by Tamar Myers
“Abby, I’ve always hated that expression, but since nobody but your daddy—may he rest in peace—ever used it, I must therefore conclude that it is indeed you.” She struggled to a sitting position and scrutinized me at arm’s length. “Abby, what year is it? How long have I been asleep?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Come on, Mama. Let me help you up. You haven’t been asleep; this is makeup. Wynnell made me up to look like I was ten years older. I’m also not supposed to be looking like myself, but apparently I do. Greg recognized me, and you saw a family resemblance.”
“Wynnell? What’s going on, dear? You’re not having another one of your adventures without me, are you?”
Bless her heart. Mama sounded positively hurt. She loves my friends and they love her, and there really are times when we all pal around together. But what was I to tell her now? That she could be a part of the investigation if she quit sneaking around with my slimy ex-husband, Buford?
“Mama, you could be part of this investigation, if you weren’t sneaking around with my slimy ex-husband.”
“Aha, so you are having an adventure!”
“It’s hardly an adventure, Mama.”
“I guess this explains that handsome young man who came to see you this morning.”
I sat on the couch, and Mama followed suit. “Who came to see me? When?”
“He was African American. I don’t like that term, Abby. Not unless you use European American every time you describe a white person. If you don’t, white people become the norm—”
“Mama, I know your feelings on the subject. What did he want? Besides wanting to see me.”
Mama smiled. She wears dresses that have fitted bodices, tightly belted waists, and full circle skirts. They are dresses that Donna Reed and Margaret Anderson would have worn—and of course the Beave’s mom. These are not the kind of clothes that can be bought off the rack; my mother pays Mrs. Castelli good money for each one. Now where was I? Oh yes, Mama reached down into the fitted bodice of her navy and white polka dot dress and withdrew from the damp prison of her bosom a tightly folded piece of paper.
“He left a message, sweetie. But if you want it, you have to take me with you.”
“Take you where?”
“Wherever it is that you’re going from here. You know that after reading this note you’ll shoot out of here like a bat out of Hello Dolly.”
“Mama, that’s blackmail!”
“Indeed it is. I gave birth to you, Abigail; I have the right to take special liberties.”
I sighed. “Okay, I give up. You win.”
Mama giggled as she handed me the note. “Oh Abby, I always have so much fun when we play together.”
“You mean when we almost get killed together?”
“Don’t be such a sourpuss.”
I unfolded the note.
I found my own source for ivory. But hey, it was nice meeting you.
“What the heck?” I said.
“Let me see,” Mama said, and snatched the scrap from my hand. “Abby, what are you doing? You just got arrested for importing illegal ivory—”
“Mama, it’s not what you think. Look, I’m sorry I scared you earlier, but I really have to go now.”
Mama grabbed a hank of my hair, something she’d never done before, not even when I was a child. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere without me. You promised.”
“But that’s when I thought the note was more promising.”
“Abby, either I’m coming with you or I’m telling Greg what really happened to his car on Christmas Eve.”
“What? How’d you know?”
“And before you give your unequivocal no, answer me this: wasn’t I instrumental in apprehending that rug lord up in Rock Hill last year?”
I sighed. “You were invaluable, Mama.”
“Good, then it’s all settled. Just give me a minute to rob my piggy bank. There’s always something worthwhile buying at the market and putting away for Christmas.”
Phillip Canary must have said more than “Hello” and “Boo” to Mama, because she knew exactly which shed to hit, and where in that shed his stall was located. Furthermore, she knew the location of a praline vendor, which was good, because I was starving.
Again the area around his stall was crowded, but we amused ourselves at a nearby pocketbook vendor until Phillip took what looked like a much needed break. At that point two very attractive, much older women showed up.
“Mr. Canary?” one of them asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Sadie Sue Wiggins,” I said. “I’m Abby Timberlake’s, uh—great-great-aunt.”
“No,” Mama said. “That would make her too old, unless she’d be kept on ice—or really was back from beyond.”
“I meant to say that I was her aunt. And this”—I poked Mama in the ribs—“is my twin sister Mozella. She has the same affliction that her daughter has, so I’ve come along to act as interpreter.”
“You mean she has that mysterious European castle disease?”
“It’s a syndrome, not a disease. Mr. Canary, my sister wants to know what you plan to do with Abby’s vast ivory collection.”
“So it does exist, does it?”
“Would my daughter lie?” Mama said.
“Well,” Phillip Canary said, “frankly, I’m not interested in buying a vast collection of ivory. I’m more interested in viewing and photographing different pieces, and trying to match them to country of origin. It’s for a research paper I’m writing.” Perhaps I had a funny look on my face, because his gaze zeroed intently in on me. “I guess I forget to tell Abby that I’m getting a master’s degree in Environmental Studies. My thesis is titled ‘The Depletion of Species for the Vanity of Mankind.’”
“No, you didn’t tell me—I mean, Abby,” I said.
He smiled. “You’re one of a kind, Miss Timberlake—whoever you are. And folks think that Savannah has its share of eccentric characters!”
Mama bumped me aside with her crinoline padded hips. “She isn’t the only eccentric Charlestonian, dear, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Oh, I’ve noticed all right. You’re definitely one of a kind as well, Mrs. Wiggins. It’s clear to me that in this case the apple didn’t fall far from its tree. But I’m sure that you’re both aware of the fact that, if apples are left lying on the ground too long, they start to decay.”
“Did he just call us rotten apples?” Mama said.
“So how did you know it was me?” I demanded.
“Your eyes; the window to your soul. You’re a woman who approaches life full throttle, Abby. By the time you reach your mother’s age—or thereabouts—your eyes are gonna show a whole lot more than they do now.”
I felt uncomfortable; it was time to leave. “You have certainly been a bushel of surprises yourself, Mr. Canary.”
“That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me what your gig is?”
I glanced around. We were starting to attract a knot of curious onlookers, no doubt attracted to the emotion in our voices. Mama noticed them as well.
“Shoo,” she said, and waved her arms at them like she was chasing chickens off her porch.
Some of the tourists laughed and moved on casually. Others practically ran, and I can’t say that I blamed them. When only the pocketbook vendor was left staring at us, I beckoned Phillip Canary to stand closer.
“I received an illegal shipment of ivory that was clearly intended for someone else. It came from Hong Kong. It seems that someone in the area is using Charleston as their base for their clandestine ivory importing business. I was hoping to out them with that ad.”
He laughed, then noting the expression on my face, quickly sobered. “Sorry about that. But just out of curiosity, did you find that needle?”
“What?”
“In the haystack,” Mama said. “Abby, sometimes I wonder if I forgot to eat on the days that your brain was forming—bless your heart.”
Phillip Canary l
aughed again. “Abby, I really like your mama.”
“Good, then you can have her,” I said. “She is, after all, almost potty-trained.”
“You know something else?” he said. “If I was gonna set my mind to a case like yours, I’d start back at the ship. Like could any of the crew be in on it? After all, ivory just doesn’t get up and walk out of the harbor on its own. Somebody’s got to be down there to collect it. So what are they driving? What kind of a system do they have going?”
“System?”
“Poor Abby,” Mama said. “She doesn’t have time to watch old movies. He means like smuggling the ivory in and out in a laundry cart, don’t you Mr. Canary?”
“Or—” I began.
“Abby, be polite and wait for Mr. Canary to answer.”
“Mama, you asked a rhetorical question. Besides, we have to run!”
“Run?”
“Mama, if my hunch is right, then Mr. Curly can cross me off his list of suspects with ink!”
21
My dilemma was whether or not to fill Mama in on all of the details of our destination while on the way there (and scare the bone marrow out of her), or do the kind thing and let her draw her own conclusions. I decided on the latter. After all, Mama had expressed a desire to share more adventures with me, had she not? Besides, experience has taught me that she really does perform better when not overrehearsed.
“Abby,” she said as the houses whizzed by, “in this part of Mount Pleasant they’re very strict with the speed limit. My friend Cheryl got clocked here last year going six miles over the dang thing and got a ticket.”
“That’s nice, Mama.”
“That’s nice? That’s all you’ve got to say? There’s supposed to be a grace period of nine miles per hour. I thought you might want to know that, seeing as how your tootsie is mashed down about as far as it can go.”
“I’m in a hurry, Mama. Time, tide, and criminals wait for no woman.”
Mama chortled with glee. “This sounds like it’s going to be fun. Do I get to pack heat?”
“I don’t know. Did you bring one of those gizmos from the drugstore that becomes warm when you peel off the tape?”
“It means a gun, dear. Honestly, Abby, sometimes I wonder which century you’re living in.”
We turned a corner and my heart leaped both with joy and terror. Sure enough, there they were: the two large white trucks. The large staff was still quite busy tearing down and loading outdoor furniture. Much to my relief, however, the queen bee was nowhere in sight.
“Abby,” Mama said, “this is Lady Bowfrey’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“She goes to Grace Church. I’ve been here for a foyer dinner.”
“Imagine that: a criminal attending church. Do you think it’s ever been done before?”
“Abby, this isn’t because she outed you this morning, is it?”
“Au contraire, Mama. This goes much deeper than that. Lady Bowfrey—and I doubt that’s her real name—is the head of the ivory smuggling ring.”
“Your Aunt Marilyn said there would be problems if I started you on solid foods too early, but since she never had any children of her own—not that she kept, at any rate—I just chalked her advice up to the ravings of a jealous aunt.”
I pulled over to the corner behind an SUV, where—if we conducted ourselves properly—we could remain somewhat inconspicuous. “Look Mama, after all we’ve been through together, it’s about time you trusted me. The pieces of this puzzled have already clicked together in my head.”
“That’s nice, dear, but did it occur to you to consult your sweet old mama before you glued those puzzle pieces in place and sent it out to be mounted?”
“Frankly, no. I’m not a real detective, and neither are you. I’ve been doing this on my own time, and you’ve been busy making a fool of yourself with my ex-husband.”
It was a cruel thing to say. Of course I regretted it. But people who love each other can hurt each other the most, precisely because they know where the soft spots are. Apparently my tiny dagger was successful in hitting its mark.
Mama’s lips disappeared and her eyes narrowed behind her lenses.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said quickly. “And I’m consulting you now. Okay?”
The dear woman never could hold a grudge. “Abby, the thing is that I know Lady Bowfrey; she isn’t the smuggling type.”
“What?”
“You do say ‘what’ a lot, dear. Have you noticed that?”
“Can we get back to the Lady, please ?”
“She’s hardly that, dear; she’s a very much respected member of my church—or I should say, was. What I mean is that she was when I still belonged to Grace Episcopal, but as you know, I’m now in flux. Oh Abby, flux is a terrible place to be. What if I should die whilst I was in flux? Why you’d be flummoxed as to where to hold my funeral, wouldn’t you?”
“Mama, please, can we stick to Lady Bowfrey for just a second? After that we can digress all you want.”
“Ah, her. Well, she is the nicest woman you’d ever hope to meet, except maybe for Princess Diana or Mother Teresa, which at this point I’d just as soon not meet. But my point is that everyone loves her.”
I was stunned breathless. Neither could I hear very well. Mama, however, had no trouble continuing to babble. After I was able to breathe again, I was forced to interrupt her.
“Excuse me, Mama, but kind in which way?”
“I swear, dear, don’t you listen to a word I say?”
“Upon occasion I do try, Mama. I really do.”
She sighed dramatically. “All right, dear. But don’t make me repeat it again. I find talking about others so boring.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Now what was I supposed elaborate on? Oh yes—she was kind. You’d think she couldn’t get around very well, but she has this powerful electric wheelchair that she’s actually named. ‘Zippy,’ she calls it. She says it’s a boy. On account of that, she can do just about anything—so she does. She helps out with Altar Guild, serves as a lay reader, works in the church kitchen, she welcomes visitors, she fills in for sick Sunday school teachers, and she always, always, has a warm smile for everyone and something thoughtful and comforting to say to those who are down in the dumps.”
“Wow.”
“Oh, and she sends cards with personal notes to everyone who is on the sick list, or in special need of prayer, plus she sends cards to each and every member who has a birthday or anniversary.”
“Sounds like a superwoman to me. So how well do you know her personally?”
“I’d say fairly well—a six on a scale of one to ten. We were in the same adult Sunday school class.”
“You mean that touchy-feely one called ‘Issues with Tissues,’ where y’all are crying all the time?”
“Abby, it’s healthy to vent with your peers. You’d be surprised to learn just what kind of problems a rich woman like Lady Bowfrey has. Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can’t buy you a decent twelve cup rice cooker.”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you going deaf, dear?”
“No, but I thought you said rice cooker.”
“I did. The one I have makes four cups of steamed rice, but the largest one I’ve been able to find makes only eight. Abby, how am I to make enough rice to feed thirty people when I have the group over for the spring luncheon?”
“Mama,” I said patiently, “let’s return to the subject of Mrs. Bowfrey; what kind of problems might she have?”
“Shame on you, Abby. I would never break a confidence.”
“How can it be a confidence, Mama, if she shared it with your ‘Yankees with Hankies’ group?’”
“That’s my ‘Issues with Tissues,’ group,” she said. She sighed. “Okay, but if karma comes back around to nip me through my crinolines, it’s your fault, Abby.”
“Blame accepted, Mama.”
“She’s all alone in this world, Abb
y, except for this spaced-out nephew who runs a shop on King Street but doesn’t do half the business you do, because the poor kid doesn’t have an ounce of salesmanship in his vein.”
“What’s with this ‘Lady’ stuff?”
“Oh, she really has a title—well, that’s what she says, at any rate. She’s originally British, I think, but grew up in one of those African colonies that later became independent. Some of the Brits hung on, and hung on to their titles too. Unofficially, of course. But hers is from her husband, Lord Something Something Bowfrey. You’d think that would make her all stuck up, but she’s really just as sweet as brown sugar pie.”
“And to think that brown sugar pie used to be a favorite of mine,” I mumbled.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing. Mama, where’s her husband now?”
“He died in that African colony’s fight for independence. That’s when she decided to come to America and make a new life for herself. She said that she found the American entrepreneur spirit so refreshing. And I can see why, because she’s as smart as the dickens too.”
“I bet. Mama, have you been to the Wednesday buffet breakfasts?”
“At the Charleston Place Hotel? Abby, you know that I don’t have that kind of money—”
“No, here, Mama. That’s what these trucks are here for, and these white tents. Every Wednesday morning Her Ladyship serves breakfast to the hoi polloi of the Old Village of Mount Pleasant. You wouldn’t believe the quality of the food. Really top drawer! Oh, and she even has a string quartet play.”
“I don’t believe it. I’d be invited if this was the case.”
“It’s true, Mama, but it’s just for neighbors.”
“I still don’t believe it.”
“Okay, but it’s true.”
“It’s not! I’ll prove that it isn’t.” With that Mama scrambled from the car and, despite the fact that she was wearing three inch heels (as is her custom), strode straight to Lady Bowfrey’s house.
I know this because I slipped out of my side of the car, and still using the SUV as cover, maneuvered to where I had a better view. Mama cut diagonally across the street—to the left of the white tent and the nearest white truck—and click-clacked her way up the torturous steps of the beach-style house without pausing to catch her breath. (One advantage to having played Donna Reed for the last fifty years is that it has built up her calf muscles.)