by Tamar Myers
“Pregnant by a porpoise!” the Tokyo guide cried, as shutters clicked furiously.
“You see?” Wynnell hissed. “None of this would have happened if we had good moral leadership. I’m a happily married woman, and I wouldn’t have been sitting on that rail waving to gorgeous guys from Genoa if it weren’t for President Clinton.”
“President Clinton!” Heads swiveled, shutters momentarily silent.
I addressed my friends. “You guys see Mama?”
Wynnell shook her head, and I dodged water droplets.
“Clinton, Clinton,” the guide began to chant, and almost immediately the entire group joined in. “We want to see Clinton!”
I had to shout so Wynnell could hear me. “If you see Mama, tell her to go straight to the room and wait for me there.” I turned to the tourists and waved my arms like a traffic cop. To my amazement they hushed instantly. “That’s better. Now listen up, folks. I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. To my knowledge, President Clinton is nowhere near Savannah.”
The moans coming from the disappointed tourists were heart-wrenching. They had come twelve thousand miles in search of something truly special to photograph, and who was I to deny them their Kodak moment?
I waved my arms again. “Okay, okay! I wasn’t going to spill the beans—”
“Spill the beans?” The guide scratched his head.
“Reveal a secret.”
“Ah so!”
“So, anyway, these two women are in disguise. This one”—I pointed to Wynnell—“is really Linda Tripp, and that one is Monica Lewinsky.”
“Lewinsky!”
“Abby, you’ll pay for this!” Wynnell roared as the group lunged at her and C.J. Cameras were no longer clicking; it was autograph time.
I barely escaped the crush of the throng. But Wynnell was right. I was about to pay dearly.
13
Ashley shook her head when I walked into the lobby, so I went straight to the room. Still no Mama.
I dialed Greg at his office.
“Washburn here.” I could tell he had a mouthful of food.
“Is it tasty?”
“Abby! Where the hell are you? Why haven’t you called?”
“I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s been a zoo. I had to board Dmitri, Aunt Lula Mae left me a pink house and a valuable penny, C.J. thinks she’s been impregnated by a porpoise, and I’ve lost Mama!”
Greg swallowed loud enough for me to hear. “Mozella’s missing? How long has she been missing?”
I glanced at the bedside clock. “About an hour and a half.”
He chuckled. “Sweetheart, that hardly counts with your mother. Now, start at the beginning.”
As I described Savannah and some of its daft denizens—who weren’t, alas, nearly as daffy as the trio I’d brought with me, mind you—Greg ate his lunch. I could almost smell the roast beef sandwich from Arby’s.
“Did you get extra horsey sauce?” I interrupted myself.
“What?”
“Never mind. Anyway, as I was saying, she didn’t come out the front door—I know that because I was sitting on the steps—and I can’t imagine why she’d just sneak out the back. We weren’t having a fight or anything.”
“Un-huh. Had she expressed a desire earlier to see something in the neighborhood? Maybe take a peek in one of the shops?”
“No. Oh, Greg, I’m worried. You know how Mama is about directions. Whenever we go to the mall, I have to look for her at the food court. Thank heavens she can find that with her nose. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“You mean me, don’t you? Abby, you know a missing person report can’t be filed for forty-eight hours. Just give her time, hon. She’ll wander back to the Heritage or maybe take a cab—she does have money on her, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t know!” I wailed. “I’m not my mother’s keeper.”
“Then stop acting like it. She’s not senile, she has good vision, and despite those damn heels she always wears, she can walk up a storm. I’d say she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Greg slurped loudly.
“Is that the Jamocha shake?”
“Abby, why the sudden interest in my diet?”
“It’s been a long time since breakfast,” I wailed. “I was on my way to get a bite for lunch when I ran into Monica and Linda. Then, for some reason, I just had to come back to the room. I’ve got this feeling, Greg, that I just can’t shake.”
Greg started humming the tune to “I Can’t Help This Feeling.” Fortunately he has a good voice and knows when to stop.
“Abby, might I suggest you eat a nice big lunch and then book yourself on one of those tours of the city. Who knows, you might spot your mother, but more importantly, you might actually have a good time. Savannah is a city meant to be enjoyed.”
“Will do.”
I hung up and dialed the Rob-Bobs. Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben are life partners and co-owners of The Finer Things. Their shop is arguably Charlotte’s finest antique store, and they are the most knowledgeable dealers I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. They are also two of my closest friends.
“The Finer Things!” Bob boomed in a voice that would make a bullfrog jealous.
“Hey, Bob, this is Abby.”
“Abby! Rob and I were just talking about you. Are your ears burning?”
“Not a bit. So it was all good stuff, I take it.”
“The best. It was about you and Greg. He came in here yesterday afternoon, asking a lot of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Questions like do you prefer white or yellow gold, and which did we think was classier, a marquis or the traditional brilliant cut.”
If my heart had possessed feet, my ticker would have done a little soft-shoe. I’m not ready to get married again, but it feels good to be wanted—what’s more, to be wanted by a man who is willing to do a little homework first. And there is nothing wrong with a long engagement, is there?
“Tell Greg that bigger is not always better.”
“Abby, you’re wicked!”
“I’m talking about diamonds! You know that. Clarity, color, and cut are just as important as carat.”
“Yeah, the four Cs. Abby, Rob’s standing here shooting me daggers. He wants to talk to you while I wait on that rich bitch from South Park with two noses.”
“Those aren’t two noses, dear. Her plastic surgeon proved in court that he wasn’t seeing double when he operated and that the left nose is really a very large wart. But you’re right, her manners are definitely from up the road a piece.”
“Hey, watch it, Abby! I’m from Toledo, remember?”
I heard some good-natured bantering while the phone changed hands. “Abby?”
“Hey, Rob. What’s up?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who called. Is everything all right down there?”
I smiled. Rob is like an older brother. He is a Charlotte boy born and bred and has impeccable taste, which means we agree on just about everything. He—okay, I confess, he’s even more handsome than my Greg. If Rob were straight, I’d be all over him like white on rice.
“Rob, I’m calling to ask if either of you has ever heard of a numismatist named Albert Quarles.”
“Absolutely.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best. Bob and I met him at a trade show at Metrolina Expo. Bob,” Rob whispered, “thought he was cute. ‘Devastatingly cute’ I think his words were. Fortunately for me the guy was as straight as Dan Quayle.”
“Cute? Well, then, we must not be talking about the same man.”
“You sure? Monocle, swarthy complexion, little orange apricot ears?”
“Well, what do you know, it is the same man!”
“Why the background check, Abby?”
“Oh, Rob, you’re never going believe what happened.”
“
Try me.”
I gave him the gontzeh megillah, as he calls it. You know, the whole enchilada. By the time I finished, Rob was so breathless it was nearly obscene.
“Abby, why do these things always happen to you? I pay my taxes, I treat my mother kindly, I give to the poor, I seldom kick dogs—”
I gasped.
“Just kidding,” he said. “You know I love animals. But hell, I don’t have near the luck you do.”
“Maybe it’s karma, dear. Maybe in a past life you did kick dogs.”
“Or maybe you were perfect.”
“Yeah, right. Look, Rob, I need to know if you would trust this guy.”
“With Bob, no.” He paused so I could chuckle politely. “But all kidding aside, I would say yes. I would trust him.”
“It’s not just his professional opinion I’m talking about, Rob. Would you trust him to broker the collection?”
“What’s wrong with yours truly?” It didn’t take second sight to catch the hurt in Rob’s voice.
“Nothing, dear,” I hastened to assure him. “It’s just that—well, you said he was the best and—”
“I said he was one of the best.”
I slapped my own cheek. “Are you as knowledgeable as he? Regarding coins, I mean.”
Rob’s sigh cooled my stinging cheek. “No, I guess not.”
“Then, if you were me, would you trust Albert Quarles?”
“The man has a reputation to uphold. He isn’t going to cheat you. Just make sure you inventory everything and make him sign a receipt. Assuming this mythical collection exists.”
“But you think it might?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance.”
“Thanks, you’ve been a dear.”
“Anytime. Say, Abby, did you hear the one about Al Gore and Pinocchio?”
“Later, okay? I’ve got to go now. Give my love to Bob.”
Rob groaned. “It’s his turn to cook tonight. He’s making emu burgers a l’orange.”
“Yuck!”
“Tell me, Abby, is that a Yankee thing?”
I blew a kiss into the phone and hung up.
If Greg was going to buy me a diamond ring, the least I could do was take his advice. It was time to enjoy Savannah.
At the very least, a proper lunch was definitely in order. The Heritage has its own restaurant, but I was feeling guilty for having tricked the Tokyo tourists. To cleanse my karma I walked over to Yoshi’s Downtown, which is located on the corner of West Congress and Martin Luther King. It bills itself as Savannah’s best sushi bar, and who am I to argue? But I chickened out on the raw fish and had the deluxe bentou box: negmaki, kakfurai, tempura, and gyoza. In other words, rolled beef with scallion, fried oysters, fried shrimp, and fried dumplings.
When I was quite satiated, I collected my car and drove over to the Visitors Center, which is lodged in some old cotton warehouses, and caught one of the Blue Line trolleys. Its boast was that it offered passengers more points at which to embark and disembark at will than any other tour line. I hoisted myself into the last remaining seat just seconds before departure.
“Good morning, y’all,” the guide began. “How many of you are Savannah natives?”
No one raised their hand, but several eyebrows, including one of mine, were raised. Frieda Sheinwold had the strangest southern accent I’d ever heard.
“How many Georgia natives do we have?”
Five hands rose and a couple more eyebrows.
“How many do we have from the South altogether?”
About a third of us, including my seatmate, raised their hand.
“I’m from the south, too,” Frieda said in her weird hybrid accent. “Can anyone guess where?”
“Louisiana?” I asked. I didn’t think it was Cajun, but that was my most intelligent guess.
Frieda chuckled.
“South Jersey?” someone with a northeast accent asked.
“No, I mean the real south. I’m from South America.”
Most everyone groaned.
“I’m from Argentina, but I moved to Savannah when I was sixteen.”
“Oh, great,” my seatmate muttered, “no doubt she’s the offspring of itinerant Nazis.”
I turned to look at an attractive woman my age, dressed in a lavender pantsuit, with enough gold bangles on her wrist to sink the Spanish Armada. She returned my frank gaze and smiled.
“My name’s Sheila Cohen,” she whispered. “I was born in Memphis, but my parents spent some time in Argentina. They fled Hitler and settled in Buenos Aires, but then after the war there were more Nazis per square foot there than back in Munich. That’s how I ended up in Tennessee.”
Fortunately Frieda had a strong voice and the microphone worked well enough so that I had no compunction about carrying on a whispered conversation. And just to prove that I try to mind my manners, I want you to know that I glanced around every now and then for disapproving looks and kept one ear open for silencing “shhs.”
“Abigail Timberlake,” I said. “Born in Rock Hill, South Carolina, but live and work in Charlotte, North Carolina. You here by yourself?”
Sheila sighed. “My husband, Getzel, would rather play golf than breathe. You can guess where he is right now. How about you? Your husband playing hooky too?”
I showed her my bare left hand. “Divorced, but I’m not here alone. I was coerced into bringing my mother and two friends. Oh, and my cat.”
“We brought our cat too!”
“Oh, where are you staying?”
“The Olde Harbour Inn.”
“Dang! I tried there, but they were all booked up.”
“Nice place. We often leave Boots alone if it’s just for a few days—you know, leave out plenty of dry food, lots of water bowls, and several litter boxes. In fact, our veterinarian says it’s less stressful for the cat than boarding him or even having someone come by to feed him. After all, Boots sleeps ninety percent of the time. But lately he’s been getting into trouble, so we lugged him along.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Well, last time we came back from a long weekend and couldn’t find him anywhere. I tell you, my heart just leaped into my throat. We were beginning to believe we might have accidentally locked him outside—and he’s a strictly indoor cat, mind you—when we heard a faint meow coming from the fireplace.”
“Oh, my gosh!”
Sheila nodded. “There’s a ledge inside the fireplace just beneath the flue. Boots used to get up in there and take naps when he was a kitten. We always had to check before we built a fire. But you see, Boots is a Maine coon cat. He weighs twenty-two pounds now.” She chuckled. “I can laugh now in retrospect, but it sure wasn’t funny then. Poor Boots was stuck, and the only way we could get him out was to squirt oil on him with a turkey baster.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I kid you not. I was afraid that would drive him further up the chimney, but we managed to get him so slippery he plopped right down into the grate, which was still full of ashes—Getzel loves to start fires, but isn’t much on cleaning up. Anyway, you’ve never seen such a mess. I had to get a special shampoo from the vet to get all that oil and soot out of his fur, and even that wasn’t one hundred percent effective. On the bright side, we had no trouble with hair balls after that for at least a month.”
“Wow! That’s quite a story.”
Then I proceeded to tell a few Dmitri tales. We chatted amiably, pausing every now and then to listen to Frieda’s spiel, until approximately halfway through the tour.
Sheila stood. “This is where I get off. That’s Temple Mikve Israel over there. It’s the third oldest synagogue in the country and the only gothic one. It also houses the oldest Torah in America.”
“Oh? What is a Torah?”
“Our sacred scroll containing the Five Books of Moses. And I read there is a wonderful little museum—say, would you like to come with me?”
“Uh—well—I—” I was tempted to disembark with Sheila. I
could use some diversion.
She who hesitates is lost, however, and before I could make up my mind, an amazon woman with saddlebag thighs clambered aboard, pushed past Sheila, and tried to squeeze past me to the vacated seat. In order to avoid being crushed, I scooted over to the window side.
“Have a good time, Sheila!”
“Thanks, Abby. See you!”
My new seatmate wasted no time. She was still panting from the exertion of boarding, but she extended a hand as large as a loaf of bread.
“My name is Alice Bickendorfer.”
I shook hands reluctantly. “Abigail Timber—”
“This is my first time in Savannah. How about you?”
“Actually—”
“I almost didn’t make it to the airport in time because Aunt Bernice’s bursitis was acting up, and I had to take her to the doctor. Usually Little John does that kind of thing when I’m on one of my trips, but Coco’s got a good chance of winning best show in Indianapolis this year, and he needed the time to groom. Do you have dogs?”
“No, I—”
“Well, there’s cat people, and then there’s dog people, I suppose. Little John is definitely a dog person. He looks just like his bichon frise, if you ask me. Personally, I never cared much for either—cats or dogs, I mean—not Little John and Coco. Now gardening, that’s my passion. Do you garden?”
“Not—”
“Because I’d like to see some of these gardens put on tour. Of course, I can’t grow stuff like this up in Indiana, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy seeing it. Still, I shouldn’t complain. I’ve been having such a wonderful time and all. I took The Book tour yesterday and—did you read The Book?”
“I wrote it.”
“Of course, it’s a shame they can’t take you inside Mercer House but—what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, you did. You said you wrote Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
I squirmed. “You must be mistaken.”
Alice Bickendorfer stared at me. She had a large doughy face with small dark eyes like glazed raisins.
“Say, I’ve seen you before!”
“I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“Of course I have! You were at Seasons restaurant this morning, weren’t you?”
