Poison Ivory (14 page)

G
reg and Booger, bless their hearts, had not gone to sea that day because they’d had too much to eat at the Seewee Restaurant on Route 17N the night before. The Seewee, named after a now tragically extinct Indian tribe, serves up the best home cooking south of Norfolk and north of Jacksonville. A fried grouper, a fried flounder, a chicken fried steak, and two basketfuls of hush puppies were no match for the boat’s new plumbing. Once the men got everything shipshape again they collapsed in front of the TV, and that’s when Gregory heard my voice on local chat TV.

“Booger,” Greg said when we were caught up, “seeing as how the morning’s shot, and the tide is running against us, and the wind’s picking up, why don’t we just call it a day?”

“Nah, this ain’t nothing. Besides, we caught ourselves a huge mess of shrimp that time we took Jimmy Estes out with us, and the weather was a lot worse than this.”

“Okay, let me put it another way: I don’t want to go out.”

“But we’ll lose money!”

Greg shook his head and sighed. “Abby, hon, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, dear.”

“No, it’s not,” my husband said, and turned back to his cousin. “Look, Booger, give us ten minutes. And stay inside. If I see the whites of your eyes, I’ll punch you in the nose myself. Is that understood?”

Booger nodded, whereupon Greg took my hand and led me back on deck. Although there was enough of a breeze to raise whitecaps on the distant harbor, the sun felt good on my cheeks. The screams of the swooping sea gulls was music to my ears. In many respects, it was a typical day at Shem Creek—but it was not.

Greg held me tightly for a long time. Then, releasing me slowly, he looked into my eyes once more.

“Abby, what are you up to this time?”

“The truth?”

“The whole truth, and nothing but.”

I gave him an edited, nutshell version, before they cut and pasted snippets so the interview would sound the way Pagan Willifrocke wanted it to sound. My beloved knew me well enough to fill in the blanks and construct the unedited version on his own.

He hugged me again when I was through. “Don’t panic,” he said tenderly. “First of all, she
never used your name, which is a good thing for her. Because since she took your words out of context, she’s made herself open to a lawsuit. But the really good news is, Abby, that your voice isn’t that recognizable over TV.”

“It isn’t?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Maybe a little bit—well, you said to be honest.”

“That’s exactly right. You see, I recognized it right away, and I think that your mother would have—but Booger didn’t. I called my aunt after I called you. She’d seen the show as well. She hadn’t a clue what that little stunt was all about. She said it bored her to tears.”

“Greg, why would Pagan Willifrocke record me like that? Do you think she’s somehow connected to Mr. Curly? To the real smugglers? Or does she just walk around with a microphone in her blouse?”

Greg laughed. “You know, as strange as it might seem, I’d bet dollars to Krispy Kremes on the last one. She was scheduled to appear on the show, and didn’t have anything juicy to talk about, so she was taping everything she could. That woman is a publicity hound pure and simple. Trust me—she’ll go far one of these days.”

“You think she’s pretty?”

“Heck no; she’s gosh darn beautiful.” Actually, Greg’s language was a bit more emphatic than that. Since I prefer instant karma over the
slow variety, I delivered a sharp kick to his shins.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Watch your language when you’re talking to a lady, even if she is your wife. Besides, I’ve seen Pagan close up. Her legendary bosom contains more petroleum by-products than the Exxon Valdez spill, and yes, her hair color is natural—to some species of dried prairie grass.”

“Why Abby, I think you’re jealous of my relationship with someone I haven’t even met.”

“See that you keep it that way, tiger.”

His response was a kiss that nearly removed my tonsils.

The problem is that Greg trusts me too much. Okay, I suppose I could cop to being too hard-headed, but I won’t. Greg’s advice (he knew better than to order me to do anything) was to drive straight home, scrub off all traces of Carla van Aswegen, and eat a nice lunch while I watched
All My Children.
It was, in fact, good advice, and for once I fully intended to follow it, but life got in the way.

The name of this little roadblock was Mama. She’d been gone so much lately that when I walked through my own front door, I nearly had a heart attack to see another woman standing in my living room, dusting the shades on my floor lamps.

“Ack!”

“Why Sadie Sue,” Mama said, “it is about time you showed up.”

I patted my chest. “You about gave me the big one, seeing you standing here.”

“Why on earth should that scare you, Sadie Sue? I live here, remember?”

I eased my tired bottom into the nearest chair, a genuine Louis XIV. “Mama, are you feeling all right?”

“Of course I am. It’s you I’m worried about. You look a trifle peaked. Isn’t all that supposed to be behind you?”

“Mama,”
I whined. Here I was, forty-eight, and still uncomfortable about certain things with my mother.

“Well, you don’t look very happy for a woman who’s spent the last sixty-five years in heaven.”

“What?”

“Frankly, dear, you’re a bit of a disappointment.”

“Mama, what in heaven’s sake are you babbling about?”

“Why that’s just it, dear. On your deathbed, Sadie Sue, you promised to take one peak at Heaven and then come back and tell me if it was worth playing for. So what’s the deal, did they keep you there until it was time—Oh, no you don’t, Sadie Sue! I’m not going anywhere with you!”

Mama turned as white as her famous meringue, and I got the distinct feeling she was going to faint. In a flash it all made sense to me: my minimadre was thinking that I was her long since deceased great-aunt to whom, I’ve been told, I bear a family resemblance.

“Mama!” I shouted. “I’m not your great-aunt Sadie Sue—I’m Abby! I’m your daughter.”

But it was too late. The chain of events that precipitate a proper faint had already been set in motion. I could no more reverse them than I could stop a baby from being born. All I could do was try to minimize the damage to her noggin—and my floor.

I rushed over to Mama and threw my arms around her just as she was going down. She might be an itty bitty woman, but I’m even ittier, so the two of us ended up half on the floor and half sprawled across a sofa cushion I managed to pull off as we made our final descent. She was, of course, on top of me. By the time I pushed free of her, she came moaning back to her senses.

“Abby, is that really you?”

“As big as life, Mama, and twice as ugly.”

“Abby, I’ve always hated that expression, but since nobody but your daddy—may he rest in peace—ever used it, I must therefore conclude that it is indeed you.” She struggled to a sitting position and scrutinized me at arm’s length. “Abby, what year is it? How long have I been asleep?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Come on, Mama. Let me help you up. You haven’t been asleep; this is makeup. Wynnell made me up to look like I was ten years older. I’m also not supposed to be looking like myself, but apparently I do. Greg recognized me, and you saw a family resemblance.”

“Wynnell? What’s going on, dear? You’re not having another one of your adventures without me, are you?”

Bless her heart. Mama sounded positively hurt. She loves my friends and they love her, and there really are times when we all pal around together. But what was I to tell her now? That she could be a part of the investigation if she quit sneaking around with my slimy ex-husband, Buford?

“Mama, you could be part of this investigation, if you weren’t sneaking around with my slimy ex-husband.”

“Aha, so you
are
having an adventure!”

“It’s hardly an adventure, Mama.”

“I guess this explains that handsome young man who came to see you this morning.”

I sat on the couch, and Mama followed suit. “
Who
came to see me? When?”

“He was African American. I don’t like that term, Abby. Not unless you use European American every time you describe a white person. If you don’t, white people become the norm—”

“Mama, I know your feelings on the subject. What did he want? Besides wanting to see me.”

Mama smiled. She wears dresses that have fitted bodices, tightly belted waists, and full circle skirts. They are dresses that Donna Reed and Margaret Anderson would have worn—and of course the Beave’s mom. These are not the kind of clothes that can be bought off the rack; my mother pays Mrs. Castelli good money for
each one. Now where was I? Oh yes, Mama reached down into the fitted bodice of her navy and white polka dot dress and withdrew from the damp prison of her bosom a tightly folded piece of paper.

“He left a message, sweetie. But if you want it, you have to take me with you.”

“Take you where?”

“Wherever it is that you’re going from here. You know that after reading this note you’ll shoot out of here like a bat out of
Hello Dolly.
”

“Mama, that’s blackmail!”

“Indeed it is. I gave birth to you, Abigail; I have the right to take special liberties.”

I sighed. “Okay, I give up. You win.”

Mama giggled as she handed me the note. “Oh Abby, I always have so much fun when we play together.”

“You mean when we almost get killed together?”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss.”

I unfolded the note.

“What the heck?” I said.

“Let me see,” Mama said, and snatched the scrap from my hand. “Abby, what are you doing? You just got arrested for importing illegal ivory—”

“Mama, it’s not what you think. Look, I’m
sorry I scared you earlier, but I really have to go now.”

Mama grabbed a hank of my hair, something she’d never done before, not even when I was a child. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere without me. You promised.”

“But that’s when I thought the note was more promising.”

“Abby, either I’m coming with you or I’m telling Greg what really happened to his car on Christmas Eve.”

“
What?
How’d you know?”

“And before you give your unequivocal no, answer me this: wasn’t I instrumental in apprehending that rug lord up in Rock Hill last year?”

I sighed. “You were invaluable, Mama.”

“Good, then it’s all settled. Just give me a minute to rob my piggy bank. There’s always something worthwhile buying at the market and putting away for Christmas.”

Phillip Canary must have said more than “Hello” and “Boo” to Mama, because she knew exactly which shed to hit, and where in that shed his stall was located. Furthermore, she knew the location of a praline vendor, which was good, because I was starving.

Again the area around his stall was crowded, but we amused ourselves at a nearby pocketbook vendor until Phillip took what looked like a much needed break. At that point two very attractive, much older women showed up.

“Mr. Canary?” one of them asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Sadie Sue Wiggins,” I said. “I’m Abby Timberlake’s, uh—great-great-aunt.”

“No,” Mama said. “That would make her too old, unless she’d be kept on ice—or really
was
back from beyond.”

“I meant to say that I was her aunt. And this”—I poked Mama in the ribs—“is my twin sister Mozella. She has the same affliction that her daughter has, so I’ve come along to act as interpreter.”

“You mean she has that mysterious European castle disease?”

“It’s a syndrome, not a disease. Mr. Canary, my sister wants to know what you plan to do with Abby’s vast ivory collection.”

“So it does exist, does it?”

“Would my daughter lie?” Mama said.

“Well,” Phillip Canary said, “frankly, I’m not interested in buying a vast collection of ivory. I’m more interested in viewing and photographing different pieces, and trying to match them to country of origin. It’s for a research paper I’m writing.” Perhaps I had a funny look on my face, because his gaze zeroed intently in on me. “I guess I forget to tell Abby that I’m getting a master’s degree in Environmental Studies. My thesis is titled ‘The Depletion of Species for the Vanity of Mankind.’”

“No, you didn’t tell me—I mean, Abby,” I said.

He smiled. “You’re one of a kind, Miss Timberlake—whoever you are. And folks think that Savannah has its share of eccentric characters!”

Mama bumped me aside with her crinoline padded hips. “She isn’t the only eccentric Charlestonian, dear, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed all right. You’re definitely one of a kind as well, Mrs. Wiggins. It’s clear to me that in this case the apple didn’t fall far from its tree. But I’m sure that you’re both aware of the fact that, if apples are left lying on the ground too long, they start to decay.”

“Did he just call us rotten apples?” Mama said.

“So how did you know it was me?” I demanded.

“Your eyes; the window to your soul. You’re a woman who approaches life full throttle, Abby. By the time you reach your mother’s age—or thereabouts—your eyes are gonna show a whole lot more than they do now.”

I felt uncomfortable; it was time to leave. “You have certainly been a bushel of surprises yourself, Mr. Canary.”

“That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me what your gig is?”

I glanced around. We were starting to attract a knot of curious onlookers, no doubt attracted to the emotion in our voices. Mama noticed them as well.

“Shoo,” she said, and waved her arms at them like she was chasing chickens off her porch.

Some of the tourists laughed and moved on casually. Others practically ran, and I can’t say that I blamed them. When only the pocketbook vendor was left staring at us, I beckoned Phillip Canary
to stand closer.

“I received an illegal shipment of ivory that was clearly intended for someone else. It came from Hong Kong. It seems that someone in the area is using Charleston as their base for their clandestine ivory importing business. I was hoping to out them with that ad.”