Gilt by Association (12 page)

I
should have waited to call Toxie Barras. I had no idea whether she had heard the news of her aunt's death, or how much it mattered to her. A more sensitive soul would have waited at least until the next day and offered her condolences.

Please understand that I did debate the issue briefly. However, Toxie had gone to some length to contact me, so I figured it was important enough to set convention (and good manners) aside and play it by ear. Ever since my marriage with Buford fell apart, I have become rather adept at playing things by ear. It's a wonder I can still wear earrings, given the mileage I've put on these lobes.

As it turned out, I need not have worried in the least about the propriety of calling Toxie. She had just been told of her Aunt Lottie Bell's death, but like Norma Ramsey, she sounded far from grief-stricken. Was I up to lunch, she wondered, her treat. I told her I was, if we could make it Bubba's China Gourmet. I'd been meaning to stop in and see Norma again anyway, so why not kill two birds with one stone?

“I look a little bit like Marilyn Monroe in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
,” she said, so that I could recognize her.

“And I look like Liza Minnelli, only younger,” I lied.

On the way over to Bubba's I listened to the mellow sounds of WIST 106 FM on my car radio. One of the
songs they played was sung by Liza, and I tried singing along. Suffice it to say, I don't sing like her either.

Halfway to Bubba's, Ella Fitzgerald was interrupted by a weather advisory. An early winter cold front of unseasonable intensity had pushed its way down from Canada into the upper Midwest, and was dumping several feet of snow on places like Milwaukee and Chicago.

“It looks like it's headed right this way,” the announcer said almost gleefully. “That's right, Charlotteans, by late tomorrow we may be seeing this year's first trace of snow. But if that low front that's down in the gulf right now keeps pushing moisture this way, we might be in for a lot more than a trace. Remember folks, you heard it here first.”

I switched the radio off. Snow! There's nothing like that four-letter word to strike terror in the hearts of Carolinians. Within minutes half of WIST's listeners would be headed for the grocery stores, and like an army of ants, strip the shelves bare of bread and milk. Never mind that the snow would probably melt as soon as it hit the ground, or in a day or two at the most.

But, being a native Carolinian, I had no choice but to obey my genes and pull into the first convenience store I passed. I am not without compassion and did leave behind a half-gallon of milk that was three days past its due date and a loaf of whole wheat bread that was badly crushed (I did not mean to drop the milk on it, I swear).

We met in the parking lot of Bubba's. Toxie and I pulled in simultaneously, and it was clear by the number of bags in her backseat that she had listened to the same forecast and made a stop of her own.

She didn't, however, look remotely like Marilyn Monroe. My Aunt Marilyn looks like Marilyn Monroe—a very elderly version of course. She claims that
she
was the model upon which Norma Jean based her persona. Toxie
wasn't even in the running. “Rode hard, and put away wet,” Buford would have described her.

According to Purnell Purvis, Toxie was a couple of years younger than her cousins, which would put her around fifty. If wrinkles, like tree wrings, are an indication of age, Toxie was twice that. Cigarettes and too much Carolina sun had etched deep grooves into what might have once been a pretty face. It looked as if she applied her makeup with a putty trowel, perhaps in a desperate attempt to keep it from shattering. Then, as a means of distraction, Toxie had bleached and dyed her hair a preposterous shade of blond that reminded me of chrysanthemums.

Most of us have, in one way or another, felt like victims of our gene pools (being four foot nine is no picnic!), but a wise person works with what she was given. Toxie Barras had been given thunder thighs, but she was wearing either a very short skirt under that fake leopard-skin coat or nothing at all. Clearly this was one woman who would do well to
add
a few years to her age when she lied about it.

“I hope they have a smoking section,” she said in a voice made husky by our state's number one cash crop.

I reluctantly informed her that all of Bubba's China Gourmet was a smoking section. However, I informed her,
she
would not be smoking during the meal.

This stopped her short. She teetered precariously on her six-inch spike heels while her torso caught up with her thighs.

“I really need to smoke while I eat,” she said. To be truthful, she didn't sound nasty about it at all. Merely desperate.

“I'm sure you'll find enough secondhand smoke to meet your dietary needs,” I said kindly.

She looked genuinely torn between lunch with me and a solitary pack of coffin nails. I had the feeling the nails
would win, so I capitulated far more quickly than is my custom.

“Okay, you can smoke, but blow that nasty stuff away from my plate. I mean, you wouldn't like it if I farted on your food, would you?”

“Ma'am?”

“Never mind, dear.”

I ushered her into the exciting world of Southern Chinese. However, much to my disappointment, Norma was off duty and not scheduled to arrive for another hour. I doubted if I could last that long in the giant ashtray that was Bubba's.

We were led to our table by the pretty young Oriental woman, Sally Lee, who was unquestionably Southern born and reared. She could stretch a vowel along with the best of us, and I began to wonder about the ethnic origins of Robert E. Lee.

“Today's specials—which are also part of the buffet—are Bubba's Beijing barbecue, Hunan hash, and egg foo young with red-eye gravy. Or you can order from the menu.” She made it sound like ordering from the menu would violate some ancient Chinese taboo, perhaps endangering the lives of the kitchen workers and even their families back in China.

We chose the buffet. As we waited in line (BCG is enormously popular among south Charlotteans who love a bargain) I asked Toxie to tell me about herself. Even though many people, especially women, will hotly deny it, everyone loves to talk about themselves. It is the easiest way to validate who we are. Apparently Toxie was badly in need of validation because I got an earful.

Briefly, she was single. Had never been married, in fact. Her branch of the Barras family was dirt-poor, so she worked as a piano player and lounge singer at Rumpelstiltskin's over near Matthews. Life had not been kind to her altogether. She had had polio as a child. Had I noticed
that she walked with a slight limp? I had not. Then again, what women wearing six-inch spikes
doesn't
limp? Her one saving grace was her uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. Surely I had noticed that? I lied through my teeth, but was so flustered by the experience that I accidentally bypassed Bubba's Authentic Chinese Salad Bar on my way back to the table.

“So what did you want to see me about?” I asked pleasantly, after I'd had a chance to sample a few things. (Take it from me, the Hunan hash was dry, and the egg foo young too moist—it certainly didn't need any red-eye gravy, which, incidentally, was the worst red-eye gravy I'd ever tasted. The Beijing barbecue, however, was to die for!)

Toxie had yet to touch her food, choosing instead to build a miniature log cabin out of half-smoked cigarettes in the black plastic ashtray she kept right in front of her.

“I'm interested in doing business with you,” she rasped softly.

“I beg your pardon?” I had no idea what business she was in. I could only hope it wasn't fashion or cosmetics.

She smiled, revealing teeth that were the same shade of yellow as her hair.

“I want to buy some antiques from you.”

“That's wonderful, dear, but as you can see, my shop is temporarily closed. That's why I'm here.”

“Oh, I know that. I was hoping we could still do business. I already know what I want.”

So did I, and I didn't like it one bit. “Oh, do you now?”

She nodded, and then very carefully blew a funnel of smoke over her shoulder, away from me. She had been very good about it, I'll grant her that.

“I want to buy my Aunt Lula Mae's furniture.”

“I see. Sentimental childhood memories garnered from Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners no doubt?”

She frowned. Her furrows were deep enough to plant beans in. “We are not a close family. I can't remember seeing that furniture but once or twice.”

“Why do you want it then?” I asked pleasantly. She certainly did not look like the kind of woman who would decorate her house with Louis XV. Frankly I didn't think she could afford it. Not on a lounge singer's salary—not unless she was getting a good deal more than I reckoned. And if that was the case, I might want to consider a career change. I may be petite, but I have been told that I posses a good set of pipes.

Toxie took a short puff from a long thin cigarette, and immediately expelled the smoke. “I've gotten interested in genealogy, you see. That furniture was my grandmothers's, and her grandmother's before her.”

“And it gives you a feeling of connectedness to your past, right?”

“Right.”

I could certainly understand that. I had only recently inherited a very old and very valuable piece of Venetian lace. Believe me, I would not have sold it, had I been more solvent at the time.

“And you see, Mrs. Timberlake, that furniture should never have ended up in Amy's hands.”

“Because she's not of your ilk?” Calling Amy a no-account piece of white trash would be unprofessional, even though that was undoubtedly the way Toxie thought of her.

She looked startled, and accidentally let a puff of noxious fumes float into my range.

“Oh no, that has nothing to do with it. Amy's past is another story altogether. What I meant was, Amy shouldn't have gotten that furniture, because it wasn't Aunt Lula Mae's to give. She was only a Barras by marriage, you know, and her husband—my Uncle Cyrus—
was not the oldest Barras son. That was my daddy, Daniel Festus Barras.”

I waved the smoke away from my Beijing barbecue. It had to be a Bubba concoction, otherwise all the Chinese would be as pudgy as pandas.

“So you're saying that the oldest son should inherit everything?”

She finally tasted her moo goo gai grits, which had congealed to the consistency of half-cured cement. “Delicious,” she said, pointing to the red-eye gravy. “No, Mrs. Timberlake, I don't think that at all. But traditionally, isn't it the oldest child who is appointed executor of the estate?”

I thought about that. I certainly hoped that would be true in the case of Mama's will. I have one sibling, a brother named Toy, who is no more responsible than a drunken monkey. He couldn't divide an orange in half equally, much less an estate.

“It makes sense to me,” I said.

“Well, my daddy wasn't executor, I can tell you that. If he had been, he would have seen to it that each of the children inherited one piece of furniture. There were four children, and four pieces. It's really very simple.”

I shook my head. “I'm not so sure, dear. There are four pieces, but they don't all have equal value. And as a set, they are far more valuable than individually.”

She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray impatiently. “Like I said before, it's not their monetary value, and it's not any exotic history. It's their family connection, plain and simple. So, Mrs. Timberlake, will you sell them to me?”

“And then you will distribute them among the others?” I asked gently.

She blew a perfect donut of smoke, but more interesting than that was the way her pursed mouth, with all its fissures, resembled a volcano.

“I'd be quite fair. You can count on that.”

I smiled pleasantly. “I'm sure of that. But you see, Miss Barras, I bought that furniture for a particular customer.”

She fumbled her cigarette, which fell on the floor. She put it out with the toe of her six-inch spikes.

“Who? Not that rat Garland?”

“No,” I said calmly, “he bid against me at the auction. Weren't you there?”

“I had a doctor's appointment that morning. I have the big C.”

“I'm so sorry!”

She pulled a fresh cigarette from her pack. “Don't be. I brought it on myself. So, who's your special customer? Not that mousy little Hattie?”

I laughed nervously. “It isn't any rodent you know, and ethically I'm not allowed to disclose their names. Not without their permission.”

She seemed stunned. Too stunned to eat, certainly, and barely able to smoke. While she struggled to light up another cigarette, I made a return trip to the buffet. Much to my dismay, however, the Beijing barbecue bin was empty. I returned to my seat in a disappointed daze.

There we sat, two stunned women, one pining after old furniture, and the other after Chinese chicken. Finally I spoke.

“What did you mean earlier when you said Amy's past was ‘another story altogether'? Just what is her past?”

She pushed up the sleeve of the fake leopard-skin coat and glanced at her watch. “Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a new set to rehearse for tonight. I'm doing some old Doris Day favorites a la Marilyn.”

She was bluffing, of course, since she hadn't yet reached for the check. I called her bluff by pocketing the check myself. It cost me a grand total of $11.43, tax and tip included.

“So,” I said, “what's the story with Amy?”

“She's a thief.” The three words were accompanied by billows of smoke. Toxie had abandoned any pretense of sparing me her toxic fumes.

“You mean because she stole Squire from Hattie?”

“Nonsense. That little mouse couldn't have married Squire anyway. They were cousins, for God's sake. I mean that Amy is literally a thief. She stole a car.”