by Tamar Myers
“My hearing is fine. Tell me about the note.”
“One of Gilbert’s fishing buddies found it. The men were supposed to head up to the mountains at the crack of dawn. Gilbert was on vacation, you know. He and his friend would have left last Saturday but his hemorrhoids acted up, and where they were going, the men needed to do a lot of hiking.”
“I suppose that information comes from the Queen, too.”
“Abby, please. Priscilla Hunt is not to be trifled with.”
Actually, the woman was a paper tiger—annoying, if found wet on your lawn, but otherwise harmless. Try as she might, the Queen couldn’t make Ben cut his grass or Sarah exchange her drapes. And as for the petition to tear down the tree house, not a single person in Rock Hill would sign. In fact, Hortense Simms organized a counterpetition requiring each homeowner within city limits to build a tree house. Believe it or not, that petition got eighteen signatures, Mama’s included.
“Mama, what did the note say?”
“Ah, that. Abby, I was afraid you would ask.”
“Mama, that’s exactly why you called. Now spit it out, or I’m calling the Queen herself.”
Mama cut her own gasp short, lest I follow through with my threat. “You were mentioned in the note, dear.”
“Me?”
“Well, not in so many words. But it was all very clear. Gilbert said he’d been depressed lately and what he did last night was the final straw.”
“But we didn’t do anything,” I wailed.
“Not you, dear. Him. He said he’d betrayed his stepmother by selling something that meant a lot to her. Something that didn’t really belong to him. That had to be the painting you bought, Abby.”
I was shaking like a paint mixer again. “Says who? The Queen?”
“Says Barbara, who heard it from Dorothy who heard it from—”
“Mama, the note didn’t contain my name, right?”
“No, Abby, it didn’t. I’m certain of that. Still, everyone knows you bought the painting.”
“Then I’m not mentioned, Mama; I’m only implicated. There’s a huge difference, you know. And I bought the painting at a church auction, Mama. It’s not like I twisted his arm in private.”
“No one’s blaming you for anything, dear. I just wanted you to know what was going on. Besides, the man was obviously unbalanced. And so is his stepmother, if you ask me. I didn’t want to say anything to you last night—it being a fund-raiser and all—but that’s one ugly painting. Any woman fond of blue swirls has got to be a little bit flaky.”
I gulped. I much prefer to swallow pride than to choke on words themselves.
“Mama, how did Gilbert do it?” Back in high school, the guy was really into guns. Many southern boys like to hunt, but Gilbert had his own armory. I know, because I once double-dated with him and Debbie Lou. The name of my date escapes me now, but I haven’t forgotten sitting on a pine tree stump in a freshly logged woods, along with Debbie Lou, while Gilbert and my date shot bottles off other stumps. I remember this so well because I got pine sap on a brand-new skirt that I had bought with baby-sitting money.
“No gun, dear. Gilbert took pills.”
It didn’t ring true. “What kind of pills?”
“Abby, the Queen is not a walking encyclopedia; she’s just better informed than the rest of us.”
“She’s nosy.”
“Shhh,” Mama said reflexively. “Abby, you will be at the funeral, won’t you? It will look a little strange if you’re not there. High school sweethearts, and now this note—”
“We were not high school sweethearts!” I glanced at the alarm clock. “Mama, I have to go.”
“Saturday, two o’clock, at the Church of Our Savior in Rock Hill.”
“What?” I said crossly.
“The funeral, dear. It’s all been arranged.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Quite possibly Gilbert was still warmer than sushi, but already an elaborate ritual had been planned. Leave it to we southerners, and Episcopalians in particular.
“I’ll wear my black dress,” I said instructively. Ever since Daddy died—killed by a kamikaze seagull—Mama refuses to wear black at funerals. She has retired the color, much like ball clubs retire the numbers on jerseys worn by team legends. While I would agree that I should stay out of my mother’s business, pink is simply not an acceptable color to wear on such a solemn occasion.
“I’ll wear what I want,” Mama said, reading my mind. She hung up.
My shop, the Den of Antiquity, is just up the road a piece from Queens College. When I inherited the business from my Aunt Eulonia Wiggins, it was one of five antique stores clustered along the inside elbow of Selwyn Avenue. Today, more than a dozen shops line the street on either side. There are those—apart from myself—who predict that someday soon Selwyn Avenue will be the antique Mecca of the New South.
I will be the first to agree that we Selwyn Avenue dealers owe a lot to the Rob-Bobs. Their shop, The Finer Things, should more aptly be called “The Finest Things.” They set the standard for which the rest of us strive. Now, having said that, permit me a smidgen of jealousy. I sell quality stuff, too, but you don’t see crowds of collectors beating down my door. And no tour buses from Atlanta stop at my stoop.
“Excuse me,” I murmured like a mantra as I pushed my way through knots of middle-aged women dressed in ankle-length linen dresses and Italian leather shoes. It was a calculated risk. Most folks have two elbows, and sometimes those things can be sharp. The only rock concert I ever attended left me with a horrible ringing in my ears, although I wasn’t even there long enough to hear the music. And my poor dogs! Vertically enhanced people are often unaware of my presence, and my feet tend to attract their feet like magnets.
With my hands safely over my ears I dodged flailing elbows and feet the size of continents. When things are this busy, one of the Rob-Bobs hangs out near the register, and since today there was only Rob, that’s where I headed.
“Abby!” a deep male voice boomed.
I whirled, at first seeing nothing but linen skirts. Hey, but this is Charlotte at the close of the twentieth century—perhaps I did know one of the wealthy older women.
“Abby, what’s wrong with your ears?”
The disembodied voice was certainly familiar. Offhand, I would have said it sounded like Bob Steuben, Rob’s better half, but the former was supposed to be in Toledo.
“Abby, over here.”
I turned another ninety degrees. The basso profundo was indeed Bob Steuben.
“I thought you went home!” I cried, genuinely delighted to see him. I would have hugged my friend, but Bob, a full-blooded Yankee, doesn’t cotton to public displays of emotion.
Bob grinned. He’s skinny and has a large head, but fortunately Bob has a large heart as well and is one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met.
“I got as far as West Virginia and decided to think things over.”
“And?”
“And so I spent a couple of days wandering around the Mountain State, and came to the conclusion that this is my home.”
“You go, boy!”
“Rob, you, the rest of my friends—that’s what makes this home. Besides, Charlotte is one hell of a beautiful place to live.”
“I bet Rob was happy to see you! Or was he mad? I mean, because you just took off like that.”
Bob shook his head. “Someone from Rob’s support group was in touch with him the entire time.”
“Ah, GASPY. Gay Anorexic Southerners whose Partners are Yankees. Right?”
“That’s ‘Adult Southerners.’ Anyway, they helped Rob understand that we unfortunate ones born north of the Mason-Dixon line are bound to act screwy sooner or later. And through understanding comes compassion, and eventually forgiveness. So, thanks to GASPY, Rob and I have another chance.”
“That’s wonderful!” I meant it, but it was time to move on to more important things. “Have you seen the painting?”
Bob rubbed
knobby hands together. “It’s exquisite. Rob couldn’t wait to show me.”
“Do you think it’s genuine? Did he call New York?”
“Why don’t you ask me yourself?”
I turned. Rob Goldman was standing right behind me, a lottery-winning smile plastered across his face.
7
“It’s real?” I shrieked.
Rob scooped me up in a bear hug and then set me down three feet away from where I’d been standing. “Shhh, Abby. Not here.”
“Then where?”
“Bob, watch the register, please.”
Bob nodded. A couple of the linen-clad matrons were fishing for their credit cards. I could tell by their finishing-school posture that they were not the type to haggle over prices. The Rob-Bobs’ till would soon be merrily ringing.
While Bob rang up sales, Rob led me to the stockroom. I had been in there only once before, and it was like entering antique heaven. The savvy owners of The Finer Things do not put their finest things on the floor. They make the real collectors ask—no, beg—to enter the inner sanctum.
“What’s that?” I gasped, forgetting for a moment my own treasure.
“That’s an orrery.”
“A what?”
“An orrery. It’s a mechanical model of the solar system. They were named after the Earl of Orrery.”
“No, that. What the orrery is sitting on. That little piano.”
“Ah, that. That’s a French harpsichord. Supposedly it belonged to Napoleon’s mother. See the detailed painting on the lid?”
“Yes, the painting—the painting! Your friend said it’s real, right?”
Rob smiled. “Fred was so excited, he actually dropped the phone. Abby, that painting of yours just might be the art find of the century.”
I swayed, staggered, and finally plopped down on a damask-covered daybed. “You’re not putting me on?”
Rob’s dark eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t kid about a thing like this. Fred said he’s been hearing rumors for years that the painting was in America someplace. Only he figured it was in New York or San Francisco.”
“Ah, but it was in little bitty Rock Hill, South Carolina. Not even in Charlotte. That will show those snooty big-city folks. So, Rob, what’s it worth? Six figures, like you said?”
Rob glanced at the storeroom door and mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said, ‘ten.’”
My hopes fell like a soufflé when the oven door has been slammed. Already I had mentally paid off my mortgage and the Oldsmobile Intrigue. And while ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, I owed that much on my credit cards alone.
“Ten thousand, eh? So what’s your cut? What’s Fred’s?”
Rob’s eyes danced. “Not ten thousand, Abby. Ten million.”
I must have fainted because the next thing I knew, Rob was gently slapping my face. “Abby. Abby.”
“Here, I’ll make her smell this.” Bob shoved a bottle beneath my nose.
I coughed and forced myself to a sitting position. “What is that vile stuff?”
“That vile stuff,” Rob said archly, “is my aftershave lotion.”
“He needs to shave twice a day,” Bob said proudly. “And the lady customers love the smell.”
“Well, it’s certainly potent. It’s done a number on my brain. I thought Rob said Field of Thistles was worth ten million dollars.”
“He did.”
I looked at Rob. “Y’all are teasing me, right?”
“I said I wouldn’t kid about something this important.”
“Tell her about the Japanese, Rob.”
“Ah, the Japanese.” Rob has a languid, southern way of speaking, which has its place, but at that moment in time I wanted to jump up and snatch the words from his mouth.
“What about the Japanese?”
“Fred’s pretty sure that if they get in on the bidding, it could go as high as twenty.”
I slapped my own face—lightly, of course, so as not to break any veins. “We’re talking about twenty million dollars here again, aren’t we? I mean, we’re not discussing twenty egg rolls.”
“Egg rolls are Chinese,” Bob said. “Anyway, Abby, you’re going to be a very rich woman.”
Rob laughed. “Rich enough to buy everything in this room.”
“What about you? You never did tell me your cut.”
“How about 10 percent? Does that sound fair?”
How quickly one’s perspective can change. “Before or after taxes?” I asked wisely.
Rob seemed to anticipate the question. “Before. And I assure you, Abby, that finder’s fees are usually much stiffer than that.”
“Travis McGee always kept half,” Bob boomed.
“I’ve never heard of Mr. McGee, and besides, Rob didn’t find anything. I did.”
I could feel the chill in the air, and it had nothing to do with the air conditioner rattling away on the back wall. “Five percent,” I said generously.
The men exchanged glances, which was terribly unfair if you ask me. “I seem to have forgotten Fred’s number,” Rob said. “Bob, do you know it?”
“Fred who?”
“Okay, guys, if that’s the game you want to play, I’m willing. I’ll just hop on a plane to New York with the van Gogh under my arm, and you won’t see a red cent.”
Rob didn’t flinch. “Hop away, Abby.”
“Do you need a ride to the airport?” Bob asked. He had the nerve to sound sincere.
That did it. “What I need is for one of you to go straight home and liberate my painting. Better yet, I’m coming with you.”
“I’ll go,” Rob said. “But Abby, you’re making a big mistake.”
“I thought you were a friend,” Bob said, “but I guess I was wrong.”
Those words cut through my heart like a knife through warm butter, but I didn’t back down. A million dollars can do strange things to a woman.
When Rob returned to the living room, his face was gray. Not an attractive blue gray like the tiles beneath my chair, but a sickly yellow gray worth much more than a thousand words.
I was on my feet. “Where is it?”
“Uh, well, it’s someplace.”
“So is China! Where’s my painting? Where’s Field of Thistles!”
Rob looked at his hands. “I remember putting it in the safe, Abby. But it’s not there. Just give me a minute, and I’ll look around.”
“Show me your safe!” I will admit now that I was not acting like a good southern girl. No doubt five generations of Wigginses were rolling over in their graves, including the great-great-grandmother who had served tea and lemon cake to Robert E. Lee on his visit to Rock Hill.
“Okay, Abby, but you have to promise not to tell a soul the location of this safe.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die; stick a needle in your eye.”
Rob sighed and led the way through the master bedroom to the master bathroom. The bathroom!
“There,” he said, pointing at a bidet.
“Where?”
He pushed a button on the bidet, which swiveled a hundred and eighty degrees to reveal the top of a metal safe, replete with combination dials.
“Well, I’ll be!” I knew Rob was clever, but not that clever. “What happens if someone tries to use the thing?” I asked.
Rob rolled his eyes. “Please. We buy French antiques, not French hygiene habits.”
“Open it.”
“Abby, please—look the other way.”
I obliged, but only because I didn’t have time to waste. I even hummed the tune of La Marseillaise while Rob turned the dials.
“Okay.”
I turned. The safe was crammed with velvet boxes, the sort in which fine jewelry is stored. There was also what appeared to be a pile of paper money, held together with a thick rubber band. But alas, a white envelope on top of the pile prevented me from determining the denomination of the bills.
“There isn’t any room in there for a painting.”
“Yes, there is. But just barely. I left the canvas rolled, and angled it in from top to bottom.”
“Did you crease it?”
He looked pained. “No, Abby. I care about that painting. I care about you.”
“Well, at least one of those statements is true. So, now where will you look?”
“I’m trying to think. I put it in here just after you left. Then I took it out to show Robert. And then—oh, God, I didn’t put it back!”
“That much is obvious. Where did you put it?”
“We were in the music room. I left it on the baby grand.”
It was a race I managed to win, despite his long legs. “It’s not in here!” I panted.
“But it has to be. I remember clearly now. I had it spread out right there on the piano. We were both looking at it, and then I looked at Bob and he looked at me and—”
“Spare me the details. What did you do with it afterward?”
Rob groaned. “There wasn’t any afterward. We just went to work.”
“And for that my painting is gone? My twenty million dollars?”
“Ten, Abby. Twenty only if someone gets overenthusiastic.”
“You want to quibble over ten million dollars at a time like this?”
“Touché.”
“I beg your pardon?” But I knew exactly what he meant.
“Abby, I swear the painting was right there, and no one has been in here since Bob and I left the room—except for Mrs. Cheng.”
“Mrs. Cheng? Your cleaning lady?”
“Yes. She does the big cleaning on Monday, but on Thursdays, after Bob and I go to work, she stops by and changes the linens and towels again.”
“She comes and goes as she pleases?”
“Don’t worry, Abby; she’s bonded and insured. I’ll call her right now and see if she remembers seeing the painting, although she may not be home yet.”
“But she doesn’t speak English!” I wailed. “Not a word. You told me that yourself.”
He extended a hand as if to calm me, but I jerked away. “But I speak Mandarin, remember?”
“Then call!”
Rob dialed his cleaning lady’s number and almost immediately began chattering away in a singsong language that was quite clearly Asian. As angry at him as I was, I was impressed. I’ve been told that Mandarin Chinese is a very difficult language to learn because it is tonal, and a wrong voice fluctuation can result in saying something totally unintended, or possibly even nothing at all. Rob must have been saying something, because his conversation seemed to last well into the next millennium.
