Larceny and Old Lace

by Tamar Myers

  He stared at me. I stared right back, willing him to remember that the night he threw up on the roller coaster I was one of very few kids who didn't make fun of him all the way home from Myrtle Beach. And, if memory serves me right, I gave him some tissues to clean up with. My kindness had to count for something.

  "That, I'm afraid, I can't say. Among her effects, I suppose."

  "What about her effects?"

  "Lawyer talk for personal possessions."

  "I know what 'effects' are. I want to know who gets them." If I sounded crass, so be it.

  "Why, you and Toy share in those equally, as well. I was just coming to that."

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. "For a minute I thought they were going to the birds. You know, someone from the society was going to haul everything down to the swamp and scatter it about."

  He gave me a pained smile. "To the contrary. You will be responsible for removing your aunt's effects yourself. You have until three weeks from today."

  "I see. Does that include the furniture?"

  He consulted the papers again. "It does not. Apparently that has all been donated as well."

  "To that damn bunch of bird-watchers?"

  He barely nodded and stood. He was about to bolt, now that the dirty deed had been done.

  I grabbed his arm. "Look, Slow Breck, just tell me who the hell the chief bird-watcher is, and you're out of here."

  "A Charlotte gentleman by the name of Tony D'Angelo."

  I slammed the door behind Breck and stormed into the kitchen. "Mama, I am about to commit murder!"

  "Slow Breck get on your nerves again, dear?" Mama has a memory like an elephant.

  "It's this man named Tony D'Angelo up in Charlotte. I'm going to wring his scrawny neck." I snatched my purse off the counter.

  "But you can't," Mama said. It was as close to shouting as I've heard Mama get since I graduated from high school.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I mean, you shouldn't be talking like that. Not with poor Eulonia fresh in the grave."

  "Well, I didn't mean it literally. Not about the strangling. But I may well do this man some bodily harm."

  "No, you won't."

  "I sure as hell will, Mama. I'm driving up there this very minute. The old geezer is not going to get away with it."

  "What exactly do you plan to do to him?"

  Of course, I hadn't thought it through, so my answer was perhaps a trifle unrefined.

  "I'll whip the shit out of him, that's what. Just because he's eighty something doesn't mean I'm going to take it easy on him."

  "He isn't over eighty, and he could whip the shit out of you with one hand tied behind his back." Mama sounded almost proud.

  "What?"

  "Tony is my age. I told you that before. He just has bad skin."

  "What?" Not only had she lost her pearls, but her marbles as well.

  "Tony D'Angelo is my boyfriend."

  "What?" It may have been only a coincidence that one of Mama's best wine goblets shattered at that very moment.

  "Abigail, calm down, please. I was going to tell you, I really was. It was just taking me a while to work up to it."

  "Mama!"

  "Abigail, Tony and I love each other very much. We've been in love for some time now, but it's only been just recently that—"

  "I can't hear you!" Actually, I could. Even though my hands were clamped tightly over my ears.

  "Abby, honey, I am a red-blooded woman with certain needs."

  "You need to get your head examined," I screamed. I swear, even in the worst of my teenage years, I treated Mama better than that.

  Mama, to my surprise, was getting calmer by the second.

  "I'm sort of glad it's all come out, you know. I didn't want to keep secrets from you."

  "You mean like Tony is keeping from you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  I had a chance to spare Mama some pain—maybe—but I was still so riled up my head was swimming. I know, there is no excuse for abuse, but I want you to understand that I didn't really mean to hurt Mama.

  "I suppose you don't know that your precious Tony was two-timing you."

  Mama laughed, the laugh of innocence about to take the plunge. "Abby, darling, not every man is a Buford."

  "That's right, Mama. Buford discarded me when he found his new toy, but Tony—" I had to stop and catch my breath. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  "Tony what? Honey, that man is the salt of the earth."

  I shook my head vigorously. It was a good thing Breck was no longer around to watch.

  "Mama, Tony D'Angelo is the slime at the bottom of a stock pond. He was two-timing with you. You weren't even his number-one choice."

  Mama's otherwise porcelain complexion had turned gray.

  "What are you saying? Do you have any proof?"

  "I got it from the horse's mouth himself, Mama."

  "You know Tony?"

  "Unfortunately, yes. He's boarding Dmitri for me."

  "How did you meet him?"

  "The question isn't how, but where. I met him at Aunt Eulonia's house. In the bushes, the night after she was killed."

  "The bushes! Abigail!"

  "No, Mama, I'm not the other woman! Aunt Eulonia was."

  Despite my sense of betrayal and anger, I hurt for Mama then.

  "Are you trying to tell me that my Tony was having an affair with Eulonia?"

  "Yes, and no, Mama. He wasn't exactly having an affair; it was a long-term relationship. Apparently it lasted many years. He was having the affair with you."

  "Oh shit," Mama said, "shit." Even the best-bred southern women have their breaking point.

  "Mama, surely you knew that Tony was living across the street from Aunt Euey."

  "Of course, that's how we got to know each other, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. I'm not involved with Bubba Bussey next door."

  "But there had to be signs, Mama. Something over the years."

  Mama was sitting with her hands clasped, her eyes closed.

  "I first really remember meeting Tony the year after your Daddy died. I was just coming out of my grief. Not looking for a man, mind you, but opening up to life again. It was a hot day, like today, and there he was mowing his lawn, and without a shirt. In those days, gentlemen did not go without shirts. Not in public, not in the South."

  "Times have changed rapidly, Mama, that's for sure."

  "Something in me turned over then, Abigail. Like an engine turning over, but not catching. Still, it made me feel alive again. That was the beginning.

  "We gradually became friends. I'd drop by Eulonia's and there he'd be, out in his yard, or fixing something for her—" She stopped and opened her eyes. "That son of a bitch!"

  "You go, girl!"

  "Are you sure of this, Abby?"

  "As sure as I am that the Carolina Panthers will win their division this year."

  That didn't stop Mama. "Well hell, Abby, what are we waiting for? Let's go kick some ass."

  "Sure thing, Mama, but now that we're together on this, I think we need to strategize."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, like they say, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

  Mama frowned. "You're not planning to throw yourself at him, too, are you?"

  I tried not to laugh too long.

  "Mama, please. Don't make me sick. What I mean is, we have to think this through carefully first. Maybe there is a way to get my property back."

  "Oh yes, I forgot. Dmitri."

  "Yes, Dmitri, too. But I meant other property."

  "You didn't store your clothes there as well, did you? Oh Abby, I'm so sorry I didn't let you—"

  "Mama, it's much bigger than that. Tony is walking away with Aunt Euey's house, shop, and furniture. All I get is navy dresses, her underwear, and those awful green drapes."

  "What?" The second goblet shattered safely within the confines of the hutch.

  I nodded.

  "But
he can't! How!"

  "You ever heard of the Society for the Reestablishment and Protection of the Carolina Parakeet?"

  Mama's gray paled to light ash. "Yes."

  "You have?"

  "Your aunt mentioned it a couple of times. Years ago. She was thinking of donating some money to it. You don't mean . . ." Mama was definitely a quicker study than I.

  "Lock, stock, and barrel. Breck Whitehead says it's legal."

  Mama was on her feet and raring to go. I made her drink a glass of ice water first. It served as chaser for half a Valium.

  Mama stalled. I don't mean she delayed. I mean my Mama stalled like an old car on a cold day.

  "I can't go anywhere like this, Abby."

  "Like what, Mama? You look great."

  "Can't you do some shopping? Give me an hour or so to fix myself up?"

  "Mama, you're dumping the bastard, remember? You don't want to fix yourself up. You want to fix yourself down."

  "Abby!" she wailed.

  I took off for an hour. First I headed over to Glencairn Gardens and wandered around the lily pools and old camellias which have grown into full-sized trees. Then I browsed through Upcountry Antiques and the Woodbin.

  I got back to find Mama standing on her front porch, her car keys in her hand. She'd been shopping, too.

  "Mama!" I shrieked.

  She clutched the new strand of pearls around her neck, looking for all the world like Donna Reed again.

  "We all have to deal with tragedy in our own way. Didn't I teach you that, dear?"

  "You did, Mama, but—"

  "Then hush, dear. I'm on my way over to Tony's alone. When I get back I don't ever want to hear his name again. Is that clear?"

  "Yes ma'am, but I want to come with you. It's my inheritance he stole."

  Mama smoothed her full skirt over the layered crinolines. "He stole worse from me, dear."

  "Worse than a house and a shop?"

  "He stole my self-respect."

  "I understand, Mama. But you're not going over there alone. What if he gets nasty?"

  She ignored me. I made an attempt to physically restrain her, but Mama deftly sidestepped me and beat me to her car. After forty-some years doing housework in her spike heels, Mama can walk across gravel in those things and not teeter.

  "Be sure and bring back Dmitri!" I yelled to the sound of her spinning tires.

  Depression makes even stranger bedfellows than politics. Fortunately Wynnell Crawford and I were not in bed, but merely sitting on an Empire sofa tucked away in one of the many wooden coves of her overstocked shop.

  "What else would you expect from a Yankee?" she asked matter-of-factly.

  "Tony D'Angelo is not a Yankee. He's from Atlanta."

  "You sure?"

  "Well, I haven't seen his birth certificate. Then again, I haven't seen yours, either."

  "Well, I never!"

  "Give it a rest, Wynnell. Not all Yankees are evil, and we southerners have our share, that's for sure. This Tony D'Angelo is a slime-sucking, shit-eating, son of a bitch bastard, if you'll pardon my French. Cheating on Aunt Eulonia with Mama, and betraying them both!"

  She nodded sympathetically. "Cheating is about the worst thing a man can do, if you ask me. Ranks right up there with murder. If my Eddy ever cheated on me, I'd find my biggest, sharpest kitchen knife . . ." Her voiced trailed off, and I had visions of Eddy doing the talk-show circuit and maybe even writing a book.

  "Mama will give him hell, you can count on that. You should have seen her peel out of the driveway."

  "Must have been a sight, all right, and I hope she does give him hell."

  It might only have been the size of my thumbnail, but a red flag went up nonetheless. Wynnell Crawford does not agree with you twice in a row, not unless there is a decade stuck in there.

  "What is it you want, Wynnell?"

  "Nothing, why?"

  "Cut to the chase, Wynnell. I know you want something."

  "If I help you find what you're looking for, Abigail, can I have a piece?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The lace. I just want a small piece. The size of a walnut will do."

  It took me a minute to pick my jaw up from the floor. "What lace?"

  "Oh, don't be coy, Abigail. The antique lace your Aunt Eulonia inherited from her mother's family. We all know about it."

  "Who is we?"

  She waved an arm. "We, in the association."

  "Everyone?"

  "Well, maybe not everyone. But Heather and Anita do, I know that. And I think the Major was there that day."

  "What day? When?"

  "If I tell you, then will you give me a piece?"

  For both our sakes, I sat on my hands. "Spill it, Wynnell."

  "Okay, okay. It was no big deal. A couple of us were sitting around after a meeting and Eulonia mentioned the lace. I can't remember all the details now, except that it was Venetian and very old. Fourteenth century, I think.

  "Somebody—it might have been Heather—wanted to know how lace could get to be that old and not fall apart. How could it, Abigail?"

  "Beats me, since lace wasn't even around then. You just added two hundred years to my aunt's lace, dear."

  Wynnell didn't bat an eyelash. Sometimes I think she's half cat; the woman has never been wrong in her life.

  "So, you going to give me a piece of it?"

  "Whatever for?"

  "Oh, didn't I tell you? My Catherine and her Jimmy have finally set the date. It's going to be Valentine's Day. I thought the lace would the perfect contribution to the 'something old' department."

  I freed one of my hands. "Wynnell, dear, you have an entire store filled with antiques at your disposal. Why do you want to cut up a four-hundred-year-old neck ruff?"

  She rolled her eyes, which looks defiant on a teenager, but somehow deviant on someone the shady side of fifty.

  "Catherine can't wear a credenza when she walks down the aisle."

  Actually, Catherine could, but I am far too polite to point that out. Besides, I wasn't through with Wynnell yet.

  "I'll think about it," I said. "Did you happen to see a woman in a silk orange jumpsuit and black boots enter my shop this morning? Or leave it?"

  "Was she a Yankee?"

  "Wynnell!"

  "To tell you the truth, Abigail, the only customers I've had all day were this morning, and they kept me jumping. We wouldn't even be sitting on this sofa if it weren't for them. They bought the love seat I had on top of it."

  You see what I mean about that woman's tendency to stack? If we were in California her shop would be in violation of several codes, I'm sure.

  "Well, her name is Penny. She loves to wear hot clothes, even in this weather—"

  "Then she is a Yankee. Did you look at her eyes?"

  "What's that got to do with anything? You can't tell a Yankee by their eyes."

  Wynnell nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, you can. It has to do with the lack of sunshine they have up north. When they come down here they're always squinting. Haven't you noticed that?"

  "She was wearing sunglasses, dear."

  Wynnell smiled knowingly. One day I was going to have to call her bluff and show up at her shop with a pillowcase full of Confederate dollars. Nobody minds Ulysses S. Grant, squinty eyes and all, on Union money. Wynnell included.

  "Who'd your Mama take with her when she went to break it off with her boyfriend?"

  "Nobody that I know of. Mama likes to operate on her own."

  "Your Mama went to see him alone?"

  "There's no stopping a Wiggins," I said proudly. "Even one by marriage."

  Wynnell's eyes were as big as magnolia blossoms. "This guy might. He could hurt your Mama, or worse. You thought about that?"

  "Hurt Mama?"

  Wynnell grabbed my wrist and squeezed it tightly with a bony hand. The woman might consider a career arm-wrestling in bars.

  "It could have been this Tony guy who killed Eulonia, you know."

  "What makes
you say that?"

  "To get at her estate early. No offense, Abigail, but that woman might have hung on until the Lord comes back the way she was going."

  She had a point. I'm not claiming royal blood, but I am suggesting that the Queen Mother has a little Wiggins in her. When allowed to die naturally (something Daddy and Aunt Eulonia never got to experience) a Wiggins' can outlive some landscape trees.

  "May I use your phone?"

  "If I can have a piece of that lace."

  "Your granny was a Yankee whore who came South with Sherman's troops," I said calmly.

  I went next door and used Heather's phone.

  The phone was still warm in its cradle when Heather pounced on me like a teenager at a dessert bar. "What was that all about?"

  I had neither the energy nor time to fill the woman in. It would take an hour just to get the time and dates down to her satisfaction.

  "Mama's having a little problem with her boyfriend," I said.

  "Was that the police you called?"

  "Just a friend, dear. It really isn't all that serious."

  In the meantime, Tony with the young voice and old face could be wrapping Mama up in butcher paper for next year's tetrazzini. There was no time for small talk.

  "You see a silk pumpkin with black boots anytime this morning, Heather?"

  She stole a glance at her watchless wrist. "At nine-thirty-six she entered your shop, and left precisely at nine-forty-two."

  "She did?"

  "I don't make mistakes."

  "That was rhetorical, dear. Do you know this woman?"

  "No."

  "You've never seen her before?"

  "I didn't say that. I saw her enter your shop on Wednesday morning at—"

  "But you don't know her name? Where she lives, that sort of thing?"

  "She lives in Charlotte, at least in Mecklenburg County."

  "How do you know that?"

  "The inspection sticker on her car."

  "You've seen her car?"

  Heather sighed patiently. I know I tax her sometimes.

  "Not many customers walk here from their homes."

  "Do you remember her license number?" I asked hopefully. Given it was Heather, she probably had a printout of the woman's vital statistics.