Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  “Yeah, but you got the ball rolling. After you left, things really picked up.”

  “They did?”

  “Oh, yeah. Someone bid fifty dollars for Priscilla Hunt’s flamingo night-light. Can you believe that?”

  “Get out of town!”

  “And you know my sister Hortense?”

  “Of course.” The haughty Hortense Simms was Gilbert’s stepsister, and while she may not have left anyone standing at the altar, she was never on my list of favorite people. And contrary to what Mama says, I am not envious of the woman’s success. Hortense had no business telling Jimmy Roush back in fifth grade that I had a crush on him, and as for the rumor she spread in seventh grade, that was a total lie. I did not stuff my bra with facial tissue! I used toilet paper.

  “Anyway, Hortense donated a character from one of her books. It went for five hundred dollars.”

  “Come again?”

  “You know that book she wrote?”

  “Of Corsets and Crowns. What about it?”

  “It’s done so well, she plans to write a novel. Someone bid for the privilege of having a character named after them.”

  I sighed. “This world is full of idiots. What’s the name of this one?”

  “That would be me.”

  It felt like I was swallowing China. “Oh. Well, that was very generous of you, Gilbert.”

  “Thank you, Abby. Say, I was wondering if you could do me a big favor.”

  I felt like I owed him one. “Shoot.”

  “I want to buy my painting back.”

  “Uh…well, that wouldn’t be possible.”

  “I’ll pay you what you bid for it, of course.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert, but no thanks.”

  “Well, how about an extra fifty dollars?”

  “That’s very generous, but like I said, that wouldn’t be possible. I gave it away.”

  “You what?”

  “I gave it to a friend.”

  “Damn.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Who did you give it to?”

  “That’s none of your business, Gil.”

  “Sorry, Abby. It’s just that I had no right to give it away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It belonged to my stepmother, Adele Sweeny. She’s in Pine Manor nursing home now, but that awful painting hung above her fireplace for as long as I can remember. When she went into the nursing home, she took it with her. Apparently it was a favorite of hers.”

  “Then why did you sell it? Did she ask you to?”

  “No. Adele hasn’t said much of anything to me since Daddy died—in fact, we were never very close. However, I went out to see her this morning. The thing is, though, she had no idea who I was.”

  “So you decided to rob her?”

  “It wasn’t like that. You see, there were all these other ugly paintings on the walls, and…well…can I share something with you, Abby?”

  “Not if it needs to be cured by penicillin.”

  My sling didn’t seem to faze him. “Adele was one mean stepmother. I know that’s sort of the stereotype, but that’s how it was. I was six years old when she married my daddy. Of course, she already had a daughter—Hortense. Anyway, Adele used to beat me for the slightest infraction of her rules.”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Well, perhaps beating’s not the right term. She whipped me with a wire coat hanger—and, for some reason, always a white one.”

  “Ouch.” That sounded too inventive to be a lie.

  “And do you know where she did it? Also in the living room, and always in front of the fireplace. God, how I got to hate that fireplace and the painting above it. When I saw that painting this morning—and Adele didn’t know who I was—my first impulse was to rip it off the walls and stomp on it. Then I got to thinking about the church auction and how some good might come from those awful memories.”

  “Didn’t you expect to get caught? I mean, Hortense is a member, for pete’s sake.”

  “Yeah, but she never goes to those things. They’re beneath her.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Please,” he said, sounding almost desperate, “I realize now that it was wrong of me to take it.”

  “I see. So now you want to return it to the woman who whipped you with coat hangers? Incidentally, Gilbert, where was your daddy when all this was happening?”

  “He…well…Adele used to call him a wienie.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, a wiener. A wuss.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Gilbert, but the friend I sold it to is very fond of it as well. I can’t just ask for it back.”

  “The friend you sold it to? I thought you said you gave it away.”

  “Well, I did, in a manner of speaking. I sold it for ten dollars.”

  Gilbert’s gasp flattened my ear against the receiver. “You sold it for ten dollars?”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” I lied, “but that painting was worthless.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so, Abby. My stepmother liked expensive things, and like I said, as ugly as that painting was, it was her favorite.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe it was the frame she liked. And if that’s the case, you’re in luck. I’ll let you have it for one hundred forty dollars and ninety-nine cents, seeing as how I made up for the extra ten by selling the painting.”

  During the silence that ensued, Dennis Rodman grew up, and Shirley MacLaine lived at least another life.

  “Gilbert, it’s getting past my bedtime,” I said gently.

  “Okay, I’ll buy the frame. Can I come over and get it now?”

  “You’re joking, of course.”

  “No, Abby, I’m serious. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a long time, anyway.”

  “There is nothing else for us to talk about. You hand me a check tomorrow morning, and I’ll hand you the frame.”

  “Yeah, but I want to talk about us.”

  “Us? What ‘us’?”

  “I always had a thing for you, Abby.”

  “Look, Gilbert—”

  “It wasn’t Debbie Lou I wanted to marry. It was you. If you’ll just give me a chance, I think—I know—I can get you to see that you and I belong together.”

  I hung up and dialed Wynnell.

  Wynnell Crawford is my best friend in the whole world, which means she can say anything she wants to me and get away with it. Well, almost anything.

  “No, Abby, I will not get out of bed to drive you somewhere just because you want to avoid being followed by your boyfriend. And aren’t you just a little too old to be playing these kinds of games?”

  “Greg and I are no longer involved,” I said through gritted teeth, “and I am not playing games!”

  “I still don’t see why this can’t wait until tomorrow.” In the background, I could hear Wynnell’s husband, Bob, grumble. Experience has taught me that a grumbling husband, like a snoring husband, is not altogether a bad thing. At least they are there.

  “Because I am sitting on top of the biggest news to hit the art world in years.”

  Wynnell gasped. “Don’t tell me velvet painting is back in style. I knew it! That Elvis I bought today is worth a fortune, isn’t it?”

  Believe it or not, Wynnell is also an antique dealer. But our tastes, as you can see, are light-years apart.

  “Sorry, dear, but velvet is still out.”

  Wynnell moaned. “Not those children with the big eyes? I had a chance to buy some at an estate sale Monday, but I passed. You might like them, Abby, but frankly, they remind me of starving refugee children.”

  “I do not like them! Wynnell, I can’t discuss this on the phone, but trust me, you won’t regret it. This is a major find.”

  Wynnell muttered something to her husband, who grumbled some more.

  I waited a discreet length of time. “Well, are you going to help me or not?”

  “Abby, this really isn’t a good time. Call a cab.”


  “But you’re my best friend. And besides, a cab would draw Greg’s attention for sure.”

  “Abby—uh—remember what it was you said you hadn’t had since your divorce from Buford?”

  “You mean hives?”

  “Think again, Abby. You know, the one exercise that’s guaranteed to mess up your hair?”

  “Oh gross!”

  I hung up. Wynnell might be too busy doing the horizontal hootchie-cootchie to give her best friend a lift, but C. J. wouldn’t turn me down. C. J., formerly known as Jane Cox but affectionately known as Calamity Jane, may be an egg short of an omelet, but she’s a darn good sport. Who else would explore a haunted southern mansion with me at night or drive up to Pennsylvania with me on a moment’s notice? Besides, the girl worshipped me. Yup, C. J. it would be.

  But first I made another call.

  4

  Much to my surprise, Hortense Simms answered on the first ring. And she answered in person. I would have thought for sure that a famous author like her would have a staff to field her calls.

  “Hortense here.”

  “Ms. Simms?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Ms. Simms, this is Abigail Timberlake. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “You’re not a fan, are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be signing Of Crowns and Corsets in Pineville next week, at the new Barnes & Noble at the Arboretum Shopping Center. You can catch me there between two and four.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not a fan.”

  “Oh. Then who are you?”

  “I’m the woman who bought the fake van Gogh at tonight’s auction.”

  “Ah, yes, the pretty woman with the short, dark hair.”

  And folks said the woman was haughty. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Ms. Timberlake, what a delightful surprise to hear from you.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, I was thinking of calling you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, I wanted to chat with you about the painting you bought tonight.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly why I’m calling you, Ms. Simms.”

  “Please, call me Hortense. Or even Horty, if you like. That’s what my friends all call me.”

  I bit my tongue and counted to ten. I couldn’t believe a grown woman would want such a name.

  “Call me Abby,” I said kindly. “About my new painting, is it true it was your mother’s favorite?”

  I think she dropped the phone. Either that or she, too, was biting her tongue. At any rate, it took an eternity for her to answer.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your brother.”

  “Gilbert?”

  “Yes.” To my knowledge, the woman had only one brother.

  “Gilbert doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  I’m sure my sigh of relief fluttered her curtains. “Brothers seldom do.”

  “The painting didn’t belong to Mama—it belonged to me.”

  “To you?”

  “It was a wedding present from my stepfather.”

  “You poor dear,” I said, and slapped my cheek on her behalf.

  “Oh, I know, it was a really lousy copy, but it meant a lot. He may have been only a stepfather, but Daddy and I were very close. He showed me the painting the week before the wedding. He was so proud of it, he just couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “Where did get it?”

  “He bought it at an estate sale. I don’t remember where, exactly.”

  “I don’t mean to be too nosy, Horty, but why didn’t you stop your brother from selling it?”

  “Well, I didn’t know he was going to bring it to the sale, and I didn’t want to make a scene.”

  “But it was yours!”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t prove it. You see, Daddy died the day I was supposed to get married. Surely you remember that.”

  “Yes, of course.” And then it hit me, and I really did remember. Of course! Mr. Sweeny had been nervous about walking Hortense down the aisle, so he went to the Rock Hill Country Club to work off some steam on the links. A stray ball landed right in his open mouth, and he choked to death. It had even made the tabloid news. MAN DIES FROM HOLE IN ONE.

  “We postponed the wedding six months, but I was jinxed. The week before our wedding, he packed his bags and moved to North Dakota. Men!”

  “Yeah, men!” If Buford had packed his bags and moved to North Dakota a week before our wedding, I would have been spared a whole lot of heartache and two beautiful, and sometimes loving, children.

  “Anyway, Mama found the painting in Daddy’s closet and just assumed it was for her because it was getting close to Christmas. I never had the heart to tell her different. I guess I thought there was really no point, since I’d eventually be getting it someday when she died. Let me tell you, it was just a bit of a shock to see it there at the auction.”

  “Why didn’t you stop its sale?”

  “Abby, please, you’re not serious, are you? I’m a celebrity.”

  Whatever that was supposed to mean. “Of course,” I said meekly.

  “Besides, the money was going to a good cause.”

  “Then why didn’t you at least bid on it?”

  “That would have looked pretty silly, don’t you think? Bidding on a painting my brother donated.”

  “Didn’t he bid to be a character in your next book?”

  “Yes, well, Gilbert has always shown a deficit in the decorum department. If I would have known what a fool he was going to make of himself, I wouldn’t have agreed to donate that service to the auction. I would much rather have given money directly to the youth group. I was planning to do so anyway.”

  Two different stories so far—neither probably straight. I wasn’t about to turn my painting over to Horty, and I doubted Greg would part with his, either. It was time to back out of the conversation and call C.J.

  “Horty, dear, it’s been very nice talking to you. I’ve got to go now, but next time I’m at the Bookworm, I’m buying a copy of your book. And if it’s in paperback by then, I’ll buy three.”

  “Abby, wait. I want to ask you something.”

  “Ask away,” I said foolishly.

  “You wouldn’t consider selling the painting back to me, would you?”

  “I’d love to, dear, but I’ve grown very fond of it.”

  “But it’s a horrible rendition of The Starry Night. You could find a much better print at any good frame shop.”

  “But so could you, dear.”

  “Yes, but that would hardly be the same. My step-daddy gave me the one you have. Abby, I realize possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I can’t prove the painting belongs to me, but it does. Maybe not legally, but rightfully.”

  “I understand. But here’s the thing—and call me weird, if you will—I’m absolutely bowled over by the realism and technique in this version. I mean, before seeing this painting, I always thought van Gogh was kind of crude. Those sloppy brush strokes, those vibrant colors—they reminded me of finger painting. But this—well, it speaks to my soul. So I don’t care if it’s an obvious fake, or even a spoof. It speaks to my soul.” I spoke sweetly—Mama would have been proud.

  She sighed. “I must say I find this very disappointing.”

  “I could let you have the frame,” I said generously. “At cost.”

  “You mean remove the painting from its frame?” She sounded alarmed.

  “It’s really very easy. I’ve done it lots of times. Those little holes left behind by the nails don’t really detract from its value.”

  “Oh, no, you mustn’t do that. That would ruin the integrity of the painting, wouldn’t it? You keep the painting, dear. Forget I ever asked.”

  I breathed ever so much easier. Greg would not have parted with his new acquisition graciously. Once the man latches onto something, there is no prying it loose from his fingers without a fight. Besides, if he go
t involved, he might mention the Field of Thistles to Hortense. That painting for sure did not belong to her.

  “Don’t forget, I plan to buy your book,” I said generously. “And when your novel comes out, I’ll buy it, too. What’s it called?”

  “It’s Top Secret.”

  “Well, I’ll just be patient, then, and wait.”

  “No, that’s its name. It’s a thriller about a woman who inadvertently smuggles top secret information in her breast implants.”

  Who said Hortense Simms was a snippy, uptight spinster? I found her to be an incredibly generous woman with a wry sense of humor. The next time one of the Rob-Bobs needed a beard for a formal occasion, I’d suggest Hortense to them.

  “Your book sounds so exciting,” I said. “I hope it sells well.”

  “Thank you. And if you change your mind about my—I mean, your—painting, let me know.”

  “Will do,” I said cheerfully. But Wynnell Crawford would sit down and dine with Yankees at her own dinner table before that day came.

  C. J. picked up on the first ring. “My house is the one with all the lights on and the arrow in the grass.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Abby, is that you?”

  “Yes, dear. Who did you think I was?”

  “I was hoping you were the prize patrol. Do you mind if I call you back later? Ed McMahon might be trying to get in touch with me for directions.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. He’s a man. They only ask directions to buffet lines.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right. And I did send them directions the last time I sent in my subscription.”

  “Oh? Which magazine did you buy?” I was anxious to get on with the evening, but trust me, there is no hurrying C. J. The woman is like a cat. Pushing her just makes her hunker down and dig her claws in.

  “I bought all of them, silly. You don’t win anything unless you buy them all.”

  There was no sense in making her feel bad. “C. J., can you do me a huge favor?”

  She sighed. “Abby, I mopped your kitchen floor just last week.”

  “That’s because you spilled cranberry juice all over it. This is a real favor.”

  “You want me to clip your toenails again?”

  “No! And besides, that was during our beauty treatment night. What I need now is for you to drive a getaway car.”