The Cane Mutiny (14 page)

“C.J., sugar,” Mama said, patting her pal's broad back, “what did Abby do to you now?”

“Me?”

C.J. shook her head, but Toy was unable to keep up with her, so we all got soaked. To her credit, the big galoot was able to go from blubbering to lucid speech in two seconds flat.

“Mozella, it isn't your sweet daughter I'm crying about. It's Cousin Zelda.”

“The goat?”

“That's just it; they did a second DNA test and it turns out she isn't a goat at all. She's one hundred and two percent woman.”

“
And
two percent?” I asked.

“Don't even go there,” Toy said quickly. “You don't want to know.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” Mama said. “If Cousin Zelda is a woman, then what's the problem?”

C.J. rolled her eyes. If I ever did that, Mama would slap me—gently, of course. I know that from personal experience.

“You see,” she blurted, “it's an ancient Shelby custom to dress up a goat and include it in the wedding party. That way any bad luck will stick to the goat, and leave the bride and groom alone.”

“You're joking,” Mama said.

“Oh no, Mozella, I would never joke about something that serious. And now that we know for sure Cousin Zelda is a woman, I'm going to
have to buy a real goat and teach it how to walk in heels.”

Perhaps I should have minded my own business at that point, but I felt I couldn't. “C.J., I've been to Shelby, North Carolina, and know for a fact that most of its inhabitants are good, sane people.”

Her lower lip stuck out so far it cast a shadow on her saddle shoes. “And what are you saying, Abby? That I'm not good? That I'm not sane?”

“No, no, of course not. What I'm saying is that—uh, well—”

Greg, bless his heart, couldn't bear to see me flounder. “She's saying that she doubts the good, sane, folks of Shelby bring goats to their weddings.”

“Yeah,” I said.

C.J.'s lip retreated. “I can't believe Granny lied to me like that. She said it was a Shelby custom, and now I know it's just because she wanted Cousin Zelda to be included in all the family weddings.”

“And so she can,” I said.

“All's well that ends well,” Mama said. “Who's ready for dinner?”

“I am,” Toy said. “What are we having?”

“Lamb.”

“Not a ba-a-a-a-d choice,” I said.

O
n mornings he takes the boat out, Greg gets up promptly at four-thirty. I know this not because I hear the alarm ring, but because at 4:35 my sweet husband rolls our ten pound bundle of joy off his chest and onto mine. The bundle, by the way, is Dmitri. I'm nowhere as big, or generous, as Greg. After about five minutes of labored breathing I too roll over and make the poor cat sleep on the bed. Then I sleep until seven.

But the next morning I was awakened by Greg gently touching my shoulder. “Not now,” I said. “I'm too sleepy.”

“Hon, there's someone here to see you.”

I sat bolt upright, simultaneously drawing the sheet up to my neck. “What is it?” I asked, panic racing through every nerve cell in my body. “Is it the kids? Which one? What happened?”

Greg managed a lopsided grin. “Relax, hon, it's not the kids.”

“Oh God, not Mama! I told her not to stop taking her Lipitor.”

“It's not her either. It's you.”

“Me?” The older I got, the more realistic my dreams become. Okay, I wouldn't fight this one. To the contrary, I'd see just how far I could take it without waking up.

“Hon, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

“Greg, darling, scrap the bad news and bring me breakfast in bed, will you? My usual will be fine. Oh, and don't forget to put a yellow rose in the bud vase.”

“Abby, you're dreaming.”

“I know. This could be one of my better ones. Tell you what, when you bring my breakfast tray—oh shoot, I'm not dreaming anymore, am I?”

Greg sat on the bed and stroked my legs through the sheet. “I'm afraid not, hon. Detective Gaspar is waiting in the living room. He said that a woman named Roberta Stanley was found dead in her maid's apartment this morning. She'd been shot to death.”

“That's awful! But what's this have to do with me? I don't know anyone named”—I gulped. “She's dead?”

He nodded. “Apparently you were seen talking to her by the seawall yesterday.”

My heart skipped a beat. “And?”

“And the detective would like to ask you a few questions, that's all.”

“Greg, I didn't do it! I swear.”

He laughed. “That's one of things I love about you, Abby. You're disarming, you know that?”

“Disarming, maybe. But certainly not diabolical. I don't understand why the detective would want to speak to me.”

“Trust me, it's just standard procedure. They're trained to interview anyone who's ever known the victim. You never know what clues will turn up, and sometimes the clues come from the most unlikely sources.”

“That would be me—the unlikely part, at least. I just met Miss Stanley yesterday. She works for Colonel Beauregard Humphrey. You know, the eccentric gentleman from Louisville who looks like Colonel Sanders, but his mustache drags in the mustard.”

Greg's eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Yeah, I know who he is. But you actually
know
him?”

“I only met him yesterday morning. He came into my shop looking for antique canes. It turns out he's one of the people who bid against me at the locked trunk sale.”

“How did you meet the victim?”

The victim again! Greg has been off the force—he used to work up in Charlotte—for a year and
a half, and he still talks about perps and victims.

“I paid the Colonel a visit yesterday afternoon, to ask him why he bid in that auction—he sent her to bid for him—and when I was done talking to him, she followed me to the seawall. I told you that yesterday at Magnolias.”

“I just wanted to be sure that was the first time you met her.” I started to speak, but he lovingly shushed me. “In that case, you have nothing to worry about.”

I never thought I did—until then. Moving quickly, I slipped into some capris and a T-shirt, washed my face, and dragged a brush through my hair. But I hesitated before putting on lipstick. Did I want to appear pitiful for this so-called interview, or as pretty as time permitted? I opted for pitiful. Let the detective know he'd roused me from the deep sleep that only comes with innocence. Besides, I certainly didn't want him to think I was vamping it up for his benefit.

 

I needn't have worried. Detective Gaspar was oblivious to any of my possible charms. He looked like he'd been up all night and was badly in need of caffeine. I coaxed him into letting me make a pot of coffee (strong enough to stand a spoon in), and after serving him, poured myself a cup. Greg,
who'd asked to be present, preferred to nurse a diet cola.

“Fire away,” I said pleasantly when we'd all settled in around the dining room table with our beverages.

“Abby!”

Detective Gaspar managed a feeble smile. “It's all right, sir. Your wife has a right to feel inconvenienced.”

I kept my smug smile to myself. “What I meant to say, Detective, is that I'm ready for your questions.”

He took a sip of black java. “This is really good, by the way. Not like the weak stuff I get at the station because we have to cut corners.”

“Cutting corners results in an oval, in which case you should be drinking Ovaltine.”

Greg groaned. “Sorry, Detective, she needs at least a cup before she comes to her senses.”

“Make that a pot,” I said. I have, in fact, had two-pot days.

“Ma'am,” Detective Gaspar said, without wasting another second, “the first question I have is: what is your relationship, if any, to the deceased?”

Deceased? Greg was right after all. Victim was a much more descriptive term for a woman who'd been murdered. Decease was what one did when nature took its course.

“We had no relationship. I only met her yesterday afternoon.”

Detective Gaspar scanned the sheet of paper in front of him. “Was this a business meeting?”

“No. She followed me from the Colonel's house to the seawall. She wanted to tell me something. She wanted us to meet at Magnolias.”

“Do you have any idea what she wanted to talk to you about?”

“No—only that she said it was a matter of life and death.”

I could hear Greg gasp softly.

“You didn't ask for any details beforehand?”

“She wouldn't give any. Look, Detective, this is a woman who hid behind a warthog's head to spy on a man she's been in love with since before you were born. Both of them are nuttier than pecan pies.”

He jotted something down. “How long have you known the Colonel?”

“I've seen him around town a lot, but I only met him yesterday morning when he came into my shop looking for canes.”

“Canes? What sort of canes?”

“Walking sticks. Apparently there are some very beautiful and valuable canes. I'm afraid that's something I didn't know anything about either until yesterday morning.”

He jotted more things down. “Mrs. Washburn,
how would you describe the Colonel's relationship with the deceased?”

“You tell me. You're the one with the spies.” I put a hand to my face. “Oops. I didn't mean to sound quite that snide.”

“Yes, you did,” Greg said. He turned to Detective Gaspar. “That's one of the things I love about her.”

“Yes, sir.” The poor man looked anguished. “Mrs. Washburn, how long did you know that the deceased and Colonel Humphrey were—well, having an affair?”

“I learned that yesterday afternoon. From the deceased herself. Except that she was very much alive then. Detective, now I have a question for you. How is that you know about my conversation at the seawall? Surely I wasn't a suspect then. I mean, that was before the deceased ceased to be, as it were.”

I've no doubt that the detective squirmed inside his skin. “Uh—Mrs. Washburn, I'm sure you understand that I am not free to divulge this information while the investigation is ongoing.” He set his coffee cup on a stone coaster and stood. “But I do appreciate your time. And if anything occurs to you—anything at all—that may be useful to us, please give me a call. And thanks for some excellent coffee, by the way.”

“She liked to flirt with sailors and knew some of the ships by registry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We both like to wave at sailors. Sometimes they wave back.”

Greg's grin dissolved with a quiver. “You do?”

“Well, it's such a harmless thing. It's not like winking at a man at a stoplight—not that I do that, mind you. I mean, a sailor can't very well jump off a ship and follow you home.” Then, knowing that Greg was a teensy bit jealous, I added, “To make passionate love with you.”

The detective, bless his heart, was clueless. “Are you saying that Miss Humphrey was a sexual addict?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Because I've heard of such things, Mrs. Washburn. And not just on Oprah Winfrey. These things do happen. I know it for a fact.”

“Of course.”

“Mama couldn't help herself—it's a disease, you know—but it like to tore my heart out every time I found a new one in the house. Imagine coming home from a ball game, and you're just a kid, and there's your mama with a complete stranger. It's no wonder Daddy left her. She always swore she'd never do it again, but then—”

“Detective Gaspar, I think Miss Stanley was
only flirting with the sailors. She was deeply in love with the Colonel.”

He quickly rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “She was?”

“Does that surprise you? You've talked to the Colonel, haven't you?”

“I'm not allowed to discuss my investigation with a civilian,” he said. Nonetheless he nodded to let me—and especially Greg—know that he had talked with the Colonel.

“Thank you for coming, Detective,” I said. I meant it as a cue that he should leave.

Detective Gaspar needed no further coaxing. When he was gone, Greg came over and put his arms around me.

“You're amazing, Abby, you know that?”

“How so?”

“It's obvious that this Gaspar guy is a rookie, but still, you dispatched him like a pro. You sure you haven't lived a secret life of crime?”

“Pretty sure. Greg, do you think that's the end of it?”

He looked down at me with those azure eyes that are incapable of lying. “We'll see.”

“That means no. It isn't fair. If Tweedledee and Tweedledum hadn't been so incompetent, I would never have ended up in the slammer with a hearing scheduled, which means I never would have
met Roberta Stanley, and I wouldn't be connected with her grisly murder.”

He squeezed me tight, and I could smell fish through his cologne. “The Tweedles are getting what's coming to them. You have my word on that. And as for this—well, you know I'll stand by you.”

“Stand by your woman,” I sang.

Despite what I've been told is a pleasant voice, I'm a terrible singer. Dmitri, who just emerged from the bedroom and had begun to wrap around our legs, took off to hide in the kitchen. My caterwauling also woke Mama, who stumbled out from her bedroom.

“What's going on, dear? Abby, are you all right? I heard the most awful sound.”

“She started to sing,” Greg said.

“Oh,” Mama said.

It irritated me that Greg should betray me. At the same time I was grateful that he hadn't thought it necessary to reveal anything about Detective Gaspar's visit. But what really hiked my hackles was the fact that Mama had called my singing awful. She's a Mercy Member of Grace Episcopal Church. By that I mean every time she opens her mouth to sing, folks say, “Mercy, me.”

“Whassup,” Toy said, stumbling out of the guest bedroom, with C.J. on his heels. He was
wearing only a towel, and all C.J. had on was an extra large T-shirt.

Whassup is that I was about to have a heart attack. My eyes bulged and my mouth hung open so long my gums began to dry. Finally I found my voice. Make that a mere fragment of it.

“What are you guys doing here?” I squeaked.

“Now Abby,” Mama said, “don't go getting your knickers in a knot.”

“At least I'm wearing knickers! Would anyone care to explain what's going on?”

“Go easy, hon,” Greg said, which was like spilling gasoline on a fire.

“I said, ‘Would anyone care to explain what's going on?'”

Mama grabbed her pearls and began rotating them around her neck. “Well, dear, you went to bed early last night, and the rest of us stayed up to play a couple hands of hearts. But I kept winning, and nobody wanted to quit, so we played longer than we intended. Then it got to be kind of late, so I asked C.J. if she wanted to stay over. And once I'd done that, I couldn't very well send my own son home that late, so I asked him to stay, and—say, dear, would you like me to cook breakfast? I'll make stuffed French toast, just like they serve at IHOP.”

“I'll have some,” Toy said.

I glared at my brother. “Stuff the toast! Am I to understand that you and C.J. shared a room?”

“Hey chill, sis.”

I turned to Mama, the cause of this morning's fracas. “Mama, how could you?”

“How could I what, dear?” She knew darn well, or else her pearls wouldn't have been twirling at the speed of light.

“You never, ever, let me have a sleepover guest of the opposite sex. Not even Greg. Remember the time the ice storm trapped us at your house before we were married? You gave me the guest room and made him sleep on the couch.”

“But that was different, dear.”

“Yes, that was me, and this is Toy. He gets special dispensation.”

“Why I never!” Mama tossed her head as she gave her pearls a final fling.

Having spent nine months in her, and forty-nine years observing her from the outside, I knew that the final fling was a prelude to her flouncing off in a dramatic huff, her crinolines bobbing like buoys in a hurricane. What I didn't know, and never would have expected, is Toy would stick up for me.

“Mama, she's right,” he said. “You do treat me differently.”