Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  When I got home from the auction, I was in need of a little comfort, so I fixed myself a cup of tea with milk and sugar—never mind that it was summer—and curled up on the white cotton couch in the den. My other hand held a copy of Anne Grant’s Smoke Screen, a mystery novel set in Charlotte and surrounding environs. I hadn’t finished more than a page of this exciting read when my roommate rudely pushed it aside and climbed into my lap.

  “Dmitri,” I said, stroking his large orange head, “that painting is so ugly, if van Gogh saw it, he’d cut off his other ear.”

  “Meow.”

  “It’s in the car, dear. If I brought it inside, our neighbors—some of whom have real van Goghs, mind you—might tar and feather me. I’ll take it to the back room of the shop tomorrow and pry it from the frame.”

  Dmitri began kneading my stomach with his front paws. “Meow.”

  “Of course I’ll be careful. We don’t want to chip off any of that nice gesso, do we?”

  “Meow.”

  “What I paid for it is none of your business, dear. Suffice it to say, too much.”

  “Meow.”

  “I should just barely be able to get my money back when I sell the frame. I might need to touch it up in a few spots first.”

  Dmitri suddenly stood and turned. I had to spit tail hairs from my mouth.

  “What were you about to say, dear? Were you going to ask about the food? Well, let me tell you, it was—what the heck is that?”

  But I already knew it was my car alarm. My house, like many in the Carolinas, has a carport instead of a garage, and the loudest racket this side of rapper hell was emanating from that direction.

  I reached for the phone. “Don’t panic, dear. It probably just went off by accident. It does that all the time. Maybe a mean old dog bumped it or something. Besides, Mama’s going to call for help.”

  Dmitri dived beneath the couch, leaving behind claw imprints on my thighs.

  I plonked my teacup on the coffee table and pushed the speed dial button for 911.

  I didn’t answer the doorbell until the fifth set of chimes. The racket had miraculously ceased by then, but I was paralyzed with fear. I might well have grown old on that couch, a cup of cold tea in front of me, had I not heard a familiar voice on the other side of the front door. I raced to answer it.

  “Greg! What on earth are you doing here?” Trust me, I wouldn’t have been more surprised to see Santa Claus standing there on the front porch, red suit and all, despite the July heat.

  My once-beloved, who stands six feet tall in his stocking feet, has eyes the color of Ceylon sapphires. Tonight those eyes gazed down on me somberly, while his mouth struggled not to smile.

  “You called 911, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but you’re a crime scene investigator. Your duties commence after a crime has been committed, not during.”

  “Ah, yes, but every once in a while I volunteer to do rounds, just to stay in touch. Tonight I’m paired with Sergeant Bowater, and your call was routed to him. We were just a block away when he took it.”

  I tried to peer around Greg but had to settle for what little I could see between his legs. “Where is Sergeant Bowater?”

  “Still in the squad car, but I can call him if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

  Greg’s lips twitched. “So, Abby, what is the nature of your problem? The dispatcher said your car alarm was activated. I don’t hear anything.”

  “It was activated! It was shrieking like a banshee and then—well, I don’t know what happened. It just suddenly shut itself off.”

  “I see.” The Ceylon sapphires twinkled.

  “No, you don’t! You’re mocking me. What do you think I did, activate the alarm myself just to get you out here?”

  “Well—”

  “So how would I know you were riding around on patrol duty?”

  Greg shrugged, but that irritating smile stayed in place. “Why don’t we go out and take a look?”

  “Hold your horses, buster. You need to answer my question.”

  “Hey, come on, Abby. I was just kidding you a little. I believe you. It’s easy for a pro to deactivate a car alarm.”

  I glared at the man. “You’re here on official police business, dear. You shouldn’t be kidding.”

  Greg ran a large, tanned hand through thick, almost-black hair. “Okay, so maybe I get a little jealous from time to time and try to get a reaction out of you. It’s only natural.”

  “It is?” And yes, I did mean to sound coy.

  “Yeah, it’s natural. You’re one hell of a woman.”

  “I am?”

  “Damn it, Abby, now you’re mocking me. You’d be a catch for any man.”

  Since the man is an avid angler, I allowed him his fishing reference. “Am I a better catch than, say—Hooter Fawn?”

  Greg’s tan deepened. “That’s long over, Abby, and you know it.”

  “Ah, but the memory lingers on. I keep asking myself, what kind of a man would date a woman named Hooter anyway?”

  “A fool, Abby.”

  Quit when you’re ahead, they always say. Well, that’s easier said than done. I knew for a fact that Hooter shopped for body parts at the same plastic surgeon Tweetie did. I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, and I mean that literally. Tweetie, wouldn’t you know, has taken to getting injections of horse collagen in her lips.

  “Tell me one thing you like about me that Hooter doesn’t have.” Confidentially, I was hoping to hear words like “natural” or phrases like “more than a handful is wasted.”

  “Well, uh…uh…you have cuter ears.”

  “Ears? You can’t even say that I have prettier eyes, or maybe even just a nicer personality? What kind of a man pays attention to a woman’s ears?”

  “A fool,” Greg said meekly.

  This time I quit while I was ahead. I led him through the kitchen and out to the carport. Sergeant Bowater, who had been too impatient to wait in the squad car, was already at work. A redhead, the man has more freckles than Myrtle Beach has sand.

  “This big scratch on the door new?” he asked.

  I gasped. “Vandals! I bet it’s that Taylor boy and his friends. Last week I had to chase them out of my pool when I came home from work.”

  “Pity. This is really one nice car.”

  “It’s brand-new,” I wailed. The navy blue Oldsmobile Intrigue with leather seats and stereo controls on the steering wheel had been a Mother’s Day present to myself. Yes, I went a little overboard, but my children are too self-absorbed to remember that holiday, and as for Mama—well, that day belongs to her, and her alone. She wears a paper crown around the house and hums the coronation theme from the Miss America pageant. God forbid you should try for equal billing.

  Sergeant Bowater seemed to thrive on delivering bad news. “Look here, the window’s been forced. The door is unlocked. You in the habit of keeping your car unlocked, ma’am?”

  “I’m not a child,” I said calmly. “I’m just short.”

  “Yup, no doubt about it. Somebody wanted this baby. Can’t say as I blame them, though. But they weren’t professionals, I can tell you that. A pro wouldn’t have left all these scratches.”

  Sergeant Bowater was dusting for fingerprints. “You’ve got a lot of damage here, little lady. I hope you’ve got insurance.”

  I cringed. I don’t go around calling large guys “big gentleman.” And anyway, Sergeant Bowater was young enough to be my son—that is, if I’d gotten pregnant when Mama thought I would.

  “Yes, I have insurance. That Taylor boy’s parents better have it, too.”

  Sergeant Bowater cleared his throat. “Ma’am, you keep anything valuable in your car?”

  “Like the crown jewels?”

  “Ma’am, you’d be surprised what people keep in their cars. Pulled over a lady once who had a diamond necklace in her glove box. Thought it was safer than the bank vault. ‘Nobody robs glove box
es,’ she said.”

  “Well, I don’t even own a rhinestone necklace worth stealing. And there is nothing in my glove box except for my car registration and the owner’s manual.”

  “What about the trunk, ma’am?”

  “Just a jack and the spare tire. Oh, and as of tonight, a painting.”

  “How valuable is the painting, ma’am?”

  “It’s not. It’s just a piece of junk I picked up at a church auction.”

  Greg smiled. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, although he drinks coffee by the gallon.

  “Mind if I see it?”

  I obligingly popped the trunk. The faux Gogh was lying there, face up, just where I’d left it. Somehow it had managed to grow even uglier in the interim.

  “Oh, man,” Greg said, reaching for the painting, “I love this one. The Starry Night. It’s always been my favorite.”

  “The original, yes, but this is a horrible copy.”

  “Looks great to me.”

  “Nonsense. Look at this disgusting thing. Those look like real trees and houses.”

  “Yeah, but the stars—”

  “Too real. This is supposed to be an impressionist painting.”

  “I like it, too,” Sergeant Bowater said.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Look closer, guys. One could almost step into this painting, it’s so real. That’s not what Vincent van Gogh was all about.”

  Sergeant Bowater scratched his left armpit. “He ain’t one of them fellows that makes a lot of money urinating on crosses, is he?”

  “Not hardly, dear. Vincent started his career as a missionary but was dismissed when he took the Gospel teachings too literally and gave away virtually everything he owned to the poor.”

  “Say, I heard about him. Don’t he live up near Hickory now?”

  I smiled patiently. “Vincent van Gogh shot himself and died two days later on July 29, 1890.”

  Sergeant Bowater scratched his right armpit. “Must have been a different guy, then.”

  Greg winked at me. “Hey, Abby, how much will you sell this thing for?”

  “One hundred and fifty dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  “I thought you said it was a worthless piece of junk.”

  “It is. But that’s how much I paid for the frame.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll give you ten bucks for the painting, and you can keep the frame. It’s too fancy for me anyway.”

  “Sold!”

  I went inside and got a screwdriver from the kitchen all-purpose drawer, and while Sergeant Bowater worked on his report, Greg and I popped the painting loose from the frame. It took only a minute to separate canvas from gesso.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Greg said. “This is a two-for-one.”

  I stared. The horrible copy of The Starry Night was just a loose piece of canvas. It flopped to the breeze-way the moment it was freed. Still firmly attached to the wooden stretcher, however, was another painting altogether.

  With trembling hands, I turned the new painting around 180 degrees. “This one is mine,” I said in a small, strangled voice.

  3

  “You can have it,” Greg said and gently picked up his ten-dollar purchase.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. It’s just a bunch of green blobs.”

  Sergeant Bowater glanced our way. “Yeah, it ain’t as pretty as the other.”

  I willed my hands to be steady, but they were shaking like the paint mixer at Home Depot.

  “Hey, Abby, something wrong?”

  “I’m just a little cold, I guess.”

  “But it was up to a hundred today. It’s got to be still in the eighties.”

  “Then maybe it was something I had for lunch at Bubba’s China Gourmet.”

  Sergeant Bowater put his pen and notebook back in the shirt pocket of his navy blue uniform. “Man, I love that place. You ever have their moo goo gai grits?”

  “Yes, and it’s the last time.” I smiled brightly. “Well, guys, I’m off to bed. It’s been a long day, and an even longer evening.”

  “But, ma’am, I still need to interview your neighbors, and I might need to get back to you.”

  “Can’t that last part wait until tomorrow? It’s already past ten.”

  Sergeant Bowater nodded. “You sure you’ll be all right, ma’am?”

  “I’ll be fine as frog’s hair.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, ma’am, but you’re looking kinda peaked.”

  “I already told you, it was the grits.”

  “Nah, them moo goo gai grits wouldn’t harm my granny, not unless you put some of that Hunan hot sauce on them. You didn’t do that, did you?”

  “Oh, my gosh, I guess I did.”

  “That did it, then.” He peered at me with renewed interest. “But you still got your teeth, right?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “Granny lost hers. Swallowed them after she took a big bite of that hot sauce.”

  “Get out!”

  “Yes, ma’am. I seen the X rays myself. You could count the teeth on Granny’s dentures.”

  “Did they have to operate?”

  “Doc said he was going to; then he noticed that them teeth was still working down in Granny’s stomach. Apparently Granny had one hell—excuse me, ma’am—of a set of stomach muscles. She could make them teeth take big bites, small bites, it didn’t matter. She could even chatter them things. Anyway, we got her a new pair of dentures for her mouth, so Granny, bless her little old heart, had herself two sets of teeth. Doc said having that extra pair in her stomach did wonders for her digestion.”

  “You mean, she chewed her cud just like a cow?”

  “Yeah, kinda. Only she didn’t have all them stomachs.”

  I glanced at Greg, who was smirking. “I see. Well, you certainly tell a good story.” I wisely took a step back. “You wouldn’t happen to be from Shelby, would you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. How did you know?”

  “Sergeant Bowater, are you by any chance related to a woman named Jane Cox? I mean, she wouldn’t be your sister, would she?” “

  “No, ma’am. I’m an only child.”

  “Any cousins by that name?”

  “No, ma’am, my parents were only children, too.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief on behalf of humanity. But alas, I am genetically incapable of leaving well enough alone.

  “You’re not married, are you?” I asked, spotting a freckled and hairy, but otherwise naked, finger.

  “Abby!” Greg said sternly.

  I ignored him. “Would you like to meet a tall, blond woman about your own age who is also from Shelby?”

  “Yes, ma’am! I’ve been away over a year now, and it’s been kinda lonely. Charlotte girls ain’t easy to meet.”

  “Well, have I got a girl for you.”

  He grinned broadly, displacing a million freckles. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Just call me Yenta.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Never mind, dear. Just give me your home number. I’ll call you when I have it fixed up. When’s your next night off?”

  “Tomorrow night, ma’am.” He sounded eager.

  “This is highly irregular,” Greg growled.

  I smiled sweetly. “You, of course, don’t need help getting a date, do you? I’m sure women just throw themselves at you.”

  “Abby, we need to talk.”

  I faked a decent yawn. “Been there, done that. Besides, I’m tired and want to go to bed. Alone!”

  “Abby, aren’t you the least little bit nervous after a scare like this? Someone breaking into your car is a serious thing.”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. See, my hands aren’t shaking anymore. I promise, I’ll remember to set my house alarm, and I always keep a can of pepper spray on my night table. So thank you both for coming out here, and good luck tomorrow on the investigation.”

  Sergeant Bowater scratched both armpits simultaneously. Perhaps he had tried
a new deodorant that had given him a rash.

  “Ma’am, you hear anything suspicious, you call 911 again.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Satisfied, Sergeant Bowater started to walk away. Greg was not so easy to dismiss.

  “But if you need anything—anything at all—you let us know.”

  “Will do.”

  “Because we’ll swing by here every hour or so, won’t we, Sergeant?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “That’s awfully nice. Thanks. But I need to get up early tomorrow morning, so don’t ring the bell, okay?”

  Greg looked dangerously close to hugging me. “Ah, Abby—”

  I snatched up the frame and the painting of green blobs and scurried back inside. I had more important things to do. Like Mama always said, there were other fish in the sea. And so what if one of the fish was short and plain? At least I was pretty sure he wasn’t a shark.

  I was reaching for the phone, and it rang. “Do you know what time it is?” I demanded.

  “Uh…is Abigail Timberlake there?”

  “That depends on who’s calling. You’re not with the prize patrol, are you? Because if you’re lost, you’ve undoubtedly gone too far. I’m at the end of the first cul-de-sac, not the second.”

  “Abby, it’s me, Gilbert Sweeny.”

  I took a deep, suspicious breath. It was Gilbert Sweeny’s donation I had spread in front of me on the coffee table, and if that wasn’t enough, I had my memories of shared high school years. Back then, Gilbert was a class-A jerk. He drank, smoke, and cheated, and that was just in Sunday School. In civilian life, he got my friend Debbie Lou pregnant and refused to marry her. In those days, marriage was the honorable thing to do, but it surprised no one when Gilbert left her standing—literally—at the altar.

  “Gilbert, it’s late. What do you want?”

  “I saw you tonight at the auction.”

  “I saw you too, Gilbert. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “What I mean is, I saw you bid on the painting I donated. You raised a lot of money toward the van.”

  “Thank you, Gilbert, but my one hundred and fifty dollars and ninety-nine cents will barely make a dent in the van fund. They’re aiming for a new van, not a bucket of bolts.”