by Tamar Myers
“Abby,” Rob said, “you know we’re not going to answer that. But I will tell you this. It was that Maypole woman who stood Francis up on the wedding day, not the other way around.”
“How do you know for sure? You weren’t even living in Charleston then. Or did you already know Dr. Whipper-what’s-his name somehow?”
Bob felt the need to exercise his bass. “Abby, we don’t know every gay man in America. It’s not like there’s a national roster. But we share mutual friends with Francis. Some of them were there—discreetly, of course. They told us what happened.”
“So, that means Thelma Maypole out-and-out lied. She’s trying to frame him.”
“That would seem to be the case,” Rob said. He turned the corner. We were somewhere up in North Charleston, in one of the less-desirable parts of that fair city. All I knew was that the Northwoods Mall was somewhere to my left, and that if my next two interviews went quickly, there might still be time to hit the handbag sale at Dillard’s and get home before Greg. I know, most women prefer a shoe sale, but when one wears a size four, like I do, the selection is limited. Purses, on the other hand, seldom have to fit body parts.
“Good God,” Bob boomed suddenly, “the woman lives in a double-wide.”
“Lived,” I said. “Madame Woo-Woo is dead. It’s her boyfriend who lives here. But you’re right, it is a mobile home.”
We pulled into a sandy driveway. A strip of weeds ran down the middle, making it look like a safari track. Overgrown photinias and a plethora of pittosporums added to the jungle affect. It was not the kind of place one would picture a successful psychic living.
“Maybe you’ve got the wrong address, Abby.”
I consulted what I’d scribbled down from the Yellow Pages. “No, this is it. Perhaps this is just her office.”
The men declined to walk with me to the door, but they also refused to drop me off and head out to the mall on their own. Rob parked in the shade of a live oak and turned off the engine. They would wait, they said. If I was admitted into the trailer—which they claimed was no bigger than the Hunley, despite it being a double-wide—Rob would activate his gold stopwatch. Ten minutes was all I had. If I wasn’t back outside in ten minutes, they were calling the cops.
They meant ten minutes from the time I disappeared inside the metal home, not from the moment I got out of the car. Just to get their goats, I did the Charleston walk up the sandy lane. That is to say, I ambled—the way one is supposed to walk on a hot sultry day. Can I help it if my legs are a bit on the short side, and at full speed, can barely outrun a glacier? (I haven’t done a whole lot of that, mind you, so this is mostly conjecture.)
At last I reached a set of rickety wooden steps, and taking my life into my hands climbed them. Risking tetanus, I pressed the rusty doorbell. The flimsy aluminum door was flung open at once.
“Get the hell out of here, or I’m calling the police.”
“Call away,” I said, calling his bluff. Somehow I got the idea that the shirtless young man in baggy shorts with more tattoos than a bar full of bikers, was not about to get the police involved for no good reason.
“What is it you want?”
I wanted to ask him why the waistband of his shorts was halfway down his buttocks, and if he minded looking as if his diaper needed changing. I wanted to inform him that this bizarre fashion statement, once so popular, was now on the wane—even here in the hinterlands of South Carolina. Alas, good breeding, coupled with common sense, prevented me from being so rude. The half-dropped drawers could well be concealing a handgun. Maybe even a couple of sticks of dynamite.
“I’m a friend of Golda Feinstein,” I said, lying through my teeth. Fortunately falsehoods do not contribute to caries.
I could tell by his reaction that he’d been blindsided. He stared hard at me, which gave me a perfectly good excuse to stare back. He was surprisingly young—hardly more than a teenager. It seems that Madame Woo-Woo had robbed the cradle.
“Name’s Ben,” he finally said, extending his hand. Then he snatched it back. I think he did so out of nerves, rather than nastiness.
“Abigail Washburn. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if it’s all right.”
He glanced around me. I knew he could see the car, despite the jungle. But could he see the two men in it?
“You sure you’re not the police?”
“Positive! Why, just look at me—the police have minimum height requirements, you know.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“What? And work for the enemy? Like I said, Golda was my friend.”
He studied me again. “My sister didn’t have many friends, and she never mentioned you. But what the hell, come on in.”
Sister? The two of them looked nothing alike, even if you took into account Golda’s gypsy wig. But then, who was I to jump to such hasty conclusions? My brother Toy is six feet tall and blond, just like our daddy was.
I followed Ben into the dimly lit but surprisingly well-appointed trailer. Who would have suspected that a North Charleston doublewide would be furnished with nineteenth-century pieces, primarily in the Empire style? Madame Waterloo would have been a better name for the deceased seer.
“This is very nice,” I said. I wasn’t being condescending.
“Thanks, it was our mother’s.”
“She has good taste.” I remembered to look at my watch.
“She was an antique dealer. So was our father. But they’re both dead now. They were killed in a car wreck on I-95 just outside of Ridgeville, South Carolina. We were moving from New York to Florida, and Sis got the moving van to drop everything off here. Neither of us wanted to go to Florida in the first place, and we’d already said our good-byes in New York. Anyway, that was five years ago—no make that six. Golda’s been looking out for me ever since then. Not that I need it any more. I’m twenty-two.”
I couldn’t continue lying to an orphan, even one who was proud of his age. “I have a confession to make, I’m really not—”
“A friend of Golda’s?” He smiled, and a dragon that started on his chest, head down, wiggled the tip of its tail across Ben’s right cheek.
“But I did meet her once,” I wailed. “The night she was murdered.”
The M word seemed to hit him hard and he sat heavily on a chair fit for Napoleon. A second later he motioned me to sit as well.
“So, you’re one of the Heavenly Hoofers,” he said.
“That’s Hustlers, and no, I’m not one of them. My mama is. The séance was at my best friend’s house—but you have to believe me when I say she didn’t do it.”
His eyes narrowed as the dragon tail twitched. “How can you be sure?”
“I know what you mean, and I’d normally say that I can’t be sure. But Jane Cox has the heart of a puppy dog and absolutely no motive. I was hoping that you might have some ideas.”
“Like who might have it in for my sister?”
“Exactly.”
“Dissatisfied customers, that’s who.”
“How so?”
“Let’s say you went to my sister to have your fortune told, and she predicted you were going to lose your job and go bankrupt. And then it happens. Well, you know what they say about killing the messenger.”
“Just for the record, I’m self-employed and well in the black—but I see your point. Did that kind of thing happen a lot?”
He bit his lip, tugging at the tip of the dragon’s tail. “More often than you’d think. That’s why we took the sign down. We asked to be dropped from the Yellow Pages, but of course that takes a year.”
“She planned to go out of business?”
“Golda had built up a base of reliable customers, you see—and then there was the ghost-busting. Almost no one complains about that.”
I looked at my watch. I was running out of time.
“You knew about the Heavenly Hustlers. Did she have problems with any of them?”
“None that I know of. They came here once for a group
reading. But whenever Sis had clients, I hid out in the back bedroom and watched TV. Unless, of course, I had plans, because hey, I’m not a couch potato.”
The dragon and other mythical characters that covered his body did nothing to hide his splendid physique. I’d been trying not to look, but just to confirm what he said, I sneaked a peek.
“I believe you, Ben.” I stood, and took one last look around. “Your parents knew a lot about antiques.”
“Yeah. Golda, too. She really liked this shit—uh, I mean stuff. Me? I’d just as soon have a La-Z-Boy recliner and a six-pack—if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. I have a son in college. What do you do for a living, Ben? Or are you in school?”
“I work at a car wash. I’m fixing to make assistant manager in six months if I don’t screw up.” He paused and gazed down at bare feet. “Hey, you want me to let you know when the funeral is? The police—well, they have to keep her a while longer. But they said maybe by Friday.”
“Sure, I’d like that.”
“And the rest of them—the Hustlers—you’ll tell them too, right?”
“Absolutely.”
We shook hands, but just as I was turning to leave, a small gold-framed photo on an end table caught my eye. I walked over to examine it. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes.
17
“Who is that?” I demanded.
“Chiz. Golda’s boyfriend.”
“Chisholm Banncock, the hoity-toity real estate agent?”
He shrugged. “Never asked what he did. I just know him as Chiz. He and Golda were pretty tight—always wanting their space. Like I said, I hung out a lot in the back bedroom.”
“Wow! That’s incredible—I mean, that really surprises me, what with Chiz coming from—uh, the old guard.” Even a size four foot is more than a mouthful.
“The man’s a bastard. What he did to Golda was unforgiveable.”
“Hang on!” I cried. I dashed to the rickety front steps and flashed fingers. I couldn’t allow the Rob-Bob SWAT team to storm the place just when I was getting somewhere. Back inside, I grabbed the framed photo. “Go on, Ben. Tell me what this skunk did.”
“He strung Sis along, that’s what. Got what he wanted—made her believe he was going to marry her, and then dumped her. And do you know why?”
Of course I did, but it was better to let him say it. “Why?”
“Because we’re Yankees. More than that, we’re poor Yankees.”
“If it’s any comfort, Ben, even a rich Southerner, one from someplace else, would still have a hard time marrying into that crowd. There are exceptions—perhaps more today than there used to be—but they’re still exceptions.”
“Yeah, well, a poor Yankee is at the bottom of the list, right?”
“I’m afraid so.” It was almost true. Only a poor black Yankee would be lower on that list.
He took the picture from me. “I’m throwing this piece of shit away. Don’t know why Sis hung on to it.”
“A broken heart takes time to heal,” I said venturing my woman’s opinion. “Sometimes we think that if we wait long enough, the guy will come to his senses.”
“Yeah? Well, he didn’t have any sense if you ask me. Sis was really cool. She would have made any guy a good wife. Hell, she would have made a damn good mom to some little kid. Maybe a bunch of them.”
Then it occurred to me. “Ben, was she—uh—was there any chance she might have been expecting.”
“Expecting what?”
“A baby. Could she have been pregnant?”
The dragon tattoo turned an ominous red, while the skin around it paled. “Never thought of that. I think they were using something—but it’s not like we talked about it.”
“Ben—”
“Hey, you don’t think Chiz killed her, do you? I mean, he was there that night, right?”
“He was definitely there that night. And if she was pregnant—well, that looks like a motive to me.”
“I’m calling the goddamn police,” he said. “You can bet on that. I’m going to get me some answers.”
“Ask for Sergeant Scrubb. But don’t tell him I was here.”
“Scrubb,” he said, and wrote it down. “Hey thanks, Miss—uh—”
“Washburn. And remember, don’t tell the police I was here. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“No sweat.” He didn’t seem in the least bit curious about my trouble. Then again, he was only twenty-two.
“Well, good-bye.”
“Yeah. And you’re coming to the service, right?”
I said I would.
The Rob-Bobs ought never rib me again for changing my mind. They were dying to hear what had transpired in the trailer, and were both repulsed and fascinated by my description of Ben.
“I dated a man with a tattoo once,” Rob said, sounding almost wistful. “It was a lion with five—not four, but five—”
“Don’t want to hear it!” Bob bellowed.
“Well, guys,” I said, happy to referee, “either of you ever been to a car dealership called Cars of the Stars on Rivers Avenue?”
The men exchanged looks. Clearly, I’d caught them with their manicured fingers in the cookie jar.
“I was there only once,” Rob said.
“Well, I’d like to go there next.”
“And it was Bob’s idea,” Rob said, unable to leave well enough alone.
“My idea? You’re the one who wanted to see the car where Paul Lynde lost his virginity.”
“He lost it in a car?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Rob said. “I just made it up. My point is, those cars are intriguing.”
“I won’t be looking at any cars,” I snapped.
And I tried not to. There was a bright Porsche with a bullet hole in the windshield on the driver’s side. I thought I remembered seeing that same car in People magazine.
While the Rob-Bobs satiated their ghoulish appetites, I found Hugh Riffle. It wasn’t easy. Delbert, the salesman who pounced on me when I arrived like a chicken on a June bug, was bent on not letting me speak with his boss. In fact, he insisted his boss wasn’t on the premises. But the fervor with which he said it convinced me otherwise, forcing me to employ the universal language: money. I slipped the dapper dandy enough dinero to keep him supplied with Minoxidil for a year. He led me straight to the holy of holies.
Actually, it looked more like somebody’s garage. It was an enormous room containing six vintage automobiles. Five of the cars were, presumably, the real thing. The sixth was really a desk, in the shape of a car. It had no windshield, of course, so that the hood could be used to write on.
Hugh Riffle saw me approaching and grinned. That is to say, his jowls parted slightly and I could see teeth.
“Please tell me you decided to take me up on my offer.”
“Offer?”
“You know, a little R and R in the sack.”
He said that right in front of Delbert, if you can believe that. I hardly could. Delbert, however, acted as if Hugh Riffle was inquiring about the weather.
“I most certainly did not come here for that.”
“Ah, a car. I’ve got just the thing for you. I just got in a replica of the car Jayne Mansfield died in. Just came in today. Of course it doesn’t have the damage, and it’s not the real thing—”
“I came to talk about Madame Woo-Woo.”
“The dead psychic?”
“The murdered psychic,” I said.
“Delbert,” Hugh barked.
The salesman scampered from the room. If he’d been a dog, he would have had his tail between his legs.
Hugh motioned for me to sit in what I would swear was the bucket seat from a 1973 Camaro. I know, because Buford had one of those, and that’s where I lost—uh, an earring.
“Now then,” Hugh said, “what’s this about Madame Woo-Woo? The police find out who killed her?”
“Not yet, but they’re working on it.”
&nb
sp; “Then what’s to talk about?”
“Look, I’ll get straight to the point. Did you see anyone alone in the dining room the night of the séance—before my mama called everyone in with her embarrassing town-crier act?”
“No, and I didn’t look. There wasn’t any food in there, was there?”
I sighed. “It was all in the kitchen.”
“Abby—mind if I call you that?”
“Well, frankly—”
“Abby, you shouldn’t be bothering your pretty little head with stuff like this. Let the police handle it. In the meantime, you and I can handle each other—if you know what I mean.”
“I have a fairly good idea, and I find it disgusting.” I stood. “Good-bye, Mr. Riffle.”
The jowls worked harder and I saw more teeth. “Touchy little thing, aren’t you?”
Even a well-bred Southern gal has her breaking point. “You’re a sleazeball, Mr. Riffle. I wouldn’t look twice at you if you were the last man on earth. No woman in her right mind would.”
The teeth receded. “Not all women share your sentiments, little lady.”
“Oh, yeah? Name one—besides your wife.”
“Golda Feinstein. Now that was a hot piece of tail.”
“Excuse me?”
“Madame Woo-Woo.”
“I know who she is—uh, was. Are you saying you slept with her?”
“Does Marlon Brando like to eat?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Well, Mr. Riffle, you just confirmed what I said. You’re a sleazeball, all right.”
“Hey, in this case it was her idea.”
“I find that impossible to believe.”
“Suit yourself. But she came to me—all red-eyed and crying, because her boyfriend broke up with her. I saw it as my duty to comfort the poor girl.”
“Sheesh!” The man was full of himself. Whatever did Mama see in this band of misfits? Come to think of it, what did Hugh Riffle get out of belonging to this group? I decided to ask him.
My question seemed to be anticipated. “Oh, that’s easy,” he said, without missing a beat. “Companionship. We do things together. We have good times.”
