Gilt by Association (11 page)

“M
y shop? The Den of Iniquity?”

He suppressed a chuckle. “That's
antiquity
, isn't it?”

“I know what it is! What happened?”

“Carter—our beat officer—noticed a strip of the tape flapping in the breeze this morning. He stopped and saw that it had been cut.”

“Front or back door?”

“Front. I mean, back.”

“Which is it?” I nearly shrieked.

He uncrossed his legs. “Well, both. Carter saw the tape loose in the front, but it looks like the perpetrator forced his way in through the back door, and exited through the front. Apparently that's where he was parked.

“It's likely that he—or
she
,” he said with needless emphasis, “exited while it was still dark so somebody would have seen him—or
her
.”

“What time did this Carter person drive by?”

“It was on his seven o'clock circuit. So within half an hour, I'd guess.”

I popped up out of my seat like a tart from a toaster. “What? Y'all have known about this for two hours, and you're just now telling me?”

He motioned for me to sit down. I responded by pacing.

“Take it easy, Abby. You're not an easy lady to track down. Where were you anyway?”

“Out having breakfast with a man.”

He smiled and raked a finger through that thick black hair. “Always cracking jokes. That's my Abby.”

I waved a hand impatiently. “So what was the damage? What was taken? Could you tell?”

“The only damage appears to be your back door. He—or
she
—”

“Stop it!” I said.

“Yes, ma'am. Of course I don't keep track of your inventory, Abby, but I do know that something is missing.”

“Oh, not that Japanese painting from the Meiji era! I knew I should have locked that in my safe. But I was showing that to a customer last Friday—”

He was shaking his head. “I don't know about a Japanese painting. What's missing is that mirror from the Barras estate auction. The one we'd impounded.”

“But left in my shop.” It was time to sit again. “This is crazy. Why would anyone want to steal that? I mean, it is a beautiful mirror, and quite authentic, but it isn't worth half of what that Japanese painting could bring.”

“Maybe the thief likes to look at himself, or—” He bit his lip mockingly.

“First the body in the armoire,” I said thinking aloud, “and now the mirror. Do you think the two are related somehow?”

Greg frowned. “Well, there's no obvious connection. But we can't rule it out. What can you tell me about the mirror?”

“It was genuine Louis XV. It was made in France—probably Paris—sometime between 1775 and 1800. The frame was hand-carved from cherry and gilded. The theme was acanthus leaves. In this case, both the workmanship and the state of preservation were good to excellent.”

“I'm impressed. How much was it worth?”

“Well, that's the thing. Those four pieces were all made by the same artisan. Sort of like a set. If I sold them together—well, let's just the say the mirror by itself is worth a lot less.”

“How
much
?”

“Seventy-five hundred.”

He gasped. “For a goddamn mirror?”

“Wait a few more years until the turn of the century, and it will be worth a hell of a lot more. Everything will automatically have another century added to its span.”

“Ourselves included.”

“Don't remind me. So what are you going to do about this?”

“Well, we investigate, of course.”

“Y'all better do more than that, buster. That mirror was in your safekeeping.”

That seemed to amuse him. “Whew,” he said, “you're five feet of pure steam.”

“Four-nine, and if I were you I'd watch it, because I'm about to explode. Shouldn't you be out there lifting fingerprints, or something?”

He got up. For someone his height, it must be like unfolding an ironing board. A few squeaks and creaks, and always the danger that the thing will collapse on you before it's fully expanded.

“See you tonight. I'm off. We could take in a movie at the Towers?”

There was in fact a new Kevin Costner movie playing there that I wanted to see, but I was promised for that night. Dinner with a foot doctor named Arvin.

“Well, uh—”

“Please,” Greg said, with his eyes as well as his voice.

I felt like an ice cream cone in July. Thank God he hadn't taken me seriously about Arvin.

“Sorry,” I said, looking past him to the sickly schefflera. “I promised Mama I'd meet her at church. It's
Wednesday, you know. We're having our monthly dinner. Tonight's program is a demonstration on deep fat frying your Christmas turkey. You want to come?”

It was a safe offer. I already knew that Greg takes to church like Charlie does to homework, and Susan does to housework. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever darkened a church door, and by then what would be the point?

“No thanks. Maybe tomorrow then? A movie and dinner?”

“Sounds great.” It sounded a lot better than dinner with Arvin.

 

I excused myself to use the ladies' room so that Greg would leave first. There was a call I wanted to make.

It wasn't easy. I may as well have driven down to Rock Hill. I had to wait in line while a teenage boy mumbled interminably into the receiver. Something to do with jock itch, and didn't she (presumably his girlfriend) notice the sores you-know-where? I had just grabbed the receiver, a tissue safely covering my hand, when an enormous blond woman, quite possibly a shotputter for the German Olympic team, demanded in a heavy accent that she use the phone before I did.

“Ma'am?” I asked, bewildered.

She snatched the phone from my hand, sans tissue, and furiously punched in a long string of numbers.

“Hans!” she barked.

Hans barked something back and the woman slammed the receiver back in the cradle.

“
Ein Schwein
!”

I waited until her broad shoulders passed through the front door before trying again.

“Mama?”

“Oh Abigail, I am so glad you called. Do you think I'm being unreasonable, dear?”

“Well, I was over yesterday, after all. Some daughters don't speak to their mothers but once a week.”

I could hear Mama's pearls clacking against the receiver. “Oh, I'm not talking about this call, dear. I'm talking about the club.”

“Which club?” Mama belongs to at least four clubs; book, garden, bridge, and community service. And that doesn't count anything connected to church.

“The Apathia Club,” she said mournfully.

“What club is that, Mama?”

“You know, it's that ultra prestigious club I've been telling you about. Anyone who is
anyone
is in it.”

“I'm not.”

“You don't even live in Rock Hill anymore. Louise is in it. So is Elaine Cryderman. Why don't they want me?”

“How do you know they don't want you?”

“Well, Louise invited me as her guest to one of their luncheons. They hold them at the Rock Hill Country Club, you know. Anyway, they looked me over like I was a new fall outfit at Dillard's department store, but there were no takers. Nobody asked me to join.”

“Maybe they don't have any openings.”

“They have three openings,” she wailed. “I want desperately to join, but they won't ask me.”

Having never been a club sort of person, I was at a loss as to how to comfort her. “Well, why would you want to belong to a club that didn't want you for a member?” I asked, stealing from and distorting the words of Groucho Marx.

“Oh, Abby, you just don't understand! These are
the
movers and shakers of Rock Hill.”

I pictured a group of well-dressed women, Mama's age, shimmying and shaking their way through the buffet line of the Rock Hill Country Club. I had to stifle a giggle.

“I'm sorry, Mama. Maybe they plan to ask you, and
just haven't gotten around to it. Anyway, Mama, I need you to do me a big favor.”

“What sort of favor?” Mama asked cautiously, and with good reason.

“Well, Greg might call you today looking for me, and if he does—”

“You want me to lie to him?” My mama is every bit as bright as June Cleaver.

“I'm in a predicament, Mama. Greg asked me out, but I already have a date.”

“You're two-timing your boyfriend and you want me to help?” Wally and Beav would never have gotten past her.

“It isn't my doing, Mama. The Rob-Bobs fixed me up with a podiatrist without asking my permission.”

“A podiatrist is a doctor, right?”

“I guess so. He calls himself Dr. Arvin Schlonecker.”

Mama did a little mental arithmetic. It didn't take long. Greg's salary, as a city investigator, versus Arvin's, taking care of tootsies. Arvin won by a big toe.

“So what do I say?” she asked.

“Just tell him I'll be meeting you at church tonight for the turkey fry.”

“Will do—hold on, Abby. I've got another call. It might be
him
.”

Personally I don't think anyone who wears crinolines and high heels when she vacuums her drapes has any business having call waiting. Mama has yet to buy a microwave oven, for pete's sake. But I suppose it's all that social insecurity that drives her to amass all the phone paraphernalia available.

“It was just that Jumping Jane woman. She wants you to call her immediately. She said to be sure and tell you that it's very important.”

“That's Calamity Jane,” I said.

“She jumps to conclusions, doesn't she? It's all the same.”

I said good-bye to Mama and called Jane. A short line had formed behind me, but that was tough. At least they didn't have to hear mumbled conversations about jock itch.

“Hello, Feathers 'N Treasures,” Jane said so smoothly that I wasn't sure if I'd reached her machine.

“Hello, Jane?”

“Abby! Thank God you called. I was getting worried. Your mother said she'd give you the message, but then I got to thinking, what if she forgot to give you the message until tomorrow? Only tomorrow, you see—”

“Jane! It's only been two minutes. What is it?”

“Yes, that. Well, that reporter came to see me again. But this time at my shop.”

“And?”

“And I don't think she's a reporter, after all.”

“She? Why didn't you tell me before it was a she?”

“You didn't ask, Abby. She said her name was Toxie somebody, and that she was trying to get in touch with you. Do you know her?”

“I've never met her.”

“Oh, wait just a second. I wrote down something else she said.”

I waited almost as long as it takes snow to melt in Charlotte. In the meantime I could hear Calamity Jane singing to herself. “Eleanor Rigby,” I think it was, but terribly off-key. I was going to have to suggest Muzak to C. J. Given her voice, it would be a legitimate business expense.

“Oh, here it is. She said she's a niece of someone named Lula Mae. Could that be right?”

“It could be,” I said patiently. “Is there a last name for this Toxie person?”

“Just a minute. I wrote that down someplace, too.”

If you knew C. J., you would know that it made perfect sense to her to write my message down in fragments, on separate pieces of paper. Of course it doesn't make any sense to me, but I had no choice but to wait while she searched and sang a horrendous rendition of “There's Got to Be a Morning After.”

“Here it is. It's Barras. Isn't that the name of the estate collection you bought at the auction Monday?”

“Yes, dear. Was there anything else?”

She ignored my question.

“Toxie Barras. That's an odd name, isn't it? It sounds like Toxic. You have to be careful about giving your children odd names, you know. I once lived next door to this boy named Dijon—like with the mustard? Well, folks thereabouts pronounced it ‘Die-John.' That's all he ever heard, was folks telling him to die, so one day he climbed up on the town's water tower. He wasn't going to jump or anything. He just wanted to spray-paint his name up there in big letters with instructions telling everyone how to pronounce it.”

I tried to interrupt her but she was on a roll.

“Anyway, he didn't get past spelling out his name when a bunch of kids from school saw him up there. They started chanting ‘Die-John, Die-John, Die-John.' They didn't mean anything bad about it, of course. They were just trying to cheer him on. Well, poor Dijon took it the wrong way. He thought they were urging him to jump, and by that time he was so fed up with his name that he did jump.”

“That's is the worst story I ever heard, and I don't for a minute believe it happened,” I said.

“Well it did so! I was there,” she said hotly.

“If you say so, dear. Did Toxie leave you a number?”

She read off Toxie's number as if she was a musician playing a series of staccato notes. “And in the future,
Abigail,” she said tersely, “kindly remember that I am not your answering service.”

We hung up simultaneously.

I glanced behind me after pulling another quarter out of my change purse.

“Don't even think about it,” growled a woman with blue and yellow curlers in her hair.

“This is a public phone, dear,” I said calmly. “I am entitled to use it for as long as I wish. But”—I put the quarter back in my change purse—” I have decided not to make that call. The doctor said my ear infection will only get worse if I keep it pressed against the phone too long.”

I smiled warmly at her and found another phone outside the hospital.