Poison Ivory (15 page)

He laughed, then noting the expression on my face, quickly sobered. “Sorry about that. But just out of curiosity, did you find that needle?”

“What?”

“In the haystack,” Mama said. “Abby, sometimes I wonder if I forgot to eat on the days that your brain was forming—bless your heart.”

Phillip Canary laughed again. “Abby, I really like your mama.”

“Good, then you can have her,” I said. “She is, after all, almost potty-trained.”

“You know something else?” he said. “If I was gonna set my mind to a case like yours, I’d start back at the ship. Like could any of the crew be in on it? After all, ivory just doesn’t get up and walk out of the harbor on its own. Somebody’s got to be down there to collect it. So what are they driving? What kind of a system do they have going?”

“System?”

“Poor Abby,” Mama said. “She doesn’t have time to watch old movies. He means like smuggling the ivory in and out in a laundry cart, don’t you Mr. Canary?”

“Or—”
I began.

“Abby, be polite and wait for Mr. Canary to
answer.”

“Mama, you asked a rhetorical question. Besides, we have to run!”

“Run?”

“Mama, if my hunch is right, then Mr. Curly can cross me off his list of suspects with ink!”

M
y dilemma was whether or not to fill Mama in on all of the details of our destination while on the way there (and scare the bone marrow out of her), or do the kind thing and let her draw her own conclusions. I decided on the latter. After all, Mama had expressed a desire to share more adventures with me, had she not? Besides, experience has taught me that she really does perform better when not overrehearsed.

“Abby,” she said as the houses whizzed by, “in this part of Mount Pleasant they’re very strict with the speed limit. My friend Cheryl got clocked here last year going six miles over the dang thing and got a ticket.”

“That’s nice, Mama.”

“That’s
nice
? That’s all you’ve got to say? There’s supposed to be a grace period of nine miles per hour. I thought you might want to know that, seeing as how your tootsie is mashed down about as far as it can go.”

“I’m in a hurry, Mama. Time, tide, and criminals wait for no woman.”

Mama chortled with glee. “This sounds like it’s going to be fun. Do I get to pack heat?”

“I don’t know. Did you bring one of those gizmos from the drugstore that becomes warm when you peel off the tape?”

“It means a
gun,
dear. Honestly, Abby, sometimes I wonder which century you’re living in.”

We turned a corner and my heart leaped both with joy and terror. Sure enough, there they were: the two large white trucks. The large staff was still quite busy tearing down and loading outdoor furniture. Much to my relief, however, the queen bee was nowhere in sight.

“Abby,” Mama said, “this is Lady Bowfrey’s house, isn’t it?”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“She goes to Grace Church. I’ve been here for a foyer dinner.”

“Imagine that: a criminal attending church. Do you think it’s ever been done before?”

“Abby, this isn’t because she outed you this morning, is it?”

“
Au contraire
, Mama. This goes much deeper than that. Lady Bowfrey—and I doubt that’s her real name—is the head of the ivory smuggling ring.”

“Your Aunt Marilyn said there would be problems if I started you on solid foods too early, but since she never had any children of her own—not that she kept, at any rate—I just
chalked her advice up to the ravings of a jealous aunt.”

I pulled over to the corner behind an SUV, where—if we conducted ourselves properly—we could remain somewhat inconspicuous. “Look Mama, after all we’ve been through together, it’s about time you trusted me. The pieces of this puzzled have already clicked together in my head.”

“That’s nice, dear, but did it occur to you to consult your sweet old mama before you glued those puzzle pieces in place and sent it out to be mounted?”

“Frankly, no. I’m not a real detective, and neither are you. I’ve been doing this on my own time, and you’ve been busy making a fool of yourself with my ex-husband.”

It was a cruel thing to say. Of course I regretted it. But people who love each other can hurt each other the most, precisely because they know where the soft spots are. Apparently my tiny dagger was successful in hitting its mark.

Mama’s lips disappeared and her eyes narrowed behind her lenses.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said quickly. “And I’m consulting you now. Okay?”

The dear woman never could hold a grudge. “Abby, the thing is that I know Lady Bowfrey; she isn’t the smuggling type.”

“What?”

“You do say ‘what’ a lot, dear. Have you noticed that?”

“Can we get back to the Lady, please
?
”

“She’s hardly that, dear; she’s a very much respected member of my church—or I should say, was. What I mean is that she was when I still belonged to Grace Episcopal, but as you know, I’m now in flux. Oh Abby, flux is a terrible place to be. What if I should die whilst I was in flux? Why you’d be flummoxed as to where to hold my funeral, wouldn’t you?”

“Mama,
please
, can we stick to Lady Bowfrey for just a second? After that we can digress all you want.”

“Ah, her. Well, she is the nicest woman you’d ever hope to meet, except maybe for Princess Diana or Mother Teresa, which at this point I’d just as soon not meet. But my point is that everyone loves her.”

I was stunned breathless. Neither could I hear very well. Mama, however, had no trouble continuing to babble. After I was able to breathe again, I was forced to interrupt her.

“Excuse me, Mama, but kind in which way?”

“I swear, dear, don’t you listen to a word I say?”

“Upon occasion I do try, Mama. I
really
do.”

She sighed dramatically. “All right, dear. But don’t make me repeat it again. I find talking about others so boring.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Now what was I supposed elaborate on? Oh yes—she was kind. You’d think she couldn’t get around very well, but she has this powerful electric wheelchair that she’s actually named. ‘Zippy,’
she calls it. She says it’s a boy. On account of that, she can do just about anything—so she does. She helps out with Altar Guild, serves as a lay reader, works in the church kitchen, she welcomes visitors, she fills in for sick Sunday school teachers, and she always, always, has a warm smile for everyone and something thoughtful and comforting to say to those who are down in the dumps.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, and she sends cards with personal notes to everyone who is on the sick list, or in special need of prayer,
plus
she sends cards to each and every member who has a birthday or anniversary.”

“Sounds like a superwoman to me. So how well do you know her personally?”

“I’d say fairly well—a six on a scale of one to ten. We were in the same adult Sunday school class.”

“You mean that touchy-feely one called ‘Issues with Tissues,’ where y’all are crying all the time?”

“Abby, it’s healthy to vent with your peers. You’d be surprised to learn just what kind of problems a rich woman like Lady Bowfrey has. Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can’t buy you a decent twelve cup rice cooker.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you going deaf, dear?”

“No, but I thought you said rice cooker.”

“I did. The one I have makes four cups of
steamed rice, but the largest one I’ve been able to find makes only eight. Abby, how am I to make enough rice to feed thirty people when I have the group over for the spring luncheon?”

“Mama,” I said patiently, “let’s return to the subject of Mrs. Bowfrey; what kind of problems might she have?”

“Shame on you, Abby. I would never break a confidence.”

“How can it be a confidence, Mama, if she shared it with your ‘Yankees with Hankies’ group?’”

“That’s my ‘Issues with Tissues,’ group,” she said. She sighed. “Okay, but if karma comes back around to nip me through my crinolines, it’s your fault, Abby.”

“Blame accepted, Mama.”

“She’s all alone in this world, Abby, except for this spaced-out nephew who runs a shop on King Street but doesn’t do half the business you do, because the poor kid doesn’t have an ounce of salesmanship in his vein.”

“What’s with this ‘Lady’ stuff?”

“Oh, she really has a title—well, that’s what she says, at any rate. She’s originally British, I think, but grew up in one of those African colonies that later became independent. Some of the Brits hung on, and hung on to their titles too. Unofficially, of course. But hers is from her husband, Lord Something Something Bowfrey. You’d think that would make her all stuck up, but she’s really just as sweet as brown sugar pie.”

“And to think that brown sugar pie used to be a favorite of mine,” I mumbled.

“What was that, dear?”

“Nothing. Mama, where’s her husband now?”

“He died in that African colony’s fight for independence. That’s when she decided to come to America and make a new life for herself. She said that she found the American entrepreneur spirit so refreshing. And I can see why, because she’s as smart as the dickens too.”

“I bet. Mama, have you been to the Wednesday buffet breakfasts?”

“At the Charleston Place Hotel? Abby, you know that I don’t have that kind of money—”

“No, here, Mama. That’s what these trucks are here for, and these white tents. Every Wednesday morning Her Ladyship serves breakfast to the hoi polloi of the Old Village of Mount Pleasant. You wouldn’t believe the quality of the food. Really top drawer! Oh, and she even has a string quartet play.”

“I don’t believe it. I’d be invited if this was the case.”

“It’s true, Mama, but it’s just for neighbors.”

“I still don’t believe it.”

“Okay, but it’s true.”

“It’s not! I’ll prove that it isn’t.” With that Mama scrambled from the car and, despite the fact that she was wearing three inch heels (as is her custom), strode straight to Lady Bowfrey’s house.

I know this because I slipped out of my side of the car, and still using the SUV as cover, maneu
vered to where I had a better view. Mama cut diagonally across the street—to the left of the white tent and the nearest white truck—and click-clacked her way up the torturous steps of the beach-style house without pausing to catch her breath. (One advantage to having played Donna Reed for the last fifty years is that it has built up her calf muscles.)

I couldn’t tell exactly what transpired at the door, just that a few seconds after she arrived, it was opened, and then she slipped in. A faithful daughter—that is to say a good Abby—would have chased after her, maybe even called 911. I didn’t as much as call Greg.

Instead, I saw this as the perfect opportunity for me to do what I do best: I snooped. There was chitter-chatter coming from the tent, and it occurred to me that it might be the wait staff finishing up what was left of the buffet food. I peeked in the tent, and sure enough, there was food being downed. Not only that, but the air was thick with the pheromones of good-looking young men and women in high-flirtation mode.

Having survived that stage of life, I knew the help was temporarily oblivious to what was going on outside, so I turned my attention to the truck. It was one of those ultra long, eighteen-wheeler jobs, the kind that come within a prayer’s width of running you off the road between Charleston and Rock Hill. The back doors were closed, and besides, I would have needed a pole-vaulting pole, or a step ladder, to reach them anyway.

Keeping the truck between me and the tent, I walked casually down the street. Now that the residents had been served their customary Wednesday breakfasts, they were off to the golf courses, tennis courts, or (I hoped) shopping. The shady streets of the Old Village—indeed of virtually all of Mount Pleasant—are generally deserted while school is in session during the winter.

Imagine my excitement when I discovered that the windows were down on the driver’s side of the cab. If only I could hoist myself up to the running board…well, it never hurt to try, and try I did. On my first attempt I landed hard on my petite, but rapidly expanding, patootie. The second time, I managed to get the door open, but it rudely knocked me back on my aforementioned patootie (there is something to be said, however, for being bottom heavy). But as they say, the third time is indeed the charm; at last I had gained access to the high-riding command center of the eighteen-wheeler.

Despite the fact that the cab’s exterior was shiny and white, the interior of this one smelled of old leather, cigarette smoke, sweat, and the essence of flatulence. It was exactly how I remembered Greg’s apartment smelling when we first started to date. I took a quick look around, hoping to find nothing unusual, because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. But silly me, every truck with an extended cab has a compartment behind the seats where the driver and/or his companion can sleep
and/or engage in activities that might help keep them refreshed on a long haul.

This cab was no different. There was a fiberglass wall behind the seats that contained a fiberglass door. Wait—the door wasn’t locked. And behind it was—uh—darkness. But not for long. Between the seats and the wall there was a huge mound of filthy magazines (literally and figuratively), a toolbox the size of a small coffin, and a pair of well-worn soft-sided suitcases.

What jumped out at me was a flashlight lying on top of the toolbox. The battery case was as long as my forearm, and the reflecting head almost as large as my own noggin. It was a torch for those who took their flashlights seriously, and it was therefore something that I could respect.

I picked it up and turned it on. Good! It was in perfect condition. I aimed its intense beam at the portal that led into the compartment behind the seats.

“How very interesting,” I said aloud.

“What is?” a voice said just above my ear.

M
ama! You just took ten years off my life?”

“Since I gave you life to begin with, dear, I dare say that’s my prerogative.”

“Not according to your church. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”

“That’s all very nice, dear, but the Lord didn’t become a widder woman in the prime of His life and have to raise children on His own.”

“That’s blasphemous!”

“Oh Abby, you really need to take that adult Sunday school class. You’d learn all about situational ethics. Like, what if this was only a book, and we were just characters in it? Would it be blasphemous then?”

“Mama, quit wasting my time! How did you get up here? What happened with Lady Behemoth—I mean, Bowfrey?”

“Of course I climbed up here, Abby. How else do you suppose I got here? Flew? As for my friend, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop with
the fat jokes. They aren’t funny! They hurt people’s feelings.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t do it again, dear. Now about my friend—the truth is—well, she isn’t. Not anymore! I thought we knew each other so well from ‘Issues with Tissues,’ but she doesn’t recognize me from Adam. Tell me, Abby: has our culture become so multifaceted that someone like me goes totally unnoticed these days?”

Someone like me.
My how those words hurt my heart. Was my poor little mother really that aware of just how eccentric she was? Was this a “costume” she put on every morning to mourn my daddy’s passing, or perhaps to make a statement, or was she merely vying for attention? Nonetheless, I opted for the coward’s way out that day.

“Mama, how could anyone
not
notice you? After all, you’re the cat’s pajamas.”

“
Really?
That’s what I thought! Anyway, she told me to vamoose. To amscray, or she would sic the cops on me.”

“How awful.” And how relieved I felt.

“So, I trotted over here to have a good cry. And here you were. So dear, now it’s my turn to ask: what are
you
doing here?”

I didn’t have time to answer Mama. I heard the voices when they seemed to be only feet from the cab. Therefore I had no choice but to do what I did: I grabbed my mother by the lapels of her shirt dress and pulled her over the arm
rest of the passenger seat and into the hollow that I occupied. Then while she was still too startled to react, I pushed her head first into the black hole that was the hidden compartment at the rear of the cab. I immediately dove in after her, and apparently just in time. Someone slammed the compartment door shut and the truck roared to life.

Picture, if you will, two not-so-wily Wiggins women floundering about in a dark smelly hole. I reckoned that I felt pretty much the way poor Jonah must have felt when he was swallowed by the whale. Granted he probably had moisture issues to deal with, but at least he didn’t have Mama’s flailing limbs smacking him across the face willy-nilly.

I pressed as flat as I could against a wall of the compartment in an effort to avoid serious injury, and that’s when I felt the switch just inside the door. I flipped it on, flooding the small space with an eerie orange light.

“Abby!” Mama cried. “It’s only you.”

“Shhh, Mama,”
I said, mouthing my words more than speaking them,
“they might still hear us over the engine.”

Mama nodded and looked around, as did I. We were in the driver’s sleeping quarters, nothing more. No deposits of illegal ivory. Just dirty twisted sheets and a pillow so stained it looked like it had been salvaged from the harbor. The walls of the tiny metal cubical were papered with
pages ripped from girlie magazines depicting air-brushed women with bosoms so large it was painful just to look at them. The floor was a single thin mattress that had been custom-made to fit such a small and oddly shaped area.

At least I could stand erect; Mama, on the other hand, had to stoop. This fact, more than any other, seemed to get her goat.

“Memorize the maker of this truck, Abby. I’m going to write the CEO—I’m going straight to the top. If a little old lady who has been abducted can’t stand up, then how is she supposed to fight for her life on an even footing with someone who can? It isn’t fair, I’m telling you. It’s discrimination. Heightism. And I’m not going to stand for it!”

The truck lurched and Mama prophetically fell down. Being a Wiggins (even by marriage counts fully), Mama struggled to get back on her feet. After all, no one keeps a Wiggins down involuntarily, even another Wiggins. Anyone in doubt should ask my brother Toy, who tried in vain to drool on me when we were in elementary school but never could succeed, even though I was just half his size.

“You’re better off staying down there, so you won’t get hurt.”

“But Abby,” Mama objected, “this mattress is disgusting!” She clawed at a corner of it, in an attempt to flip it partway over. Who knew what lay under it, but even if it was just rusty truck parts, it had to be better than this.

We spotted the clipboard simultaneously, but Mama reacted first. “They’re conducting political polls,” she said.

I gave up trying to stand. The truck must have been turning a corner, because I felt like I was riding a mechanical bull, but one without stirrups. Once down, I grabbed the clipboard from Mama.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said, as I fell back on the filthy bed. The rocking and swaying of the cab made any other position just too rigorous to maintain. Mama joined me.

First I scanned the pages; then I studied the top one carefully. Slowly the columns and figures began to make sense. The more I comprehended, the faster my heart beat.

“We’re headed for Georgia,” I said. We were already about twenty minutes into our trip.

“Isn’t that terrible what the Russians did? And right during the Olympics too.”

“Not
that
Georgia, our Georgia. Mama, why aren’t you taking me seriously?”

“I knew what you meant, dear, but of course I can’t take you seriously because you’re the one who told me that Lady Bowfrey holds these teas every Wednesday morning. And even though I don’t live in Mount Pleasant, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her for not inviting me to one. As if she’s the cat’s pajamas. Ha! Why I’ll have you know she wore the same outfit to church two Sundays running, and it wasn’t even summer, but high season. And those chopsticks she wears in her hair! Give
me a break, Abby, that look is so retrohemian. That
is
a word, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is now. Mama, this paper is a manifest of the ivory shipment that arrived in the Port of Charleston on Tuesday, and was delivered via this truck to Lady Bowfrey’s residence—where we were, right up until a few minutes ago—on Tuesday evening. Also on Tuesday evening a crew—presumably arriving via separate transport—set up the humongous tent and cooked the breakfast buffet.”

“And you know this how?”

“This is a record of arrival and departure times. Our next stop is the Port of Savannah, by the way.”

“You mean after this stop?”

“Excuse me?”

“The truck just stopped.”

“Stoplights don’t count,” I said, slightly irritated.

“Yes, but even if your guess is right, Abby, why would she have two trucks in motion all the time? Why not just one?”

“Maybe it’s a bit like a shell game. Who knows? Maybe the other truck is loaded with the ivory this time. Maybe this one is empty.”

“Yes, but what’s with the neighborhood breakfast in the first place? Why have the ivory brought into a peaceful upscale neighborhood to begin with? Isn’t that risky?”

“
Au contraire, ma mère
. What better place to have a warehouse full of contraband than right there,
in an historic village? That despicable woman has bought her place in the neighborhood with weekly portions of eggs Benedict and Virginia smoked ham.”

“She’s too d-despicable to be Episcopal,” Mama said, sounding for all the world like Sylvester the cat. “So Abby, what do we do now?”

“We think.”

“Think? You tried that before, and just look at the mess you dragged me into!”

“Mama, I didn’t drag you into my mess; you jumped into it willingly, like a frog into a lily pond.”

“That’s been drained,” Mama said. “Abby, I have a bridge game tonight, so I’m getting my hair blued at two. Did you hear that, dear? I just made a rhyme. Anyway, if I’m as much as ten minutes late—”

“Mama! This is no time to worry about your bluing. We need to think about getting out of this truck undetected and to a phone. Maybe we can trick them—”

“Silly Abby, tricks are for kids.”

A second later the door to our hideaway was rudely flung open. One has a right to apprehend interlopers lollygagging about on your bed, but shouldn’t one do it with a modicum of manners?

“Do you mind knocking first?” I said.

“Whoa! The little lady’s a spitfire; I like that.” The rude man was probably in his early twenties; quite handsome, with lots of sandy-brown hair and green eyes, and good dental hygiene. I think
a lot can be said about a man by the way he cares for his teeth.

“Which little lady?” another man, who I couldn’t see, asked. “All I see is two old bags.”

“Why I never!” Mama said.

“Yeah, I bet you didn’t.”

The two men laughed uproariously at the coarse joke. So much for my good teeth theory. I tried pushing the door shut with my shoulder, preferring self-imprisonment for the meanwhile over whatever freedom these two goons had to offer.

“Oh no you don’t, grandma.”

A pair of callused hands grabbed me under the armpits and I popped right out of the sleeping compartment like a queen olive from a tall narrow jar. Again, Mama was right on my heels. Simultaneously we were plopped on the ground some distance from the truck, on a sandy patch beneath a scrubby oak.

Much to my amazement, we were no longer even in the city. My how time flies when you’re shut up in someone’s smelly sleeping hole. My guess was that we were in the Francis Marion National Forest. I decided I had nothing to lose by asking for confirmation.

“Yeah, so what?” said Thug Number Two. He had gray eyes and a salt and pepper goatee. He also had a tattoo of Barbara Bush on the back of his bald head. the mother goddess was inscribed in a ribbon beneath the portrait.

“We were only curious,” I said. “I’d never seen
an eighteen-wheeler up close. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m sorry too,” Mama said. “I tried to raise her better. But kids these days—go figure.”

The thugs must have thought Mama was a stand-up comedienne; they roared with laughter. “Right, like you two old ladies is mother and daughter? Tell us another,” Thug Number Two said.

“Well,” Mama said, “there was the time Abby asked me to help her write her own thank-you notes. Can you imagine that? What would Emily Post have had to say about that? Oh, how I miss Emily Post. These modern-day columnists can’t hold a feather duster to her. But speaking of Emily, I think she would have a lot to say about you.”

“Me?”
Thug Number One said. “I ain’t the one who called you an old bag.”

“Nevertheless,” Mama told him, “you could use a little work. Abby,” she said, “don’t you think this man could be a model?”

I cocked my head this way and that, taking my sweet time to answer. “Yes—
if
he stood straight, put on a decent wardrobe, and turned away from a life of crime. There isn’t much call for modeling orange jumpsuits, is there, Mama?”

“Mama?” Thug Number Two said. “What’s with that again?”

“She really is my mama,” I said. “I’m wearing stage makeup. See?” I licked a finger and rubbed vigorously at the fake wrinkles at the corner of my right eye.

“Why, slap me up the side of the head and call me whopper-jawed!” Thug Number One said. “So what are you, actresses of some kind?”

“You might say that,” Mama said.

“We’re scouts for a game show,” I said (unfortunately, I have the ability to lie quickly on my feet).

“It’s called ‘Singing for Your Sandlapper Sweetheart,’” Mama said.

“Huh?” Thug Number Two grunted. “What the heck is a sandlapper?”

“It’s a South Carolinian,” I said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Never mind. My mama was just funning with you anyway. The game show is called ‘Bobbing for Bimbos.’ You take a bunch of hoochie-mamas in bikinis, put them in a tank of saltwater, and then a couple of guys have to go in there blindfolded with their hands tied behind their backs and choose the one with the biggest—well, you know what I mean. You want to audition?”

“Heck yeah!”

“Me too!” Thug Number One was equally as enthusiastic.

“Great. I’m going to need your names, addresses, and phone numbers. You got anything to write on?”

“Yeah, here.” Thug Number Two took a greasy receipt out of his back pants pocket and commenced writing.

Meanwhile I scanned our surroundings. We were in a clearing off of a logging trail deep within
the Francis Marion National Forest. The “forest” is named after the Revolutionary War hero (also known as the Swamp Fox), and covers over a quarter of a million acres. It is comprised of second growth pine forest, oaks, gum trees, magnolias, bay trees, swamps, hiking trails, and three small towns connected by a couple of sparsely traveled highways.

The wildlife is varied but includes poisonous snakes, wild boars, bobcats, coyotes, and quite possibly black bears.
Plus,
I’ve even heard rumors of a remnant panther population. None of the aforementioned critters were on my “must see” list, especially if I were to encounter them at night, while Mama and I were making our great escape. But again I was jumping the gun, à la Magdalena Yoder; we weren’t officially anyone’s captives. So far there wasn’t a gun to be seen.

“It is turning out to be a beautiful day,” I finally said. “Although frankly, I’m rather hungry. When do we start the picnic?”

The Thugs had a good laugh. “Here’s our names and addresses,” Thug Number One said, handing me the slip.

“But now that we’re done with that,” Thug Number Two said, “we gotta tell ya ta shut up.”

“How rude!” Mama said.