Monet Talks (17 page)

“I don't know. Any suggestions?”

“Well, if it was me, I'd put it in a sunporch. Do you have a sunporch?”

“George, if you don't mind, could we skip the small talk and get right down to business.”

“Business?”

The server came by to ask if we wanted coffee. “We'd like to order our meals as well,” I said.

George tossed her blond locks and bobbled her bosoms. The server, a young man, quite possibly a student at the College of Charleston, was reduced to a bundle of salivating hormones.

“I'm not ready to order yet,” George declared.

“She's not ready to order yet,” the server drooled.

“I can hear,” I said pleasantly. “Very well, I'll start with a large orange juice and coffee. Lots of half and half.”

“I don't consume dairy,” George said. “I'll have a small orange juice and black coffee. No half and half.”

“No half and half,” the server intoned, as if chanting a liturgical response.

“She does eat dairy,” I wailed. “I saw her drink a latte yesterday.”

“And no carbs, either,” George said, jiggling her D-cups for emphasis.

“But I do eat carbs,” I said, waving my Moo-Roo pocketbook, which, alas, held no more than a B-cup. “Besides, doesn't orange juice contain carbs?”

“No carbs,” the server chanted.

“Listen young man,” I said, still waving my handbag, “there are tips, and then there are
tips
.”

“What would you suggest I order?” George purred, her finger digging seductively into her lower lip.

In all fairness, even I, who had heretofore never even considered batting for the other team, found myself breathing a mite harder than normal. The poor college boy never stood a chance. His tongue hung out like that of a dog in an August heat wave, rendering him
incapable of even the most rudimentary speech.

“Do you think I'd like your low-carb-forget-about-calories-and-exercise-eat-too-much-gain-weight-anyway special number one?” she asked, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Or should I go with the high-carb-pump-you-full-of-energy-watch-you-crash-an-hour-later special number two?” Of course those weren't her actual words, but she may as well have been saying them for all the difference it made.

“Ma'am?” the server said, when it finally dawned on him that he'd been asked a question.

I got up, took his order pad, and wrote:
Two juices, one small, one large; two coffees, LOTS of half and half; and two Breakfast Special #2
. “That will be all, darling,” I said, and gave him a gentle push.

The young man bounced back like a weighted punching bag.

“The sooner you bring our orders, the sooner you can stand there and ogle,” I said, losing patience.

It wasn't until George dismissed the libidinous malingerer with another toss of her mane that our server remembered he had feet.

“Don't you just hate that?” George said the second the coast was clear.

“I absolutely despise it,” I said. I'd seldom meant anything as fervently.

“So what should we do today, Abby? Since
we're already here, I thought we could do some shopping. I haven't popped into Saks Fifth Avenue for ages. Afterward we could have lunch at Cypress, or wherever you'd like. Then we could hit a matinee, unless you'd rather go to the beach.”

I couldn't believe my ears. I'd only met the girl yesterday, and now she was laying out a day trip that would be the envy of many a mother and daughter team.

“Don't you have to work today?”

“Not unless I want to, and today I don't want to.”

The mother part of me kicked in. “What about your boss?”

“She'll get over it.”

“Excuse me?”

“She always does, you know. Maybe it's because I don't ask for a raise, like the other girls. Besides, I already left a message on her machine.”

It was starting to make sense. “George, this is none of my business, but you don't need the money, do you?”

She shook her head, sending her golden curls swirling in all directions. It was like waving a red flag in front of a herd of bulls. Every male in the restaurant began pawing the floor.

“No, not really. I was raised by my grandfather—my parents were killed in a car wreck when I was a little girl. I was with them, but I
don't remember a thing. The car flipped over in the rain on I-26 between here and Orangeburg. It landed on its roof in a wooded area and wasn't discovered for three days. They say I survived on rainwater and mints from my mama's purse. Anyway, Grandpa wanted me to have a profession, in case I ever ran out of money, but just between you and me, I don't think that's going to happen. There was a lot of insurance money, and Grandpa was a shrewd investor.”

I kept my voice down so the pawing males wouldn't charge. “With all that money, George, why do you work?”

“Why do you work, Abby?”

“Touché. I love my work. Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest woman in the world.”

“Physical therapy is okay—but I thought I'd like it more. If it wasn't for the physical therapists that worked with me after the accident, I probably wouldn't be able to walk now.”

“You still haven't answered my question.”

She looked down at her lap. “I—I…well, I get lonely sometimes. It isn't easy making friends when you look like I do.”

“More of us should have your problem. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It just seems—on the surface at least—that someone with your attributes would be swamped with friends.”

“Well, I'm not. The men all want just one thing, and the women—and I know this sounds
incredibly vain—the women all hate me. That's why I go to auctions and concerts, and even the movies. When I'm surrounded by a crowd, I can pretend that I'm with somebody. Like my friend has gone to the bathroom and I'm saving her seat, or my date's gone off to buy popcorn. I even go to two churches, and everybody's nice enough, but after they say ‘Hey' at coffee hour, they go home to Sunday dinner, and I go home to my TV dinner. But then along comes you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said ‘then along comes you.'”

“I know what you said, but I'm not sure what you mean.”

“When I saw you bidding at the auction, you smiled at me. I thought, now there's a woman I could be friends with. So I kept bidding just so you would notice me. I was going to outbid you, so that afterward I could offer to sell you the birdcage myself, but I could see how much you wanted it. I thought you might get mad if the bidding went too high, so I stopped. Then when you called and asked me to have coffee with you—well, I was really happy, Abby. I knew you were just being nice for business reasons, but like I said, women aren't usually nice to me. I know it was silly of me, but I was hoping we could be friends.”

Lordy, but didn't I feel like something the cat dragged in and the dog wouldn't eat. The poor
child only wanted to make a friend, while I had turned her into a murder suspect. How would I feel if that happened to my daughter, Susan? The least I could do was to be as upfront with George as possible.

“I called you because I'm interested in why you, and the others, bid against me for the birdcage. I know this must sound strange, but I'm not at liberty to tell you why I'm interested—”

“That's okay, Abby, I don't need to know. Clay Aiken is coming to the North Charleston Coliseum on the thirtieth. Do you want to come?”

“I think I'm busy that night.” So much for being upfront.

“They're third row seats, dead center.”

“Oh, what the heck, it's only a Pilates class.”

George beamed, which made her all the prettier. “Abby, I'm so glad I met you.”

Mercifully, my cell phone rang. Ironically, it was a Georgia number, but one I didn't recognize. I answered anyway.

“A
gnes, darling, what a surprise to hear from you.”

“Ooh, Abby,” a very familiar voice said, “you always were a little bit strange. Not strange like Cousin Urethra, of course, but still very strange.”

“C.J.! Where on earth are you?”

“I'm in Sewannee, at the Episcopal Seminary.”

“What in heaven's name are you doing there?”

“I'm with your brother, Abby. Or have you forgotten that Toy and I are engaged?”

“I most certainly haven't forgotten. What I meant is, why aren't you here? Where you're supposed to be—minding the store?”

“Because you think I'm a liar, Abby.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do. You think I make up things.”

“Well…”

“Well what, Abby?”

“I think you have an active imagination, that's all. There's nothing wrong with that, C.J. That's what makes you so special.”

“Ooh, Abby, do you really think I'm special?”

“Definitely one of a kind. And I'm really sorry that I hurt your feelings.”

“I forgive you, Abby.”

“Thanks. But C.J., you don't really have a cousin named Urethra, do you? I mean, you were just kidding about that, weren't you?”

“Oh no, Abby. Aunt Clemantine Ledbetter, up in Moon Pie Hollow, led a very sheltered life. When she was pregnant for the first time she visited a doctor in the big city—that would be Shelby—and there was this chart on the wall. Aunt Clemantine saw the word urethra and thought it was the most beautiful name for a baby in the entire world. Now there are six Urethras living up in Moon Pie Hollow, but you just don't hear that name very much anywhere else.”

“What a pity. C.J., does that mean you'll come back to Charleston and help me out at the Den of Antiquity?”

“Do you need me?”

“More than ever.”

“Did you find your mama yet, Abby?”

“No. What have you told Toy?”

“I told him that she went missing at the St. Ophelia Society dance, but he said not to worry.
Abby, did you know Mozella went missing for five days once, and finally showed up at a Shriners' convention driving one of them little bitty cars?”

“No! That can't be true—I mean, I don't remember that.”

“He said it happened when you were just a little girl, before your daddy got dive-bombed by that seagull with a brain tumor the size of a walnut.”

“I don't remember Mama running away,” I said, “except to the convent, and she kept in constant touch.”

“Abby, the main thing is that you shouldn't worry. I got up with the birds this morning, so I'm already in Augusta, Georgia. I'll be there before you know it.”

“What about Toy?”

“Ooh, Abby, I shouldn't be telling you this, but your brother will be just fine for a while—if you know what I mean.”

“I do, and TMI! But C.J., you're the best, you know that? You're a really good friend.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw poor George's hangdog expression. “Gotta go, C.J.”

“See you soon, Abby.”

“Family,” I said to George, shaking my head, “can't live with them, can't live without them.”

“I have no family,” she reminded me softly.

Even a size four foot can be too much to fit into a minimouth like mine. I was struggling to
find the right words when our waiter returned with part of our drink orders. His tongue was still hanging out, and his eyes were never going to fit back into their sockets without the help of a shoehorn. Poor George cringed.

“Will that be all, ma'am?” he asked as he poured the coffee. It seemed like he hadn't even bothered to glance at our cups. I suppose as long as no one screamed, he figured there was no harm done.

“There is the small matter of our orange juice, not to mention our meals.”

“Yeah, right.” He stopped pouring, all the better to stare.

“You were saying,” I said loudly to George, “that you're an undercover cop. Are you're here to make a drug bust?”

“Uh—be right back with your orders.” Our waiter lit out of there like he was carrying a shovelful of fire.

It was the manager who finally brought us breakfast, and it was delicious as always. I stayed just as long as I had to, and then after thanking George profusely again for the Clay Aiken tickets, I too beat a hasty retreat.

 

Charleston is a fast healer. The enormous damage visited upon the city by Hurricane Hugo in 1989 can now only be appreciated by viewing photographs and film.

The Finer Things deserves its name. It was
my idea to move to Charleston from Charlotte, and to open an antiques shop on King Street. I was pleased, but not surprised, when the Rob-Bobs did the same. I was less pleased, and even less surprised, when their new store not only outclassed, but eclipsed, mine.

Of course there already were upscale antiques stores on King Street, but none quite as elegant as the Rob-Bobs' new venture. To begin with, one has to buzz to gain admittance. This feature automatically eliminates the faint of heart, who also tend to be timid with their greenbacks. Once inside, the shoppers are greeted warmly (usually by the Rob-Bobs) and offered a glass of champagne. I know for a fact that the bubbly served is disgustingly sweet, as well as cheap. This is the second stage of the winnowing-out process. If the shopper grimaces at the first sip and sets the glass down, the odds are he or she has discerning taste. On the other hand, if the shopper makes a face but continues to hold the glass, he or she not only has good taste, but good manners as well. But if, after tasting the vile brew, the customer smacks his or her lips, smiles, or clutches the glass tightly, he or she would be happier shopping at a collectibles store in a strip mall.

Although a frequent visitor, I must be buzzed in like everyone else. Needless to say, I was quite surprised that morning when Simone Dupree did the honor.

“Where are the guys?”

“They're taking the day off, Mrs. Washburn. I got the impression they were with you.”

“Sort of—I had a breakfast date. Simone, darling, we need to talk.”

Up until last night I'd thought of Simone Dupree as a beautiful but enigmatic young woman. After seeing her paw the man who was supposed to be her father, I found myself looking at an entirely different person. Was that a look of alarm on her face, or merely innocent surprise? Did her dark eyes hide unspeakable secrets, or could it be that this was nothing more than a simple case of mistaken identity?

I'd heard nothing of a Mrs. Dupree, but there probably was one. My nervousness at performing, combined with the seductive lighting at Chez Fez, might well have been responsible for me shaving twenty years off a woman's age. If that combo could be bottled and sold, I'd soon be a billionaire. At any rate, many daughters look like younger versions of their mothers, and it was quite possible that the real Simone Dupree hadn't gone anywhere near Chez Fez the night before.

The woman in question stepped aside to let me enter the cool sanctuary of the serious collector. “Would you care for some champagne, Mrs. Washburn?”

“No thanks, I just ate.”

Her long dark lashes fluttered. “Sorry, it's a habit. What did you want to see me about?”

“May we sit somewhere? I know the Rob-Bobs have some cushy chairs in their office.”

“Certainly, but I may have to answer the door.”

“By all means.”

While the Rob-Bobs are big on French furniture, the office resembles the drawing room of a nineteenth-century Italian nobleman. Perhaps that's because it
is
the drawing room of a nineteenth-century Italian nobleman. I'm not up on Italian aristocracy, but I do know that the previous owner was a count, and Bologne was part of his name. Trust me, I'm not the only antiques dealer on King Street who refers to this pretentious place of business as the “baloney room.”

A frequent visitor, I knew exactly where I wanted to sit—or should I say recline? The emerald-green silk damask daybed of yester-year is a perfect fit for my diminutive frame. Once supine, I got right down to brass tacks.

“I'm not going to beat around the bush, Simone. I know you're having a sordid affair with Blackmond Dupree and that the two of you want to murder some poor old lady in Portland, Maine. Normally, this would be none of my business, but my mama is a poor old woman as well, and she just happens to be missing. Not to mention the fact that a stupid
bird calls me demanding something I don't have, and that your beloved was one of the people who wanted to get his hands on that bird—or its cage—and was willing to spend almost ten thousand dollars to do so. Although I believe in his case it was a mere $9,560. Oh, and just so you don't go getting any funny ideas, not only am I wired, but this room is wired as well.”

The fact that Simone stayed around to listen to my spiel was surprising enough. That she crumpled like one of Bob's soufflés when the oven door is slammed was downright shocking. If I hadn't already been reclining, I might well have tasted the authentic Italian marble on the floor.

“Mrs. Washburn, I had no idea you were an IGS agent.”

I had no idea what IGS meant, but I had a cousin who once worked for IGA. The truth, once stretched, soon becomes rather flexible.

“I'm chock-full of surprises, Simone.”

“You need to know this wasn't my idea. Charlie told me he was single. How was I supposed to know about the old biddy up in Maine?”

Charlie? Aha, so I was right. Blackmond Dupree was not his real name. But that not-soinsignificant detail was going to have to wait.

“How can you be so callous, Simone? Don't you have any regard for human life?”

“What?”

“The plan to make the old biddy pay. What was it Charlie said? Ah yes, he'd make her ‘worst nightmare come true.'”

Simone's soufflé crumpled even further. “You mean Vladimir is an agent, too?”

Vladimir? Wasn't the cold war over? Perhaps I'd gotten in over my head. Oh well, it was too late now. It was either sink or swim; it had certainly gotten too deep for me to wade back through.

“Vladimir is definitely involved,” I said. “Now, this is how it's going to work. If you tell me everything you know about Charlie—and Vladimir—I'll tell the higher-ups to go easy on you. Of course I can't promise anything, you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now if you please, sing like a canary.”

I settled back on the daybed and folded my hands.

“Well, I met Charlie at a party in Myrtle Beach last summer. We kinda hooked up right away, and when he said he was moving to Charleston to open a restaurant, I just sort of tagged along. I was really surprised because I found a job almost immediately. Working here. I couldn't believe my luck at first. New boyfriend, new job—it was like my life was finally working out. I didn't have such a good time growing up, you see.”

“Not many of us do.”

“What?”

“Never mind, darling. Please, continue with your story.”

“Anyway, we hadn't been here but a few days and Charlie tells me to start calling him Blackmond. I say okay, because what's in a name, right? I think Madonna said that. But I swear I didn't know he was doing anything illegal—not then, at any rate. Then Charlie starts pretending he's a foreigner, because his restaurant has a theme and all, and he asks me to play along with that, too. Mrs. Washburn, there isn't anything illegal about pretending to be a foreigner, is there?”

“I don't know. But I would think it would be rather stupid, considering the threat of terrorism.”

“That's what I told Charlie, but he said, ‘I'm not pretending to be a Moroccan, but a Frenchman from Morocco.' He also said that a theme restaurant would go over really big in Charleston, especially with the tourists and cruise passengers, who have come here to be entertained anyway.”

My attempt at a warm smile may have come across as tepid. “Can you speed your story up, darling? Can you get to the part about the old lady and Vladimir?”

“Right. Well, I move in with Charlie, see, and I think it's like we're almost married, but he
wants me to pretend that I'm his daughter. Says it might be bad for business if folks thought we were just hooking up—Charleston being such a conservative city and all. But I tell him that is so nineties, and if it made that much difference, why didn't we just get married? Then he says it's because he already has a wife. Can you believe that, Mrs. Washburn? Do all men lie like that?”

“Not
all
men. Not all women, either.” I gave her my hand signal for “hurry up,” which is a little bit like Queen Elizabeth waving in fast motion.

“So anyway, I make Charlie tell me everything. He says his wife is this rich Russian woman—her first husband was some kind of communist big shot—and that she offered him a whole lot of money to marry her, so that she could get a green card. That's how Charlie got his money for the restaurant, see. Only now she won't divorce him. She says that if Charlie sues for divorce, then she'll expose his scam, even though that would mean she'd be in big trouble, too.”

“He could call her bluff.”

“He has. Last time he sent an actor pretending to be a lawyer. She just laughed. So this time he sent Vladimir.”

“Do you know
why
this woman won't give Mr. Dupree a divorce?”

“Sex.”

“You're joking!”

“Mrs. Washburn, Charlie is—well, let's just say I couldn't be happier in that department. But you see, all the other old bags he's brought over were just as happy
not
to be bothered with that. Then along comes Tatiana, who falls head over heels in love with Charlie. Who would have thought? I mean, how could she think that a good-looking guy like him would really fall in love with her? Like, who is she kidding? Besides, he told her from the get-go that it was strictly business.”