The Cane Mutiny (7 page)

The little man smiled. “What makes you say that?”

“Your neighbor.”

“Which one?”

“Miss Topsy-Turvy—or whatever her name is. The one who looks like a floozy.”

I was mortified. “Mama!”

“Well, Abby, in my day a woman who dressed like that was advertising her wares.”

Mac Murray was still smiling. “Or her availability. Claudette Aikenberg—and I assume that's who you are referring to—killed her husband. From what you say, it looks like she's on the prowl again.”

M
r. Murray definitely had our attention. Mama, bless her heart, moved closer to me, as if I would somehow be able to defend her, should a crazed pageant killer burst into the room and attempt to pummel her to death with pompoms.

Panic can be highly contagious, but I was determined to remain rational. “Are you saying she murdered him?”

“I don't have any proof, but the circumstantial evidence speaks for itself.”

“Such as?”

“They fought all the time.” He held up a tiny, well-manicured hand. “Yes, I know that's not uncommon, but please allow me to finish. The nights out here tend to be very quiet; you hear only the insects and tree frogs. And the occasional owl. Anyway, one night several years ago I was enjoying the stars out on my deck, and I heard their car
pull into their drive. When they opened the doors I could hear them shouting horrible things to each other; things I will not repeat. I went inside and put on some Italian opera to drown them out. When I went to bed an hour later I could still hear them going at, even though they'd gone inside. Eventually I fell asleep, but about two in the morning I woke with a start. I mean, something had wakened me up. A second later I heard a gunshot—the
second
gunshot.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No ma'am. Not just then. This is all private land, and some of my neighbors hunt at night. At the time I didn't have proof of anything. Besides, I'm from L.A. We mind our own business back there.”

“My son, Toy, used to live in California,” Mama said proudly. “He was an actor, but now he lives in Tennessee and is studying to be an Episcopal priest.”

“Toy was never an actor, Mama. He parked cars for actors.”

“That may be, but he has a cigarette stub that was Mel Gibson's. How many other mothers in Charleston can say their son owns a genuine Hollywood artifact?”

Mac dispensed another of his enigmatic smiles. “I've never been to Los Angeles. For me L.A.
stands for Lower Alabama. Anyway, I got up after the second gunshot and went back out on the deck again. It was a full moon, and the river looked like mercury, it was so shiny. I must of have been sitting there about an hour when I heard a boat engine. I didn't need three guesses to know it was the Aikenberg boat. I went inside and got my telescope, and sure enough. But I thought it would be him steering it, not her. She gets way out into the middle of the Wadmalaw and then stops just long enough to roll this thing over the side. Like a carpet, maybe, with something in it. Made a huge splash. From then on I didn't see hide nor hair of Mr. Aikenberg. Shortly after that word got out they were divorcing. You be the judge.”

“And
then
you called the police?”

“Actually, I called them right after she dumped that thing—his body—into the river. The police came out, interviewed me, interviewed her, but that was it. I couldn't get any information out of them except that she had an alibi; she was talking on the phone to her sister all night after the fight with her husband.”

“Yes, a cell phone—from the boat,” Mama said, and patted her pearls. “If you ask me, those things should be banned.”

I was bewildered. “She said her husband was
a lawyer and works downtown. Surely that can be traced.”

Mac shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Like I said, I'm from L.A. I did my civic duty, and now I'm minding my own business.”

“Did Miss Aida witness the body being dumped?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the author who lives here. Was she able to verify your story to the police?”

Dark eyes flitted from me to Mama and back again. “No. Miss Aida was away on a book-signing tour. Naturally she was horrified when I told her what happened. But now I think she's going to use it in an upcoming book. And speaking of which, I should help you bring in the books you brought for her to sign. Either she or I will call you when it gets done. It shouldn't be more than a day or two.”

“Books?” Mama said.

Mama might be a trooper, but sometimes she needs a general to give her a swift, but gentle, kick in the crinolines. Being out of range, I had no choice but to develop a sudden and fatal-sounding cough.

“I'm sorry,” I said when I could finally speak, “but my
Ficus pumila
is acting up. I forgot to take my meds this morning. We'll have to come back another time—if that's all right.”

Mac was more garden-savvy than I would have thought. “You take medication for your creeping fig?”

I don't always think fast on my little feet. “I meant to say my creeping crud.”

“She's delirious again,” Mama said. She grabbed my arm and pulled me, not unwillingly, back to the elevator.

Once inside, we exploded into gales of laughter. We didn't stop laughing until we reached May Bank Highway and it was time to think about lunch.

 

Wynnell and C.J. are my two closest female friends, but it is the Rob-Bobs to whom I turn when the going gets really tough. Rob Goldburg is tall, handsome, and debonair, and Bob Steuben is tall. The life-partners own The Finer Things, an upscale antiques shop, also on King Street. Of course all the antiques shops on King Street are upscale, but The Finer Things is the sort of place where one must be buzzed in, and once having gained entry, one is plied with champagne and pâté.

But a word to the wise: Bob fancies himself a gourmet cook, and the pâté served is likely to come from a farm-raised emu. When I called suggesting we meet for lunch, Bob insisted that we eat at their house. He had a coconut-alligator salad
just waiting in the fridge. I told him alligators were very patient, as were some coconuts, and the salad wouldn't mind waiting another day or two.

At any rate, my buddies met us at Thai Two, a fabulous new eatery on upper King Street. By then the front room, with its views of passing tourists, was taken, so we opted for a seat in the back by a splashing fountain overseen by a smiling Buddha.

“So how was your morning?” Rob asked as we unfolded our starched napkins.

“Other than finding a skull in a gym bag, getting arrested, meeting Miss Sugar Tit and a tree-living gnome, it was nothing out of the ordinary.”

Bob, a lapsed Catholic, formed a cross with his index fingers. Rob, a nonpracticing Jew, glanced around, searching for the nearest exit sign.

“Come on, guys,” I said, “you're hurting my feelings. How do you know I'm not kidding?”

“Abby,” Bob boomed in his basso profundo, “you weren't kidding when you said the ninety-five-year-old King of Banga Banga proposed to you, gave you a five carat emerald ring, and then asked you to sleep with his grandson in order to preserve the royal dynasty.”

“Sheesh. That was back in college. But wow, what a ring. Too bad I had to either put out or give it back.”

I don't think Mama had heard that particular story before, but she was totally unfazed. “Where is Banga Banga?”

“Just east of Pago Pago,” I said.

“Actually,” Bob said, assuming his tutorial voice, “it's pronounced Pango Pango. Apparently the missionary who first transliterated the name in their language used a typewriter with an N key that stuck.”

“Fascinating,” Mama said. She eyed the menu with apprehension; Donna Reed, after whom she models her life, never had to contend with Thai food.

“Tell us about the skull,” Rob said, just as calmly as if he'd asked me to read from the menu.

I told them everything that had happened that morning, beginning with the cane mutiny. I left nothing out; at least nothing that seemed pertinent. Unfortunately, the staff at Thai Two are extremely attentive, and I was forced to interrupt myself several times. But by the time the satay arrived I'd pretty much said everything.

Rob, the big brother I wished I'd had, draped his arm over my shoulder. “There could be a very simple explanation for the gorilla skull. The previous owner might have been a zoologist.”

“Or a Shakespearean actor who played Hamlet,” Bob said. He trotted out one of three Yiddish
words he's learned from his partner. “Oy, what an ugly Ophelia.”

“Or an ax murderer,” Mama said, “if that skull turns out to be human after all.”

“Mama!”

“What? You always say that I'm out of touch with reality. I was just trying to keep it real, like you young folks say these days.”

Rob let his arm slip off my shoulder, lest Bob, who was sitting across the table from us with Mama, should get jealous. Bob has absolutely no reason in the world to be jealous of us, but that hasn't stopped him in the past. Frankly, I take Bob's unwarranted concern as a compliment.

“Abby,” Rob said, “may I please see the list of participants in this locked trunk sale of yours.”

I handed him the much folded paper. He read it carefully, stopping to reread a couple of names too many times for my comfort. Before returning it he folded it one more time.

“Abby,” he said, “have you considered the possibility that the owner of this storage facility, this Mr. Cotter, might have been trying to set you up so as to divert suspicion from him?”

“Him? I don't follow.”

Bob nodded. “If C.J.'s wrong, and the skull really is human, it could belong to Mr. Cotter's dead wife. Maybe he killed her, cut her up, and kept her
head in that gym bag. I saw something like that on
Desperate Housewives
—except that it was a toy chest, instead of a gym bag.”

“You really think that could be possible?”

Mama poked at the grilled chicken on her appetizer plate. She sniffed at the peanut sauce that came with the satay.

“Don't be silly, dear,” she said. “If Mr. Cotter had killed his wife, and he wanted to get rid of the evidence, all he'd have to do was put some stones in that gym bag and toss it off the Folly Beach pier. Besides, why would he have kept just her head?”

At my height, I don't even have to look at food to put on the pounds; all I have to do is read a menu. But if the conversation continued in this vein, I knew I might actually lose weight over lunch. Thank heavens Rob came to my rescue.

“Abby, you mentioned your wayward canes. Were you aware that two people on your list are serious cane collectors? That has got to be more than a coincidence.”

I whipped the list out of my purse and unfolded it. “Get out of town!”

Rob pointed to the second name down. “Hermione Wou-ki. You've met her, right?”

“Uh—no. Should I have?”

The Rob-Bobs exchanged glances, all the while
clucking dramatically like a pair of hens that had just laid their first eggs.

“Oh, cut it out. Tell me who she is.”

“She owns The Jade Smile,” Bob said. “Don't you read your newsletter?”

He was referring to the
Charleston Antique Digest,
affectionately known as CAD, a biweekly slip of a magazine that is supposed to keep us in touch with our fellow dealers. Mine usually arrives in the mail sandwiched between pizza advertisements and the Have You Seen Me bulletin. Given all the other things I have to pay attention to, CAD usually ends up in my circular file. I was, however, quite aware that a new store had opened on King Street. In fact, the buzz in the biz had been so good, I'd put off being a good neighbor and dropping by to extend my best wishes. And
yes,
I was a bit envious. When I started up the Den of Antiquity, not everyone had greeted me with open arms.

“Of course I read the newsletter,” I said. I paused to push a piece of chicken off the wooden skewer, using the tines of my fork. When the recalcitrant tidbit finally broke free, it landed on the floor. I observed the thirty second rule. “Who else on this list collects canes?”

“This guy,” Rob said, and tapped the name Marvin Leeburg with his forefinger. “He's bought
from us in the past. Of course you wouldn't think it, to see him.”

“You talking about Mr. Leeburg?” Bob asked.

Rob nodded. “He owns Leeburg's Gym over in Mount Pleasant. Nice guy, but very physical.”

“Translation: Rob thinks he's cute.”

“How do you know he collects?” I asked. “You don't sell canes.”

“We sold him an eighteenth-century English breakfront,” Rob said. “He was so pleased he invited us to a party. He has a cane collection that will knock your socks off. If you talk to him, try and catch him at home. It will be worth your time just to see his place.”

My friend meant well, but nonetheless, I resented his suggestion that I make time to ogle a stranger's goodies while I had the threat of prison hanging over my head.

“It's been real, guys, but I've got to get back to work. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are not going to rest until I'm in an orange jumpsuit.”

“I thought it was stripes,” Rob said. To his credit, he winked.

“It used to be stripes, but then the chubby inmates complained that the stripes made them look too fat. So they made the stripes vertical, instead of horizontal, but then tall, skinny gals said the new stripes made them look like beanpoles.
So now it's fluorescent orange. Everyone looks equally hideous in that.”

They nodded far too seriously. I think they may have believed me.

“We can't leave now,” Mama said. “We haven't gotten our entrées yet.”

“I have to stop and get some gas,” I said. “We can grab some candy bars. I read somewhere that a Snickers bar is just as nutritious as the average fast food meal.”

Southern gentleman that he was, Rob stood when I did. Bob, a transplant from Toledo, Ohio, followed his lead.

“I'd like to come with you, Abby,” Bob said.

I was taken aback by his request. “Well, I—uh—have Mama to keep me company.”

“I'm not going anywhere until I get my entrée,” Mama said, still sitting.

Bob looked at me intently, as if trying to convey a secret message. “Rob won't mind covering for me. Besides, we could ask for a better assistant than the one we have now.”