The Cane Mutiny (10 page)

“Do you like it? It's based on my father's office in Hong Kong—although his was a much larger space. Not to mention that it had a breathtaking view of the South China Sea.”

I was about to babble something inane when I noticed that at one end of the room within a room was yet a third room, an alcove that contained a table-mounted microwave, a coffeepot, and a hot-water-making machine. Standing still as a statue, a mug in her hand, was the less than gracious assistant I'd encountered out front. Her expression was one of controlled antagonism. I had a feeling that if Hermione were to abandon me here, her assistant would leap on me like a rabid cat and scratch my eyes out. I stared back at the sullen woman, willing her to disappear.

“Natasha, please go back up front. Ms. Timberlake and I will be having tea.”

The banished employee glowered as she slipped out of the alcove and within striking distance of me. I leaned back unconsciously.

When the door closed behind the sullen woman, Hermione sighed softly. “She's a hard worker and knows her antiques, but she rather lacks in the social skills. I'm afraid that's off-putting in a
gracious city like Charleston. Tell me, Abby, do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, I—uh—I'm not sure what to say.” My friend Wynnell would accuse the acerbic assistant of being a Yankee insurgent, or at the least as being from “up the road a piece.” But I've met many surly Southerners in my time, and more than a few fine Northerners. I was sure Hermione Wou-ki did not intend it that way, but I felt like she'd put me on the spot.

“Oh dear, I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that,” she said, moving toward the alcove. “Which do you prefer, lemon or milk?”

“Milk, please.”

“One lump or two?”

“Three, please.” I was too hungry to be ashamed.

She reached under the microwave table and produced a brightly colored tin. “These shortbread cookies are to die for. If you like Walker's, you'll love these. You don't even need to swallow; all that butter makes them melt in your mouth and slide right down your throat.” She procured a saucer, also from beneath the table, and started piling on the rich treats. “Just say when.”

I didn't say when nearly as soon as I should have. If she didn't already think so, Hermione was bound to conclude that we Americans were gluttons.

“Now then,” she said when we were both settled in our respective divans, our teacups balanced carefully on our knees, our biscuits beside us, “what really brings you to see me?”

“Would you believe the desire to give you a warm, Charleston welcome?”

“Absolutely not. I know you feel threatened by my shop.”

“Why that C.J.!”

“There's no need to blame her, dear. I would have read it in your eyes, anyway.”

For once she was wrong! “I don't feel threatened; I'm jealous.”

The cookies didn't interfere with her tinkling laugh in the least. “Jealous? Of me? I'm the last person on earth you should be jealous of.”

“Well, not you, exactly. I'm jealous of the reception you've received. When I got here—well, it was a total nonevent.”

“Abby, don't you see? That's because you're one of them; a fellow Southerner, a regular American. I'm the exotic thing that blew in on the trade winds. They'll tire of me soon enough. Do you know that I have yet to set foot inside a private home?”

I'd like to think it's General Sherman's fault, but we Southerners, famous for our hospitality, are reluctant to invite folks we don't know well—i.e., went to grade school with—into our inner
sanctums. We are, however, quick to bake them a peach pie, and deliver it with “Ya'll come on over sometime, hear?”

“I'm sure it's just because everyone is so busy,” I said, “but I'd be honored to have you over sometime, hear?”

Dark eyes twinkled briefly. “Thanks, Abby.” She leaned forward, her features hardening, turning to jade. “Now, tell me the truth: why are you here?”

Sometimes, not only is truth the best policy, it's the only one available. “You bid in the locked trunk sale. So did I; mine was the winning bid. I want to know why you participated in such a rinky-dink auction.”

“Rinky-dink?”

“Insignificant. A woman of your taste and sophistication interested in a musty old storage shed—it doesn't add up.”

Her stone visage began to crack. “What about you, Abby? Why did you bid?”

“The thrill of the hunt.” My visit to the oak-dwelling gnome had not been a total waste.

“Touché. I once bought a real locked trunk that contained a museum-quality eighteenth-century kimono. My ten dollar buy netted me ten thousand dollars. That kimono, by the way, was featured in a sushi western titled
Show Gun.
Did you see it?”

I shook my head. “I prefer spaghetti westerns.”

“So Abby, what
was
in the storage shed?”

“Some canes. That's another reason I came. I'm going to need some help in evaluating them. One can't know everything, cane they?” I laughed at my own joke.

“Uhm. My instincts tell me that you know a lot more than you let on.”

And my instincts told me that Hermione was hiding something a lot more interesting than a secret parlor. And she wasn't going to be an easy nut to crack. Thank heavens I hadn't wasted my formative years reading silly books, electing instead, over Mama's loud protests, to watch
Perry Mason
on our black and white Motorola TV.

“I think it's drugs,” I said, just to see her reaction.

“What?” Her composure shattered altogether.

“White stuff in bags. Lots of it. What should I do?”

“What should you do? Call the police of course! Really, Abby, I'm surprised. I had you pegged as a very competent woman.”

“But I am! Really. Just ask anyone I know. Ask the Rob-Bobs.”

She took a sip of tea, her eyes speaking volumes over the bone china rim.

“And ask Mama,” I blurted. “Her name's
Mozella Wiggins. She calls it like she sees it. Believe me, I don't get any extra points for being her daughter.”

“Your mother sounds delightful. But frankly, Abby, I have no reason not to trust you.” She set her cup down without as much as a clink. “Now then, tell me what was in the gym bag.”

I
stared, open-mouthed. If a colony of bees had been present—perhaps clinging to an overhead rafter—they might well have flown down my throat, turning me into a four-foot-nine-inch human hive. Then when strangers called me “honey,” which most of them do because of my diminutive size, they'd be right on the money. And speaking of money, for the right price I might even burp up some of the golden stuff and seal it in jars. “And what goes well with honey?” I asked aloud. “Milk, of course. Particularly goat's milk. I've always been fond of goats. Heck, I could get into the goat milk business and make my own cheese. After all, isn't feta the most popular type of cheese on the market today? Of course I'd have to sell my shop to get the capital for my new business. But it would be worth it. Who knows, maybe someday I'd write a best-selling novel about my experience and title it ‘The Secret Life of Cheese.'”

“Abby, Abby!”

“What? I mean, yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Certainly. Why would you ask?”

“Frankly, you seem knackered.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Knackered—don't you say that in this country?”

“Not in this part.”

“Drunk. Sorry about that. You see, I grew up in Hong Kong; my father was Chinese, but my mother was English. I went to school at Berkeley. Anyway, sometimes I get English and American mixed up. But let's not talk about that just now.” She flashed me a smile so bright that, had we been outdoors, it could have been seen forty miles out to sea. “Abby, I've been very patient. Now I want to hear about the gym bag.”

Patient?
She sounded like she had a right to know about its contents. The elegant, exotic newcomer, so gracious at first, now seemed menacing.

“Don't worry, Abby. I have no plans to tie you up and sell you into white slavery like in that movie,
Thoroughly Modern Millie.
A thoroughly enjoyable film, by the way, if you can get past the racial stereotypes.”

“I've never seen it.” I popped to my feet. “Tea has been delightful, but tempest fugit.”

She jumped up as well, positioning herself between me and the door. “The gym bag, Abby. I would very much like to hear what was in it.”

“Who told you I had a gym bag?”

“That charming assistant of yours. Is it true, Abby, that it contains a skull?”

“Yes—Yes, it does. A cow skull.” If I got the woman confused enough, or maybe even just irritated enough, she might blurt out something unintended. After all, it's when we blurt that we bare our souls, isn't it?

“But—But C.J. said it was a gorilla skull.”

“Oh, no, definitely a cow. Moo-moo, and all that. Although come to think of it, this might have once been a steer. Like you see in dioramas of the Old West, or movies—you know, with a snake crawling out of an eye hole. Except, this didn't come with a snake. But there was a stuffed roadrunner. And some crushed tumbleweed.”

“All of this in a gym bag?”

“A very large gym bag. And like I said, the tumbleweed was crushed.”

“How fascinating. Abby, do you mind if I take a look at this skull?”

“Uh—why?”

“Just curious, I suppose. I've never seen a cow skull; except in films.”

“Seen one, seen them all,” I said blithely.

If looks could kill, I'd soon be dead, cremated, and my ashes scattered over the tops of a dozen cat litter trays. I could see the effort it took for her to produce civil words.

“If you will excuse me, Abby, I really must be getting back to work.”

I grabbed a few of the buttery cookies before exiting. Following the fiasco that was Floyd—motorists fleeing that hurricane spent a dozen or more hours stalled along I-26—I have it as my motto to eat whenever you can. Eliminating whenever you can is even more important; but that would wait until I got back to my own shop.

 

“Abby!” C.J. shrieked with glee as she embraced me in a bear hug. Given that the big galoot is larger than many bear species, I had to struggle to get loose, and quickly, if I were to continue breathing.

“Take it easy,” I said when I was finally released. “You could crack one of my ribs next time.”

“Ooh, Abby, that's what we say back home in Shelbyville to wish someone good luck. But what do you need good luck for, besides the fact that you've been arrested for murder and might spend the rest of your life behind bars, and might never get to see the nieces and nephew I'm going to produce for you?”

“C.J., you've not only put the horse before cart, but you've put the horse in another county. I have not been arrested for murder; the official charge is ‘unauthorized possession of human remains.' And besides, the phrase is ‘break a leg,'
not
‘crack a rib.'”

“Ooh, but you're wrong. Cousin Garth was a famous wrestler, and each time when he went into the ring, Granny Ledbetter would shout ‘Crack a rib!' Poor Cousin Garth had his ribs cracked more than thirty times before he finally retired. They never did heal properly, and if he puts a mind to it, Cousin Garth can squeeze through a space smaller than his head. Now he makes a living spelunking. That's the sport of exploring caves, Abby.”

“I know what it means, dear. And anyway, it seems to me that both your cousin and your granny should have noticed long before thirty cracked ribs that shouting ‘crack a rib' wasn't bringing him good luck.”

C.J. shook her massive head. “The good luck wasn't for Cousin Garth; it was for his opponent. That old bear never lost a round. Never cracked a rib either.”

“Bear?”

She nodded vigorously. “Biggest grizzly in captivity, that's how he was billed. I saw him close up once. His head was bigger than all of you.”

“How fascinating. C.J., how are things going here at the shop?”

Her eyes danced. “Abby, look around, and then tell me what's missing.”

“C.J., please, I don't have time for games.”

“Aw.” Her quarterback's shoulders slumped. “You know that ninety-six-inch bookcase that you said would never sell on account it was too tall?”

I turned to look, my jaw dropping when I saw the empty space. “Who bought it? Anyone I know?”

“You sort of do. It was Colonel Beauregard Humphrey.”

“Get out of town! He just bought a pile of canes from me this morning.”

“Abby, I think he has the hots for you.”

“What?”

“He asked if you were married. And”—she paused for dramatic effect—“he called you a ‘pretty little thing.'”

Thanks to a slightly inactive thyroid, my blood merely simmered, rather than boiled. “Pretty,” I'll take. With the proper protest, of course. And “little” is unavoidable. But I draw the line at “thing.”

“I hope you didn't give him a discount,” I said hotly.

“Abby, I didn't fall off the turnip truck, you know. I know that's just an expression, Abby, but
Cousin Rudy Beggah really did fall off a turnip truck, and it was the happiest moment of his life.”

“You don't say,” I said, praying she wouldn't say more. “Can we please get back to the bookcase?”

“Okay, if you insist.”

“Which I do.”

“Anyway, I could tell the Colonel wanted the bookcase really bad, so I told him that if he paid an extra ten percent, I'd see to it that the ghost who lives in the top level doesn't follow him home.”

“And he fell for that?”

“Yes. But it took me a good half hour to convince Mrs. Peebles to move into the highboy over by the window.”

That C.J. believed in ghosts—Apparition Americans, as they prefer to be called—was to be expected. That she would know any of these hyphenated pseudocitizens by name was a bit unsettling.

“Did you help her move her luggage?” I asked, perhaps a bit unkindly.

“Ooh, Abby, you know that Apparition Americans don't have luggage. But they do have baggage—emotional baggage, that is. That's why they're still earthbound. Either that or they don't realize they are dead.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Peebles it was time to hit the highway in the sky?”

“Shhh, Abby, you're being disrespectful, and she can hear you. Besides, she already knows she's dead. She said she's not going anywhere until you tear down this shop and rebuild her house.”

“What?”

My buddy, my coworker, nodded solemnly. “This is where her house stood before the great Charleston earthquake. Poor Mrs. Peebles was one of the fatalities of that quake. She was a childless widow then, and her estate was left to a nephew who sold the property to a shopkeeper. Mrs. Peebles has been hanging around ever since then, waiting to get her house back.”

“But the earthquake happened in 1886!”

“Mrs. Peebles has been very patient—up until now. But she says she can't wait much longer. Her memory of her old house is starting to fade, and when it's gone, she will be too.”

“C.J., I've been very patient as well. Back to Colonel Beauregard: do you trust him?”

“About as far as I can throw a sheep.”

I knew for a fact that C.J. was Shelby's champion sheep-thrower in her weight division. “That far, huh?”

“Ooh, Abby, with that long, drooping mustache of his, he looks just like Aunt Alice. I trusted her
with my life savings—of course she was a bank teller. Miss Business Shelby 1985. Or was it 1986? At any rate, it was the year Cousin Nefarious Ledbetter won the world's record for sewing on buttons. You know, Abby, if I wasn't about to marry your brother—well, being Mrs. Colonel does sound pretty posh, doesn't it?”

“C.J., haven't you heard? He's been married and widowed three times. And all three died in their forties of supposedly natural causes. Everybody in Charleston has speculated about what really happened to those women. Be very careful around that man, dear.”

“I don't think he weighs as much as a sheep. I'm pretty sure I could take care of myself.”

“What about Hermione Wou-ki?”

“Don't be silly, Abby. I don't want to marry a woman—not that there's anything wrong with that.”

“I mean, do you trust her? Apparently the two of you have hit it off, chatting up in Chinese.”

“Abby, there is no such thing as the Chinese language; China has many languages. For your information, we did talk in Mandarin. My Cantonese is not all that great. But, to be honest, I don't trust her. She asked too many questions about you.”

“About me? She hadn't even met me until a few minutes ago.”

“She said you have a reputation of being a very astute dealer who knows her stuff. She wanted to know if that was true.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her that yes, you were pretty good. But then she wanted to know if you dealt much with Asian antiques. And if you had a family here. And what kind of boss you were.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said you were pretty good.”

My cheeks were smarting. “Just ‘pretty good'?”

“You didn't want me to lie, did you?”

“No.” I swallowed my pride; it took two gulps. “C.J., can you hold down the fort for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Sure, Abby. Mrs. Peebles and I need to talk anyway. She says she has a friend who died playing with matches. She's thinking of getting him over here to do his thing if you don't hurry up and tear down this shop.”

“Tell Mrs. Peebles she doesn't want to take me on. She doesn't stand a ghost of a chance when it comes to a battle of wills. I don't have proof, but family legend has it that Margaret Mitchell based Scarlett O'Hara on my grandmother, Prunella Wiggins.”

As I was closing the front door behind me, I saw the faint figure of a woman sweep across
the face of the highboy by the window. I swear I did.

 

Colonel Beauregard Humphrey not only lived south of Broad Street, the dividing line between Charleston and
Charleston,
but his three-story Greek Revival had a commanding view of the Battery. I'd walked by the Colonel's house many times, and even peered through the wrought-iron gates and into a garden lush with subtropical plants and soothed by the splashing of fountains. So picturesque is the Colonel's abode that it is a rare occasion when one does not find a knot of tourists having their pictures taken in front of his steps.

A newcomer to town, Colonel Beauregard remains ignorant of some local taboos, of which paying attention to tourists is the most offensive. Ever since he bought the mansion, the Colonel has been known to stand at the top of his steps, so as to have his likeness—or at least his feet—included in the photos. Last month there was a notable blip on Charleston's social screen when it was discovered that the aging gent sometimes hired standins, theater majors from the College of Charleston. Sometimes the actors showed up on their own, apparently just for the fun of it. Of course heavy greasepaint is needed to replicate the Colonel's time-etched face. At any rate, what might have
eventually disappeared into the annals of idle gossip became front page news when one of the aforementioned youths was found dead, floating facedown in the newly formed Atlantic Ocean, just off the Battery. The young man was in full colonel regalia. Outside of a moderately high alcohol level in his blood, no definitive cause of death was ever released to the public.

As luck would have it, there was no copycat Colonel on the steps that day. I must admit, however, that I felt a slight thrill as I politely, but purposefully, wound my way through the throng of tourists outside the mystery mansion. They were there only to gawk, whereas I, a bona fide, albeit recent, Charlestonian, had business to attend to. Although I faced straight ahead, I possess exceptional peripheral vision, and could see the looks of envy that swept over the tourists' faces.

“Ask her,” a woman said, her remark quite clearly directed at me.