by Tamar Myers
“She did?”
“Well, she didn’t say you—not exactly, at any rate. But she did say there would be skeptics whose minds would be changed.”
“Frankly, dear, that sounds a little vague to me. I read somewhere that psychics and fortunetellers are often very skilled at giving answers that can be interpreted a variety of ways. The article also said they tend to ask leading questions. In other words, they’ve got great powers of observation, and good people skills, but they’re not privy to any more information than the rest of us.”
“Ooh, Abby, Madame Woo-Woo knows everything.”
Business seemed to have dropped off momentarily, so I decided to take advantage of the lull and treat my young assistant to the benefits of my experience. Like I said, she’s smart as a whip, but she doesn’t cook with all four burners.
“C.J., dear, just how well did you research this Madame Woo-Woo? Did you check her references?”
She looked like a sheep that had been given the task of cloning a human. She scratched her head, and then looked at the door, as if longing for customers to walk through.
“Well?” I demanded. “Did you at least ask to speak to someone—anyone—who’s hosted a séance for her before?”
C.J. hung her head. “No,” she said in a tiny voice.
“And what about this group—the Heavenly Hustlers—that Mama rounded up. What do you know about them?”
“I love your Mama, Abby. Any friends of hers are friends of mine.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I said, feeling the need to ease up. “But let’s just both be careful, shall we? Mama has a tendency to hook up with some real characters. And as for Madame Woo-Woo, neither of us wants to be a seer’s sucker, now do we?” I laughed pleasantly at my little joke.
C.J. shook her head vigorously. “Cousin Alvin’s fiancée up in Shelby invented seersucker, and it hurt something awful.”
I raised my right eyebrow. C.J.’s litany of Shelby stories is what sets her apart from the rest of the population. Normally we try to discourage these tall tales, but I’d always wondered who invented seersucker. And why.
“Please,” I said. “Tell me all.”
“Well, she was wearing a dress made out of regular material, you see. Something smooth like silk or nylon, but I forget which. Anyway, she was running late to church one Sunday and she noticed that her dress had a wrinkle in the skirt. So Brenda—that’s Alvin’s fiancee’s name—took the steam iron and started ironing out the wrinkle. Only she didn’t take the dress off first, see? And she had a whole lot of cellulite—” C.J. hung her head so low her chin rested against her chest. “Abby, I just made that up—about Cousin Alvin’s wife inventing seersucker, I mean. But she really does have a lot of cellulite.”
“So you don’t know who invented seersucker?”
“I’m afraid not, Abby. But according to Webster’s the word seersucker has been part of the English language since 1722. It comes originally from the Persian phrase shi-r-o-shakar, and literally means ‘milk and sugar.’”
It didn’t surprise me that my friend would know the dictionary definition of the word. After all, she’d memorized the book her senior year in high school, in preparation for college. The collegiate version, of course. It did surprise me, however, that C.J. backed out of one of her Shelby stories. That just wasn’t like her. Only last month she’d sworn on a stack of bibliographies (C.J. is not all that religious) that her Granny Ledbetter and Queen Victoria were bosom buddies, and that it was at one of the palace teas that Granny Ledbetter invented cottage cheese.
“C.J., dear, is something wrong? Just a minute ago you came bounding over to me like a gazelle on speed, and now you seem to have lost your spunk.”
“Abby, you remember how that voodoo priestess in Savannah said I had the second sight?”
“Diamond? C.J., she wasn’t exactly a voodoo priestess. She was a retired schoolteacher who liked to entertain tourists.”
“But she said I had the second sight, Abby, and you know I do.”
“Then why the need to hire a psychic?” I asked gently.
“Ooh, Abby, you can be so silly sometimes. Just because I have the second sight doesn’t mean I can talk to ghosts.”
“You’re quite right. But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s wrong?”
“I was getting to that, Abby. My second sight tells me that something horrible is going to happen at my house tonight.”
The shiver that ran up my spine didn’t stop there. It made it all the way up to my scalp where it danced a rousing polka.
“So why not cancel, C.J.?”
The big gal did her best to disguise her feelings, but there was no mistaking the pity in her eyes. “Because it’s destiny, Abby. There’s nothing I can do to stop what’s going to happen.”
“We’ll just see about that,” I said.
3
Ella Nolte might be a famous mystery writer, but she was unable to get the costumes she promised from the College of Charleston. Fortunately another of the Hustlers, a doctor with a mouthful of a name, came to the rescue. Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill belongs to the War of Northern Aggression Reenactment Brigade. Reenactment groups are common in the South—and I’m told in the North as well—but WNARB, as this group calls itself, goes one step further. Its members not only reenact famous Civil War battles, but they rehearse possible future battles—which smacks a bit of treason, if you ask me.
At any rate, Dr. Whipperspoonbill was able to provide authentic Civil War uniforms for the men and period dresses for we ladies. WNARB prides itself on authenticity, and the women who attend the reenactments stand along the sides of the battlefield, often crying real tears. Southern women don’t sweat, we merely dew, but the WNARB women produce enough dew to drown all of Dixie. The dresses Mama and I were loaned smelled of mothballs and dried dew.
It is virtually impossible to drive with a hoop skirt jutting up in front of one’s face, so Mama and I walked the eight long blocks from my house to C.J’s. Fortunately, a skirt designed to hide ankles can hide shoes as well. I wore my inflatable-sole Nikes. Mama, who is more set in her ways than a Hollywood handprint, wore a pair of pink pumps. You can bet that underneath her hoops she wore her precious crinolines.
Mama carried a cake, and I carried a tray of biscuits and ham. You wouldn’t believe the looks we got. The occupants of automobiles either honked or gave us the thumbs up, and pedestrians, mostly tourists, smiled and invariably had something to say. A few asked if we were selling refreshments, but the majority were just eager to sign up with our tour company. Mama, ever willing to make a buck, especially through eccentric means, told everyone to meet her at The Market promptly at nine the next morning and she would lead them on a tour they would never forget.
It was a typical summer evening in Charleston, and we arrived at C.J.’s tired and drenched in dew. At one point, in an effort to dab at my forehead with a hanky, I dragged my sleeve across the cake. The message, which had originally read “Goodbye Ghost,” now read “Goodbye host.”
Tired as we were, Mama and I both recoiled when C.J. flung open the door of her dilapidated Georgian-style mansion.
“How come you’re not in costume?” I demanded.
C.J. stepped aside to let us enter. It was only marginally cooler inside. One of the many things C.J. needed to do while restoring the house was to add central air. Granted, there was no air-conditioning in the eighteenth century, but folks were always fainting. Seems to me that should have been a clue.
“None of the dresses fit,” C.J. said, taking the goodies from us. “Back then most women were y’all’s size, not mine.”
I had my shoes inflated to the max, so Mama was still only three inches taller. Nonetheless, she took umbrage at being lumped with me.
“I am not Abigail’s height,” she said squaring her shoulders and puffing her chest. It was then that I noticed Mama was still wearing her pearls.
C.J. shrugged. “The men couldn’t fit in
their costumes either, except for Dr. Whippersnapper.”
“That’s Whipperspoonbill,” Mama said, and patted her pearls in agitation.
“Whatever,” I said. “C.J., in which room is the séance being held?”
“Madame Woo-Woo asked that it be held around a table, so I thought we’d use the formal dining room.”
“Are we the first to arrive?”
“Yes, silly, the séance doesn’t start for another half an hour.”
“Have any of the Heavenly Heifers been here before?”
“That’s Heavenly Hustlers,” Mama hissed.
C.J. shook her massive head. “No, Abby. The Heavenly Hosts have never been here.”
“How about Madame Woo-Woo?”
C.J. nodded. “She came by yesterday to look around. Mozella let her in.”
Mama flushed. “Actually, dear, I loaned my key to a friend and had her let Madame Woo-Woo in. You don’t mind dear, do you?”
“Of course not, Mozella. You know I trust your judgment.”
Too bad I didn’t. “C.J.” I said, “didn’t it ever occur to you that she might be rigging the place?”
“Ooh, Abby, you’re always so skeptical.
“I second that,” Mama said. She handed C.J. the cake.
C.J. took the cake, but her eyes widened as she noticed the ominous message for the first time. “Oh, my God, I knew it! I told you, didn’t I, Mozella?”
Mama turned to me so that I could see her roll her eyes, but she addressed C.J. “The cake doesn’t mean anything, dear—except that my daughter’s a bit on the clumsy side.”
“Thanks, Mama,” I said, and handed her the tray of biscuits and ham. Then, leaving her to reassure C.J., I wandered off on a reconnaissance mission.
It didn’t take me more than a couple of minutes for me to make my discovery. Taped to the underside of the dining room table was a small cassette player.
“Oh, ladies,” I called. “I found it! I found Madame Woo-Woo’s ju-ju.”
C.J. and Mama set the food down and trotted over. C.J. crawled under the table to join me, but Mama had yet to learn that the trick to managing the hoops in this case was to sit and let the hoops collapse around her. Instead, Mama was barely able to stick her head under the table, while the hoops ballooned behind her like the spread tail of a tom turkey.
“What is it, Abby? I can’t see. What does a ju-ju look like?”
“Ju-ju just means a spell, Mama. Magic. In this case, it’s a mini tape recorder.”
“Ooh, play it Abby,” C.J. urged.
I pushed the play button. For a second or two nothing seemed to happen. Then gradually, I heard what sounded like faint wind. After about a minute the wind became louder to the point that it sounded like a level four hurricane. Then suddenly it stopped, just as a female voice began to speak.
“I am Sarah MacGregor,” it said in a bad Scottish accent. “I am mistress of this house. What, pray tell, are you doing here?”
There followed a long pause.
“But I did not invite you here. I am afraid I must insist that you leave,” Sarah MacGregor said, her voice more sad than strident.
Another interminable silence.
“But that cannot be. Surely you are mistaken!”
I could have taken a power nap during the next pause.
“Very well then,” the taped voice finally said, “have it your way. But be forewarned, there will be consequences—some of which may be quite dire. I am not responsible for these consequences.”
I fast-forwarded through the next silent stretch. I did a darn good job of guessing, and only had to rewind for two words.
“This is my house,” Sarah MacGregor said in her thick, but uneven, burr. “I will not leave. It is you who must do so.”
I misjudged the length of the next pause, but that was soon rectified.
“What sort of gift?” Sarah asked.
The response she received was brief.
“Yes, a gift of money would be very nice. The repairs on this home are outrageous.”
“Ooh,” C.J. cooed, “Madame Woo-Woo’s ju-ju is going to get me some moolah.”
I smiled. “I don’t think so, dear. We haven’t heard the end of the tape.”
“Play it!” Mama ordered. She was having a hard time maintaining her stoop.
I pushed the button again.
“Aye,” Sarah MacGregor said right on cue, “there is one among ye that seems to be more sensitive than most—”
“You see, Abby?” C.J. cried. “That would be me! I’m the one with the second sight.”
“With no sense,” Mama muttered.
I had to rewind a bit.
“—more sensitive than most. Her name—I can see it in my mind—is Wo-wo. No! It’s more like Woo- Woo. Yes, that is it! Madame Woo-Woo! She is the one to whom the gifts must be entrusted.”
A brief pause ensued.
“Large gifts, I’m afraid,” Sarah MacGregor said, her voice taking on an ominous tone. “Or the curse of the MacGregors will be upon ye.”
There was another brief pause, followed by the sound of more wind. I pushed the off button.
“C.J., you wouldn’t happen to have a cassette recorder of your own, would you?”
“I do, Abby. And I have oodles of cassettes too. Do you like Barry Manilow?”
I refused to answer her question on the grounds it might incriminate me. “Any blank cassettes?”
“Of course. What is it, Abby? What do you have planned up those smelly sleeves of yours?”
I glanced at my watch in the dim light beneath the table. There was still a good twenty minutes before the first of the Heavenly Herd was due to arrive.
“Just wait and see,” I said.
The first to arrive was the infamous Ella Nolte. I was under the table putting the final touches on my handiwork when the doorbell rang, but I managed to scoot out and plump my hoops in the nick of time.
I caught my breath when I saw Ms. Nolte. She was middle-aged, tall, with frizzy blond hair, and I knew her from somewhere—ah yes, the jacket photo of her latest book. Authors’ names don’t stay with me long, but their books do, especially if they are particularly bad. This author’s latest was a total waste of pulp, and I’d literally thrown the book across the room. The woman’s style is far too frivolous for my tastes. Who needs a bunch of puns, when a plain old plot will do just fine? And her protagonist—the overbearing owner of a bed and breakfast, somewhere in Indiana, I believe—has a tongue that could slice cheese.
Mama introduced us with a good deal of enthusiasm. Apparently she was a big fan of Ms. Nolte’s books, a fact that surprised me. The only reading material I’ve seen in Mama’s house is the Holy Bible, and a rack of well-thumbed Reader’s Digest magazines in the bathroom.
“This is my daughter Abigail Washburn,” she said, and not without a little pride, I am pleased to note. “Her last name used to be Timberlake, and she’s sort of famous too. She owns two antique stores. They’re both called The Den of Antiquity, but one is up in Charlotte, and the other is down here.”
Ms. Nolte had a long nose—longer than the main runway at Charleston International—and she looked down its length with beady eyes of nondescript color. Then she snorted.
“Interesting dresses. They look almost real.”
“They are,” Mama said. “Francis supplied them.”
“Harrumph!” She didn’t just clear her throat; she actually said the word. “Just because Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill supplied them—well, you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” said Mama.
“I certainly don’t,” I said.
Ms. Nolte’s beady eyes bored into mine. “I was at one of his Civil War reenactments once, out at Charles Towne Landing. I was in the restroom when some of the ladies in supposedly period costume came in and started chatting among themselves. Guess what I learned?”
“What?” Mama and I cried in unison.
“They had pouches sewn into their skirts in whi
ch they kept ice bags. You know the reusable kind you stick in the freezer and then use in picnic chests.”
“What a clever idea,” Mama said. Neither of us was about to divulge that we had food storage bags pinned to the undersides of our skirts. Our bags, however, contained ordinary ice cubes.
“And those dresses had zippers.”
“Well, ours don’t have zippers,” I said.
If the boring eyes were searching for oil, they were out of luck. “I know who you are. I was in your shop once. You have the flaky assistant, right?”
C.J. was standing right there, for crying out loud. I wanted to reach up and slap Ms. Nolte until her curls went straight.
“This is my assistant,” I said, pushing C.J. forward for her introduction. “Her name is Jane Cox. And this is her house.”
The famous writer sniffed. “Then it must be a different shop I was thinking of. This one had a lot of—well, junk.”
“Are you sure?” I asked through clenched teeth. “About the junk, I mean.”
Ella Nolte’s gaze made that long trip down her snout again. “I know a little something about antiques. The shop I’m thinking of sold junk.”
Mama had the grace to whisk the wicked Hustler from the room. Meanwhile I debated whether or not I should say anything to C.J., or leave well enough alone. C.J. settled the matter for me.
“She really was talking about me, wasn’t she, Abby?”
“Who knows, C.J. The woman tells lies for a living.”
“She said I was flaky. Do you think I am?”
“You’re fanciful,” I said, choosing the word carefully. “Pie crusts are flaky. There is a big difference.”
“And she insulted your shop, Abby. Shall I ask her to leave?”
“No, maybe the ghost will get her.”
“Ooh, you’re bad, Abby.”
The doorbell rang.
The next Hustler to arrive was Thelma Maypole, who looked nothing like a maypole. I knew from Mama that Ms. Maypole was a retired investments counselor, but if I’d had to guess an occupation, I would have said food-taster at Shoney’s breakfast bar, and that the woman loved her job.
