Monet Talks

by Tamar Myers

  “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “Did I pronounce it right?”

  “Close enough.”

  I was starting to like the man. Maybe even believe him. I took a huge bite of warm biscuit, dripping with honey butter It gave me an excuse to observe him without the risk of sticking my foot in my mouth. I could see how a young woman like Simone would find him devilishly attractive. His eyelashes alone could sweep away any thoughts of resistance.

  “Mrs. Washburn, do I have something caught in my mustache? Maybe some biscuit crumbs?”

  I swallowed hard. “No.”

  “I just wondered. You’ve been staring at me.”

  “Absolutely not. You see, there’s this very interesting couple sitting behind you—don’t turn around—and I’ve been watching them. People watching is so much fun, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it can be very entertaining,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  It was time to get back to business. “Mr. Dupree, suppose one was to build a hiding place in the Taj Mahal, where would it be?”

  He looked puzzled, perhaps properly so. “Sorry, but you’ve lost me.”

  “What I mean is—well, from what I understand, the birdcage is a pretty good replica of the real thing, given that one is a building and the other a cage with bars. But the scale is the same, and some of the more important architectural elements have been included in the cage. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Certainly. That’s why it would have looked so sharp in the middle of my restaurant. I was serious when I called it a work of art.”

  I nodded. “Now let’s say you were a smuggler—or I was the smuggler—and I wanted to use the birdcage to bring in my contraband. Given your knowledge of the real Taj Mahal, where would I stash it?”

  “Well, the real Taj Mahal contains a tomb, which would be the obvious hiding place. Of course the cage doesn’t have a corresponding structure—”

  “I apologize. That was a stupid question. You’re totally right. Comparing a cage—no matter how ornate and cleverly constructed—to a building is crazy. There is no comparison.”

  “Actually, there is.”

  22

  “Excuse me?”

  “The central dome. That’s what struck me when I first saw it at the auction preview. Although the rest of the cage is filigree wire, the dome is covered with some kind of metal.”

  “Yes, but it’s hollow inside. I’ve already looked up in there. But you know what, it’s just as beautiful inside as it is outside. And only the bird gets to see it.”

  “Lucky bird.” He sipped his sweet tea thoughtfully. “Mrs. Washburn,” he said at last, “the real Taj Mahal has a double dome. Were you aware of that?”

  I felt as if my heart was going to burst right out of my chest, like the alien offspring in some Sigourney Weaver movie. I had to recall my Lamaze breathing lessons.

  “Did you say a ‘double dome’? With a space between them?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That allowed the architects to make the top dome any shape they wanted, and as high as they wanted, without compromising the basic structure. Pretty clever, huh?”

  I tried to remember what it had looked like inside the dome of my mini-Taj. The interior space was about the size and shape of a basketball, yet when seen from the outside it was shaped more like an onion, a discrepancy that hadn’t sunk into my thick Wiggins skull until now.

  “Mr. Dupree, I hate to be rude, but I have to run now.”

  “But we haven’t even been served our entrées.”

  I gave him what I hoped was a winsome smile. “I ordered just a salad. You’re welcome to have it.”

  He stood, something every gentleman should do when a lady leaves the table; not just Southern gentlemen. “I hope to see you around, Mrs. Washburn. By the way, you’re not a bad belly dancer. With a few lessons you might even be good.”

  “You know?”

  “What is it they say? Oh yes, you can’t con a con man.”

  “But Simone—I mean, I didn’t think she knew.”

  “She doesn’t. She still thinks you’re with the IGS. That’s a good one, Mrs. Washburn. How long did it take you to think that up?”

  “You have your lovely paramour to thank for that, I’m afraid. Mr. Dupree, it really has been a pleasure this time. Thank you very much.”

  I didn’t even make it to the corner when the lecherous albeit devilishly attractive restaurateur caught up with me. Again he grabbed my elbow.

  “Mr. Dupree!” I whirled to give him what for and found myself looking at my beloved’s chest. I can’t say who was more startled.

  “Abby, hon, is that any way to greet your long-lost husband?”

  “Greg! I thought it was—someone else.”

  “Obviously.” He picked me up, kissed me like it was our last, and then set me gently down on the pavement. “So who is Mr. Dupree?”

  “No one. I mean—well, he owns the Chez Fez.”

  “Interesting-looking place. You want to try it sometime?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “How about now? It’s lunchtime and I’m starving.”

  “I just ate, darling.”

  “Then come and keep me company. Needless to say, we have a lot to talk about.”

  “That’s for sure, but you see, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “This has to do with that damn birdcage, doesn’t it?”

  “Not just that—Mama, too.”

  A herd of tourists from one of the square states was stampeding our way (the light had turned green), so Greg, ever gallant and loving, shielded me with his body. Then, just as we resumed our conversation, a second herd, this one from that lovely city where folks say yinz instead of y’all, almost mowed us down again.

  “You see,” Greg said, “our lives are in danger if we stay here.”

  Indeed they were. It used to be that two couples—holding hands—could pass each other on the sidewalks of Charleston and not even brush sleeves. Today I sometimes have to flatten myself against a storefront just to allow one person to pass. The alarming part is that our sidewalks have not gotten any smaller.

  “You win,” I said.

  Of course Charlie (a.k.a. Blackmond) Dupree was not there to seat us. Nonetheless, we got a decent seat with a good view of the musicians performing on the dais. The belly dancers were on their break when we arrived, and I honestly think Greg was surprised by their sudden appearance. The rather hefty dancer, the one who had seen me as a threat on my first visit, was certainly surprised. I was surprised as well, as I had made sure that we were not seated at her station.

  “We had a deal, missy,” she hissed as she began a slow bump and grind, which I’m certain is not part of any real belly dancer’s routine.

  “What deal was that?” The music was steadily getting louder.

  “The deal was that I got the good-looking guys. And this guy is hot. You leave him for me, you hear?”

  “This hotty is my husband,” I hollered over the din.

  Her eyes blazed and her mouth opened wide enough to catch a mockingbird. Greg is not the type to interfere in a fight between two women, and I was not stoked enough to tussle with a tasseled hussy. I had no choice but to close the thick velvet drapes.

  “What was that all about?” Greg said.

  “She’s husband hungry. Thinks you’ll make a good catch.”

  “You know her?”

  “I know her type.” That certainly was not a lie.

  “Well, I must say it is romantic in here.”

  Why is it that for men—at least for Greg—a romantic spot is anywhere that offers enough privacy to do what comes naturally? For my one and only, an empty refrigerator carton in a back alley is just as romantic as a canopy bed with pink satin sheets—which is not to say we’ve ever gone the pink sheet route. Greg is more the navy and brown type.

  “Greg, darling,” I said, in the interest of time, “I’ve got a lot of work to do today yet. Tell me about
your adventure with your buddy, Mark, and then I’ll tell you about the latest Mama news.”

  What happened next would have shocked the socks off me, had I been wearing any. My usually circumspect husband, who can be counted on to say less than twenty words when we dine out together, let go with a torrent of words that seemed to never stop. I got to hear every detail of Mark and Caroline Gallentree’s marriage (some of the stuff was actually pretty interesting) and a step-by-step description of their failing finances, the sneaky thing Mark did to fix that, and then, of course, the dramatic aftermath.

  “All’s well that ends well,” the bard said, but my beloved couldn’t find an ending. I should have counted my blessings, I guess, but there were things I needed to say, too. Besides, he hadn’t even noticed the necklace I was wearing. I interrupted him to point that out.

  “It is nice,” he said. “Man, Abby, who would have thought that a sensible woman like Caroline could become addicted to something as asinine as shopping?”

  “An addiction is an addiction, darling. But anyway, do you recognize these pearls?”

  “Am I supposed to? Give me a break, Abby. I’m trying to tell you about my buddy, and you keep changing the subject.”

  “That’s because I have some important things to share, too. You see, these pearls—”

  “Honestly, Abby, I thought we could have a meaningful conversation; not talk about jewelry.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said, popping out of my seat like a pastry tart. “I just thought you might be interested in knowing that these pearls—which I found in a Dumpster, by the way—have just been appraised at half a million.”

  That got his attention. “You’re serious?”

  “As serious as a hen in a den of foxes.” With that I slipped between the drapes. “He’s all yours,” I said to the dancer with matrimonial aspirations.

  She grinned happily.

  Despite the fish tank humidity, I didn’t even try to find a cab. Instead, I hoofed it to the Rob-Bobs’ house. I mean that literally. Tommy (that’s not his real name) is a horse-drawn carriage driver. Last year I cut him a break on a breakfront he wanted to surprise his wife with on their twentieth wedding anniversary. When Tommy saw me plodding along in the heat, he stopped his surrey and motioned for me to climb aboard.

  “How far you going?”

  “All the way to the Battery.”

  “You know,” he whispered, “I’m not supposed to give rides to anyone except paying customers. They’ll fire my butt if they find out, so just play along.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Tommy turned to his passengers. “Folks, we’ve got a real treat for you today. Melanie Bugglesbottom-Thompson, here, is a real Charlestonian. She is a direct descendant of Alfred Bugglesbottom-Thompson, the first settler in Charleston to be accused of antediluvian celibacy.”

  The passengers gasped their disapproval.

  “What the heck does that mean?” I whispered to Tommy.

  “I haven’t the foggiest. Isn’t this fun?” He switched to his tour guide voice. “The old families socialize only with each other. They maintain their own secret societies and traditions, but Miss Bugglesbottom-Thompson has graciously agreed to share some of this privileged information with y’all. Go ahead, Miss Bugglesbottom-Thompson, it’s all yours.”

  Many of the passengers, especially the women, buzzed with excitement. I smiled and waited until every face was turned to me in anticipation. Even then I didn’t have enough time to prepare. I cleared my throat, which gave me another second.

  “Well, to begin with,” I said, “we are extremely inbred. Did you know that I am, in fact, my own cousin?”

  Some uncharitable soul groaned. “I’ve heard that one before. I thought it had to do with the Amish, not Charleston.”

  “Oh no, that’s pure Charleston. But enough genealogy. Today I’d like to teach you our secret Charleston handshake. Do I have any volunteers?”

  Just about every hand shot up. Even the uncharitable soul raised his. I chose an eager young man with earphones hanging around his neck and hair the color of ripe lemons. His T-shirt read: I SURVIVED THE CICADA INVASION OF 2004.

  “The handshake I’m about to demonstrate for y’all,” I said, trying to sound as grave as my high school algebra teacher, “will get you admitted into all the right parties, and even into some private homes. It’s called the ‘esnesnon’ handshake, and was invented by my illustrious ancestor, Beauregard Esnesnon Bugglesbottom-Thompson in 1868 in order to help us native Charlestonians tell ourselves apart from the carpetbaggers that invaded our fair city during the Union occupation, many of whom had taught themselves to speak in a passable Southern accent, so great was their deviousness.”

  While I couldn’t for the life of me repeat now the complicated handshake I demonstrated for them, I’m pretty sure I displayed both dexterity and imagination. My volunteer was a quick study, and soon we had everyone in the surrey passing the secret shake.

  “Now remember, folks,” I said as Tommy stopped the surrey for me to disembark, “that handshake is your entrée into Charleston society. Try it on the desk clerk when you get back to your hotel. If you forget the exact moves, then just whisper ‘esnesnon.’”

  Everyone clapped.

  “You’ve made my day, Abby,” Tommy muttered.

  I have a key to the Rob-Bobs’ house, and they have keys to mine. We also know each other’s security codes. I hadn’t seen either of their cars in the driveway, so I assumed they weren’t home, but I called out just to be safe. The next thing I knew, I was being assaulted by a yellow-haired male who wasn’t wearing any pants.

  “Dmitri!” I cried, and threw my arms around my ten-pound bundle of feline joy. “Did you miss Mama? Did you? Did you?”

  Dmitri responded by lashing me repeatedly in the face with his bushy tail. Then he me-owed long and plaintively, no doubt blaming me for everything bad that had ever happened to him, starting with me wrenching him from his mama’s breast when he was a mere eight weeks old.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” I said, trying to spit cat hair at the same time. “Tonight your daddy will be home, and you can sleep where you always do—on top of him.”

  After giving him another hug, which he protested loudly, I hurried to the Rob-Bobs’ sunporch, where we’d stored the Taj for safekeeping. Dmitri pattered along behind me, still complaining about my shortcomings as his substitute mama, chief amongst which was the fact that I didn’t give him treats every time he begged.

  It’s not that I expected to find anything amiss, but I breathed an enormous sigh of relief when I saw the Taj Mahal, that splendid work of art, gracing a white wicker coffee table. Dmitri, sensing my heightened emotion, took advantage of the situation to beg even harder.

  “Okay, okay,” I groused, and ran off to the kitchen, where my friends had stored Dmitri’s food and treats. Dmitri ran with me, getting underfoot constantly, eventually tripping me. In trying to catch my balance, I accidentally stepped on his tail. You would have thought I’d done it on purpose. To placate the hairy beast, I dumped the entire contents of the treat bag on the floor and dashed back to the sunporch.

  The miniature Taj was even more beautiful than I remembered. It must have taken a skilled metal worker hundreds of hours to bend the wire so it functioned both as a birdcage and a fitting homage to the real Mogul tomb—although the latter was built primarily out of white marble. The bulbous central dome of my Taj Mahal, and the smaller domes that surrounded it, were constructed of sheets of hammered metal that had been gilded and bezel-set with myriad tiny semiprecious stones. I recognized amethyst, turquoise, garnet, peridot, blue topaz, citrine, even a few opaque rubies. None of these stones were large enough, or rare enough, to be valuable in and of themselves, but together they were magnificent. Could there also be Golconda diamonds hidden between the outer and inner domes? Or did this birdcage—for that’s what it really was—contain no secrets? There was only one way to find out.

  23

 
Please believe me, I wouldn’t have dreamed of destroying an object so beautiful had I not been convinced Mama was in big, possibly even life-threatening, trouble. But even then, there had to be a way to access the space between the domes without causing a whole lot of damage. I began by trying to unscrew the outer dome, as I would a lightbulb—a lightbulb the size of a three-gallon jug.

  Although the bezel-set gemstones gave me plenty of grip, I couldn’t get the dang thing to budge. I may be small, but I’m pretty strong; moving heavy antiques around has given me a surprising amount of upper-body strength—well, surprising to strangers. At any rate, I gave up on Plan A before I burst a blood vein in my head, and scouted around for a magnifying glass. Since Rob is a few years closer to presbyopia than I am, it didn’t take me long to find one. But alas, a careful examination of the central dome’s base revealed no seam. Even if the outer dome had once been removable, that was no longer the case.

  Then on to Plan B. That was a little trickier, since I had no one to hold a flashlight for me. Fortunately, the Rob-Bobs’ sunporch really does catch the late morning, and early afternoon, sun. I removed the cleaning tray and turned the Taj over gently, so that it lay on its back. I was about to stick my head in when my cell phone rang. “Saved by the bell,” I said aloud. I am, after all, not fond of tight places.

  Neither am I fond of folks who block their phone numbers. I knew in my gut, however, that the caller was not a telemarketer, but the person who’d stolen my mynah, and possibly even my mama.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Washburn?”

  There was something strange about the voice. It was high-pitched, but it didn’t sound like a woman’s voice, or even that of a little girl. Nor did it sound like a bird.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Do you love your mother, Mrs. Washburn?”

  The pitch was uneven, and got lower toward the end. It sounded a lot like a man who’d just sucked helium from a balloon—like Daddy used to do at my birthday parties. That was it! The birdnapper had given up on using Monet’s voice—maybe the poor bird really was baked in a pie—and had resorted to renting a tank of helium from a party supply store. Now we were cooking with gas.