Monet Talks (24 page)

“C.J., give me fifteen minutes—no, make that half an hour—at which time if I haven't called you, call the police and tell them to look for my body at the base of St. Philip's bell tower.”

She looked alarmed, as only a dear friend can. “Abby, you're not going to run in front of the wedding guests, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Like they do in Pamplona.”

“Those are bulls, darling, not wedding guests.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Abby, I'm not trying to argue, but Cousin Leonardo Ledbetter—”

“Later, C.J.” I took off like a bat headed toward its belfry.

T
he crowd of wedding guests was thinning when I arrived, enabling me to slip into the church without garnering a lot of attention. Because I was casually dressed—at least by wedding standards—some folks probably thought I was a florist, or a caterer, attending to postnuptial details. And since I'd actually been in the bell tower once, on a guided tour of the church, I knew exactly where to go.

There are slightly less than a million steep steps that lead to the top of St. Philip's steeple, and I'm not in the best of shape. However, the imminent murder of one's mama can be a powerful motivator. I removed my shoes, so as to make as little noise as possible, and paused frequently to listen for any sounds coming from the top. At one point I thought I heard voices, but then realized they were coming from outside.

Perhaps I was totally off base and would find
nothing at the top except for bird droppings and deaf pigeons. But if that was the case, there would be no harm done—except to my calf muscles. I just hoped that the sextant didn't lock me in the tower. St. Philip's Episcopal Church has one of the most historical cemeteries in the nation, and no doubt there are a few Apparition Americans who have taken residence in the bell tower.

But I got barely more than halfway to the top when I heard Martin Gibble shouting down to me. His voice echoed in the tower, and it was hard to sort out the words.

“Come on up, Abby, the view from up here is a killer.” At least that's what I thought he said.

“Martin,” I shouted back through cupped hands, “if you let my mother go, you can have the Monet, and anything else you want.”

“I want you to come up here, Abby.”

Strange that Martin wanted me to come there, to confirm with my eyes what my heart already knew. But maybe not so strange after all. If I got close enough so he could shoot me, or push me off the tower, or snuff me out in any number of ways, he might still be able to escape scotfree. Of course he'd have to kill Mama, too—if she wasn't already resting comfortably with Daddy on the Wiggins family cloud. But as long as I stayed out of Martin's reach, I remained a threat.

“I'm not coming up there, Martin. I sprained my ankle yesterday; I can barely walk.”

“Don't lie to me, Abby. There was nothing wrong with your ankle a few minutes ago. You were practically running down the street.”

“But I am afraid of heights, Martin. Honest. Tell you what: I'm going to leave the key to a storage unit on the ledge of this little fake window next to me. The name of the storage company is—”

“Acme?”

That's exactly what I was going to say—but I was just making that up. I had no idea if there really was an Acme Storage in Charleston. Maybe there wasn't, and this was a test.

“Actually, Martin, the storage company is in Orangeburg, South Carolina. It's called Treasure Keepers. The number of the unit is tied to the key.”

“You're lying, again. Why do you lie to me, Abby? Don't you love your mama?”

The man was brighter than I gave him credit for, and a whole lot more intuitive. His hunches were worth every bit as much as a woman's. It was time to switch tactics.

“Come to think of it, Martin, my mother has always been a pain in the butt. ‘Abby, do this, Abby do that'; she never shuts her trap. Not to mention that she's always loved my brother more. The Monet—oh, you should see it, Mar
tin—is worth a cool three million. Even more, if the Saudis are in the right mood. No, Martin, you keep Mama, and I'll keep the painting.”

“Why, Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn!” Mama's voice was clear as a bell. But Martin was fond of playing around with voices. For all I knew, that was a recording. Or maybe even Monet. “How dare you choose a painting over your mama. I'll have you know I endured thirty-six hours of excruciating labor—”

“Mama!” I screamed. “It really is you.”

“He doesn't have a gun!” Mama screamed back.

“Shut up, bitch.”

I heard scuffling overheard, the clank of a bell hitting something—or someone—and another scream. It is easier, and quicker, to run down a zillion steps than it is to run up. I took the path of least resistance.

 

The body was lying on the sidewalk, faceup. I expected it to look worse, perhaps because I'd seen so many gruesome scenes on television and in the movies. Martin Gibble, on the other hand, looked for all the world like he'd decided to take a nap—with his eyes open.

“Who is it?” The question was on a dozen pairs of lips.

“I'm not sure of his name,” a matron in wed
ding guest attire said, “but his face rings a bell.”

Her husband nodded gravely. “That's because this fellow's a dead ringer for that antique dealer over on King Street. You know, the one who sold us that Napoleon love seat you like so well.”

“Probably a suicide,” a second matron opined. “People who commit suicide are so inconsiderate. He landed on our cousins from Missouri. Fortunately, they're a hard-headed bunch and no one was hurt.”

That explained the condition of Martin's corpse. Mama, however, was nowhere to be seen. I ran back into the bell tower and climbed all zillion steps without pausing to catch my breath.

I
called my brother, Toy, from the emergency waiting room at Roper Hospital. “I found Mama.”

“Yeah? Where was she? No, let me guess…she was working as the entertainment director on a Club Med cruise.”

“Not even close. She was bound with duct tape and stashed in the bell tower of St. Philip's Episcopal Church.”

“Sorry sis, but I like my scenario better. It's more realistic. Can't you just see Mama trying to organize a game of bingo—”

“Toy, I'm not kidding.”

“Yeah, right. Who put you up to this? C.J.?”

“Shut up, Toy—please. I really did find Mama in the bell tower. She's dehydrated, and her ears hurt, but the doctor says she's doing pretty good for a woman in her late sixties—considering.”

“Jeez, Abby, you're for real?”

“As real as your engagement to C.J.”

“Shoot. Give me a second while I sit down.”

I counted to thirty by tens. “It's a long story, Toy, that involves a gilded birdcage and a mynah named Monet—”

“C.J. told me about that. Said the bird was a hoot, and that his cage was awesome.”

I rolled my eyes. Was the world really ready for an Episcopal priest who said “awesome”? Just a few months ago Toy had been parking cars for stars in California. Maybe this seminary phase was just that: a phase that would pass, leaving us the irresponsible Toy we all knew, and some of us loved. That Toy was easy to compete with—it wasn't even a contest. But Lord knows, if he really was getting his act together, I was going to have to pedal hard just to keep up.

“Speaking of your fiancée,” I said, “here she comes now. I'm going to put her on the phone and let her tell you the rest.”

“Thanks, Abby. And sis?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I love you.”

“Uh—me too. What brought that on?”

“I've been kind of a jerk my whole life, Abby. I want things to be different from now on.”

I crossed my fingers. Yeah, me too.”

 

Mama reigned majestically from her hospital bed. Yes, she was traumatized by her experi
ences in the bell tower, but that didn't stop her from milking those who loved her for all the sympathy she could get. As her strength and confidence returned, she turned her milking skills on the public. The woman was brilliant at PR.

The three major networks did live remotes from her hospital room, which Mama had us record and play back to her ad nauseum. She was a natural-born performer, with impeccable timing. She flirted with Charley Gibson, complimented Al Roker on his weight loss, and told Julie Chen she wished she had a daughter just like her. Mama's only gaffe was to tell Katie Couric that she really preferred to be interviewed by Matt Lauer, who happened to be on vacation that week.

In addition to the electronic media, Mama gave interviews to dozens of journalists, including a few of the less scrupulous. It was her own fault, therefore, when headlines on a supermarket rag read:
SIXTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD GRANDMOTHER HAS MICHAEL JACKSON'S BABY
.” Mama was incensed and demanded a rebuttal. “I'm only sixty-eight,” she said angrily on
Larry King Live.

Even when not embellishing the truth, details of her captivity made for fascinating copy. Martin Gibble, it would appear, had been petrified by my half-pint parent. Her wish was his command—except, of course, her wish to go
free. Martin had come every evening to feed her and let her use the comfort room. For the latter, the nasty napper had to carry Mama down and up the zillion steps. And on two occasions she sent him back to a restaurant to get new meals, complaining that the ones he'd brought were too cold. During the day, she slept on a goose down comforter, folded to make a bed, or watched a battery-powered television, which she listened to through headphones.

Just because Martin jumped when Mama told him to didn't make him a good guy. He'd wanted, of course, to frighten me with the parcels containing her crinoline and pearls, respectively, but Mama had refused to part with them—even when staring down the barrel of his gun. Martin had to settle for a secondhand crinoline from Granny's Goodies on King Street and “pearls” from a discount department store.

Monet was almost as difficult to deal with as Mama. He talked up a storm, but said nothing revelatory about a stolen painting. Then Martin, who was convinced I knew something about the theft—thus my fierce bidding—tried to get Monet to talk into a tape recorder. Martin would then use the bird's voice when he made his ransom calls. It was, at least in theory, a brilliant plan: the FBI would be stumped, unable to match the mynah's voice to any human voice
pattern. But the black bird from India would not cooperate. Instead, he got into a rut, reciting nursery rhymes he'd learned from a previous owner.

Although it was the Charleston police who rescued Monet from Martin Gibble's house, he was put in the temporary custody of the Feds, as was the Taj Mahal. I would like to say that I stewed and fussed about Monet's welfare, but the truth is, Mama demanded, and received, almost all of my attention. The rest of my energy went to Greg.

My darling husband had made a convincing show of remorse upon his return from McClellanville. When he wasn't with me at the hospital, he was home burning supper or trying to master the great mysteries of vacuum cleaners and washing machines. The man certainly gets an E for effort.

I returned from the hospital one evening to find Greg entertaining a beautiful young woman with legs up to her armpits. Before I could jump to conclusions, my beloved jumped to his feet.

“Hon,” Greg said, “this is Agent Krukowski. She wants to talk to you about Monet.”

I shook the proffered hand. “I'm afraid you've wasted your time, Agent Krukowski. I know very little about the artist—or his work.”

“Mrs. Washburn, it's the bird I want to talk about, not the painter.”

I was suddenly overcome by a wave of emotion. It was as if she had come to deliver bad news about a loved one.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“Relax, Mrs. Washburn, he's fine. He came through the surgery with flying colors.”

“Surgery?”

“Yes. We gave the bird an ultrasound—to see if perhaps he'd been embedded with a chip of some sort, or surgically implanted with a key. What we found was rather startling.”

“Go on!” I wanted to yank the words out of her with a tongs.

Agent Krukowski reached into a scuffed leather briefcase and took out a small envelope, the size of a seed packet. She dumped the contents into her hand.

Greg reacted first. “Wow! Is that a diamond?”

Agent Krukowski nodded briskly. “Not just any diamond. The finest in the world.”

“A Golconda diamond from India,” I said, which startled the agent, but caused my husband to smile proudly.

“That's right, Mrs. Washburn. Once we had the diamond, we were able to trace its provenance, due to its rarity and size. As you can see, it's heart-shaped. This diamond is, in fact, named the Heart. In Hindi, the word heart is
mun
. We believe that ‘Monet' may have been a corruption of
mun
. The courier on this end may well have misunderstood what he was told dur
ing the handover. At any rate, it is absolutely flawless and weighs 47.5 carats, with an insured value of five and a half million dollars.”

Greg whistled. “That's a lot of moolah.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Wait just a cotton-picking minute,” I said. “Are you saying that this was
inside
Monet?”

“I am. But don't worry, Mrs. Washburn. We've learned that it was placed in his gizzard by laparoscopic surgery, and that's how we removed it. Because birds lack teeth, they normally eat small stones to help them grind their food. This is, of course, much larger than any gravel he would eat on his own, but I can assure you it caused him minimal discomfort.”

“What happens to Monet now?”

“That's why I'm here. To put it crudely, we're through with him. Legally he is yours, and you may have him back. I just wanted you to know that another party is interested in acquiring him, if only to nurse him back to health.”

“Another party?”

“A Mr. Bubba Johnson. He's been following the story on the news. Just so you know, Mrs. Washburn, we've checked him out, and he seems to be quite an expert on birds.”

“Tell me about it.” I clamped a hand over my mouth.

Greg was too busy planning his next question to notice. “What happens to the diamond?”

“I was waiting for someone to ask that. Its
rightful owner is an Englishwoman, the widow of a former rajah, living in Agra.”

“That's the city where the Taj Mahal is,” I said.

Agent Krukowski's brow furrowed slightly. “You certainly are well-informed, Mrs. Washburn. As I was about to say, we will be returning both the cage and the jewel to their rightful owner.” She slipped the diamond back into the envelope, which she tucked deep into her briefcase. “Well, I think that's all. Here's my card. Let me know what you decide about the bird as soon as possible. By tomorrow if you can.”

We walked her to the door. It was only then that I noticed a car idling across the street. The uniformed man sitting in it was undoubtedly her security guard.

“Agent Krukowski,” I said as we shook hands again, “what is Monet's real name?”

“Blackie.”

“Excuse me?”

She smiled for the first time. “Not very imaginative, is it?”