Monet Talks (10 page)

I
closed my eyes and balled my fists. “Let me have it. Straight up.”

“We found her rented wheelchair.”

“And?”

“That's all. We thought you might like to know.”

My eyes flew open. “What do you mean ‘that's all'? What about Mama's body?”

“There was no body, Mrs. Washburn. Just the wheelchair. By the way, the rental company says you owe them $79.82 in late fees.”

I felt the resurgence of energy. It was just enough to enable me to leap at them and knock their heads together, or to continue my investigation once they left. For Mama's sake, I chose to be a lady.

“Where did you find the chair?”

“I'm afraid that's on a need-to-know basis,” Officer Tweedledum said.

“Give her a break,” Officer Tweedledee whis
pered, earning her my temporary gratitude.

“St. Philip's cemetery,” Officer Tweedledum growled. “A parishioner discovered it yesterday, but didn't report it until this afternoon.”

“He confessed to taking it home for his wife to use,” Officer Tweedledee said, “but she couldn't fit. Then his conscience started bothering him, so he turned it over to the department. You'd be surprised how many times that sort of thing happens.”

“Makes you proud to be an American,” Officer Tweedledum said. “Yes, ma'am, right proud.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, as a thought came to me, “lots of people use wheelchairs. How do you know it's the right one? Did you check for prints?”

“We're not stupid,” Officer Tweedledum said. “We just look that way. Of course we checked it for prints.”

“And?”

“There weren't any.”

“But we called the rental company,” Officer Tweedledee said. “On the backs of the chairs they advertise a book they publish—
Geriatric Sex for Dummies
—along with their phone number. Anyway, your mother's was their only rental last weekend.”

“May I assume you turned the chair back in so that the rental fee won't accrue?”

“Look, Mrs. Washburn,” Officer Tweedle
dum said, “we don't all have your kind of money. My wife's been needing a bigger chair for a long time now and—”

Officer Tweedledee poked her partner in the ribs.

“Sorry you folks have to run,” I said, and at the earliest opportunity locked the door behind them.

 

C.J. finally answered my call. By then her hair was mussed and her red face was bulging with so many veins it looked like she'd dipped it in a bowl of spaghetti.

“Where's Wynnell?”

“She went out the front way. She said to tell you she was going home to make supper for Ed. Personally, Abby, I think she's no longer interested in sleuthing.”

“It has been an extraordinarily long day. How was business?”

“Pretty good. But just about everyone asked where the bird is.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said we sent it over to Berlitz so it could learn to speak a lot of languages.”

“Good one.” It was an inside joke; C.J. speaks seventeen languages fluently. At least she claims she does. Who is to know if the Sino-Tibetan dialect she rattles off is really gibberish?

“Abby, I don't care if a million customers
stop by, it gets lonely here without my little friend.”

“I'm sure we'll get Monet back, dear. It's just a question of time.”

“I meant you.”

Does it get any sweeter than that? “C.J., what are your plans for this evening?”

“I was going to go home and wait for your brother to call. Abby, do you know what it's like to be in love with the handsomest, sexiest man in the world, and not be able to hold him in your arms every night? I long to feel Toy's lithe body—if I overlook the love handles—pressed hard against mine, his full, but somewhat rubbery lips—”

“Ew! That's my brother!”

“But it will all be worth it someday. I'll be Mrs. Toy Wiggins, and you'll be my sister-inlaw. How cool is that, sis?”

“Cooler than an unheated igloo in January. C.J.—sis—he can call you at my house just as well.”

She hesitated just long enough to make me repeat my invitation, and then we were off. When we got home I was doubly glad to have the big gal for company. Greg had left a message saying his boat was having engine troubles and that he'd be spending the night with a buddy, Mark Gallentree, up in McClellanville. Of course I trusted my husband, but I will admit that it helped that I knew Caroline Gallentree,
Mark's wife. The fact they were neither politicians nor preachers added to my comfort level.

Dmitri adores C.J., and while I kicked my shoes off and dug through the freezer for a couple of Lean Cuisine dinners, he kneaded her lap and purred. “I had a cat once,” C.J. said loud enough so I could hear from the kitchen.

“What was his name?” I called.

“Liger.”

I brought her a tall glass of sweet tea. “That's a cute name. Short for Little Tiger, right?”

“Oh, no, Abby. We called him Liger because that's what he was—half lion and half tiger.”

“C.J., please. I'm too tired for Shelby stories tonight.”

“But it's true, Abby. Granny Ledbetter bought him from a traveling menagerie. Of course he was just a cub when we got him, but then he got so big that granny put a saddle on him and let me ride him. Ligers, you know, are the biggest cats in the world.”

“Stop it. Lions and tigers are different species and they come from different places. Lions are from Africa and tigers from Asia. They can't interbreed. There is no such animal as a liger.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Abby?”

“No, just highly imaginative.”

“You
are
calling me a liar.” She pushed Dmitri off her lap and stood.

I wasn't in the mood to play games. Neither did I wish to be mean. But if we constantly let C.J. get away with her preposterous tales, we weren't doing her any favors.

“I'm sorry you can't stay longer,” I said. C.J. put her hands on her hips and gave me the evil eye. Her bottom lip was trembling, but she didn't say a word. Then, still without saying a thing, she grabbed her purse and stomped out the door.

I must say that her silence unnerved me. I would have much preferred a stiff rebuttal, even one laced with Shelby stories. Just to make one hundred percent sure that I wasn't in the wrong, I ran to the computer and typed “liger” in the search blank supplied by Google. The results came up immediately.

“Holy guacamole,” I said aloud, “there is such a thing.”

The big gal was right as rain. Due to a phenomenon biologists refer to as hybrid vigor, ligers—the offspring of a male lion and a female tiger—can weigh as much as a thousand pounds and, when standing on their hind legs, reach twelve feet in height.

I dialed C.J.'s cell phone. She couldn't have been gone more than two minutes, so she was definitely not indisposed. I hung up and tried again. Not having any luck, I did the only thing I could do, which was leave her a mes
sage, telling my dear friend how sorry I was for not believing her. I even went so far as to promise to believe all her future Shelby stories. Frankly, I hadn't made such an insincere vow since I was confirmed at age fourteen.

Depression either steals my appetite or makes me ravenous. That evening it made me hungry enough to devour both Lean Cuisines, a Hungry Man, and half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream. I tried to distract myself by reading, gave up to watch
Last Comic Standing
, and then, after an hour of not chuckling once, I turned out the light and fell asleep almost immediately.

 

I dreamed a thousand pound liger, with C.J. astride, was roaming the streets of Charleston South of Broad. But I was the only one who could see the giant cat. My calls to police were cruelly mocked, then ignored altogether. Even my honeybuns, Greg, who had returned from McClellanville married to Caroline Gallentree, refused to take me seriously. The only person in the entire world to believe me, other than C.J., was Bob Steuben, who said he had an old family recipe for liger burgers and would be right over to help me catch the behemoth. Before Bob could get there, the ferocious beast leaped through my bedroom window—Greg and the new Mrs. Washburn were in the kitchen yucking it up—knocked me to the bed, and started clawing at my eyes.

It was one of those dreams more real than reality, in part because I dreamed it mere minutes before waking, and when I did finally awaken, Dmitri was lying on my sternum, batting at my fluttering eyelids. It was a sport he'd engaged in on numerous other occasions. Still, it took me a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. Just before it clicked, I let loose with a bloodcurdling scream. Dmitri leaped into the air, landed on my chest, then tore from the room in a streak of orange. There are not many places in our house where a ten-pound cat can hide and not be found, but there must be at least one. Even a freshly opened can failed to do the trick.

While my poor pussy pouted, I got on the phone to McClellanville. First I called Greg's cell phone, but couldn't get through. When I called the Gallentree's landline, Caroline Gallentree picked up on the first ring.

“Hey Caroline. Is Greg there?” Only Yankees (and recently arrived Southerners) identify themselves to folks they've met more than once.

“Abby! I was just about to call
you
. I take it you haven't seen Mark, then?”

“Not since we rode to Clemson together last fall for the homecoming game.”

“I was afraid of that.”

My phone hand trembled. “Greg left a message late yesterday afternoon. Said he had engine trouble.”

“Funny, because that's what Mark said. And that he was closer to Charleston than to McClellanville, so he was spending the night with y'all.”

“Well, he didn't. Have you tried calling Mark on his cell?”

“Only a million times. Always get the same answer: the party I'm trying to reach is out of his calling area. How about you?”

“Same here. Caroline, what are the odds they both had engine trouble?”

“What are the odds we'll see a hundred pounds again—sorry, Abby. Damn them, Abby. Damn them all to hell.” She started crying.

“Caroline, do you want me to come up there?” I crossed my fingers and prayed that she didn't.

“No, I'll be okay. I just need to focus on what I do next. Should we call the Coast Guard, Abby? Mark's boat isn't in his slip.”

“Doesn't he have a partner?”

“He has two employees, Jesus and Chico. They're from Mexico. I called them both. Jesus said they never went out yesterday. Abby, have you checked with Greg's partners?”

“I just woke up. Give me five minutes and I'll call you right back.”

Skeeter and Bo Evans are Greg's partners. They're also his cousins. Bo fancies himself a lady-killer. Unfortunately, not many women fancy him. Nonetheless, when Bo's done trawl
ing for shrimp, he trawls the bars for women. Skeeter, on the other hand, is a family man with four children, three of them in braces and one bound for college. I chose to call him.

He read his caller ID. “Abby?”

“Skeeter, have you seen Greg?”

“Not since Friday. Why?”

“He didn't go out in the boat yesterday?”

“I don't think so. He said he needed off—to be with you. So Bo and I decided to take the day off as well. I want to spend as much time as I can with my oldest before she goes away to school. Say, any word about your mother, Abby?”

“No, not really. Thanks, Skeeter.”

“Any time.”

I called Caroline back. “His partner said he didn't think Greg took the boat out. I'm going to drive over to Mount Pleasant and see for myself. Do you have
my
cell phone number?”

“Yeah. Call me—promise?”

“As soon as I find out anything.”

When I hung up, I tried calling C.J. again. Still no answer. It was getting to the point where it was almost funny. First Mama, then C.J., then Dmitri, then Greg. Who was going to go missing next? Of course it wasn't funny. Except for my first wedding day—and the seven or eight times since when I've almost gotten myself killed—this was shaping up to be the most stressful day of my life.

Who should a stressed-out woman turn to? Yes, God is a good answer, but being only a lapsed Episcopalian, I ran straight into the arms of a good-looking unmarried man.

 

Rob Goldburg gave me a long, hard hug, and then passed me over to Bob.

“You look like hell, Abby,” Rob said. “What happened?”

“Greg didn't come home last night, and he wasn't where he said he would be. C.J. is missing as well—at least she won't answer her phone. Oh, and Dmitri is hiding somewhere in the house sulking. Can it get any worse?”

They led me into their kitchen. “Tell us everything,” Bob said. “Don't leave out a single word, but tell us between bites. I made a pigeon egg soufflé. It's hot from the oven. I haven't even taken it from its bath yet.”

“A what and a what?”

Rob laughed. “That's what I said.”

Bob was not amused. “For your information, fresh pigeon eggs are hard to get in Charleston. I had to put my order in weeks ago.”

“He serious?” I asked.

Rob rolled his eyes. “I'm afraid so. Do you know how many pigeon eggs it takes to make a soufflé? I don't, either, but I can tell you it takes forty-eight bucks worth.”

“That's because I had to have them airfreighted from San Antonio. Orange juice or
grapefruit, Abby? I've even got kumquat, if you like.”

“Coffee, please.”

“You take it like you like your men, right? Weak and white.”

“I'll take it strong and white this morning. Why on earth would anyone eat pigeon eggs?”

“They have a rich, almost buttery taste, that's why.”