Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  Mama rolled her eyes. At least they were dry again.

  “Sometimes I think you don’t listen to a word I say. I told you all about it at supper that night. Remember I said we were all there, except for Hugh, because he and Sondra were having a bit of a tiff? Frankly, Abby, I don’t think their marriage is long for the books.”

  “That’s nice, Mama. And while we’re on the subject of Chisel Cheeks IX, you need to stay away from him too. He was there on the night of Golda Feinstein’s murder.”

  “But he’s just a boy!”

  “He’s in his thirties, I’ll bet. That’s no boy.”

  Mama twirled her precious pearls in agitation. “Well, I guess the tables have finally turned, haven’t they, dear?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When you were little, I tried to pick your friends. And now you’re trying to pick mine.”

  “My friends pushed beans up their noses, Mama. They didn’t kill each other.”

  “Thelma Maypole would never kill anyone. I was out to her house on Kiawah Island one day when a palmetto bug ran across the kitchen floor. This was a really big roach, Abby. If I could have found a saddle to fit, I could have ridden him back into town. Anyway, Thelma cornered him, managed to scoop him into a paper cup, and took him outside. Can you guess what she did then?”

  “Changed into old shoes and did the tarantella on top of the bugger?”

  “No. She released him. Now, would a woman who released a cockroach outside be capable of killing another woman?”

  “Himmler loved dogs,” I said. “Mama, speaking of Thelma—she told me that she mentioned to you seeing Dr. Whipperspoonbill alone in the dining room before the séance. Is that true?”

  “Did she? Abby, my mind is all a blur, what with bodies turning up left and right. But don’t think for a minute that Francis is Madame Woo-Woo’s killer. We took a trip to Mintken Abbey once, and we got caught in a frog-strangler of a rain. Francis loaned me his umbrella. I don’t mean he just shared it, dear—we couldn’t both fit under it and keep my skirt dry. The dear man walked around without a thought for his clothes or hair.”

  “The dear man is bald, Mama.”

  “Yes, well—”

  The front door opened, and the love of my life stepped in. One look at his face and I wanted to drive straight up to Mintken Abbey and hide out in a monk’s cell.

  20

  Fortunately, the first thing my sweetheart does when he comes home is take a long, hot shower. This is not a luxury, mind you, but a necessity. The only living being that will get close to him, sans shower, is my cat Dmitri. If I’ve neglected to mention the smallest male in my life, I apologize. You see what stress can do to a gal? At any rate, Dmitri runs to welcome Greg, rubs against his legs, licks his shoes, and begs to be picked up. That is because my beloved enters the house smelling like the Mount Pleasant fish market on a summer day without electricity.

  With Greg soaping down, and Dmitri rolling about in his discarded clothes, I fixed myself a stiff drink (an entire jigger!) of rum and Diet Coke, and worked on a string of rebuttals. Actually, it wasn’t that hard. Yes, dear. I’m sorry, dear. I’ll never do it again, dear. Those have all worked very well in the past. Because I’m a cheap date, likely to fall asleep on just half a beer, the rum in the coke was to get me properly subdued. What I didn’t count on was C.J. coming home quite so early.

  “Ooh, Abby,” she said, catching her breath when she saw me drink in hand, “they’re not sending you up the river, are they?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I heard all about you clobbering that cop. One of your customers today—I think it was Angela Duckworth—said you could get twenty years for that. But if they’re just sending you up the river—well, that’s not so bad. Cousin Alvin Ledbetter got sent up the river, and discovered the headwaters of the Nile.”

  There was no need to offer C.J. a drink. The big gal may be extremely bright, but she has a perpetual happy hour going on in her head.

  “John Hanning Speke was the first European to correctly identify Lake Victoria as a source of the Nile. But no, C.J., nobody’s sending me anywhere.”

  She looked at me, her face shining with admiration. “Wow! You talked yourself out of another tight one, didn’t you, Abby?”

  I shrugged modestly. “Well, the woman was being a jerk. You can’t desecrate a corpse like that—” I stopped. Mama only rarely cried, C.J. never did—until now. Tears the size of olives were plopping on my antique carpet. I don’t mean to sound petty, but that was a lot of salt for those ancient wool fibers to contend with.

  “Ooh, Abby,” she said, and then threw herself into my arms. A word to the wise; if you’re four-nine and a five feet, ten inch big-boned woman hurls herself at you, either duck, or brace yourself. I did neither, and C.J. and I found ourselves crammed into the same armchair, with me on the bottom. My drink, of course, went everywhere.

  I used some impolite words while extricating myself, but I wasn’t angry with C.J. “It’s got to be damned hard having a body found behind your fridge,” I said.

  “Ooh, Abby, you don’t know the half of it. How am I supposed to ever sleep in that house again? I mean, what if there are more of them? There could even be one in the floor under my bed.”

  I gulped the remains of my drink, which seemed to have become as necessary as Greg’s shower. “C.J., I don’t think there are any more. I think this is the only one. But since you asked, I’d make Chisholm Banncock IX buy that house back from you. If he refuses, I’d sue his butt from here to Timbuktu. Then I’d buy a nice new house. Over in Mount Pleasant they’re building what looks like a replica of Colonial Lake. It’s called I’On. The houses are all new—no one has died in them yet.”

  She nodded. “Can I stay here, with you, until I find a new place?”

  What do you say when your best friend asks to move in with you under dire circumstances? That’s like having to choose between a drought or three feet of rain all at once. At least with C.J around—she would be the rain—Greg would be forced to display company manners. Not that he mistreats me, mind you, but you know what I mean. After all, my informal investigation was bound to get thornier before it was over.

  “Sure,” I said, “be our guest—but try not to sleep on your back. Last night you sounded like a force five hurricane. Even Greg woke up. Don’t tell him I told you, but he was shouting ‘evacuate, evacuate!’”

  C.J. giggled and then lunged at me again. “Ooh, you’re the very best friend a girl could have.”

  I’d managed to dodge her clumsy affection and remain upright. “Well, I’m not a diamond.”

  “Yes, you are! You’re a diamond, and a pearl, and a black rooster’s knuckles.”

  “What the heck kind of combination is that?”

  “That’s a good luck charm, Abby. Everybody knows that. Granny Ledbettter sells oodles of them in Shelby. Of course the diamonds are very small, on account of them being so expensive.”

  I grabbed one of her sturdy wrists and steered her to a chair. Then I gave her a gentle shove to make her sit.

  “C.J., we need to talk.”

  “Sure, Abby. I wasn’t planning on doing anything this evening except roll my hair and conjugate Chinese verbs.” She was serious on both counts. I don’t know if curling irons have made it to Shelby, but C.J. rolls her dishwater blond hair every night on orange juice cans. And as for the Chinese verbs, the same girl who is two ants shy of a picnic speaks seventeen languages.

  “We need to talk now, C.J. Before Greg gets out of the shower.”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. I’ve already had that talk.”

  “You have? But—”

  “Granny Ledbetter told me where babies come from.”

  I resolved to ask her, on another occasion, and with a full beer in hand, what her Granny had to say on the subject. “C.J., sugar, what I want to talk to you about is your house. You know that remodeling you thought was being done by a ghost—er, Apparition American? Well, it
wasn’t. Mama and her friends were sneaking into your house.”

  C.J., who should have been spitting mad, was beaming. “Mozella is such a sweet friend—and so are you, Abby. And now I have all these other new friends too.”

  “If you mean the Heavenly Hustlers, forget it. One of them is a murderer, remember?”

  My pal processed that. “Ooh, Abby, you’re right. I’ve always been too trusting, I guess. When I was younger I’d go home with any adult who claimed to be my parent.”

  “Little kids sometimes do that.”

  “I was in high school, Abby.”

  “C.J., dear, please focus. I want to ask you about that wall in your kitchen. You have an incredible mind for antiques. Didn’t you have the slightest idea it was covered with precious tiles?”

  She shook her big shaggy head. “They were all painted, Abby—you saw that—except for the ones behind the fridge, which came with the house. Ooh, Abby, I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m dirty because I don’t clean the dust bunnies out from behind there.”

  “I was thinking no such thing.” The truth be known, I never clean behind my refrigerator, unless I’m replacing it—or selling a house. But that was it! That was the one question I’d forgotten to ask Chiz. Who owned the house before C.J. bought it? On the off chance she might know, I posed the question to my friend.

  “Ooh, Abby, don’t you remember anything?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Sometimes I don’t think you do, Abby. Otherwise you would have remembered it was that chubby woman with the funny glasses. Selma, I think her name is.”

  Then it hit me like a ton of C.J.s. “Thelma Maypole?”

  “Yeah, but you sure the first name isn’t Selma?”

  “Positive. C.J., are we talking about the same stout woman who was at the séance?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip. “Ooh, Abby, I hope she wasn’t offended by all the changes your Mama’s friends made.”

  “C.J., tell me about the changes.”

  “Well, there was this really good fake Tiffany lampshade in the downstairs powder room—”

  “The one you have a scarf draped over now?”

  “Yeah, I’d been meaning to go to Home Depot to get me a new one—lamp, I mean. One with less green in it. Now, where was I, Abby?”

  “You were telling me about all the changes the Heavenly Hustlers made, and you started with the lamp in the downstairs powder room.”

  “Yeah, well, Mozella’s friends got me a new one from Home Depot, just like I wanted. But it still has too much green in it to suit my taste. Abby, do you think I should say anything?”

  “Not just yet. What other changes can you think of?”

  “Well, they stripped and sanded the banister. And let me tell you, Abby, it really needed it. Oh, and they put in all new screens.”

  “That’s nice, dear, but what about decorative details? Anything else along the lines of replacing the Tiffany-style lamp?”

  She scratched her head. “Well, there’s the downstairs bathroom again. Miss Maypole had these big old ugly gold handles on the faucets. Abby, I can’t tell you how happy I was when the ghost—I mean, your mama’s friends—replaced those right fast with some nice plastic ones. Too bad they didn’t get around to replacing the ones upstairs.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Abby, you know I love antiques, and my living room is full of them, but the bathroom is for personal business. Why, on Granny Ledbetter’s farm we didn’t even have a bathroom.”

  “You had an outhouse, I presume.”

  “Actually, we didn’t. But we did each have our own little patch of corn. The only problem was in the winter, after they cut the corn down.”

  “Spare me the details!” I shook my head to clear it of the images that had already started to creep in. “C.J., do you mind if I check a few things out at your house?”

  “Abby, I’m sure I turned off the gas. Granny taught me to hop three times on my left, turn off the gas, and then hop three times on the right. Of course you have to sing a little song while you do it. See, so even if you forget whether or not you’ve turned off the gas, you still remember hopping and singing.”

  “That’s nice, dear, but I’m not worried about whether or not you left your stove on. I want your permission to poke around a bit.”

  “Okey-dokey, Abby, but please don’t poke into more walls. I couldn’t stand it if you found another body.”

  “Don’t worry—”

  Mama poked her head in the door. “Supper is in five minutes.”

  She must have gone with the noodles. At any rate, no sooner did she step back into the kitchen then Greg emerged from our bedroom freshly scrubbed. Dmitri trailed behind him, trying to get a sniff of his cuffs.

  “Hey, C.J.,” Greg said, and gave her a polite peck on the cheek. It would have been horrible Southern manners for him not to have done so, but I think he is genuinely fond of the girl. I get the impression he views her as the sister he never had.

  C.J. giggled. “You smell like bouillabaisse.”

  Greg laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He turned to me. “Sweetheart, care to take a walk before supper?”

  That was the moment of reckoning. Fortunately, I had a legitimate excuse to postpone it.

  “Mama just gave us the five-minute warning.”

  Greg winked at C.J. “We’ll be less than five minutes,” I promise.

  “But she’s making noodles. You know how they clump together if they’re not served right away.”

  Greg took my right hand in both of his and pulled me gently to the front door. “But I haven’t had a chance to eat my last meal,” I wailed.

  “You will.”

  I could hear the beat of the death drums. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Charleston of escaping lecture number three hundred and twenty-four. The only thing to do was to square my shoulders and take it like a woman.

  Greg ushered me outside, but stopped on the porch. He leaned over, gave me a long, tight hug, and then a lingering kiss. He had just shaved, so I didn’t have whisker burn to worry about. I returned his ardor. If I had to miss out on my final meal, a final kiss would have to do.

  “Abby,” he said, finally pushing me away, “please listen to what I’m going to say.”

  I caved. “Sure thing, sweetie, but just let me get this in first. I’m terribly sorry and I’ll never do it again. I swear on a stack of Bibles taller than St. Michael’s steeple. I’ll be the perfect, adoring little wife you always wanted—just don’t yell at me.”

  “Abby, I don’t yell at you.”

  “Well, lecture then—it’s the same thing.”

  Greg laughed and kissed me on the forehead. “Damn, you cheat me out of all my fun.”

  “You mean you won’t lecture?”

  “I was just going to tell you how proud I am of you.”

  “You were?”

  “You betcha. You’re feisty, Abby. I’ve always loved that about you.”

  “Yes, but I hit a woman. Even I know that’s wrong.”

  “Abby, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but a certain detective, who shall remain nameless, says that woman deserved the punch you threw.”

  “Greg, she was a policewoman in uniform!”

  “She was a jerk. And I’m not advocating you go around solving problems with those fists of yours, Abby—but some people just have it coming to them.”

  You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Come again?”

  “You know, of course, I don’t approve of your—dare I say meddling? But hell, I know I can’t stop you. As my Daddy used to say, when you go to a mule’s funeral, weep at the front end.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me, but I’ve been waiting forty years to say it. I think it means you should know what you’re dealing with, so you don’t get any nasty surprises. I know I’m not going to make you toe the line, so I’m not going to kid myself.”


  “Hmm.” I was still stuck on the mule metaphor.

  Greg kissed me again. “We squared away then?”

  I returned his kiss. “You betcha. But, darling, since it turns out you’re not mad at me—would you mind doing me one teensy-weensy favor?”

  He groaned good-naturedly. “Not another foot rub.”

  “Well, I certainly would not say no to one of those. But what I really want is for you to call Sergeant Scrubb and find out if Golda Feinstein—you know, Madame Woo-Woo—was pregnant. I told her brother to call and ask the same thing, but they might not tell him. At least not just yet.”

  “Will do.”

  “And one more thing. Would you please suggest that he have that corpse I found in the wall examined as well to see if it—I should say Sarah MacGregor—was pregnant? An autopsy should show that, shouldn’t it?”

  “I would think so—depending on how far along she was. Abby, where is this coming from?”

  “Something a proud member of one of Charleston’s oldest families told me. I’m trying to piece together the history of C.J.’s ghost. Oh, and I need to find out if she’s missing a finger.”

  I got a third kiss. “You amaze me, Abby. You know that?”

  “That’s my intent. Keep the men in your life amazed, I always say.”

  “But hon, you’ve got to promise me you’ll back out of any situation that looks dangerous.”

  I wanted to say “yeah, yeah, been there, promised that,” but of course I didn’t. I’m not that big of a fool. I promised to be as cautious as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rockers. Then I coaxed him off our porch, which contained three rockers, and into the house to eat Mama’s pot roast and noodles.

  The noodles were delicious, by the way.

  I slept far better than a baby that night; I slept like a teenager. When I awoke Greg and C.J. had both gone to work, and Mama was washing breakfast dishes. I rushed through my ablutions and grabbed a bagel before Mama put them away. Even though, in theory, we share the kitchen, and in fact, I own it, Mama rules it with an iron fist.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t sleepyhead,” Mama said.

  I yawned. “You got that right.”