The Cane Mutiny (16 page)

I gasped. “How did you know?”

“Because I called Darren and asked him. I was hoping to make contact with other stick collectors. Turns out only the Colonel and Hermione are big on sticks. The Colonel, as you may know by now, is an irascible S.O.B., and Hermione's prices are through the roof.”

“Are they also liars like you?”

“Abby!” Wynnell recoiled in horror.

“Of course since you're a liar, how would I know if your answer was true.”

“Abby, apologize!”

Marvin chuckled. “No, it's okay. The lady has a point. Once a liar, always a suspect, right? But before I cop to being one, what lie are you accusing me of?”

“Yesterday you said you participated in the auction because of the thrill of not knowing what you might find. Something about fishing in murky water, I believe. But now you say you were tipped off that there might be canes in the shed. Which is it?”

He shook a long, deeply tanned finger at me. “You're really something, Mrs. Washburn. I swear, if you weren't married—”

“Forget about her,” Wynnell snapped. “She already has a stud muffin for a husband.” Then realizing that she had just spoken aloud her most
private thoughts, she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Lord knows I've been there. “Look,” I shouted, pointing out to sea, “there's a whale.”

Marvin jumped up so quickly he knocked over his chair. “Where?”

“About halfway to the horizon. To the left of that container ship.”

“I don't see it.”

“It's there all right. Look, it just spouted.”

“I'm getting my binoculars,” Marvin said, and sprinted from the room.

He'd only been gone a second or two when Wynnell turned to me. “Thanks, Abby.”

“No problemo.”

“There isn't a whale, is there?”

“None that I can see.”

Marvin returned panting. His was a large house, so he must have had a pair of the glasses close by.

“Has it moved?” he asked.

“I'm afraid so,” I said. “It went under, and hasn't surfaced yet.”

I waited patiently until he gave up trying to spot the phantom behemoth. “Okay, Marvin, which is it?”

“I don't know. I didn't see it.”

“Forget the whale for a moment, Marvin. About
the auction, were you tipped, or casting your line in murky water?”

“Both. You must have misunderstood me yesterday. I said I like to hunt—fishing might have been the term I used—but I didn't say that was the case on Saturday. I got the e-mail from Darren sometime last week, and
then
decided it was time to enjoy the thrill of the hunt again.”

I wanted to call him a liar to his face, maybe even throw some scrambled eggs at him, but that wouldn't have been ladylike—oh the heck with acting like a lady. The truth is, honey really does attract more flies than vinegar. And I'd come to see Marvin's cane collection. In retrospect, I should have thrown the eggs.

M
arvin's collection was displayed in what appeared to have been intended as the master suite. It was undoubtedly the largest room in the house, taking up, as it did, half the second story. Immediately upon entering the room I could tell that the air was purified. There was something else about it that made me immediately wary.

“Less oxygen,” Marvin said, reading what was left of my mind.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Take deep breaths, through your nose, and exhale through your mouth. There is twelve percent less oxygen in this air.”

Wynnell inhaled. “Why?” she said on the exhale.

“The idea came to me on a camping trip. I had some vacuum-packed meat with me, and I started wondering why it was it didn't spoil. Then it
occurred to me that bacteria—that's what causes food to spoil—need oxygen to survive. But you see, bacteria aren't just in food; they're everywhere, in everything. I did some calculations of my own and came up with the perfect formula that still allowed me to breathe and dramatically slowed down decomposition in those canes that possessed biodegradable parts. Which was just about all of them except for one aluminum cane and one that is carved from soapstone.”

I didn't know whether to be astounded at his brilliance or skeptical. After all, he was a proven liar.

“Have you run your theory past any accredited scientists?”

He laughed, which was a waste of precious oxygen if you ask me. “I'm an intelligent man, Abby. I don't need some narrow-minded Ph.D. to tell me I'm right. Just look around you. Everything is in tip-top condition.”

I looked around. He really did have an impressive collection. It might have taken my breath away if the room hadn't done that first. In addition to having canes displayed in racks along the walls, as well as in glass-topped tables in the center of the room, Marvin had done a very thorough job of labeling each cane, along with its complete history.

“There's a man out on Wadmalaw Island who has a similar setup,” I said.

Marvin laughed again. “Mac? Ha, I don't think so. All Mac does is lower the humidity. Anyone can do that, using dehumidifiers from a home improvement store. But that isn't going to slow decomposition as markedly as using a dehumidifying system
plus
reducing oxygen levels. I'll swear by this. Ha, if I stashed a corpse in this room, I bet if you were to come back six months from now, you'd still be able to recognize him.”

I saw Wynnell shiver and rub her arms. “I'm glad you said ‘him' and not ‘her.'”

It was definitely time to change the subject. “Which cane is your favorite?” I asked, having heaped as many compliments on him as my overtaxed brain would allow.

He led me to the center of the room, where a single cane occupied its own tabletop. The stick was nothing special to look at, just one continuous smooth piece of wood that didn't even have a handle, and there were random blotches of color on it, like spattered paint.

“This belonged to Michelangelo. It's olive wood. He used it to fight off dogs—roving, hungry dogs were always a problem back in the days before leash laws and commercial kibble. He took it with him everywhere. Those spots are
drops of paint that fell from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

“Where did you get it?”

Marvin, gym owner and all-around regular guy, switched into collector mode. “One doesn't ‘get' a specimen like that. One acquires it.”

“I beg your pardon. From whom did you acquire it?” Just to be on the safe side I affected a bit of an English accent.

My sarcasm was not wasted on him. “Scoff all you want, Abby. But it's that very attitude that separates you from the real players like Hermione Wou-ki.”

“Ouch.”

“But to answer your question, I acquired this piece from Count Giovanni D'Arroganti.” Even the way he trilled his r's was impressive.

“I know this is a rude question, Marvin, but do you mind if I ask you how much this cost?”

“Not at all. We collectors live for just that question. Because of this piece's impeccable provenance, it's utterly priceless. But I'm willing to sell it for sixty-five grand. Table not included, of course.”

“Of course.” If sixty-five grand was priceless, than what was my house worth?

“It's funny,” Wynnell said, “that Michelangelo would carry around such a simple stick. You'd
expect it to be intricately carved. What if Count Whatever-his-name-was was making the story up?”

Marvin's nostrils flared. “It says right here that he acquired it from Cardinal Giuseppe DiGropa, who—”

“I feel faint,” I said. “It must be the lack of oxygen.” I headed for the door.

“Not so fast,” Marvin said sharply.

“Excuse me?”

“Slow down or you'll get the bends.”

I moved even faster. Once outside, after gulping air a few times, I began to feel better. Still, I didn't waste a minute saying my good-byes. Wynnell, bless her horny heart, didn't put up any resistance.

“Where to next?” she said, before we even got down the front steps.

“Back to the source of all my troubles.”

 

Safe-Keepers Storage was just as ugly the second time around, but at least I was better able to appreciate its technical merits. Even from the parking lot I could see the giant air-conditioning unit, and a web of wires that undoubtedly had to do with other aspects of climate control.

Although Wynnell complained about having to walk on gravel, she kept up with me, and was
looming behind me when I rang the doorbell. Darren Cotter answered immediately, as if he'd been waiting with his hand on the knob.

“Hey,” I said.

His eyes twinkled. “It's you—the woman who is half an orphan.”

“At least as of eight o'clock this morning.

Depending on what Mama does the rest of the day—well, I could be a full-fledged orphan by bedtime.”

“Abby,” Wynnell said, clearly aghast, “never joke about your mama that way. Think how awful you'd feel if something did happen to her.”

I know for a fact that Wynnell lost her mother when she was just sixteen. They'd had a fight that morning, over the length of Wynnell's skirt. My buddy had slammed the door on her way to school, yelling over her shoulder that she hated her mother and wished her dead. About an hour later or so, the police reckoned, a door-to-door salesman talked his way into the house. Wynnell found her mother in the upstairs bathtub when she got home from school. Her throat had been cut.

I tried to push the grizzly image out of my mind. “Mr. Cotter, this is my friend Wynnell Crawford. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

The twinkle disappeared from his eyes and
I could almost hear him debating with himself. He sucked air through his teeth before speaking.

“I'd ask you ladies in, but I have a cat.”

“Oh we don't mind cats,” I said. “I have a big marmalade tomcat named Dmitri. And my friend, here, gets along very nicely with cats. Don't you, Wynnell?”

“Absolutely.”

His blue eyes darted from me to her, and back again to me. “Yes, but this is a very large cat.”

“Like a lion? Or a tiger?”

He smiled. “Not quite that big. She's a Chausie.”

“Excuse me?”

“It's a new breed, a hybrid actually, between a domestic cat and the wild jungle cat. The jungle cat's scientific name is
Felis chaus,
so that's why this new breed is called a Chausie.”

“Is it like a Bengal cat?” I asked. “I've heard of those.”

“Same idea, but a different wild cat species was used in the founding of this breed.”

“Why on earth would anyone want to have a wild cat in their house?” Apparently Wynnell's love of cats was limited to the domestic. “Isn't that cruel? And what about conservation of these species?”

“A lot of people are in love with the idea of owning an exotic cat,” Darren Cotter said calmly. “So they manage to buy a leopard cub or lion cub off the Internet, and when it stops being cute and starts eyeing them for dinner, then they give it to a zoo, or just let the poor thing loose. The idea behind these hybrid breeds is to have an exotic-looking cat that has all the qualities of a domestic cat. Plus, it helps to raise the public's consciousness about the plight of wild cats, hundreds of thousands of which are killed every year for their fur, whereas only a handful are used to establish these new exotic breeds.”

“Well,” I said, “I'd love to see your cat. Does she, like you said, behave just like a domestic cat?”

He bit his lip before answering. “I may have stretched the truth just a bit. You see, it takes four generations for the interbreeding to create a domestic breed. In this case, the Chausie. The one I have is only a first generation cross. That is to say, her father was a full-blooded jungle cat.”

“But her mother was a regular cat, right?”

“Well—to be truthful, her mother was half domestic and half jungle cat. So she's kind of on the big side. That's why her name is Catrina the Great.”

Math has never been my strong point, but even I could solve this story problem. “What you're
saying is that she's three-quarters jungle cat, right?”

He nodded.

“Too much wild cat for me,” Wynnell said definitively.

I could never pass up the opportunity to see such an exotic creature. “How big is she?”

“Sixteen inches high at the shoulder, but two feet high along the back when she arches. Weighs just over twenty-five pounds, although the males can weigh thirty-five. Come in and see her.”

I'll wait in the car,” Wynnell said. The positioning of her eyebrows told me she was not a happy camper.

 

The first thing I noticed about the inside of Darren Cotter's house was that it did not smell of cat. Of course he read my mind.

“She pees in the sink. Bathtub too. In the wild they like to pee in streams, to move their odor away from them.” He nodded at a red leather couch. “Please have a seat.”

“Where is she? She's not going to leap at me from behind, is she?”

“No. She's probably sleeping on top of the refrigerator. I'll go look for her—but hey, would you like something to drink?”

“Diet soda?”

“Sure thing. Be right back.”

No sooner did he leave the room than this monstrous creature came ambling in from the opposite direction.

H
ad I not been warned, I would have thought she was a cougar—well, maybe just a cougar cub. At any rate, she dwarfed Dmitri. “Hey there, kitty,” I managed to squeak.

Catrina the Great did not appear happy to see me. She arched her back to at least two feet and growled, a deep rumbling growl that seemed to come from her belly.

“Nice pussy. Nice puddy-tat.”

She hissed at me, displaying two rather alarming pairs of fangs.

“Hey, that's not nice,” I said, and hissed at her in return.

The next sound she made was more of an explosion than a hiss. Saliva drooled as she resumed growling.

“You really need to learn some manners, dear, if you intend to be a domestic cat.”

The beast was not amused and advanced regally in my direction. Not knowing what else to do, I obligingly held out my hand for her to sniff. Her Majesty must have interpreted this as an aggressive move, because out flashed a paw. I jerked back, but not before she made contact.

The fact that I shrieked is completely understandable, I'm sure. At least it brought Darren Cotter back into the room.

“What happened?”

“She lunged at me. Swatted at me, too.”

“Don't worry, she's declawed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I had it done when I had her spayed. She was a kitten then so she recovered pretty fast. I wouldn't do it again, though.”

“Don't worry, I won't get that close again.”

“No, I meant the declawing. I used to think it was just a matter of removing the claws, but it's much more than that. They actually have to remove all her toes up to the first knuckle. And since cats walk on the tips of their toes, and not the balls of their feet, like we do, they are forced to walk on bloody stubs until they heal. They have to scratch in their litter with those stubs as well. Then for the rest of their lives they walk on scar tissue. Can you imagine having your fingers chopped off at the first knuckle?”

I shuddered as a wave of guilt washed over me. Dmitri was declawed, but back then I had no idea what it entailed. All I knew was that I didn't want my drapes and furniture shredded.

“Sorry,” Darren Cotter said, “I didn't mean to lay a guilt trip on you. Most folks don't realize what it really entails. But please, keep it in mind for the future.”

“Do you tell fortunes as well?”

“What?”

“You just said what I was thinking. Is it printed on my forehead?”

He laughed. “No, but you have a very expressive face. I like that, by the way. I can't stand the masks people wear.”

“I hear you. But most of the time, those people are just trying to protect themselves, aren't they? Take your giant pussycat here, Catrina the Great. If she got sick, she'd do everything she could to not let on she was ailing, like hiding under the bed. If animals show that they are weak or vulnerable, they will be attacked by others. People are like that too, I think.”

“You're right. I hadn't thought of it that way. So, Miss—uh—sorry, I've forgotten your name.”

“Call me Abby.”

“Then you call me Darren.” He paused, regarding me for a moment with those blue Siamese
eyes. “So, Abby, aren't you afraid of showing your vulnerability?”

“To be honest, I don't give it much thought. But I hate public speaking. I wonder if that's the same thing?”

“It's the number one fear in America. Did you know that some people actually fear that more than death?”

“Wow. Well, I certainly wouldn't choose death over—”

I'd let my guard down for a moment, and now the cat was back. But instead of swatting and spitting, she was rubbing her head against my knee. Cats have scent glands in their cheeks, and by rubbing their cheeks against someone, or something, they are claiming that object as theirs. Marking their property, if you will. Now the monster, having given up on the idea of consuming me for brunch, was pacing back and forth, rubbing her cheeks hard against both knees, and purring louder than Greg can snore. Heck, this was even louder than Buford, my chubby ex, could snore.

Darren laughed. “She loves you!”

“I think she'd love to eat me if you weren't here.”

“Seriously, Abby, she's never warmed up to anyone that fast.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. Darren, I'd like
to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. Business related questions.”

“Shoot.”

“I'll start with the easy ones. First, why would someone, the person who rented shed fifty-three, for example, just walk away from their possessions?”

He shrugged. “That's not an easy one, because there are so many answers. Financial reasons, of course. Sometimes it's death, sometimes divorce. Believe it or not, some people just have so much stuff they forget where everything's stashed, or they just don't care anymore. But rest assured; if they haven't claimed their stuff within a year, I do everything I can to locate them, before putting it up for auction. But shed fifty-three was an exception.”

“How so?”

“Because he'd been renting that space over thirty years, yet to my knowledge he never showed up.”

“I don't understand.”

Darren looked deep into my eyes, as if trying to get a fix on my character. “I normally don't discuss my business with strangers, Abby, but I feel that I can trust you.”

“You can. Please go on.”

“Well, Safe-Keepers Storage is a family business.
My father ran it until he died almost ten years ago. When I took over—I was a lazy son who hadn't paid squat to the business—I found out that I'd inherited a bundle of headaches. Poor record-keeping was one of those headaches. And some things just didn't make sense from a business standpoint. Shed fifty-three, for instance, was listed as being paid up until the year 2000. After that, there was no record of monthly or even yearly payments.

“I managed to locate the original lease, but immediately discovered that the address and phone number listed were fake—no, I take that back. But I had to call the number a zillion times and finally got an answer; it was a pizza supply company.”

“Do you remember the name on the lease?”

“Yes. It was Ken Yaco. One would think that would be an easy name to trace, but there aren't any Ken Yacos on any search engines that I know of.”

I fished in my purse and found a pen and a grocery receipt to write on. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Not at all. I don't have anything to hide. Abby, if you don't mind my asking, why are you trying to trace him?”

“I'm just curious. I thought I might write a book about the antiques business. Of course then I
would want to include some of the more interesting things that I've encountered.”

“I see.”

But it was clear from his expression that he didn't. It was time to gather my thoughts and vamoose.

“May I ask you just one more question?” I said, pushing my luck.

“Sure.”

“Marvin Leeburg said you sent him an e-mail hinting that there might be canes in shed fifty-three. Did you do that?”

Meanwhile Catrina the Great was giving her scent glands a real workout. When I got home, Dmitri was going to be furious with me, maybe even to the point of leaving a deposit in one of my shoes.

“Marvin,” Darren said, “is one hell of a nice guy. He's terrific at business, but still manages to keep it real. As you probably know, he's something of an expert on canes. Anyway, yes, I did send him an e-mail telling him I thought there might be some canes in this lot. Sent the same e-mail to a few others as well, including Colonel Humphrey. You see, my daddy tried to keep a record when he could of what folks were storing. Just to cover his—uh, butt, so to speak.”

“But that's unethical!”

“How so?”

“Isn't that like insider trading?”

“Abby, I'm one person trying to sell a bunch of junk that some jerk didn't care enough about to keep his payments up. I haven't committed a crime.”

“Maybe, but still, it doesn't seem right somehow.”

“Would you feel any better if I bought everything back from you?”

“No! I mean, what good would that do?”

He smiled. “Just checking. Abby, I can tell by your accent that you're from off—”

“You can?” That was disappointing. “From off” is anywhere other than Charleston, and particularly the peninsula part. Even though I am a South Carolinian born and bred, I will always be “from off.” But ever since moving here I have made a concerted effort to exchange my charming Upstate accent for the flatter sounds of the Lowcountry. Proper Charlestonese, spoken by native Charlestonians, bears little resemblance to the pseudo-Southern accents of Hollywood. To my tin ear it is closer to the Tidewater sounds of Virginia, and yes, for some words, even Canada. That is to say, the word “house” is pronounced “hoose,” and rhymes better with “goose” than any other word in the American lexicon.

“Abby, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. What I was getting to is that some years ago, before you moved here, my daddy had a renter who fell in arrears for some years. Ha, guess I'm a poet. Anyway, Daddy knew he had some good quality paintings in there. Really large ones. Impressionist stuff. He knew that for a fact because he helped store the paintings—although I suppose the renter could have removed the paintings at night, or when Daddy was gone. Like I said, I was too lazy to pay attention to anything, or anyone, but myself. At any rate, when the time was right Daddy contacted dealers from around the area whom he knew handled Impressionist paintings and asked them for bids. Over 160 responded.”

“And was there anything of value in the shed?”

“Absolutely, but it wasn't a painting. The police removed just under a ton of marijuana.”

“Holy smokes! Or brownies, or whatever. You'd think who'd ever rented that shed in the first place would have kept up on his rent.”

“He tried, but he was on death row in Texas.”

“A very crowded place, I hear. So what happened to the pot—I mean, marijuana?”

“Whatever it is that the Charleston police do with it. I heard once that they burn it someplace. I'd love to find that location and stand downwind.”

It was time for me to go before the jungle cat wore my kneecaps to useless nubs. “Thanks for your time, Darren. It's been interesting.”

A Southern gentleman—it matters not if he hails from the uplands or lowlands—always rises when a lady does, as well as when she enters a room. Darren did not let our region's reputation down.

“Abby, before you go, I'd like to ask you a somewhat delicate question.”

“How to back out of your date with my mother?”

“What? No! I'm looking forward to it. But since I know what you paid for the shed's contents, do you mind telling me what was in there?”

Darren had not been present when I opened the shed. He'd handed me the key and then wandered off, presumably to give me privacy. Since I'd waited to open the gym bag, it was possible he had no idea what was in it. If that was the case, Charleston's finest had yet to interview him.

“Pornography,” I whispered.

“Excuse me?”

I said it louder.

“That's what I thought you said. And by the way, Her Majesty, Catrina the Great, does not speak English. Look, Abby, I had no idea there
was porn in there. It's time to fess up, though. Not all my units are rented by antiques dealers. I rent a fair number to anonymous people. Because the units are climate-controlled, a few of these people spend a suspicious amount of time in their sheds—if you know what I mean.”

“I'm afraid I do. But Darren, don't you think it could be dangerous?”

“You mean blindness and hairy palms?”

I tried not to smile. “No, I mean terrorists. We are a port city, after all. The third largest in the nation. Terrorists could be assembling parts of a nuclear weapon they smuggled in on a cargo ship.”

He fought back a smile as well. “No, I don't see it. If terrorists wanted to assemble, or even just to stockpile weapons of mass destruction, they'd rent a cheap apartment, or a house out in the country. They wouldn't risk a run-in with my security team.”

Call me a fool, but he was going to find out anyway. I knew I might as well have the benefit of seeing his reaction.

“It wasn't pornography,” I said.

“No?”

“It was canes.”

“Well, so at least part of my memory works.”

“But it wasn't just canes.”

Darren rolled his eyes. “Fiddlesticks and damnation,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I was brought up not to swear in front of ladies. Abby, you found the skull, didn't you?”