by Tamar Myers
“A million silkworms gave their lives for this room,” I whispered to Mama.
“Oh, Abby, look at that chandelier,” she said aloud.
It was definitely worth spraining my neck for a look at the Baccarat crystal chandelier. The fixture measured at least eight feet across, and what’s more, I couldn’t spot a single spiderweb.
“And that mantel!” Mama gushed.
Even I drooled on the silk carpet when I saw the snow-white chunk of Carrara marble that surrounded the fireplace. The artist who carved the classical frieze into Albert Quarles’s stone was a worthy successor to Michelangelo.
“Please, ladies, have a seat.” Our host possessed a deep Georgia accent. Any Yankees lurking in his woodpile had long since been burned up in that beautiful fireplace.
I chose a powder blue love seat—silk, of course—which had been gilded by the addition of an eight-inch gold fringe. Mama, ever the queen, selected a veritable throne of a chair upholstered in faux leopard skin. It was on the far side of the room, so I didn’t get a close look, but my hunch is plenty of worms died for that as well.
Albert Quarles waited until we were seated before slipping into a well-worn leather armchair close to the fireplace. A cow or two and maybe a tree had died for his seat, but no worms.
“May I offer y’all something to drink?” he asked politely. “Maybe some coffee? Or tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said, before Mama had a chance to answer.
He nodded, head safely attached. The monocle, however, slipped, so he readjusted it.
“I understand this has to do with the coin my brother-in-law Calvin found taped to the lid of an urn.”
“Yes, sir. I’m dying to know—” I stopped and stared at a massive oil painting above the fireplace.
Albert Quarles smiled, but not a hair of his mustache moved. “That’s my wife, Miranda. She’s at a Junior League meeting this morning.”
“Calvin Bleek’s sister,” I said. It was not a question. The woman in the picture had a normal enough head, but her neck was no bigger around than my wrist. Were it not for the five-strand pearl choker, Miranda Quarles would have been wearing her head in her lap.
“Yes. Calvin is Miranda’s younger brother.”
Mama gasped. “A Yankee in Savannah’s Junior League?” I’m sure it was an involuntary outburst on her part, because she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth. If only she used Super Glue for lipstick.
Albert’s smiled broadened, and the mustache finally twitched. “They made an exception in her case, because my family tree more than compensates for hers. My ancestors arrived February 12, 1733, along with General James Oglethorpe in the first landing party. In fact, it is believed by some in the family that our ancestor, Cornelius Quarles, arrived a good five minutes earlier, thanks to a bit of bad jerky he’d eaten the day before and his subsequent need to find some privacy. Besides, as part of our premarital agreement, Miranda agreed not to pass any Yankee genes on to our children. Ah, but I digress. What is it you were dying to know, Miss—uh—I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”
“Timberlake. Abigail Timberlake.” I waved at Mama on her gilded mahogany throne. “And this is my mother, Mozella Wiggins.”
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” he said with a courtly bob of his head. “I can’t remember when two ladies as lovely as yourselves have graced this room.”
Mama’s purple face clashed with the peach walls and Albert’s sallow skin. “Oh, go on,” she said. I’m sure she meant it literally.
I decided I liked the swarthy Hitler look-alike with the silver eyebrows and bottle-black hair. “Mr. Quarles—”
He held up a well-manicured hand. “Please, Albert.”
“Then please call me Abby.”
“You may call me Mama,” Mama said shamelessly. No doubt she was already planning for the day when Albert would come to his senses and divorce Miranda. Because Albert’s tastes were not limited to the 1950s, a union between Mama and him was obviously out. But there was always second best. Mama would happily settle for being mother-in-law to a scion of one of Georgia’s oldest families. Back in Rock Hill, South Carolina, this liaison would automatically bump Mama up a notch or two on the social scale. Who knows, some day she might even be admitted to the Perihelion Book Club.
“Albert”—I dug into my purse and pulled out the sandwich bag—“your bother-in-law said this penny was worth hundreds. Maybe much more. How much more?”
He sat forward in the leather chair. “As I recall, that is a 1793 Flowing Hair type, with a Chain Reverse. Or is it the Wreath Reverse?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“On one side of the coin there is a portrait of a woman—Liberty—with flowing hair. On the reverse side there should be a chain. Either that or a wreath.”
I turned the coin over, still in the bag. “It looks more like a wreath.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. Wreath Reverse. Still, if it’s in extra fine condition—which I believe it is—it could bring well over a thousand dollars.”
I hopped off the blue silk love seat and skipped across the room. “Is this extra fine?” I demanded, practically shoving the coin in his face.
He took the plastic bag from me, a look of horror on his face. “It isn’t sealed!”
“Yes, it is. That’s a Ziplock bag.”
“Who put it in this—this—bag?”
“Your brother-in-law. Calvin Bleeks.”
“Idiot,” he muttered.
“What did you say?”
He was holding the bag at arm’s length, as if it contained the remains of a dead rodent. “The coin hasn’t been sonically sealed.”
“Excuse me?” I must admit, I knew next to nothing about collecting coins.
Albert sighed. “Amateurs think that because coins are metal, they’re indestructible. Nothing could be further from the truth from a collector’s point of view.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A person’s hands contain natural oils that can do irreparable damage to the surface of a coin. It may not seem that way to the ignorant, but a single fingerprint can take thousand of dollars off a coin’s value. Especially a mint state coin.”
“You don’t say!”
“Always hold a coin by its edges, and never, ever let it come into contact with abrasive materials. Never polish a coin. In fact, it is best not to clean coins at all. They should be professionally graded as to condition and sonically sealed in hard plastic. Only then should they be handled by amateurs.”
I felt like saluting, but at the same time my heart was sinking. “Is this coin ruined?”
Albert sniffed and wiggled his mustache. “Ruined is perhaps too strong a word. This is of course an old coin and has seen a good deal of wear. It wouldn’t have been mint in any case. You are fortunate, Abby, in that it is still probably worth a thousand dollars or more.”
It was my heart’s turn to skip. “And how much would it be worth if it was in mint condition?”
“Many times more than that. I tracked one in very fine condition that sold in an Internet auction for fifteen grand.”
“You don’t say!” I scampered joyfully back to my fringed perch.
Mama shook her head and patted her pearls at the same time. “Imagine all that money for a penny. What is the world coming to? Most pennies aren’t worth a dime these days. People don’t even stoop to pick them off the pavement anymore. Well, in my day a penny was worth something. Not that kind of money, mind you, but something.”
“Like what?”
“Like candy. You could always get some kind of candy for a penny. And five pennies bought you a Coke.”
“You can still buy a Coke for pennies,” I said smugly. “It’s just that it’ll take eighty-nine of them. But on the plus side, it will be a twenty-ounce bottle now and not one of those little two-sip glass bottles it used to come in.”
Mama frowned. “Still, I can’t see paying fifteen thousand dollars for a penny.”
&n
bsp; “A very rare penny, Mama.” I turned to Albert. “I very much appreciate your time. You’ve been very kind allowing us to barge in this way. If you don’t mind, though, I have one more favor to ask.”
“Ask away,” he said, suddenly pleasant.
“Well, you see, I deal mostly in period furniture and home furnishings. I have a small case of good quality costume jewelry and a few unimportant pieces of the real thing. But the cost of insurance is prohibitive for me to carry easily portable high-ticket items.”
“Abby, tell him what happened to that ruby ring.”
I sighed. “Well, you see, I did a brief stint in estate jewelry. It started when I found a Burmese ruby ring in a box of paste and plastic junk I bought at auction. Awful rings, not even fit to come out of a gum machine, but they were part and parcel of a lot I bid on and won.”
The white eyebrows lifted with interest. “Was it a genuine Burmese ruby?”
“From the fabled Mogok mines—well, that’s what one appraiser said. I had it appraised three times. Anyway, I started paying more attention to jewelry and had a nice little collection going up there by the register. My shop’s in an upscale neighborhood, you see, and stuff like that moves pretty fast. But like I said, I wasn’t geared to selling easy-to-steal things.”
“And then,” Mama said, squirming impatiently on her throne.
“And then,” I said as I glared, “this well-dressed couple came, looked at a few rings, and then suddenly started showing a lot of interest in a rice plantation bed that was taking up too much room in my shop and for which I’d paid far too much. So of course I trotted on over, hoping to unload it, but they ended up not buying it. In the meantime a confederate of theirs had replaced all my estate rings with the same kind of junk rings I found the ruby in. As fake-looking as those things are, they do take up space, and from a distance—well, I didn’t notice the switch until after the well-dressed couple had left the shop.”
The white eyebrows knit with concern. “And you weren’t insured for the full amount?”
I could feel myself blush. “Not quite.”
“Not at all,” Mama said. “Abby here had no extra insurance on that ruby ring.”
“Thanks, Mama.” I turned to Albert. “So you see, I don’t want to carry merchandise that easy to lift. What I was wondering is, could you possibly broker the coin for me? I’d be happy to pay the going fee.”
Albert cleared his throat. “It would be my pleasure, but on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That you let me broker the rest of the collection when it comes up for sale.”
“What collection?”
Hitler’s mustache twitched in delight. “The famous Lula Mae Wiggins American coin collection.”
8
“Excuse me?”
He set the monocle on a rosewood side table. “Your aunt was well known in numismatic circles—no, let me take that back. Lula Mae Wiggins was legendary.”
“Get out of town!”
“I am told that’s how she supported herself. Every now and then Miss Lula would put something extraordinary on the market that had collectors salivating. I would wager this coin is just the tip of the iceberg.”
I wanted to hang my head in shame. Here was a relative whose livelihood was essentially the same as mine, but I hadn’t had a clue. It hadn’t even occurred to me to think about her means of employment. But I should have. One doesn’t get paid for being a bohemian, after all.
“How big a collection?” I asked, ignoring my shame. “How much do you think it is worth?”
Albert shrugged. “Who knows? But like I said, we all feel it’s just the tip of the iceberg. She dropped little hints, you see.”
“What kind of hints?”
“‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’ That kind of thing. Once she attended a coin show dressed like a pirate. She had a real live parrot sitting on her shoulder—the whole nine yards.”
“Was she selling Spanish doubloons?”
“Something better. She had an Indian Head gold dollar. 1861D, mint condition. It sold for over thirty grand.”
“Wow! So you actually knew my aunt.”
“Let’s just say I knew of her. In fact, everyone in Savannah knew of her. Although I met her on numerous occasions—well, she was a very private person. If you know what I mean. Didn’t do the social scene.”
Mama and I exchanged glances. I wanted to ask Albert if he’d ever met Aunt Lula Mae’s African-American lover but didn’t know how to word it. I wanted to ask him if he knew the man’s name, but how would that look? What kind of niece doesn’t know the name of the man responsible for her aunt throwing away her social position? Believe me, Queen Elizabeth II knows about Wallace Simpson.
“Albert, I’ve seen my aunt’s will. There is no mention of a coin collection.”
“Oh?’ He looked like Mama did the day I told her I had broken off my engagement with Greg “Studmuffin” Washburn of the Charlotte Police Force.
“But that doesn’t rule out a collection, does it? I mean, maybe she didn’t want me to have to pay inheritances taxes on it. Something like that.”
Albert chuckled. “That sounds like Miss Lula, all right. Taping this coin to the inside of her funerary urn may have been another one of her clues.”
“Exactly! That collection could be hidden somewhere in her house. I’m going right over there to look for it.”
“Good luck. The old gal was really clever—no disrespect intended.”
“None taken, I’m sure. And you’re right, she was very good at keeping secrets.” I rubbed my hands together in lustful anticipation. “This is going to be fun. Now, where to begin?”
Mama raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “I know! I know!”
I smiled patiently. “Yes, Mama, I’ll look under the bed.” That’s where Mama hides everything. Christmas presents, birthday presents, her silver (when she travels)—even a copy of Muscle Magazine.
Mama lowered her hand to pat her pearls. “Well, dear, you can look under her bed if you like. But I was going to suggest you start by going to the bank and taking a peek in her safety deposit box.”
You could have made an omelette with the egg on my face. “That might be a good idea.”
Mama beamed and turned to Albert. “She means well. But she’s very tidy and not a bad cook, if I must say so myself. And she really does have her own business.”
I thanked Albert Quarles and hustled Mama out of there before she had me officially inscribed in his list of replacements for the Yankee-tainted Miranda. Another twenty minutes and she would have had us choosing our china pattern. Hmm, let’s see. Noritake Hemingway or the Wedgwood India? The silver was a no-brainer. I’d just ask for the box under Mama’s bed.
We didn’t make it much farther than Albert Quarles’s front door before our quest was thwarted. On the public sidewalk in front of us a small band of tourists was being mesmerized by a woman with a high-pitched voice. I don’t think it was the information being disseminated that held the group’s attention but the guide herself.
She was wearing a straw hat piled high with every conceivable variety and color of silk flower. Her pink, pearl-studded glasses swept away from her nose like bats’ wings. Her pearl necklace was obviously newer than Mama’s, but her dress was almost identical to the one Mama had on. Nipped at the waist, the frock fanned out into a full skirt buoyed by layers of starched crinolines. She had on gloves—something even Mama gave up wearing years ago—but since it was not yet Easter, these gloves were a tasteful ivory shade. The stiletto heels were a bit much, if you ask me, but at least they were black and a good quality patent leather.
“Behold your look-alike,” I whispered to Mama.
“Abby, don’t be rude!” Of course Mama couldn’t take her eyes off the woman.
The tour guide ignored us. “And notice the dolphin downspout,” she chirped. “Because Savannah is a major seaport—”
“Excuse me, ladies.” A tourist
had broken free of the ranks and was coming up the walk toward us.
“Run,” I growled, but there was no place for us to go.
“Do you ladies live here?” I couldn’t pinpoint the man’s accent, but it was American and the vowels only one syllable in length. Chalk-white legs sprouted out of baggy shorts, like mushroom stems. A wrist no bigger around than mine sported a genuine gold Rolex worth twice as much as my car.
“No, we—”
“Of course we live here.” Mama flounced her petticoats and smiled. She had seen the watch.
“Hi. My name is Bob Crane. I’m what they call an advance scout for Reels and Runs Productions.”
“I don’t know anything about fishing, dear, but my daughter Abigail here is quite the expert. Fishes all the time.”
“Mama, I do not!”
“Yes, you do.” Mama keeps her nails short, but they’re miniature bolt cutters.
“All right,” I wailed. “I go fishing every week.”
“Tell the nice man what you catch.”
I twisted my torso out of Mama’s grasp. “I catch Mrs. Paul’s at Harris Teeter and Gorton’s at the Bi-Lo.”
Bob laughed. “Reels and Runs Productions is a movie company. I’m scouting for locations. We’re going to be filming a movie about a murdered food critic who comes back as a ghost and gets her revenge on the chef who did her in.”
“What’s the movie called?” I asked. “More importantly, who is going to be in it?”
“It’s called Midnight in the Garden of Food and Evil, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge the cast just yet. We don’t want the town going crazy just yet, like it did when Clint was here.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Mama asked shrewdly.
“Well, this is basically a ghost story, and we thought it would add an aura of authenticity if we filmed at a real live”—he chuckled—“haunted locale.”
“I still don’t get it,” Mama said. Her eyes didn’t leave the watch.
“Then I apologize for not making myself clear. You see, my sources”—he paused to consult a pocket notebook—“state that one of the houses on this street has a reputation for being particularly haunted.”
