The Ming and I (10 page)

“Only an earl’s ransom,” she said, reading my mind. “They belonged to Harry’s mother, but I made him give them to me as part of the settlement. You wouldn’t believe the hell that man put me through.”

“Oh, yes I would!” I told her all about Buford and the angst I was still experiencing as the mother of young adults.

We both learned far more than we ever needed to know about Mama, too.

“What about that deeply tanned man you came in with?” Caroline asked me in a wise attempt to turn the conversation away from my mother.

“Oh, that’s Frank McBride. He’s a friend of our hosts.”

“Ah yes, the antique dealer I’ve heard so much about.”

“You have?”

“He is practically all Bea and Jerry ever talk about. This Mr. McBride and the wonderful deals he gets them. Ancient treasures from all over the world. Tell me, do all Americans have this fascination with old things?”

“Not if his name is Stan,” Mama said bitterly. “And to think I almost let him use my toothbrush.”

“Mama!”

“Oh, it’s not what you think, Abby. It’s just that I fed him lunch one day, and he brushes after every meal.”

I think it should be permissible to clamp a hand over your mother’s mouth, don’t you? Not as retribution for all the times she did it to you when you were a little kid, but merely as a means of preserving your sanity.

“I can’t take her anywhere,” I said, shaking my head sadly.

“Oh, but she’s absolutely delightful,” the countess cried. “You both are. As a matter of fact I’d like to arrange dinner with you two before I leave this wonderful city.”

“At my house,” Mama said. “I make a beef Wellington that is to die for. And not your wimpy English version, either. I put Tabasco in mine.”

“Mama, please!”

“Have you ever tasted better, Abby?”

“No.”

“It sounds delicious,” the countess said, showing me far more gum than I cared to see.

“Beef Wellington it is,” Mama sang out victoriously. “How about supper tomorrow night? Say seven?”

“Wonderful!”

“It’ll be casual,” Mama said a little too casually.

The countess fingered her emeralds. “Casual?”

Mama patted her pearls. “Well, not too casual, of course.”

I wandered off while Mama gave the countess directions to our house. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to invite an English aristocrat to visit her on Eden Terrace down in Rock Hill. How did she expect the countess to get there? Turn a pumpkin into a coach?

Rock Hill was going to be emerald green with envy. The minute they found out about Mama’s coup, the shakers and movers were going to beat a path from the ’burbs to her door. Come Christmas, Mama’s house would undoubtedly be featured on the candlelight tours, and the chair in which Countess Caroline sat would have a red cord strung across the arms to protect the seat.

Well, let Rock Hill be impressed by an English countess. I was impressed with Bea and Jerry. Not by them personally, because they had yet to say a welcoming word to me, but by their house. It was exquisitely, if not authentically—I am certainly not an expert on fifteenth- and sixteenth-century furnishings—appointed.

The walls were hung with monstrous unframed tapestries, the likes of which I had only seen in museums. I guessed them to be Flemish. The floors were bare, polished wood—carpets used daily
would not last that long. The furniture was predominantly English, but here and there, adorning the tops of tables, commodes, and various stands, were objects d’art from around the world.

A bigger woman would have wept for joy; whereas I merely lusted in my heart. Although I’m a God-fearing Christian, I might well have lifted one or two items had my purse been larger—that and the fact that I didn’t want to share a cell with a woman named Brunhilde who called me her girlfriend. After all, there is only so much temptation a body can stand.

Then I saw the ewer. It was Chinese. Blue underglaze porcelain with polychrome overglaze, looking for all the world like a first cousin to the Ming vase that had found its way into my shop. It wasn’t the same piece, of course, since the ewer had handles, and it was perhaps only three quarters the size of my Ming. But—and this is going to sound very unprofessional of me—it had the same look.

I found Frank and dragged him away from our rude hosts and the even ruder jokes about the duchess.

“Is that a Ming?” I asked, pointing to the ewer.

Frank had the audacity to chuckle. “Oh, Abby, how clever. Anyone else would think you were serious.”

“But I am.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What is it?” I snapped.

“You’re not kidding, are you? Oh, my, my.” Frank shook his head in pity, and the brown wattles at his throat flapped from side to side. “That, my dear, is from the Yüan dynasty.”

“I see.”

He laid a flabby arm across my shoulder. “Oh Bea,” he called, “oh Jerry! Guess what just happened here?”

I ducked the flab and fled.

I was ready to split long before Frank and Mama. Antique gazing aside, there wasn’t anything for me to do. Frankly the food wasn’t nearly as good as Mama’s, and with the exception of the countess, the people were either obnoxious or boring. After ten minutes it wasn’t even fun watching the courtship of Stan and the butler. As for that bald man in a banker’s suit who offered to suck my toes, I told him to go straight to hell. What did I care if the duchess had rated him a ten?

So it was that I was bone tired and perhaps a bit cranky by the time our threesome (Stan had elected to stand by his man) made it to the door. But I was raised to be a true lady, a southern lady, so I graciously thanked my rude and obnoxious hosts. I also bade adieu to the delightful, but now slightly cloying, countess.

“The pleasure has been all mine, Abby,” she said. “Your mother has told me so much about you.”

I glared at Mama. “Then I’m sure she has told you I now have a night job—of sorts—and won’t be able to join you for supper tomorrow evening.”

“You weren’t invited,” Mama said.

I glared again for good measure. “Well, have a safe trip back to merry old England, and say ‘hey’ to the queen for me.”

“Her Majesty—” the countess said, and then dropped dead at my feet.

“A
nd then what happened?”

Greg balanced his notebook and pen on his knees while he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. Bea and Jerry had kindly allowed us the use of their kitchen, but apparently they didn’t believe in stocking facial tissues, and Mama had my purse.

“And then she just fell. It was awful.” I cried a little and dabbed my eyes and nose before continuing. “Greg, I could see her falling, but I didn’t move fast enough to catch her. In fact, I didn’t move at all. I couldn’t. It was like I was watching her fall in slow motion, but I was frozen in time.”

Greg snatched the handkerchief from me and caught a large drop that was about to dribble off the tip of my nose.

“It happens like that,” he said, “even to seasoned pros. Something totally unexpected happens, and you don’t react. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But it seemed like forever between the time I heard the shot and when she started to fall. I should have reached out. I should have done something.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said kindly. “There was nothing you could have done to help her. Abby, please remember, what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t even scream. I just stared.”

“Your reaction was normal, Abby.” He picked up the notebook and pen, and crossed his legs at the knee. “Tell me about your relationship with the victim.”

“Victim? She had a name. Even a title! Her name was Caroline.”

“How well did you know her?”

“I met her tonight. But we hit it off immediately.”

“So you had only just met her.”

“Yes, but we talked about everything. She was so nice!”

“I’m sure she was.”

He waited patiently while I caught the next drop on my own.

“She and Mama were supposed to have supper together tomorrow night.”

“Where?”

“At Mama’s. Only I wasn’t invited.” I was babbling like a crazed idiot.

“I see. Abby, try and picture how it was just before she got shot. How were you standing? How was she standing?”

“We were facing each other, of course, because we were saying good-bye. She had her back to the house. I had my back to Mama’s car. Mama was standing between us on the left.”

“And Mr. McBride?”

“He was behind me someplace, I guess. He was supposed to be getting the car. The valet parking was only to impress the duchess.”

“I see. Were there any other people around outside that you were aware of? Your hosts, for instance?”

I crinkled my nose, and not to stop it from running. “They didn’t even walk us to the door. Wynnell would call them Yankees.”

“Any unexplained movements in the periphery of your vision?”

“No.”

“Do you remember any cars driving by at about that time?”

“No.”

“Anything at all that you can remember that you haven’t told me?”

“I remember Caroline’s left eye exploding,” I sobbed, and threw myself into Greg’s arms.

Mama stayed with me in Charlotte. Neither of us could go to sleep right away, so we sat up and drank a pot of decaf and picked at a jigsaw puzzle I keep on my breakfast room table. There’s nothing like putting together a puzzle to help sort out the mind.

“This was the worst evening of my life,” Mama said simply. She was trying to cram a blue center piece into a green edge.

“Worse than when Daddy died skiing?”

She tossed the piece back on the pile. “No, that was worse. I saw that seagull dive-bomb your daddy, but there was nothing I could do. Your uncle Gooch stopped the boat as soon as I yelled, but not before your poor daddy smacked into that pontoon boat and—Oh well, you know the rest. He had a brain tumor the size of a walnut, you know.”

“Uncle Gooch?” I knew Daddy didn’t.

“No, the seagull. According to a state biologist, that damned seagull shouldn’t even have gotten airborne.”

I patted Mama’s hand. After eighteen years, talking about Daddy’s death still brought tears to her eyes.

“But tonight might have been worse,” she said, picking up that same damn blue piece.

“How?”

“It might have been you instead of Caroline. If I’d
lost you, too, Abby, I wouldn’t have been able to take it.”

It was a sobering thought I had yet to dwell on. “Oh, Mama, you’re right! If the killer had been off by just a couple of inches, that might be me in the morgue.”

Mama jammed the blue piece into the green border. “No, Abby, you’ve got it wrong. It’s because the killer was a lousy shot that you’re still alive. Whoever it was most certainly was aiming for you, dear.”

“Me?”

She jammed a predominantly yellow piece in next to the blue one.

“Why would anyone in the Carolinas want to kill an English countess? Who even knew she was here?”

“I don’t know! But why would anyone want to kill me?”

“Think, dear. You don’t suppose it could be Buford, do you?”

Buford a killer? That was too much for even me to fathom. Murder was not Buford’s style; torment was. Buford was the type to send a suicidal person a gift-wrapped loaded pistol, complete with instructions on how to use it. My ex-husband did not pull the legs off flies when he was a boy. He did, however, keep an open jar of honey in a little screen box in his bedroom.

“It’s not Buford,” I said. “I can’t think of a single reason someone might want to kill me.”

Mama cleared her throat, and then patted the pearls as if to apologize to them.

“But someone was killed in your shop recently, dear.”

“Yeah, so?”

“And it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“The possibility hasn’t been ruled out, Mama.
There were no reliable witnesses, and of course there hasn’t been a confession.”

“But what if whoever killed—what was her name?”

“June Troyan.”

“That’s right. Well, if Miss Troyan’s killer thought you might have seen—”

“The shop was packed, Mama. They know I didn’t see it happen.”

“They don’t know that for sure.”

I got up and checked the kitchen door. It was locked. I pulled the blinds closed.

“What is the killer going to do? Kill everyone who was in my shop?”

“No, of course not. I just feel that there is a connection. I can smell it.”

“Leave your nose out of this,” I snapped.

It was fear speaking. They say animals can smell fear, so why not someone with a highly developed proboscis like Mama’s?

“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. She was only voicing her concern.

Mama waved off my apology. “Forget it. But you need a gun, dear.”

“No, I don’t. You know how I feel about guns.”

“Maybe it’s time to rethink your position.”

“What kind of a message would I be giving Susan and Charlie?”

“They wouldn’t need to know,” Mama said coolly.

“What if I panicked some night and accidentally shot one of them? Or you?”

“You would use the thing for self-protection. Not to pop someone sight unseen.”

“A lot of people who keep guns end up being victims of their own guns.”

“Liberal poppycock,” Mama said stubbornly.
“You don’t think Caroline’s killer will bring along his own gun?”

“Mama, I just don’t believe it’s the right thing to do. It makes me a part of the problem. It’s against my principles.”

“Phooey on principle,” Mama said. “Do you think Caroline’s killer will take that into consideration? I’m not saying you should buy yourself a cannon and join the NRA. But you should have something to protect yourself with in this house.”

“I have you, Mama. At least for tonight.”

Mama hugged me. We were pals again. But when she tried to cram another blue piece into the green border, I slapped her hand.

The next day was Sunday. By convention, area antique shops remain closed during church hours (a vestige of the old Sunday blue laws), and open at noon or one. Since I am a churchgoer myself, I open at one. That particular day I should have just kept the shop closed. But I hate to disappoint customers, and Captain Keffert was planning to come in and buy a birthday present for First Mate Keffert, his wife.

The Kefferts are an eccentric couple who live in a boat-shaped house in Belmont, North Carolina. They are exceedingly rich. Periodically one, or both, of them will drop a huge bundle into my coffers in exchange for a one-of-a-kind piece. I had recently acquired an eight-foot-tall wooden statue of an Indonesian
garuda
, a mythical creature that is half eagle and half man. Believe it or not, but a good
garuda
is hard to come by in the Charlotte area, and Captain Keffert was looking for one, so this fellow was a sure sale.

I did skip church, however, and paid for that sin all morning long. A wiser woman would have dis
connected the doorbell, or at least refused to answer it.

“Good morning,” the Rob-Bobs said in unison with practiced cheer.

I glanced at the ship’s clock I keep on the mantel. It was nine o’clock. Mama was still sawing logs.

“Morning.”

Bob held out a towel-wrapped tureen. “We brought you this to help you start your day.”

“He brought it; I didn’t,” Rob said.

I cautiously took the tureen. “What is it?”

“Moroccan ambrosia. Couscous, chopped dates, raw brown sugar, and goat milk.”

“You can get goat milk in Charlotte?”

“Harris Teeter sells it in cans. But fresh is better, of course.”

“Of course.” I invited them in, then minded my manners by serving three bowls of the warm concoction. My portion, incidentally, was very small.

“Delicious,” Bob said, “isn’t it?”

“Indescribably so,” I said. Actually it wasn’t half bad. It was certainly better than the emu egg omelet he cooked last time he made breakfast for me.

“Abby,” Rob said, mashing his ambrosia with his spoon but never actually taking a bite, “you should get yourself a gun.”

“I’ve been over that with Mama,” I said calmly, “and the answer is no. Hey, how did you two know about what happened, anyway?”

“We heard it on the radio last night, and it made this morning’s paper.”

“But it was too late to make the front page,” Bob said, and gave me a sympathetic look.

I sat up straight with a start. “Oh shit, this means that Susan and Charlie know.”

I gently evicted the Rob-Bobs and called my children. Both of them were royally pissed at being awakened at such an hour, and both of them
thought it was cool of me to be so close to a murder.

“I can’t wait until tomorrow,” Charlie said. “The kids at school are going to love this.”

“Did she, like, scream when she fell?” Susan asked.

It was almost a relief when the doorbell rang again. This time it was C.J.

“Oh, am I disturbing something?” she asked, looking past me into the dining room, where the Rob-Bobs still sat.

She was cradling a cardboard box that said Mr. Coffee on the sides. I already had a coffee maker, but hey, one never knows when an emergency wedding present might come in handy.

“Not at all, dear. Please come in. Bob brought over something called Moroccan ambrosia. It’s made with goat milk.”

C.J. blanched. “Ooh, Abby, I wouldn’t eat goat milk if I were you. My granny Wiley used to keep goats at her place just outside of Shelby. She used goat milk in everything. Even poured it on her cereal. Then one day she noticed that her toenails were getting real thick and brown, kind of like little hooves.”

“That’s toenail fungus, dear. It has nothing to do with goats.”

“That’s what we all told her—at first. But then she started growing whiskers on her chin.”

“Many older women do.”

“Yeah, but then Granny Wiley started butting people with her head. When Pastor Andrews came to call on her, she butted him from behind and sent him flying across the lawn. Poor pastor had to wear a neck brace for a month.”

“Sounds like it was your granny who should have worn the neck brace,” I said pleasantly. “Perhaps one attached to a straitjacket.”

“Why, Abigail Timberlake! I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Why did you come, dear?”

“To give you this.” She thrust the cardboard box at me.

“Oh, C.J., you shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t.” She opened the box. “I found it by my front door this morning.”

Inside was the missing Ming.