brings so many, and so often, why it’s even occurred to me that she might be dragging in tourists from the streets.”

  I grabbed one of Dora’s hands. It was as light as biscuits. And even though she’d been cradling a warm coffee mug, it was cool to the touch.

  “Miss Dora, I said that I’d come.”

  “Oh Abby, really? I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “It wouldn’t be much trouble,” I said, while lying through my teeth, “it will be fun. But since I own an antiques store downtown, there’s a good chance that some of your neighbors have been in it, and might even know me. I’ll have to wear a disguise. And anyway, I am a little shorter than most people.”

  “Abby, my daughter was a dwarf. Aren’t you a dwarf?”

  “I’m four feet nine inches.”

  “Which officially makes you a Little Person, right?”

  She was right, of course. The definition of a dwarf includes anyone, male or female, who is less than four feet ten inches tall.

  “Miss Dora, how old is your daughter?”

  “About your age, I suppose. She was fifty-eight in October.”

  “Let’s not suppose, sweetie. I’ll just add some temporary gray to my hair.”

  Dora smiled happily. “When I went on my walk this morning I was feeling lonely, practically dreading the week ahead. Now look at me: I have a daughter to come with me to Wednesday Mornings with Lady Bowfrey.”

  “Just think,” I said, “Marilyn Douglas will be absolutely crushed.”

  Dora giggled.

  The truth be told, I missed Mama terribly. Yes, she could be a pain in the tushie at times, but at least that kept life interesting—in a mildly entertaining sort of way. When Greg and I returned from Mount Pleasant we found Sunday supper in the oven, and a note saying that Mama planned to be out for the evening and that we shouldn’t wait up.

  While that kind of news is far from boring, it didn’t make for an evening of good entertainment. After we ate, Greg kept asking if I’d finally show him what jumpy-jumpy was, and again I was simply in no mood to be jumped. By the time Monday morning rolled around (I fell asleep before Mama came in) I was actually looking forward to going to work.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love what I do, and my dear friends with whom I work. It’s just that there are days when I’d like to knock about the house in my pajamas all day, maybe even sprawl across the couch and watch The View while eating chocolate-covered bonbons. Or maybe read. Who has enough time to just read? Eat, Pray, Love was a good book, but I needed to get beyond memoirs and self-help books, and tragic Oprah picks, and above all, books that scream: this book is literary, punctuation optional. Maybe someday I’ll get it together to read something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Maybe someday I’ll read a good novel—like a mystery.

  Perhaps it was the theory of reciprocity at work, but when I got to the shop—early, mind you—I found Wynnell Crawford already there. The poor woman was pacing up and down in front of the register like a caged tigress.

  “Abby, can we talk?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can we go someplace private?”

  “Wynnell, the shop doesn’t open for another forty-five minutes. It’s just you and I, and a bunch of old things.”

  “A collection of preowned treasures, Abby: that’s what you taught us to say.”

  “Good for me.” I steered her into the Den of Antiquity’s holy of holies: my private office. This windowless room is literally smaller than the walk-in closet I had in my home up in Charlotte when I was married to Buford the Timber Snake. Much smaller. It’s just big enough to contain a desk (topped by a computer, of course), three filing cabinets, and two chairs.

  Both my employees have unlimited access to the break room (such as it is), but except for the days on which they are hired, or fired, entry to my office is restricted to this Big Cheese alone—or perhaps I should say this Mini Gouda Wheel. Thus it was that when I bade Wynnell sit, she took her sweet time staring at the wall art first.

  “Gracious me, Abby, are those calendar pictures you have hanging on your walls?”

  “Yes, but they’re nicely framed, and the pictures themselves are quite striking, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose—if you like kittens. And I know you do, Abby, and that’s all right with me. But personally, I prefer dogs. There’s nothing cuter on God’s green earth than a Pomeranian puppy. I personally believe that’s the breed He gave Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

  Wynnell is a Southern Baptist of the literal persuasion, and while I have nothing against these good folk, I have long since learned that it is a waste of breat
h to try and convince them that there were no dogs present at the moment canines were created. If indeed creation happened in six twenty-four-hour days, there were wolves present, but no dogs. Dogs were bred from wolves, just as tomorrow’s dog breeds will descend from today’s dogs.

  “Pomeranian puppies are adorable,” I said agreeably. “Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Is the door locked?”

  I got up and locked it.

  16

  Are we expecting terrorists, Wynnell?” I asked.

  “No—well, you can never be sure, can you? Anyway, she might barge in at any minute.”

  “She who? Is there an Apparition American living in my shop that I don’t know about?”

  Wynnell’s hedgerow eyebrows met as she clucked impatiently. “No, Abby, I mean C.J.! She’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “What about her?”

  “What about her? I can’t believe you just said that. Abby, you and I used to be best friends—”

  “We still are.”

  “But lately you’ve been taking C.J. with you everywhere and taking her into your confidence. It’s like what you did with me in the old times, Abby, and I miss it. Am I jealous? Yes! Am I a lesbian? No! Besides, your boobs are way too small for my taste.”

  “What?” Surely I hadn’t heard right.

  “Just kidding!”

  “Wynnell, you don’t have a funny bone in your body. That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you. You’re deadly seriously, and slightly boring—to the point of endearment, of course. I mean, funny people are a dime a dozen. But with you, well, I always get strong opinions—albeit a little to the right of George Walker Bush—but at least I know where you stand.”

  The eyebrows parted like the leading edges of the Red Sea. “Thanks, Abby—I think.”

  “You’re welcome!” Enthusiasm can go a long way to confusing an issue, which was exactly my intention.

  “But, Abby, you still think that C.J. has better decorating skills than I do, don’t you?”

  “Decorating is for cake makers, dear. We stage vignettes; we stage rooms; we stage entire houses; why, I bet you could upstage anyone if you set your mind to it.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. Upstage, engage, enrage, Wynnell Crawford is incomparable.”

  My shaggy-browed buddy beamed. “Right back at you, Abby.”

  “Thank you. Wynnell, did C.J. fill you in on what we did Friday?”

  “No. Except that the two of you had fun together, and then C.J. came back here and earned a huge commission.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it fun, exactly. I’d asked C.J. to help do a little undercover work in my quest to catch the ivory smuggling ring, but she wasn’t able to stick with the assignment. And do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  I lowered my voice and put my finger to my lips. “Because our big galoot, as bright as she is, lacks your maturity.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s only twenty-six. And you’re how old?”

  “Old enough not to answer that question, Abby.”

  “Anyway, while C.J, was earning her commission, you were earning time and a half for holding down the fort.”

  “I was?”

  “Make that double time.”

  “Oh thank you, Abby!”

  “You’re very welcome, but you have to keep this between the two of us. Capisce?”

  “Okay, now you’ve confused me; what does this have to do with fancy lettuce?”

  “Huh?”

  “It was bad enough when folks started putting spinach into salads, then along came this ridiculous radicchio stuff, and now there’s capisce? Abby, I’m telling you, it’s the Yankee influence. We used to boil our greens with fatback—except for bib lettuce, which was so bitter you had to put something on it—Mama let us put sugar on it. Then along came the snow bunnies with their salad bars and now the sky’s the limit for what constitutes a salad. Last night we ate supper down at Hush Puppies, that new restaurant on Route 17, and they have Snickers bar chunks in their fruit salad section. And folks wonder why they gain weight when they only eat salads.”

  I love it when Wynnell goes off on a tangent—if the timing is right—and this seemed to be just such an occasion. C.J., and the favoritism I’d appeared to be showing her (believe me, it was unintentional on my part) seemed to have been put behind us. I would do what I could to pave over that sore spot with more quick-drying concrete.

  “And speaking of Yankees,” I said, “I read somewhere that there is a grassroots organization that believes building a wall along the Mexican border, while basically a good idea, should take second place to building a wall along the Mason-Dixon Line. The trouble is what to do with the border territories, not to mention all the people who already live in the South. Should they receive compensation for their property? What do you think, Wynnell?”

  “I think you’re trying to play me for a fool, Abby, that’s what I think. Now tell me, when do I get to play sleuth with you?”

  “Uh—well—”

  “I’m not letting you off the hook, best friend.”

  “How good are you at applying makeup? I mean, like stage makeup?” As far as everyday makeup went, Wynnell’s skills rated a minus two on a plus scale of one to ten—and I say that charitably. Her “old man” bushy eyebrows were actually a blessing in that they kept one’s eyes focused above the scene of most of her artistic damage, which was just about anywhere on her face.

  “Abby, before I met you I used to do makeup for various Charlotte community theaters, and before that I did makeup for church and school plays.”

  “Why Wynnell, you’re just a barrel of surprises!” Now what was I going to do? I really didn’t want to use her, yet I was in need of someone.

  “Oh, and I forgot, I worked behind the makeup counter at Belk’s Department store—but I got fired. They said I made the customers look like clowns.”

  “Did you?”

  “That was back in the ‘natural look’ days, Abby. It was so boring; I was just trying to spice things up a little.”

  “Hmm. Wynnell, Wednesday morning I need to look like I’m at least ten years older. Do you think you can pull that off?”

  Wynnell squinted and cocked her head, first one way and then the other. “The good news is that you already look a good deal older than you are. The bad news is that Wednesday is my day off, remember? Ed and I were going to drive up to Georgetown and kayak on the Black River. Our goal is to kayak on every stretch of black water in the state before the mosquitoes come out again.”

  I shuddered, having almost lost my life to alligators in the Black River, but that was another story. It was good to hear that the Crawfords were doing things like this together. Several years ago when their marriage hit a dry patch, Wynnell ran off to Tokyo to become Japanese, a venture that didn’t quite work out. Still, some valuable cultural lessons were learned: she became an aficionado of sumo wrestling and installed a squat toilet in her house.

  “Wynnell, dear—best friend—I’ll buy you both dinner at Frank’s up in Pawley’s Island if you stop by on your way up to Georgetown and turn me into a believable fifty-eight-year-old woman.”

  “Frank’s? You’ve got a deal.”

  “But keep it subtle.”

  A cheerful Wynnell is a worrisome thing. It’s like driving on a limited access highway, without a spare tire, when suddenly a large bulge appears on one of your four radials. What do you do? Pull over and wave down some help? Stop the car and run before it blows? Kick yourself for the millionth time because you let your AAA membership lapse, and besides, your cell phone isn’t charged? I found myself giving her wide berth, lest I be in too close proximity when she exploded.

  In fact, smiling is so foreign to Wynnell that by lunchtime she had the beginnings of a migraine, so I let her go home. Being that it was the slow season anyway, C.J. and I could handle what little street traffic there was, and finish mar
king down our red dot items. A lot of antiques stores—especially high end shops—don’t have clearance sections—but I have found that most customers—even the very wealthy—like to think they’ve gotten a bargain. What they don’t know is that I’ve already taken the discount into mind when I assigned the original price. As the Rob-Bob’s would say, “Our little Abby knows more ways to make a buck than a herd of does in heat.”

  I was putting a sale tag on an Edwardian era armoire when I became acutely aware that I was being scrutinized by someone, or something. My first thought was that I had somehow disturbed an Apparition American—perhaps one associated with the armoire. This is not such an uncommon event amongst Charleston shop owners. Bed and breakfasts are particularity vulnerable to visits by former tenants who have been unable—or in some cases, unwilling—to depart the premises. This entity was behind me, but standing so close that I could hear him breathe, although I had heard no footsteps.

  There are two kinds of people in this world: those who pull the covers up over their heads and scream, and those who grab the broom in the corner and give the boogeyman under the bed a good thrashing. Through no credit of my own, I’m the kind who screams while they thrash with the broom. I’ve also been known to exaggerate, so it wasn’t that bad this time. Still, it was awfully rude of Phillip Canary to sneak up behind me on cat’s feet.

  “Hey, hey, easy now,” he said.

  “You couldn’t cough or something? I think I just used three of my lives.”

  The handsome young man chuckled. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all I have left. Now if a silverfish runs across the floor tonight on my way to the bathroom, I’ll drop over dead—all because of you!”

  “They’re the nastiest critters, aren’t they: silverfish? Did you know that they can go a year without eating?”

  “That bit of arcane knowledge is just the thing your girlfriend can put in one of her books. Isn’t that the kind of experience that readers want? To learn something while they’re being entertained?”