Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  “Well, uh—I have to do my best to collect the items I mentioned, and like I said, I have to do it before six o’clock. And if I can’t come up with exactly what’s on the list, then I get the next best thing. And,” I said, for Bob’s benefit, “I don’t have to get everything on the list in order. It’s just that I get extra points if I do.”

  The men exchanged glances. They’d been a couple for years, and are better at wordless communication than Greg and I.

  “Well,” Rob said finally, “we’re going to take a little walk down to East Bay. We’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Then we’re going to eat.”

  “Gotcha.”

  I waited until they were out of earshot before ringing Ella Nolte’s doorbell. I had to ring it three times before I got a response. Unfortunately I did nothing for the famous author’s memory bell.

  “You’re the second tourist to bother me this morning,” she said, in tones no native Charlestonian would ever have used. “The answer is ‘no.’ You may not see the inside of my house.”

  “I’m not a tourist,” I wailed. “I’m Abigail Washburn. We met at Jane Cox’s house. I was in the hoop skirt, remember?”

  She peered down the length of her nose. It was a wonder she could see that far.

  “Ah, yes. You operate a little thrift shop on King Street.”

  “It’s not a thrift shop! I sell high-end antiques.”

  “Well, whatever.” She just stood there, waiting for me to make the next move.

  “I was wondering if you might autograph a book for me.”

  The nose, followed by the eyes, focused first on my pocketbook, which was barely large enough to hold a paperback, and then on my empty hands. She snorted.

  “I don’t see a book.”

  I tried to look surprised. “Drat! I must have forgotten the darn thing. I don’t suppose you have one I could buy?”

  “Harrumph.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I do not sell my own books. I’m not that kind of a writer.”

  “What kind would that be?”

  “Self-published.”

  “That’s not such a good thing to be, eh?”

  “I suppose that depends on how one likes one’s books. I mean—and this is carrying the analogy a bit far, I admit—if you were in need of brain surgery, would you agree to have it performed by a physician who was self-taught?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And if you were emotionally disturbed, who would you prefer to discuss your problems with, a licensed professional, or your mother?”

  “Mama.”

  “Harrumph.”

  Clearly, I’d given her the wrong answer. But it was the right one for me. I know for a fact—I’ve been keeping track—that Mama and I disagree on eighty percent of the things we discuss. In the days following our heart-to-hearts, I change my mind on thirty percent of the issues. On the other hand, I didn’t agree with anything said by the two psychologists I went to when Buford dumped me. Never mind that Buford was the one who supplied them.

  “I get the picture,” I said. “You write quality books that have been properly edited. Are they humorous cozies? Do they contain recipes?”

  She shuddered. “I write more serious fiction.”

  “I thought you wrote mysteries.”

  “They are novels of suspense—practically literary works, if I say so myself. My newest release, Jabber Whacky, is about a psychotic who talks himself out of a hospital for the criminally insane. It contains more themes than an English instructor’s briefcase.” She chuckled at her own joke.

  “Get out of town! I read Jabber Whacky!”

  She centered her probing proboscis on mine, and drilled me with her gaze. “Did you like it?”

  “Loved it!” It was the truth, so help me. The critics, however, had hated it. One had called it “the worst piece of junk since the advent of the computer age. One hopes her PC threw up all over her.” There was even an article in a national magazine—People, I think—about how the publisher had overestimated sales, resulting in a record number of returns. As a consequence the author had been dropped. This had, if memory served me right, happened some years ago. In the interim I’d forgotten the author’s name. The catchy title was another matter.

  Ella Nolte smiled for the first time since I’d met her. “I think you should come inside. It’s getting a little warm out here.”

  It was downright cold inside. Ella Nolte confessed that she’d been suffering from hot flashes lately, despite the fact that she believed she had completed “the change” several years ago.

  “I think I’ll talk to my doctor about hormone replacement therapy. Have you tried it?”

  I was taken aback. I’m in my mid—okay, make it late, forties, but by all accounts, look young for my age. It is conceivable that I might have entered a precocious menopause, but certainly not something to be taken for granted. And Ella seemed to think of us as contemporaries.

  “No, I haven’t tried it. But I’ll certainly look into it when I get to be your age.”

  “Harrumph.”

  “I’m forty-eight,” I said.

  “Mozella said she had you when she was fifteen. I happened to see your mother’s driver’s license and discovered she’s seventy-eight.”

  “Which would make me sixty-three?” I would have stormed out of there, but still had lots of questions to ask. Mama, you can bet, was going to get a few questions as well.

  “There’s nothing wrong with sixty-three,” Ella said. She gestured at her walls. “Look there. There’s sixty-three of them.”

  She was referring to the enlarged book covers that hung on her walls in lieu of artwork. They all bore her name, but with the exception of Jabber Whacky, none of the titles was familiar. A few didn’t even seem like mysteries. Judging by the cover of Night of the Living Dreadlocks, the author had once written horror novels.

  “You’ve certainly been prolific,” I said.

  She smiled again. “Please, have a seat.”

  A large bookcase filled one wall, but there were only two seats to choose from. Both were, however, English wingbacks, dating to the 1770s, and appeared to have original needlepoint upholstery. I glanced around surreptitiously; at least that was my intent.

  “Most of my stuff is in storage,” she said, reading my mind.

  “Well, these two chairs are very lovely.” I hoisted myself into the one nearest me.

  “I’d offer you tea,” she said, “but I’m not originally from the South. I’m from Hackensack, New Jersey. So how about a glass of wine?”

  “Wine would be divine.” As long as I kept my consumption under half a glass, I’d be fine. I’m a cheap drunk.

  She trotted off to the kitchen and returned in less than a minute with a glass of white wine. There was a trace of lipstick on the glass rim that matched the author’s shade. She had poured a tumbler of water for herself.

  “So, Mrs. Washburn,” she said. “What is your agenda?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is your real reason for visiting me? Is it because I’m famous?”

  I nodded.

  “I figured that. It happens with some frequency, you know.”

  I nodded again. “I guess I have this thing for famous people. I saw the back of Johnny Bench’s head in an airport once. I tell you, it made my day.” I took a sip of wine, taking care to stay clear of the lipstick. “But there’s something I wanted to ask you as well.”

  “Oh?”

  “The night of the séance, between the time you arrived, and the beginning of the séance, did you see anyone alone in the dining room?”

  She set the tumbler of water down on an Indian marquetry table. It was the only other piece of furniture in the room.

  “Aha! You’re trying to solve Madame Woo-Woo’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty—not of the murder, I mean, but of trying to solve it.”

  “And so am I.”

  “You are?�
�

  “Mrs. Washburn, you seem to have forgotten that I am a mystery writer. ‘What ifs’ are my stock in trade.”

  “So they are,” I agreed, but rolled my eyes slightly in the direction of the Night of the Living Dreadlocks cover.

  “I’ll choose to ignore that,” she said, proving that she was, at the least, a keen observer. “And the answer to your question is ‘yes.’ I did see someone in the dining room that evening, just fifteen minutes before the séance began.”

  13

  “Who was it?” I demanded.

  The nose centered on my forehead, like the barrel of a gun. Her eyes, I decided, were the color of gunpowder. I would duck if I heard the click of a safety turned to off.

  “Mozella Wiggins,” she said, savoring each syllable. “Your mother, I believe.”

  “Yes, but that means nothing. Mama was cohosting the event, along with C.J. and I. She was probably just checking the table for dust. There’s no crime in that.”

  “She was bent over looking under it. I could see her blue jeans.”

  “Yes, well, jeans under a hoop skirt is a crime. But surely you don’t think she’s capable of murder?”

  “And you think one of the rest of us is?”

  “Touché. But not Mama.”

  “Mrs. Washburn, we are all capable of the most heinous crimes, given the right motivation, and under the right circumstances. Mozella has shared with our little group some of her more imaginative exploits. She’s not exactly the stereotype of your perfect little grandma.”

  “I’m well aware of her shenanigans. Murder is not among them.”

  “But she lies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She said she gave birth to you when she was fifteen.”

  “She exaggerates to make a point. Isn’t that what you do in your work?”

  “I tell my lies to the blank page. There’s a difference, you know.”

  I’d heard enough. “Ms. Nolte, you wouldn’t happen to have a thesaurus I could borrow, would you? I promise to take very good care of it.”

  “I don’t own a thesaurus.”

  “But you’re a writer.”

  “Yes, and a good one. I have an extensive vocabulary, and I use it. If I needed to look up words all the time, I’d have no business being a writer.”

  I sighed and slid to my feet. The mission had to be scrubbed on two counts. To make matters worse, I’d forgotten myself and drunk from the smudged side of the glass.

  “Harrumph.”

  “Huh? Never mind, I’ll show myself out.”

  “I was about to say that I killed a thesaurus once.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Perhaps that hadn’t been water in that tumbler, but vodka.

  “In my very first mystery. Who Killed Tyrannical Thesaurus Rex? It didn’t sell very well—that was the art department’s fault, not mine—and a bunch were remaindered. I bought a carton of them, and still have a few in the back. Would you like one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  While she strode off to fetch the book, I searched for its poster on the walls. There was none.

  She was back in a flash. “Here,” she said, and handed me a paperback with the worst cover art I’d ever seen. The dinosaur looked like Barney, only green, and he was holding a book under one arm. Both title and author’s name looked like they’d been drawn in crayons, using as many colors as possible.

  “It’s an adult mystery,” she said reading my mind again. “Some idiot made it look like a children’s book.”

  “Wow. I feel for you.” I waved the book. “Thanks, I really appreciate this.”

  “Seven-ninety-nine, please.”

  “What?”

  “For the book. Like I said, I had to buy them myself.”

  “But the cover price is two bucks lower.”

  “Inflation. Do you want the book, or not?”

  I gave her the ten, and when she said she didn’t have change, I told her to keep the extra money. I did, however, demand, and receive, an autograph. One of my choosing.

  “To my very best friend, Abigail,” it read, “who encouraged me in all my darkest hours.”

  “Did you get it?” the Rob-Bobs demanded in unison.

  I showed them the paperback, but only the cover. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of Ella Nolte’s house. The men had just returned from their walk, and had opened the car doors to allow the interior to cool.

  Rob’s patrician nose wrinkled when he saw the book. “I read that—or I tried to. Took it to the beach one year—a long time ago. Can’t even remember when. But it was the worst book I’d ever read, and ever hope to read. Catchy title, Abby, and I love the artwork, but it doesn’t count as a thesaurus.”

  “Of course it does. The word is right there on the cover. The rules don’t say anything about it having to be an actual thesaurus.”

  Bob cleared his throat, sounding for all the world like a male bullfrog in mating season. “But it’s implied, Abby.”

  “Look guys, y’all don’t know all the rules of the game. Trust me, this counts, or the lady wouldn’t have given it to me.”

  “Who’s the lady?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” I shoved the book under my arm, to prevent it from opening to the title page and the incriminating autograph. A homeless person stood a better chance of being admitted to Charleston society than a hack writer from Hackensack, New Jersey.

  “You never did explain,” Bob croaked, “how you choose the houses. Do these people know you’re coming?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all prearranged.”

  “But except for the pedigree, you haven’t exactly hit pay dirt.”

  I sighed with mock impatience. “Yes, I have. These folks know to expect me, but they don’t know what item it is I’ll be requesting. That’s the fun of it for them. I get points for creativity, you see.”

  “If you get points for that, you’re a shoo-in,” Rob said. He sounded only a mite sarcastic.

  It was a good time to change the subject. “Lunch,” I said. “Bob, didn’t you say you were making something delicious for lunch?”

  The way to a man’s heart may or may not be through his stomach. It is definitely the way out of his head. The Rob-Bobs immediately quit obsessing about my bogus scavenger hunt, and began thinking about food.

  Rob gave me a sly wink. “Actually, Abby, I was able to talk Bob into saving our three-headed lunch for later. How does Magnolias sound?”

  “Great,” I replied, with a combination of relief at avoiding the planned menu and guilt at the memory of having stood Buford up two days earlier.

  I smiled at the waiter, who looked uncannily like my son, Charlie. This fellow’s name was Fritz. He had a Southern accent—Bavarian, I think.

  “I’ll start off with the Warm Oysters on the Half Shell with Andouille Sausage and Cheese Grits, Country Greens, Yellow Corn Salsa, and a Tomato Butter.”

  Fritz blinked.

  “That’s the second appetizer on the menu,” I said helpfully.

  “Abby,” Rob groaned, “you’re not going to do your shtick again where you read the entire description of each and every dish you order?”

  “If Magnolias didn’t want their menus read aloud, they shouldn’t have made them sound so yummy. Fritz, dear, you ready?”

  Fritz nodded.

  “Good, because for the salad course I’ll have the Grilled Portobello Mushroom Cap Layered with Fresh Tomato, Shaved Red Onion, Mashed Avocado, and Carolina Goat Cheese, Served with a Spicy Tomato Chutney.”

  Fritz scribbled.

  “For my main course I’ll have the six ounce Filet of Beef and Crabcake with Sautéed Spinach, Herb Fingerling Potatoes, Madeira Sauce, and Chive Mousseline.”

  “What the hell is a fingerling potato?” Rob demanded. For all his class, he’s a French fry and hamburger sort of guy.

  Bob blushed at his partner’s question. “A fingerling—”

  “Oh, my God! Look who just walked in!” I snatched up my heav
ily starched napkin and held it in front of my face like an Arabian veil.

  Three heads swiveled. Rob turned back first.

  “You can’t hide, Abby. Even if you slid all the way under the table, he’s bound to come over and say hello to Bob and me at some point.”

  There are two types of people in this world: those who know no fear (and they are not long for this world), and the rest of us. Of the rest of us, some of us like to confront our bogeymen head on, while others of us prefer to shiver under the covers (or behind napkins) until we have no choice. As a little girl, if I thought I heard something under the bed, I’d whip back the covers and jab at the space with a broom handle. Get it before it gets me, has always been my motto.

  I seemed to have regressed a bit, but there was no time like the present to regain my feistiness. I threw down my napkin, shoved back my chair, and marched across the room.

  My friends moaned in tandem. I think Fritz moaned as well. At any rate, I ignored them and marched right up to my biggest source of fear.

  “Buford!”

  He appeared to be genuinely startled. Then again, how does one read the expression on a snake?

  “Abby!” He had just sat, but was on his feet in a nanosecond. In his chest beat the cold-blooded heart of a reptile, but he was, nonetheless, a Southern gentleman.

  “I’m sorry I stood you up,” I blurted. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “That’s all right, Abby, I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Things come up, right?”

  “Is that supposed to be a sexual reference?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” I shifted from one size four to the other. “Buford, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  He gestured at the opposite chair. “Abby, won’t you join me? We can talk about it over lunch.”

  I pointed over my shoulder to the Rob-Bobs. “I’ve already ordered. Thanks.”

  “We’ll get the waiter to bring it over here.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Abby, this is important.”

  I climbed on to the proffered seat. “Only until your drinks waiter gets back.”

  “Thanks, Abby.”

  “Spill,” I said, giving the demon under my bed a good poke with the broom handle.