by Tamar Myers
“About the painting—”
“Please, we’ve already covered that subject. I will not reveal my client’s name.”
“Fair enough. I can respect that. Perhaps, though, you could ask your client if he or she would consider selling the painting to me.”
Mama was gasping like a fish out of water. “Abby, I didn’t know you sold that painting. You never said a word.”
“Well, it was no big deal.”
“It is to me. I thought you were going to give it to me for my birthday.”
Uh-oh. I’d completely forgotten. Mama’s birthday was coming up in less than two weeks. Normally she barrages me with hints two months in advance.
“You wanted that painting, Mama?”
“Of course not. It was disgusting, just like you said. But you seemed to want it so bad. That’s why I thought you were getting it for me.”
“Well, I—don’t worry, Mama. I’ll buy you something really nice for your birthday. I promise.”
“Like what?”
“You name it. The sky’s the limit.”
“A diamond bracelet.”
“Done.”
Mama giggled and glanced at Priscilla. “Abby, we’re being silly.”
“No, we’re not. My ship has finally come in.” If loose lips can sink ships, then mine can sink an entire navy. But I felt a need to impress Priscilla in front of Mama, and besides, in a day or two everyone would know I was rolling in dough. Matt Lauer would invite me on the Today show to talk about Field of Thistles, and Jay Leno would start cracking short jokes.
Mama blushed. “Please, Abby, don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I am not embarrassing myself, Mama. I’m going to be—I mean, I am—a very rich woman.” Believe me, You Know Who’s ears perked up when I said the R word.
“Ah, yes,” she said, “the stock market. Still, one needs investment capital. Those knickknacks you sell must be quite profitable.”
“It has nothing to do with the market or my antiques. But it has everything to do with that hideous painting I bought Wednesday night.”
Priscilla swallowed a sip of merlot. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“I do,” Mama said excitedly. “You found a bundle of bills tucked into the frame. I found ten dollars tucked in a library book once.”
“No, Mama. I found a painting. Vincent van Gogh’s Field of Thistles.”
“You what?” Priscilla Hunt’s hand trembled, and deep red merlot stains instantly found the wrinkles that were hiding in her linen suit.
Mama sprang to life. “Quick, paper towels! Abby, find some paper towels and club soda!”
I jumped to my feet.
“Wait a minute! Salt! Get salt as well. It will suck the color right out of linen.”
“Sit!” Her Majesty ordered.
I sat.
“Tell me about this painting.”
“Well, like I said, it’s a van Gogh and—”
“Nonsense! You wouldn’t find a real van Gogh at a church auction.”
“But I did. And it’s worth between ten and fifteen million dollars. More if the Japanese get involved.”
Mama’s eyeballs were in danger of landing in her lap. “Abby, is this really true?”
“Yes, Mama. Maybe now you can finally be proud of me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I’ve always been proud of you.”
“As proud of me as you are of Toy? Because it’s always Toy this, Toy that. You’d think he hung the moon and stars. Well, let me tell you something, Mama, last time I spoke to Toy out in Hollywood, he bragged about mooning the stars.”
“Oh, Abby, don’t be jealous,” Mama wailed. “I only carry on about Toy because—well, because he’s such a loser, and I don’t want you thinking ill of your brother. But you’ve always been my favorite child.”
“Honest?”
“Honest. I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah. And I love you, too, Mama.”
“This is all very touching,” Priscilla said and drained what remained in her wineglass. “But would you mind terribly if we get back to the painting?”
“Ah, yes! My ten-million-dollar baby.”
“So you’ve found a buyer already?” The quaver in Her Majesty’s voice made her sound like the real queen.
“Not yet, but I’ve found a broker who just happens to be the world’s expert on van Gogh. He flew out from New York this morning and pronounced it the real thing. Of course, he needs to do some routine lab tests, but—”
The sudden infusion of wine must not have agreed with our hostess. Her face had gone cotton-white, and the blue-blooded lips had actually turned blue. The same thing happened to my daughter, Susan, once when I let her stay too long in the swimming pool.
“Are you all right, Priscilla?”
There was no response.
“Mrs. Hunt?” I called louder.
“Huh?” was the best Her Majesty could do.
Mama was back on her feet. “Maybe she’s in shock on account of the spilled wine.”
“What should we do?” I wailed.
“I think I read we’re supposed to put her feet up. And loosen her garments. Or was it the other way around? No, that wouldn’t make any sense because—”
“Mama, you loosen her feet. I’ll get some water.”
“Water?”
“That’s what they do in the movies,” I wailed. “They make them drink water.”
I ran into the kitchen, located a crystal goblet in the first cupboard I opened, and filled it with tap water. I was gone only a matter of seconds, but when I returned, Priscilla lay on the floor, her feet propped against the back of the veilleuse. Mama was standing over her, looking particularly grim.
“Did you loosen her blouse?” I demanded.
“I did,” Mama moaned. “But it didn’t do any good. She’s dead.”
25
“Dead?”
“It was my Bolivian wine, wasn’t it?” Mama wailed. “I killed her.”
I knelt over Priscilla Hunt’s prostrate body. Mama was right. She didn’t seem to be breathing.
“Maybe she had a heart attack. Mama, don’t you know CPR?”
“Me? Don’t you?”
I glanced around for a telephone, but there was none. I ran back into the kitchen and, after wasting even more precious seconds, spotted a white cordless phone attached to a white cupboard panel. I made the call.
“Any change?” I asked when I returned.
Mama shook her head. “Oh, Abby, do you think they’ll send me to jail?”
“Of course not, Mama. But even if they do…well, you always did look good in stripes.”
“Really? Horizontal or vertical?”
“Definitely vertical. And go for pastel if you get a choice.”
“Yes, pink is my color.”
“Mama, I’m only kidding! No one’s going to send you to jail for giving someone a five dollar bottle of wine. Even if they tried, I wouldn’t let them. Buford and I might not get along, but he was always very fond of you. Still asks about you, in fact. Anyway, I’m sure Buford is buddies with all the best lawyers in both Carolinas, and if anyone has a pocketful of judges, it’s him.”
Mama nodded absently. No doubt she was already planning the seersucker curtains for her barred window, and a bed set in complementing colors.
Unfortunately, there was nothing either of us could do but wait until the paramedics showed up. Although it wasn’t dark yet, I flipped on the porch light and left the door ajar to make the house easier to find—not that it was necessary, mind you. In my panic, I had blurted out, “The queen is dead! Long live the king!” The dispatcher, bless her soul, had known exactly whom I meant and where she lived.
I wrung my hands while Mama, bless her heart, decorated her cell. The loud knock on the door made us both jump.
“The paramedics,” Mama gasped. “They’re finally here.”
I gasped as well. A burly man with a wide nose a
nd deep-set eyes was standing in the doorway. I may not have recognized the man’s face, but I sure as shooting recognized the grommet-studded vest.
“He’s not a paramedic, Mama. He’s a motorcyclist.”
Mama was too distraught to hear. “The police? Tell them the bottle had a cork in it when I bought it. I made sure of that. It wasn’t one of those twist-off kinds you wanted me to buy. It was real wine. From Bolivia!”
I positioned myself between Mama and the intruder. “What do you want?”
“I thought something might be wrong,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“Wrong? Why ever would you think that?” I felt behind me for a fire poker or heavy vase with which to conk him on the head. But life is not like the movies, and all I got was a fistful of crinoline.
“The door was open and—” The deep-set eyes widened a fraction. He had seen Priscilla Hunt. “What happened here?”
“It’s none of your business,” I shrieked. “The paramedics will be here any second!”
“My name’s Freddy. I’ve had some paramedic training.” He knelt beside the still form of Priscilla Hunt and felt for a pulse. “How long has she been this way?”
“I don’t know,” I wailed. “But it couldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
“You try CPR?”
“I don’t know how!”
“Step back, please.”
Mama and I stepped back and watched wordlessly as Freddy worked to resuscitate Priscilla. He placed his hands on her sternum, one on top of the other, and pumped rhythmically. Then he pinched her nose and breathed directly into her mouth. He repeated the process a number of times, and every now and then he stopped and listened for a heartbeat. Finally, he looked up at us and grinned.
“Got a good beat going,” he said. “And I can hear the sirens. The paramedics will be here any minute. I think she’ll make it.”
“Thank heavens!” Mama’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in my arms.
I staggered under her weight, and it was only with Freddy’s help that I managed to lay her gently on the floor beside Priscilla Hunt. One might incorrectly assume that Mama was suffering from the same condition as Priscilla, but only if one does not know Mama. As Freddy and I lowered Mama to the antique Persian carpet, her tiny hands smoothed her skirt beneath her, and when she was all settled, she rearranged her pearls.
“Will she be all right?” Freddy asked. His concern was touching.
“She’ll be as fine as frog’s hair. She just wants you to resuscitate her.”
“I do not!”
“Then sit up, Mama.”
Mama sat and fluffed the hair at the back of her head. “Honestly, Abby, I don’t know where you get some of your ideas.”
I was about to tell her where I got them when the loud wail of sirens announced the paramedics’ arrival. I ran to the door to wave them inside. When I looked back, Freddy was gone.
The Rock Hill paramedics were a marvel to watch. They had Priscilla Hunt hooked up to oxygen and loaded into the ambulance before you could flip a flapjack. No doubt it was a heart attack, they said. Just as many women die from heart attacks as men. But not to worry—Her Majesty would be well taken care of in Piedmont Medical Center’s fine new cardiac care wing. She was lucky, though, to have two knowledgeable friends like us to give her what she needed.
The Rock Hill police were as nice as they could be. They assured Mama that her Bolivian merlot was not an issue. The bottle was on the kitchen counter, still unopened. They offered to give us a ride back to Mama’s house, but of course there really was no need. Mama and I had a light supper of leftovers while we polished off the crossword puzzle in the Observer. I was just saying good night, about to head for the door, when the police called, asking us to come down to the station. A few details had come to light, they said, and they wanted our take on them.
Mama, ever the worrier, called Greg. This was despite my protestations and after I made it perfectly clear to her that Greg, as a member of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg police department, had no jurisdiction in South Carolina. It was a moot point, however, because Greg wasn’t even home. Nonetheless, Mama left a tearful message informing him of our imagined plight and entreating him to come to our rescue.
Now it was beginning to look like she had done the right thing. We were seated in a small, but not unpleasant, room in the Rock Hill Police Department, just across the street from York County Public Library, and we were being asked a million questions. Officer Yoder, a man who looked young enough to be my son, did most of the asking.
“What is your relationship to Mrs. Hunt?” he asked, in a voice that still changed registers.
“We’re dear friends.”
“Mama!”
“All right, maybe we’re not dear friends, but I’ve known the woman her entire life. She goes to my church.”
“Mama and Mrs. Hunt operate on different social levels,” I said by way of clarification.
“That’s not true, Abby. She just has more money. We belong to the same clubs.”
“Mama!”
“Well, one, at any rate.”
“The Allergy Club,” I said.
“That’s Apathia Club, and it’s the most exclusive club in Rock Hill.”
Officer Yoder bit his Bic. He had teeth like a rabbit, and the pen was deeply marked.
“I see, and what was the nature of your visit to her house tonight?”
“We were invited there for dinner.” The pride in Mama’s voice was almost touching.
“Was anyone else invited?”
“No.”
“Was Mr. Hunt there?”
“No. Priscilla said he had to take a last minute business trip.”
Priscilla? What ever happened to Her Majesty? Soon Mama would reveal that she and the Queen had slit their fingers as girls and commingled their blood.
“And what were you served?” The Bic paused above a writing pad for a second and then returned to Officer Yoder’s mouth. No doubt it felt much more at home there.
“Well, we didn’t have a chance to eat dinner,” I offered, “but we had some delicious rumaki for appetizers.”
By the look on Officer Yoder’s face, it was clear that he had no idea what I meant. I hastened to explain.
“Traditionally, rumaki is marinated chicken livers and water chestnuts, wrapped in bacon. Cooked, of course. Some people prefer scallops to chicken livers, however. Mrs. Hunt served scallops and shrimp. I just love shrimp.”
“Abby took half the plate,” Mama whined.
Officer Yoder laid down his pen just long enough to blow his nose on a wad of well-used tissue. “What did you have to drink?”
Mama grimaced. “The worst sweet tea this side of China. It was one of those canned mixes.”
“I had a crisp sauvignon blanc with herbal undertones,” I said. “It was mostly undertones.”
“What did Mrs. Hunt have to drink?”
“It wasn’t my merlot,” Mama wailed. “The officer there said the bottle wasn’t even opened.”
I nodded vigorously to underscore Mama’s point. “But it was a red wine—well, a red beverage, at any rate.”
“Was any other food or beverage served?”
“No,” Mama said. “We didn’t even get to find out what she was planning for an entrée.”
“Chicken, ma’am. Our detectives found a roast chicken in the oven.”
“Chicken? Her Majesty was going to serve us roast chicken?”
“Maybe she was going to doctor it up with a sauce,” I said gently. It had been a long day for Mama, a woman who wouldn’t dream of serving something as mundane as roast chicken to her guests. If it didn’t have four legs, it wasn’t fit for company.
“How long do you estimate you were at Mrs. Hunt’s house?” Officer Yoder asked.
“Twenty minutes,” I said. “Maybe half an hour, if you include the incident.”
“Was Mrs. Hunt ever out of your sight?”
“Yes, when
she went to get the drinks.”
“And how long did that take?”
Mama snorted. “As long as it takes to make tea from a mix.”
Officer Yoder put his pen down. He seemed to age ten years before our eyes.
“Now, tell me about the incident.”
“It was like this,” I said, before Mama had a chance to muddy the waters. “Priscilla and I were chatting, and suddenly her eyes glazed over and she sort of slumped into her chair.”
“Then what?”
“Then I ran into the kitchen—there wasn’t any phone in the drawing room—and dialed 911.”
Officer Yoder turned to Mama. “Mrs. Wiggins, what did you do while your daughter called for help?”
“I lifted her legs and loosened her clothes.”
“It was all on the up-and-up,” I said quickly.
He nodded. “Miss Timberlake, what were you and the victim talking about when the incident happened?”
“A painting.”
“You mean like art?”
“Absolutely not. This painting was a piece of garbage I picked up at a church auction sale.”
“If it was garbage, why did you buy it?”
“To help raise money for the youth group. They need a new van.”
“I donated wooden salad bowls,” Mama said. “Real teak salad bowls from Thailand.”
Officer Yoder treated us to a sliver of a smile. “I believe my wife bought them.”
“You’re an Episcopalian?”
“Not by a long shot. My wife loves sales, though. She saw the ad in the paper.”
“Tell her I have a matching serving fork and spoon. I’ll be glad to part with them for a song.”
“I’ll do that. Now, Mrs. Wiggins, are you much of a gardener?”
“Am I ever! You should see my perennial beds. They won first prize in the Rock Hill Garden Club competition the year before last. And behind the house I have a little vegetable plot with the biggest, juiciest tomatoes in York County. Of course, Abby here makes fun of me because you can buy such a wide variety of produce at the supermarket these days, but it isn’t the same.”
“You’re right about that, ma’am.” He turned to me. “Do you garden?”
“I rotate my crops. One week I shop at Harris Teeter; the next, Winn Dixie; then Hannaford’s. It saves on calluses.”
