Estate of Mind

by Tamar Myers

  “He’s only teasing about the birth certificate,” Rob said. “I told him what you said on the way over here. But he really is from Ohio.”

  Reggie nodded. “Cincinnati. Fine arts degree from UC and then three years at the Sorbonne. Of course, I live in the Big Apple now. Everyone does.”

  “Rob doesn’t,” I said wickedly.

  “Well, almost everyone.”

  Bob panted into the room. “Here’s the kit. Did I miss anything?”

  Rob grinned. “Our Abby’s still standing. You lose the bet.”

  I whirled. “What bet?”

  Bob blushed. “I bet fifty bucks you’d faint if Reggie told you it was real.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “Shhh.” Rob snapped his fingers. “The man needs to concentrate.”

  I can’t stand to watch surgery performed on TV. Once I made the mistake of watching a liposuction on the Oprah show, and consequently lost my cookies. While barfing on my La-Z-Boy was no big deal, gagging on a van Gogh is quite another story.

  Call me a wimp, but I staggered out of the guest room and threw myself on one of my white cotton sofas. Bob, bless his Yankee heart, followed suit on the other. Between you and me, he didn’t have the stomach for it, either.

  “So, Abby, what are you going to do with all that money?”

  “You mean if the painting is real?”

  “Oh, it is. Reginald Perry never makes mistakes. So, you going to sell your shop and retire?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been too busy to do any actual planning. How about you? What would you do? What are you going to do with Rob’s commission?”

  “Yes, the commission. We’re thinking maybe we’ll build a house in one of those gated communities. Something with high ceilings and lots of room for antiques.”

  “And if you had it all? Would you move someplace else?”

  He read my mind. “You mean, like San Francisco or Key West?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think so. Rob and I love it here.”

  “I do, too, but I saw this ad in one of those real estate magazines you can buy at the supermarket. You know, those real upscale, glossy things that showcase mansions in Miami and Atlanta. This ad was for a twenty-five-acre private island in the Bahamas. It had a mansion and a caretaker’s house. But it cost twelve-point-five million dollars.” I sighed, suddenly feeling poor. “If I sell the painting for only ten million dollars, I won’t be able to afford this place. Even if I sell it for twenty, I might not be able to afford to keep it going. What if I can’t pay the taxes? Lordy, I don’t want to end up in a Bahamian jail. They probably aren’t air-conditioned, are they?”

  Bob laughed. “That’s our Abby! Always borrowing trouble. You’re the only woman I know who would go bankrupt in her daydreams!”

  I was about to defend my foibles when Rob and Reggie emerged, their faces triumphant.

  “Ta-da!” Rob held up a small plastic bag.

  I was on my feet. “And?”

  “The patient—I mean, the painting—survived beautifully.”

  I dashed into the guest room and saw that it was so. I dashed out again. “How long will the lab work take?”

  All eyes turned to Reggie.

  “Well,” he said, obviously enjoying the limelight, “a mere matter of minutes.”

  “Minutes?” we chorused.

  “Well, normally, it would take a lot longer, but I have paint samples from The Starry Night and six other van Gogh paintings in my files. So, to answer your real question, you should find out tonight. That is, if Rob can get my ticket changed.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Rob said.

  “But I have dinner plans for tonight!” I wailed.

  “Sure you can’t change them?” Bob asked sympathetically.

  “It’s the Queen. A command performance.”

  Reggie looked at me with new interest. “Her Majesty, Elizabeth II? I’ve authenticated a number of her paintings.”

  “Her Bossiness, Priscilla I.”

  “A maven friend of her mother’s,” Rob explained. He turned to me. “Don’t worry, Abby. I’ll call you there when I hear something. I have Mrs. Hunt’s phone number.”

  “You do?”

  “She’s a good customer of ours,” Bob boomed. “Bought a fauteuil from us just last week.”

  I wanted to chide my friends for doing business with the enemy, but in retail, like in love and war, anything goes. “So where do I do keep the painting in the meantime?”

  Reggie frowned. “Where have you been keeping it?”

  “Well, the first night I kept it in Rob’s safe, and the second, right there where it is now.”

  The Rob-Bobs turned as white as Mama’s best lace tablecloth. “Oh, Abby,” they moaned in unison.

  “But I was in the next room!” The fact that I had gone gallivanting off during the day was none of their concern.

  “Actually,” Reggie said, “a bed is a good place to keep a painting. Especially one that is off its frame.”

  The Rob-bobs wheeled. “It is?”

  “Not on top, of course. Under the sheets. A friend of mine who likes to play fast and loose with the law—never mind. Just put it on the bed and pull the sheet, blanket, and spread up over it. It’s less likely to be found there than in a safe. No matter how cleverly a safe is hidden, a good thief knows where to look.”

  “Even in a bidet?” I clamped my hand over my mouth.

  The Rob-Bobs scowled, but Reggie smiled. “Even there. One of my clients had a safe made that resembled a cat litter box. You know the kind with the cover?”

  “Boy, do I! Half my life is spent sifting that darn thing.”

  “Well, a cat burglar—no pun intended—found that safe in five minutes. Another two minutes, and he had it opened. Made off with a diamond necklace worth well over a million dollars. The whole time, my client was in the shower shampooing her hair.”

  “Diamonds,” I said, primarily to Bob. “I never thought about that.”

  “Abby, be careful not to sit on the bed after you make it,” Rob said anxiously.

  “Or let Dmitri sit on it,” Bob added.

  We all laughed nervously. We had good reason to be nervous. By bedtime, if all went well, I would be a confirmed multimillionaire, Rob at least a millionaire, and Reggie would have his reputation permanently made.

  If all went well.

  22

  Time got away from me. I had to iron another dress—alas, not black—rinse the conditioner out of my hair, and of course eat something. I hadn’t had a bite since the cinnamon buns, and I was ravenous.

  Folks assume that just because I’m petite, I don’t need to eat. On the contrary, think of me as a hummingbird. I may have a tiny tummy, but I burn up energy at an incredible rate. Forget three squares. I need seven or eight mini-meals throughout the day. So you can see why it was absolutely imperative that I stop by the IHOP in Pineville on my way down to Rock Hill. Two poached eggs, some bacon, and a pancake or two later, I was feeling much better. Unfortunately, I was also late for the funeral.

  “For shame,” Mama said when I slid into the pew and sat next to her. “This is the last hymn. See, they’re getting ready to push the coffin out.”

  Indeed they were. As is the custom in the Episcopal Church, the casket was covered with a heavy drape, called a pall. Two men, presumably from the funeral home, had lifted the pall and were folding it. In a minute, they would expertly wheel the casket down the center aisle, where the pallbearers would take over, lifting the coffin into the hearse and out again when it reached the cemetery.

  “You coming to the cemetery?” Mama asked. She sang the words to the tune of the hymn.

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Oh, but you have to. It wouldn’t look right for you to just pop in and go. This isn’t one of those drive-in funeral parlors I’ve been hearing about so much lately.”

  “Okay, Mama,” I said glumly. “I’ll go with you to the cemetery.”

/>   I glanced around. Thanks to the Sweeny family’s connections—mainly the famous Hortense Simms—the place was packed. No one was going to miss my being there, least of all the forgetful Adele Sweeny.

  “I thought you were going to wear your black dress,” Mama sang. As usual, she was off-key. Mama sings in the church choir and is what the choir director calls a “mercy member.” When folks hear her sing, they like as not say, “Oh, mercy!”

  “Had a little accident,” I said.

  “Notice anything about me?”

  I looked at Mama, really seeing her for the first time that day. Thank heavens we were singing the last stanza, because I dropped the hymnal.

  “You’re wearing black!”

  “Of course. Gilbert Sweeny was Hortense Simms’s half-brother, and—”

  “And Hortense Simms is the Queen’s archrival!” My timing was off, and every word but the “and” was spoken after the hymn ended and before the benediction.

  Folks in all directions turned and stared.

  “Abby!” Mama was truly mortified.

  What could I possibly say to dig myself out of that hole? Thinking of nothing, I flung myself to the kneeler and began praying.

  “You can stop it now,” Mama said after a few minutes. “Just about everyone has left. If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss out on riding in the procession.”

  I looked up. Only a few stragglers—no doubt gossiping about me—remained. We hustled our bustles to the parking lot. Rock Hill has only recently discontinued the practice of having the police escort funeral corteges, but, nonetheless, funerals command great respect here. More often than not, oncoming motorists will stop wherever they are and wait patiently until the cortege has passed them by.

  At any rate, we took Mama’s car because it was parked much closer than mine. I drove, because Mama knows only two speeds—pedal to the metal and dead stop. Since we both knew where the cemetery was, we didn’t need to keep up with the group, although we pretty much did. Three blocks from the church, we halted at a red light.

  “You could have put some makeup on, Abby.”

  “I’ll be damned!” I said, pounding the steering wheel with my fist. Fortunately, the horn is hard to find in Mama’s car.

  “Why, Abigail, that was just an innocent observation. If you want to look like death warmed over, that’s your business.”

  “Sorry, Mama. It isn’t what you said. It’s that woman behind me.”

  “She’s not talking on a cell phone, is she? I hate it when drivers talk on their cell phones. It’s so—”

  “Mama! She’s not talking on a phone. It’s Marina.”

  “Who, dear?”

  “The woman who paid you a visit the other evening. The so-called tourist.”

  Mama tried to turn, but the shoulder strap restrained her. “But that’s silly, dear. Marina was just passing through. If she was going to spend the night, I would have offered her a room. Besides, how do you know it’s her? You never met her.”

  I bit my tongue, wondering how much to tell. “I’ve seen this woman around, Mama. I know it’s her.”

  “Then describe her, dear.”

  “Well, she’s a black woman in a dark blue car.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Well—”

  “Why, Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake! Didn’t I raise you any better than that?”

  The light turned green and I floored the accelerator, turned right on Main, left on Hampton, and right again on West Black. Then I quite cleverly pulled into the public parking garage that is opposite the police station. I waited for five minutes and, not seeing the now-familiar blue car, continued to the cemetery. In the meantime, Mama gave me a lecture on the fallacies of prejudice and how, if we could all choose our bodies at birth, the world would be populated by six billion Mel Gibsons. I listened respectfully, although I may have rolled my eyes a few times. Believe me, if the world was populated by six billion Mel Gibsons, and I was an unborn soul about to choose, I’d go for something a little different—like maybe Mrs. Mel Gibson.

  “I don’t care about her race, Mama,” I said as we turned in at the cemetery. “It’s just a concise description. You didn’t see many people of color at the funeral, did you?”

  Mama sniffed and patted her pearls. “I don’t count colors.”

  “I am not prejudiced, and I didn’t notice any African-Americans. Gilbert Sweeny was not known for his tolerance, after all. My point is that the woman back there has been following me.”

  Mama shook her head. “The trick, I hear, is finding a really good therapist. A mediocre one might just make things worse.”

  “Is that the pot calling the kettle black?” I wailed. “I know that’s the same woman I saw at the auction Wednesday night, and, like I said, I recognized the car.”

  “All cars look alike,” Mama said pompously. “And there are plenty of blue cars. Yours is blue.”

  We pulled into the cemetery. Now we were late. We had to park practically near the gate, and interment was on a knoll at the opposite end.

  “You go ahead,” I said to Mama.

  “Why, dear? Are you mad at me?”

  “Just mildly irked, and that’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, I get it. You want to sit here and keep a lookout for secret agents.”

  If you can’t beat them, join them. I patted my purse.

  “That’s exactly right. Thank heavens I remembered to bring my secret decoder ring. Now, you better get, Mama. It looks like they’re fixing to start.”

  Mama got, grumbling the whole way, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I slumped down and made myself inconspicuous. One of the few perks that come with being my height is that I don’t have to slump far to hide in a car. All I have to do is slide my booster cushion out from under me and relax. You can bet I left the car running, with the AC cranked to the max.

  Perhaps it was the sound of the fan at high speed that prevented me from hearing the car pull up right behind mine. But the slamming of the car door was practically loud enough to wake the dead. I popped up to see Marina striding to the knoll. Already she had covered a good deal of ground.

  I hoofed after the woman, not something I would recommend when both the temperature and humidity are hovering near one hundred. “Miss,” I called. “Miss.”

  Marina stopped and turned. She was halfway between her car and the graveside mourners. Evergreen Cemetery has only a small number of large monuments, and there is a dearth of shrubs. There was really no place for her to hide. She appeared to wait calmly while I trotted right up to her. By that time, however, I was dewing like the target of a Kenneth Starr investigation.

  “You,” I gasped. “I need to talk to you.”

  Marina nodded. “I guess it’s for the best.”

  I blinked away drops of stinging sweat. I didn’t like what I saw: flawless chocolate complexion; perfect, symmetrical features. To add insult to injury, her legs reached halfway to the sun.

  “Perhaps we should talk in the shade.” Marina gestured to a nearby tree. She was impeccably dressed in a pearl-gray silk suit and didn’t look the least bit hot.

  We moved to the dense shade of a limbed-up magnolia. The thick, dry leaves of yesteryear crunched beneath our feet.

  “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” I demanded.

  “Guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed to know more about you.”

  I folded my arms, but it was too hot to keep them that way. “Why?”

  Marina smiled. It was obvious her Mama hadn’t weaned her on gooey desserts.

  “Ms. Timberlake, right?”

  “You tell me!”

  “Ms. Timberlake, my name is Marina Weiss.”

  “I’ll bet it is. And you’re a tourist from Oregon, right?”

  “That, too. But primarily I’m an art investigator.”

  “Come again?”

  “I track down the provenance of artworks. Upon occasion, I search for missing pieces
of art.”

  “And that brings you to Rock Hill? No doubt you’re trying to track down the missing Civitas nipples. Well, you won’t find them, Ms. Weiss. The fundamentalists threw them away.”

  Marina couldn’t help but smile again. “Ms. Timberlake, have you ever heard of a painting by Vincent van Gogh called Field of Thistles?”

  My knees buckled, and I had to steady myself against the magnolia trunk. “I don’t go to museums much.”

  “Oh, you won’t find that in any museum. It was stolen by the Nazis during World War II and hasn’t been seen since.”

  I licked my salty lips but said nothing.

  “It wasn’t stolen from a museum, of course. It was stolen from a Jewish family. My family.”

  “Your family?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Miss Timberlake. Judaism is a religion, not a race. But yes, I married into the family. The Harry and Selma Weiss family of Long Island. They’re my husband’s grandparents. Field of Thistles belongs to them.”

  “This is all very interesting, Mrs. Weiss, but what does it have to do with me?”

  Marina casually smoothed a wrinkle from the pearl-gray skirt. “We believe that the painting is now in your possession.”

  I wanted to faint. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t buy stolen art.”

  “Perhaps not intentionally. But you purchased a painting at the auction Wednesday evening—”

  “That was a fake. The Starry Night indeed!”

  “Of course it was a fake, Miss Timberlake. But I believe that it may have been painted over Field of Thistles. Perhaps with a water-based paint that is easily removed.”

  My knees felt stronger. I moved away from the tree trunk.

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Weiss, that that is not the case. That so-called Starry Night is the only painting on the canvas. The colors show through to the other side. In fact, the painting looks much better on that side.”

  Marina smiled. “Might I have a look at it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of my say.”