The Cane Mutiny (17 page)

I
f I didn't close my mouth soon the cat was going to get my tongue. Literally. But it would be only a snack for a feline that large.

“Uh—”

“You seem at a loss for words.”

“Uh—you're darn right! You know about the skull? You must, since you brought it up.”

“Abby, relax. It's no big deal.”

“Are you nuts? I mean—well, that's exactly what I mean. I might be in a lot of trouble because of that skull.”

His hands were raised as in self-defense. “Whoa! I'd forgotten about Hortense, I swear.”

“You knew her name?”

“No. I never even saw the skull, but Daddy did. He told me about it, but it was never written on the file, like the canes were. It's been years, and I forgot about it, Abby. I swear on a bag of cat litter.”

Darren Cotter was driving me crazy. I wanted to leap up, grab him by the lapels and shake him. However, he wasn't wearing lapels; just a navy blue pocket T-shirt that accentuated a rather buff physique for a man his age. Besides, if I did shake him, Catrina the Great was bound to make mincemeat of me. Cats are not the most reliable of allies.

“There's no need to get your knickers in a knot, Abby,” he said, which, of course, did not improve my mood. “Mr. Yaco was a sculptor. He bought the skull from a medical supply company. Well, at least that's what my daddy said. He told me about Mr. Yaco and the skull because Mr. Yaco had named it Hortense. That was the name of my daddy's sister. It isn't a very common name, is it?”

“That depends. In Dorset County, England, there are thirty-five Hortenses per square mile.”

He smiled broadly. “You're sure of that?”

“Pretty sure. But it is a statistic, and sixty-five point three percent of all statistics are made up.” I stood. “Thank you for your time. I'll tell Mama to be expecting you.”

Much to my astonishment he reached down, grabbed the jungle cat, and hoisted her up unto his shoulders. “As long as she's up here she won't be making a mad dash for the door. If she ever got out, she'd be shot in a heartbeat. Some yokel would
have his picture in the paper with her, claiming he'd shot a cougar. There have been rumors of cougars in the Francis Marion National Forest for years. No evidence, though. But it wouldn't surprise me. You can buy a cougar cub online. If you ask me, they should shoot the jerks who get rid of their so-called problem cats after a year when the cuteness wears off. A lot of people think they can just turn their cats loose into the wild and they'll be fine. After all, there are plenty of squirrels and rabbits in the woods to eat, right? And cats are great hunters. The truth is, the cats usually starve to death. A cat of any species has to grow up watching its mother hunt. No, I say shooting is too good for the jerks. Turn them loose in the woods without a gun, and see how long it takes them to starve.”

“Amen and glory hallelujah,” I said. I wasn't the least bit sarcastic.

 

“Wynnell. Wynnell!”

My shaggy-browed buddy was not in the car, nor was she anywhere in sight. Frantically, calling her name, I raced along the side of the parking lot that fronted the rows of buildings that comprised Safe-Keepers Storage. My only response was a shrill mockingbird.

I dashed back to my car. It was still devoid of a
passenger. My heart in my throat, I began driving slowly back up River Road, in the direction from which we'd come. There was no sign of Wynnell. My pal has a reputation for being geographically challenged, so after about five miles I reversed my course for ten miles. At that point I'd not seen a living being along the highway with the exception of a limping armadillo. In desperation I called Greg.

“Yes,” he said, picking up after the fourth ring.

“Sweetheart, I can't find Wynnell anywhere. Has she called you?”

“Abby, what kind of an apology is this?”

“Apology? For what?”

“Try the fact that you barged out of here in a snit and for the last two hours I've called your cell phone a million times and all I get is your voice mail.”

Oops. I always turn it off at night for a bit of peace, and in the unpleasantness of the morning, I'd forgotten to turn it back on.

“I had it turned off, dear. And about that so-called snit—”

“Abby, I know your mother goes too far when it comes to Toy. But that doesn't mean I have to be your whipping boy.”

“Greg! You are not my whipping boy. And I'm sorry, I really am. Will you forgive me?”

I meant it. But even if I hadn't, I probably would have apologized anyway at that point. I have found that a sudden, and complete, apology will disarm just about anybody. And once they are disarmed, and no longer gunning for you, it makes it easier to apologize for real. Therefore, putting the cart in front of the horse can be the wisest course of action.

“I'm sorry, too, hon. Dang, but I hate fighting with you. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Wynnell was coming up the steps when I
barged
out, as you put it. I had a breakfast meeting with a cane collector on the Isle of Palms and she came with. Then I went back to see Darren Cotter, the guy who held the locked trunk sale, but Wynnell wouldn't go in on account of a silly old cat. When I came out, she was gone. I couldn't find her anywhere.”

“Hmm. I heard that silly old cat stands sixteen inches at the shoulder and weighs twenty-five pounds. I can't say as I blame her, Abby.”

“Yes, but she's really a sweetheart—Greg! Is Wynnell
there
?”

“No, but she called. She said that she's pissed at .you for making her wait so long. She hitched a ride with a friend from church, and that when you apologize you should bring a dozen Krispy Kremes, still warm from the bakery.”

“Then I'll have to buy two dozen.” Krispy Kreme doughnuts on Savannah Highway displays a sign when there are fresh warm doughnuts to be had. While normally I can stop after just one or two doughnuts, if they are warm, I can eat to the point of bursting. “Death by Doughnuts” might well be my epitaph.

“Hon, just after you left I got a call from one of my contacts in the department. Tweedledee and Tweedledum have been given a two week suspension without pay. He also said he's going to keep an eye on Detective Gaspar. The guy is a rookie who's in a hurry to make a name for himself. He doesn't even want to stay in the area. Once he's made it, he's going to apply to the L.A. Police Department. Of course all this is on the QT. If you're ever asked, you don't know anything about this, right?”

“Right.”

“Oh, and another thing. C.J. was right: the skull you found in the gym bag
is
the skull of a female mountain gorilla.”

“Get out of town!” Having this confirmed didn't bring the relief I'd expected. In fact, it opened up a very large can of worms. What other of my future sister-in-law's fantastic stories were true after all? Well, no matter what, I refused to believe that she caught Granny Ledbetter kissing Santa Claus under the stairs one Christmas Eve.

Greg, bless his heart, tries to give everyone a fair shake. “Due to a comparable size with a human skull,” he said, “an amateur—I mean, someone without forensic, or anthropological, training—might temporarily mistake a female gorilla skull for human. But these yokels, Tweedledupe and Tweedledope, should have known better.”

“I guess I should have left it alone,” I said. “If my impetuousness was in any way responsible for Roberta Stanley's death—”

“Stop it, Abby. Hold it right there. I'm not going to let you assume any guilt. Her murder had nothing to do with you. And just so you know, my contact in the department said that the gorilla skull was not an unimportant discovery.”

“It's not?”

“These animals, which are among our nearest relatives, have been teetering on the brink of extinction for a long time. Nobody knows how many there are. Maybe less than four hundred, which is barely a sustainable population. In my opinion, anyone who possesses a gorilla skull has some explaining to do.”

“What if they worked for a zoo?”

“Then that would be an explanation. Abby, I'm not trying to argue. I'm just trying to be supportive.”

“Thanks.”

“So you're coming home now?”

“Well—uh, I thought I might stop at the mall and see if there are some good sales.”

“And I think I'll paint the house green with purple polka dots.”

“I'd prefer a yellow base color.”

“Sarcasm doesn't become you.”

“Greg, darling, love of my life, you know how I am.”

“Stubborn as a blue-nosed mule?”

“Guilty. I wish I could promise to be right—H-Holy guacamole!”

“What is it, hon?”

“It's C.J.”

“Our C.J.?”

“Do you know another Calamity Jane?”

“Where is she? Where are
you
?”

“I'm on River Road. Actually, I'm pulled over to the side. She pulled up right behind me and is getting out of her car. Can I call you later, dear? You know how she is. This may take a while.”

“Take care,” Greg said, and then hung up.

As they say, a word to the wise is sufficient.

I
can't think of a single soul who would call me wise. It's not that I court danger; casual dating is more like it. I lowered my window, willing myself to be patient.

“Hey, C.J. What's up? Why aren't you minding the shop?”

“Up is a relative term, Abby. Up here would be down in Bangkok.”

“Yes, but in both places you'd be sidestepping my question.”

“Good one, Abby. I'm here to help you sleuth.”

“Who says I'm sleuthing?”

“Abby, you can't fool me. You're like the sister I never had, but would have had if the pet store hadn't tried to charge Granny Ledbetter so much. I know you're trying to clear your name of Roberta Stanley's murder.”

“C.J., I haven't been charged with anything, and
even if I was, I wouldn't ask you to help me. I need you to run the shop.”

“Don't be silly, Abby. Mozella said she'd love to look after things at the Den of Antiquity. You've got a really great mother, Abby.”

The big galoot means well. If there really is such a thing as a heart of gold, I'm betting it's hers.

“Thanks. I'd be happy to have your help. And like they say, two heads are better than one.”

“That is so true, Abby. But three heads can be a real headache.”

I groaned. “Good one.”

“I'm not joking, Abby. Cousin Tricia Ledbetter, back in Shelby, had three heads, and it was awful. They never could agree on anything. One time two of the heads decided to go to the mall, but the third one didn't want to go. Well, the two heads that were in agreement won the argument, of course, but all through the mall the third head kept shouting, ‘Help, I've been kidnapped.'”

“C.J., bless your heart, gold or not, you're never boring.”

“Thank you, Abby.”

“But it's time to be honest. The last time you talked about your three-headed cousin, you said it was a he, and that his name was Merckle. So what's the truth, C.J.?”

She fixed her enormous gray peepers on me. “Abby, it really hurts me when you think I'm lying. Cousin Tricia and Cousin Merckle were sister and brother. The times when they got along they sang Gospel hymns in a two-person sextet.”

“Sorry I accused you of lying.”

“That's okay, Abby.” She hung her own leonine, but very singular, head. “But before you start sleuthing, I have a confession to make.”

I sighed softly. “Shoot.”

“Well, uh—I didn't come out here to help; I came to talk about my wedding.”

“I thought you had it all under control. And if not you, then Mama did.”

“Ooh, Abby, it's not really the wedding so much as it's what comes after.”

“You mean the bills?”

“No, the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Her large face reddened. “The warblers and wasps. That thing.”

It took me a second. “You mean the birds and the bees?”

“Granny wouldn't tell me anything, except that I was found under a cabbage. I tried asking your mother, but she said all I needed to know is that a lady is supposed to grin and bear it, and that planning menus was a good way to pass the time.”

How my mother had changed. Just a decade ago, if pressed about her sex life, she would have claimed to be the world's first serial virgin. But now she was giving wedding night advice to my friend—wait a minute! That could mean just one thing.

“C.J., does that mean you and Toy—well, you know. I mean, did nothing go on between you two at my house last night?”

The massive head recoiled in genuine shock. “Abby, how could you even think such a thing? You don't think we'd eat supper and say grace later, do you?”

Much to my surprise, I knew what she meant. “No. But didn't you share a bedroom at my house last night?”

“Ooh, Abby, that would be wrong.”

“But I saw you and Toy come out of the guest room together.”

“Yes, but I didn't sleep in there. I slept in Mozella's bed. Really, Abby, you should get her tested for sleep apnea. She snores even louder than Uncle Ernst Ledbetter.”

“So what were you doing in his room, and why were you wearing his T-shirt?”

“We stayed up real late playing Scrabble, and were both kind of sleepy, so your mama asked us to stay over. I tried wearing one of her
nightgowns, Abby, but you know how tiny she is.”

“Yes, three inches taller than I am.”

“So Toy loaned me his shirt.” She sniffed under each arm. “Frankly, Abby, your brother doesn't shower as much as he should. But after we're married I'll work on him. Maybe someday he'll shower once a week, like a man is supposed to.”

“Once a
week
?”

“I know, that sounds like a lot. But I think men should shower more frequently than women, given the fact that they sweat more.”

That certainly explained some things. Oh, well. While she trained Toy, I'd do my best to train her. That was an older sister's prerogative, wasn't it?

I smiled sweetly. “You still haven't said what you were both doing in the guest room.”

“Ooh, Abby, you're always so impatient. I was just getting there. You see, I'd gone in there to ask Toy what he wanted for breakfast. He had a hard time making up his mind, on account of I said he could have anything he wanted, except haggis. Then the doorbell rang, and as they say, the rest is hysterics.”

“I believe the proper word is ‘history.' The rest is history.”

“Not with you, Abby.”

“Touché.” It was time to change the subject. “So, C.J., are you ready to rock?”

“Lead the way,” she said.

Fortunately, it wasn't far to Miss Sugar Tit's house.

 

Claudette Aikenberg was not in a sugary mood. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me. They became absolute slits when C.J. lumbered into view.

“So, it's you,” she said.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Aikenberg,” I hastened to explain. “I'm not here to give you a hard time.”

“Whatever it is, you'll have to state your business out here on the porch.”

“Mrs. Aikenberg—I mean, Miss Sugar Tit, your Royal Highness, do you know a woman by the name of Roberta Stanley?”

“Maybe. Gracious me, it is you, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am. Last time I checked.”

She wasn't even looking at me, but at C.J. “Mutton Chops, please tell me I'm not dreaming.”

“Why if that don't take the rag off the bush,” C.J. said, affecting an accent I'd never before heard. “Tater Tot, is that you?”

“It is!”

Someone pushed me out of the way, and the two women flew at each other like a pair of highly
charged magnets. It was the most embarrassing display of emotion I'd ever seen, bar none. It made Jimmy Swaggert seem like a stone carving.

I waited patiently. Eventually I had to put a little foot down.

“Enough. Isn't someone going to tell me what's going on?”

My protégé grinned so wide it nearly split her head in two, thereby giving her three-headed cousin's tale some credence. “Abby, this is my cousin Claudette Ledbetter Aikenberg, only back home everyone called her Tater Tot on account of—oh well, Abby, you really don't want to know. And Claudette, this is my very best friend in the entire world, Abigail Louise Wiggins Washburn. She was Abigail Timberlake for a spell, but I won't go into that.”

“Lord have mercy!” I cried. I needed to sit down, preferably somewhere far away. C.J. was a pistol in her own right. Her cousin, I already knew, also had a mind of her own. Putting the two of them together must be the equivalent of drinking an ephedrine milk shake—not that I've ever done that, mind you.

“What's the matter, Abby? You look faint.”

“Yes, maybe I should sit down. Excuse me, ladies, while I go back to the car for a few minutes.”

“Ooh, Abby, you're so silly. My cousin and I have a lot of catching up to do, and we don't want you to miss a single minute of it. Do we, Tater Tot?”

Miss Sugar Tit Tater Tot, or whatever she was now, did not appear to be as taken with the idea. “Mutton Chops, I know this woman is a friend of yours, but she's more annoying than a jigger bite where the sun don't shine. You heard her, she's here to interrogate me about the death of that old battle-ax, Roberta Stanley.”

Any thoughts I had about sitting this one out vanished. “Who told you she was dead?”

The woman didn't even have the decency to appear cornered. “You're not the police, Mrs. Washburn. I don't have to answer anything.”

“I may not be the police, Miss Tater Tits, but my husband is an ex-detective, and he has more connections than a box full of Tinker Toys. You can bet I'm passing this little bit of info on to him.”

Pushing her cousin aside, she waggled her man-made bosoms at me like they were a pair of padded jousting poles. “Oh yeah? Well, my Granny Ledbetter wrote and told me that Mutton Chops has solved oodles of murder mysteries, and is thicker with the police than congealed gravy.”

C.J. flushed. “Actually, Tater Tot, it was Abby who solved those murders. And how come Granny wrote you that stuff, when all this time
she's been telling me that she doesn't know where you are?”

Miss Sugar Tit blushed, a deep pink that clashed with her red hair, but provided some much needed contrast for her diamond chandelier earrings. “Uh—maybe it wasn't Granny Ledbetter who wrote. Maybe it was my other granny.”

The big galoot spread her legs and crossed her arms. “No, I don't think so. Your other granny was killed by a toilet seat when Ida Mae Rupert's house exploded due to a gas leak.”

That took some of the wind out of her cousin's sails. “Yeah. Granny often warned Ida Mae not to serve her husband raw peppers. If I knew then what I know now, I would have sued that woman.”

C.J., bless her heart, was not about to be distracted by flying toilet seats and hard to digest produce. “So why didn't Granny Ledbetter tell me where you were?”

“Because I asked her not to, that's why.”

“But you're my favorite cousin.”

“Mutton Chops, let's face it: you're a mite hard to take at times.”

I could see the blood drain from my dear friend's face. “What do you mean?”

“It's not just you, Mutton Chops; it's the entire clan. It's Granny Ledbetter too. Y'all are so weird.”

“Weird? In what way?”

“Don't you think it's weird that we have a goat for a cousin?”

“Cousin Zelda may not be much to look at, but she's as sweet as a piece of brown sugar pie. I'm getting married, you know—of course, Granny probably already told you that. Anyway, Cousin Zelda's going to be a bridesmaid. Abby, here, is going to help me trim her goatee.”

“I
am
?”

Miss Sugar Tit snorted derisively. “You just proved my point. Heck, the only reason Granny Ledbetter knows where I am is because my mama tells her.”

C.J. glowered at the woman whose empty beauty had won her trophies. “Come on, Abby, let's get out of here.”

“No, wait,” I said. “I still want to hear how she heard about Roberta Stanley's death.”

“Yeah,” C.J. said. “Tell us that.”