Monet Talks (12 page)

“Yes, of course!”

“But it's not. We could tell you so many stories—”

“I'm sure you could. I know a few myself. But guys, you're forgetting that I don't have a homophobic bone in my body, and neither does Greg. If he and Mark Gallentree were having an affair, there would be no reason not to tell me.”

“Would he tell you if he was having an affair with a woman?”

The three pancakes I'd eaten, plus the bacon and eggs they came with, felt like a bowling ball in my stomach. I couldn't breathe, thanks to the pressure on my lungs.

“You're turning gray, Abby,” Rob said. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Do you need to lie down?”

“I'm fine guys, really.”

“Take a deep breath, Abby. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Keep breathing like that until you stop feeling light-headed. I know this is a lot for you to deal with—”

“I'm not feeling light-headed.”

“Denial is also a part of the process,” Bob said.

“Denial is in Egypt,” I snapped, “and Greg is not gay.”

“Abby, we're your friends. We only want to help you.”

The bowling ball left as fast as it had arrived, and I could breathe again. “If you two are though yapping, you might want to turn around and see who is seated two booths behind you.”

“B
ut don't let her see you,” I whispered.

Bob is as subtle as a marching band. His glasses nearly flew off he whipped his head around so fast.

“That's Catherine Deephouse.”

“Indeed. Look who's with her.”

“I don't know him, Abby, do you?”

“He's definitely a hunk,” Rob said. “Uh—if you don't mind robbing the cradle, which I don't—do, that is. I definitely do mind.”

“Good save,” Bob growled. He was only half kidding.

“So, Abby, who is he?” Rob demanded.

“I don't know. But don't you think it odd that in all the restaurants in the Charleston area, Catherine Deephouse would show up at the same one that I choose? And with a musclebound hunk in tow?”

“She's got to eat breakfast someplace.”

“Yes, but Catherine lives on Wadmalaw Is
land,” I said, referring to a community that is so posh, dirt roads are considered chic. “That's all the way over on the other side of Charleston. Frankly, I'm surprised she has the energy to keep her shop downtown. That commute would kill me.”

Rob shook his head as he geared up to poke holes in my theory. “Catherine is an interior decorator. She has clients all over the tristate. As long as they have the bucks, she's happy to oblige.”

“That could be her son,” Bob said. “I see a family resemblance.”

“Otis and Catherine Deephouse don't have children,” I said. “I'm telling you, this guy's some kind of bodyguard—no, make that a thug.”

“He's married,” Rob said. “Not that I pay attention to ring fingers. I just happened to notice.”

Bob glared at him. “Abby, coincidences do happen. I bet she doesn't even know you're here.”

“We'll just see about that.” I put my napkin down beside me on the banquette and slid across the faux leather.

“Stop,” Rob hissed. “Come back.”

I don't take orders. Looking straight ahead, I walked to her booth, stopping when I was halfway past her. Feigning responses, especially surprise, has always come easily to me.

“Catherine! I almost didn't see you there.”

She did a pretty good job of faking as well. “Abby, how nice to see you.”

“Do you come here, to the Pleasant side, very often?”

“You know how this business is, Abby. You go where it takes you.” She must have caught a glimpse of the Rob-Bobs. “Heavens, there's a crowd of you here.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Why on earth would the three of you drive all the way over here to eat breakfast?”

“But I was just—”

“What gives, Abby? Some big auction I don't know about? Some collector die and leave his estate to the wolves?”

“I'm not a wolf, thank you. But the answer is yes. There's a fabulous yard sale going on down on Pitt Street in the Old Village. You wouldn't believe the quality of the merchandise, or the ridiculously low prices. Supposedly the couple is going through a nasty divorce and the husband, who collects, is overseas. I just bought an eighteenth-century writing desk for two hundred dollars!”

Catherine Deephouse and her male companion, whomever he was, slid out of their booth like butter from a hot pan. They must have already been given their check, because they made only a brief stop at the register before bolting out the door.

I returned to my seat feeling as stupid as the woman who claimed to have given birth to a circumcised child she'd stolen from a hospital.

“What's with them?” Bob asked.

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

Rob sighed. “Abby, Abby, Abby, what are we going to do with you? Catherine said something that pissed you off, so you fired back with a volley of your own. It was obviously a good shot, little Miss Big Shot, but the question remains: did you find out what you need to know? Namely, what she's doing all the way over here, and just who the heck the hunk is?”

“Hey!” Bob said. “He wasn't that cute.”

I hung my head. “Okay, I screwed up. I blew it. But they obviously aren't following me. Let's leave it at that, can we?”

We finished our second carafe of coffee in silence.

“I've been thinking,” Bob said.

“Uh-oh,” Rob and I said in unison, and then slapped palms. I might have gotten a little syrup on him.

“This is serious. I want us to review what we know so far. First, there is this furious auction over a birdcage. Then the bird gets stolen, then Mozella disappears, and then Abby starts getting phone calls from the bird, then C.J. disappears, then Greg, but do you know what's
not
missing from this picture?”

“What?” I said.

“The birdcage,” Bob said.

“Duh,” I said, and slapped my forehead. There was indeed syrup on my hand.

“Abby,” Rob said, “I hate to say this, but he is so right. On the way over here you said that there are five people who wanted that darn thing so bad they could taste it. Enough even to make them seem suspicious. But the cage has just been sitting there in your shop. It wasn't taken when Monet was filched. It wasn't taken last night, or the night before. It probably doesn't have anything to do with this case, so you've been barking up the wrong tree.”

“Make that a forest,” I said.

“Nonetheless, if you don't mind my suggestion, I think you should put it someplace safe until we solve this mystery.”

“Let us keep it for you,” Bob said.

“Thanks, guys. I'll take you up on that. But Rob, you're wrong about one thing: one of those trees could stand a little more barking. I told you that Bubba Johnson owns a string of dry cleaning stores, but I didn't tell you that he is obsessed with birds.”

Rob smirked. “How obsessed? Two parrots and a canary? Or one of those terrariumlike deals that you rent from some service that comes in the house and cleans it for you?”

“I'm talking hundreds of cages, maybe thousands of birds. You've got to see his house to believe it.”

“Where does he live? Out in the country someplace?”

“Downtown, South of Broad.”

The Rob-Bobs whistled, but not together, and not in the same key. It sounded a lot like a wolf whistle, and heads turned. I pointed at myself and smiled.

Bob, as usual, sounded the first sour note. “Whoever took Monet didn't do it to add a new species to his, or her, collection. They did it as a means to get something else. After all, they could have gotten a mynah from any pet shop—even off the Internet. They would have us think that the bird Monet leads to the real Monet—possibly one of his paintings. But we all know that Monet's paintings were huge. It's not like one could be hidden somewhere inside the cage itself. Just the same, Abby, how well have you searched the cage?”

“Excuse me?”

“Could there be a false bottom?”

“There is a tray that slides out, of course. That's how you get rid of his droppings.”

“Have you ever held the tray up at eye level?”

That was a silly, if thought-provoking, question. Who, in their right mind, holds a birdcage tray at eye level? Perhaps the same folks who behold their toilet rims at eye level. I haven't done that since college.

“No, I did not.”

“Perhaps we should go do that.”

I felt like a fool, but a hopeful fool. Perhaps Bob was on to something. I would find what it was my mamanapper was looking for and get her back, Greg would return to me straight away, and even the prodigal C.J. would come home. Then, if I could get my daughter Susan married off to a doctor, and my son Charlie married to the second or third woman president, I could begin to live happily ever after.

“Lunch is on me,” I said generously.

But the Rob-Bobs were already headed for the door, while our check remained on the table. Oh well, IHOP had been worth those few extra bucks.

 

All the way to my shop I worried that the Taj Mahal would be missing. I couldn't even enjoy the spectacle of a massive container ship passing directly below us as we crossed on the new Thomas Ravenel Bridge, the longest single-span suspension bridge in North America. I couldn't enjoy the pair of dolphins that arched and looped near the shore between Drum Island and the peninsula. Worst of all, I couldn't enjoy the residual bits of bacon caught in my teeth, or the aftertaste of sweet maple syrup.

At my direction, Rob parked in my reserved spot behind the shop. My heart was beating so hard I couldn't concentrate to put the key in the lock. I certainly did not pay much attention to
the package by the door. I get deliveries, or returns of small purchases, on a daily basis. When at last I got the door open, I kicked the package inside, and then ran through the storeroom and out into the selling area. The miniature replica of the most beautiful building in the world was right where I'd left it! I collapsed into a Biedermeier armchair while I caught my breath. This particular chair is a favorite of mine because, like me, it is functional without being frilly.

“Hot damn,” Bob said, “it's still there.”

“In all its avian glory,” I gasped.

“Mind if we check it out?” Rob asked.

“Knock yourselves out.”

There, before my eyes, two of Charleston's most elegant men turned into the Hardy Boys. They were all over that birdcage, like butter on grits. Bob pulled out the tray and held it to eye level. Finding nothing unusual, he had Rob hold the cage aloft while he got on his knees and peered upward. The four outside minarets were of such intricate and delicate design that I insisted the Taj not be laid on its side.

“Hurry up,” Rob said. “This thing is heavy.”

“I'm hurrying as fast as I can.”

Rob switched arms. “What's this thing made out of, Abby? Gold?”

The Taj was painted white. I had assumed it was made from wire scrollwork. But what if it wasn't? What if that was gold under the paint?
What if Monet the bird and Monet the artist weren't even part of the equation? That much gold would be worth a mint, particularly if it was of high purity. But gold, being a “noble metal,” remains unaffected by most elements. Getting paint to adhere firmly to gold is like getting it to stick to glass. But what if one first coated the Taj with an epoxy of some sort, or a resin?

I leaped to my feet. I am no expert on precious metals, but ever since the third grade I've been an expert on scratching things. One spring day when Jimmy Campbell was out on the playground trouncing the other kids at dodgeball, a shy but precocious Abby Wiggins removed a barrette from her stick-straight hair and scratched
A.W.
+
J.C
. on the front of her hero's lunch box. Then, carried away by my newfound skill at engraving, I gave Lassie horns and a billy goat beard. When Jimmy saw what I had done, he burst into tears and ran from the room. A part of me blames myself for Jimmy's metamorphosis into playground bully and later into a petty criminal, one who spends more time in the slammer than out. At any rate, the time to scratch painted metal again had arrived.

“Y'all have any barrettes on you?”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Bob said.

“I need something sharp.”

“There's a tweezers somewhere in my left pocket,” Rob said.

“Be a gentleman, will you, and fish it out?” A lesser woman might have paused to wonder what he was doing with tweezers in his pants.

Rob fumbled a bit with his left hand before retrieving the smallest tweezers I'd ever seen. “It came off a Swiss army knife,” he said. “Sometimes when I'm out driving in the sunlight and look in the rearview mirror, I spot a stray hair. You know, in my nose or ears.”

“TMI!” I grabbed the tweezers and gave one of the cage bars a good scrape.

“Hey,” Bob cried in dismay, “you're going to ruin this thing. I'll admit I wasn't so wild about this birdcage in the beginning, but it kinda grows on one. It's really quite camp, Abby.”

I examined my handiwork closely. There were, in fact, many layers of paint, but at the bottom of the gouge I spotted the telltale glint of gray.

“Oh phooey, it's just base metal.”

Rob laughed. “You didn't really expect to find gold, did you, Abby?”

“Don't be silly, Rob. But if it was made in India—well, they're famous for their silver filigree.”

“This isn't a ring, Abby. This is an animal house the size of Grand Central Station. Say
Bob, you making any progress on discovering your false bottom? My arms are about to fall off.”

“
My
false bottom?” Bob boomed.

My desk phone rang before I could think of a clever quip. I ran to answer it, but thanks to my less-than-perfect floor plan, the machine picked up before I got there. And just a second after that the front buzzer sounded.

“It's our assistant,” Rob shouted. I heard the jangle of bells as the door opened, and then Rob's voice again. “A small crisis across the way, Abby. We'll be back in two minutes.” The door slammed.

By then my caller had had ample time to leave a message. The caller ID read “blocked” again, a good indication that a telemarketer had been itching to waste my time—either that or it was the kidnapper. But there was no way I could resist listening to the message. For the first time I found myself hoping against hope that the caller was trying to convince me to refinance.

“Damn,” the voice said, “I was hoping to get you. Listen hon, I just want you to know that I'm with Mark, and that I'm okay. Love you, babe. Catch you later.”

I was still holding the receiver to my ear when the Rob-Bobs returned. I must have listened to that message a hundred times. When I became aware of their presence, I set the phone
gently back in its cradle, as gently I would lay an infant in its crib.

“You were right,” I said.

“Of course,” Rob said. “I'm always right.”

“Not you—Bob.”

“Uh-oh,” Rob said, and moved in to hug me, but I backed away.