Poison Ivory (5 page)

W
hen I returned to my shop I saw immediately that a small, but very vocal, herd of female tourists, dressed in wrinkled shorts and faded T-shirts, had taken over. It is women like these who are the bane of our non-mercantile citizenry. We are a conservative city, and save clothing such as this for gardening, or the beach—certainly not for shopping.

And we do
not
move in herds. Nor do we ever shout to each other, all the while pretending that the shop owner and her assistants are incapable of hearing our critical comments.

There are fine ladies and gentlemen that we welcome as visitors to our beautiful historic city, and then there are the tourists. The latter come in degrees of refinement—or lack thereof. Those toward the bottom of the scale climb our front steps and peer into our windows. They open our gates and wander into our gardens; they even pick our flowers. I suppose those acts might even be forgivable, depending on the age
of the transgressor, or some other mitigating factor. However, when they park in spaces that are clearly marked reserved, that takes the red velvet cake!

I tried to slip unobserved to the back room, but before I was even halfway there I felt a huge hand clamp down on my shoulder. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” I said as I tried to pull away.

“Abby, it’s me!”

I pivoted. “Cheng! You’re back.”

“Only I’m not Cheng anymore; you can call me C.J. again. In fact, that’s what I insist you call me—unless I’m drunk; then you can call me a cab.”

I grabbed her oversized paw and pulled her into an alcove formed by two armoires and a highboy.

“What are you talking about?”

“When I was home just now—back in Shelby—I learned that the story about my Chinese father was totally false. Ditto the one about my Russian mother. I’m as American as lingonberry pie.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Aunt Nanny got drunk one night on some clover wine and confessed that the story about the touring Chinese students with their Russian interpreter—that was all made up. I was really their baby all along and they just didn’t want to admit it because they weren’t married.”

“So Nanny Ledbetter is your honest-to-goodness mother?” I’d met Nanny, and could attest to
the fact that she was the salt of the earth. As for Billy, he’d been pushing up daisies for some time, and was no doubt adding some salt back to the earth.

“Yes, but I’m not speaking to her; she’s a liar.”

“But she’s a very sweet, gentle woman nonetheless.”

“Don’t nag me, Abby—please.”

“And then there’s her rather unusual DNA to keep in mind.”

C.J. giggled. “Ooh, Abby, you’re such a tease. You always make me feel better—no matter what.”

“Is that so? Then how about taking a ride with me out to the Old Village of Mount Pleasant.”

“Sure thing. When?”

“Now.”

“But then who will mind the store?”

“Wynnell—if I ask her right.”

“Abby, I hate to have to tell you this, but Wynnell just went home.”

“She
what
? Is she ill?”

“She said that she’s sick of tourists mocking her accent. One of them called her a ‘lil’ ol’ honey chile,’ so then Wynnell called the tourist a Yankee Doodoo Dandy, and then it kind of went downhill from there.”

“
Down
hill?”

“Don’t worry, Abby, I pulled them apart before any second punches could be thrown, although if you ask me, Miss Yankee Doodoo Dandy had it coming to her. If she follows through with her
threat and sues, I’d be happy to testify on Wynnell’s part.”

I hugged the big lug affectionately. “Thanks C.J., you’re a trooper.”

Not too many years ago one had to cross the Cooper River on a bridge constructed out of—what appeared to be, at any rate—giant metal Tinker Toys. Now one can practically sail over on an eight lane highway suspended by cables; in fact, the South Carolina Department of Transportation proudly proclaims that the Arthur Ravenel Bridge is the longest cable-stayed bridge in North America.

When I first visited Mount Pleasant as a little girl, traveling with my family on our way to the beach, it was a sleepy village of fishermen and their families. Our initial glimpse was not of buildings, but of marsh grass waving in the harbor breezes. Now visitors are welcomed by waves of hotels and office buildings, and the “it factor” that brought development is no longer there. The charming village is now bursting at its seams with retirees “from up the road a piece,” and the roads are so congested it takes twice as long to get anywhere as it did ten years ago.

The core of Mount Pleasant is known as the Old Village, but unfortunately even some of the old is being replaced by new. The smaller homes on the oak-and palm-shaded streets are being snapped up by the wealthy. The small homes are then razed and replaced by much larger ones. And
since these new homes conform to stricter building codes regarding the flood plain, they’re built on stilts. Of course not every small home owner wants to sell. As a result, some of the nouveau riche of Mount Pleasant literally look down on their neighbors.

Lady Bowfrey lived in one of these elevated monstrosities that was sandwiched between two cinder-block homes that seemed barely more than cubicles by comparison. There was an elevator in the middle of the concrete pad, beneath the building, and we were instructed to take it to the third floor. That, we soon learned, was because the front door had never been used, and appeared to be stuck shut due to dried paint.

When the elevator door opened it was immediately clear why Lady Bowfrey never used the stairs. Without a doubt Eric’s aunt was the largest woman I had ever laid eyes on. If I had to guess, I would say that she weighed six hundred pounds at the very least. She met us in a motorized wheelchair that was larger than some energy-efficient cars I’ve seen on the streets lately.

“I can read your mind,” she said without a preamble.

“Excuse me?”

“Even though it’s fine print, I know exactly what you’re thinking. So here are your answers: three hundred and fifty-four, and because I want to clear up any misunderstanding regarding my nephew, I’ve already taken the liberty of calling Gold Tiger Exports and giving them a piece of my
mind—believe me, I chewed them out good. As a result, they will be refunding you the full amount, plus they will plan to ship you another commode, one equal in value to the first. And don’t forget that my nephew, young Eric, will be delivering the rosewood one that he signed for, to your shop this afternoon. Do you have any questions?”

C.J. raised her arm and waved her hand like an excited schoolgirl who’d gotten her first right answer at the end of the term. “Me, me, me! I’ve got a question. Ask me?”

Lady Bowfrey regarded C.J. through hooded eyes. I noticed that the imperious figure was decked out in a black silk kimono, embroidered with red and white cranes, and that she wore a pair of Kelly green chopsticks tucked into a neat bun of auburn hair. Her hair color, by the way, came from a bottle.

“Yes?” Lady Bowfrey asked C.J.

“What is three hundred and fifty-four? At first I thought that might be your weight, but then I thought what a silly goose I was, because Cousin Tatum Ledbetter back in Shelby weighs more than that, and she’s
much
smaller than you. So then I thought that if I added the words hundred thousand to it, I would get the amount you paid for this house, but Abby has a friend who lives two blocks over and she paid a million and a half for hers, and it’s smaller than this and didn’t eat up nearly as much marshland. Which leaves me just one question—well, for now at least—did you yell at Gold Tiger Exports for selling illegal ivory?”

“C.J.!” I was shocked, appalled, and proud—all at the same time.

Lady Bowfrey whipped a chopstick out of her do, and using it like a conductor’s baton, jabbed the air with it. Her quick, precise movements punctuated each syllable of her staccato speech.

“We haven’t even met, you rude woman. How dare you insult me inside my own home? Please tell me that you are
not
Abigail Timberlake.”

C.J. giggled. “Of course I’m not. Our Abby is—”

“Then leave my home at once.” C.J. flashed me a questioning look. “Go,” I whispered. “I’ll be all right.”

“You hurt one hair on her tiny little head,” C.J. said to Lady Bowfrey, “and I’ll be all over you like red on rice.”

“The expression is ‘white on rice,’” Lady Bowfrey sneered.

“No ma’am, not back home in Shelby. You see, Granny Ledbetter was slicing some tomatoes one day—”

“Skedaddle,” I hissed.
“Please!”

When she was gone I apologized for my friend’s shocking behavior. “She’s been going through some big changes lately,” I said.

“I think that’s called life,” Lady Bowfrey said as she stabbed the green lacquered stick back into her bun. From what I could see, she managed to get it precisely back into its original hole on the first try.

“True,” I said. “But she’s in the middle of di
vorcing my brother, the priest, then she gets arrested for ivory smuggling, and then just this week she finds out that she isn’t Chinese, like she thought she was. That’s a lot of stress.”

“This woman is your friend?”

I nodded. “One of my very best.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that she might be nuts?”

“Without a doubt she is. But then again, who doesn’t have a friend or relative who’s a bit on the strange side? I dare say that your nephew, Eric, dances to some rather original tunes.”

Now that Lady Bowfrey was no longer conducting, her hands were folded across a surprisingly flat chest, and resting atop an enormous stomach. Her eyes narrowed for a second, which I chose to interpret as a smile.

“Eric is a fool. He’s the late Lord Bowfrey’s youngest brother. My husband died of leukemia last year; now I’m all young Eric has. I suppose I could throw money at him and let him waste his life entirely, doing things like smoking pot—but I refuse. Since he has traveled a bit, and has a broad education, I thought the least he could do is run my shop for me. You see, I love the idea of owning an antiques store, but I have physical limitations.”

“I understand.”

“You
do
?”

I smiled reassuringly. “Mama has a friend whose knees have given out. One has been replaced, and she’s about to have the other done. But she says—and everyone who’s had it done backs
her up on this—if you’re going to have both knees done, have them done at the same time, because its not the surgery that’s painful, but the physical therapy that follows.”

“Why I never!”

“Then you still have time to get them both done together.”

“It’s not my knees, you idiot! You just assumed that because I’m slightly overweight. If you must know—which, of course, you don’t—at times I have trouble catching my breath.” She proceeded then to pant; I wasn’t sure at first if it was a demonstration, or if the symptoms were real. “There,” she finally gasped, “you see what you’ve done?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. In any case, I should be going now. Thanks for seeing me, Lady Bowfrey.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I really need to get back to my shop.”

“But you can’t go—not just yet. I mean, I don’t often get visitors; not ones I like, at any rate, Abby…may I call you that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a lot of chutzpah, but you’re not Looney Tunes like your friend from Shelby. And I don’t mean to sound like a whiner, Abby—I eschew self-pity—but life can get very lonely for us shut-ins. Because of my income level I can’t even get Veal on a Wheel to come out and serve my meals. Abby, sometimes I feel like I’m in solitary confinement.”

“Veal on a Wheel? I know you’re only joking about the name of a fine organization, but please,
do not associate it with veal. Do you know what terrible conditions veal calves have to endure just to be on someone’s dinner plate? They’re taken from their mothers as newborns; they’re never allowed to sit or lie down, run or even walk, so that their meat remains tender; and they’re fed an iron-poor diet so that they become anemic in order that their meat will be a pleasingly pale color.”

“Oh, I know all that. But consider this: those calves would never have even been born in the first place were it not for the purpose of becoming veal on our dinner plates. So which is better for them, not to have lived at all, or to have lived with a few restrictions? And bear in mind that these calves have no expectations.”

“I believe the same thing was once said about human beings born into slavery.”

“You see, Abby, you are so delightfully gutsy. I think I’ll keep you.”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

A
s a friend. One can never have too many friends, can they?”

“It sounds like you collect them.”

When she laughed, Lady Bowfrey’s eyes disappeared altogether, and her jowls shook. With her mouth open that wide, I noticed for the first time that she had the tiniest teeth I’d ever seen on an adult woman. To be brutally honest, they reminded me of the front teeth of a kitten, the ones found between the incisors.

“Abby,” she sputtered at last, “but you and I
are
collectors, are we not?”

I felt the need to get out of the house. Without as much as touching me, Lady Bowfrey was beginning to suffocate me.

“My companion is waiting for me outside,” I said.

“
Her?
Late her wait; she was rude to me. Remember?”

“C.J. is rude to everyone, and then you get used to her.” I inched back toward the elevator.

“Well, I doubt that I ever could. Besides, don’t you want to know what I said to the management of Gold Tiger Exports about them buying and selling banned ivory?”

“Yes, of course.” The elevator doors were still open and I stepped gratefully back onto the platform.

“Abby, please don’t go!”

“I really have to.”

“You’ll make me angry if you go.”

“Ta ta, cheerio, and all that sort of rot,” I said breezily, whilst exercising my false bravado.

But when I finally got back to the safety of my car, my hands were shaking like those of a drunken televangelist come Judgment Day.

“Abby, I have an idea.”

C.J. and I were seated on the deck at Coconut Joe’s on the Isle of Palms. A sheet of clear plastic protected us from the winter wind, but it wasn’t cold enough to warrant the management turning on the outdoor heaters for the noon lunch crowd. I will admit that I’d been staring judgmentally at a smattering of tourists, but understandably so. Tourists cavorting in
swimsuits
on the beach in South Carolina in February? Come on, give me a break. We’re not Miami!

“They’re going to freeze their nipples off,” I said.

“That’s nice, Abby. Did you hear what
I
said? I have an idea.”

“Unless maybe they’re from Canada. Remem
ber when—before gas prices got to be so ridiculous—it seemed like half the tourists used to be Canadian? The other half was from elsewhere in South Carolina, and the third half was from Ohio.”

“That’s three halves, Abby; there can only be two halves of something.”

“I know; it was just a joke.”

“Unless you’re Cousin Ripley Ledbetter from up in Shelby, North Carolina. He was born with a third butt cheek, only it wasn’t on his bottom, but across the top of his skull. When he was growing up the other kids used to call him ‘fathead’ and ‘wiseass.’”

I shook my head. “Sorry, C.J., but this Shelby story makes even less sense than some of your others. I mean, if the fat was on his head, what made it a
butt
cheek?”

“Trust me, Abby, you don’t even want to know—although I’ll give you a hint: his own mother once called him a potty-mouth.”

I groaned. “That would be a very crude reference for a cozy novel—although perhaps I’m being unduly prudish in my judgment, given the anything goes aspect of family hour television these days.”

It was C.J.’s turn to shake her massive head. “I swear, Abby, I love you bunches, but sometimes you make less sense than a congressman preaching ethics.”

“
Touché, ma chérie
. So please, just tell me your idea.”

“It’s very simple, Abby. You just put an ad in the
Post and Courier
, under the antiques and collectibles section, and then sit back and wait to see who takes your bait.”

“Uh—that’s a brilliant idea, C.J., but just whom am I fishing for, and what the heck am I using as bait?”

C.J. sighed. “Ooh, Abby, I keep forgetting about the difference in our respective IQ points, on account of you’re so well-spoken for a person who is merely above average in intelligence. You would be fishing for ivory collectors and, of course, the bait would be ivory.”

“Of course.” I was a bit miffed at my pal’s remarks, and rather than respond immediately, I decided to cool off for a moment by turning my attention back to people-watching. As if on cue, a rather cadaverous, yet extremely flabby, woman appeared on the sand dressed in a thong bikini. Her buttocks—she had only two cheeks—hung down on either side of the thong like the twin jowls of a bloodhound. With every jaunty step she took, they swung to and fro, proclaiming to all who saw her that here walked a self-confident woman of a certain age, one who knew no shame. It was all I could do to keep from running after this clueless soul and offering to buy her a beach cover-up.

“Abby, are you mad at me?”

“Whatever would give you that idea?”

“Because you have that look.”

“That ‘look’?”

“You know, like you’re about to cry.”

“No, I’m not mad—not anymore. But I don’t sell ivory, C.J.; you know that.”

“Yes, but the people reading your ad wouldn’t have to know that. You could say that you’re expecting a huge shipment, and that early birds could have first choice—something like that.”

“So you’re purposing a sting.”

“Exactly!”

“Have you thought about who is likely to get stung? We’re not in a movie, C.J., or some characters in a zany mystery novel. Mr. Curly would be on me faster than chickens on cracked corn.”

“Not if you tell him first what you’re doing.”

“You mean get his permission?”

“Well, you’re on the same side, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—okay, C.J., let’s suppose—and we’re just supposing here, that Mr. Curly agrees to this, and I arrange for a bogus ad. What should I expect to learn from this? Just because someone wants to buy ivory doesn’t make them a criminal.”

C.J. clapped her hands several times. It was a gesture borne out of frustration, I’m sure, but nonetheless it garnered unwanted attention from the other diners.

“Ooh, Abby, you’ve got to use your imagination. This won’t be an ordinary ad; it will be for a large collection of ivory, and anyone interested will have to initially respond to a P.O. box. That’s the kind of thing that will get the attention of someone trading in ivory big-time—not a little
old missionary lady who’s hoping to sell a single figurine. Then, one by one, you interview the respondents in a neutral location. Of course you’d have somebody with you: somebody big, strong, and worldly, for security reasons.”

“Like Greg?”

“Don’t be silly, Abby. We can’t tell Greg. Face it, we can’t even tell Mr. Curly. You know how men are when it comes to rules. I was referring to me, Abby. You and I could pull off this scheme, just as sure as a hog will head for a wallow.”

An order of coconut crusted shrimp arrived, and I munched on those while I cogitated on C.J.’s proposed ruse. It made a surprising amount of sense. And I could just hear Greg telling me what a stupid idea it was, which made it all the more attractive. Don’t get me wrong: Greg and I have a very happy marriage. It’s just that I don’t like being told what to do, even if the orders I’ve been given are still all in my head. I’ve known my darling husband long enough to know what he
would
say, and it was those observations that I found myself reacting to.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“Ooh, Abby, really?”

I smiled. “You, young lady, better learn some kind of martial arts—and fast!”

“Abby, have you forgotten that I know shiitake?”

“Isn’t that a mushroom? How do you plan to protect me with a fungus?”

C.J. appeared crestfallen.

“But then again,” I said, “what do I know about martial arts? Or mushrooms for that matter? I get the two mixed up all the time.”

My buddy perked up. “Then we’re on?”

“You bet,” I said.

I dropped C.J. back off at the Den of Antiquity after swearing her to secrecy—both about the upcoming “sting” and lunch at Coconut Joe’s. If I had to pick one of my two best friends to save from drowning, it would be Wynnell. She is, after all, my
very
best friend, and I’ve known her longer. Besides, she can’t swim. She also has a jealous streak as long as the Indianapolis 500.

Wynnell, like just about every single one of us, can be easily distracted, if the conversation is turned around so it focuses on us. When she asked where we’d eaten lunch, I told her that I’d never seen her hair looking quite so beautiful, and I asked her to write down the names of all the products she used, along with the name, phone number, and address of her hairdresser. While she was busy doing that I slipped out the front door and across the street to The Finer Things.

This antiques store lives up to its name. You won’t find 1950s bird cages and velvet Elvis paintings in The Finer Things (or in my shop either, for that matter). To gain entrance to this upscale purveyor of good taste one must be “rung in.” And this is a privilege that is not doled
to just anyone—although to be sure, race is not a factor.

Once you are in, however, you are treated like royalty. The staff bows and scrapes to you while offering champagne, coffee, canapés, and a host of other treats. In the background the soft, seductive tones of classical jazz weave a trance-like spell that soon becomes a snare. In the end, well-dressed tourists who merely meant to browse find themselves leaving after having spent such outrageous sums as twelve thousand dollars on a worn leather ottoman that never got near a real Ottoman; or thirty-five grand on a crystal chandelier that may—or may not—have graced the dining room of the thirteenth Duke of Ulcer, or Worcestershire sauce, or whatever.

The masters of seduction are the owners, and my dear friends, the Rob-Bobs. Rob Goldburg shares the title of “best friend” along with Wynnell. He is stunningly handsome: in fact, a lot of people think that Pierce Brosnan looks exactly like him. Rob hails from Charlotte, North Carolina, and is the epitome of refinement.

Bob Steuben, on the other hand, has a big heart. The fact that he comes from Toledo, is bald, pigeon-chested, has exceptionally large feet, and wears thick black horn-rimmed glasses, doesn’t seem to have put Rob off in the least. The two have been a couple for fifteen years, and are every bit as monogamous as any two Southern Baptist preachers you can randomly find. Did I mention
that Rob has a bass voice as deep as the Mariana Trench? Perhaps that is something else Rob loves about his partner.

At any rate, I was lucky that it was Rob himself who rung me in, and not one of the gatekeepers they hire from the drama department of the College of Charleston. I was in no mood to confront an actor playing the part of a snooty doorman, yet feeling far too good to want to send anyone home in tears (I’m ashamed to say that the latter has happened before).

“Hey Abby,” Rob said as he bent low to kiss me. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Hey yourself, good-looking. Can’t friends just drop in on each other?”

“It’s a lovely idea in theory, but we’re both in business, and it’s the middle of the day. My maydar says there’s a crisis brewing in the Kingdom of Abbydom.”

“What, pray tell, is maydar?”

“Mayhem radar. So, am I right?”

Although I was slightly offended, I responded with brave chuckling sounds. “Wrong! I just wanted to check on how things were coming along for Mama’s surprise birthday party.”

Rob swallowed and tried to clear his throat. When an attempt to whisper proved unsuccessful, he pulled me into his office and closed the door.

“Abby, I tried talking sense into him, but you know how he is.”

I felt light-headed and needed a place to sit. I
knew from experience that the chair behind Rob’s desk was by far the most comfortable, so I slipped into it.

“Are you saying that
Bob
is planning to cook?”

“Abby, darling, the caterer bailed out. It only happened this morning. I tried to call you: I
did
call you, as a matter of fact. Where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere—the beach—I mean, you didn’t call my cell.”

“That’s because you keep changing it, and I don’t have the new number punched in. But not to worry, Abby, I made Bob promise that the menu will be very down-to-earth this time. ‘Comfort food,’ I said. Things that a native of Rock Hill, like Mozella, is sure to enjoy.”

“No eye of newt?”

“Nary a one. For the moment Mr. Gingrich gets to keep all three of his.”

“You’re bad,” I said.

“I try. And another thing: he won’t be doing the cooking by himself. He’s planning to invite the top chefs of Charleston to come in and make it a joint affair. Abby, this should be
the
social event of the season.”

I managed a smile. I was writing a blank check for all the expenses, and while Mama was certainly worth any amount of money, I still wasn’t convinced spending that much money on one night of food and drink was the way to go. Yes, it would help the local economy, but given the hunger elsewhere in the world, it felt indecent.

Rob must have noticed me equivocating. “Say Abby, you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Ask anything you want; but I reserve the right not to answer.”

“Understood. What were you
really
doing this morning?”

“Probably getting into a whole lot of trouble.”

Rob sighed. “Okay, darling, have it your way, but just remember that if you get in over your head, I’m always here to help you dig your way out.”

“Thanks, Rob. That means more than I can say.”

“And Bob would say the same thing too if he were here right now; but he’s helping a customer.”

“Thank him too. And remind him that I want comfort food for Mama on the twenty-eighth, not wallaby steaks with lingonberry sauce and fricasseed iguanas.”

“Don’t worry, we’re never serving that menu again; we never could decide if iguanas took a red or a white wine. Talk about a stressful evening!”

Before I could change my mind, which would mean having to look for another caterer, I bade Rob a fond farewell. As soon as I was out on the sidewalk again I called the number for the
Post and Courier
, Charleston’s one, and only, daily newspaper. It was time to put C.J.’s diabolical plan into action.