by Tamar Myers
He turned back to Mama. “Are you familiar with malathion?”
“Of course. It’s an insecticide.”
“Do you ever use it?”
“Look, officer,” I said, “this garden chat is all very interesting, but it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“It’s more than interesting, ma’am. Mrs. Wiggins, please answer my question.”
“Well—I…uh…I think I used some last year when the Japanese beetles were so bad. I know they say to use one of those less toxic powders, but it was my turn to supply flowers for the church, and those powders don’t wash off very easily. I couldn’t very well have white-blotched roses up there behind the altar, now, could I?”
“I see. Was there any malathion left over?”
“Of course. I didn’t use that much.”
“What did you do with the leftover?”
I didn’t like where this was leading. “Now wait just one minute—sir. My mama knows better than to dump toxic substances down the drain. I know for a fact that she turns her unused poisons in to the city during their annual collection program.”
Mama squirmed. “Actually, Abby, last year I didn’t. That stuff is very expensive, you know. I think it’s still sitting in the garage.”
“Yes—but, Mama, this has nothing to do with Priscilla Hunt’s heart attack. There is no reason he can’t talk to you about this tomorrow.”
Officer Yoder picked up the pen, made a new dent in the cap, and laid it down. “Mrs. Hunt didn’t have a heart attack. Not tonight, at any rate. She was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Mama and I echoed.
“Malathion.”
“But that’s impossible,” I cried. “Did she tell you this?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Priscilla Hunt died minutes after reaching the hospital.”
26
Mama and I exchanged shocked glances.
Officer Yoder spun the pen, which lay on the table between us. “But then, of course, you anticipated that, didn’t you?”
“We most certainly did not,” I said. Mama, bless her heart, could barely catch her breath.
For the first time, Officer Yoder consulted his pad. “Let’s see…your exact words to the dispatcher were ‘the queen is dead, long live the king.’”
“Yes, I thought she was dead. But only in the beginning. Then the biker showed up and performed CPR and got her breathing again. She was very much alive when they put her in the ambulance. Check with the paramedics—they’ll tell you that!”
The pen spun out of control and shot off the corner of the desk. Officer Yoder looked torn between retrieving it and asking what I knew would be his next question. Picking up the pen delayed the inevitable by only a second or two. Much to my surprise, he actually began to use it.
“A biker, you say?” He scribbled on the pad. “You mean one of those guys in speedos who drive motorists crazy?”
“I believe, sir, that would be a cyclist. This is the other kind—one of those guys in leather who drive middle-aged men crazy. Makes them all want to be Jack Nicholson and Peter Fonda in Easy Rider.”
“Are you saying that a motorcyclist just happened to stop by Mrs. Hunt’s house shortly after she consumed the malathion?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Describe this man to me. It was a man, wasn’t it?”
“Definitely,” Mama said, her eyes glazing over.
“Would you describe him please, Mrs. Wiggins?”
Mama sighed. “He was dreamy.”
Officer Yoder wisely turned to me. “Ma’am?”
“Well, sir, he’s tall and kind of burly, with little pig eyes and a nose that looks like it’s been kissed by a Mack truck.”
“Those are lies,” Mama wailed.
The pen was finally being put to good use. “How tall is tall, ma’am?”
I hoped he wasn’t being facetious. Just because I’m vertically challenged doesn’t mean I don’t recognize society’s conventions.
“He was six foot two and a half,” I said emphatically.
Officer Yoder smiled. “Weight?”
“Well over two hundred pounds. Maybe two hundred and fifty. But, like I said, burly—not fat.”
“It was all muscle,” Mama moaned.
“Had either of you ever seen this man before?”
Mama shook her head.
I braced myself for the fallout. “I have.”
“What? Abby, that’s not true! Tell the officer you were only kidding.”
“Yes, Mama, it is true. I have seen the biker before, but only from a distance.”
“When was that?” Officer Yoder asked calmly.
“That night at the church auction, for one thing, and then out near Pine Manor—”
Mama was beside herself. “You really did go out to Pine Manor?”
“I wanted to give Adele Sweeny my condolences,” I said. That was partly true. I would have done just that if the poor woman had been aware of her son’s death.
“Abby, I thought you were just trying to yank my chain.”
“Moi?” I turned and addressed Officer Yoder. “I think the man’s been following me.”
He scribbled some more. “Do you have any idea why he would do that?”
Mama, of course, felt free to jump in. “Maybe he was looking for a chance to meet me.”
We both ignored her.
“I can’t prove anything,” I said, “but I have my suspicions.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“I think it has to do with a very valuable painting I acquired this week.”
“It’s worth ten million dollars,” Mama gushed. “Abby’s going to buy me a diamond bracelet.”
That seemed to jump-start Officer Yoder’s engine. Call it vanity on my part, but I’d swear under oath that the first thing he did was look at my ring finger.
“You think this man—this motorcyclist—is after your painting?”
“That’s just a guess, since he was there when I bought it. Only he had no way of knowing that unless he works for Marina Weiss. Of course, that’s it! She hired him to help keep tabs on me.”
If Officer Yoder ever wanted to switch careers, he would do well to consider medicine. The marks he scribbled on his pad could be read only by a pharmacist.
“Miss Timberlake, to your knowledge, did this man—the one who appeared to have resuscitated Mrs. Hunt—have any relationship to her? Gardener, chauffeur, something like that?”
“How should I know?” I snapped. “I am not my sovereign’s keeper.”
Our interrogator turned to Mama. “Had you ever seen this man before?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s to die for,” Mama said, practically drooling. “He makes Mel Gibson look like chopped liver. Say, he’s not a suspect, is he?”
“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to say.”
Of course, Mama jumped to conclusions. Then again, it is one of the few exercises there is in which one can engage while wearing spike heels.
“You’ve arrested that dreamy man, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you know something you’re not saying. At least tell me this: does South Carolina allow conjugal visits?”
“Mama!”
Officer Yoder stood. “Well, that’s it for now. If you can think of any other details that might help me get a fuller story, give me a call.” He handed us each a card.
“That’s it?” Mama wailed. “You dragged us out of bed, asked us a few questions, told us the woman we were about to dine with was dead, asked us a million more questions, and then excused us like we’re the morning kindergarten class?”
“Mama,” I said gently, “you weren’t in bed. We had just finished the crossword puzzle, and I was leaving to go home, remember? Anyway, it’s time for us to go. Officer Yoder is through with us.”
“But maybe I’m not through with him. Is he the only one who gets to ask the questions?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that’s the way the system works.”
Mama crossed her arms in front of her cinched waist. Her crinolines billowed below them.
“It isn’t fair.”
“That may be, but there is nothing you can do about it.”
“I could hold a sit-down strike. Isn’t that what you did in the seventies?”
“Mama, you really could end up in the jail,” I whispered.
I grabbed her elbow and tried to steer her toward the door of the room, but she wouldn’t budge. It was like her spike heels had drilled through the linoleum and were embedded in the concrete subfloor.
“Please, Mama, don’t make a scene.”
“What color are your uniforms?” she demanded.
“Excuse me?”
“I look best in pastels. Preferably pink. And I really don’t mind the stripes. Abby here says I look good in stripes. But they need to be vertical.”
I positioned myself behind Mama, lifted my right foot, and pushed firmly but gently on the soft spot behind her right knee. Mama lurched forward, and, before she could regain her balance, I had her halfway out the door. Momentum was on my side from then on.
After making sure Mama was really in bed, I drove home the back way. Even at that late hour, I-77 was clogged with Buckeyes and Quebecers who’d had their fill of Myrtle Beach, and I didn’t feel like playing Carolina tag. It was still very warm out, but not suffocating, and I had the window down. There is something exhilarating about being on a country road, at night, with the wind blowing through one’s hair. So what if my hair got greasy and I perspired a little? There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? And besides, when I got home I planned to do two things: feed Dmitri a can of gourmet cat food (it was way past his feeding time) and take a nice, long soak in the tub.
Unfortunately, my path took me right past the new Burger King in Pineville, and the smell of charbroiled beef through the open window was irresistible. I would have taken advantage of the drive-through, except that I suddenly realized I had to use the bathroom. A few more minutes weren’t going to hurt a cat that could go for days sticking up his nose at the most tempting morsels money could buy. I made a silent pledge that if my ten-pound bundle of joy forgave me my tardiness, I would give him a thorough combing and a pinch of catnip.
I used the ladies room, got my order—burger, fries, and a medium strawberry shake—and it wasn’t until I started scouting for a place to sit that I saw them. I wisely put my tray down on the nearest empty table and then willed my rubbery legs to transport me across the room.
“Well, look who’s here,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at Greg. Or Hooter, for that matter. I let my eyes wander back and forth between C. J. and Sergeant Bowater.
“Hey, Abby, sit down,” Greg had the nerve to say.
Of course, there wasn’t any place to sit, and I wouldn’t have sat even if that booth was on the last train out of hell. From the corner of my vision, I saw Hooter scoot over against the wall, her enormous breasts jiggling like a pair of Santa Claus bellies.
“C. J., how could you?” I moaned.
She blushed. “I didn’t know you could see under the table, and we’re only holding hands.”
“I’m not talking about you, dear, I’m talking about them! How could you betray me like this with them?”
“Abby!” Greg said sharply. “This wasn’t C. J.’s idea. We just happened to run into them.”
“And I suppose you just happened to run into her,” I said, still not looking at Greg or his bovine companion.
“Would you believe it if I said yes? Because, as a matter of fact, I did just run into her.”
Hooter jiggled indignantly. “Hey, I have a name.”
“Is it Moo?”
“Abby! You’re above that.”
“I am?” I finally was too mad to cry and could afford to look at him. Those deep blue eyes had the affrontery to stare calmly back.
“Hooter was getting out of her car when I pulled up. It would have been rude not to ask her to join me.”
“Indeed.”
“And then we arrived.” C. J. looked at Sergeant Bowater and cooed just like a pigeon. “This man’s a keeper, Abby. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“By never making that disgusting noise again, dear.”
“Okey-doke. Anyway, Abby, they didn’t even want to sit together after we joined them. Hooter kept trying to slide into the booth beside me. But I said, ‘No way.’ I’ve been down that road, done that. I wanted to sit with my Bo-Bo.”
“Your Bo-Bo?” Greg, Hooter, and I said in unison.
“So, Abby, you don’t have anything to be mad about. Greg is crazy about you. That’s all he’s been talking about. It’s about made us sick to our stomachs.”
Hooter and Sergeant Bowater nodded vigorously.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, “besides ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Oh, it ain’t nothing,” Hooter said and jiggled closer to the window. “Come on, Gregory. Scoot over and let Abby sit.”
I took a step back. “No, I don’t deserve to.”
“Sit!” everyone ordered.
I thought it over for a nanosecond and then sat. It was a decision I still regret.
27
It is not my place to judge others, but I only sleep with married men. Perhaps that did not come out the way I intended. What I mean is, I do not sleep with men to whom I am not married. Greg and I parted amicably, and somewhat tenderly, in the parking lot of Burger King. We had plans to see each other the following evening. There was no need for him to come home with me—and besides, I had another, younger male already waiting.
“Dmitri,” I called before I even had the key out of the lock. “Mama’s home.”
No answering meow, no fat yellow tummy rubbing against my leg.
“Dmitri!”
Except for the ticking of the ship’s clock on the mantel, my house was silent.
“Dmitri! If you forgive me and come out now, I’ll scratch under your chin for—what the hell?”
There was a yellow stick-up note on the mantel straight ahead. Dmitri may be uncommonly bright, even for a cat, but he doesn’t leave me notes. Mama does, and sometimes my children, Charlie and Susan, do. In any of these cases, unfortunately, the notes tend to be whining reminders of how I have failed somebody by not reading their mind and being home upon demand.
I strode to the mantel and ripped loose the bright scrap of paper.
Go to Pine Manor nursing home. Bring painting with you. Be there, midnight sharp—or you won’t see your cat again.
Mouse
P.S. Tell anyone, and it dies.
I gasped, read the note again, and dropped it on the floor. It was 11:35. Pine Minor nursing home was a good forty-five-minute drive, more like an hour if I obeyed all traffic laws. I couldn’t very well call there and ask if someone named Mouse had catnapped my pussy, now, could I? And there certainly wasn’t any time to waste calling friends and family to see if this was just a sick joke. I knew in my bones that it wasn’t. No one but Mama was even aware I had been out there to see Adele Sweeny, and Mama loves—well, tolerates—my yellow bundle of joy. Besides, I had yet to tell her about Mouse. No, there was no time to do anything except comply with the demands of the note.
I ran into the guest bedroom, threw back the covers, and, for one agonizing minute, stared at Field of Thistles. Then I did what any normal, red-blooded American mother would do in my size-four shoes; I snatched up the canvas and made a beeline for Pine Manor.
I burned up the highway getting to Rock Hill, and from there I was a menace on the byways. It was a wonder I didn’t have an accident, much less get a string of tickets. It was 12:08 when, amidst a spray of gravel, I jolted to a stop in front of the tiny nursing home. There were two other vehicles in the parking lot: a black Cadillac and Mouse Trap’s van.
Please don’t tell me what I should, or should not, have done. That’s all wate
r over the Rock Hill dam now. What I did was barge straight into the nursing home with a ten-million-dollar painting under my arm. I expected to confront the evil Mouse, but what I didn’t expect was to see him sitting on the couch, along with his brother Johnny and Hortense Simms.
“Did they hurt you?” were the first words out of my mouth, thereby proving that I am not entirely self-absorbed, and that I do value human life over feline life—although sometimes just barely.
Much to my surprise, Hortense smiled. “My cousins would never hurt me.”
“What?”
“Johnny and Mouse. My cousins from Shelby.”
“Actually, we’re first cousins once removed,” Johnny said. “Pull up a chair, Abigail. It’s good to see you.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Hortense said, “close your mouth, or flies will get in.”
“At night, it’s likely to be mosquitoes,” Mouse said. The three of them laughed.
I sat, but only because my legs would no longer support me. “Where’s Dmitri?” I croaked.
Hortense and Mouse both rolled their eyes.
“I think she means her cat,” Johnny said.
“You’re damn square, I do. Where is he?”
“He’s safe,” Johnny said.
Mouse reached behind Hortense and cuffed Johnny’s right year. “He ain’t safe for long.”
“Harm one hair on his yellow head, and you’ll pay for it,” I growled.
“You see what I mean?” Johnny said. “She’s a tough little thing.”
Mouse cuffed his brother again. “Ah, she ain’t so tough.”
“Maybe I’m not, but I’m not afraid of you.”
“You ought to be.”
Johnny sighed. “You see, she reminds me of Mama.”
“Your mama is dead,” I snapped. “You boys killed her, remember?”
Johnny paled. “We did no such thing.”
“Oh, yes, you did. Y’all killed both your parents and used to brag about it at school. In fact, you—,” I said to Johnny,—“wrote a prize-winning short story about it.”
Johnny grinned. “Yeah, it was a good one. I later made it the basis for one of my mystery novels. Say, how did you know about that?”
