The Cane Mutiny (22 page)

C.J. can be very professional when the situation calls for it. Within three minutes she had an answer for me, and since C.J. has a phenomenal memory, she was able to quote Patti verbatim.

“Aida Murray did a signing there last October for
Diputs Snup,
a derivative novel of a Lowcoun
try plantation and the generations that lived and loved there. Apparently since no one could pronounce the title, sales were abysmal. It wasn't until Sarah Snup, the matriarch of the clan, threatened to sue, that the book garnered any interest. In the end neither the book nor the lawsuit went anywhere.”

“Well, isn't that interesting.”

“But Abby, that means Aida wasn't eaten by a crocodile.”

“No, but her husband was.” C.J. clapped and hooted. “Ooh, ooh, I think you're on to something.”

“According to the Colonel, Mac was a small man, and after his wife went missing, he retreated into his tent. But in reality it wasn't he who retreated—”

“It was Aida, wasn't it, Abby?”

“That would be my guess. Aida Murray has been presenting herself as two people ever since 1969. She's Aida whenever she has a book coming out, but the rest of the time she's Mac.”

“Why would she do that?”

“For business reasons. C.J., it costs a bundle to live on Major Moolah Road. Aida could never afford to live there on just the sales of her pseudoliterary novels. Heck, I bet even a best-selling mystery writer couldn't afford the taxes on a place
like hers. And that manuscript collection she owns—priceless.”

“Maybe she inherited the money. Great Uncle McPherson Ledbetter found a pot of gold at the end of a—”

“Rainbow? Please, C.J., this is not the time to wax sentimental about your leprechaun ancestors, none of whom, by the way, you resemble in the least. The point I was trying to make is that Aida must have another source of income—apart from writing—and I think I know what it is.”

“Isn't she a little old for that, Abby?”

Someday, time, finances, schedule, and mood permitting, I'd have to take C.J. to the Golden Girls Ranch in Nevada. Don't ask me how I know about this place, but it does give hope to the wrinkled, and those of us festooned with patches of cellulite.

“Rhinoceros horns,” I said.

“Ooh, Abby, that sounds painful.”

“For the rhino, most certainly. They have to kill it first—although strictly speaking they don't, but that's another story. The thing is, C.J., that rhino horns are still very much coveted in parts of the world. In recent years there have been steps taken to prevent the trafficking of rhino horns, particularly between Africa and Asia, but smart smugglers always seem to find a way around the system.”

“And anyone who can write a book backward, Abby, has got to be smart.”

“Perhaps. It's the authors of silly humorous mysteries that are as dumb as posts. Anyone can alliterate, for heaven's sake. Now where was I?”

“You were talking about smart smugglers, Abby.”

“Yes. C.J., what do all those canes I got at the locked trunk sale have in common?”

“They're ugly as sin, Abby.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the staffs are okay, but the heads are very crudely carved from some hideous material—ooh, Abby, they're rhinoceros horns, aren't they?”

“That would be my guess. And to whom did the canes originally belong? Well, I'll tell you. A very elusive man by the name of Ken Yaco—perhaps otherwise known as Aida, or Mac, Murray.”

“Abby, how do you spell Yaco?”

I fished in my pocketbook, keeping my left hand on the wheel, and dug out the notes I'd made. “It's in there somewhere.”

C.J. is one of the kindest people I know. No doubt that's why it took her so long to formulate a response.

“Abby,” she said some mercifully silent five miles, or four minutes, later, “please don't be mad, but I think you're mistaken.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That's a company name, not a man's.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kenya Company. That's what it says. Not Ken Yaco.”

I found a landing spot for my Mercedes along Maybank Highway on an unusually wide strip of shoulder. “Give me that paper.”

She relinquished the note page, but insisted on pointing at it with a sausagelike forefinger. “See what happens when you run ‘Ken' and ‘Yaco' together, except that you didn't run them together intentionally. Face it, Abby, you write like a drunken chicken.”

“I'm sure you've led a great many chickens to drink, C.J.”

“Yesiree. Granny always said there were two ways to make coq au vin; the French way, and her way.”

“Spare me the recipe, dear.” I stared at the squiggles. “Well, I'll be dippity-doodled.”

“Granny has a recipe for that too.”

I glanced over my shoulder, and seeing no one on the road, executed a launching that would have made NASA proud.

S
o Aida Murray was indeed alive and involved in the trafficking of rhinoceros horns that had been smuggled into this country as antiques. But then, strictly speaking, so was I. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, a maxim Greg had pounded into my head ad nauseam. Come to think of it, what proof did I have that Aida, a.k.a. Mac, had broken any endangered species laws? I, on the other hand, had a barrel of antique canes, each of which could probably bring me twenty years in the slammer. Never mind that I could never live long enough to even see parole, the fact remains that I am just too pretty for prison life.

Well, I would just have to see to it that Aida sang like a canary. To do that, I would need evidence of her participation in a smuggling ring, and to procure that I would need the element of surprise. Fortunately, the world's biggest bundle of surprises was sitting right next to me.

“C.J., do you feel like having an adventure?”

“Ooh, Abby, you know I love adventures!”

I put on the brakes just around the bend from Aida's treetop mansion. “Good, because this is where the adventure begins.”

“Abby, I don't see anything but trees and the river.”

“That's because Aida Murray lives around the bend in a tree house. My plan calls for you to walk up there and ring the doorbell. To do that you'll either have to climb the stairs or take the elevator. When she comes to the door, tell her your car broke down and you need to use the telephone. Then call me. I'll tell you what to do next.”

“But I have a cell phone, Abby.”

“Leave it in the car. Tell her you lost it.”

“Ooh, but Abby, you know I can't lie.”

“C.J., let me see your phone.”

She handed me a phone so small it wasn't hard to imagine a child swallowing it. That's all the world needed, children ringing in church. I lowered my window and lobbed the mini gizmo as far as I could. It disappeared amidst the leaf clutter on the ground. It might even have landed in the river and not made a noticeable splash.

“There,” I said, “you've lost your phone.” C.J., ever the good sport, remained as placid as
the sphinx. “But Abby, this isn't my car, and it isn't broken down.”

“Then tell her the car you were riding in broke down, for heaven's sake. Just don't mention my name. Omitting facts is not the same as lying.”

By the look on C.J.'s face, it was.

“Look, dear, which is worse, omitting my name or having something horrible, and quite likely fatal, happen to your dear friend, Hermione Wou-ki?”

My buddy lit out of there like a grouse after a grasshopper.

 

I'm more afraid of snakes than I am of wacko authors with chain saws, so I kept my eyes peeled for water moccasins and cottonmouths. When I grabbed a branch in order to steady myself, two “somethings” plopped into the water just a few feet away. At least they didn't plop on me.

That grand Wadmalaw Island oak that served as the foundation for Aida Murray's tree house spread out over the water for at least a hundred feet. The limbs dipped down as they spread, and at the high water point (the Wadmalaw is a tidal river) they practically skimmed the surface. Inside this canopy a secret floating dock had been built. Tied to it was a surprisingly large boat; one surely capable of being taken out into the ocean.

A ladder led from the dock down into the water, which was a welcome sight because the dock itself perched well above both ground and water levels. This meant, however, that in order to reach the ladder I had to swim and/or wade through the same dark water into which several potentially dangerous “somethings” had plopped.

Whether it be the Wadmalaw River or the local community pool when it first opens for the summer, the trick is to jump in all at once. I'm sure I made more sound than the snakes, but the sound I made, while it might have drawn Aida's attention, no doubt scared the snakes away. Thank heavens for that; my pale tasty flesh moving slowly through the water would have been like waving a buffet in front of these reptilian monsters.

The dock was rough, but dry, and I could tell by the relative paucity of dead leaves covering it that it was used regularly. This was also an indication that the door leading out to the dock might be unlocked. Charleston, particularly the outlying areas, is still a city in which folks don't bother to lock frequently used doors during the daylight hours, if at all.

Sure enough, the door, which by the way led to a mudroom of sorts, was not only unlocked, it was slightly ajar. Could it be a trap? I poked my head in.

“Hello,” I said softly. And stupidly.

I thought I heard footsteps approaching through the house, and was about to turn tail and race back along the dock when I heard the doorbell. The sound was faint but unmistakable. A few seconds later I heard the distant booming of the big galoot's voice.

Wasting no time, I opened the inner door and slipped into Aida's kitchen. Perhaps writers, even cheesy novelists, are too busy to cook, because the room bore no resemblance to my kitchen. The appliances gleamed, the countertops were clear, and most astonishing of all, the floor looked literally clean enough to eat off. I'd heard that tired cliché a million times in my life, but this was the first time I'd actually seen a floor that I'd consider using as a plate. Maybe a nice fillet, cooked medium rare, or perhaps something lighter as a main dish, such as meat-filled pasta—my ravioli reverie was cut short by the sound of approaching voices. I slipped back into the mudroom.

“No, water would be fine.” C.J., bless her anatomically enlarged heart, was practically shouting for my benefit.

“Would you like ice with that?”

“No, just water. If you don't mind, I'd like to drink it in the foyer.”

“Of course. But I assure you, ma'am, that I am
a gentleman. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“It isn't just that,” C.J. said. “It's because my Granny Ledbetter always says that water is for horses and front door guests. Sweet tea is for family and back door guests.”

“Did you say your Granny Ledbetter?”

I could imagine the big head nodding. “Yes, ma'am—I mean, sir. Granny is full of wise sayings. Would you like to hear some of them?”

There followed an excruciating silence. “Did you say Ledbetter?”

“Yes, sir. Granny is the wisest thing on two legs.”

“Are you by chance related to my neighbor, Claudette Aikenberg? I believe she is otherwise known as Miss Sugar Tit.”

C.J. squealed with delight. “How did you know?”

“You have the same accent—and, dare I say, the same eyes.”

“Large and gray?”

“Small and piggish would have been my words.”

How dare the woman! C.J.'s eyes are her best feature, aside from her dishwater-blond hair. What had she ever done to Aida to illicit such rudeness?

“Oh, no,” C.J. said, without the least bit of malice, “it's Cousin Myopia who has the tiny eyes. But she has the sweetest personality you could ever ask for.”

“Pray tell,” the word-wielding fiend said, “why it is that you came knocking on my door for a drink of water when your cousin lives within walking distance?”

“Because I really didn't need to use your phone, and Abby's car really isn't broken, but I
am
thirsty.”

I groaned aloud. I couldn't help it. Having agreed to take the big galoot with me was as smart a move as taking the
Titanic
out for its maiden voyage in an ocean full of icebergs. I glanced around the mudroom for a possible weapon. A fishing rod, old shoes, a rack of baseball caps, a can of wasp spray—that, at least, had possibilities. I tiptoed over to the can and hefted it. Hmm, almost full. I tucked it under my blouse, in the hollow of my back. The waistband of my slacks held it firmly in place.

“You're an idiot, Miss—Miss whatever your name is.”

“C.J. Although my given name is Jane Cox. You see, my friends nicknamed me Calamity Jane on account of I'm sort of a walking disaster, but they shortened that to C.J., which could stand for a lot
of things, and maybe it does because Jane Cox isn't my real name; Granny just picked it out of the phone book when she found me under the cabbage. Lots of folks ask me why Ledbetter isn't my last name, and I did too, but Granny said there already were enough Ledbetters to suit this world, and not enough Coxes.”

“Miss Cox, I assure you that your name is now indelibly imprinted on my mind, and will forever be associated with the image of the world's biggest—” Aida stopped to consider the implications of C.J.'s visit. “Why are you here, Miss Cox?”

I could almost hear C.J. squirm. “I already told you, sir.”

“But what does Miss Timberlake want with me?”

“Why don't you ask her yourself?” I said, appearing in the kitchen door. I was careful to have my empty hands in front of me.

Aida Murray didn't even have the decency to pretend surprise. “Yes, let me hear it directly from the pony's mouth.”

“Good one,” I said. “Cruel, but good. Although you aren't exactly vertically blessed yourself. It is hard to visualize a woman your size rolling her husband up in a rug and then dragging him down to a boat. I should imagine getting him in, and out, of the boat were especially hard.”

“Woman, did you say?”

“Aida Murray, I presume. Killed her own husband and dumped his body into Lake Victoria, after which she assumed his identity—oh heck, you already know all that.”

“You have no proof.” Her voice quavered as it shifted into a lower gear. “I saw the crocs go after him. There is no way you can pin that one on me. Besides, the statute of limitations has run out.”

“I'm sure it has. But your smuggling history—that's current.”

She stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like that of a baby bird begging to be fed, but without making a sound.

“Be careful,” I said, “or you might swallow a fly.”

C.J. snickered. “Ooh, Abby, that's not the right expression. It's swallow a swallow, not swallow a fly. Cousin Ignacious Ledbetter—”

“Not now, C.J.”

“I'd like to hear the story,” Aida said.C.J., lacking even one wicked bone in her body, brightened. “You would?”

“Absolutely. I'm fascinated.”

I stared back at Aida Murray. Mesmerized as I'd been by her gaping mouth, and distracted by C.J., I hadn't noticed her right hand reaching behind her, into a counter drawer, and withdrawing a
pistol. But that's what must have happened. What kind of person kept a gun in the kitchen, for goodness sake? Under the pillow, I could see—but that was only for the week immediately following some nasty threats from my ex—but the kitchen? What for? To shoot the soufflé if it didn't rise properly? To order the steak back under the broiler until all the pink was gone?

No, it was undoubtedly intended to kill uninvited houseguests like me.