Poison Ivory (13 page)

The man in green plaid reached into his inner breast pocket and withdrew a business card. “My name is Pembroke Manning,” he said. “I teach a class on appraising antiques through the Continuing Education Department of the College of
Charleston. Perhaps you would like to register for the spring semester.”

“But I—I’m not—”

“She’s not able to sit through a class,” I said. “She’s got that ‘going urge.’ You’ve seen the commercials, right? But in her case the medication doesn’t work.”

I slipped my petite paw into the crook of his arm and tugged him gently away from a gasping Crawford. “So tell me, Mr. Manning, how long have you been attending these fabulous productions of Lady Bowfrey?”

Pembroke Manning’s sexual preference was none of my business, but I got the sense that he was a latent heterosexual. That is to say, he may have been retired from the force awhile, but he seemed eager to reenlist.

“I’ve been coming every week now for the past year and a half. I only teach my class at night, you see. And that’s only on Wednesday nights, at the Sheppard’s Center. I’d have asked you, but you’re obviously not in that age group.”

“Obviously—oh, but I am. I mean, I
am
very interested in antiques. Are you a professional collector, Mr. Manning?”

“
Was
. I had a store up in Camden, and another in Columbia, but I got out of the business a couple of years ago when my daughter and her husband decided to settle down and take over the store in Columbia. So I sold the store in Camden and moved down here. I’ve always loved the coast. There’s nothing like it, if you ask me.”

“No siree, bob. Well, Mr. Manning, it’s very nice talking to you, but I think I better go help my friend find a lavatory. Or does Lady Bowfrey supply those as well?”

“No, ma’am, but I live just catercorner from here—where you see those tall palms on either side of the front door. Your friend is welcome to use my bathroom.”

“How very nice of you,” I said wickedly. “And how very lucky of you to have such a generous woman as Lady Bowfrey as a neighbor.”

I felt the tendons in his thin arm tighten. “One might say that. Then again, if we, her immediate neighbors, did not partake of this weekly bounty, then we would feel used, wouldn’t we?”

“Clara!” Wynnell called. “You mother wants us inside.”

I forced a smile. “Just a minute, dear.” I turned back to Pembroke Manning. “Would you care to explain, dear?”

W
ell, you see those humongous trucks that are all but blocking the street? Of course you do; you can probably see them from the space station. At any rate, those things come like clockwork every Tuesday around midnight so the crew can set up. With the lights and the noise, it’s like setting up a carnival. Believe me, if I had my druthers, I’d rather stay home and eat a bowl of cereal after first getting a good night’s sleep. I’m not a complaining man, Miss Clara, but I have to teach tonight.”

Miss Clara?
Who did he think I was? An octogenarian? I was only a faux sexagenarian, for crying out loud! Still, I knew I had better bite my tongue for the sake of my investigation.

“How do the other neighbors feel about this?” I asked sweetly.

“They’re pissed as heck too—well, some of them. Others can’t wait to kiss her behind. They think that because she’s rich, somehow kissing up to her will benefit them as well. But I’m telling
you, she’s laughing down at all of us from her ivory pagoda.”

“Say what?”

“That monstrosity of a house. Doesn’t it look like a pagoda to you?”

“I would have described it as a three-story beach house with recessed floors. But yes, it is sort of ivory-colored. About those trucks and that terrible racket, have you tried talking to her?”

“Abby!” Wynnell shouted.

I pretended not to hear. “We have, but she insists that they’re necessary. We even presented her with a straw poll saying that we preferred no breakfast over a sleepless Tuesday night, but she just scoffed. So our last step was to take it to the city council, but suddenly we lost three-quarters of our backers. Turncoats, that’s what they are. You can hear them all in there now.”

“Do you suspect her of bribing your neighbors somehow?”

Mr. Manning spit on the grass next to the sidewalk. That’s when I disengaged from his arm.

“
Suspect?
She owns an apartment building in Orlando. She sent an invitation to everyone on the block inviting them to sign up for free time shares there with complimentary passes to Disneyworld. How could we refuse?”

“
You
signed up as well?”

“Yes, but I still have a right to grumble. This is America.”

I didn’t bother to excuse myself.

I must say that the food was excellent. It was prepared inside the grand dame’s house and rushed outside under sterling silver domes. Nothing was ever too cold, or too warm, or lacking. It was the first buffet that I’d attended where I didn’t feel like I had to hunt around to find a “good piece,” or else feel guilty that I’d taken the last recognizable serving of that particular selection.

Not that I got much of a chance to actually eat. My new mother trotted me around the tables, proudly introducing me to a bazillion folks, none of whom seemed to care a stuffed fig’s worth about meeting me. I got the impression that Dora, bless her heart, had outlived anyone who remembered that she had a daughter. Either that or the real Clara van Aswegen’s contemporaries had moved away to larger towns, seeking opportunities that a sleepy fishing village in that day couldn’t provide.

The only person who showed any interest at all was the indomitable Lady Bowfrey. When Dora brought me over, the self-proclaimed empress with the chopsticks in her hair snapped her pudgy fingers. The music stopped abruptly.

“Clara,” she said, letting the word roll off her tongue almost like a European would. “Welcome home.”

I had the urge to curtsy, but wisely refrained. “Thank you.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Well—I—”

“She’s on her way to see the Dalai Lama,” Dora said. “It’s all very hush-hush, but when this particular assignment is over, you’ll be retiring, won’t you dear?” She put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed.

Lady Bowfrey closed one eye and regarded me with the other, which was now as round as a marble. “The Dalai Lama? I hope you’re not involved with this free Tibet nonsense. You know, of course, that Tibet never was anything other than a province of China. All you have to do is look at a map to see that.”

“I beg to differ. The Tibetan culture is distinct: first of all, the language is Tibetan, not Mandarin—”

The round eye narrowed. “Really, Clara, perhaps you should limit your conversations to subjects upon which you are qualified to comment.”

That did it; that hiked my hackles—petite as they might be. “
Miss
Bowfrey, is it possible that your defense of Communist China is predicated on the fact that you do extensive business with them?”

Until that second I was unaware that virtually everyone in the tent, waitpersons included, was paying avid attention to our conversation. Now I could feel their eyes boring into my back. I tried to take a deep slow breath, but all the available oxygen had already been sucked from the air.

“You will not call me ‘Miss,’” the grand dame hissed, as loud as an overheated boiler, one that
might explode imminently. “In fact, you will never call me anything again, because you will leave this tent!”

Although she was unable to rise to her feet in her majestic and righteous wrath, Lady Bowfrey flung a great arm in the direction of the nearest tent flap. The movement of all that flesh created a small breeze, and a lifelong desire to refuse that third piece of Domino’s pizza.

Dora’s arm slipped from my shoulder. “My daughter isn’t herself today,” she said. She spoke so softly that the folks nearest the buffet tables rose in their seats in order to better hear our conversation. “She flew in from Quito, Ecuador, last night; she’s suffering from jet lag.”

“Foolish woman,” Lady Bowfrey said scornfully to Dora. “How stupid do you think I am? Quito is in the same time zone as Charleston. Therefore you shall leave as well. I don’t know what sort of scam the two of you are pulling, but I sure as heck can tell bad stage makeup when I see it. Whoever did this shouldn’t even be allowed near a high school play.”

Wynnell had been lurking within easy earshot, and I glanced over to see her reaction. As I suspected, the poor dear was crushed. Absolutely humiliated. I looked away quickly, so as not to draw attention to her, but alas, some folks were already making the connection.

“You’re despicable,
Miss
Bowfrey,” I said, and grabbing Dora by an arm, dragged her out of the tent and away from the sideshow that one
exceedingly wealthy newcomer had managed to create in an otherwise still very pleasant town.

Wynnell joined us on a run, her head down.

My heart broke for Wynnell. I honestly thought she’d done a masterful job. What’s more, she’d passed the “Bob test” with flying colors. To be so cruelly exposed in front of a hundred or more people was just more than she could bear. Before we even got back to Dora’s house she was crying so hard I had to help her walk. When we got there, we made her lie on the sofa, with her head elevated, while I called Ed and Dora made us all cups of herbal tea.

Ed, bless his heart, was Johnny-on-the-spot. He was also a very convincing liar, or else he too didn’t know who I was. At any rate, after he and Wynnell left, I stayed long enough to have a second cup of herbal tea while I tried to comfort poor Dora. The Wednesday morning breakfasts had been the highpoints of her weeks. They were the only thing she looked forward to anymore—except for Heaven.

Dora told me that she was a Presbyterian born and bred. She told me that her church was only two blocks away. However, lately the Presbyterian Church seemed to have gotten a mite too liberal in its views, so she was thinking of joining the Mount Pleasant Episcopalians. What did I think about homosexuals?

“I think that some are tall, some are short, some
are fat, some are thin, some are kind, some are mean—” My phone rang. “Excuse me, Dora.” I turned away for a modicum of privacy. “Greg, this isn’t a good time.”

“Hon, turn on
Charleston Chats
right now.”

“Huh?”

“The talk show; you’re on it.” He hung up.

I must admit that my brain misfired a few times, but within a crucial thirty seconds I managed to convince Dora to turn on the nearest television. The timing was perfect.

“Welcome back to
Charleston Chats
,” a young beautiful black woman said. “I am your hostess, Keesha Pinckney, and today I’m talking to Pagan Willifrocke, private eye extraordinaire. Pagan has been on a secret assignment to ferret out a possible gang of ivory smugglers. Pagan, tells us specifically, how you set about doing this.”

And there indeed was Pagan Willifrocke with her flowing blond tresses and her movie star good looks. She had the temerity to toss those locks and smile coyly before beginning her breathy explanation.

“Well, Keesha, I knew that contraband ivory—lots, of it—was entering the Port of Charleston. I just didn’t know who the mastermind was. Then I read an ad in the
Post and Courier
that seemed as if it might have been written by the mastermind herself. So I agreed to meet this person for dessert at Poogan’s Porch.”

I gasped.

“Were you wired?” Keesha asked.

“You betcha.”

I staggered to the closest chair. It was already taken by Dora, so I sat on the armrest.

“Would you mine playing that tape for us?”

“I’d be delighted.”

I couldn’t push the Off button fast enough. “Uh—that wasn’t who you think it is,” I said to Dora. “Miss Sweathog—what kind of childish stunt is that?”

“Why Abby, that was you!”

“No way, José! I mean, how can you be sure?”

She eyed me warily for the first time. I could almost hear her heart race as she leaned away from me in the chair.

When I called Greg back he told me the boat was still docked in Shem Creek and I should meet him there. Since I was only five minutes away, I expected him to waiting for me—or at least for the cabin door to be unlocked. Understandably, then, I rapped rather sharply on the glass pane with my car keys.

Booger opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Hey, Booger,” I said as I tried to slip past him.

Booger blocked the door with his sturdy frame. “Whoa there, little lady. We ain’t buying none of what you’re selling today.”

“I’m not selling anything, Booger; let me in.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He started to close the door.

It’s a little known fact that Booger and George W. were twins separated at birth, and therefore only God and a stick of dynamite can get them to change their minds once they’re made up. When I saw that door starting to close, I knew I had no choice but to act. Despite the fact that I was wearing a skirt, I threw myself at the space left open by his knock-knees. My head made it though, as did my shoulders, but alas, my hips acted as bumper stoppers. To any slightly inebriated tourist who happened to be strolling along the dock that morning, it might have looked as if a bowlegged deckhand was riding a squat pony—backward.

Of course at that very moment Greg came charging up the stairs that led from the hold. “What the heck?”

Booger struggled to turn around, and in the
effort stepped on my foot. “This woman just barged in here. You think she’s a terrorist?”

Greg stared me in the eyes. “Yes,” he drawled. “I believe she is.”

By then I was all the way inside and on my feet. “I am not a terrorist!”

“Booger,” Greg said. “Close the door and prepare to cast off. We’ll take this one out to the Gulf Stream, give her a life vest, and if the sharks don’t get her, she gets a free ride all the way up to the coast of Scotland. Did you know, ma’am, that they can grow palm trees on the coast of Scotland thanks to the Gulf Stream?”

“Greg,” I screamed. “It’s me, Abby!”

My beloved laughed merrily, but poor Booger was blown away. “What the heck is going on?” he said. His expression reminded me of C.J.’s cousin Orville, who got his head stuck in a window fan for a mite longer than he’d planned.

“It really is my Abby,” Greg said, enfolding me in his arms. He smelled like a combination of diesel fuel, ship’s paint, and fish, but with a slight overtone of Liquid Plummer.

“Well I’ll be dippity-doodled and hornswaggled,” Booger said. “And here I thought you was just some pushy old lady trying barge her way in.”

“And now,” Greg said, “you know that she’s
my
old lady, right?”

“Right.”

“Booger,” I said, “if I weren’t a lady, I’d punch you in the nose.” I caught my breath. “So guys, what gives? Why are you still in port?”