The Cane Mutiny (15 page)

Our mother's mouth fell open. “H-How?” she finally managed to say.

“All those years I wasted in California, parking cars for the stars, and never even getting close to becoming one myself, you sent me monthly checks. But when Abby got divorced and taken to the cleaners by that snake of a first husband, you made her get by on her own.”

“I'm feeling faint,” I said to Greg. He put his arms around me and literally carried me to the nearest Louis XIV chair.

Apparently Mama was also feeling light-headed because she crept to one as well. I love my mother dearly, and we are friends as well as relatives. Perhaps that's why I felt so betrayed by her obvious favoritism. And just how stupid can a woman—that would be me—be to not have suspected such a thing was going on all these years? That certainly would explain why, when I humbled myself one month and asked if she'd advance me some money for an overdue mortgage payment, she came up with a ton of excuses and finally refused. That was the day I decided to sell off my furniture, which, to make a long story short, resulted in me opening an antiques store. The Den of Antiquity.

From across the room I heard Mama's voice, but
she sounded like she was talking into a tin can with a string through it. “—because Toy didn't have your survival skills, Abby. You always were so competent, so smart, so able to land on your feet. Toy, bless his heart, was always so—well, you know what I mean.”

Toy frowned. “So incompetent?”

“Your words, dear, not mine. I prefer ‘shiftless and irresponsible.'”

“Mama!” I'd never seen Toy this angry at our mother, not even during his bratty teen years. Then again, why should he have been? He'd always gotten what he wanted.

“But darling,” Mama said, the panic rising in her voice, “you always seemed so needy. I was only trying to help. I was only doing it because I love you.”

“You could have helped me by
not
helping. You were enabling me, Mama. I'm forty-two years old and only just now finding out what I want to do with my life. By the time I graduate from seminary I'll be forty-five. I'd have a congregation and a family already if you hadn't loved me so much.”

“Toy's right,” C.J. said, which shocked me further. “Granny Ledbetter kicked me out of the nest when I was eighteen. Of course all them sticks and leaves were making my room kind of messy.
Anyway, she gave me fifty dollars and told me I wasn't allowed back home until I'd gone around the world and had stamps in my passport to prove it.”

“C.J.,” I said gently. “Not now. Besides, even the tightest person I know, Ramat Syrem, couldn't go around the world on fifty bucks.”

“That's what you think, Abby. I worked my way around the world. That's how come I know seventeen languages. The year I spent in Ulan Bator making yurts was the most fun I've ever had.” She shook that massive head of hers and giggled. “Genghis—he's the first boy I ever kissed, if you don't count the cousins—taught me how to ride bareback across the steppes.”

“C.J.,” Greg said gently, “maybe you should tell us about your horseback riding experiences some other time.”

“Ooh Greg, don't be silly,” she said. “It wasn't a horse I rode bareback, it was Genghis.”

My friend and employee does speak seventeen languages, so she was probably telling the truth. Still, there is a time and a place for everything, and now was not the time to hear about nookie in Nepal, or Mongolia, or wherever Ulan Bator is.

“C.J.,” I said firmly, “maybe it would be best if you waited for us in the den. This is a family discussion we're having—”

“She stays right here!” Toy was livid.

“Of course, dear,” Mama said.

There was something in the way she said it that made me want to scream. Either that or grind my teeth to the gums. Since neither was an acceptable way to behave, I decided to slip outside for some fresh air.

I expected at least one person to protest my departure—no one did—but I certainly did not anticipate being tackled on my front porch.

W
ynnell didn't mean to knock me down. She picked me up and brushed me off, apologizing profusely the whole time.

“It's okay, Wynnell. You had no way of knowing I was coming.”

“Yes, but I should have been looking down.”

“It's all right, already. Can we move on?”

“Where to?”

“Well, I'm off on another round of sluicing. It seems that this time there's a body, and since I was seen with the deceased yesterday, I'm on the short list.” I couldn't be sure of my list length, but I doubted it was long.

“Abby, I'm so sorry. I'm coming with you.”

“Don't you need to be at your shop?”

“Ha! That's a laugh. Remember, last year you suggested to Ed that he might find helping out as a good way to fill some of his retirement time? Well, I thought so too at the time, but Abby, he's
taken over. I would complain, but the truth is he does a far better job than I ever did. So far this year at Wooden Wonders sales are twenty percent more than last, and we've had zero complaints, and zero attempted returns. I hate to say it, but my husband could charm the drawers off a preacher's wife.”

“I'll be sure to warn C.J.,” I said. We both laughed. “Wynnell, I am so happy that things are working out. To be honest, I was feeling a bit guilty.”

“Guilty? About what?”

“Well, I'm the one who lured you down here from Charlotte. I kept yapping about how Charleston was such a great place for antiques stores.”

“Abby, I'm not a baby. Ed and I made the decision to move here as informed adults.”

“Of course. I didn't mean to patronize you. So, are you ready for an adventure?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Eat breakfast yet?”

“No, I wanted to see you first. But come to think of it, I'm starving. How about you?”

“Good, I'm taking you to breakfast.”

“Not IHOP again! Abby, I hate to have to be the one to break it to you, but what they serve at the International House of Pancakes is not haute cuisine.”

“We're each entitled to our own opinion. But, just so you'll stop complaining, it's someplace I've never been, and it's on the beach.”

“Great. It sounds like fun.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. “Abby,” Wynnell said, “aren't you going to tell me who was murdered, and how you're connected?”

“Later. Maybe after breakfast.”

“But—” she shook her head. “You know, Abby, after C.J., you're the weirdest person I know. And well, there's your mother.”

“Me?” I was both startled and hurt by her comment.

“It's a compliment, Abby. I love you and your family. Ed and I come from such boring stock. We should change our last name to Normal.”

“May I remind you, dear, that you once ran off to Japan to become the world's oldest geisha? You probably wouldn't have come back had you not encountered squat toilets.”

Judging by my buddy's expression, she could dish it out but she sure couldn't take it. We rode the rest of the way to breakfast in silence.

 

The Island of Palms is a long, narrow, barrier island just to the northeast of Charleston, between Mount Pleasant and the Atlantic Ocean. True to its name, there are thousands of palms, and in the
summer months thousands of tourists. But as it was still April, traffic wasn't bad, and we showed up at Marvin Leeburg's house just on the stroke of eight.

Judging by the size of the house, Mr. Leeburg's gym was doing quite well. Not only was the two-story house oceanfront, but it was set as close to the water as any house I've seen on that island. That resulted in a deep leeward yard with a horseshoe-shape driveway built around a multistoried fountain. Numerous landscape lights and lush sub tropical plantings promised dramatic nighttime vistas.

Wynnell peered intently out her window. “I've been here before.”

“You sure?”

“This is Marvin Leeburg's house.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “You know him?”

“I was at a party here once. The Rob-Bobs were here too. The owner, Marvin—”

“What kind of party was it?”

“Mostly antiques dealers. But a few celebrities: the mayor, some local authors, that really cute guy who does the weather—really, just anybody who is anybody.”

“Thanks!”

“Abby, you were here, weren't you?”

“No.”

“Sorry. I thought I remembered you being here.” She tried to smile, but it seemed to stick on her front teeth.

“That's all right. It may have been just an oversight. I'm here now, aren't I? And for breakfast, no less.”

“Does he know you're coming?”

“Wynnell! It's been a long time since I've done that.” The trouble with having a friend who goes way back is that they remember way back.

“Just asking.”

I won't deny that I felt a little bit redeemed by the fact that Marvin was indeed expecting us and didn't give the slightest indication of ever having met Wynnell. He was utterly charming, however, and had her eating from his manicured hand within minutes. And I mean that literally.

A well-appointed table was set on a screened porch from which we could both see, and hear, the waves. On a smaller table, set on casters, were several chafing dishes along with a bowl of fruit. Marvin picked out a bunch of enormous grapes, and before we could protest, popped one in each of our mouths.

“These are seedless globes. Fantastic, aren't they? Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I need to dash in and get the coffee. Mrs. Crawford, how do you like your coffee?”

“Like I like my men—pale and weak. Oops, I can't believe I said that.” Wynnell slapped a hand over her mouth.

Marvin Leeburg laughed, displaying deliciously white teeth. “And Abby, I do remember how you like yours; coffee so strong you can stand a spoon in the cup.”

“Yeth,” I said. Just one grape filled my mouth.

“Yummy,” Wynnell said as Marvin's firm buttocks disappeared around the French doors.

“You don't mean the grapes, do you?”

She shook her head. “Just between you and me, Abby, Ed needs to see a doctor.”

“What's wrong?” Ed had scared all of us badly, but me in particular, with a heart attack two years ago.

“Not his heart.”

“What then?”

Wynnell's great brow waggled as she looked shyly down at her lap. There was a stiff breeze blowing off the ocean, and I feared she might become airborne, only to be dropped farther inland, like say in North Charleston, or Up Chuck, as some wag once called it.

“I don't get what winking at your napkin has to do with Ed being sick.”

“He's not
sick
sick, Abby, he just needs help.”

“Doing what?”

“Let's just say my shop's name doesn't apply to him.”

Wooden Wonders? “Oh
that,
“I said, finally getting her drift, before she drifted away.

“Sometimes it's hard for me to not look at another man.”

“I hear you. Anyway, you've been married—like what—a million years?”

“It will be forty-two years in September. I can't remember what it was like before Ed started shaving his back.”

“TMI!”

“What does that mean?”

“Too much information,” a baritone voice said from the doorway. There stood our handsome host, a cup of coffee in each hand. “Don't mind me, ladies. I have no idea who Ed is.”

“A talking horse,” I said, thinking quickly on my petite patooty. “But that's before your time.”

He handed us our coffees. “I don't drink the stuff,” he said. “Always hated the taste. But I keep a machine in the kitchen for guests.” He gestured toward the serving table. “Please. Help yourselves. There's scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, grits, hash browns, and broiled tomatoes. Oh, and biscuits.”

We needed no further coaxing. Marvin proved to be an excellent cook, and until I'd eaten enough
to satisfy a man twice my height from Dayton, Ohio, I kept my mouth busy with my fork. Meanwhile Marvin and Wynnell managed to discuss the relative benefits of Pilates versus water aerobics, while all the time feeding their faces. One of them talked through a mouth filled with food, but out of loyalty to an old friend I won't say who.

After receiving my second cup of coffee—which was pretty good, by the way—I got down to business. “I'm afraid I have some bad news,” I said abruptly. They stared at me, silent for once, so I continued. “Roberta Stanley was murdered last night.”

I thought I saw Marvin blanch. I'm almost positive I did. Then again, it could have been an extra sunbeam or two peeking from behind the clouds. Wynnell simply looked annoyed.

“I don't know why they make such a fuss about celebrities,” she said. “I don't mean to be disrespectful at a time like this, but have you noticed that all the missing girls who make national news are young and pretty? And mostly white, as well? When is the last time you heard about a massive manhunt for an old, fat, ugly, African-American or Hispanic? Or just any of those things. I'm not familiar with the Roberta Stanley case, but I bet she was young and cute.”

“Actually, she was not,” I said. “And she didn't make national news. At least not yet.”

“Roberta Stanley was Colonel Beauregard's housekeeper,” Marvin said softly. “And probably much more.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

Poor Wynnell. She still didn't have a clue. Her face resembled a fallen soufflé—no, make that a soufflé that has fallen because a fluffy kitten landed on it. How does one tell her best friend she needs to pluck her eyebrows, unless she wants a career as a Mexican artist?

“Who is Colonel Humphrey?” she asked.

“A Charleston eccentric who is badly in need of a mustache trim,” I said, grateful for the opening. “Don't you just hate it when people neglect their personal grooming?”

“I hear you, girlfriend. You might not believe this, Abby, but if I didn't trim and pluck everyday, I'd have big bushy eyebrows.”

“You're right, I can't believe it. So, anyway, you do know who the Colonel is, right?”

“No. Abby, you forget, I'm merely a W.O.T.A.—a West of the Ashley nobody. You're the S.O.B. who knows everyone and everything.” By S.O.B. she meant South of Broad.

“Sour grapes,” I said.

“What?”

I picked up the bowl of grapes that had been sitting on the table throughout breakfast and handed it to Marvin. “You might want to stick these back in the fridge, before they turn sour.”

He smiled briefly and set the bowl down again. “Abby, tell me more about Roberta. Who killed her, and why? How did it happen?”

“She was found dead in her apartment. She'd been shot.”

“Isn't her apartment part of the Colonel's mansion?”

“I don't know. I've never seen it.”

“Yeah, I'm right. I remember now. It's just off the kitchen house. Is the Colonel a suspect?”

I gave him what I hoped was an enigmatic smile. Having been thrust into numerous similar situations by fate, I have made it a point to study Mona Lisa's smile.

“Abby,” Wynnell said, the concern in her voice palpable, “are you all right?”

“It wasn't the bacon, was it?” Marvin sounded equally distressed. “It was two days past the expiration date.”

“I'm fine. I was trying to be enigmatic.”

“Why would anyone want a disease?” Wynnell said.

“So,” Marvin said, crisis averted, “are you going
to answer my question? Is the Colonel a suspect?”

“I honestly don't know. But I think I might be.”

Wynnell gasped. “Is that why I caught you fleeing your house this morning?”

“Yes. But fleeing might be too strong a word. I didn't take any clothes with me. Plus which, I left my cat.” I turned to Marvin. “I came to see your legendary cane collection, but to be honest, I want your opinion on something.”

“Shoot—oops, poor choice of words. Sorry.”

“Yesterday I had a chat with Darren Cotter, the guy who owns the storage sheds. He gave me the names of the top five bidders, who, by the way, outdistanced any of the others. Two of those bidders just happen to have cane collections, and another sells them. Don't you find that a bit odd?”

He looked me in the eyes. His were, appropriately for the setting, green with specks of sea foam.

“No, I don't find that particularly odd. Cane collecting is a lot more common than you think. Darren comes across as an uneducated redneck, but he's really quite savvy. He knew the time had come when he could sell the contents, so he notified everyone he could think of. I bet he sent e-mails out to a hundred people. On mine he added a brief note: just the word canes and a question mark.”

“I didn't get an e-mail; I had to read about the sale in the paper. But never mind that. You sound like you know Mr. Cotter.”

“Every collector and dealer in the Lowcountry worth their salt knows Darren Cotter.”

“I don't get it. Why?”

“Because Safe-Keepers Storage is the cream of the crop, as far as storage facilities go.”

“But they're awful-looking. A blight on the landscape, if you ask me.”

He nodded. “That part's a shame. But when Darren says his sheds are climate controlled, he means it. Each shed has its own thermostat and humidity controls. Want to store a mummy? He'll make it as dry as your mouth the day after a bender. Want to store some uncured carvings from a rip-off woodcarver in Bali? He can make that happen too.” He paused to take a sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Abby, did you count yourself among the five?”

“Excuse me?'

“You said the top five bids were put in by cane collectors. Does that number include you.”

“No.”

He smiled. “So let me guess who the other four are. The eccentric Colonel, the man-killer Claudette Aikenberg, the smolderingly beautiful Hermione Wou-ki, and the enigmatic Mac Murray.”