by Tamar Myers
For the first time, Marina looked ruffled. “Did you sell it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
The woman’s beautiful chocolate complexion turned ash-gray. “So soon? To whom?”
“I sold it that night. To another investigator. A police investigator.”
“For how much?” She sounded incredulous. “Ms. Timberlake, law enforcement officers don’t make that kind of money.”
“This one does. I sold it for ten dollars. I think Greg can afford that.”
“Ten dollars?”
“But that was without the frame. He couldn’t have afforded that. Greg’s always strapped for cash on account of his fishing trips—”
“Ms. Timberlake.” She took a step forward, and I took one back. “Ms. Timberlake, am I to believe that you sold one of the greatest masterpieces of all time—property that belongs to my husband’s family—for just ten dollars?”
“Oops, I forgot to add tax. You wouldn’t happen to work for the IRS as well, would you?”
“Ms. Timberlake—”
I felt emboldened by my joke. When it came down to it, I didn’t know who the woman who called herself Marina Weiss really was. Maybe she did work for the IRS. Maybe she was just out to get the Field of Thistles for herself.
“How about you prove who you are, Mrs. Weiss. Do you have something that says you’re an art investigator?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She reached into a pearl-gray purse and withdrew a slim, gold card holder. As she was handing me a card, another fell to the ground.
I took the proffered card. Marina K. Weiss, it read, art investigator.
“That’s very nice, dear. It’s even embossed. But you can have something like this made up at any printer.”
Marina flinched, and it took a second for me to figure out that it wasn’t necessarily what I’d said. Apparently the interment was over, because the crowd was headed our way.
“Abby!” Mama called. “Marina! Marina, is that you?”
“I’m staying at the Hampton Inn,” Marina said quickly. “Call me.”
By the time Mama reached me, Marina was already in her car.
“So, you were right, Abby,” Mama said grudgingly. “It is the same woman. But she’s not a secret agent, is she?”
“Not exactly.”
“I told you. So, Abby, what did you think of the way Hortense carried on up there?”
“I don’t know, Mama. I never made it that far.”
Mama clutched her pearls and staggered. I moved out of the way so she could slump gracefully against the tree. She is my mother, after all, and I must accommodate her quirks.
“Oh, Abby, how rude! First you skip the funeral, and now this?”
“What can I say, Mama? You failed miserably. Your daughter is nothing but a boor.”
“Don’t mock me, Abby. There’s something up between you and Marina, isn’t there? I knew it by the look on your face just now.”
“What does that mean?”
“Come on, dear, you can tell me. You can tell me anything. I watch those talk shows. I know what goes on in this world.”
“What?”
“So that’s why she came to see me! She was checking me out, wasn’t she? Well, you tell her you come from good stock, Abby. You tell her—”
“Mama!”
“I got used to the Rob-Bobs; I can get used to this. Thank heavens you’ve already raised a family—oh, Abby, you’re not thinking of having a family together, are you?”
“Mama, don’t be ridiculous.”
I snatched up the card Marina had dropped. “Here. This will tell you who Marina really is.”
Mama read the card and handed it back. “It’s the heat, isn’t it, dear? Even as a little girl, the heat bothered you. Well, some ice-cold tea when we get home will do the trick. And there’s still plenty of time for you to lie down before dinner.”
“Mama, you’re not making a lick of sense.”
“And you are, dear? You honestly expect me to believe that’s Marina’s card?”
I read the card. Twice. Then I screamed.
23
Actually, it was more of a shriek, but I’ve got to hand it to the good folks of Rock Hill. No one even turned. Perhaps they were used to shrieks emanating from the nether reaches of cemeteries. Perhaps they were just used to the Wiggins clan.
“That’s Vincent Dougherty’s card!”
“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, dear. It would be awfully hard for Marina to impersonate Vincent. She’s a good two inches taller than he.”
“But how did that card—wait a minute, I bet the two of them are in cahoots.”
Mama grabbed my elbow. “The tea, dear. It’s all made. It will just take me a second to pour it.”
I shrugged off her hand. It was too hot even to be Mama-handled.
“Tea sounds great, Mama,” I said once I had her safely in the car. “But first we’re going to make a little detour.”
“Oh, Abby, you wouldn’t!”
“It’ll just be a short visit, Mama. In the meantime, you can do your part.”
“What part?”
“Tell me everything you know about Vincent Dougherty.”
“Me? He was one of your boyfriends, Abby. Just like Gilbert.”
“He was not my boyfriend! And I’m asking you because you still live in town and hang out with his cronies.”
“I most certainly do not!”
“Doesn’t Vincent’s mama belong to your club?”
“I belong to lots of clubs, Abby. I don’t know everyone’s children.”
“Yes, but this is the club you joined just last year. The one you wanted to join so bad, you could taste it. What was it now—ah, yes, the Apostates’ Club.”
“That’s Apathia Club, not Apostates’!”
“And Eudora Dougherty belongs to Apathia, does she not?”
Mama sighed. “You’ve got to promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
I steered with my right hand and crossed with my left. “I promise.”
“Well, we usually meet at the Rock Hill Country Club, but sometimes if there is a special luncheon, we meet at a member’s home. This past April—or was it May?—Eudora had us all to her home on the river. Anyway, I stayed after to help her clean up, and we got to talking.”
“What about?”
“Mostly our kids. How we have to look past the disappointments and heartaches they bring us, and concentrate on their positive points.”
“She did most of the talking, of course.”
“Actually, I did.”
“Boy, I bet Toy’s ears were burning!”
Mama stroked her pearls. “I’m not sure I even mentioned him.”
“What? Well, you couldn’t have been talking about me, that’s for sure.”
“But I was.”
“Mama! I went to college like you wanted. And I married well—at least on the surface. Sure, I’m divorced now, but I was married. And I’m self-supporting. Oh, don’t forget the two beautiful grandchildren I gave you!”
“Yes, well, there is that.” Mama sounded every bit as enthusiastic as I did the day Buford suggested oral sex.
“Mama, what are you driving at? Have I been a disappointment?”
“Well, frankly, dear, you have.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I do plenty for Mama. And it’s not like she’s helpless. Daddy didn’t leave her rich, but Buford—and it’s one of the truly good things he did—invested wisely on her behalf. Now, eighteen years after Daddy’s death, Mama lives quite comfortably.
“Mama, I call you almost every day and have dinner with you at least once a month. That’s a whole lot more than some daughters do for their mamas.”
“You don’t talk to me.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I mean like a friend. You don’t share the kind of stuff with me that you do with Wynnell.”
“Yes, but you’re my mama!”
“Toy does. Toy respects me as a person, not just as his mama.”
“What? Toy hardly ever calls. You said so just recently.”
“Your brother may not call often, but when he does we talk.”
This was too much for me. In a minute, I was going to start resenting a brother I had hitherto considered unworthy of resentment.
“So what did Eudora Dougherty have to say about her Vincent? Was she able to find words to describe how disappointed she must be?”
“To the contrary, dear. Eudora is very proud of her son.”
“Is Vincent an only child?”
“He is. Eudora said they’re best friends.”
“Oh, come on!”
“He tells her everything.”
“So, he’s a mama’s boy with loose lips. It has got to break her heart that he runs the Adult Entertainment Center on Cherry Road.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“You have not!”
“You see? I can’t even share my thoughts with you.”
“Not those kinds of thoughts, Mama. Don’t you have a nice recipe you want to share?”
Mama snorted. “You are such a prude, dear. I just wanted to take a quick peek inside. I’m curious about what actually goes on in there.”
“What goes on is disgusting. And if Eudora Dougherty had any pride, she’d disown Vincent and move out of state.” The truth is, I had no idea what went on behind the Adult Entertainment Center’s closed doors. For all I knew, they played board games and drank lemonade.
“Eudora said Vincent has a heart of gold.”
“Gold plate, maybe. Ten-karat, at that.”
Mama looked meaningfully at me. “He gives a lot of money to charities, dear.”
“Guilt money.”
“The homeless don’t care. I doubt if the orphans care much, either. Perhaps it bothers the cancer researchers.”
“You’re being facetious,” I said angrily. I swerved across three lanes and into the large parking lot that was just ahead on the left. “Well, here it is, Mama. Vincent Dougherty’s Adult Entertainment Center. Come on in and gawk a little bit, and then we’ll have a nice heart-to-heart talk. Maybe we’ll bond.”
“Now who’s being facetious?”
“I learned at the foot of the master,” I said.
Mama smiled and patted her pearls. “At least you give credit where credit is due.”
The silver-haired man with the acne scars was still at his post. He recognized me immediately.
“Mr. Dougherty’s in his office. The door will most likely be partly open—he has this thing about closed spaces. Anyway, knock before you go in.”
“So I don’t break up any love fests?”
“Abby!” Mama chided, but her eyes were glowing with excitement.
“Who is she?” the previously pimpled pimp demanded.
“She’s my mother. She’s with me.”
“You a member?” he asked Mama.
Mama giggled.
“Of course she’s not!”
The silver pocks ignored me. “You care for a tour, ma’am?”
“She most certainly does not!”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Speak for yourself, dear.” She turned to the doorman. “I’d love a tour.”
“Mama!”
He had the nerve to let Mama take his arm. “Room on the end,” he said to me. “Remember to knock.”
“But—”
Mama wagged a finger at me. “Believe it or not, I’m a grown woman, Abby. As long as we’re not sharing, I’ll mind my business, and you mind yours.”
There was no use in arguing further. I watched in disbelief as my mama—a choir member, to boot—left for her guided tour of sin city. As soon as she disappeared through some swinging doors, I ran down the hall to Vincent’s office. To be honest, I forgot to knock.
“What the hell?” Vincent shouted.
I jumped. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Vincent Doughtery was lying flat on his back, his legs propped up against the wall. He was fully clothed, I might add, and quite alone. The ubiquitous sunglasses were still in place.
“Uh…uh…”
“Oh, it’s you, Ms. Timberlake. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand, thank you.”
“As you wish. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t stand.”
I couldn’t help but stare. “What are you doing, yoga?”
“No, ma’am. I’m giving my veins a break.”
“Excuse me?”
“Varicose veins are more common in women, but many men have them as well. It feels good to get your feet up above the level of your heart every now and then. Helps stop the throbbing.”
“Oh.”
“Now, what can I do for you this time?”
“It’s about Marina. Marina Weiss.”
Vincent slung his legs down and around. In one smooth move, he was on his feet. His bright red hair, however, defied gravity. It stuck out in all directions like a clown’s wig.
“So, you’ve met Marina.”
I spread my legs slightly. It was a stance that could be modified into flight or fight, depending on the circumstances.
“Aha! You know her!”
“Yes, of course. What did she tell you?”
“That she was an art investigator.”
“Go on.”
I wasn’t about to spread that cockamamy story about my painting’s being stolen. Not until I had more facts.
“There’s nothing else to say, except that she had your card.”
“I’m a businessman. Lots of people have my card.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. You really wanted that painting, Mr. Dougherty, and then this so-called art investigator shows up, and she has your business card. What gives?”
“Well—”
“And what’s with those creepy sunglasses? Are you in the Mafia or something? Or is it just plain old run-of-the-mill drug abuse?”
He gingerly removed the dark glasses. I gasped.
“It’s just a little plastic surgery,” he said and then laughed. “I turned fifty last week. For years, my friends have been telling me that I could pack for a two-week vacation in those bags. So I decided to get rid of them. What the hell, I thought, plastic surgery isn’t just for women anymore.”
“Did it hurt?” I asked, forgetting my mission.
“You bet. But I’m glad I did it. I’ve talked Ed out there into signing up for laser resurfacing. He’s a little nervous, I think, but if I can do what I did—” he pointed to the bruises, “—anyone can. It will do wonders for his self-esteem, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it will. Look, this is all very nice, Mr. Dougherty, but I didn’t come here to discuss cosmetic changes.”
“What exactly do you want to discuss?”
“I want you to explain Marina! What was she doing with your business card?”
“My exchange with Ms. Weiss seems to be very important to you, Ms. Timberlake.”
“You’re darned tooting it is.”
He smiled and then winced. “Well, if you must know, Ms. Weiss observed me bidding at the auction. You know—against you. She wanted to know why I seemed so intent on getting such a bad painting.”
“Good question. Why were you?”
“Because I liked the painting.” He blushed, and his bruises momentarily faded. “I know now it was only a lousy copy—she already told me that—but I thought it was beautiful. I thought it would look really great in one of the workout rooms.”
“Workout rooms,” I sneered. “Is that the euphemism of choice these days?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. It might be hard for a classy lady like you to believe, but I’ve always been interested in art. Did lots of drawing back when I was a kid. Always wanted to paint, but didn’t have the money. Now that I do, I don’t have the time. Anyway, I would still like to get some nice paintings to hang on the walls around here. Hey, you’re in the biz, aren’t you? Maybe you could help me out.”
�
�I don’t buy and sell pornography,” I said archly.
Vincent recoiled in a clever display of mock surprise. “I think I’ve been very patient with you, Ms. Timberlake. Now I must ask you to leave. I have work to do.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Abby, how rude.”
I whirled. Mama was standing in the doorway, her arm still casually draped through the doorman’s.
“Mama!”
“Put a zip on it, Abby, and quit pestering this nice man.”
“Mama, do you know what kind of place this ‘nice man’ is running here?”
“Indeed I do. And if you weren’t such a stick in the mud, you’d sign up this instant.”
I glared at the woman who had endured thirty-six hours of agonizing labor. “And you want to be a missionary! What would the bishop say if he saw you here?”
“He’d probably ask for a membership, dear. Their annual fees are really quite reasonable. Although just between you and me,” she lowered her voice, “they could supply larger towels.”
I clapped my hands over my ears. I couldn’t bear to hear her make a fool of herself. As an Episcopalian, I can handle a bit of irreverence, but this was going too far. Our church has a dicey enough reputation without Mama adding to it.
Mama snatched my right hand free, nearly taking my ear with it. She literally dragged me to the far corner of Vincent’s palatial office.
“Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake, whatever is your problem?”
“Mama, please,” I said through gritted teeth, “I just want to get out of this…this…den of iniquity! It makes me feel filthy just to be here.”
Mama laughed. “Oh, Abby, you are so funny. I guess there is no accounting for personal taste, is there?”
“Taste?”
“I know, dear, I brought you up as a proper southern lady, to believe that there are only two places one should perspire—the garden and bed—but times have changed, and…well, this seems as good a place as any. Vincent Doughtery has some magnificent equipment, and this week he’s offering a 20 percent discount.”
I pulled loose from her grip. “That’s disgusting! Mama, I’m out of here.”
“Have it your way, dear, but I’m going to join. The health club on the other side of town charges almost double, and I don’t like its rowing machines nearly as much. Mr. Dougherty’s machines are inside real little boats, and they look just like the one your daddy died in.” She sighed. “Of course, you realize this is only an introductory offer. Next year the rate will go up.”
