by Tamar Myers
“Hello?” I said.
“Mrs. Washburn, Mrs. Washburn—if you ever want—more fruit—more fruit—see your mother again. Again. Fork over the Monet.”
The caller hung up.
I have a vague recollection of Greg pressing another Xanax on me. Shortly after that, I hung up on reality.
When I awoke, sun was streaming through the windows and my darling husband was sitting next to me on the bed holding a breakfast tray in his lap.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “What perfect timing. You’ve got orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon, and cinnamon toast. And of course, grits.”
Greg does take off work on Sunday mornings, but he never brings me breakfast in bed. He tried that once with an ulterior motive, but there are certain things that shouldn’t be done on a full stomach. The sloshing around of juice and several cups of coffee was distracting.
I scooted up and stuffed my pillow behind the small of my back. “Thanks, dear, you shouldn’t have.” I snatched a piece of bacon from the tray. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy dream I had—oh my God! Is it true? Is Mama missing?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Greg, in my dream the phone rang—”
I dropped the bacon as the real phone rang.
“Abby, darling,” Greg said gently, “wait until the fifth ring and then answer.”
“But what’s going on? Is she—”
Greg reached over me, picked up the receiver, and held it against my ear. “Speak slowly. Try and keep the caller on the line as long as possible.”
“Hello,” I said, instead of my usual “Hey.”
“Mrs. Washburn, Mrs. Washburn, is that you?”
“Yes, it is me, Abby Washburn. But my maiden name was—”
“No police, Mrs. Washburn, Mrs. Washburn. No police. We have a wardrobe malfunction. Malfunction, malfunction. Police, Mrs. Washburn?” The caller hung up.
Greg’s head pressed against mine. I’m sure he heard every word.
“You did good, Abby.”
“Oh Greg,” I wailed, “Mama’s been kidnapped by a lunatic, and it’s all my fault.”
My dearly beloved took the breakfast tray from my lap, sat on the bed next to me, and cradled me in his arms. “No one—even the Man Upstairs—could have stopped Mozella from going to that dance. If scientists could harness her strength and determination, she’d be a national treasure.”
“But I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight!”
“Again, Abby, that couldn’t have been prevented. You have got to stop blaming yourself for something that was out of your hands, and start focusing on what you can do to bring Mozella back.”
“Like what? Greg, you know I’m not all that religious—”
He laid a finger—which smelled of fish—gently against my lips. “Prayer is always appropriate, but I was thinking of something a bit more concrete.”
“Such as?”
“Hon, how would you describe the voice on the phone?”
“Well, it was a man’s—you heard it, too. What gives?”
“Humor me.”
I sighed. “As I was saying, it was a man’s voice. I couldn’t place the accent—it seemed to be all over the board, like when Yankees try to sound Southern. And the phrasing was weird.”
“Like it had been patched together, maybe on a tape?”
“Exactly.”
“Could it have been a bird’s voice?”
“What?” I shook my head as my sedated brain resumed thinking. “Monet! That was a montage of Monet’s vocalizations. That means—Greg, it isn’t college boys, is it?”
He squeezed my shoulders. “Probably not. Don’t worry, hon, the Feds are working hard on it—”
“The Feds?”
“You know that kidnapping is a federal crime.”
“But that’s on TV and in the movies. It’s not supposed to happen with Mama.”
“And don’t believe everything you see in the movies, Abby. The overwhelming majority of kidnapping victims are returned unharmed.”
“That’s because the overwhelming majority are kidnapped by a parent. You said so yourself, once. Greg, this is a whole different—”
The phone rang again. This time I lunged for it.
“Remember,” Greg whispered, “keep them on the line.”
“I want to speak to Mama,” I yelled.
Having been made stupid by fear, I missed the first part of the recording. “…Pineapple Fountain. More fruit—from its frame—roll up—you’re one hot number, kiddo—tube in the fountain—top tier, top tier—do you understand, Mrs. Parker,” the mynah asked, suddenly switching to a woman’s voice. “Will be shot, will be shot—Golconda fruit.” The conversation ended with a dial tone.
“Good job,” Greg said.
“Good job? I didn’t do anything, except almost blow it.”
A soft tap on the bedroom door made me jump, smacking Greg on the chin with the crown of my head. Fortunately, we’re both heavy milk drinkers and have strong bones and teeth.
“Come in,” Greg called without missing a beat.
The door opened and in stepped a pair of agents from the Bureau of Information. I could tell that even before they introduced themselves, because they were brimming with authority. Frankly, I’m surprised they knocked.
“She needs to remain calm,” the female agent said, as if I wasn’t in the room. Since she was scowling, I decided to call her Scowler—to myself, of course.
“We almost didn’t hear the drop-off time,” her companion said. His suit was rumpled, and he looked like he hadn’t bathed in days—perhaps he was English—so I decided to call him Moldy.
Greg squeezed me tighter. “But of course you taped the conversation,” he said.
I pushed free from his embrace. “Drop off what? That was a bird on the phone, and it was demanding itself as a ransom.”
Scowler and Moldy exchanged glances.
“Is she under a doctor’s care?” Scowler asked.
“She’s right here,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Monet was the name of a bird my wife bought at an auction,” Greg explained. “It was stolen from her shop a few days ago. And my wife is right: that was Monet on the phone demanding my mother-in-law’s ransom.”
The Feds conferred briefly.
“Sir,” Scowler said, addressing Greg, “I’m afraid this matter is out of our jurisdiction.”
“Kidnapping is in your jurisdiction,” Greg snapped. I had never seen him so angry.
“Yes,” Moldy said, “but practical jokes aren’t.”
“My mother-in-law is missing—that’s not a practical joke.”
“Perhaps she ran away.”
I never knew that Greg had a vein on his right temple, much less one that could throb. “Mozella Wiggins did not run away.”
“We’ll have to turn this matter over to your local police,” Scowler said.
Moldy was, hands down, the more compassionate of the pair. “It’s already been almost twenty-four hours, so you only have one more day to wait until they’ll act on the missing person’s report.”
I nudged Greg. “But it hasn’t been anywhere near twenty-four hours,” I whispered.
“Darling,” he whispered back, “it’s Sunday afternoon.”
“What?”
“You needed your sleep, hon.”
“Holy guacamole!” I broke free of Greg’s embrace and sat up. Too late I remembered that I normally sleep au natural. I slid back down until the covers came up to my eyes.
“My wife never sleeps this late,” my dear husband said on my behalf.
“Harrumph,” Scowler said, using the actual word.
“My wife works,” Moldy said.
“So does Abby,” Greg said.
I slipped an arm out and waved it. “I’m right here, y’all.”
The three of them stared at me.
“And if you don’t mind,” I continued, “I’d appreciate it if everyone would adjourn
to the living room while I make myself presentable.”
They continued to stare, like I was a talking pillow. I had no recourse but to flip the covers back altogether.
5
“You didn’t!” Rob gasped, properly aghast.
“I did.”
“Then what?”
“They left the room, of course.”
“Abby, I can’t believe you bared it all for the Feds,” Bob boomed.
“I didn’t. Greg put me to bed, so I was still wearing a bra and panties. We’ve been married two years and he still can’t—never mind. Mama’s missing, and we have to wait another day to do anything.”
Bob draped a brotherly arm around my shoulder. “We feel your pain, Abby. Mozella is a special woman.”
“Who’s been kidnapped by a lunatic who uses a bird’s voice to deliver his messages.”
“Or her messages,” Rob said gently. “I mean, the kidnapper could be a woman.”
“Whatever. But this nutcase is demanding we fork over Monet, which he or she already has.”
“I’ll have to admit it’s weird,” Bob said.
“Can you repeat the phone call word for word?” Rob asked.
I took a long sip of my beverage before obliging him. We were standing in the Rob-Bobs’ kitchen, which was disgustingly clean and smelled of baking bread. I’d been immediately invited to stay for Sunday night supper, but upon hearing that the main course was octopus aspic, I’d declined. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t partake of the “house wine,” which, like in every good Southern household, is really sweetened ice tea.
“Very interesting,” Rob said when I was done imitating the stupid bird that had brought so much trouble into my life. “The Feds may have missed something.”
“Like what?”
Rob hoisted me atop a bar stool so we could see eye-to-eye. “That bit about Pineapple Fountain and the tube, it sort of makes sense.”
“Huh?”
Pineapple Fountain, by the way, is a Charleston landmark. Shaped like a pineapple—of course—the fountain is located in Waterfront Park near the cruise boat passenger terminal on Charleston harbor.
“The fountain is being cleaned,” Rob said, gathering momentum. “It’s dry as a bone right now. Bob and I saw it yesterday on our walk. If you were to leave something in a tube on the top tier, it might be out of sight, and it certainly wouldn’t get wet.”
“You mean like a test tube?”
Rob chuckled. “No, Abby, I’m thinking of a cardboard tube.”
“I get it!” Bob bellowed, sounding very much like a moose in heat I’d seen on Animal Planet.
“Well, I don’t,” I wailed. “Would somebody please explain?”
Bob clapped his hands with excitement. “Let me tell her.”
“Go ahead,” Rob said, his eyes twinkling.
“Abby, they—I mean he or she—wants you to roll the Monet up in a tube and hide it in the top tier of the fountain.”
“But that’s silly, I can’t roll a bird up in a tube. Especially one that I don’t have.”
“Not the bird, Abby, but the real Monet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Someone thinks that you own a real Monet—you know, apainting by Claude Monet.”
“The impressionist?”
“Is there any other?”
“But that’s impossible. You know I don’t own a Monet, and even if I did, his paintings are huge. You could never hide one in the top tier of Pineapple Fountain.”
“Not necessarily,” Bob said, his voice at reasonable decibels. “Every painter goes through periods. Old Claude might have had a tiny phase.”
“I’m sure he did,” Rob said, “but it had nothing to do with his paintings. Abby’s right; Monet liked things on the grand scale. His painting Women in the Garden was almost eight feet high. He had a trench dug in his garden so he could raise or lower the canvas to the level he needed to paint on.”
“But he started out as a caricaturist,” Bob said, and crossed his arms in defiance.
I was already out of my field of expertise. The sad truth be known, I don’t even have a field of expertise. I just love old things, and get a kick out of it whenever someone else falls in love with something I’ve collected. I believe the enthusiasm I have for my merchandise is what has made the Den of Antiquity a success.
“Look, guys,” I said, “I don’t own even a minute Monet. There has got to be a better explanation.”
Rob refreshed my tea glass. “Abby, what do you know about the bird? How did it get its name?”
I shrugged. “A piece of paper came with the sale. It just told his name and what he ate. But you would have thought that his cage was made of gold, the way folks were bidding on it.”
“Hmm. How many bidders were there?”
“I don’t know—maybe a dozen at first, but five that hung in there until the ridiculous end. I think they only dropped out because they were afraid of being committed if they paid that much for a birdcage.”
“But you weren’t?”
“If I was going to be committed, it would have happened long ago. After all, I hang around with you, don’t I?”
Bob snorted. “You tell him, Abby.”
Rob smiled while simultaneously shooting his partner the evil eye. “Did you know any of the other bidders?”
“As a matter of fact, I know three of them. And all three of them could benefit from a good therapist.”
“Do tell,” Rob said, and pulled up a stool for himself.
But I refused to gossip—for the moment, at least. Instead I made them promise to meet me for the lunch the next day at Chez Fez, a new Moroccan restaurant that had opened on Meeting Street, just up the block from Jestine’s. That was every bit as hard as pulling teeth from a lockjawed hen. Chez Fez had garnered rave reviews in the Post and Courier, which proclaimed its chef as the best cook to set foot in Charleston in the last three years (our city has a plethora of fine eateries). At any rate, Bob somehow interpreted the article as a put-down of his culinary skills, even though he’s never cooked professionally. He agreed to go to Chez Fez only after I suggested he write a review of his own and submit it to Southern Living, which, of course, has a far wider circulation.
I barely slept a wink that night, which was to be expected. But neither did I toss and turn. As I lay in the dark, listening to my husband and Dmitri vie for loudest snore, I comforted myself by mentally reliving some of Mama’s wildest escapades. The woman was resourceful and, despite her eccentric appearance, as sharp as a brand-new tack. If indeed she’d been kidnapped, her captor would soon be sorry. I could just see her offering to knit him or her a sweater, and then knitting a straitjacket instead. The next time I saw her she’d be sitting on the set of Good Morning America, describing her great escape to Diane Sawyer.
And it was quite possible that my minimadre wasn’t even the victim of foul play. Although she’s still a virgin, I’ve long suspected that Mama has a secret spicy side. I would be properly shocked, but not surprised, to learn that she’d gone home from the ball with whichever bachelor codger had the strength to push her wheelchair back to his pad. They wouldn’t actually have sex, mind you (she would have stayed in his guest room—after giving it a thorough cleaning), but she would have cooked him meals loaded with both carbs and cholesterol, and in a wild and impetuous moment she might even have done his laundry without first separating the whites from the coloreds.
Of course I wasn’t about to quit worrying about my mother, but neither would I obsess. When Greg roused at the crack of dawn, as he normally does on a shrimping day, I got up with him. I’m telling the truth when I say I felt curiously refreshed.
“Oh hon,” he said, when he remembered he’d decided not to go in to work that day, “I’m sorry. I just forgot.”
“There’s no need to be sorry, Greg, and there’s no need to stay home from work.”
“You need me, babe. Besides, I want to stay and—oh shoot, Abby, you’re not going to pu
t on your gumshoes again?”
“They’re from Bob Ellis, and they’re ostrich leather.”
He sighed deeply. “I don’t have a snowball’s chance in Charleston of stopping you, do I?”
“Not even a snowball’s chance in Columbia.” Our state capital has colder winters than Charleston, but fiercely hot summers. Some wags claim it was built over Hell.
“Promise me you’ll carry your cell phone at all times, and will not do anything that is overtly illegal or extraordinarily dangerous.” A little danger was to be expected from me.
“I promise.”
He sighed again and then folded me into a long, hard embrace. “Hon, if anything happened to you—well, it better not. Why, oh why, did I marry such a headstrong woman?”
“Because you love me, including my strong head. Just don’t forget that I love you, too, and I want to spend your golden years with you, and not among strangers, pushing up daisies.”
That earned me a passionate kiss, another brief lecture, and a peck on the forehead.
Deephouse Designs, on Broad Street, is a Charleston phenomenon. It is the au courant place for interior design, in an historic city where there are more houses being refurbished than there are cobblestones. The powerhouse behind this successful business is Catherine Deephouse herself, or Cat, as she is known in the biz.
In the 1970s, venerable, but often cash-strapped, citizens of the peninsula began selling off their moldy mansions and moving to the suburbs, where property taxes were significantly lower. This began an influx of people from “off,” as Charlestonians refer to anyone other than themselves. What had once been a shabby-chic city underwent a transformation as the new owners, a few of whom had more money than God, began to vie for their shot at appearing in Architectural Digest. It didn’t matter that they viewed their Charleston homes as vacation getaways. What mattered was status, which often involved things, and the mistress of things was Cat Deephouse.
I’m not jealous, mind you, because Cat frequents my shop in her search for things. We get along as colleagues, but shy away from each other in social settings. It is probably my fault. I prefer quieter moments, surrounded by a few close friends. Cat, on the other hand, is an expert at the shouted sound-bite conversations that are inevitable at large cocktail parties.
