Poison Ivory

by Tamar Myers

  There were about a dozen other diners in the room, but he headed straight for me, his hand extended. “Miss Hogsworth?”

  I am not a huge fan of pressing body parts just before, or during, meals. Especially during the flu season. Instead of responding in the Western manner, I laid my chopsticks across my plate and folded my hands together. It was a gesture of respect that I’d observed Asians perform many times on television.

  Unfortunately, Conrad Stallings did not withdraw his hand. Like a moray eel, it bobbed and darted under my nose as he all but demanded that I shake it like a proper American. And this from a self-confessed Anglophile!

  “It’s a very nubile hand, Mr. Stallings,” I said. “You must be very proud of it. And nicely manicured as well.”

  “And you are the height of arrogance, Miss Hogsworth.”

  “I apologize if I have offended you; it’s just that I don’t shake hands at mealtime. With anybody. Direct contact is the number one way colds and flu are spread.”

  “I’ll have you know that I have neither!”

  “Perhaps you have no symptoms, but at this very moment you might well be carrying a virus you picked up, and of which you are still unaware.”

  “Harrumph.”

  “Harrumph? Nobody says that anymore, Mr. Stallings. I happen to find that utterly charming.”

  He stared at me, which I took as an invitation to stare back. He was, bless his heart, a very unattractive man, with a concave face and a pickle for a nose. His lipless mouth was pulled back in a sneer, and the deep lines across his forehead extended high up his smooth shiny dome. What little hair he had was white and confined to the back of his head, and extended no higher than the tops of his ears.

  One cannot blame a man if he was born so ugly that his mama had to borrow a baby to take to church. That is no fault of his own. But surely Conrad Stallings was responsible for his wardrobe choices; he was dressed like an English memsahib from a 1930s movie depicting the declining days of the Raj. Khaki shirt with epaulettes, khaki shorts, knee socks, he was even holding a cork helmet in the hand not proffered.

  “Miss Hogsworth,” he said at last, “are you mocking me?”

  “Indeed, I am not. Please sir, be seated.”

  He nodded his acceptance, withdrew the bobbing moray eel, and settled into one of Chopsticks’ molded plastic chairs. “Any specials today?”

  “A broccoli something or other, but I didn’t pay attention. Mr. Stallings, would you like to see the catalogue I brought?”

  “In due time, Miss Hogsworth. First I’ll read this menu, and then I’ll get around to reading you.”

  11

  Excuse me?”

  “I’d like to read your palm, Miss Hogsworth.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if we’re compatible, of course—and, to be perfectly honest, I have to keep my bases covered. My first wife, Amelia, had a very short life-line. That is something that I learned only in retrospect from her sister. When I think of the grief I might have saved myself—”

  “Mr. Stallings,” I said, pointing my bosom toward his face, so that C.J. was sure to catch every word, “do you read the palms of everyone you do business with?”

  “Huh? What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course not! What would be the point unless I was considering marriage?”

  I jumped to my feet. One of the few pluses of being so short is that I didn’t have far to go.

  “M-Marriage? What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “You did, of course.”

  “How?”

  “You practically propositioned me, Miss Hogsworth. Did you not claim to be red-blooded, and then invite me to lunch in the back room of restaurant?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And that business about the hands; your obstinacy is nothing if not provocative.”

  “Then it’s nothing! C.J., are you there?”

  “Even now you reference someone I don’t know just to make me jealous. Miss Hogsworth, believe me when I say that it works.”

  I was trembling with rage and frustration, while he seemed to be purring with satisfaction. “C.J.,” I practically screamed, “where the heck are you?”

  Conrad Stallings’s concave mandible appeared to collapse further as he mouthed a mock, Oh, dear me.

  “What did you just say?” I demanded.

  “That’s too bad,” he said, “about your boyfriend not being reliable. You’ll be a lot better off with someone more mature—like me. Say, does the waitress come back here, or does one have to take one’s order up front?”

  I glanced at the remains of my lunch, and thought about dumping them in his lap. But I am a Southern belle, born and bred. In addition to being raised to have good manners, I was brought up to be practical. Why waste perfectly good food when there was still enough for tomorrow’s lunch?

  “Some wet birds do fly at night, but they almost never fly backward,” I mumbled. I said it so softly, he couldn’t possibly have caught more than two words.

  “What’d you say?”

  I smiled graciously and left. As I passed the open door to the kitchen I ran into Veronica, the only waitress on duty. Veronica was as Chinese as a basketful of hush puppies, and she often had trouble communicating with the Mandarin-speaking cooks.

  “Hi. How goes it?” I said to her.

  “Not so good. The owner’s wife stayed home today; she usually does the translating. This,” she nodded at an order on her tray, “was supposed to be moo shu pork, but I don’t see any meat. I’ll be happy if I get any tips this shift.”

  I fished in my purse for my wallet and extracted three twenty dollar bills. “Veronica, this is my tip, and a little extra for special services rendered.”

  She smiled, and her tired eyes danced conspiratorially. “What am I about to do this time?”

  “You see that bald guy over there dressed in khaki? The one who’s got a helmet in front of him on the table?”

  “Yeah, what is he? A Nazi?”

  “Just an American who wants to be a British colonist married to woman named Hogsworth.”

  “A real weirdo, huh?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, I want you to totally ignore him. If he tries to wave you over, pretend like you don’t see him. Can you do that?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck, Abby—with whatever you’re up to.”

  Poogan’s Porch, at 72 Queen Street, was built as a spacious home in 1888, surrounded by a lovely garden and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. In 1976 the owners sold their home and moved away, leaving behind their faithful dog, Poogan. The charming Victorian structure was subsequently turned into a restaurant, but Poogan remained, claiming a perch on the front porch, from which he greeted customers until his death. The heartbreaking story alone makes it worth a visit. Throw in an Apparition American—Poogan’s is haunted—and you have the perfect place to lunch. But even if you’ve already had lunch, it is worth spending one’s calorie allotment on the bread pudding with rum sauce.

  I’d made arrangements to meet Pagan Willifrocke there at two o’clock. She said she was in advertising and that I would recognize her when I saw her. Now, I hoped that no one I knew would recognize me.

  There would have been no such risk at Chopsticks, because none of my social set would deign to dine in such a humble, and anonymous, place unless they were having an affair, in which case they wouldn’t have dared speak up. Not so, with Poogan’s Porch, which was popular both with tourists and locals, and brightly lit to boot.

  I elected to arrive a few minutes late, and was vastly relieved to find that Pagan Willifrocke had already been seated and was waiting for me in the back room. Just as I was breathing my sigh of relief, the hostess piped up again to serve me a dollop of karmic justice.

  “You know, Miss Hogsworth, I would swear that you were in here just the other day, only you had a different name. Timberlake—no, that’s Justin—Tumblelake, that’s it! Mrs. Tumblelake,
and you had that really handsome husband, and a kind of strange mother—but not too strange—I mean, you oughta see mine. Anyway, I know that Pagan Willifrocke is kinda like a big deal, local celebrity—”

  “She is?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s in all them car ads. You know, where she bends over the red convertible, flicks her tongue around the corners of her mouth like a sexy snake, and says ‘yum.’ But like I was about to say, I’m like, totally cool, if like, you and Miss Willifrocke are, like, you know, ’cause my cousin Diane back in Terra Haute, she’s a lesbian, and she’s about the nicest person you could ever know. She wouldn’t abuse you, if you were the last person on earth—oh crap, that didn’t come out right, did it? Really, I’m sorry, Miss Tumblelake, I shouldn’t have said anything. There—There she is, by the table over by the window.”

  Holy guacamole! It was indeed the blond-haired beauty who salivated all over the latest model vehicles, promising that no other area dealer could go lower than the one she represented. Much to my surprise she was even prettier in person; she had wide full lips, pronounced cheekbones, and eyes as blue as Newman’s own.

  Some years ago a wise person told me that even celebrities have to put their panties on one leg at a time. Translation: we’re all pretty much the same. Bearing in mind that nugget of truth, I stepped forward and introduced myself—as Abigail Timberlake.

  “But I was supposed to meet a Miss Hogsworth,” the pretty blonde said in an accent that was clearly from north of the Line.

  “Oh that was hog wash,” I said. “I was trying to be clandestine about this meeting, but since you’re here, and using your real name—well, then it seems sort of silly for me not to, doesn’t it?”

  She tossed her platinum locks as she laughed. “I suppose so. Especially considering the fact that Pagan Willifrocke is my professional name.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Miss Hogwarts, do you really thing that a mother somewhere would name her baby daughter Pagan?”

  “I know someone who named her dog that,” I said stubbornly.

  “I’m sure you do. I see that you brought a book of some sort with you. May I take a look?”

  “Will you tell me your real name?”

  I could see her surreptitiously eye the door. “Are you a cop, Miss Warthog?”

  “I most certainly am not!”

  “Do you swear?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!”

  “Then may I see the book, Miss Piggy?”

  “Certainly. Hey, the name is Sweathog—I mean Hogsworth—no, Timberlake. Do you see what you’ve done?”

  Pagan Willifrocke flashed me an expensive smile. “I can be naughty at times, even wicked. One thing you should know about me, Miss Timberlake, is that I have expensive tastes. I live on Sullivan’s Island, but I’m tired of the so-called ‘beach house’ look that is de rigueur for a house on the coast. Quite frankly, I’m sick of sea-foam green, and I think that pelicans are hideous birds. I don’t want any of that crap in my house. My decorator is doing the entire house in a black and white theme.

  “The formal living room is going to have black walls, high gloss, with white cotton sofas, and white objets d’art. Do you know what an objet d’art is, Miss Timberlake?”

  “I am not a rube, Miss Whatever-your-real-name-is.”

  “I prefer Pagan Willifrocke. If I told you my real name, I’d have to kill you.” She then produced the obligatory laugh, but it didn’t sound convincing. “Anyway, Maurice—that’s my decorator—was going to commission some white fiberglass sculptures, but then I saw your ad for the ivory. I don’t normally read that section of the paper, but I needed some for the bottom of Ivory’s cage. Ivory’s the name of my new cockatoo that I got just for the living room—because he’s white, you know. That’s almost like a sign, isn’t it? Now where was I?”

  “Pleasantly lost in space?”

  Pagan laughed. “You forgot to say ‘bless your heart.’”

  “Sorry; please consider it said. Miss Willifrocke, what do you know about ivory? Where it comes from? How it’s collected, etcetera.”

  “You may not be a rube, Miss Timberlake, but I’m not the stereotypical dumb blonde. Were you expecting me to say that it grows on ivory bushes? I know that it comes from elephants. But here’s the way that I look at it: any ivory that you have to sell, obviously comes from elephants that are already dead. It’s not like I’m putting an order in to a poacher.”

  “Yes, it is, because once I sell this shipment, then I’ll turn to my supplier, and he’ll turn to his source, which is the poacher.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t want to sell to me? This is really weird, Miss Timberlake. I haven’t even glanced at your stupid catalogue, and I’m getting this really bad vibe off of you.”

  “My bad,” I said quickly. I didn’t much cotton to this expression when I first heard it, but it’s grown on me. I certainly like it a lot better than saying, You’re right, it’s my fault.

  But it was my fault. I’d gone on the defensive and referenced a nonexistent supplier and a source for him. If I ever did resort to a life of crime, got caught, and sang, I might perform an entire opera.

  Pagan Willifrocke was about to say something perhaps a tad less than profound—she had an evil glint in her eye—but we were interrupted by Gwen, our waitress. Much to my surprise, Pagan ordered what I did, and nothing more: bread pudding with whipped cream and warm rum sauce. Gwen promised to bring the desserts momentarily and then scurried off.

  “Miss Timberlake,” Pagan said the second Gwen was out of earshot, “I have a confession to make.”

  12

  There’s no need to confess anything, dear; I’ve already guessed. But I’ve seen a product advertised on TV that the manufacture claims can touch up your roots instantly—no muss, no fuss.”

  “Hissss. I like that! And I thought you Southern women were as soft and sweet as overripe peaches.”

  “We are. But you have heard of peach schnapps, haven’t you?”

  “Touché. Anyway, my confession has nothing to do with my hair—which admittedly needs a touch-up, but the fact that I’ve been dropping by your shop from time to time and spying on you.”

  “You have—oh, you’re just pulling my leg! Miss Willifrocke, I may not be the most observant person in the world, but even I would notice someone like you.”

  Pagan threw back her head and laughed with apparent delight. “I used a number of disguises: big hats, wigs, scarves, glasses, stage makeup. I must have been in the Den of Antiquity a dozen times.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was walking up King Street one day and your window displays captivated me. Who does your displays, by the way?”

  “Usually I do—although lately my assistant has been taking over.”

  “And lately the quality has suffered. Anyway, I was so taken with your style that I slipped in to peruse your merchandise, and when I left I said to myself, ‘If this woman would decorate my house, instead of the arrogant, dichromatic Maurice, I would be a happy camper’—and I hate the outdoors!

  “Look, I know that you’re not a decorator, but an antiques dealer, but still, I kept coming back, because I was drawn by your exquisite sense of taste. I just couldn’t help myself, and I was learning so much. And then it happened.”

  As if on cue Gwen plunked down large ramekins of bread pudding in front of each of us. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No,” we said in unison.

  I glanced fleetingly at my tower of melting whipped cream and breathed in deeply the heady aroma of warm rum sauce. The truth be told, I couldn’t resist shoveling a huge bite into my mouth before following through on Pagan’s last statement.

  “And then what happened?” I asked.

  “Honestly, Miss Timberlake, your manners are atrocious.”

  “But this is so good.” I smacked my lips. “Go ahead, take a bite.”

  Pagan Willifrocke took three bites before she c
ould speak again, and even then her mouth wasn’t clear of food. “What happened is that I had this brilliant idea for a television series. Of course it would star myself—I am, after all, a well-known TV personality, but you would be my costar.”

  “Me?” Thank heavens I was between bites.

  “Yes, you. Granted, you’re uncommonly—uh, petite—but not too unattractive, and like I said, you are a very talented designer. Think what this show would do for your business.”

  “But I don’t even know what this show is about!”

  “It would be a show about redecorating Lowcountry homes, using your shop, and your skills, to bring about the physical transformation, but my on-camera presence, as the narrator, to make the show happen. The series would be called ‘Where There’s a Willifrocke, There’s a Way.’” Her voice had risen an octave and her eyes were shining with excitement. “Oh, Miss Timberlake, can’t you just see it?”

  “Yes, but—but it sounds like such a lot of work.”

  “Don’t worry about that. There’ll be a production crew at your disposal: carpenters, painters, paperhangers, seamstresses, you name it. The truth is that you’ll be the real star of the show, but”—she cackled evilly—“I don’t care, I want my name in the title and top billing. Let’s face it, Miss Timberlake, while it’s true that I’m hands down far more attractive than you, I don’t have the talent you do. When these fabulous looks of mine start to go, then what will I do? Open an antiques store?” She cackled again.

  “What about a career as a motivational speaker? Or perhaps a therapist?”

  “Nah, therapists are all a bunch of quirks.”

  “You mean quacks?”

  “I meant what I said. Miss Timberlake, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be pushy on this, but the network is breathing down my neck. They want to get ‘Where There’s a Willifrocke’ on the fall schedule, which means we will have to start shooting immediately.” She reached into a large, rather nice, but faux Gucci tote beside her and withdrew several papers. “If you could just put your John Hancock here, it will secure your position on the show until we arrange for you to sign papers formally with our lawyers. And initial it here, please.”