Monet Talks (9 page)

“You're talking about
our
C.J.? Calamity Jane from Shelby with the whiskered granny and the Ledbetter cousins that belong in Ripley's Believe It or Not?”

By then we were back on the sidewalk. “That's her. She presents herself as such a yokel, and so over the top with her Shelby stories. If she were a fictional character, I'd find her unbelievable.”

“You know what they say—the truth is stranger than fiction.”

We arrived at a service entrance that was another brass-plated door. It would have looked nice on your run-of-the-mill mansion in, say, the South Park area of Charlotte, North Car
olina. This one had a bell, which I let Wynnell buzz. That the dear woman took a bit of her frustration out on that bell was clear when the door was yanked open.

“We have ears, you know,” a uniformed maid snapped.

“And we have feelings. Why the back door?”

“Are they white?” It was the same raspy voice we'd heard in front.

“Yes,” the maid said.

A man appeared, as she disappeared. He was dark skinned, with a short natural Afro that was streaked with white. Although he was dressed in a polo shirt, slacks, and a pair of comfortable-looking moccasins, he had the air of a wealthy man about him. I knew at once he was Bubba Johnson.

“My mother was a maid in this very house,” he said. “She spent her entire life going through back doors. I made a vow when I was a kid—maybe just ten years old—that someday I would own this place, and all the white folks would have to go through the back door.”

“But that's discrimination,” Wynnell said. “I've never made anyone go through my back door, and Abby here has an African-American cousin.”

He looked at me with bemusement. “Is that so?”

“Actually, she's a second cousin. But definitely a blood relative.”

“I'm sure I have one of those, too,” he said with just the hint of a smile. “Come in.”

We stepped into a mud room, and then into a large breakfast room, beyond which I could see the makings of an industrial-size kitchen. French doors and floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the breakfast room offered a view of a spectacular garden. A brick walk, flanked by tightly clipped boxwood, led to a large fountain set against a brick wall traced with creeping fig. On either side of the walk in lush profusion grew camellia bushes, cycads, and a species of dwarf palm with strikingly blue fronds. But it was definitely the fountain that was the eye-catcher.

“That's Leda and the swan,” I said aloud.

“Very good,” Bubba Johnson said.

We shook hands.

“What's that girl doing with the swan?” Wynnell asked. “Swans can be dangerous.”

“The swan is raping her,” I said. “It's from the poem by William Butler Yeats. After being raped, Leda produces an egg that contains three babies, two boys and a girl. The girl is Helen of Troy.”

“I thought that was a movie with Brad Pitt.”

“Same Helen,” Bubba Johnson said. “Would you ladies care for something to drink? A little sweet tea, maybe, or something stronger if you like.”

“Something stronger,” Wynnell said without
a second's hesitation. My friend is strict Southern Baptist, but only at home.

“Name your poison. I have just about everything.”

Before Wynnell could open her mouth we heard a thundering crash in another room, and seconds later the door to the kitchen was flung open by the maid. Along with her came the stench of ammonia so intense it stung my eyes. Adding to the assault on my senses was a shrill, high-pitched noise at mind-boggling decibels. It was like listening to the Vienna Boys Choir while on speed—not that I've done a whole lot of that, mind you.

“Number fifty-two toppled,” the maid said between gasps.

“What the flock!” Bubba Johnson ran to the door, the maid at his heels.

Not wanting to appear standoffish, Wynnell and I ran after them. What we witnessed that morning was so astonishing, it almost defies description. Lying on the floor of what should have been a dining room were dozens of overturned birdcages. Inside the cages were dozens, maybe hundreds, of chirping birds. A quick glance around the room informed me that the toppled cages had just seconds before been stacked from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling. Other stacks of cages covered the walls like three-dimensional wallpaper. And there were stacks of cages in the middle of the room as
well, although a number of them had been knocked to the floor.

It is hard to say how many birds had been liberated by this unfortunate event, or how many were flying free to begin with, but the air was filled with them. It was also filled with floating feathers and falling excrement. Wynnell and I were content to stand in the doorway and stare.

Bubba Johnson turned and saw us. “Get the hell out of my house!” he roared.

“W
hat was that all about?” Wynnell asked, badly shaken.

I was balancing on the seawall again, this time trying to look into Bubba Johnson's front windows. No luck. The heavy drapes may as well have been walls.

“I don't think he was lashing out at us,” I said. “He was just upset about the cages falling over.”

“No, I meant what's with all the birds? That's more than just a hobby. That's even more than a business. Do you think it's some kind of fetish?”

“A fetid fetish? I think you mean obsession. It's definitely that. It's a danger all collectors face. I knew a woman who collected Raggedy Anne dolls and memorabilia. She finally had to declare bankruptcy. At that time, she had over five thousand dolls and was thirty thousand dollars in debt.”

“Dolls, I can see. Birds, I can't.”

“People collect matchbooks, sheet music, orchids, palm trees, cars—anything you can think of. Even husbands. There's that unbeatable excitement of the next acquisition.”

“It sounds like you know from experience, Abby.”

“Merely observation. Well, at least we know why Mr. Johnson was interested in the birdcage. It was unique, and it was bird-related. That was enough.”

“Where to next, Abby? The beautiful blonde named George Murphy?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, and jumped from the seawall to the sidewalk.

Unfortunately, my body objected to the rude jolt, forcing me to limp back to the car.

 

George Murphy was a licensed physical therapist who worked at the Lowcountry Arm and Shoulder Therapy on Ben Sawyer Boulevard in Mount Pleasant. To get there we had to cross the Cooper River. This is, by the way, one of the most important rivers in the world. At the southern end of the Charleston peninsula, the Cooper joins with the Ashley River, where together they form the Atlantic Ocean. That this important piece of geography is not taught in classrooms is yet another sign of the great power the Northern States continue to wield. While it's not on the tip of my tongue at the moment, I do remember reading about the
two rivers that come together to form the Pacific Ocean. Do you see what I mean?

At any rate, Mount Pleasant, which lacks a mountain, was until just two decades ago a sleepy, moss-festooned fishing village. Today it is home to thousands of retirees, many of whom were fortunate enough to cash in on their nest eggs while still in their fifties, and before the dot-com crash. With money to burn, and in relatively good health, this new generation of retirees eschews rocking chairs for golf, jogging, tennis, and that most revered physical activity, “the workout.” But where there are workouts, there are injuries, and thus in Mount Pleasant there exists a plethora of physical therapists.

I'd confirmed over the phone that George Murphy was indeed a woman. My purpose for calling, I told her, was that I was having second thoughts about the birdcage. She got off at four and agreed to meet Wynnell and me at the Starbucks in the Barnes & Noble in Towne Center. She described herself as blond and ordinary looking, but the blonde at Starbucks at the appointed hour was a woman who looked like a young Dolly Parton. I, who have never had a hankering for other women, found that it was almost impossible to look her in the eyes.

“Mrs. Washburn?” she asked.

“George?”

She had an easy, pleasant laugh. “It was my
mother's maiden name. She loved her daddy very much and wouldn't even consider Georgia, or anything like that. I've kind of gotten used to it.”

I introduced Wynnell, who was similarly transfixed by the woman's attributes. In fact, my dear friend couldn't look at George at all, so although her head was turned in the young therapist's direction, Wynnell's eyes were doing something her mother had no doubt warned her against as a child.

“She suffers from a rare disease known as putyoureyesbackinyourheaditis,” I explained to George.

“I do not!” Wynnell said.

“Forgive her,” I said. “It's the medication. Would you care for some coffee or a snack, Miss Murphy? My treat, of course.”

She allowed as how she did, so we all got lattes and scones before cornering the most secluded table. While I did the hostess thing and removed a pile of magazines from the table, Wynnell slid in next to George Murphy. I was thereby forced to confront the Himalayas head on, or settle for a side view, which was even more unsettling. I chose the tips of twin peaks.

“George,” I said, “you're probably wondering why we asked you to meet us here.”

“No, ma'am. You said it was about the birdcage. That you'd changed your mind.”

“I said I was having second thoughts. I didn't say I'd changed my mind.”

“Oh, that's okay.” She took a long sip of her latte and smiled. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what was going on. To have made it to the final five contending for the Taj took fast and furious bidding. It showed she was serious about owning that splendid work of art. But now suddenly she didn't care about it? What was up with that?

“George, don't you want the Taj Mahal?”

“The what?”

“The fancy birdcage.”

“Yeah, well I did want it. But that was then, this is now. Hey, have you guys seen that new movie everyone's talking about?”

“
Scary Movie Six
?”

“No, I think it's called
Blonde, Blonder, and Blondest
. Hey, would you guys like to go?”

“Excuse me?” Wynnell said.

“We can see another one if you want. The Palmetto Grande theater is just around the corner.”

“I know where it is,” Wynnell said. “I just can't figure out—”

“How we could possibly fit it into our schedule for today,” I said.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“If we have an opening, I'll give you a call,” I said. I made a show of looking at my watch. “Goodness me, look what time it is already. If
we don't hurry, Wynnell, we're going to be stuck in rush hour traffic.”

“But Abby, most of the rush hour traffic at this time of the day is coming
into
Mount Pleasant, not—”

George gasped. “Ouch!”

Silly me. I'd tried to kick Wynnell, but in sliding down into my chair in order to reach, I'd inadvertently changed course by a few inches. It was George's knee my tootsie jabbed.

They say the best defense is a good offense, but I'd like to suggest flight as a solution. Unfortunately Wynnell had yet to start on her scone, so I had to grab her by the arm and pull her from Barnes & Noble.

“What the heck is going on, Abby?” she demanded as I virtually stuffed her into my car.

“That buxom blonde is trying to stall, that's what.”

“You're not making any sense, Abby. Did you slip a little something special into your latte?”

“I did not! Think about it, Wynnell. Why would a complete stranger invite us to the movies with her?”

“Because she likes us?”

“Think again. She's trying to keep us away from the Den of Antiquity as long as possible.”

“Now you're being paranoid, Abby.”

“C.J.!” I dialed the shop number, and when I got the answering machine, I left a cryptic mes
sage, commanding my assistant to lock the doors and stay put. Then I tried to dial her cell phone.

“No answer either place?” Wynnell asked, her unibrow bunched together again.

“She could be using the restroom,” I said, trying to keep hope afloat. I couldn't press the pedal to the metal in traffic that heavy, but I did try to drive nine miles above what the law allows. In my experience, it's that tenth mile that will get you the ticket. But both lanes on Route 17 southbound were bumper-to-bumper and, for some inexplicable reason, moving along at well below the speed limit. I was about to bust a gut with frustration.

“It's a Yankee plot,” Wynnell said, shaking her head.

“What is?”

“This traffic jam—all these retirees. Sure, they sent down a few carpetbaggers after they won the War of Northern Aggression, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. They were really just biding their time until air-conditioning was invented. Now they send us their old folk by the thousands, maybe even millions, and there is nothing we can do to stop them. If we were still the Confederate States of America, we could refuse them visas.”

“Now who's being paranoid?”

“Oh, Abby, I was just kidding. You know that.”

“As much kidding as you think you can get away with, given that one of your granddaddies hailed from north of the Line.”

My buddy snorted and crossed her arms. It bothers her something fierce that she's not one hundred percent Dixie. But all was forgiven, if not forgotten, when we pulled into my private parking space behind the Den of Antiquity.

“C.J.,” I cried, letting myself in the back entrance, “are you all right?” Wynnell was right on my heels, sometimes literally.

We were still in the storeroom when we heard the loud, off-key sounds that signify the big galoot is attempting to sing. Although I've never heard one, this noise brings to mind a donkey in heat. At any rate, I was right: C.J. was in the john.

I pounded on the door. “Are you okay?”

The door opened unexpectedly, and I staggered backward, knocking over a stack of dining room chairs. If Wynnell hadn't been so quick to react, I could have spent the rest of the summer in traction.

C.J. grinned with delight at seeing us. “Hey guys, what's up?”

“You,” I said between pants. “Why didn't you answer the phone?”

“Don't be silly, Abby. You know the cord doesn't reach that far. You should buy a cordless phone, like I keep telling you.”

“What about your cell phone? I tried to call that, too.”

She shook her giant head. “Everybody knows that talking on cell phones in bathrooms is dangerous. Abby, I'm surprised you'd even suggest such a thing.”

“It's not dangerous. Tell her, Wynnell.”

“I'm having too much fun watching,” Wynnell said.

“You see, she knows. But I guess I can't blame you, Abby, because I didn't know either until Cousin Olea Ledbetter slipped away.”

I refused to respond.

“She'd taken her cell phone into the bathroom with her, you see, and was standing on the seat, because she could get better reception that way. Suddenly she slipped and slid right down that hole. Her husband had to break down the door, and all he found was the cell phone floating in the bowl.”

“Are you sure that wasn't Cousin Olive Oyl Ledbetter?” I asked.

“You don't need to be mean, Abby. You know Cousin Olive Oyl died by choking on a pit.”

The outside front buzzer rang, and I had never been so happy to answer it in my life. I literally left Wynnell and C.J. behind in the dust (my storeroom needs a thorough cleaning). But my steps slowed when I saw the navy blue uniforms of Charleston's finest through the beveled glass. Good news, I've learned, most often comes by phone. Bad news begs to be delivered in person. One major exception, I
am told, is Publisher's Clearing House. I'll have to take someone's word for that.

I turned the dead bolt slowly. My stomach turned as well.

“Yes, Officer Tweedledum?” I used his real name, of course.

“Police business,” he said.

“Duh!” I said cheerfully. With enough forced cheer, one can get away with saying just about anything. It's much like saying “bless your heart,” but with fewer words.

For a moment they were so relieved to be in from the blistering heat that they acted almost human. “I'm glad to see you've taken precautions,” Officer Tweedledee said.

“Say, you wouldn't happen to have any cold sodas on hand, would you?” Officer Tweedledum asked. I believe that's the longest string of nonhostile words the man has ever spoken to me.

“Sorry, I don't. But I can send my assistant out for some.”

“Yes, please,” they said in unison.

“Would you like her to bring back a couple of Krispy Kremes as well?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke, ma'am?”

What a relief. It was business as usual. No more worrying about the Stepford police.

“C.J.,” I called. “Come here, please.”

“In a minute, Abby.”

“Come now, please.”

“No can do, Abby. Wynnell and I are arm wrestling.”

I shrugged. “Good help is hard to find these days,” I said, stalling the inevitable.

“Mrs. Washburn, I think you should sit down,” Officer Tweedledee said in a rare moment of kindness.

My knees were suddenly incapable of holding up a mynah bird, much less ninety-eight pounds. I stumbled backward until my bottom connected with a Shaker chair. It took every ounce of strength for me to hoist my patootie, petite as it may be, up to the seat.

“It's about Mama, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid it is.”