The Cane Mutiny (4 page)

“Bless your heart, C.J., was that run-on sentence sarcasm?”

The big gal has no guile. “No, Abby. What a lot of people don't realize is that most animals just want to eat, be safe, and reproduce. The only reason they roam so far in the wild is to find food, not because they want to sightsee. In zoos their basic needs are met, and these days most zoos are making a huge effort to duplicate an animal's natural surroundings, but without the predators, forest fires, and floods that would kill them in the wild. You really should read
The Life of Pi.
”

“Can we agree to disagree?”

Her response was drowned out by the pounding on the back door to the storeroom.

T
weedledee recoiled when she saw me. “It's you,” she said.

“Half the size of life, and twice as beautiful.” “What?”

Tweedledum edged his partner aside. “There's been a report of a possible homicide.”

“Actually, that's not what I said to the dispatcher—oh, what the heck. Come in. But brush the Krispy Kreme crumbs off first.”

To their credit, they did what they were told. Tweedledee, who has a shelflike bosom, took longer.

“Now, where's the body?” she demanded.

“It's a skull, not an entire body. And there's really no need for y'all to get involved, because it's only a gorilla skull. And an antique gorilla skull at that. So you see, it's not a police matter. Calling you was my mistake.”

Tweedledum had his own shelf, a mite lower down, and he unabashedly brushed it clear as well. “Ma'am, that's for us to decide, not you.”

C.J., she-who-cannot-tell-a-lie, had been standing in the background. Now she insinuated her broad shoulders and planet-size head into the picture.

“Technically, Abby, it's not an antique unless it's a hundred years old, or older, and this one isn't.”

I shook my head.
“Et tu, Brute?”

“No foreign languages,” Tweedledee barked. “This is my crime scene, and we're going to speak only English.”

I nodded. “Forsooth.”

The busty sergeant scowled. “Is that foreign?”

“Unequivocally not.”

Tweedledee was linguistically challenged. “Is it, or isn't it? That's not rocket science, ya know. Either something is English or it's not.”

“Me he,” C.J. said. “That's both foreign and not.”

Sergeant Tweedledee pivoted. “What did you say?”

The big galoot didn't even flinch. “I said ‘Who is she.' That's Hebrew.”

“She speaks seventeen languages,” I said proudly.

“Me who,” C.J. said. “That means ‘Who is he.'
You see, me is who, and who is he, and he is she, except they're not really, because they're not spelled like that—”

Tweedledee snapped her fingers, but they were both sweaty and stubby, and the gesture made no sound. “The body. Show me the body.”

One of the blessings—it's also a curse—of being so small and perky is folks expect me to act perky no matter what. As a result, I can get away with glowering, and no one's the wiser.

“The
skull
is this way,” I growled.

It's been my observation over the years that most folks cannot resist touching beautiful things. Dee and Dum were no exception. As we threaded our way between walls of stacked treasure, plump moist fingers and long gnarled ones trailed along, feeling everything in their paths. If anyone dusted my stuff for prints, the two cops would have a lot of explaining to do.

Before I'd opened the back door, C.J. had returned the skull to the bag and the bag to the barrel. I asked her to retrieve it.

Tweedledee nearly had kittens. “Nothing doing. This is a crime scene. From now on my partner and I will be taking over.” She turned to Tweedledum. “Call the boys at Forensics. And get an ambulance over here. Stat.”

A snicker or two may have parted my wee lips. “An ambulance? She's been dead for decades, for goodness sake.”

“Mrs. Washburn—or is it Timberlake again—if you don't stay out of police business, I'm going to arrest you for interfering at the scene of a crime.”

“Moi?”

Out came the cuffs.

 

My name
is
Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn. I was born in the textile mill town of Rock Hill, South Carolina, and attended Winthrop College. During my senior year of college I met a law student from UNCC by the name of Buford Timberlake. What I didn't realize was that Buford was a timber snake in Timberlake clothing. Two children and two decades later he traded me in for a woman twice my size and half my age.

Tweetie, the new Mrs. Timberlake, experienced an untimely death, and Buford has since remarried. He and I have buried the hatchet (and not in his neck) for the sake of our children, Susan and Charlie. I too have moved on by marrying the very handsome, and only occasionally annoying, Greg Washburn.

We used to live in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I owned and operated the Den of Antiquity,
an antiques shop on Selwyn Avenue. Then Greg, who'd been a detective, retired and got a hankering to move to the coast and pick up shrimping, something his family has been doing for generations. Not only did I decide to keep my shop, but I opened one just like it on King Street in Charleston.

It has been both a terrible and wonderful life. I am currently in a wonderful patch—knock on wood—and I aim to do everything in my limited power to keep it so. The last thing I needed was to be arrested and hauled off to jail. After all, when one is only four feet nine inches, horizontal stripes can make one look like they've practically melted into the concrete floor.

 

The actual charge was obstructing justice, and even though everyone involved knew it wouldn't stick, I got to see the inside of a jail cell close up. C.J. got thrown in the slammer with me, and we briefly shared quarters with two prostitutes and a pickpocket.

Both of the hookers appeared bored and indifferent, and after ascertaining that C.J. and I hadn't encroached on their turf, left us alone. The petty thief did not.

“My name is Geraldine,” she said. “My parents
named me after President Ford. Can you believe that?”

“Actually, I can,” C.J. said. “Cousin Georgette Ledbetter was named after—”

“Charleston is a great city. I'm from Jackson, Mississippi. Pickings are pretty slim there.” She laughed at her own joke. “Pickings, get it? But man, this place is da bomb. All you have to do is stand down there by the dock, where those cruise ships come in, and you can rake in the cash.

“The best time to do it is at the end of the day. The tourists are tired and in a hurry to get back to the ship. There's not a passenger on those ships that doesn't worry about getting left behind. Anyway, they're always loaded down with plastic bags filled with crap they bought at the Market, or better yet, really expensive things they splurged for on King Street.

“They're feeling the weight of those bags, see? At that point they aren't even thinking of their purses. If they're thinking about anything, it's the fancy dinners back on the ship and the show they'll see that night. So what you want to do is walk right behind them on the right side—a woman always carries her purse on her right, unless she's a leftie—and then you cut the straps of her purse with one hand and catch it with the
other. Then you fall back and let the crowd surge around you.”

“Hey,” one of the hookers called from her corner of the cell, “how much can you make in a day?”

Geraldine smiled. “It's not just the cash, but the credit cards. Some I use, others I fence. But I'd say it averages out to a thousand bucks a day.”

“No way,” the hooker said.

“Caroline,” her pal said, “maybe we oughta switch professions.”

Everyone laughed, myself included. I was surprised at how well-spoken all three women were. The prostitutes were dressed in provocative clothing and wore excessive makeup, but toned down they could easily have passed for middle-aged housewives. And that's exactly what Geraldine appeared to be.

All three of them were more normal in appearance than Mama in her crinolines, pink gloves (it was not yet Easter), and flowered hat. But it was Mama who bailed me out of jail.

 

“Mama, promise me you won't tell Greg.”

“Don't be silly, dear. You have a hearing scheduled for next week. Besides, he'll probably read it in the police briefs.”

“Thanks, Mama, you really know how to comfort a gal.”

“You're being sarcastic again, aren't you, Abby?”

“You think?”

She drove, silent for a few minutes. The police station is not that far from my house, but the volume of tourists in azalea season can bog up traffic so bad that walking is sometimes quicker. A friend of ours flees the city with the first onslaught of spring tourists, not returning until well after Labor Day.

“Darling,” Mama began, “just listen to me for a minute, will you?” The D word is how Mama prefaces her requests, as well as how she issues her demands.

“Mama, I'm tired; both physically and emotionally.”

“That's exactly what I'm getting to, dear. You need someone to help you.”

“C.J. is all the help I need. And she's taking a three day honeymoon. Is that what you're thinking of, Mama?”

“Gracious no, Abby. My feet would kill me if I had to stand around all day like you do. I'm talking about helping you with your investigation.”

“My
what
?”

“Abby, need I remind you that I gave birth to you?”

“Mama—”

“Don't whine, dear. It's not becoming a lady. My point is that I know exactly what you're going to do next. You're heading straight out to Johns Island to interrogate the owner of Safe-Keepers Storage.”

“I am?”

“Certainly. And then you're going to track down the owner of the barrel that contained the skull. I know, C.J. says it is just a gorilla skull, but you got arrested for having it in your possession because the Tweedles, who are dumber than dirt, say it's human. Darling, is there the slightest chance they could be right?”

“Not the slightest—well, maybe a minute chance. We were watching
Jeopardy!
together once and she got a question wrong. But Ken Jennings missed that one too.”

“There, you see? We have to proceed as if it was the worst case scenario, because I can't have you watching your brother's wedding from behind bars.”

“Mama, they won't send me to prison for finding an animal skull in a gym bag.”

“You're not so sure. That's why you're headed to Safe-Keepers Storage. You plan to drag the owner to the police station and make him swear to the fact that he sold you the gym bag containing the skull. This gets you off the hook, the
hearing is canceled, and Greg will be none the wiser.”

I stared at the woman who'd given me thirty-six hours of her undivided attention. How disconcerting to realize that she could read my mind, as small as it was. I'd hoped the fine print would have been an impediment.

“Mama, if I let you tag along, will you promise you won't breathe a word of this to Greg? Not even one of your famous hints.”

“What famous hints?”

“Like the time I'd planned a surprise cruise for his birthday, and you gave him a guidebook to the Caribbean.”

Her face turned pink, but she wasn't bothered enough to apologize. “The first thing we'll do is take you home and give you a nice hot shower. No offense, dear, but you smell a bit ripe.”

“I was in jail for two hours, Mama.”

“In that case, let's quit burning daylight.”

She turned right on Broad, followed it into Lockwood, and then left across the Ashley River.

 

River Road on Johns Island, just south of Charleston, retains much of the charm that has brought thousands of people to the area. The irony is that these people need houses, which results in the cutting of ancient trees and encroachment on the
salt marshes, so that the vistas that were once part of the main attraction no longer exist. Here, at least, are reminders of how Charleston County used to look.

Safe-Keepers Storage, however, is a blight on the landscape, a boil on the face of Mother Nature. It makes me cringe every time I drive by it. Even Mama knew exactly where it was, and her pink pump pressed the pedal to the metal, covering the distance from downtown in what had to be record time. Thank heavens she was driving her own car, because gravel sprayed against the sides as we skidded to a stop upon arrival.

“Mama, aren't you worried about damaging your finish?”

“Don't sweat the small stuff. Haven't you learned that yet, Abby?”

“I have,” I said. I didn't dare tell Mama it was an expression I'd told myself whenever my ex-husband, Buford, demanded sex.

Mama got out and plumped up her crinolines before looking around. “So how do we find the owner?”

“Fortunately—although I would have guessed otherwise—he lives in the house over there.” I pointed to a dwelling that was as ugly, if not uglier, than the storage units.

Without further ado we crunched our way to the home of a Mr. Darren Cotter. Mama has a thing for ringing doorbells, so I let her do the honors. She had to mash it twice before anyone answered. Unfortunately, on the drive over I hadn't had time to warn her about Mr. Cotter's unusual appearance; his eyes were every bit as blue as a Siamese cat's. Shaped a bit like a cat's eyes as well.

When he came to the door, Mama overcorrected. “Hello. My name is Mr. Cotter,” she said.

“Somehow I don't think so.”

I nudged Mama gently aside. “She's actually Mrs. Wiggins. I'm Abigail Washburn. Although Timberlake is my business name. I'm the one who bought the contents of shed fifty-three.”

“Ma'am, there are no returns on locked trunk sales. The ad made that very clear.”

“Oh no, I'm not intending to return what I bought—or keep it, for that matter. But I would very much like to find out who the previous owner is.”

“Sorry, ma'am, but that information is confidential. Besides, it won't do you any good. I've been trying for years to get in touch with this guy. If I knew where he was, I wouldn't have had to go to the bother of setting up an auction.”

It was Mama's turn to elbow me aside. The three inches she has on me, plus a few pounds, give her an advantage.

“From what I heard, Mr. Cotter”—she pronounced the t's sharply—“you had about twenty dealers, plus a crowd of eager fortune hunters bidding on that shed. That's a lot of publicity for your storage business. One would think you'd be in an expansive mood after having sold my daughter a shed full of junk for two thousand dollars.”