The Cane Mutiny (13 page)

“Bless your heart,” I said. “So, if you sell me this cane, you can stick it to the Colonel?”

“Exactly.”

“It must be very special. But why me? Why not sell it to any number of area dealers that have a
higher profile than myself? Like, for instance, Hermione Wou-ki who owns The Jade Smile.”

“Because Beauregard didn't flirt shamelessly with her in front of my eyes.”

“Actually, only one of the eyes was yours. The other belongs to a warthog.”

“A small point, but one taken. There is another reason, as well. But I can't discuss it here. I have tomorrow afternoon off. Could you meet me at Magnolias restaurant for tea? Say, four o'clock?”

“Actually, I'm very busy right now. Something unexpected landed in my bag—I mean, on my plate.”

“Abby, this is extremely important. I can't emphasize how much.”

“I understand, but sometimes a gal just has to say no.” That, I believe, is one of the most difficult life lessons I've had to work on to date.

“Did I mention tea was on me?”

Now that irritated me. Magnolias is a fine restaurant, and the chef is guilty of making the world's tastiest crème brûlée, but one doesn't have to sell one's firstborn to afford taking tea there. Frankly, I was a mite offended by her offer. Did I look like I couldn't afford even dinner at Magnolias? I may not buy couture, but I do buy most of my things at Dillard's and Neiman Marcus.

“I can afford to pay for myself, thank you. But
you still don't understand. I don't have time at this point in my life.”

“Abby, it's a matter of life and death. You must do it.”

T
he “must” word rattled my teeth like a Yankee saber. “I think I heard wrong.”

“No, you didn't. Abby, it is imperative that we meet somewhere more private. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Roberta, I don't have time for any more of y'all's shenanigans. The two of you should be ashamed of yourselves for dragging a stranger into your bizarre War of the Roses. And to think I missed out on a perfectly good opportunity to watch some Greek eye candy go by.”

“They weren't Greek, they were Albanian.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I know that ship's registry. I even recognized some of the crew.”

“From this far away?”

“I have a thing for faces, Abby. I never forget one, even if I just see it at a distance. That's really why I'm here.”

“Really, Roberta, I've got to get going.”

My answer was to walk away. Unfortunately a tour bus had just disgorged a horde of pale panting bodies from one of the square states, and a quick, graceful exit was out of the question.

“Excuse me,” I said as I tried to squeeze my way out of a fortress of hot flesh.

“Okay,” she called at my retreating back, “I'll tell you now! Some of those canes Beauregard bought from you are contraband.”

I turned, but so did the tide of tourists. Apparently someone had spotted a pod of dolphins farther up, toward the Charleston Yacht Club. What had begun as a group of sweaty individuals was now a giant sweaty cell, of which I was the nucleus. The cell swept me along with it until it reached private property and couldn't go any farther. Then it melted like a snowball in Dixie, depositing me on the sidewalk like the product of an unleashed dog. By the time I got back to where I'd left Roberta, she was nowhere to be seen.

I was so frustrated, and angry at myself for having started to walk away from the woman, I could have kicked myself. A few minutes later that's exactly what I did. But first I walked across the street
to White Point Gardens and sat on a bench, under the spreading branches of a live oak tree. It was near the spot where the notorious pirate Stede Bonnet and thirty-nine of his men were hung in 1718. At any rate, before kicking myself, I removed my sandal.

“It would be more effective if you kept your shoe on.”

I whirled. The love of my life was standing there, having materialized out of nowhere, like the ghost of Stede Bonnet. Other than his ability to appear unexpectedly, my beloved shares very little with your average Apparition American. Greg is flesh and blood, and the flesh is very well shaped in my opinion: long and lean, but still muscular. His features are reminiscent of Cary Grant, but his hair is blacker, and his eyes like the finest Kashmir sapphires. He was dressed now in a shirt the color of his eyes, white chinos, and rawhide sandals. It was immediately clear that he had just showered, otherwise the odor of fish would have announced him—either that or a flock of hovering seagulls.

“Darling! What are you doing home so early?”

“Goober got sick,” he said, referring to a nephew who sometimes goes along as a cabin boy. “Abby, how about an early supper?”

“At this hour? It's not even four.”

“Then how about a mid-afternoon snack? There's a crème brûlée at Magnolias that's calling your name.”

“Why did you say that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why Magnolias? And why crème brûlée?”

“Because that's your favorite restaurant, and that's your favorite item on the menu. Or have you changed it again?”

“No, no. I thought maybe you'd overheard.”

“Overheard what?”

I hate lying to the love of my life, but sometimes it just makes life a whole lot easier. “Uh—just some tourist. Darling, don't you hate it the way tourists show up in our white-tablecloth restaurants wearing shorts and tank tops?”

“Men tourists, or sexy young women tourists?”

“Beep, you got the wrong answer.”

“Yes dear, I hate it. How about supper somewhere else?”

“Greg, I need to get back to work.”

“Come on then, I'll drive you back. I'm parked—”

“I have my own car. Thanks.”

“Hon, we need to talk.”

“Later, dear? I'm really in a hurry.”

“Abby, I have a confession to make. Goober did
get sick, but that was last night. I came back into port because your mom called.”

The hair on my neck stood up. I stood up to keep it company.

“She
what
?” Mama knows she is not allowed to bother Greg when he is out shrimping unless there is a genuine emergency, or when she has gift ideas to give my husband. Since it wasn't anytime near my birthday, or Christmas, she could only have called about one thing.

“Hon, we can talk about it here in the park, where my emotions can run wild, or we can discuss it civilly over dessert, in a posh restaurant where I wouldn't dare make a scene.”

“Crème brûlée it is.”

 

Normally, whenever we go to Magnolias we request a window seat so I can people watch. Now I asked for the seat so people could watch Greg. Not that Greg is a bully; he can, however, blow things out of proportion.

We settled into our usual spot. I ordered coffee with my crème brûlée. Greg opted for a fudge cake and ice cream concoction and an imported beer. Under normal circumstances I might have pointed out that I thought it an odd combination. Now I simply smiled and asked to taste the beer when it came.

“Hon,” Greg said, almost before the waitress was out of earshot, “did you really think you could sneak this one past me?”

“Hope can spring eternal in even the smallest breast, can't it?”

“Apparently. Now let's hope that I can help you clear up this mess. Please, babe, start at the beginning and don't leave out anything.
Anything.
”

I did as he asked. Magnolias has excellent service, so I'd finished my dessert before I was done with my tale. Greg, listening intently, interrupted only a few times, and never once pontificated.

“Those two are acting like idiots,” he said, referring to Tweedles Dee and Dum. “They don't have a case and they know it. I'll speak to the chief and have this whole thing dropped by suppertime. I'll make sure Reuben assigns someone competent to investigate the skull, but frankly, it's a nonissue. Gorillas may be one of our closest kin, but they are just animals in the eyes of the law. And even if C.J. is wrong, and the skull proves to be human, there are any number of explanations for it, from
Hamlet
to a first year medical student. Sure, they'll run a computer check, but the odds are that they'll end up giving it back to you.”

“Did you say
Hamlet
?”

“Yeah. I handled a case like it up in Charlotte once. The skull in question had been a prop for a
high school drama department for as long as anyone could remember. Then one day some squeamish parent called the police, but there was nothing for us to do. At least not after the principal found a record saying that the skull had been donated by an alumnus in medical school—almost sixty years earlier.”

“Wow. I never realized—
give it back
?”

Greg grinned. “I was wondering how long it would take for that to sink in.”

“I don't want it back!”

“Then donate it to the College of Charleston Drama Department. They do a fair amount of Shakespeare. Sixty years from now some other squeamish parent can report it.”

I shook my head. “That doesn't seem right. That was once a real person—or a real gorilla, or whatever.”

“If it makes you feel better, we can have it buried. However you want to play it is fine with me.”

Tears filled my eyes. How stupid I'd been for not calling Greg within seconds of opening the gym bag. But how could I have known he'd be so reasonable; more like a friend, or a husband, rather than a stern, bossy parent?

“Thanks, darling,” I murmured.

He reached across the table, grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “My pleasure, hon.” He paused,
massaging the back of my hand with a thumb as coarse as sandpaper. “But you have to promise me two things.”

I snatched back my hand. “Silly me. Of course there would be a catch.”

“No catch, hon. I just want you to promise that you'll stop investigating this case.”

Before promising I took time to blot the tears with a tissue. One of these days I'd learn my lesson and start wearing waterproof mascara.

“What's your second ultimatum?” I asked.

“It's not an ultimatum. I just want you to promise that you won't take any of this out on Mozella. She was just being a good mother. You'd do the same if you thought Susan and Charlie were getting in over their heads.”

“I don't think so. I respect my children.”

Shame on me. I knew that the use of “my” stung Greg. On the other hand, “our” would not have been appropriate since Greg had no part of raising my two children, who are now both adults. Two very nice adults, I might add. Yet someday I fully expected Greg to be the grandfather of my grandchildren. Remarriage, especially when children are involved, can be riddled with minefields, requiring one to tread carefully from time to time. Until now I'd always referred to my children as “the” children, hoping someday to slip in an “our.”

Greg was silent for a time. “Well,” he said at last, “do you agree?”

“Yes, sure, I agree. Greg, I'm sorry—”

“It's all right, hon.”

The tears came again, this time in rivulets, and I had to sop them up with my cloth napkin. If I'd known I was going to cry, I would have asked for a back booth.

“I love you, Greg.”

“I love you too,” he said, and squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.

 

Mama felt so bad that she'd tattled on me to Greg that she stewed the dishrag—that is to say, she cooked up a storm. While I appreciated her effort to make amends, I was a mite put out by the fact that she invited my brother, Toy, and C.J. to dinner. Without asking me first!

“I didn't even know Toy was in town,” I said, trying hard to keep the whine out of my voice.

Toy is my only sibling, and a good deal younger than I am. He is the Prodigal Son to a tee. Not only did Mama clasp this wayward child back to her bosom upon his return from the fleshpots of California, but she totally erased his slate of all his sins. Whereas my minimadre can tell you the exact date and time that I came in after my curfew that
one
time when I was a senior in high school,
she has no recollection that Toy was repeatedly caught smoking pot in his bedroom, and that on two occasions she caught Cindy Lawhorn sneaking out of his window in the morning.

“Sewanee Theological Seminary just started their spring break. Promise you'll be nice to him, Abby.”

“I promise,” I growled. The absurdity of it all was laughable. Toy an Episcopal priest? That was like me trying out for the Olympic high jump team, for heaven's sake. I didn't for a minute believe that it was for Heaven's sake that “Wild Boy Wiggins,” as his friends called him, had chosen this vocation. But whatever the real reason, Mama would never see it for what it was.

No sooner was I done growling than the doorbell rang. A second later it opened, and Toy strolled in as if he had a right to be in my house. Hard on his heels was the irrepressible C.J.

“Ooh, Abby,” she cooed when she saw me, “we were just talking about you.”

“Nothing good, I bet.”

“Of course—ooh, Abby, you're such a tease, you know that?” She gave me a bear hug—one she claims to have learned from a bear—and kissed both cheeks.

Instead of a kiss, Toy gave me a brotherly wink, which was a sure sign that high jinks would
follow. “Abby, it was sheer genius what you did, suggesting to my sweetheart that she invite Wynnell Crawford to man the guest book at our wedding.”

“But I didn't—”

He slapped me on the back. “Always so modest. That's my little sister.”

“I'm your
older
sister,” I growled.C.J. was beaming. “I asked Wynnell, and she said yes. She's also going to make sure that the punch bowl stays filled. And the nut bowls. Ooh, and those little candy hearts.”

I've heard that weddings up North are often followed by elaborate dinners and dancing. This is becoming a trend in the South too, but it used to be that folks were content with cake, punch, and a few finger foods. It seems to me that instead of spending twenty thousand grand, or more, on a dress and a party, those footing the bill should spend the money on a down payment for a house. After all, fi\fty percent of all marriages end in divorce, and the chief cause of divorce is financial problems. But then who am I to comment, seeing that I am divorced? My divorce, however, had nothing to do with money problems, but everything to do with the fact that there were six inches of my ex-husband that could not be domesticated.

“C.J.,” I said, “I'm really glad you've found
something for Wynnell to do. And you'll have her sit up front in the church too, right?”

She nodded her leonine head. “Of course, silly.”

“That's wonderful, C.J. Wynnell considers you her second best friend. Just between you and me, she was hurt to think you'd have a goat as a bridesmaid and not include her.”

“Hey sis,” Toy said with surprising sharpness, “you know that DNA test was inconclusive.”

The next thing I knew C.J. burst into tears and commenced bawling up a storm. I'd never seen the big gal lose it, and I hope to never witness such a spectacle again. The loud rasping sobs drew Mama out of the kitchen, and Greg emerged from our bedroom wrapped in a towel. If only he had thought to bring an extra towel.

I have never in all my born days seen a continent human being lose so much water in such a short time. Fortunately my hardwood floors were sealed, and Toy was a practitioner of the manly, but disgusting, custom of using cloth handkerchiefs. He pulled one from his pocket that was the size of a small sheet and proceeded to mop his beloved's face.