by Tamar Myers
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And?”
“And I called you and left a message. Didn’t you get it?”
“I didn’t check. Just tell me, please, was Golda Feinstein pregnant.”
“Abby, you know I can’t answer that directly. Let’s just say that, as things stood at the time of her death, she would not have been shopping for baby clothes.”
“Aha! And was the corpse I found in the wall missing a finger?”
He hesitated. “It’s not like the corpse has any living kin—well, not of her generation at any rate.”
“And?”
“That’s the damnedest thing, Abby. How did you know?”
“Family legends usually contain at least a kernel of truth. Was she pregnant?”
“As a matter of fact, there was a small fetus. The coroner estimates it was three to four months old at the time of its death.”
“The mother’s name was Sarah MacGregor.”
“Is that a fact?” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m sure it is. You never cease to amaze me.”
“I hope my husband feels the same way.”
“You bet he does.”
I was pleased to hear envy in his voice, and filled him in on what I knew of the MacGregor-Maypole family history. He thanked me and promised to let me know as soon as possible if the remains could be released to Thelma Maypole for burial. When our conversation ended, I scooped by my errant cell phone, gave a reluctant Dmitri a kiss on each whiskery cheek, and dashed out the door. Only one piece in the puzzle remained to be fitted.
23
You can usually find a spot to park along the seawall on Murray Boulevard, the next street down from South Battery. Tourists seem to ignore these spots and use the city garages a blister or two away. Perhaps they assume that parking will be tight, if it exists at all, down where the Ashley and Cooper form the Atlantic. But it’s there, trust me. Oops, have I spilled the beans?
My plan was to park next to the seawall, give my regards to the newly birthed ocean, then walk the short block through White Point Gardens to Sondra Riffle’s house. However, as I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for yet another horsedrawn carriage to pass before I crossed the street, I heard someone call my name.
I knew it wasn’t an owl, given that it was broad daylight. But I would never, in a million years, have expected it to be a buzzard. A buzzard named Buford. He was sitting on a park bench, his arm around a woman I’d never seen. I am not generally mean-spirited, and I don’t mean to bad-mouth anyone, especially a stranger, but this was the homeliest woman I’d ever laid eyes on. Since I promise to go to Mama’s church and confess personally to the priest, please allow me the following observation. The woman Buford was clutching had the body of a manatee, the face of a bulldog, and I’d seen better hair on roadkill. She was not Buford’s style.
Buford’s mama was dead, I knew that. Perhaps the woman was an aunt, or a favorite cousin. She might even have been a very wealthy client he was attempting to comfort.
“Abby,” he called again, and rose to his feet. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”
I trotted over, but only out of curiosity. The closer I got, the homelier the woman became. This promised to be a very interesting encounter.
“Abby, I want you to meet my wife, Loretta. Honey,” Buford said to the woman, “this is my first wife, Abigail.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Get out of town!” I cried. I didn’t intend for those words to escape my lips, and I clapped my hands over my mouth in mortification.
Loretta struggled to her feet. She towered over me, of course, but she loomed over Buford as well. She must have been at least six feet, and I’d be willing to bet small change she was a couple of inches taller than that. At least, when viewed from this angle, the bulldog face was smaller, and the roadkill hair all but disappeared in the clouds.
She held out a hand the size of New Jersey. “Pleased to meet you,” she said in that state’s charming accent.
I did the proper thing and shook it. It was so damp that, given our location, it may well have been a third source of the Atlantic.
“Married?” I asked. I know, that was rude as well, but Buford had said that he was going to do the right thing and tie the knot sometime, not that he had already strangled her.
“This morning,” she said, and gave me a big grin, which confirmed that she had at least a few teeth.
“Congratulations to you both.”
“Abigail—may I call you that?”
“Abby’s better.”
“Abby, do you think we could talk?”
“Sure. I’m in a bit of a hurry now—but maybe tonight the two of you could come over for drinks.” I wanted to slap myself into the next county for saying that, but part of me meant it. I wanted Mama and Greg to see, for themselves, Buford’s new wife. Mere words were not going to suffice.
“Please,” she said, gazing down at me with those bulging eyes, “could we talk now. We’re going back home this afternoon, you see. It will only take a minute.”
“Honey,” Buford said, and laid a manicured hand on one of her bare white arms, “maybe y’all could chat the next time we’re in town. Abby here is a very busy woman.”
“Not that busy,” I said, partly just to be contrary, and partly out of morbid fascination. What could the giantess possibly have to say that couldn’t wait a decade or two? I know that if our positions were reversed, I’d avoid her like last week’s fish.
“Wonderful!” Loretta said. She reached down and grabbed one of my hands. Then she pulled me along as if I were her child, and we’d inadvertently entered a candy store.
There is a wrought iron gazebo in the park, and she steered me toward that. I knew Buford had to be beside himself with frustration, because we were out of earshot. When we reached the gazebo I turned and saw him sitting there, as helpless and forlorn as a little boy sitting outside the school principal’s office, when his mother has already gone in.
Loretta squeezed my hand. Fortunately, I don’t have to type for a living.
“Buford says such wonderful things about you.”
“He does?”
“Oh yes. How you were the perfect mother—” she paused. “He doesn’t say that exactly, but I know that’s what he means.”
“Loretta—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Abby.”
“You do?”
“You’re going to say ‘watch him like a hawk.’”
“Or like a snake.”
Her laugh was like marbles rattling in a jar. “Timber snake. He told me you call him that sometimes.”
“Well, only when he’s really pissed me off—which is about every time I’ve seen him over the last three years.”
“Abby, I know he’s a slimebucket, but then again, so am I.”
That took me by surprise. “No, you’re not!”
“But I am. I cheated with Buford on his wife Tweetie, didn’t I? Abby, I’m not here to make excuses. I just wanted to reassure you that, since I will be having some contact with your children, I will not be bad-mouthing you.”
“Thanks.” It felt strange to be expressing gratitude to someone for not doing what they shouldn’t be doing in the first place. That I was even having this conversation just goes to show how complicated the institution of marriage is. When that knot is untied, the result is more than two loose strings finally dangling independent of each other. There are frayed edges and loose filaments galore to contend with.
She gave my hand another bone-breaking squeeze. “Well, I just wanted you to know that. I don’t want us to be enemies.”
Enemies? It wouldn’t have occurred to me to think of her as a potential enemy. She hadn’t—couldn’t—take anything away from me, and there was nothing of hers that I wanted. In fact, despite her hulking size, she seemed sadly vulnerable.
“Watch your back, dear,” I said in all kindness. “More importantly, watch Buford’s back. The beast with two
backs is his hobby, and he likes to indulge in it with strangers.”
“I understand,” she said, and began pulling me back to Buford.
I left the happy couple sitting on the park bench and, narrowly escaping the hooves of a horse, scooted across the street to interview Sondra one last time. I had to ring twice, and when she answered the door she was wearing the same pink silk PJs she’d been wearing the last time I saw her. Perhaps all her real clothes were out at the cleaners.
“Please forgive me for just dropping by like this,” I said. A real Charlestonian would probably have sent a note first—possibly by horsedrawn carriage. “I was in the neighborhood and thought of something I wanted to ask you.”
She stared at me. She wasn’t wearing any makeup this time, and it was painfully obvious that her days as Miss Kudzu, and Miss Regional Okra, were long gone. When she pursed her lips, the wrinkles made me think of a Spanish fan.
“Is this about Madame Woo-Woo’s murder again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Abby, this is getting to be very tedious.” I could smell gin on her breath.
“Oh, but it’s not what you think. The police have found her killer.” Well, they would soon, if I had anything to do about it, so it was only a pseudo-lie.
She blinked, and then smiled almost as an afterthought. “Please, come in.”
I followed her through the grand hall lined with black marble statues and into the salon. I chose the same Louis XV fauteuil chair to sit in that I had before. As before, I coveted the cream fabric with its pale pink roses on vinelike stems.
She sat opposite me. “Please, tell me everything.”
“Well—uh, excuse me, but before I get started on the juicy details, may I use your powder room again?”
“Please, be my guest. You remember where it is?”
I assured her that I did, and trotted off in that direction. Even though I knew what to expect, the over-the-top car theme was just as startling as the first time I’d seen it. Even more so. Instead of a terrarium on the vanity, there was a model of a hearse. It had a cord coming from one side that plugged into a socket, and the wheels on the hearse were constantly spinning. Every now and then the back doors of the model hearse would open, and a small plastic coffin would slide partway out. Then the coffin popped back in like a cuckoo bird, and the doors slammed shut. It was so fascinating that I momentarily forgot this was a replacement for the terrarium.
The terrarium! I glanced frantically around the room. Could I have just imagined it? Were the brightly colored icky things in it only a figment of my imagination? Not bloody likely. I’d stayed away from psychedelics in the seventies, unlike Mama, but that’s a different story.
I lingered just long enough to give my visit legitimacy, then I flushed the toilet and ran the tap water for a few seconds. When I returned to the salon, Sondra was sitting where I’d left her, but this time she was holding a drink.
“Could I offer you something?” she asked.
“No, thanks. That’s a really neat hearse thingamajig in there.”
“Thanks, that belongs to Hugh.”
“What happened to the terrarium?”
“Terrarium?”
“Yeah, that glass tank you had in there last time. The one with all the icky things in it.”
She laughed softly. “Oh that! That was really an aquarium.”
“Really? I could have sworn it had plants and land things in it. Anyway, what happened to it?”
“Like I said, it was an aquarium.” Her words had sharp edges to them now. “It sprang a leak and the fish died. I threw it away.”
There are times when the lack of evidence is every bit as damning as the evidence. This was one of those times. I wanted to stand up, point at her, and shout “J’accuse!” Instead I arranged my lips in what was, at best, a tepid smile.
“I’m so disappointed to learn that it was only an aquarium. I’ve got this thing about frogs, you see. And I noticed you wearing a frog pin the other day, and I was hoping you were into them as well.”
“Frogs? You mean like Kermit?”
“Well, him too. But I actually like real frogs. I always wanted to have a terrarium with those brightly colored frogs that come from South America.”
She took a long sip of her drink, but said nothing. By the reaction on her face I could have been talking about the price Lutheran churches in Sweden have to pay for their hymnals.
“The only trouble is,” I said, forced to take the plunge, “is that the brighter and more colorful the frog, the more likely it is to be poisonous.”
I could have been talking about the price of hymnals in Norway for all she seemed to care. She looked blankly at me as she took another sip.
“Some South American Indian tribes used the poison to coat darts for their blowguns.”
The aging beauty queen’s face underwent an instant and remarkable transformation. Miss Regional Okra never looked like that. Maybe the first-runner up in the Miss Hell Swamp festival did, but definitely not Miss R.O.
“Now you’ve done it,” she said through lips twisted in anger. “You’ve gone too far.”
24
“What? I was just making pleasant conversation.”
“No, you weren’t.” She drained her glass. “So, you’ve figured it out. I must say, Abby, you’re smarter than I thought you were.”
“Thank you.”
“Now the question is, what do I do next?”
That was the same question I was asking myself. Sondra Riffle had much longer legs than I did, so a mad dash to the door was probably not going to save me. Perhaps, since my tongue had gotten me into this sticky wicket, it could get me out.
“A lot of people think beauty queens are dumb, but I always knew you were smart. One can tell just by talking to you.”
“I have an IQ of 174. Unfortunately, Hugh doesn’t give a damn about brains.”
“Hugh is a jerk.”
“You’ve got that right. But then, so am I. An idiot actually. Signing that pre-nup was the stupidest thing I ever did.”
“But how were you to know your husband would cheat on you?” I was the idiot! The next time I went sleuthing—assuming there was a next time—I’d do well to first staple my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
Much to my relief, Sondra didn’t seem the least bit surprised by my question. “Did he hit on you, too?”
“Well—”
“Although I must say I’m surprised; you’re not exactly his type.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s just say he likes them a bit taller—more the beauty contestant type.”
My unstapled tongue couldn’t move fast enough. “Golda Feinstein was no beauty queen!”
“Isn’t that the truth! Now that one really surprised me. I never would have guessed that bitch would have lasted so long. Maybe she really did have some sort of special powers.”
“Ah, so it was a double motive. You got rid of your main rival, and the one person who knew what hidden treasures Jane Cox’s house held.”
Sondra stared at me again. “Speaking of surprises, you’re just a bundle of them, aren’t you, Abby?”
“I always loved The Price Is Right. Behind door number one—”
“I couldn’t believe the good eye that bitch had. She waltzed right in the day before—your mama had me open the house for her, said she needed to get in for some damn reason—anyway, where was I?”
“The bitch’s good eye.”
“That’s right. That good eye. The second she stepped into that house, she started enumerating its treasures. Some of the more obvious ones I could understand—like that Tiffany window on the stair landing. I was going to replace that with a nice double-paned sash in faux stained glass—now where was I?”
The drink, probably one of many, appeared to have affected her train of thought. Perhaps I stood a chance of escaping after all. I slid smoothly and quietly to my feet.
“You were still prattling on about th
e bitch’s good eye. What else did she see?”
“The tiles! I still can’t believe how quickly she zeroed in on them. Of course they extend all the way up the wall, but with all that hideous orange paint, and only the little patch behind the refrigerator exposed, I almost missed them myself.” She held up her glass and tilted her head back so that the remnants of her drink could trickle down her throat.
That’s when I made a run for it.
The next thing I knew my noggin felt like I’d been head-butting with a bighorn sheep. I had no idea where I was, but it was as dark as a stack of black cats. I strained to see something—maybe a star—but couldn’t. I knew it was night only because I could hear tree frogs chirping.
“It’s such a pleasant, relaxing sound, isn’t it?” a disembodied voice said.
I forget what I tried to say, but it came out as a groan.
“Oh, I’m sure your head will hurt for a while,” the voice said, and laughed.
“Sondra?”
“Like I said, you’re pretty damn smart.”
“What happened? Where am I?”
“You’re in my third-floor attic, Abby. I’m afraid I beaned you with my gin glass. By the way, you owe me a new one.”
It was then I realized I was lying on my side. I tried to sit, but couldn’t. The crazy woman had put my hands behind my back and taped them to my feet. I was trussed like a calf about to be branded, only blindfolded as well.
I gasped in pain. “What do you plan to do?”
“Who, me? I don’t plan to do anything. Those frogs you hear chirping will do it for me. You were right, Abby, some South American Indians do use toxins from frogs to poison their darts. One particularly toxic species is Dendrobates auratus, those cute little strawberry red guys you saw in the terrarium. Oh, and I’ve also got Phyllobates terribilis. Don’t you just love that name? I know they’re less than two inches long, but Abby, all that toxin has to do is get in your bloodstream and paralysis will set in. In a few minutes your heart will stop. Then it’s bye-bye, Abby.” She laughed insidiously.
