by Tamar Myers
“Well, as dumb an idea as it seems, I thought that if I advertised a large stash of ivory, I could draw the attention of whoever is smuggling ivory into Charleston.”
“How so?”
“Like maybe I was competition—either that or a new source for them.”
Bob is a very careful driver and didn’t comment until we had safely turned left onto Folly Road. “Did this strategy work?” he asked.
“Not entirely.” I filled him in on the particulars of each of my encounters, and he was suitably horrified, or disgusted, by my stories.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt by some crazed stranger or sex maniac. And you’re lucky the real smugglers are too lazy or stupid to read the Post and Courier. Abby, somebody who is in the business of smuggling large quantities of ivory into this country via the ports is not going to fall for a newspaper ad. Frankly, we all think it wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“Wait a minute! Who is ‘we all’? Are you saying that everyone’s been talking about me?”
“Abby, we all love you. I haven’t heard a single negative word—not about you personally.”
“Just that my ideas suck. Which means—” I sucked in a mouthful of pluff-mud-scented air. “—that I don’t have a cotton-pickin’ brain in this little ol’ head of mine.”
Bob’s hearty guffaws sounded like a base drum at a high school band practice. “Abby, whatever am I going to do with you? I’m supposed to be the one with the self-esteem issues, remember? Besides, I can’t think of anyone in the antiques community who is more respected and beloved than you.”
“Oh yeah? What about What’s-his-name?”
“So it’s a tie in the respect department, but you win hands down in the beloved department. Didn’t Mozella teach you not to be greedy?”
“Can one really teach a lesson that she hasn’t learned herself?” Believe me, I instantly felt guilty for saying that.
“Touché,” Bob said. “Now tell me, Abby, if you could redo the last couple of days, what’s the first thing you would do differently? Not place that silly ad?”
I stiffened. “Heck no! I would place that darn ad all over again in a heartbeat. I don’t care what everyone thinks. I seem to have sunk my hoe into a nest of baby rattlesnakes, and I aim to find the mama. The only reason I came to you, Bob, is because I thought you might offer a shoulder to cry on.” At that, I actually started to cry, and I mean really cry.
I boo-hooed, I blubbered, I wailed, I sobbed, I gnashed a few teeth, and plain old just had me a good old-fashioned snot-producing crying marathon. Trust me, there isn’t a man alive, gay or straight, that can stand up to a Wiggins woman’s meltdown. Poor Bob had to pull to the side of the road so he could gesticulate nervously with both hands.
“Abby, stop, please! I’m begging you. Besides, you didn’t give me a chance to tell you that I totally agree with you.”
Momentum is a hard thing to overcome. I couldn’t help but snuffle a few times before I could achieve something that even approached speech. And of course I had to blow my nose a million times, and the only thing either of us had that came close to being a tissue substitute was an old AAA car map that Bob found under his seat. And then when I did finally speak, every other word or so was punctuated by a hiccup.
But Bob was patient and kind. He was also very firm.
“I meant it when I said that I’m behind you on this. Do you know why I am? Because you have good instincts. Trust your gut, Abby. I do.”
“B-B-Bob,” I blubbered.
He put his gangly arms gingerly around me. “Oh Abby, it breaks my heart to see you like this.”
“B-Bob, c-can I ask you a-another q-question?”
“Anything.”
“H-How b-badly is my m-mascara smeared?”
“You look like a drunken raccoon, darling.”
I must say that I was pleasantly surprised by Wynnell’s skills as a makeup artist. She met me at my office with what looked like a large fishing tackle box full of pencils, tubes, brushes, and small jars. In a plastic shopping bag she carried an assortment of wigs and hair extensions, and in a canvas tote bag that she’d toted (what else?), bottles of spray-on color and fixative.
We had a few tense moments, but only until I turned myself totally over to her control, which is exactly the way it should have been. This was a lesson I learned from watching Project Runway on TV, and should have remembered from the onset, instead of wasting valuable time. The gist of it is this: compromise is not always a good thing, so give the artist her head. Her vision is bound to be better than whatever hybrid the two of you can finally cobble together.
When Wynnell pronounced me “finished,” I wouldn’t have recognized myself. No kidding, I would have walked right past myself on the street and not given me a second thought. How creepy is that? Besides looking like a totally different woman, I looked convincingly older—no make that disturbingly older. If I asked for a senior discount made up like this, no one would have batted an eye—which might tempt me to punch him or her in the eye. But gently, of course, like a proper Southern sexagenarian.
“Well, what do think?” Wynnell said.
“You did a fantastic job, you really did, which makes it kind of creepy.”
“It’s my Aunt Marietta.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, Wynnell—far prettier than I…You made her prettier and older at the same time. How did you do that?”
Wynnell shrugged, but she didn’t deny that her creation was prettier than her model. Oh well, she was still a good friend. Once, on a camping trip, I had to rely on her to remove a tick from my buttocks. Friends don’t come any better than that.
“Abby,” she said, “I know you think I see a conspiracy behind every tree. But why do you think the public saw almost nothing of Vice President Cheney during the last six months he was in office?”
“Why don’t you just save us both time, darling, and tell me.”
“Because his popularity ratings were so low. The Secret Service told him that since he was a lame duck, there was no point in him hanging around Washington anymore, given the security risks.”
“No offense, Wynnell, but that’s one theory of yours that just doesn’t fly. Cheney may not have been as much in the news those last six months, but he was still visible.”
“And all because of makeup!”
“Say what?”
She nodded vigorously. “My cousin Charlene owns a beauty shop in Washington, D.C., and—”
“Wynnell, darling,” I interrupted gently, “we have a live performance to put on. We need to hustle if we’re going to hit our marks on time.”
“Whatever you say, Abby.” But she was all grins.
I knew for sure that Wynnell had been a success when Bob stopped us as we were getting into my car. “Good morning, ladies,” he said in that basso profundo voice of his that weakens the knees of many an unsuspecting lady of a certain age—the Liberace crowd, he calls them.
“Good morning, Robert,” Wynnell said.
Bob looked expectantly at me, then at her, waiting for an introduction. When none was forthcoming, he proffered a hand. “I’m Bob Steuben. I see that you know my friend, Wynnell.”
I shrugged and shook my head. “No Eengleesh.”
“This is Fatima, Abby’s second cousin from Lisbon,” Wynnell said, having only missed a couple of beats.
“Would that be Lisbon, North Carolina?” Bob said. I could tell by his tone that he was deadly serious.
“Portugal,” I snapped and started the engine.
“Welcome to this country, miss.”
“Tank you.”
“Wynnell,” Bob persisted, “where’s Abby?”
“The little minx stayed home to do the jumpy-jump again. She asked me to show Fatima around.”
“Does she have a license?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Bob turned to me. “Voce tem uma licenca?”
“Holy crap, Bob,” I moaned.
“You’re not supposed to be able to speak Portuguese.”
The poor man had turned the color of cigarette ash and was swaying like a pine in gale force winds. I jumped out of the car and helped him sit on the curb.
“It’s only me—Abby.” I put a warning finger to my lips. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone. Please.”
“Darn if you don’t look like—well, someone other than yourself.”
“Why thank you,” Wynnell said. She’d joined us at the curb and was all grins again.
Thanks to her deft hand there was no way my scheme in Mount Pleasant was going to backfire.
Dora was equally fooled by my appearance, and doubly delighted. She clapped her hands with glee and made touching chortling sounds. After an embarrassingly long time she turned to Wynnell.
“Who are you, dear?”
“This is my friend, Wynnell. She’ll be coming along to keep an eye on my makeup. Is that all right, Mother?”
“The more the merrier!”
And quite a merry gathering it was. Of course one might imagine that a free catered breakfast in the middle of the week would be a festive occasion for your average retiree, but Lady Bowfrey’s generosity knew no bounds. An enormous white tent occupied her entire backyard, and uniformed caterers scurried back and forth between two long white trucks.
Inside the tent, chatting and stuffing their faces, was the happiest cross section of Mount Pleasant faces I had ever seen. And why not? At one end of the three long rows of dining tables was the buffet table, which looked close to collapse due to the weight of food that it bore. At the other end of the tent a string quartet was softly playing light classical pieces.
Directly in front of the musicians, seated at her own table, was the formidable aristocrat herself. Although her hooded eyes gave the impression that she might be asleep, Lady Bowfrey proved to have the vision of an osprey. With some effort she raised a massive arm and pointed a pudgy, but bejeweled finger, our way. The music stopped on cue.
“I see some new faces,” our benefactress said. “Dora, be a dear and introduce our guests.”
The moment had finally come for Dora to put to bed a few rumors. The fact that it would create a lot more (what if childhood friends of her daughter were present?) had either not occurred to her or else she didn’t give a darn. In any case, the dear woman gave me a squeeze and cleared her throat.
“Lady Bowfrey—everyone—I want y’all to meet my daughter, Clara van Aswegen. Clara, this is Lady Bowfrey, our hostess, and these are my neighbors.”
There was a smattering of applause, and a surprisingly large number of people said “Welcome”—considering that most of them had food in their mouths. To be honest, it was terribly embarrassing for me until I glanced at Dora’s face; she looked like my mama at the moment she’d held her first grandchild. From that second on I threw myself into the role of being Dora’s daughter.
Lady Bowfrey tried to get everyone’s attention by clapping, but getting gossipers to shut up is like corralling greased pigs. Finally she resorted to saying something to the base viol player behind her, who in turn raked his bow across his instrument. The vile noise stunned the crowd into silence.
“Who is your other guest?” Lady Bowfrey inquired.
“My name is Wynnell Crawford,” my pal said.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“I own the Den of Antiquity, an antiques store downtown.”
“Ah, that must be it. Welcome.”
She clapped again and the merrymaking continued. Wynnell, however, was not going to be quite as ebullient as the others—not when I got through with her. After helping Dora fill her plate and answering a few relatively benign questions, I steered my friend and employee outside by a pinch-grip to her triceps. It’s a move every mother knows whose school-age child has had a complete meltdown in aisle five of Harris Teeter and on whom reasoning, psychology, and threats of an overnight stay at Guantanamo hasn’t worked. Okay, so there are mothers who would never pinch their children, and they are right not to do so, and I salute them. Nonetheless, not only did I pinch Wynnell, I pinched her hard.
“Wynnell, that was a boldface lie!”
“And pretending to be an old lady’s missing daughter isn’t a lie?”
“I was doing it for her sake. Did you see how happy that made her?”
“Her sake, my eye! You were doing it—”
“Shhh! Okay, I’ll go along with this nonsense for now, but what if one of these folks comes into the shop and asks to speak to the owner? What will you say then?”
“Abby, I’m not a fool. I wouldn’t dare—”
I felt myself being gently nudged aside by a tall thin man in a green plaid sport coat. He was, by the way, addressing Wynnell, not me.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I was in your shop the other day and noticed a long case clock in the corner—the far left rear corner, I believe.”
Wynnell’s infamous unibrow appeared as she recreated my shop in her mind. “It’s actually on the right-hand side.”
“Ah yes. Is it for sale?”
“Everything is—for the right price.”
Dang it! Wynnell had the nerve to steal one of my best lines. Even the tall thin man liked it, because he laughed annoyingly loud.
“Tell me,” he said, “is it German?”
Wynnell massaged her chin while she forced her unibrow into a brush-filled vee. “Hmm. Carla, I showed the long case clock to you, didn’t I?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The man in green plaid reached into his inner breast pocket and withdrew a business card. “My name is Pembroke Manning,” he said. “I teach a class on appraising antiques through the Continuing Education Department of the College of Charleston. Perhaps you would like to register for the spring semester.”
“But I—I’m not—”
“She’s not able to sit through a class,” I said. “She’s got that ‘going urge.’ You’ve seen the commercials, right? But in her case the medication doesn’t work.”
I slipped my petite paw into the crook of his arm and tugged him gently away from a gasping Crawford. “So tell me, Mr. Manning, how long have you been attending these fabulous productions of Lady Bowfrey?”
Pembroke Manning’s sexual preference was none of my business, but I got the sense that he was a latent heterosexual. That is to say, he may have been retired from the force awhile, but he seemed eager to reenlist.
“I’ve been coming every week now for the past year and a half. I only teach my class at night, you see. And that’s only on Wednesday nights, at the Sheppard’s Center. I’d have asked you, but you’re obviously not in that age group.”
“Obviously—oh, but I am. I mean, I am very interested in antiques. Are you a professional collector, Mr. Manning?”
“Was. I had a store up in Camden, and another in Columbia, but I got out of the business a couple of years ago when my daughter and her husband decided to settle down and take over the store in Columbia. So I sold the store in Camden and moved down here. I’ve always loved the coast. There’s nothing like it, if you ask me.”
“No siree, bob. Well, Mr. Manning, it’s very nice talking to you, but I think I better go help my friend find a lavatory. Or does Lady Bowfrey supply those as well?”
“No, ma’am, but I live just catercorner from here—where you see those tall palms on either side of the front door. Your friend is welcome to use my bathroom.”
“How very nice of you,” I said wickedly. “And how very lucky of you to have such a generous woman as Lady Bowfrey as a neighbor.”
I felt the tendons in his thin arm tighten. “One might say that. Then again, if we, her immediate neighbors, did not partake of this weekly bounty, then we would feel used, wouldn’t we?”
“Clara!” Wynnell called. “You mother wants us inside.”
I forced a smile. “Just a minute, dear.” I turned back to Pem
broke Manning. “Would you care to explain, dear?”
19
Well, you see those humongous trucks that are all but blocking the street? Of course you do; you can probably see them from the space station. At any rate, those things come like clockwork every Tuesday around midnight so the crew can set up. With the lights and the noise, it’s like setting up a carnival. Believe me, if I had my druthers, I’d rather stay home and eat a bowl of cereal after first getting a good night’s sleep. I’m not a complaining man, Miss Clara, but I have to teach tonight.”
Miss Clara? Who did he think I was? An octogenarian? I was only a faux sexagenarian, for crying out loud! Still, I knew I had better bite my tongue for the sake of my investigation.
“How do the other neighbors feel about this?” I asked sweetly.
“They’re pissed as heck too—well, some of them. Others can’t wait to kiss her behind. They think that because she’s rich, somehow kissing up to her will benefit them as well. But I’m telling you, she’s laughing down at all of us from her ivory pagoda.”
“Say what?”
“That monstrosity of a house. Doesn’t it look like a pagoda to you?”
“I would have described it as a three-story beach house with recessed floors. But yes, it is sort of ivory-colored. About those trucks and that terrible racket, have you tried talking to her?”
“Abby!” Wynnell shouted.
I pretended not to hear. “We have, but she insists that they’re necessary. We even presented her with a straw poll saying that we preferred no breakfast over a sleepless Tuesday night, but she just scoffed. So our last step was to take it to the city council, but suddenly we lost three-quarters of our backers. Turncoats, that’s what they are. You can hear them all in there now.”
“Do you suspect her of bribing your neighbors somehow?”
Mr. Manning spit on the grass next to the sidewalk. That’s when I disengaged from his arm.
“Suspect? She owns an apartment building in Orlando. She sent an invitation to everyone on the block inviting them to sign up for free time shares there with complimentary passes to Disneyworld. How could we refuse?”