The Ming and I

by Tamar Myers

  I had heard the story before—similar stories really, but all pretty much interchangeable. Couple moves to Florida, lives there for several years, and then one of them—usually the husband—dies. What then is the survivor supposed to do? Move back north after burning all her bridges, or hang on in a community of transplants, where memories of her loved one linger? In a surprising number of cases the survivor decides to relocate elsewhere in the South, usually in the Carolinas. Perhaps our slower pace reminds them of the good old days, but I like to think they find a sense of community here that helps them through their grief.

  “Anything else?”

  “Ms. Troyan was no spring chicken.”

  I was not especially surprised. I had not taken a close look at June Troyan while she was alive, and as for after—Well, going through plate glass does nothing for one’s complexion.

  “How old?”

  “Seventy-eight.”

  “Is that all you have?”

  He laughed. “Is this an interrogation?”

  “Just curious, dear.”

  “Well, she was volunteering part-time as a docent at Roselawn Plantation. You know, giving guided tours and that kind of thing.”

  I swung my legs off Greg’s lap. This was the most interesting piece of information, one that needed to be considered in a normal sitting position.

  Roselawn is an antebellum plantation that is just a Yankee hoot and a Rebel holler from Rock Hill. In the days before the Civil War—Mama and her generation call it The War Between the States—Roselawn was one of the premier cotton-producing plantations in the state. It supported hundreds of slaves—rather, they supported it.

  The plantation house, which still stands, is atypical of upcountry plantation houses in that its style is Greek Revival, with a Tuscan portico and cast iron balustraded decks. It would be more at home in Natchez, Mississippi, than in York County, South Carolina. The mansion escaped the ravages of Sherman’s army in The War of Northern Aggression (as my friend Wynnell calls it) only because it occupies a narrow spit of land on a hairpin turn in the Catawba River. The Yankees simply did not know it was there.

  James L. Rose VI, a widower and the last descendant of the original owners, died only last year. According to the newspapers, the entire estate was sold off to pay back taxes. Farmers bought most of the fertile river bottom land, and the house ended up in the hands of a private historical group that calls itself the Upstate Preservation Foundation.

  I was pretty sure Mama knew at least one person on the foundation, since Mama knows everyone of any consequence in Rock Hill. And I mean that humbly. Through no effort of my own I am well connected, and am usually privy to all the important gossip. But it was news to me that Roselawn Plantation was now open to the public and had, in fact, docents.

  “How long did Ms. Troyan work there?” I asked.

  Greg took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “I knew you were going to ask tough questions. Let’s see—just three weeks. They’ve only been open to the public that long.”

  It was time to resume my subscription to The Herald, Rock Hill’s newspaper. I had let it lapse because of the way its book editor treated local authors. But it was clear now that Mama was no longer a reliable conduit of hometown information. The time had come to sacrifice principle for knowledge.

  “Hmm, let’s see,” I mused, no doubt running my fingers through my short dark hair. “Ms. Troyan had only lived in the area for two years, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And already she was volunteering as a docent at a privately owned historical foundation. That can only mean one thing.”

  “What?” Greg is both handsome and smart, but he’s not brilliant.

  “She had—”

  “Money?”

  “To the contrary. She might well have been dirt poor.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s because you don’t know life in a small southern town.”

  Greg was born and raised in Atlanta, and had spent all his adult life in Charlotte. Both places are booming metropolises as far as I’m concerned. Thanks to the recent rust belt invasion, Rock Hill may now be pushing fifty thousand people, but it is essentially a small town at heart.

  Greg crossed his long legs at the knee. “Enlighten me.”

  “I’m talking about position, dear. Breeding. Dollars to doughnuts Ms. Troyan has a lineage that would make a Daughter of the Confederacy turn green with envy.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think so. Not in this case. She was originally from Indiana, remember? Fort Wayne, to be exact.”

  “Her parents, then, or grandparents. In Rock Hill it’s not what you have, but who you know. And believe me, Ms. Troyan had some connection to someone on the Upstate Preservation Foundation.”

  He had the temerity to laugh. “Maybe, but I still say it’s money. Off the record, Abby, this old gal was loaded. She and her husband owned FarmTec Incorporated, the largest manufacturer of combines and tractors in the Midwest.”

  I gasped. “Oh! Then she could easily have afforded that Ming.”

  “What mink? She was wearing a rather plain brown dress.”

  “Did I say ‘mink’?” I asked with all the innocence of a babe.

  The Wedgwood blue eyes locked on mine. “Out with it, Abby.”

  I took my foot out of my mouth. Fortunately it is only a size four, and I’ve had a lot of practice. Besides, I was going to tell him anyway—sooner or later.

  Greg remained remarkably calm during my brief account of the day’s highlight, but as soon as I was finished, he exploded like a badly made firecracker. After a few minutes of banging and popping he settled down to a sporadic sizzle and became relatively coherent.

  “Damn it, Abby! Goddamn it to hell. Withholding information is an obstruction of justice. You could get in big trouble for this. You know that, don’t you?”

  My heart was pounding. I hadn’t meant to obstruct justice, and I certainly hadn’t meant to tick Greg off. All I had wanted was a little time to appreciate the Ming that had magically appeared in my shop.

  “We don’t know that the Ming was hers,” I said quietly.

  “But you said you saw her carry it into your shop.”

  I swallowed. “I said I saw her carry an ugly gray vase into the shop. The Ming is definitely neither ugly nor gray. So we can’t be entirely, one hundred percent sure it’s the same vase, can we?”

  Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. It was the first time I had seen the Wedgwood blues put to such poor use.

  “Where is the damn thing now?”

  I jumped up hotly. “I didn’t sell the damn thing, for Pete’s sake, if that’s what you’re driving at. You want it? You’ve got it. Just follow me—in your own damn car!”

  I snatched my key ring off the hook by the front door, but purposefully left my purse behind. If Greg wanted to ticket me for speeding and not having a driver’s license on my person, so be it. But if that was the case, he could count on never having one of Mama’s home-cooked dinners again. Or anything from me.

  4

  Greg didn’t follow me. He took a different route altogether, and he must have done some pretty fast driving himself, because he was waiting in front of the shop when I arrived. His time behind the wheel must have been therapeutic for him—he was actually smiling when I got out of my car.

  “Hey, maybe I came off sounding a little angry back there,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  “You were obnoxious.”

  He withdrew his hand. “You got the keys?”

  I glared at him, which was, alas, a wasted action because my face was in the shadows. “I am not a total idiot,” I said, and fumbled for the right key.

  We both stomped our way back to the back of the shop. Of course Greg can stomp harder than I can, but I made up for it with my loud, drawn-out sighs of disgust.

  “There, you see”—I pointed to the table behind the counter—” there’s your precious Ming. You happy n
ow?”

  “Hell no,” he said childishly. “I don’t see anything but some damn papers.”

  That was it. I had lost all patience. I marched around the counter.

  “Here—” I started to point, but my hand dropped to my side in horror. The Ming was missing. There was nothing on the table but a stack of bills.

  “Damn you, Abby, is this some kind of a game?”

  My mouth opened and closed rhythmically, like a baby bird begging for its supper. Unlike the baby bird, I was mute.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Greg said, and turned.

  I found my voice. It was a couple of octaves higher than where I’d left it.

  “The Ming was here, Greg! I swear!”

  He turned halfway around. I could see that his hands were balled into fists, pressed up against his chest. Greg has never hit me. He has never even punched a pillow in my presence. But I must have driven him perilously close to the edge.

  “This is a serious matter, Abby,” he said in measured tones. “You can’t be leading me on.”

  “I know it’s serious,” I cried, “and I’m not leading you on. The vase was right here when I locked up this evening. I looked at it—touched it even—just before I left.”

  I knew he believed me when I saw his posture change. His shoulders, which had been rigid, relaxed and his hands came down to his side. He faced me.

  “Who else has a key?”

  “Lots of people,” I confessed.

  “What do you mean by ‘lots’?” he asked calmly.

  I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. They were hot. No doubt they would scald my cheeks when they rolled down, scarring me for life. I was so stupid I deserved such a fate.

  I looked away. He was just a blur anyway.

  “I lose keys easily. You know that. That’s why I keep them on a ring by the front door. But sometimes I still lose them. So I keep extra car keys hidden under the hood of my car, and my friends all have house keys.”

  “And your shop keys?”

  “Just Wynnell, C.J., and the Rob-Bobs.”

  I hung my head in shame, and the tears began dropping on my shoes. They weren’t that hot after all.

  Greg, bless his soul, walked over and put his arms around me. I fully expected him to apologize for having yelled at me, but he didn’t. Which meant he was still mad. That’s true love, if you ask me—being able to comfort someone when you’re mad as hell at them.

  “Tomorrow you talk to them. Find out if any of them—for any reason—might have borrowed your Ming.”

  My tap shuts off easily. “My Ming! You mean I can keep it? I mean, if we find it?”

  “Not very likely,” he said, and kissed the top of my head.

  But he didn’t apologize. Not that night at any rate.

  I approached the Rob-Bobs first, of course. After all, they were the only ones beside Mama and Greg who knew about the Ming.

  “Mais non!” Bob boomed. He sometimes resorts to French when he’s highly offended.

  “Abby, Abby, Abby,” Rob said, and I felt as if a cock had crowed three times.

  “Not that I thought y’all had,” I said, beating a hasty retreat.

  It was still ten minutes until nine, so I wandered over to Wynnell’s shop, Wooden Wonders. Wynnell and I met in the business, and we have only been friends for a couple of years, but I like to think of her as the older sister I never had. I do have a brother—Toy Wiggins—but he lives in California, where he works hard to look like he’s playing. Last we heard he was parking cars at Planet Hollywood at night, and patrolling the streets of Malibu by day, in both cases hoping to pick up a starlet.

  We shop owners are generally very busy in the minutes just prior to opening—straightening stock and such—so Wynnell was both pleased and surprised to see me.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, pulling me into the shop and locking the door behind me.

  I nodded. There was no need to tell Wynnell that the homemade outfit she was wearing had given me a sudden fit of nausea. I had never seen such a conglomeration of patterns and colors—even Joseph’s coat of many colors would have paled by comparison. Don’t get me wrong. I am not putting down those less fortunate than myself. Wynnell can well afford to buy store-bought clothes—even the best—but suffers from the delusion that she is both a seamstress and a designer. Picasso might have agreed.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I wailed. “It’s the Ming!”

  Wynnell’s shrub-size eyebrows fused in confusion. “What’s amazing?”

  “Not amazing—a Ming! A genuine fifteenth-century Ch’eng-hua period Ming vase. A tou ts’ai!”

  The eyebrows remained fused. “You aren’t making a lick of sense, honey! Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I spit out my tale of woe. Wynnell has a face that law enforcement departments should copy and patent if they really want a foolproof lie detector. It was clear that I couldn’t have stabbed her any worse had my words been pitchforks and her heart a block of warm butter.

  “So you think that I might have taken it?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then why are you here, Abigail?”

  “Well, uh—I—”

  She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost opening time, and I still have work to do.”

  “Wynnell, I’m sorry, I really am! I don’t know what got over me. Panic, I guess. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Please, Wynnell, forgive me.”

  What began as a bushy-browed glare dissolved into a warm, slightly gap-toothed smile. “Help me do inventory next month?”

  “Do we have to move those around?” I gestured at the jumble of heavy dressers, beds, and armoires that make up the bulk of the merchandise that packs Wooden Wonders.

  “You bet you do.”

  “Deal,” I said, and gave her a quick hug.

  “You speak to C.J. yet?” she asked sensibly. C.J. was the youngest of Greg’s suspects and the most likely to borrow something without permission.

  “Unh-unh. What if she doesn’t have it?” I wailed.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll have it,” my pseudosister said, and patted me encouragingly on the back.

  “But if she doesn’t?”

  Wynnell scowled, hopelessly snarling her brows, I’m sure. “Then it’s the Yankees. I saw this TV documentary about a band of roving thieves—”

  “I saw that same show, Wynnell, and the thieves were from South Carolina. Besides, my shop was locked when we arrived last night. What thief is going to break in, and then lock the shop behind him?”

  Wynnell shrugged, unconvinced. The dear woman spots a Yankee behind every bush. If she had her way, the North Carolina Highway Department would erect barriers at the state’s northern border and screen all motorists. Perhaps make them say their vowels.

  “Well, I don’t think it was stolen,” I said. “Just borrowed. I’m sure you’re right, though—C.J. must have it.”

  Wynnell patted me again. “She has it, honey. But good luck all the same.”

  C.J. said she didn’t have it.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean—if you did, it’s all right. Just give it back. No more questions asked.”

  At twenty-three, C.J. is the youngest, and incidentally newest, dealer on this street. She’s just a kid, really, a fact that I often overlook, because she is so precocious. After all the tears I’d shed, I certainly had no intention of making her cry.

  “There, there,” I said, patting her back awkwardly. I am no Wynnell.

  “How can you blame me, Abigail, after all I’ve done for you?”

  “I didn’t blame you,” I said, patting harder.

  And I hadn’t. I had only intimated that she might have the vase. Whereas she had concluded that I thought her a criminal, just one cell away from death row. This was pure C.J.

  Jane Cox is her real name, but we call her Calamity Jane behind her back—hence the initials. She thinks—at least we all hope so�
��that we have bestowed upon her a fond nickname, using her reversed initials. No doubt she is unaware that she jumps to conclusions faster than a cat leaps from a red-hot stove. But she not only jumps to conclusions, she runs with them. To the extreme.

  “As long as no one trusts me, I should turn to a life of crime,” she said, still weeping.

  “I trust you, dear,” I said, patting even harder.

  “Folks didn’t trust my cousin Erval, either.”

  “You’re not your cousin.”

  She looked down at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Erval wasn’t really my cousin, just an orphan boy my church took in. But we were as close as twins, Abigail. Anyway, one day when we were about ten, a dollar bill got stolen off the offering plate at church.

  “Deacon Cauldwell swore he’d seen Erval take it. Miss Emma put it in, and by the time it got to Miss Cory, the dollar was gone. Erval was the only non-tithing suspect sitting between the two of them.

  “What can a ten-year-old say to an accusation like that, Abigail?”

  I stopped patting long enough to shrug.

  “Well, there was nothing for Erval to say. The next thing we knew, Erval took off—left Shelby plum behind, and headed up over the mountains. Nobody heard from him again.” She took a deep, much-needed breath.

  “Until four years had passed. And then there it was—right there in the Shelby Gazette. Erval Snicker had been arrested for murder in Tennessee! Not just one person, but three. The youngest mass murderer in the state’s history—and all because Deacon Cauldwell accused him of stealing a dollar he didn’t take.”

  I stopped patting altogether. “I didn’t accuse you of anything, dear. I’m terribly sorry I even brought the matter up. Please forgive me.”

  C.J. rubbed the tears from her eyes with fists twice as big as mine. “I might not have stopped at just three,” she said. “Seventeen is my lucky number.”

  I apologized again and scooted back to my shop lickety-split. In the future I would be careful to stay on C.J.’s good side.