The Glass Is Always Greener

by Tamar Myers

  “Those good folks in Shelby ought to tar and feather her the next time she passes through town on her way up to the mountains,” Ben said. “That woman is a Southern Baptist, but she’s from Atlanta, and she has a master’s degree in clinical psychology from the University of Pittsburgh. I’ve met her parents; her mother is from Atlanta—old school—and her father from somewhere in southwestern Pennsylvania.”

  “Uh-oh. Poor C.J.”

  “When Tina first clamped on to Sammy—and I mean clamped, just like a vise—I thought she was English. You should have heard that accent—and all the references to crumpets and marmite, bubble and squeak, and toad in the hole.”

  “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

  “English comestibles, all of them.”

  “Oh, so that’s how you pronounce comestibles.”

  He winked. “I daresay.”

  “So when did she switch continents—so to speak?”

  “About a week later—or never. That all depends. If Tina thinks someone from the family’s listening, then her accent is English again; if it will raise money for the ‘cause’—that would be her cause, not God’s—then she’s from some holler so far back in the mountains that you have to cross the Pacific Ocean first to get there.”

  “That’s pretty far back.” I chuckled. “I must say, though, Ben, you are given to some hyperbole.”

  “Ma’am?” He looked absolutely wounded.

  “With your Pacific Ocean comment,” I said.

  “Oh no, Abby, those are her words, not mine. But hyperbole is it in a nutshell. In fact, that’s what the others call her: Perbole. ‘Hi Perbole,’ they say. ‘Bye Perbole.’ Of course she doesn’t get it; she thinks they’re just being friendly—but weird. You can see why nobody can stand her.”

  “Uh, I hate to disagree,” I said, “and may she rest in peace and whatever else I’m supposed to say at a time like this, but it seems that your Aunt Jerry could. She put Tina in charge of a lot of money—wait a minute! You mean to say that Aunt Jerry couldn’t see through Tina’s ruse?”

  Ben slapped his thigh he laughed so hard, and then abruptly caught himself. “Sorry, that was totally inappropriate. And here I am supposed to be planning her funeral, which is the moment the police release her body. In Judaism we try to bury our dead as soon as possible. We don’t embalm, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. Sadly, what I knew about other religions, or even my own for that matter, was next to nothing. But I can see two church steeples from my front porch!

  “You’re right,” Ben said. “Jerry didn’t see through Tina, even though she thought of herself as very savvy in the ways of the world.”

  “Or maybe,” I offered, “she didn’t see through her act until the end, and that million-dollar bequest was a test of some sort.”

  “A posthumous test?” he asked. “What good would that do?”

  “I didn’t mean it that literally; I meant that the test came at the good-bye party. Maybe it involved seeing how Tina would react to the bequest. Oh grrr, I’ve got to go rescue C.J. from that woman’s conniving claws.”

  “Don’t forget Sammy’s slimy paws. He’s so slippery he could hold his own in a pond full of eels.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Oh shoot a monkey,” I cried, “I plumb forgot!”

  Ben’s face mirrored my alarm. “What’s that?”

  “I was supposed to pick Rob up hours ago; I’ve left him stuck without a ride at the end of the greenbelt trail. My phone’s been off the entire time—dang it—yes, there are two new messages.”

  Ben shook his head as he grinned. “No need to worry about Rob, sweetheart. This is his hometown; this is where he grew up. He’s got more connections here than a dump truck full of Tinktertoys. Plus a wallet full of gold and platinum credit cards. He’s not stuck anywhere that he doesn’t want to be.”

  “Hmm, good point. Still, I need to be going.”

  Ben walked me to the door, and by the time we’d finished saying good-bye we were “cheek-pecking acquaintances” which is only one step away from being friends—at least “outer-circle friends.” Even just that was saying a lot, given that I’d been the one to find his aunt stuffed in his upright freezer.

  Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t for a second believe that Ben suspected me of murder. However, the phenomenon of wanting to kill the messenger is probably as old as mankind, so it would only be natural for Ben to bear a natural antipathy toward me, unless—wait just one hog-sloppin’ minute—unless he was trying to play me like a country fiddle.

  Sure enough, the calls were from Rob. The first one was from the trail and he was calling to apologize because he wasn’t going to be able to meet me at the end. He’d met a friend along the way and the two of them would be brunching together. The second call involved another apology; brunch was over, but now they were headed up to Metrolina, which is a humongous antiques market just north of where I–85 crosses I–77. Thanks for helping to solve his aunt’s murder, he said; there was no better sleuth in all of Charlotte at the moment—even though I was untrained.

  There was some other bit about my sleuthing skills stemming from the fact that I excelled at being nosy, but I chose to take those words in the spirit in which they were intended. Alas, choosing does not always mean achieving. Nonetheless, when my nose was sufficiently back into joint to hold up a pair of sunglasses, I set my GPS to the address that Ben had so thoughtfully supplied for his nephew Sam. Thank heavens he’d also supplied me with the entry code I needed to get past security.

  In case anyone has ever thought otherwise, now would be a good time to dissuade them of the notion that I am above reproach. I am particularly vulnerable to house envy. Even though I currently own a beautiful house in the most desirable part of Charleston, South Carolina (without a doubt the most desirable city on the planet), I find myself lusting in my heart after some of the megamansions that I see from time to time. I am particularly charmed by the current Charlotte fad of Spanish–Tucson–medieval castle fusion, characterized by stucco walls, clay tile roofs, balustrade balconies, and towers galore. Clearly some poor architect has turrets syndrome, and to that I say, “Bless his heart.”

  Sam and Tina lived in a gated community that was so ritzy, even the wind needed the entry code in order to blow through. As I drove slowly along the winding road, mouth open and drooling, I kept hoping that number 8369 would be the smallest house on the so-called block. I was overjoyed, therefore, to discover that was indeed the case. I was dumbfounded, thunderstruck, and downright gobsmacked when just a few seconds later I realized that the mini-megamansion that I thought was Sam’s was actually his own private guard shack. Complete with its own garage!

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said a woman about my age. “This is private property.” She’d stepped out from what at first glance had looked to be the front door of the house. It was only then that I noticed there was a wooden bar across the driveway, and it was much like the barriers one sees across a railroad track, but without the stripes painted on it.

  “Is this Sam Ovumkoph’s house?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be moving along.”

  “I’m a friend of Sam’s Uncle Ben—like the rice, but, of course, this Ben is a real man—and I’m best friends with his cousin Rob. Actually, you might say that I’m friends with Sam and Tina too, since I just had lunch with them at the Viet Thai Noodle House, which isn’t fancy by any means, but they thought the food was really good. Oh, by the way, as it turns out, I was there with my third best friend in the whole world, C.J. from Shelby, and she and Tina figured out that they were first cousins. Can you imagine that?”

  The guard’s response was to walk slowly around the car and, I presumed, record my license plate number. When she was done making her circuit, she rapped on my window.

  “You look kind of familiar. Have you ever been here before?”

  “No, ma’am. I have not.”

  “Maybe selling cosmetics to the missus, or something lik
e that? Lord knows I don’t mean to be ugly about it, but she sure can use a little help—you know what I mean?” She gestured with her thumb up the road.

  “Indeed I do, missy!” I pushed my door open with my left hand as my right hand undid my seat belt. The badmouthing guard was caught by surprise and fell back on her butt. Quick as double-geared lightning I was out of the car and standing over her with my hands on my hips. When viewed from that angle, and if I exert enough attitude, I can give the appearance of a much larger woman. I know it may sound hard to believe, but it really is all in the “ ’tude,” as my son, Charlie, likes to say. Why, in that particular instance, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that I came across as being five-four!

  “What the H,” she said. She actually said a whole lot worse, but since I don’t possess a potty mouth, it is hard to repeat it exactly.

  “Put up that crossbar or I’m telling Tina what you just said. That poor girl can’t help what nature dealt her; just because her parents had to tie a pork chop around her neck to get the dog to play with her—well, that was no fault of hers, now was it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “So what will it be? Up goes the crossbar and we’re all happy, or—”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I stepped back and let her struggle to her feet, but sure enough, as soon as she was up, up went the bar.

  “Tootles, darling,” I said as I hopped back in the car. Then off I sped up the yellow brick road.

  Upscale neighborhoods have covenants, written rules that one must abide by that are specific to that area. South of Broad, in Charleston, we even abide by unwritten covenants that govern certain social customs. For instance, one simply does not hang a Christmas wreath on the door more than a fortnight before Christmas. To do so is to invite a gentle rebuke via a handwritten note on scented stationery, or perhaps a soft knock on the door and a few kind words of disapproval. Those are the short-term ramifications, of course. Long term—well, the occupants of said house are clearly from “off” and need not expect an invitation to any holiday party or oyster roast anytime soon (so what are a few generations in the grand scheme of things?).

  But covenants, like many aspiring congressmen (and women), can be shaped by a sufficient influx of cash. “The bucks stop here” is really a much older phrase than the one made popular by Harry Truman, and the more money that is to be had, the further the rules can be bent. This might explain how it was that the yellow brick road that led up the hill to the Ovumkoph monstrosity was literally that: yellow and brick.

  Although I was a child of the seventies, and had in my college years dabbled a wee bit in mind-altering substances, and had always prided myself on an active imagination, nothing I’d experienced could have prepared me for the Ovumkoph creation they called home. Once, on a trip to Portugal, I’d been privileged to travel to the mountainous city of Sintra, and from there up to the Pena Palace, which is a fantasy that combines Moorish, Gothic, and Manueline motifs. That multicolored, domed, gabled, and crenulated structure perhaps comes closest to resembling Sam and Tina’s act of stewardship gone awry.

  Instead of ringing of a doorbell I had the pleasure of yanking on a rope. This set into motion a graduated series of bells, each with a different tone. I think that the tune they produced was the first measure of “America the Beautiful”; then again, it might have been the title song from Beauty and the Beast. After several long minutes, when the door went unanswered I pulled the rope again. Apparently the bells had not stopped vibrating from their first go-around, because the resultant sound was even more garbled. It struck me that this was a very clever way to discourage unwanted visitors—possibly including myself.

  I was fixing to give the rope a third tug when the massive door inched open. Out poked an immense proboscis followed by curtains of hair. My first impression was that the Ovumkophs had a sheepdog trained as a butler.

  “I’m here to speak to either the pastor or his wife,” I said.

  “Come in,” the sheepdog said.

  Chapter 13

  It stood aside as the door opened wider. My eyes opened wider as well. The Ovumkophs, bless their hearts, did not abide by the “less is more” principle. Instead they believed in gilding the lily, the furniture, the walls, even the floor tiles. If they did make it to Heaven and were privileged to walk the celestial golden streets, how would they ever know when they’d arrived?

  “Wow,” I finally said.

  “You don’t think it’s too much, do you?” There was an unmistakable challenge in the sheepdog’s voice, and a familiar Piedmont accent.

  I gave the odd butler a closer look. It wasn’t really a dog, of course. It was a woman with an unfortunately large nose and volumes of hair—goodness gracious, and a bucket full of kittens! It was none other than Tina Ovumkoph herself! And in skintight jeans and—oops, when her hair parted for a second, I could see a shamefully low-cut blouse that displayed acres of boobelege. Okay, so maybe that’s not a real word, but it ought to be. This was serious hoochie-mama stuff that shimmied and shook, and which briefly made me consider batting for the other team. But only briefly, mind you.

  “Tina? Is that really you?”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Timberlake. Sunday is Oscar’s day off, on account of the Bible says we need to give our servants and beasts time to rest too. Oscar’s our butler, by the way.”

  “But just out of curiosity, do you have a beast as well? Pastor Sam excluded for now.”

  She didn’t even crack a smile. “Oh Mrs. Timberlake, I’m afraid you got the wrong impression somehow. Sam really is the kindest, most gentle man I know.”

  “Then you must know some real brutes.”

  She stiffened, an act that set the curtains of hair into motion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I saw how he tried, and succeeded, in controlling you at the restaurant. Or was that an act as well?”

  Tina brushed a curtain of hair away from her face and practically jammed it behind her left ear. Meanwhile her gaze flitted side to side as if scanning the gold walls for the telltale reflection of a third party.

  “I’m fixing to leave him just as soon as I can,” she whispered. “Believe me, I’ve been prayin’ about it right hard, and then today the Lord sends my dear cousin Calamity Jane, like an angel sent from Heaven, to show me the way. I just know it’s a sign. And now you sayin’ this.” She grabbed my hands and held them tightly. “Mrs. Timberlake, you too are like an angel—well, maybe a cherub. You know, one of them baby angels, on account of you being so petite and all.”

  At that moment C.J. quietly entered the hall from somewhere behind her, and I desperately wanted to get her attention. I jerked my hands loose from Tina’s and reached up and patted—none too gently—her somewhat drooping cheeks.

  “And you, my dear, are the biggest fraud since Bernard Madoff. And stop looking so surprised, will you? I know for a fact that you are not from Shelby, North Carolina. Neither are you related to the legendary, and practically sainted, Granny Ledbetter.”

  I’ll say this for Tina. She was smart enough to know that she’d been bested. Rather than deny involvement and dig her hole deeper, she immediately sang like a velvet-throated canary.

  “Okay, you’ve caught me; but if your people can cut me a deal, I’ll tell them everything there is to know about that thieving son of a—”

  “Bless his mama’s heart,” I said. “I’m sure he broke it a million times when she was alive.”

  At that point the big galoot was upon us, but I could tell by her expression that she was not yet a believer. “Abby, why don’t you want me to be happy?” she demanded.

  “C.J., I do want you to be happy. I want you to be over-the-moon giddy with happiness, but Tina here is not your cousin. Go ahead and tell her, Tina.”

  Tina nodded her confirmation. No doubt she was too embarrassed to turn around and speak.

  “Look, C.J.,” I said, as I opened my pocketbook and withdrew a thick brown root that I’d purchased in t
he produce department at the Colony Square Harris Teeter on my way over to the Ovumkophs’ exclusive neighborhood. “I’m going to give Tina the Granny Ledbetter proof of kinship test.”

  “What’s that?” Tina said. She held her hands up in front of her face.

  “It’s a horseradish root. There isn’t a descendant of C.J.’s Granny Ledbetter—by birth or adoption—who isn’t capable of chewing his or her way through a root this size in two minutes flat. And then you have to sing the Ledbetter family anthem—backward and in Mandarin Chinese. Of course you already know all that.”

  “But Abby,” C.J. said, “we—”

  “Shhh, hush, sweetie. This is between Tina and me. Go ahead, Tina. Chomp away. I’ll start timing you.”

  Tina waved her arms wildly above her head. “I can’t eat horseradish! Get that thing away from me.” She had, by the way, totally lost her strong Carolina accent. If anything, she sounded a bit South Bronx.

  “You see,” I said.

  “And anyway, I already told you that I wasn’t an ignorant hick like that one.”

  “That one?” I couldn’t believe how rude Tina was; it was further proof that she came from up the road apiece. All right, not everyone from up the road apiece is rude, or vice versa, but overall I think we Southerners are better at camouflaging our ugly feelings beneath a veneer of perceived manners. As Dr. Phil once said, “Perception is nine tenths of the law”—or something like that.

  “Let me show you what a real Ledbetter can do,” C.J. said, and threw herself into the thick of things. Before I could react she’d snatched the horseradish root from me and had crunched her way through half of it.

  “C.J., stop! I was just making that up! There is no such thing as a Granny Ledbetter kinship test; you ought to know that.”

  She shoved the rest of the pungent root into her mouth, chewed a couple of times, and then swallowed. “Of course I know that, Abby. Granny makes them drink an entire pot of road apple tea. So far there’s not been one person willing to try the tea, not even when Granny found an emerald mine on her north forty.”