by Tamar Myers
TAMAR MYERS
Tiles and Tribulations
A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY
For my three loving children.
It couldn’t have been easy
having me for your mama.
Sarah
David
Dafna
Contents
1
My best friend., C.J., is deathly afraid of Apparition Americans.
2
“Abby, what is it?”
3
Ella Nolte might be a famous mystery writer, but she…
4
Madame Woo-Woo looked like the carnival caricature of a gypsy…
5
I peaked again through lacquered lashes. Sure enough, Madame Woo-Woo’s…
6
“Abby, are you all right!” The concern in Greg’s voice…
7
We all stared at Sergeant Scrubb.
8
To hear Mama tell it, having one’s stomach pumped is…
9
It smelled at first like a dead hamster. Just for…
10
“My what?”
11
The Riffles lived in a magnificent Greek Revival mansion right…
12
“And then what?” Rob asked. The men had been waiting…
13
“Who was it?” I demanded.
14
Buford folded his hands and looked at me under lids…
15
She must have blinked behind the bizarre lenses, because the…
16
“I’d love to hear your version.”
17
“Who is that?” I demanded.
18
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t quit sure what…
19
“You may be right,” he said. “Assuming one believes in…
20
Fortunately, the first thing my sweetheart does when he comes…
21
Thank heavens Mama was still in C.J.’s garden, sitting in…
22
Curiously, Ella Nolte didn’t seem surprised to see me. “It’s…
23
You can usually find a spot to park along the…
24
“What? I was just making pleasant conversation.”
25
I lay still as a mummy in a collapsed pyramid.
26
“It was less than eight hours,” Greg said. He had…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Tamar Myers
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
My best friend., C.J., is deathly afraid of Apparition Americans. Unfortunately, her not-so-new house on Rutledge Avenue has at least one very vocal semitransparent resident. I told C.J. to expect spirit lingerers when buying a two-hundred-year-old Charleston mansion, but no, the big gal wouldn’t listen.
Since I had warned her, I didn’t feel it was my responsibility to attend the silly séance she had planned. It’s not that I don’t believe in Apparition Americans—I do. My own house is haunted, in fact. But mine is a benign presence who contents himself with jangling a bunch of keys and pacing up and down my long, narrow upstairs hallway. C.J.’s unwelcome tenant, on the other hand, wails like the banshee she might well be, and once she even touched C.J. with hands as cold as Popsicles.
So intimidating is C.J.’s spirit, that my friend has had a devil of a time getting a contractor to do some necessary remodeling. Three burly men have quit in the time it takes to change a light bulb, much less revamp a nineteen forties style kitchen. But the really strange thing is that, since the last workman ran off the job—leaving his tool belt behind—the ghost has taken on the remodeling job herself. I know this sounds bizarre, but C.J. swears it’s true. She claims she comes home from work and finds wallboard replaced, paint scraped, tiles caulked, you name it. So far the repairs are remarkably like the ones C.J. wanted the contractor to do, although this has done nothing to ameliorate C.J.’s terror.
At any rate, my objection to the séance had to do with the fact that it was to be conducted, not by some proven expert in the field of the paranormal, but by Madame Woo-Woo. She was a self-styled psychic whose name C.J. had gotten from my mother, who found it advertised in the Yellow Pages. Madame Woo-Woo’s ad claimed she was the expert in convincing confused Apparition Americans that their jobs on the earth were over, and it was time for them to return to the spirit realm. Madame Woo-Woo claimed a ninety-nine point nine percent success rate, and even offered a money back guarantee. At the prices she charged, she should have given her customers gold plaques certifying that their houses were hant-free, as politically incorrect locals might say.
I wouldn’t even have been a part of the Madame Woo-Woo brouhaha, were it not for the fact that the medium had demanded that there be nine warm bodies at the séance, besides her own. She claimed it had something to do with numerology, but frankly, I suspected the woman was after more clients. Besides, it was the last night of Survivor IV, and I just had to see who won the million dollars. Yes, I know, I could have taped it, but it just isn’t the same thing. Ask any sports enthusiast.
You can imagine my irritation then, when my mother called me at work to put the screws to me.
“Mama,” I said, trying to keep in mind the thirty-six hours of agonizing labor she endured to produce me, “I am not going to the séance, and that’s final.”
“Are you afraid, Abby? Is that the problem, dear?”
“Of course I’m not afraid!”
“Abby, darling,” Mama said, pouring on the sugar, “C.J. is your best friend. She needs you.”
“Mama, the Woo-Woo woman says there has to be nine of us, besides her. Whether or not I show up is a moot point.”
“What was that, dear? Did you say something about mooing?”
“Moot,” I said as mutely as I could. I own The Den of Antiquity, a thriving antique business on King Street, in Charleston, South Carolina. The aforementioned C.J., besides being my best friend, is my employee. At the moment she was standing just a few yards away, closing a sale on an eighteenth-century highboy.
“Well, it might not be such a moot point after all, Abby, because I’ve found six others, besides you and I and C.J. We’re good to go.”
“What six others?”
“Well for one, there is the real estate agent who sold C.J. the house. Since he didn’t warn her about the ghost, he has a responsibility to be there, don’t you think?”
“I’ll buy that. Who are the remaining five?”
“The Heavenly Hustlers.”
“What the hell is the Heavenly Hustlers?” I braced myself for Mama’s answer. Last year she ran off to be a nun—they wouldn’t accept her—and dated a gigolo named Stan. With her track record, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Heavenly Hustlers turned out to be proselytizing prostitutes.
“Oh, Abby, don’t you ever listen to a word I say?”
“Occasionally. But I don’t remember anything about Heavenly Hustlers. Mama, you haven’t gotten yourself tangled up with some kind of cult, have you?”
“The Hustlers,” Mama huffed, “are a group of retired folk, like myself, who aren’t content to sit on their duffs all day and twiddle their thumbs. Or do nothing but watch TV. We go to lectures, art exhibits, you name it. Last month we took a basket-weaving class from one of the Gullah women who sells those sweetgrass baskets at The Market. Next week we’re driving up together to Brookgreen Gardens, near Myrtle Beach, to see the sculpture collection. In the meantime, we’d be glad to help C.J. out with her séance. Of course we can’t all make it on such short notice—there are twelve in our group al
together—but the six of us can.”
I sighed, both with relief and resignation. It was a relief that Mama had found a group of like-minded folks to hang out with, but attending C.J.’s séance was going to be a major bummer. I would program the VCR to tape Survivor IV, but if my husband Greg did anything to screw that up—like substitute a sports video—there would be yet another Apparition American for Madame Woo-Woo to exorcise.
Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely adore my new husband, Greg Washburn. A former police detective up in Charlotte, North Carolina, he is now a shrimp boat captain in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina, just outside of Charleston. Greg is both my lover and my best friend, and I am very lucky to have him in my life.
I know just how fortunate I am, because for over twenty years I was married to Buford Timberlake, who was more timber snake than man. That marriage produced two wonderful, but trouble-producing children, who are now both away at college. At any rate, Buford would never have put up with my mother living with us.
“Okay, Mama, I’ll be there. What time is it again?”
“Eight, dear. But I was planning for us to get there a few minutes early and help C.J. put together some snacks. Maybe a nice dessert.”
“I’m sure your Heavenly Hustlers would appreciate that.”
“Oh, it’s not for them, dear—although they’re welcome to eat some too. It’s for Madame Woo-Woo.
C.J. says she’s very temperamental.”
I smiled to myself. C.J. isn’t particularly temperamental herself, but she is a radish or two short of a relish tray.
“Yeah, well, getting there early is probably a good idea in any case. I want to check under the table to make sure Madame Woo-Woo hasn’t wired it.”
There was a pause, which meant Mama was thinking—always a dangerous situation. A wise Abby would have gotten off the line while the getting was good. Alack, I was too well-mannered to hang up on Mama.
“What will you be wearing tonight?” she finally asked.
“Clothes.” Good manners did not preclude sarcasm.
Mama sighed dramatically. “I’m sure what you have on is fine, dear.”
I wrinkled my nose at the phone receiver. I will always be inappropriately dressed to Mama. She is caught in a nineteen fifties time warp and wears cinch-waist dresses with full-circle skirts puffed up by yards of starched crinolines. Standing at five feet even, sans patent leather pumps, she looks like a miniature, and very well-preserved, version of June Cleaver. Mama even wears a single strand of pearls, a gift my father gave her the year he died. That the beads outlasted even my first marriage is a wonder, given the fact that Mama never takes them off—not even to shower.
“I’m wearing jeans,” I said. “If Madame Woo-Woo doesn’t like it, she can lump it.”
“It wasn’t the psychic I was thinking about,” Mama said. “It’s C.J.’s ghost.”
“What? Apparition Americans are into fashion?”
“C.J. has seen the ghost twice, Abby, and both times she was wearing antebellum clothes. So that’s how the Heavenly Hustlers and I will be dressing. We want to make C.J.’s ghost feel comfortable.”
“And C.J.?” I said the girl’s name a mite too loud and she glanced my way.
“She’s wearing a hoop skirt as well.”
“Mama, where did y’all get clothes like that on such short notice?”
“From Ella Nolte. She’s one of the Hustlers. She’s also a mystery writer and has connections with the theater department at the College of Charleston.”
“Ella Nolte? I’ve never heard of her.”
“That’s because you don’t read mysteries, dear.”
“I don’t read fiction altogether, Mama. I mean, what’s the point? It’s all made up.” I was only pulling her leg, and Mama knew it.
“So how about it, Abby, are you game?”
“I’m game,” I growled. Then I gasped. My worst nightmare had just walked through the door of my shop.
2
“Abby, what is it?”
“It’s Buford!”
“Buford who?”
“The Buford, Mama. My ex.”
“Hide!” Mama hung up her phone.
I glanced around my shop. There are plenty of places to hide in an antique store, especially given my size. I am four feet, nine inches in my stocking feet, and tip the scale at one hundred pounds the day after New Year’s. I could easily fit into an armoire, even a dresser drawer.
Then it hit me. Buford lived all the way up in Charlotte. His presence down here in Charleston could mean only one thing.
“What happened!” I cried. I was on Buford like white on rice. He didn’t even see me coming.
“Abby!”
“Is it Charlie? Is it Susan? Oh my God, there’s been an accident, hasn’t there? How bad is it?”
Buford took a step back. “Relax, Abby, it’s not the kids.”
“Then what is it?” I admit to living in perpetual fear that one, or both, of my two children will be involved in a horrible car wreck. As I’ve told them both a million times, it isn’t their driving that worries me, but “others.” By that I mean other teenagers and young adults—ones whose overly protective mothers didn’t insist that they take drivers’ training. Then of course, there are those folks, of any age, who indulge in road rage.
Buford regarded me under hooded lids. His had once been a handsome face, which in recent years had become fleshy.
“I’m on vacation, Abby.”
“Right. And I’m Julia Roberts. Pleased to meet you.”
Who was he trying to kid? Buford wouldn’t know what vacation was if it sneaked up behind him and bit him on the butt. The man never quit moving; before he packed on the extra weight, he used to put his socks on while walking.
Our honeymoon was a three-day cruise to the Bahamas and Buford jumped ship at the end of the first day, so he could get back to work. And just in case you’re wondering, that was quick was well. I didn’t even warrant a “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” Just a wham.
Buford smiled, his jowls retreating slowly. “I really am on vacation, Abby. After Tweetie died,” he said, referring to his second wife, “I decided to take some time off and smell the roses.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. The kids—particularly Susan—kind of pushed this trip on me. By the way, I saw both kids this morning, and they’re doing fine.”
So that was it! With their stepmother out of the picture, the kids figured they could maneuver their daddy and I into a reconciliation. I could understand their desire—even with Buford as one of the players—but it wasn’t going to happen. Dr. Laura and John Ashcroft would dance naked together in Times Square before I hitched up with the timber snake. Heck, I’d hitch up with Laura or John before I got back together with Buford.
“It isn’t going to happen,” I said calmly.
“What’s that?”
“The kids’ ploy. I’m not falling for it.”
He frowned for a moment, then his florid face shone with enlightenment. “Ah, so that’s what you’re thinking. No offense, Abby, but I’m not interested in a relationship either.”
“You’re not?”
“You sound disappointed, Abby.”
“I am most certainly not disappointed! I’m merely surprised.” While I was telling the truth, I must admit that one can be flattered even by unwanted attention.
“Well, here I am. I’ve got four days at my disposal. Do you have any recommendations—as regards sightseeing, I mean.”
“The Charleston Visitor’s Center is at 375 Meeting Street. They can tell you a lot more than I can.”
A divorce lawyer by profession, Buford is not easily dismissed. “I was planning to make them my next stop. I just thought you might have some personal favorites. In particular, I was wondering about restaurants. I was hoping we could do lunch. My treat, of course.”
Charleston is, without a doubt, the most charming city in the country. The beau
ty of its architecture and gardens is famous worldwide. Since the majority of her visitors have discerning tastes, it is no surprise that the city is home to some of the finest restaurants in North America.
“Do I get to choose the restaurant?”
Buford chuckled. “Absolutely.”
“How about lunch tomorrow, one o’clock, Magnolias?” I was already planning my selections. For the first time I was going to have no compunctions about ordering anything I wanted on the menu. Maybe even everything. After all, when Buford dumped me in favor of Tweetie—a woman half my age and ninety percent silicone—he left me in a financial bind.
Actually, that’s an understatement. Buford was not just plugged into the good old boy system, he had more connections than a box of Tinker Toys. He ended up with the house, the cars, custody of our seventeen-year-old son, and even the family dog. All I got to keep were my clothes—only because they didn’t fit Tweetie—and three thousand dollars I’d managed to squirrel away into a personal account.
“Sounds good,” Buford said.
Just wait until he saw the bill.
C.J. waltzed over to me the second the shop door closed on Buford’s expanding bottom. “Ooh, Abby, I’m so proud of you!”
I smiled nonchalantly. “Thanks. I’m pretty proud of myself. The old Abby would have picked up that Civil War sword over there, and stuck it where the sun doesn’t shine. Or better yet—”
“No, Abby. I meant I’m proud of you for agreeing to come to my séance tonight. I know how afraid you are of ghosts.”
“Me? You’re the one who—hey, wait a minute, how did you know I agreed to come?”
“I heard you talking to your mama. Besides, Madame Woo-Woo told me you’d resist coming at first, but that you’d finally give in.”
