by Tamar Myers
"Thanks," I remembered to say.
Greg touched my shoulder briefly. "Hey, I'm sorry what I said before. I really am. Just between you and me—unofficially of course—I know you had nothing to do with your aunt's death. Sometimes I just get carried away in my professional capacity.
"Anyway, I have to be going now. I'm sure the lab checked that pull for everything under the sun, but I'll check on it just to make sure."
I nodded.
When he was gone I wandered over to Cozy, who was sniffing around the chest like a hound over fresh coon prints. So far she was my only customer, and I needed her to help take my mind off things.
"Well, am I ever glad you found this first," I gushed. "A piece this fine deserves an informed and astute buyer."
Cozy beamed. "Make that twenty percent off and I'll take it."
I snapped my fingers. "Lord Almighty! I plum forgot. There's this gentleman up on Lake Norman who won the New York lottery last year. This is his first house and he doesn't have a clue how to decorate. Still, he wants to do it by himself. The real kicker is he can't bear to part with all the Kmart stuff he already owns. Can you believe that?"
She shuddered.
"Anyway, the guy is loaded and asked me to keep an eye out for any really special pieces. So, if it's all the same to you, I'll just save this for him."
I reached for the price tag but she snatched it away from me.
"I'll pay your asking price."
I scratched my head. "Well, that would be more than fair, I'm sure. In retrospect, however, I priced this item far too low. My customer on Lake Norman has virtually unlimited resources and told me that money would be no object. Plus, he specifically asked for an antique chest upon which to display his lava lamp collection."
She blanched. "Lava lamps?"
"Lava lamps and pet rocks. The Cabbage Patch dolls he'll store inside the drawers."
I sold the chest to her for twice the ticket price, which made us both happy campers.
I closed my shop at noon and stopped in at The Finer Things before heading down to Rock Hill and the funeral. Poor Bob Steuben looked like he had just come from a funeral. I swear he had been crying.
"It's not bad news, is it?" I asked gently.
He turned away and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. If there had been any wild geese flying over the shop they would have undoubtedly landed and made a courtesy call.
"There isn't any news," he said finally. "That's the trouble."
"No news is good news," I said. "Before you know it, things will be looking up. In the meantime, I'm here for you."
For the sake of my children I learned how to force cheer the last two years of my marriage. Believe me, it can be done, no matter what the circumstances, if you're willing to put up with a little facial pain. As for the trite platitudes, I come by them naturally.
He turned, smiling weakly. "Thanks. This is going to sound selfish, but I feel kind of vulnerable. I don't really know anyone in Charlotte, except for Rob. I don't have any friends."
"Nonsense, dear, you know me. Count me as your friend."
"Thanks again."
Before he kissed my feet I changed the subject. "So Bob, I hear Rob sold that pair of Regency carved and gilded beech armchairs."
He drew a blank.
"They were over there, next to that mahogany secretary."
"They still are."
I looked in the direction I was pointing. Indeed they were there, exactly as I had last seen them. The one abutting the secretary still had the same silk tapestry draped elegantly over its left arm.
"Rob didn't sell them?"
I should have just asked him which way was up. He would have been less confused.
"Monday afternoon? To a lady who looks like a woolly worm?"
"I'm sorry, I'm just not in the mood for jokes," he said. He looked like he was about to cry again.
I apologized for my insensitivity and hurried out before my tongue and my curiosity got me into any more trouble that day. I had a funeral to attend, and that was going to take my full attention.
As I was pulling out of my parking spot a Lincoln Towncar nearly swiped my left front fender. Not only did the driver of the car not slow down, but in a very un-Charlottean manner, she gave me a private viewing of her middle finger. I recognized the rock on it as belonging to the woolly worm.
I was shocked to see Mama in pink.
"For a funeral?"
"Black is only for funerals in movies anymore," she said. "Mafia movies. Look around you when you get to church; people will be wearing all colors."
"But pink isn't even a fall color."
"Who cares," Mama said blithely. "Pink is my color."
I stared at her and would have driven off the road if it hadn't been for a couple of plastic garbage bins set too close to the curb. For the first time in sixteen years, Mama wasn't wearing pearls.
"They make me look old," Mama said, after I'd turned around twice and been talked out of it once.
"But you are—mature."
"You turn this car around this very minute and I'll give you the damn things."
I made a U-turn on Charlotte Avenue in front of the Y, setting a bad example for any truant kids that may have been lurking about. Mama's pearls were eight-millimeter beauties that Daddy got her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I had a feeling that if I didn't claim them quick someone was going to go home from a garage sale very happy.
"Tell me about him," I said.
"Who?"
"Mama!"
"All right. He's sweet, he's gentle, and he makes me laugh a lot. And not that it's any of your business, but he's exactly my age. Well, two days younger in fact."
"Does he have a name?"
She giggled. "Of course he has a name, but I'm not ready to tell you that yet."
"What do you mean, you're not ready? You're ready to wear pink to a funeral and give away your pearls, but you can't tell me the name of your boyfriend?"
She giggled again. "Boyfriend. What a silly word."
"Mama, is he somebody I know?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"That's a yes, I take it."
"Take it any way you want, dear, but I'm not telling you his name."
I gave up on trying to force it out of her and concentrated instead on finding a parking spot. Funerals in Rock Hill are always well attended; they outrank even weddings in popularity. Although a lot of the folk were coming to see my aunt off—she had been born and raised here, after all—there were undoubtedly a large number of more casual drop-ins. Until Rock Hill Cable adds AMC to their lineup, this will continue to be the norm.
Not only was the church parking lot full, but the nearby city lot was surprisingly full as well. We had to park all the way over by McCrory's department store. Thankfully, southern girls never sweat, and they rarely perspire. They merely dew. And dew I did. By the time we stepped inside the church, thanks to my black dress and the blazing sun, I was drenched with dew.
The Episcopal Church of Our Savior is the epitome of what every church should look like. Every church with good taste, that is. It is brick on the outside and dark wood and stained glass on the inside. It is also fifty degrees cooler on the inside during the summer, even in the narthex. My dew dissipated rapidly.
"Lord have mercy," Mama said, with justified concern. "You're shaking like a paint-can mixer."
"Maybe she sees a ghost," Wynnell said. She was standing there looking lost in a fuschia chiffon muumuu. There is no end to that woman's talent.
"I do not see a ghost. I'm just evaporating."
Wynnell wisely went on into the nave to look for a seat before I dematerialized in front of her eyes. I peeked through the doors before they closed behind Wynnell; Mama was right. I was the only one there dressed in black and not wearing a tie. At least three women, and one man, were wearing bright red.
"This isn't Mary Magdalene's funeral," I wailed. "Aunt Eulonia always wore navy dresses and opaque stockings."
&nb
sp; "Times have changed," Mama said, tugging at the bodice of her pink dress to reveal a little more cleavage.
It was time to go in. Susan was a no-show, but Charlie was waiting for us just inside the nave. I had volunteered to drive him down, but for some odd reason Tweetie had decided to be a sweetie pie and drive him down herself.
"I'll sit with her in the back," Charlie whispered.
"He doesn't want to sit up front close to the coffin," Tweetie said. "Loss of a loved one is a difficult thing to process at that age."
She might well know, since she wasn't that much older than Charlie. Still, I made a mental note to ask her where and when she got her degree in psychology.
Mama, sensing my anger, grabbed my hand and practically pulled me along with her. At one point, as we were walking down the aisle, Mama hesitated slightly, and I thought I saw her winking at someone. I glanced around surreptitiously, but was unable to pick a black suit out from amidst the sea of color. No doubt her gentleman was the one in red.
The dew had pretty much dried by the time I took my seat at the front of the church, just in front of Anita Morgan, who was there with her husband, Brandt. As is our custom in the Episcopal Church, I immediately knelt for a moment of silent prayer. When I sat back up Anita poked me in the ribs.
"You sure this is the right church, Abigail?"
"Yes, dear. There's my aunt."
I nodded to the coffin which had been placed at the transom of the nave. As per our tradition it was covered with a simple green pall. Coincidentally, that shade of green matched Anita's dress perfectly.
"Will they be opening the casket?"
"No, dear."
"Told you." she said to Brandt. She sounded mighty relieved.
Brandt whispered something and Anita poked me again. "You sure this is the right place?"
"She's sure," Mama said, somewhat annoyed.
"But there was a man in a gown, back there."
"That was our priest, Father Pridgin."
"Then you're right, she's Catholic," Anita told Brandt.
I let her think we were Catholic. It made no difference to me. Not unless I planned to get married again, which I didn't. As an Episcopalian I am allowed to remarry and participate fully in my church. As a woman, having been married to Buford Timberlake, I was unlikely to exercise that option.
In all respects it was a normal and dignified Episcopal funeral except for two things. The first was Anita's a cappella solo.
"What on earth is she going up there for?" Mama demanded. "It isn't Communion yet."
"Anita has kindly volunteered to sing."
"Is she any good?"
"Remember when Cousin Grazier sang at her own birthday party in Savannah?"
"Three of her neighbors called the SPCA!"
"Only two did, Mama. The third called nine-one-one."
"Has our music director heard this woman sing?"
I patted Mama reassuringly. "Don't worry, the organ fund will be getting a hefty donation this year."
"Shhhh!" At least Anita had a loyal husband.
I had to admire that woman's confdence. She gave Aunt Eulonia's coffin wide berth but then hopped up the first set of altar steps and strode boldly up to the lay reader's microphone. You would have thought she had years of show biz experience.
"I'll be singing 'When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,' " she practically shouted. "Y'all feel free to join in any time. Clap if you want."
There was a stunned silence. Not only do we Episcopalians not know that song, but we are genetically incapable of clapping in church, except for at the end of the annual parish meetings. The last time someone clapped during a song, it was revealed that she was an undercover Methodist with no plans to convert. We Episcopalians proudly bear the label God's Frozen Chosen.
If Anita had sung after Communion, I would have accused her of drugging the wine. There is no other explanation for why the congregation not only clapped and sang their way through that rollicking song, but a couple in the back actually did a little soft-shoe—discreetly, of course, behind their pew.
"Lord have mercy!" I shouted to Mama above the din. "This is worse than today's rock 'n' roll."
"When the roll, when the roll," Mama echoed, her hands a mere blur.
It was utterly disgraceful. Mama has been a member of Our Savior's choir since 1947. She has been an Episcopalian since birth. I have a sneaking suspicion she is even a closet Republican, and here she was bouncing up and down like a kid on a pogo stick.
I was the only one there, I am sure, who saw Aunt Eulonia's coffin shudder. It lasted for a full three seconds. Undoubtedly my poor aunt was turning over, and her not even in her grave yet.
I was in a daze the rest of the service and didn't hear one word of Father Pridgin's undoubtedly good sermon. However, I came sharply out of my stress-induced coma as Mama and I made our exit in advance of the mob. Far more powerful than a shot of adrenaline would have been was the sight of Tony D'Angelo in a maroon sports coat standing among the mourners. I swear he was smiling.
It would only be a slight exaggeration to say that everyone in Rock Hill with chewing teeth attended the actual burial, but maybe it only felt that way. By three-thirty area thermometers read 105 degrees, a record for the day. Factoring in the body heat of the crowd, I'd say it felt like at least 120. It was a wonder only three people collapsed from heat exhaustion during the brief interment service.
"Maybe the gates of hell are open," someone whispered in passing.
I turned to identify the speaker, but they had undoubtedly lost themselves in the throng. No one I knew would speak ill of the dead that way.
After the interment, about fifty invited folk gathered at Mama's for a light supper and some fond reminiscences. This was very generous on Mama's part since she was not blood kin to Aunt Eulonia and was never particularly fond of the woman. I have never understand why, exactly, but ever since Daddy passed Mama and Aunt Eulonia couldn't be bothered to give each other the time of day. Up until then, if memory serves me right, they were at least cordial.
I was even more impressed by Mama's generosity when I discovered that she had invited all the Selwyn Avenue antique dealers, even Rob Goldburg. The rest of the folks were Aunt Eulonia's friends, people from church who knew her, or local bigwigs. Mama is, after all, an unabashed social climber. Fortunately, she is blissfully unaware that you don't have to accomplish much to be a bigwig in Rock Hill. That is how I explained the presence of the Rock Hill man who made national news by finding a human finger in a can of luncheon meat.
Of course, I couldn't explain the presence of my Aunt Marilyn. Sure, she knew Aunt Eulonia, but she despised her for being too pedestrian. As far as I know, Eulonia Wiggins was the only woman to tell Aunt Marilyn to her face—and live—that she didn't believe the Norma Jean story. Besides the fact that the two women had maintained a hostile relationship for almost forty years, there was the matter of blood loyalty to consider. My blood. Granted, Aunt Marilyn is my mother's blood sister, but my blood came from Mama herself. She had no business inviting the woman who threw me out on the street.
In order to act like the lady Mama raised me to be, I studiously avoided Aunt Marilyn. It wasn't easy. At one point Aunt Marilyn charged in my direction, like a bull at a red flag. This was one of those rare times when being small has its advantages, and I was able to duck behind Peggy Redfern and squat on the floor beneath a food-laden table. Peggy didn't seem at all surprised at my action. Perhaps she finds herself in need of refuge under furniture from time to time.
"The shredded pork barbecue is to die for," she said blithely.
"Hand me a plate, will you? I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast."
"Ah, breakfast. It didn't turn out quite like you hoped, did it, Abigail?"
"What do you mean?"
She handed me a plate with a paltry amount of pork and without a bun. At least there was a fork included.
"Well, you were expecting one of us to crack and confess to your aunt's
murder, weren't you?"
I popped the pork into my mouth before answering. Peggy, of all people, would understand.
"I didn't expect any such thing. I merely wanted us to put our heads together and get Rob Goldburg off the hook."
"I'd like to get him on my hook," Peggy said, "if he wasn't gay, of course. Do you think I could straighten him out?"
"I don't think so, dear. Besides, I thought you wanted to kick him out of our association because you were convinced he was a murderer."
"What?"
"At breakfast this morning you said he was an embarrassment to the group. You were worried about what your customers would say."
"Oh that! I didn't really mean it. I just said that to make the Major happy."
"Excuse me? Since when do you care about what the Major feels?"
"Since he made an offer to buy my shop."
"Say what?"
For the first time in her life, Peggy decided to chew thoroughly and swallow before speaking.
"Well," she said at last, "he made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to expand his shop, that's why. He plans to connect my shop to his with an annex and call it Major Calloway's Military Antique Emporium. Personally, I don't think it's a catchy name. What do you think, Abigail?"
"I think you should rustle up some more pork for me, dear. I need a moment to absorb the shock."
My plate cane back with a nother scanty serving.
"Well?"
"Couldn't you at least have added some potato salad?" I try not to whine, but from the sea of legs around me it was obvious that the table still held some bounty.
"Abigail! Do you want to talk about food or the Major's offer?"
I put my empty plate down. "Spill it, dear. About the offer, I mean."
"Well, I was just as surprised as you are, of course. But it seems that the Major has been thinking about this for some time. Done a little market research even. Anyway, the offer he made was almost double what I paid for my shop five years ago. How can I pass that up?"
I pantomimed stabbing Peggy's toes with my fork. A glob of barbecue landed on the floor within reach and I stabbed it instead.
