by Tamar Myers
“Yes, the Delrumple estate. It’s supposed to contain a number of eighteenth-century English pieces. I’d been planning to go until—well, it doesn’t matter, I don’t have time. Anyway, the preview was last night.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I was at the preview and—”
“But it’s a dealers-only auction. That’s why it’s at night. How did you get in?”
“I showed them one of your cards, ma’am. The ones you keep in that little plastic box up by the cash register. I told them I was your new assistant.”
I shook my head in amazement. “Won’t wonders ever cease?”
“Ma’am, I was wondering…would you trust me to buy for you tonight?”
Apparently wonders never cease. I’d only just hired the man. What did I know about him—except that he was capable of selling appetite suppressants on a cruise ship?
“Well, I—I mean—you see, Homer—”
“Ma’am, what if you give me a budget—which I’ll stick to, of course—and what if I sign a paper, or something, that says if what I buy doesn’t sell in a certain amount of time—you name it—I promise to buy it myself, at retail prices. Or you can garnish my wages. Whichever you prefer.”
“You sound so confident!”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
So this is what came of offering the man a ten percent commission. Even though I have a state-of the-art register that’s virtually as silent as a dead snake, I could hear it “ka-ching” as my coffers filled. Here was a foolproof method of making a profit, the alternative of which was to watch my stock dwindle, and in the process scare off some potential repeat customers. I didn’t have to ponder that one very long.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Homer. And even though it’s none of my business, I’ve got to ask you, what’s Mrs. Johnson think about you being gone so much?”
Some bald men, bless their hearts, blush first across the pate. Homer is one of these.
“She’s glad to have me out of the house, to tell the truth, ma’am. The retirement thing was not quite what either of us expected.”
I nodded. I know a number of women who pray for sunny days so that their husbands will get out and play golf, fish—anything, just as long as they are out from underfoot. This is particularly common among the couples I know who have relocated. It seems that, in general, women are quicker at establishing new social ties. Besides, as the old adage goes, women’s work is never done. How many retired men can you name who clean bathrooms and do laundry on a regular basis?
Homer walked back with me to the front of the shop, despite the looks from the women waiting—some of them not so patiently—for his services. “You won’t regret this, ma’am.”
“I’m sure I won’t.”
We said our good-byes and I stepped out into the heat and humidity that a summer’s day on King Street has to offer. I took two more steps and plowed right into a peck of trouble.
16
I gasped. “Excuse me!”
One of the drawbacks of being diminutive is that folks don’t always see you coming until the last second. This can be problematic when you don’t bother to look at all.
“Unnh!” The tall, dark woman with whom I’d connected did a little hopping dance until she caught her balance.
I gasped again. “Ms. Salazar! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.”
Brunhilde looked remarkably placid for a woman whose solar plexus bore the imprint of my cranium. Given her personality, she looked downright comatose.
“Eeth okay. I vas coming to zee youth anyvay.”
“Youth? How nice, do you have a grandchild who lives nearby?” Brunhilde didn’t look old enough to be a grandmother, but then again, neither do I. I’m not a grandmother, by the way, but I am old enough. At any rate, grandparents of any age are easily distracted when their descendants are mentioned.
“I haff no enkelkinder.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Zee grunchildren. I vas newer married.”
“But the youth—ah,” I said as it dawned on me. “You’re looking for the College of Charleston. Just go right back up King Street and hang a left on George. Now if you want the frat houses turn left on Wentworth—”
“I don’ vant zee cullege. I vant to shpeek wiz youth.” She extended a long tanned arm and prodded me on the chest with a finger the size of bratwurst, only a good deal firmer.
“Oh! Vell—I mean, well—would you like to step into the shop? It’s a good deal cooler in there, I assure you.”
“Zee polyeshter,” she muttered. “Eeth hot.”
“This isn’t polyester,” I wailed, tugging at my dress, which was nonetheless sticking to me. “It’s one hundred percent cotton!”
Brunhilde rolled her eyes. “Vee talk here, yah? Een shop eez too many pepples.”
“Have it your way. What’s on your mind?”
The truth is I was delighted to see the Amazonian—or Rio de Janeiroan, or whoever she was. She was the next person on my list to pay a little visit to. I was thinking that after the movie I’d cut out from the group and do my civic duty.
“Youth haff been talking to zee poleeth, yah?”
That took me aback. How did she know? Surely Sergeants Scrubb and Bright wouldn’t have mentioned my observer status. Perhaps the woman with the hybrid and somewhat variable accent had been staking out my house.
“Why do you say that, dear?”
“Eeth yooth a gueth, but a goot vahn, yah?”
“It’s preposterous,” I said.
“Vaht eeth zeeth perpotherouth?”
I couldn’t have gotten any more wet had I stood in the sun all day. “It means ridiculous.”
“Zo, youth don’ talk to zee poleeth?”
“Well, of course I talked to them.” Thank heavens I’m an Episcopalian, and not a Mennonite like my buddy Magdalena Yoder up in Pennsylvania. Lying, for me, is only a minor sin. “But we never talked about you. What would be the point in that?”
“I shtink maybe you shtink I haff zumshting to do weeth Meeshus Shadbark’s dess.”
“Absolutely not! But if we continue to stand here in the broiling sun, we’ll both shtink for sure. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I’m meeting my family at Poogan’s Porch.”
She cocked her head, her mane casting a much welcome, albeit temporary, shadow on me. “Voo veel pay for zeeth loonch?”
“Why, I will of course.” I hadn’t intended to, but what the heck? When Buford dumped me in favor of the second Mrs. Timberlake—the one with silicon tatas—I was so poor I found myself checking the coin returns on vending machines and public telephones. I’ve come a long way since then financially, but sometimes I forget to be generous.
“Goot. I veel koom zen.”
Greg had secured us a table for four in the front dining room, but as our party had yet to receive their entrées (believe me, they’d already placed their orders), it was really no trouble for them to move to the more accommodating back room. That I had a guest with me did a lot to ameliorate their annoyance at the small fact that I was late.
After proper introductions had been made, and we had settled in at our new table—I squeezed between Greg and C.J., across from Mama and my guest—I began the difficult task of extracting from Brunhilde the information I wanted to know, without making her feel like she was at an inquisition. The task was made more difficult by Mama.
“It’s pity,” she said, while we waited for our entrées to arrive, “that a beautiful woman like you isn’t married.”
“You’re not married, either, Mama,” I snapped. “Neither is C.J.”
“It’s not for want of trying, dear,” Mama said, with a flip of pearls, “but a woman my age has no real need for a husband. And C.J. is too young to even think about the subject.” She turned to Brunhilde with a smile. “Now, a beautiful woman like you, Ms. Salazar, I would have thought you’d be spoken for.”
“Yeth?” Mama had said the B word twice, and Brunhilde was positively be
aming.
“Oh yes. But a woman your age—uh, whatever that is…” Mama let the sentence dangle because she was counting on the unemployed housekeeper to answer it for her. It was clear to me now what the wee Wiggins woman was after; she was trying to conduct her own investigation. One that had nothing to do with Amelia’s death, but everything to do with personal statistics and just plain nosiness.
Too well brought up to ask personal questions directly, my mini-madre was an expert at beating around the bush. This may be a Southern trait in general, but Mama excels at it. Strangers who don’t want their bushes beat around shouldn’t even be in the same room with her. Friends who are tired of having their bushes beat around know to guard them with both hands.
I turned to Greg for help, but he was engrossed in studying the flatware pattern. Whereas Brunhilde had heard the B word, Greg’s ears had picked up the M word and automatically shut down. He is happily married now, I assure you, but years of confirmed bachelorhood have conditioned him like Pavlov’s dogs.
My only recourse was C.J. Yes, the big gal is a Moon Pie or two short of a party, but she’s got an otherwise brilliant, if somewhat oversize, head on her broad shoulders. I knew for a fact that she speaks seventeen languages.
“Help me,” I begged.
“Sure thing, Abby.” She turned to Brunhilde Salazar, who no doubt was about to share with Mama, along with her age, her green card number, height, weight, and even her bra size. “Desculpe-me por interromper. O senhora fala ingles?”
“Sim!”
“What are they saying?” Mama wailed.
“They’re speaking Portuguese—I think. You are speaking Portuguese, aren’t you, C. J?”
“Yes. Only now, of course, I’m speaking English. No offense, Abby, but you really should learn more languages.”
“I intend to, dear. In fact, Portuguese is next on my list. German comes right after that.” I put my mouth to C.J.’s ear. “Please ask her—in anything but English—how she heard about Ms. Evangeline LaPointe’s death last night.”
My young friend did as she was bid. Brunhilde answered in a torrent of mellifluous if somewhat sibilant syllables, which C.J. then whispered in my ear.
“No fair!” Mama cried.
“This is business, Mama.”
“But Abby, it’s rude to speak in a foreign language in front of others, especially when there is no need.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Greg, do something!”
Greg looked up from his fascinating flatware, but I slipped my right hand under the table and placed it lightly on his muscular thigh. My darling and ofttimes loquacious husband, who would normally walk barefoot on hot coals for his mother-in-law, was suddenly struck dumb.
Of course I’d already eaten at the Vietnamese restaurant, but before my family’s lunch (or dinner, as it is properly called in the South) arrived, I learned the following. Brunhilde Manheim Salazar had, in fact, been married, and was now a widow. How her husband died, however, was unclear. C.J.’s Portuguese was quite flawless, I’m sure, but even after she switched to German, and then briefly to English, I was expected to believe that Joao Salazar was the victim of spontaneous combustion.
“That’s a bit hard to believe,” I said. “That sounds like something you read in the National Intruder.”
“Ooh, Abby, it happens more often than you think.”
Alas, my gal pal had forgotten to whisper, and Mama was not in the least bit distracted by her forks. “What happens more often than you think?”
“Nothing, Mama.”
My petite progenitress patted her pearls petulantly. “I may as well just be at home, for all attention I’m being paid.”
I sighed. “Ms. Salazar claims her husband spontaneously combusted.”
Greg glanced up from his cutlery, but said nothing.
In her past lives—all nine of them—Mama had been a cat. That’s the only way I can explain her incessant curiosity.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It’s a bit gruesome, Mama, especially for dinner table talk.”
“I gave birth to two babies,” Mama reminded me, as if I could ever forget.
“Well, supposedly there have been cases where people spontaneously catch on fire—although investigations tend to show that they were already dead, and that it was their clothing that ignited first. Anyway, if they’re not discovered, they sometimes burn for hours—like giant human candles. You see, the human body has a lot of fat, and apparently the clothing acts like a wick.”
Mama wrinkled her nose. It was more an act of dismissal than disgust.
“I told you it was a little farfetched.”
C.J. shook her massive head vigorously. “My Great-Uncle Cyril Ledbetter spontaneously combusted, and he was stark naked.” It may have been the N word, but all eyes turned to look at her. “He was at a church picnic and they were skinny-dipping, you see. He had gotten out of the pond and had dried off, but hadn’t had time to put his clothes back on. Anyway, suddenly he went poof—just like that he burst into flames. There was nothing anyone could do to help them. Later on some of the teenagers wanted to roast marshmallows over him, but the pastor said it wouldn’t be right.”
“Why didn’t they just throw him back in the pond?” I asked. “You know, to put out the flames?”
“Because Uncle Cyril couldn’t swim.”
“Which denomination is it,” Mama wanted to know, “that allows its members to swim in the nude? It’s not the Methodists, is it?”
“Noots,” Brunhilde declared in English. “Zeeth voman eez noots.”
Mama looked stricken. “Me?”
“Hur!” Brunhilde stood and pointed the bratwurst finger at C.J. “Youth ur all noots.”
“Why I never!” Mama twirled her pearls.
Brunhilde pushed her chair back and turned to me. “I don know vhat I vas shtinking, cooming to loonch weeth youth.”
“But I’m not finished with the interview,” I cried.
“Vell, I am. Eef eeth shuspects youth vant, den I sugget zat youth shpeek weeth Meeshus Shparrow.”
“Who?”
“I think he’s a violinist with the New York Philharmonic,” Mama said. “I saw him on TV the other night.”
Brunhilde’s wild orbs burned into mine. “Meeshus Meendee Shparrow. She vas shupposedly a friend of Mrs. Shadbark. But I don shtink zo, yah?”
The former housekeeper than turned and strode away, nearly colliding with the waitress who was loaded down with a tray bearing our meals.
“So what do you think?” I asked Greg. I’d just polished off a biscuit and was eyeing another. Yes, I have a small stomach, but the biscuits at Poogan’s Porch have to be tasted to be believed.
Greg groaned. By mutual agreement we’d tabled any discussion of Brunhilde Salazar until after the meal was over. Actually, only the three of them had agreed to that. I was all for talking with food in our mouths, but was overruled. Now, however, it was time to pay the petite piper.
“I think there’s something rotten in Sweden,” C.J. said.
I gave her a disapproving look. “I was speaking to Greg, dear. And anyway, the correct expression is Denmark.”
“Not if you’re living in Denmark, Abby. My cousin Lars Ledbetterson in Copenhagen—”
“C.J.!” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.
It was Greg’s turn to quiet me with a gentle hand on the thigh. His hand, my thigh.
“Let her speak, Abby. She may be on to something.”
C.J. tossed her mane triumphantly. It was all I could do to refrain from tossing the second biscuit at her.
“She’s not from Brazil,” C.J. said with annoying confidence.
“How do know?”
“Because of her accent.”
“I know she has a strange accent but—”
“Her Portuguese accent, silly. She’s definitely not a native speaker. Besides, she knows only a few words. The rest of the time we talked in Spanish—and frankly, Abby,
even that wasn’t very good.”
“German, then?”
“Nah, she barely knew that at all.”
“So it’s possible you were wrong about the spontaneous combustion then?”
C.J. shrugged.
“Why did you reference Sweden?” Greg asked. It seemed like an obvious question to me, but sometimes he actually picks up on things. Perhaps it’s his training as a real investigator.
“Because she’s Swedish,” C.J. said with another toss of her head.
“She didn’t look Swedish to me,” Mama said.
“Not all Swedes are blond with blue eyes, Mozella. Cousin Lars Ledbetter—”
“Was Danish,” I said, my patience wearing as thin as Calista Flockhart at a weight loss spa.
“Her fingers, Abby. Didn’t you notice her fingers?”
“Of course I did. They looked like bratwurst.”
“They were the fingers of a masseuse.”
“Not all Swedes are masseuses, either,” I reminded her.
“Ooh silly, I know that. But Brunhilde is. Only her name isn’t Brunhilde, but Ingebord.”
“Are you pretending to be psychic again, C.J.?”
Once on a trip to Savannah, a voodoo priestess had labeled my young friend a psychic, claiming that C.J. had something called the second sense. The idea of possessing special qualities had really captured the girl’s imagination, making her practically unbearable. It wasn’t until well after the priestess confessed to being a phony that C.J. backed off her claim that she could read minds.
“I know, Abby,” C.J. said indignantly, “because Ingebord once gave me a massage.”
17
“When did that woman give you a massage?”
“That time we were in Savannah.”
The mention of that beautiful Georgia city made the hair on my arms stand on end. Fortunately Greg was looking at C.J., and not my limbs.
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” I demanded.
“Because I just now made the connection.”
