The Cane Mutiny (2 page)

C
olonel Beauregard Humphrey is a legend in his own mind, as well as the mind of a great many Charlestonions, even though he's only lived here a few months. Tall, with leathery tanned skin, silver hair, and aristocratic features, he is the epitome of the Southern gentleman. He is never seen without his blue and white seersucker suit, bow tie, and white buckskin shoes. His most distinguishing feature, however, is his mustache, which is so long that the drooping ends come to rest on his bow tie. It has been said that the colonel stopped eating soup in 1963.

Nonetheless the Colonel—he is not a military colonel, but a Kentucky colonel, like the chicken magnate—had yet to enter my shop. Frankly, I was awed by his presence. But as both a lapsed Episcopalian and an Anglophile, I get my genuflections and curtsies mixed up. Even I have more sense than to genuflect to a legend in his own mind.

“Good morning, sir,” I said loudly in compensation.

He was still a ways off and I had to repeat it—several times.

“Good morning,” he finally rumbled.

“How can I help you today?”

“I'm a looking for a walking stick.”

“Then you're in luck. I just happen to have a barrel of them right here. Actually, it's an elephant's foot, and not a real one at that.”

Stooping slightly, his mustache dangling, he took a monocle out of his pocket and peered at the cane stand with his right eye. “This is terrible,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Antique sticks should never be treated this way.”

“But that's how I bought them.”

He picked out a cane and held it to eye level, and then lowering it, stroked the wooden shaft. “This is a nice one, but the others are crap. Junk, if you prefer a nicer word.”

I was stunned, beside myself—which, contrary to rumor,
does
add up to one whole person. He continued to stroke the staff while I sputtered.

Finally I was able to spit out some coherent words. “Did you come here just to insult me?”

The look in Colonel Beauregard Humphrey's
eyes was one of genuine bafflement. “Insult you? How have I insulted you, madam?”

“I do not carry crap in this store.”

“Ah, but you do. With the exception of this eighteenth century, hand-turned piece, the rest are junk. Made for export somewhere overseas. But probably not in Indonesia; they have wonderful craftsmen there. They sure as shooting didn't make these.”

“I bought them at a locked trunk sale,” I said, coming to my own defense when no apology was needed.

“A what?”

“A locked trunk sale—although, strictly speaking, this was a locked storage unit sale. You know those places where you pay to keep things in storage? Sometimes the renters die, or move away, and don't take their stuff, so after a certain length of time, and after posting announcements in the local papers, the owners sometimes sell the contents of those spaces sight unseen. Most often you get a lot of junk—
real
junk—but sometimes you hit the jackpot. My friends, the Rob-Bobs, found a three carat flawless diamond in the bottom of a barrel of old clothes. You just never know.”

“Clearly you were not as fortunate as your friends.”

Trying to salvage at least a shred of my
professional dignity, I pointed to the stick in his hands. “But you like that cane, right?”

“What's not to like? The shaft is good quality malacca, and as for the head, it speaks for itself.”

“Uh—I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is malacca?”

“I should have known you weren't familiar with that term. My dear, malacca is the lightweight, but very sturdy, stem of the rattan palm. In the past it was often used for the finest walking sticks and umbrellas. The name comes from one of the principal cities in Malaysia, the country where this palm is found. I have actually been to Malacca. It is a charming city, situated, as it is, right on the coast. St. Francis Xavier was buried there for three months, you know. When he was dug up, to be shipped off to Goa, a workman hit him with a spade. It is said that not only had the body not decomposed, but blood and water gushed forth.”

“How fascinating. Colonel Humphrey, you said the head of the cane speaks for itself. What is it saying?”

“Jade.”

“The gemstone?”

“Burmese jadeite. Look at its translucency and luster. And that color, like new blades of grass.”

There are times to keep one's mouth tightly shut, and this was one of them. I'd taken the shiny,
intensely green knob on the end of the cane for a synthetic of some sort, possibly even plastic.

“Madam, are you aware of this walking stick's value?”

“A lot?” I squeaked.

“Several thousands of dollars, I imagine. The jadeite is superb in every way except for the obvious bands of darker color that cut diagonally across the stone. They give character to a cane head, but make it somewhat useless for jewelry. If the color was consistent, the stone could be cut down to a number of sizable cabochons worth several hundred thousand dollars.”

First the silence, then a squeak, and now a gasp. I clapped a tiny hand over the offending aperture, and then just as quickly removed it.

“I had no idea that canes were made from such valuable materials.”

“My dear, then what on earth are you doing running an antiques store?”

“One can't know everything. Why even my assistant, who practically
does
knows everything, thought the knob on this cane was some type of polymer.”

Colonel Beauregard Humphrey snorted, an action that set his mustache to flapping. “I tell you what. I'll give you five for the whole shebang.”

“Five what.”

“Thousand, madam.”

I'd already placed a price tag of fifty dollars on each cane, and there were ten of them on display. Even if the one with the jadeite was more valuable than the Colonel was letting on, I still stood to make a huge profit. Easy come, easy go, as they say. Besides, the canes on display were only the tip of the iceberg. In my storeroom, wrapped in plain brown paper, were at least a dozen more. Several of those were a bit unusual, and I'd intended to do some research before putting them out.

“You have a deal, sir,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind.

“Oh, by the way,” he said in parting, “that's a real elephant's foot you've got there. You should be ashamed of yourself, madam, for trafficking in endangered animal parts.”

I was more stunned by this latest revelation than I'd been by the good news regarding the jade.

 

There is no one quite as capable at derailing a good day than a mother on a mission. Mine literally blew in off the street, propelled by a stiff spring breeze that had connected with her crinolines. Mama, you see, only wears dresses with full-circle skirts puffed up by enough starched
slips to keep all of England's upper lips stiff for years.

Mama barely glanced at C.J., who was with a customer, and sailed right over to me. “Abby! We have to talk.”

“I'm all ears, Mama.”

“No, privately.”

“Can we do this at home? I have a business to run.”

My petite progenitress recoiled in well-rehearsed shock. “This is how you talk to the woman who endured thirty-two hours of excruciating pain to bring you into this world?”

“It was thirty-six, Mama. Last time you said it was thirty-four. One of these days I'll just pop right out of you like bagel halves from a toaster.”

Mama tipped her head in C.J.'s direction and waggled her almost nonexistent eyebrows. “It's about her.”

I sighed. “Five minutes. And this better be good.”

“It's a matter of life and death.”

I led her into the storeroom and offered her the use of a Louis XIV gilt chair that was awaiting refurbishment. When she refused, I was happy to sit instead.

“Spill, Mama.”

“Ivory,” Mama said.

“Ivory? Make sure that it comes from a source that guarantees it hasn't been poached. Better yet, stick to very old ivory—pre-1950—or a good imitation.”

“Not that kind of ivory. I mean the color. C.J. wants to get married in an ivory white dress with a ten-foot train!”

“Good for her.”

“Abby, you can't mean that. She'll be the laughingstock of Charleston.”

What C.J. wears to her own wedding is not my mother's business, although
whom
she will marry is—well, to a certain extent. My younger brother, Toy, spent only six hours inflicting pain on our mother, a fact of which she is quick to remind me. At any rate, Toy and C.J. are to be married at Grace Episcopal Church in downtown Charleston this August. I'm going to be the maid of honor and Mama's going to be a nervous mother of the groom. As far as I know, that's the limit of Mama's involvement in the upcoming nuptials.

“Mama, I'm sure a lot of Charleston brides have gotten married in ivory gowns, and I bet some have had even longer trains than that.”

“Yes, but C.J. isn't a—well, you know what. She shouldn't be wearing white. Even ivory white.”

“So what if she's not an Episcopalian?”

“That's not what I mean. She isn't a—” Mama
waggled the scant brows in what, after much pondering, I understood to be a suggestive manner.

“How do you know, Mama?”

“She told me.”

“She did?” It's not my place to judge C.J., and it wasn't the extent of her involvement with my brother that bothered me; it was the fact that my friend and colleague had shared this information with my very prim mother, and not me.

“C.J. tells me everything, dear, just like a good daughter.”

“Mama, if I told you everything I did, you'd have both hands over your ears while screaming la-la-la-la-la. Anyway, times have changed. I mean, you don't expect her to wear a scarlet dress, do you?”

“Of course not, dear. What I have in mind is a very nice pastel skirt suit with dyed-to-match pumps. I was thinking baby blue. I saw just the thing at Dillard's last week.”

My patience was wearing thin. “Mama, if every bride in Charleston County who wasn't a virgin—there, Mama, I said the word—wore something other than some shade of white, the bridal shops would go out of business. This is C.J.'s special day, and with any luck, it will be her only wedding day. She has a right to wear what she wants.”

“Then I have a right not to be a part of this.” Her eyes puddled up.

If it were not for the fact that my minimadre was a master at manipulation, I would have felt sorry for her. Instead, I felt wary, knowing full well that there was another shoe about to be dropped, perhaps one of those with the long pointed toes that come in so handy for killing roaches here in Charleston.

“I suppose you'd like me to tell her, right? I mean, there is no use in her worrying about a corsage for you if you're going to be a no-show.”

The tears somehow managed to disappear into thin air. “I will most certainly not be a no-show at my only son's wedding!”

“Suit yourself, but you're not going to do to her what you did to me.”

“What did I ever do to you, dear?”

“You sewed a black thread into the hem of the dress I wore when I married Greg.”

“That's because it was your second marriage, Abby.”

I hopped out of the Louis XIV. As beautiful as that chair is, it lacks in the comfort department and can lead to irritability. No wonder the royals in those days were forever lopping off heads.

“Sorry you have to run, Mama.”

“I don't need to do any such thing.” She started picking her way down along the right side of my storeroom, the area where I keep my new purchases that have yet to be marked. Even though she lives in my house, Mama frequently raids my storeroom for home furnishings. “What's this, Abby?” she said, pausing at the brown paper package that contained the rest of the canes.

“Nothing. Just some junk I picked up at a locked trunk sale.”

“What fun,” she said, and began unwrapping the contents.

“Mama!”

“I'm only trying to help, dear.” But when she saw what the parcel contained, she immediately lost interest. “How can you sell such ugly things, dear?”

“Because people buy them.”

“Sachets tied up with silk ribbons, and fancy soaps, that's what people want to buy. And scented candles.”

“Not everyone is Donna Reed.”

“Did you know that there is a shop in Mount Pleasant called Nose Stoppers where you can create your own scent? Suzy Tutweiler said she had them reproduce the smell of her pot roast. She said it keeps her husband home in the evenings, even when she serves him TV dinners.”

“No offense, Mama, but Suzy Tutweiler needs all the help she can get to keep her husband home.”

“One cannot work too hard on one's marriage,” Mama said pointedly.

“Greg and I are doing just fine, Mama. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do.”

“Well, I never! Dismissing your own mother, like she was a servant.”

“At least a servant would leave when asked.”

“Ha!” Mama would leave when she was good and ready, and not a minute before. To remind me of this, she pulled a cane from the parcel, using just her index finger and thumb. “This is disgusting.”

The walking stick she'd selected was disgusting, but in an interesting sort of way. The shaft was ebony and tipped with ivory, and frankly rather elegant, but the handle was carved from some hideous material that I could not identify. At first I thought it might be the horn of a large animal, such as a Cape buffalo, but now, seeing it for a second time, I'd changed my mind.

“That's dried hippo hide,” I said. “At least I think it is.”

Mama dropped the stick, which clattered to the floor.

“Mama! That's my livelihood.”

“All right, dear, I'm leaving. You don't need to get so bent out of shape.”