Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  At last, putting his hand over the receiver, he turned to me with a grin wide enough to encompass south Charlotte. “She was just walking in the door, and yes, she has the painting!”

  “What?”

  “She was taking the Sunday New York Times home with her—I always let her have it—and she laid it down on the piano and then somehow accidentally picked up the painting with it when she left. The painting is safe and sound at her house.”

  Mama says my sigh of relief blew out a row of tub-side candles in her bathroom in Rock Hill. “Thank God! Tell her to bring it back at once—no, tell her we’ll be right there.”

  Rob smiled. “I already did. She wants you to come over there by yourself.”

  “Tell her I’m on my way. And tell her not to budge an inch. Oh, and tell her there will be a fat reward for her if the painting hasn’t been damaged in any way.”

  Rob said something a lot longer than that. Finally he turned back to me. “She wants to know how much.”

  “What?”

  “The reward.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars,” I said off the top of my head.

  Rob translated what I said. Even I could hear Mrs. Cheng laugh.

  “What did she say?” I demanded.

  “She said, ‘The duck that strokes the camel’s back is green.’”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Tell her twenty-five thousand green ducks can stroke a lot of camels, and then hurry up and get off the phone. I need directions.” Suddenly I remembered that Rob had driven me over from his shop. “Oops, I don’t suppose I can borrow your car?”

  “Of course you can. I’ll take Bob’s—we rode together this morning. I’m pretty sure there’s close to half a tank of gas. Just remember that I have antilock brakes—”

  “I have a car of my own,” I snapped. “I know how one works. What I need is directions.”

  Rob hung up and found a gold pen and pad of paper in the drawer of a marquetry secrétaire. The directions he wrote were clear, and the little map he drew was really quite good. I had everything I needed to get to Mrs. Cheng’s house, including some more unsolicited advice.

  But what Rob didn’t tell me was that I needed to check my rearview mirror from time to time.

  8

  It was only eight blocks to Mrs. Cheng’s, but it might as well have been eighty. The Rob-Bobs’ condominium is just south of Myers Park, a neighborhood of stately brick homes and willow oaks. Mrs. Cheng lives in a brick home shaded by willow oaks, but her entire house could fit in the master bathroom of a Myers Park home.

  I parked the car on the street and followed the cracked walk between twin rows of monkey grass to the screened porch. Fortunately, the bell was on the outside. When I pressed the button, I couldn’t hear it ring, and was debating whether or not to press it a second time when the front door opened.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. My name is Abigail Timberlake. I’m here to see Mrs. Cheng.”

  “That’s me. I’m Irene Cheng.” She quickly unhooked the screen door. “Come on in. It’s hotter than a well digger’s ass out there, and you look a mess. You’re dripping sweat.”

  I stared, forgetting my southern manners. Irene Cheng was a woman approximately my own age and height. She was dressed in white denim shorts, a faded green T-shirt, and flip-flops. Except for her features, which were definitely Asian in appearance, she could have been me. Her accent, like mine, was pure Dixie.

  “Is there another Mrs. Cheng at this address?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “There must be some mistake. I’m looking for a Mrs. Cheng who works for Rob Goldberg.”

  She smiled. “I work for Robby. I left the front door open, so come on in before I air-condition all of south Charlotte.”

  I followed her into a delightfully cool, if modest, living room.

  “But you speak English,” I said, taking the chair offered.

  “So do you. And you barely have an accent.”

  “What? I don’t have an accent at all—oh, you were just kidding, weren’t you? Well, you see, Rob said you didn’t speak a word of English. Besides, I heard him speaking Chinese on the phone.”

  “He thinks he was speaking Chinese. But his Mandarin is so awful. Not that mine is such hot shakes, either. You don’t pick up that much going to Chinese school one day a week when you’re a kid. And both my parents were American-born and could barely speak it themselves.”

  “But Mrs. Cheng—”

  “Call me Irene.”

  “Then call me Abby.”

  “Abby. You’re named after a monastery?”

  “That’s without the ‘e.’ It comes from Abigail.”

  “Ah. Well, you see, Abby without the ‘e,’ Robby took Mandarin in college. Chinese art was one of his interests. Anyway, when I answered his ad for a cleaning lady he just assumed I spoke Chinese. And since he was eager to practice his Chinese—well, we’ve never spoken in anything but. Only it’s broken Chinese. I mean, just this morning he said that twenty-five million green camels were chasing Donald Duck. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe he was referring to the crowds at Disneyworld.”

  “Maybe. But if you ask me, Robby is a little meshugah. Say, would you like some sweet tea?”

  I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink all morning, and I was dying for some. Twenty-five million camels could not have been that thirsty. But she still had my painting.

  “Yes, I’d love some. But could I have Field of Thistles first?” Just saying that used up more of my precious saliva.

  “Is this another of Robby’s riddles?”

  “No. I want my painting.”

  “Oh, that! Of course.” She hopped up and darted into another room.

  While she was gone, I studied her decor. The furniture was better-quality Victorian. There were signed prints on the walls, and even a small original oil. All my assumptions about Irene Cheng had proved wrong.

  “Here you are.” Irene thrust the rolled-up van Gogh at me like it was yesterday’s newspaper.

  I nervously spread it across my knees. It looked all right. But wait, was that a new crack in the upper left-hand corner? How was I to tell? I had only seen the painting at night, and in artificial light.

  “This painting is worth a lot, you know.”

  “So I heard. Although I can’t imagine why.”

  “Why? Just look at it. See those brush strokes. And that bold, vibrant use of color.”

  Irene peered intently at the painting. “Frankly, Abby, this picture’s as ugly as homemade sin warmed over.”

  A large, gray-and-white cat had appeared out of nowhere and was sniffing my ankles.

  “She smells my cat, Dmitri.”

  “I think Esmerelda smells you.”

  I was about to purr with pleasure when the cat bit my left ankle. “Ouch!”

  “Oh, dear, did my Essy give you a little love nip?”

  “Love nip? Does she have all her shots?”

  Irene nodded. “Are you bleeding? I mean, this is a brand-new carpet.”

  “No, I guess I’m okay.” I rubbed my ankle. “She didn’t break the skin or anything, but she took me by surprise. I guess she was just doing her job.”

  Irene giggled. “Some people say that cats are sneaky, evil, and cruel. That’s all true, but they have many other fine qualities as well.”

  I grinned. “They’re incredibly smart—much smarter than dogs. You won’t find eight cats pulling a sled.”

  “You’re right about that. People think cats are stupid because they’re not obedient in the same way dogs are. Sure, dogs come when they are called, but cats take a message and get back to you later.”

  We both laughed.

  “Dogs believe they are human,” I said. “Cats believe they are God.”

  “Of course, dogs are cleaner.”

  “I beg your pardon? When’s the last time you saw a dog give itself a tongue bath?”<
br />
  “But that’s my point. Cats aren’t clean, they’re just covered with cat spit.”

  “Oh, gross!” Despite’s Irene’s ignorant comment about the twentieth century’s most important art find, I found myself liking the woman. She was petite and down to earth, and didn’t want anything from me. Or did she? “Rob Goldman said you insisted that I pick up the painting in person. And by myself. Why is that?”

  “Because I wanted to meet you.”

  My antennae shot up. “Me?”

  “I want something from you.”

  I stood, clutching the painting tightly in my hot little fists. “How much did Rob say the reward was going to be?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “He never mentioned a reward—unless it had something to do with all those camels. I was going to ask you for a job.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have much need for a cleaning lady. It’s just me and Dmitri, and I’m gone most of the time.”

  Irene frowned. “I don’t want to clean your house. I want a job in your shop.”

  “Cleaning?”

  She stepped in front of me and spread her arms. “Is that all you think I can do? Clean?”

  “What is it you want to do?” I wailed.

  “I want to sell antiques.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded vigorously, her short black hair rising and falling in waves. “I’ve learned a lot working for Robby. I observe. And I read everything I can about what he’s got. Hey, I may not have his money—,” she gestured at the contents of the room, “—but I do the best I can.”

  “You have some very nice pieces.” I meant it.

  “So, will you give me a job? I really need it. My husband got downsized after nineteen years with his company. He’s starting a new job today, but the pay is a lot less.”

  Why not give the woman a job? Rob had Bob, and Wynnell had a girl to assist her on weekends, our prime time. Heck, even C. J. was considering importing a cousin or two from Shelby to help in her shop. Besides, once I sold the van Gogh, my reputation would skyrocket—and so would my business.

  “I keep all my records by computer. How are your computer skills?”

  Irene shrugged. “Fair.”

  “Well, then they’re ten times better than mine. How are your people skills?”

  “Fair.”

  “Again you’ve got me beat. I’d say you’re hired. When can you start?”

  “How about right now?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Be at the shop at nine sharp. I don’t open until ten, but that will give me time to show you the ropes.”

  “Thank you, Abby. You won’t regret this.”

  She walked out to the porch with me. Just as I opened the screen door, a dark blue car with North Carolina plates vacated its parking spot beneath a shady oak and sped down the street. At the first cross street, it swerved and narrowly missed a pickup that was already in the intersection. The pickup driver slammed on his brakes and honked. The blue car was soon a blue dot.

  “Someone’s going to get killed if the city doesn’t put up a stop sign,” Irene said, shaking her head. “You be real careful, because I don’t want my job to end before it’s even begun.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Irene Cheng need not have worried. Multimillionaires do not get run down by cars in Charlotte. They drown off yachts in the Mediterranean or choke on caviar. True, I was still only a potential multimillionaire, but already I could feel it in my bones. This time, luck was on my side.

  I made a beeline home, stashed the painting in the oven, and headed back to The Finer Things to return Rob’s keys. I parked Rob’s car behind the shop and, finding the back door locked, walked around to the front. Just as I reached the sidewalk, another dark blue car went barreling down Selwyn Avenue, headed toward Queens College. I stared after it. Again, a North Carolina tag, but my driving glasses were already back in my purse, so I couldn’t be sure of any details beyond that.

  “You’re going to run someone over!” I shouted, and then clamped a hand over my mouth.

  “Abby!”

  I turned. Wynnell Crawford was waving madly to me from the door of her shop, the Wooden Wonders.

  “Just a minute,” I called. “I need to give Rob his keys first.”

  “Stop! Hold it right there!” Wynnell is ten years older than I, but she keeps in shape stacking the heavy wooden furniture she sells. In Wynnell’s shop, the antiques are piled to the ceiling in neat rows, like library stacks. One careless move from a customer, and more than just the desired piece is history.

  “How could you do that, Abby?”

  “How could I do what?”

  “Come inside, Abby.” Wynnell grabbed the elbow of the arm holding the precious painting and hauled me into the farthest recess of her shop. On both sides, early twentieth-century veneer dressers rose in sheer walls. If it was privacy she was after, she couldn’t have found a better spot in the bowels of a Roman catacomb.

  “The Rob-Bobs are heartsick. They believed you were their friend.”

  “But I am! Next to you, Rob’s my closest friend.”

  “You used him, Abby.” Wynnell lowered brows the size of shrubs. “Shame on you.”

  “This is business, Wynnell.”

  “He wanted 10 percent. That’s only fair.”

  “But still, a million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

  “That painting you bought at your mother’s church auction is worth a million dollars?”

  “No, it’s worth ten,” I said patiently. “Rob wanted a million.”

  “Lordy!” She took a few gulps of stale, lemon-polish-scented air. “That is greedy. It must be Bob’s Yankee influence.”

  Alas, my friend is a Yankeephobe. In her mind, the War between the States (her words, not mine) is far from over. The last good Yankee died at Gettysburg, and it’s a pity that more didn’t join him. Of course, Wynnell is not averse to taking Yankee dollars from Yankee tourists, just as long as they leave some sand behind them at Myrtle Beach for her. The fact that Wynnell had a grandparent from north of the line is something she blatantly chooses to ignore.

  “I don’t think a commission should ever be more than a hundred grand; do you?”

  Wynnell glanced up and down the narrow aisle. “I had an idea, Abby.”

  “Forget it, dear. I’m not crossing the street on my knees and begging Rob’s forgiveness.” For one thing, with my luck, that dark blue car would make a return pass at just the wrong moment.

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. You were absolutely right about Rob being greedy. Besides, with the business his shop does, he certainly doesn’t need any extra money. Let’s face it, the man is loaded.”

  “Well, I don’t know if loaded is the right word, but he’s certainly comfortable.”

  Wynnell, who makes all her own clothes, smoothed the skirt of a dress that was held together only by oversize safety pins. I’d seen that creation before. She refers to it as her “air-conditioned” dress because of all the gaps.

  “What I’m getting at is that Rob doesn’t need you, and you certainly don’t need him.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Of course not. I’d be happy to sell the painting for you.”

  I willed the corners of my mouth to stay in place. “No offense, Wynnell, but mahogany furniture is your forte, not Impressionist paintings.”

  The hedgerows waggled in amusement. “Oh, not me, personally, Abby. But I know someone who could sell the painting for you. I’d just be the go-between.”

  “I see. And what would your cut be?”

  With studied casualness, Wynnell opened and closed a monstrous pin. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “Okay, a hundred thousand.”

  “Not even close, Wynnell. I thought we were friends.”

  “We are! But you just said you’d pay a hundred grand as a brokerage fee.”

  “I said that would be my limit. I didn’t expect my very best frie
nd to try and fleece me as well.”

  “Why, I’ll be! Are you sure you don’t have any Yankee blood, Abby?”

  I lowered my voice. “Actually, I do. I’m not supposed to breathe a word of this, but Daddy was from Cleveland. He didn’t move south until he was six.” There wasn’t a lick of truth in that, but since Daddy died before I met Wynnell, she’d never be the wiser.

  “Cleveland, Ohio, or Cleveland, Tennessee?”

  “Ohio.”

  Wynnell staggered backward into a stack of dressers, thereby threatening both our lives. “I knew it! You’ve always been a little tight with your vowels, Abby. It must be genetic.”

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black. Wasn’t your grandmother originally from Chicago?”

  Wynnell blanched, a startling contrast to the nearly black hedgerows. “So, tell me, Abby,” she said by way of diversion, “how much will you pay your very best friend if she sells that painting of yours for ten million dollars?”

  I sighed. “Wynnell, you don’t even know anyone on the national, much less international, art scene. Do you?”

  “I said I did, didn’t I? For your information, my cousin Billy Bob works in a gallery in Greenwich Village.”

  “Doing what? Sweeping floors?”

  “That’s not all he does. They let him hang pictures sometimes.”

  “Well, for this job I need a professional art dealer.”

  “Sure you do. But let’s just say Billy Bob’s boss is able to sell it for ten million. How much would my cut be? You still haven’t told me.”

  “Fifty thousand should do, shouldn’t it?” I offered generously.

  “Why, Abigail Louise Timberlake, you are cheap!”

  “I am not!”

  “You’re as cheap as a nest full of sparrows. Cheap, cheap, cheap.”

  “I don’t need to take that from you, dear. Talk about cheap! You won’t even buy yourself a decent dress at Kmart. Why, just look at you. A strong magnet and a sudden gust of wind, and you’d be as naked as a baby jaybird. You may not know it, Wynnell, but you’re the laughingstock of Selwyn Avenue.”