by Tamar Myers
Diamond nodded. “Miss Amy done crossed over. She know everything—well, most everything. She know all the best juju.”
I glanced up and down the hall. Not even a housekeeping cart in sight. Still, it was the hardly the place to be talking about spirits and spells. Not if we objected to wearing white straitjackets before Easter.
“Ladies, do you mind if we take this conversation elsewhere? We can talk just as well inside the room as we can out here.”
Of course they ignored me.
“Can I meet Miss Amy?” C.J. begged.
Diamond sank her nails into C.J. for a change. “Don’ see why not. You have the gift, child. Don’ you be forgetting that. You have the second sight.”
“But very little foresight,” I quipped.
I could feel both women glare. Diamond waggled a finger, presidential style, in my face.
“This girl something special. Don’ you be giving her no grief.” Diamond turned back to C.J. “Y’all meet me tomorrow morning in Bonaventure Cemetery. Ten o’clock. Section N. Corner of Wiltberger Way and Bonaventure. They’s what looks to be a little Greek temple. That Miss Amy’s home.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Do we ring the bell?”
C.J. gasped. “Abby! Don’t be rude!”
There is no rational explanation for what happened next. The best I can do is postulate that the elevator door opened at just the right time and Diamond somehow managed to slip into it unnoticed. One second she was standing there, just as much flesh and blood as you and I, and the next second—poof! She was gone.
“Ooh, Abby, now see what you’ve done!”
I whirled to look around. I even grabbed C.J. and looked behind her.
“Me? I had nothing to do with it, I swear. Besides, you’re the one with the second sight. You should still be seeing her, right?”
“And now you’re making fun of me!” C.J. stomped off to our room.
But thanks to her dunk in the brink, C.J. had lost her key, and I had to let her in. Let the record show that I refrained from pointing out that a truly clairvoyant person wouldn’t have fallen into a river in the first place, and what’s more, she wouldn’t have picked an insensitive friend like me.
We freshened up. In the time it took C.J. to shower and change clothes, she’d forgiven me. The woman was born with a generous soul.
My son, Charlie, was born with a generous soul. When he was four, I accidentally backed over his Big Wheels tricycle, which he’d left lying in the driveway. My apologies were, of course, profuse. But somehow I felt even worse when Charlie, his big brown eyes streaming with tears, said in a small voice, “Mama, I forgive you.”
I was born with an average soul. I am reasonably slow to anger and only slow to forgive when the wounding party is unrepentant. For my own sake I try to forgive my ex-husband Buford on a daily basis for cheating on me with that bimbo, Tweetie. Some days it is harder to forgive than others.
At least I’m not mean-spirited like that innkeeper Magdalena Yoder, up in Pennsylvania. That woman’s tongue is so sharp it can slice cheese. If Buford had been married to her, he’d be grated Parmesan by now.
At any rate, in keeping with her generous nature, C.J. agreed to accompany me for the rest of the day without first even hearing my agenda. Of course, all this generosity comes with a price, and I knew I would have to humor her. No doubt Diamond had created a monster.
“Ooh, goody,” C.J. said, when I told her our first stop was my new house. “I can’t wait to see its aura.”
“Houses don’t have auras, dear.”
“Yes, they do. My Granny Ledbetter’s house back in Shelby has a lavender aura.”
“I think you mean odor, dear.”
“I know what I mean, Abby. The house is encircled by a pale purple haze. Granny and I are the only ones that see it.”
I bit my already sore tongue in the interest of friendship. By the time C.J. and I arrived at my inheritance on Gaston Street, I was talking with a sieve.
“Ooh, Abby,” C.J. gasped, “this house has a bright pink aura.”
We were still outside, standing on the sidewalk, and trust me, I hadn’t said a word about my aunt’s monochromatic decor. Either the girl was incredibly lucky, or I needed to keep a more open mind.
“You’re sure it’s pink? I think I see a green mist.”
Fortunately C.J. missed the sarcasm dripping from my punctured lingua. “No, it’s definitely pink. But something’s not right. Something horrible happened in there.”
“You can say that again. I meant to tell you, but some time today—early this afternoon, probably—someone tore the place up. It looks like a teenager’s room in there.”
C.J. shook her head. “Not that. It has to do with your aunt.”
I hung my head in shame. “Yes, of course. You know that my aunt died in there. Drowned in a bathtub full of champagne on New Year’s Eve.”
“Yeah, that’s it! She was murdered.”
“Sorry, dear, but this time you’re wrong. The coroner ruled it natural causes. Her heart just gave out on her, and she drowned.”
“Coroners can be wrong, Abby.”
“True, but—well, never mind. Let’s go inside.”
“Ooh, Abby, I can’t go in there.”
“Yes, you can. You just follow me up these steps, through the front door and—presto, bingo—there you are! Inside!”
“But the aura! Abby, this is a very disturbed house.”
“Then you’ll feel right at home, dear.” I clamped a hand over my mouth.
“You shouldn’t go in there either, Abby. It’s not safe.”
“Nonsense. Besides, I have no choice.” I climbed the first four steps. “There’s a treasure hidden in there someplace, and I think I know where to look.”
C.J. took the first step. “What kind of treasure?”
“Old coins. Maybe an entire collection.”
I climbed two more steps, as did C.J. “What type of coins? Foreign or domestic?”
“Early American pennies.”
C.J. sighed. “Well, if you’re sure you have to go in, and if there’s nothing I can do to stop you…”
“Not a thing, dear.”
The dear woman grabbed my hand—as much for her comfort as for mine—and followed me in. I found it remarkable she seemed neither surprised nor dismayed at the devastation. I, on the hand, found it even more upsetting the second time; it was worse than I’d remembered. Perhaps C.J.’s youth made her oblivious to such disorder.
“Where’s the loot?” she practically demanded.
I brushed away a stubborn tear. “Well, I was sitting next to this woman on the trolley who has a cat—Never mind that. I think it might be hidden up the chimney.”
“Ooh, Abby, that’s awful!”
“It is?”
C.J. nodded vigorously. “Everyone knows that reaching up chimneys is bad luck. If the treasure is up there, we’re going to have to just let it be.”
“Cut the crap!”
C.J.’s head froze in midnod, like a windup toy with a faulty spring.
“Sorry, dear, but I don’t have time for superstition.”
“This isn’t superstition, Abby. My Granny Ledbetter stuck her arm up a chimney, and now she only has one arm.”
“I suppose a gremlin or something bit it off.”
“No, the gremlin bit her toe, but that’s okay now—although you can still see the little teeth marks.”
“Her arm!” I screamed. “What happened to her arm?”
“A spider.” C.J. shuddered. “A brown recluse spider. Granny hadn’t used that particular fireplace in a long time, and who knows how old that spider was. It was huge, I’ll tell you that. As big as a saucer.”
I had been about to thrust my right arm up the flue. I clamped it to my side and took a step back.
“It may have been a big spider, dear, but it couldn’t have bitten off her arm.” There may have been just a hint of uncertainty to my voice.
“No, si
lly, of course it didn’t bite off her arm. In fact, she didn’t even feel the bite. But a couple of hours after she stuck her arm up the chimney, it started to blister, and she ran a real high fever.” C.J. paused to pick her nose.
“And?”
“And, well, Granny Ledbetter has always been sort of hard-headed, and she wouldn’t go to the doctor. Not that the doctor could have done a whole lot. There isn’t any specific antidote for brown recluse spider bites. You know of course that the area around the bite rots.”
“Come again?”
“The tissue dies, and the surrounding flesh rots. That’s what happened to Granny’s arm. By the time she went to the doctor, there was this huge hole and—well, they had to amputate.”
I sat weakly on the hearth—but on the very edge. Spiders and I have never gotten along. Little Miss Muffet was not a coward in my book, although I personally prefer to confront arachnids. I face off with shoes, brooms, bug spray—whatever it takes. If you ask me, Garfield has the right idea. The only good spider is a dead one.
C.J. sat beside me and laid an arm across my shoulders. “Cheer up, Abby,” she said, not at all cheerfully. “Maybe the treasure is hidden somewhere else.”
“You’ve got the second sight,” I wailed. “Is the treasure hidden somewhere else?”
C.J. sniffed the air, like Mama does when she senses trouble. No doubt that’s where she got the idea.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Nothing?” I don’t have a first, much less second, sense, but I would have been willing to bet money there was a valuable coin collection hidden somewhere in the house and most probably in the fireplace. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” What other clues did I need? Handwriting on a wall?
“Well, to be perfectly frank, Abby, did you shower today?”
“How rude!”
“Sorry, Abby. You’ve gone and got me depressed, and when I’m depressed, things just kind of slip out.”
“Why are you depressed? It isn’t your inheritance that’s in a shambles.”
C.J.’s sigh rustled the pink drapes across the room. “Because you got me remembering Granny and the spider and—well, I blame myself.”
“Whatever for?”
“Well, Granny asked me to bring her a glove—you know, one of those long kind that comes clear up to the elbow? Anyway, I was too lazy to get off my rocker and go get it.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, dear.”
“Don’t you see? If Granny had been wearing a glove, she wouldn’t have been bitten. It’s all my fault. Now Granny has to do her pushups with just one arm.”
“Nonsense,” I said firmly. “Your granny could have gotten her own glove. But you know, a glove isn’t a bad idea. I wonder if Aunt Lula Mae—Wait a minute! You stay right here!”
I ran to the kitchen and returned a moment later sporting a hot-pink oven mitten. Given my small frame, the thick protective glove came all the way up to my elbow.
C.J. smiled weakly. “You’re smart, Abby.”
“It was you who gave me the idea, dear. Thanks.”
C.J. brightened. “Any time.”
“And thanks for being such a good friend, C.J.”
“My name is Crystal now, Abby. Did you forget?”
“No, dear.”
I know from experience that often the best way to get through an unpleasant experience is to plunge right in. I met Buford at a water park, and that summer I got to be an expert on the merits of jumping into cold water rather than taking it an inch at a time. The fact that after all this jumping I ended up in hot water is irrelevant.
“Here goes nothing!” I cried, and with eyes closed tightly, thrust my arm up the chimney.
It was hard to feel through the thick, quilted fabric. I patted and pawed at the brick surface, and I could hear soot as it hit the grate beside me. I was beginning to think that with an arm as short as mine I was going to have to practically crawl up into the chimney when I felt the ledge.
“Eureka!”
“Did you find treasure?” C.J. must have gotten down on all fours, because I felt her head bump my stomach.
“Not yet. I found—”
I heard the snap of powerful jaws before I felt their pinch. And then I felt nothing.
17
“Ooh, Abby, you’re awake!”
I closed my eyes and struggled back into unconsciousness. I didn’t want to see the hand that had been bitten by Miss Muffet’s mugger. Perhaps Granny Ledbetter could live a happy, productive life with just one arm, but I needed two. I may be small, even tiny by some folks’ standards, but I do a great deal of lifting and carrying in my profession. Besides, as soon I got the answers to a few more questions, I was headed straight back to Charlotte and the comforting arms of Greg Washburn. I would need at least two arms to wrap around Greg; given our relative sizes, four would have been even better.
“Ooh, Abby,” C.J. wailed, “please wake up again. I left my smelling salts at home, but I could breathe on you. I had a liverwurst and onion sandwich for lunch at—”
“Don’t you dare!” I opened one eye. “How bad is it?”
“They’re very good. It’s better on pumpernickel bread of course, but all they had was white. And beer. You gotta wash it down with beer.”
“Not the damn sandwich, you idiot! My hand! How is my hand?”
“There is nothing wrong with your hand, Abby. But your mouth could use a little work. Honestly, you never used to be so rude.”
I was lying flat on my back on Aunt Lula Mae’s—no, make that my—pink shag carpet. Forcing both peepers open, I slowly brought my right hand to where I could see it. It certainly appeared normal.
Not quite convinced, I wiggled my fingers. There were still five of them, and all five moved. They didn’t even hurt. I brought the hand so close to my face I could barely focus, but couldn’t find a single tooth mark.
“Where’s the spider?”
“What spider?”
“The one that chomped down on my hand.” To my credit, I said this calmly and swallowed all the epithets that came to mind.
To her credit, C.J. laughed like a single hyena on steroids and not the entire pack. “Ooh, Abby, you’re so silly! It wasn’t a spider, it was this!” She waved the pink oven mitt above my face. From it dangled a mousetrap.
“What?”
“Nothing bit you, Abby. It was just this silly old mousetrap. But it’s a good thing you were wearing this mitt, huh? And it’s a good thing I was right there with you to break your fall when you fainted.”
“That’s it? I was attacked by a mousetrap?”
She nodded. “Just think of the little life you probably saved.”
I sat up, the proverbial egg of embarrassment dripping from my face. This happens with such regularity, it’s a wonder my cholesterol level isn’t though the roof.
“Well,” I said, “I guess there’s no fool like an old fool. Do me a favor, C.J., and don’t tell anyone—especially Greg—about this little incident. I’ll never live it down.”
C.J. patted my back with her free hand. “Don’t worry, Abby, you can count on me. But the name is Crystal now, remember? You know, I was just thinking, maybe I should get a big crystal ball. Since I have the second sight and all, I could tell fortunes. Every time a customer buys an antique from my shop, they get a free look-see into the ball. What do you think? “
“It is certainly a novel idea, dear.”
C.J.—I mean, Crystal—squealed with delight. “Ooh, Abby, I’m so excited. I’m even going to change the name of my shop. Crystal Solutions! What do you think of that?”
“It’s definitely unique.”
“And because you’re such a good friend, Abby, I’ll read your fortune anytime you want. You don’t even have to buy anything.”
“Thank you, dear.” I struggled painfully to my feet. I may have landed on my friend, but she’s okay. “Well, I guess I should face the truth. There probably isn’t any hidden treasure, and even if there is, we
’re never going to find it.”
“Don’t you think we should at least do what the note says?”
“What note?” I asked patiently. Lordy, but I couldn’t wait to get back home and to the craziness of paying customers.
“The note that was attached to the mousetrap.” C.J. shoved her hand into a pocket of her jeans and pulled out a wad of paper. “I was going to show this to you the minute you came to—honest.”
I snatched the paper from her. The handwriting was the same as that on the note in the urn.
Good thinking, it read . Now look in the piano.
I slapped a petite palm to my forehead. “The piano!”
Suddenly it all made sense. Coin collections are often stored in flat books. They’re not kept in bags, like pirate’s treasure. Stupid me! I’d been visualizing a cloth sack or maybe a leather pouch with a drawstring!
I flew to the piano. The massive lid was open, and there was of course nothing inside that space but air. Whoever ransacked the place wasn’t stupid.
“Damn it! This really ticks me off. I should know better than to get my hopes up.”
C.J. peered into the piano. “Maybe it’s under the sounding board.”
“Say what?”
“Under that.” She pointed to a solid metal plate that covered the bottom of the entire space.
“C.J.—Crystal—that’s bolted down. We’d need special tools, and even then, I doubt if we could lift that plate.”
“Don’t be silly, Abby. I can get those nuts off.”
“How?”
“With these.” C.J. held out her hands. “Granny loves pecan pie, but she’s too cheap to buy a nutcracker. I’ve been shelling pecans with my bare hands since I was six. These”—she nodded at the piano—“are only nuts of a different kind.”
Without further ado my loyal friend demonstrated her hands of steel. She twisted off the large metal nuts with as much ease as I unscrew my toothpaste cap.
“Well done, dear, but now what? King Kong couldn’t lift that thing.”
C.J. leaned well over the edge of the boxing, spread her gargantuan arms, and with a grunt that would have made King Kong proud, hoisted the incredibly heavy plate above her head. I gaped stupidly, then started praying madly that she’d set the damn thing down before we both were killed.
