by Tamar Myers
“You wouldn’t!” Mama wailed.
“Why not?” It’s always fun to yank Mama’s chain, even though in the end I invariably end up paying for my sin.
“Because of your two dear precious children, that’s why.”
“My two dear precious children are both away at college. And there’s no telling if Susan will even be home this summer. She wants to go to Europe with Erin.”
“Who’s Aaron?” Mama asked in alarm. “Who are his people?”
“Call her mother and ask her that yourself.” I stood, gathering my refuse. The Little China House is strictly self serve. “Have y’all read The Book?”
“I read it every morning,” Mama snipped. “I may be Episcopalian, dear, but I start my days out right.”
“Not that book, Mama, The book, John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
Mama shook her head. “I heard it was filth and lies. Sudie Dunbar says she knows half the people in it and they aren’t anything like that man portrayed them.”
Wynnell snorted. “John Berendt is a Yankee, a literary carpetbagger if you ask me.”
“I liked the book,” C.J. said. Mercifully, her mouth was now empty. “I especially liked the character who kept those flies glued to little strings. My Uncle Festus back in Shelby used to do the same thing.”
We said nothing.
C.J. scratched her head. “Although come to think of it, it wasn’t flies Uncle Festus kept on strings but pigeons. And he didn’t glue the strings on the birds but made little harnesses for them and tied the strings to the harnesses and then to his belt. Must have had a hundred of them tied on there at one time, because one day a pack of dogs came running through Uncle Festus’s yard and scared the flock. Next thing Uncle Festus knew he was airborne, headed west toward the mountains.”
She stopped again, and again we said nothing.
“Did I tell you how far those pigeons carried him?”
Mama made the mistake of shaking her head.
“All the way to Tennessee, that’s how far. Some hunters finally shot a few of the pigeons, and Uncle Festus landed in a little town called Alcatraz. And you know, he wasn’t even hurt, except for a turned ankle. Anyway, it was in all the papers, and some guys from Hollywood came out and made a movie about it. Uncle Festus actually got to play himself. The film was called Birdman of Alcatraz.”
We groaned again. C.J., as you might have guessed, is a flapjack or two short of a stack. Still, she’s a remarkable businesswoman, and at age twenty-four is one of Charlotte’s youngest antique dealers. She is also a loyal friend, and we have long ago come to the consensus that her friendship is worth the price of listening to her stories.
“But I thought Burt Lancaster—” I clapped a loving hand over Mama’s mouth before she had a chance to spur C.J. into a long-winded defense.
“Let’s hit the road,” I said firmly. “Fortune, if not fame, awaits us.”
We made no further stops.
I should have known better. Late March, early April is azalea season in Savannah, and the city is swamped with tourists. Getting a reasonably priced motel room was an impossibility. We finally had to settle for a so-called suite at the Heritage Hotel on River Street. It was basically just one very large room, but contained a kitchenette as well as a sitting and dining area. However, there was only one bed. A king-size bed to be sure, but you just try and sleep with three other women—especially C.J.! Triathlon competitors expend less energy during their events than C.J. does in her sleep. I bet that gal would weigh three hundred pounds easily if she ever settled down long enough to stop burning calories.
“Do you at least have a rollaway?” I asked. We were, after all, paying two hundred and fifty a night for the room.
The clerk, a young woman named Ashley Hawkins, shook her head. “I’m sorry. We normally do, but I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time. It’s the peak of azalea season, and the Today show just did a segment on Savannah gardens. We’ve had folks coming from as far away as Oregon.”
Mama, who was standing at my elbow, sighed. “We should have known better. We’re not tourists, you see—well, not in the conventional sense. We’re here to pick up my daughter’s dead cousin.”
“Oh?”
“I guess that didn’t come out right. Lula Mae’s not just lying around; she’s in a jar.”
Ashley recoiled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Make that an urn,” I said.
“A fancy Italian urn,” Mama said. “One that could be worth a lot of money. Abby, what’s the name for that again?”
Ashley smiled. I could tell from years of parenting experience that she was struggling not to roll her eyes.
“Mama, please, we don’t need to be boring Miss Hawkins with silly details.”
“Drowning in champagne is not boring, dear.”
“She’s not boring me.” Ashley’s face was suddenly very earnest.
Mama’s chin tilted in triumph. “Like I said, she drowned in champagne. You ever hear of somebody doing that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Y’all’s cousin. It was in all the papers. It happened New Year’s Eve, right?”
“Right! Did you know her?”
Ashley shook her head. She would have been a plain girl had it not been for the thick strawberry-blond tresses that swirled now in front of her face.
“No, ma’am, I’ve never met y’all’s cousin. But I’ve heard about her from time to time.”
“You see, Abby? Your cousin is famous! Maybe she’s in The Book.”
“Mama, she isn’t—” I turned to Ashley. “Is she?” After all, when I read the book, Lula Mae was the furthest thing from my mind.
The golden-red curls collided and parted several times. “No, ma’am, she’s not in the book. But everyone in Savannah knew her—or at least knew of her.”
Mama smiled proudly. “You see?”
“Mama, that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Your daddy’s cousin was famous. Go on,” she said to Ashley, “tell my daughter some of the stories.”
Ashley glanced at the clock. It was three minutes to four.
“Like what?”
“Like what was Lula Mae Wiggins known for.”
“Well, uh—I—uh—”
“Go on, dear.”
“She drank a lot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Every afternoon about this time she’d come into the Heritage and head straight for the bar. An hour later security would be escorting her out—well, to be truthful, they’d be carrying her out. Frankly, Miss Lula Mae’s death didn’t surprise anyone. But we were surprised there was any champagne left in the tub.”
Mama gasped, and her pearls got a good workout.
It was time to change the subject. We needed to get down to business anyway.
“Miss Hawkins, if perchance any of your guests decided not to use their rollaways after all, can we have first dibs on them?”
Ashley nodded. She had a million freckles, many of them connected, and smiling pushed them into an interesting pattern.
“I’ll make a note of that. I’ll also have housekeeping round up extra blankets and pillows. Maybe someone could use the sofa.”
“Thanks.”
Mama poked me. “What about Dmitri?” The price of our room had yet to register with her. Trapped in the 1950s by a time warp, she no doubt thought we were buying the suite for two-fifty. Even then she probably thought we were paying too much.
I ignored Mama and fumbled with my credit cards. I try not to use plastic money generally, but I do carry it with me for emergencies. The trouble is I have so many of the dang things, all with different rates, that I can’t remember which is which.
“Abby, ask about Dmitri.”
“Shh,” Wynnell said. C.J. giggled.
“Well, I wouldn’t feel right about sneaking a cat into a place this nice. Would you, dear?”
The jig was up. I had indeed been planning
to sneak my ten-pound bundle of joy into the hotel. But please understand, Dmitri is not just any old cat. My fluffy yellow tom has been neutered and is meticulous about using the litter box. And of course he’s very quiet.
Ashley looked stricken. “I’m sorry, ladies, but we don’t allow pets.”
“I know,” I said through gritted teeth. “You wouldn’t happen to know a place where I can board my cat, would you?”
Ashley glanced around, as if we were all part of an Oliver Stone conspiracy. “Well, we do keep a list of kennels, but I’m afraid they’re all full as well.” She paused, and when she resumed speaking, her voice was barely audible. “Tell you what, I know someone who boards pets but isn’t on this list. Let me give her a quick call to see if by any chance she has room.”
“Oh, would you please!”
“I’d be happy to. But first, would you mind terribly if I waited on these people?”
I turned. Somehow a tourist family in Bermuda shorts, their necks bent forward under the weight of cameras, had managed to sneak up behind us.
“Not at all,” I said.
We waited in the open lounge area, in the faux shade of ficus trees and dusty Kentia palms. While we waited, three more families demanded Ashley’s time, and she made or received half a dozen calls. In the meantime, a bored C.J. wandered off to the bar and returned with cold sodas for all of us.
Finally Ashley Hawkins nodded to me. I left my soda with Mama and trotted over.
“Here,” Ashley said, and thrust a folded slip of paper into my hand. “It’s on Bonaventure Road, just about a quarter-mile past the cemetery. I know it’s a ways out, but I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. Look for a white sign on the left-hand side. It has a black paw mark on it. Velvet Paws is the name.”
“Thanks.”
Ashley had been very kind, but for some reason I felt like a goose had walked over my grave—no, make that a whole flock of geese.
3
C.J. and Wynnell declined to accompany me to Velvet Paws. While at the bar to get a refill on her soda, C.J. had looked out the panoramic window at the Savannah River directly below and seen porpoises. This was the poor girl’s first glimpse of these splendid mammals in the wild, and for a few heart-stopping seconds she thought she was seeing sharks. But sharks or porpoises, it didn’t matter which. From then on, C.J. and Wynnell were glued to the window. I must admit, even I had a hard time dragging myself away to tend to my cat.
“But why do I have to come?” Mama whined.
“Because you’re my mother, that’s why. And because on the way we’re going to stop in and see Mr. Dewayne Kimbro, the executor of Lula Mae’s estate.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Of course.” And I did, too. Never mind that it was for the following morning at nine o’clock. I just wanted to touch base. Surely there was no harm in that.
Unfortunately Mr. Kimbro’s office was located on Montgomery Street near the County Courthouse. It was a long way from Velvet Paws. Equally unfortunate was the fact that north of West Broughton the street becomes one way—the wrong way. Mama, who was supposed to be navigating but hadn’t even got the map aligned properly by then, refused to accept responsibility for the fact that I nearly hit a van of bewildered tourists from one of the square states. She placed responsibility on poor Dmitri who had his tail in her face. At any rate, by the time I had located the building in which Mr. Kimbro had his office and found us a parking space nearby, it was nearly five.
I cracked the car window for Dmitri and dragged Mama down the sidewalk. You can bet she complained the entire way, especially when, during a brief tug-of-war, she whacked her free arm against the trunk of a palmetto, which had no business being planted in the middle of a pedestrian thoroughfare.
“Ouch! You see what you made me do?” Mama, holding her injured arm, staggered dramatically across the sidewalk and straight into the path of a man who had just exited Mr. Kimbro’s building and who was very much in a hurry. The man did a deft little sidestep but just barely missed being knocked to the ground.
“Excuse me,” Mama gasped. She was utterly mortified.
The man stopped and stared at us over the tops of bottle-thick glasses. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, pudgy, with strands of graying hair held desperately in place over an expanding pate. To his credit, the white suit he wore was impeccable, as was the white tie. The pale blue shirt with button-down collar accented both nicely.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
Mama gave him the widow’s once-over and much to my surprise found him attractive. I could tell by the sudden twinkle in her eyes, although pearl-patting and crinoline-fluffing were dead giveaways as well.
“I am fine,” Mama said, stretching those three little words out into twelve syllables. “How about you?”
“Fine. Well, if you ladies will excuse me.” Jowls shuddered as he bowed slightly.
“Just a minute,” Mama said. “We’re looking for somebody named Kimbro. Maybe you—”
But the portly man was off and running. I mean that literally. Perhaps he had a bus to catch or had taken one too many laxatives the night before. He disappeared around the first corner in a blue and white streak.
“Well, I never!” Mama said. “Abby, have you in all your born days ever met someone so rude?”
“As a matter of fact, I have, Mama. What I can’t believe is how you just threw yourself at him.”
Mama blushed. “He didn’t have a ring, Abby. Not even a tan line.”
“Mama, he was wearing white, and Easter is still two weeks away.”
She sighed. “Well, there is that. But Abby, I’ve been so lonely since your daddy died.”
I grabbed Mama’s elbow and steered her into Mr. Kimbro’s building. A group had exited the courthouse and two of them were headed our way. I wasn’t about to let strangers hear what was undoubtedly going to be a very personal, if not embarrassing confession.
The exterior of Dewayne Kimbro’s three-story building was red brick and perhaps two hundred years old. To reach the front door one had to go up a flight of steps flanked by black wrought-iron handrails. The thick glass pane in the front door was etched, depicting a scene of egrets perched on dead tree limbs. It had the look and feel of old glass.
The inside of the building was not at all what I expected. The walls were peach, and the hardwood floor in the hallway was covered with a runner of plush navy carpet bordered with a gold geometrical design. Greek, I think. Little lamps in gaslight style with navy and gold shades lit the corridor. To our right was a wooden staircase, it, too, protected by the plush runner, more simulated gaslights ascending its walls. Understated elegance were two words that immediately came to mind.
A black velvet sign on a gilt easel dominated the small foyer. A single gold braid tassel hung from the right corner of the sign. The only discordant note in the scene was the white plastic letters that informed us of the building’s occupants.
Apparently the entire bottom floor was reserved for Miss Mimi Merriweather and her School for the Refinement of Young Ladies. The five visible doors were all closed, and there was no sign of or any sound from Miss Mimi and her girls. The second floor contained the offices of Gerald Paynter, Registered and Certified Hypnotist; the Courtney Bouchard Modeling Agency; and the International Pecan Praline Export Company. The third floor, thank heavens, was home to the law firm of Kimbro, Rathbun & Cohen.
“Is there an elevator?” Mama asked needlessly.
We hoofed it up the stairs. It was clear to me that the three-story building had once been a private home. It was fun to imagine ladies in hoop skirts and ringlets ascending and descending the very same steps, Scarlett O’Haras all of them.
On the second-floor landing Mama craned her short neck for a peek at Gerald Paynter, the hypnotist, and I sniffed the air for pralines, but we were both disappointed. The door to the Courtney Bouchard Modeling Agency was open, however, and we heard the faint sound of voices. Female voices.
; “Do you think she handles male models?” Mama whispered.
“I doubt it. And if she does, they’re either children or gay.”
“Stereotypes,” Mama hissed. “Abby, didn’t I teach you any better?”
“You taught me well enough, Mama. I have plenty of gay friends, you know that. But a fact is a fact. Besides, I doubt if she handles men your age. No offense, of course.”
Mama glared at me. “There you go again, stereotyping. For your information, dear, I prefer younger men.”
That was, in fact, quite true. Just a year or two ago Mama had had a brief, and I hope platonic, fling with a male maid, Stanley Morris from Scrub A Tub-Tub. Mercifully Mama must have forgotten the party incident when Stan, who was her date at a society party in Charlotte, dumped her in favor of the butler. The male butler.
I hustled Mama up the second flight of stairs. I wasn’t about to haul a male model back up to Charlotte with us. I mean, what if by some miracle the guy was straight and she ended up marrying him, thereby giving me a stepfather at the tender age of forty-eight? Even worse, what if he continued to model? What a mistake that would be! I didn’t want to contemplate a faux pas faux pa who primped.
The third floor, alas, was deserted. There was just one door for Kimbro, Rathbun & Cohen, and I knocked until my knuckles were sore.
“What do we do now?” I wailed.
“We rest,” Mama said, and sat on the top step.
I joined her. The thick navy carpet made it a comfortable seat. The peach walls were easy on the eyes.
“So, Mama, what’s going on with you and men? What is it you were going to tell me outside?”
“Forget it, Abby, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course I do—well, as long as it doesn’t involve body parts.”
“Oh, Abby, you are so old-fashioned.” This from a woman who wears a full circle skirt puffed up by crinolines, patent leather heels, and always carries a matching purse. She was the last woman in Rock Hill to wear a hat and gloves to the supermarket.
