by Tamar Myers
I leaned forward on my stool. “Yes. I know what ferns are.”
He leaned forward as well. “I have seen this emerald—right here in my shop. I have held it my hands; I have touched it to my lips. I am telling you, madam, it exists. This fabulous stone is right here in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
“Yes, I know.”
He recoiled ever so slightly. “You have seen it?”
“Yes. I believe that I own it.”
The jeweler shook his head wearily. “Madam, please, it has been a long day. Either you know that this stone is yours, or you do not. It is not a matter of faith.”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story—but I’ll give you the short version. It was given to me by an eccentric woman named Jerry Ovumkoph—an older woman in her seventies—”
“Yes, yes, she is the one! She brings in this ring; at first I think that she has been misinformed; many clients come in with synthetic stones and they do not know it. When I tell them that their stones are worthless, they are, of course, very angry with me.” He shrugged. “But some do know that the stones they have are counterfeits, and their intention is to cheat. Anyway, I studied Ms. Ovumkoph’s stone carefully, and I even asked the opinion of some of my colleagues, and yes, madam—it is real.”
“Did she want to sell it?”
“Madam, you are very charming; a native of the South, yes? But, you still have not stated your business. Are you a buyer, or a seller?”
I thought back to my college days, and what different connotations those words had then. But it was stupid of me to waste even a nanosecond on such memories. I decided to come clean with the jeweler with the vaguely Eastern European accent—well, partway clean, at least. Any Dixie chick with a speck of starch in her crinolines knows better than to spill all her beans at once, even if she has to murder her metaphors.
“I’m neither a buyer nor a seller. You see, the woman who was here—Jerry Ovumkoph—left me that ring in her will. But she’s dead now, and the ring is missing. I’m trying to trace down the origin of that ring for insurance purposes so I can get a replacement value.”
He stared at me. I knew he was trying to read me, to see if I was lying. Of course I was, but I wasn’t trying to scam him out of any money. He didn’t have a thing to lose by telling me the truth. Surely he could sense that.
“She wanted a glass copy made,” he said. “Glass!”
“Scandalous,” I said.
“Are you mocking me, madam?”
“No, sir. I’m quite serious; to put a glass center stone in that gorgeous design of yours would be like hanging a Jackson Pollock painting in the Hermitage. How many diamonds are in the border?”
“Forty-two. Each one is VVSI or better. It is twenty-two-karat Italian gold—not fourteen-karat like the cheap rings one sees everywhere.”
I glanced down at the cheap ring my sweetie gave me. Well, it would take more knocks than a more expensive ring without getting bent out of shape. That’s what I was trying to do in this new marriage: not get all bent out of shape. But as for the knocks—just one literal tap and Greg was out of there. I’d survived one abusive marriage, and I was not going to be a punching bag, for anyone, ever again.
“Of course you Americans are very smart,” Mr. Chergonia said. “You spend thousands of dollars on the dress, which the bride will never wear again. But it is big, and every one can see it even from the back of the church. The ring not so much—even though when the revolution comes, the bride can run and hide with her ring, and then sell it across the border and buy bread for her children if it is high-quality gold.”
“Your point is well-taken, sir. I concede—that means that you win.”
“So—Mrs. Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn—what else do you want to know?”
It took me a minute to scoop up my lower jaw and slap it back into place. “Wow! You’ve got quite a memory for names.”
“And you have an impressive knowledge of stones—for an amateur, yes?”
“Yes, although I do own an antiques store and from time to time I come into possession of estate jewelry. Anyway, what I really came here to find out is if anyone has been trying to unload this ring in the last day or two.”
“Madam?” He appeared to be genuinely startled.
“You see, Jerry Ovumkoph passed—that is to say, she’s dead—and she left me her ring in her will, but it was stolen.”
His dark eyes flashed angrily. “I do not deal in stolen goods! Never!”
“I know that, sir. I’m just wondering if someone—maybe another Ovumkoph—tried to sell you this ring.”
His response was to hold one of his long, slender, if slightly crooked fingers to his lips. The dark eyes directed me to look at the curtained doorway. There was a gap toward the bottom where the heaven curtains fell apart, and in that space was the hideously expensive toe of a Victor Illuminati sandal.
I smiled and nodded. “Then I dragged the body to the car,” I practically shouted. “Of course I couldn’t lift it into the trunk by myself, so I had to call someone from the family to help me. You wouldn’t believe how fast they showed up. Being the Godfather’s real daughter has its perks, you know. I just wish I’d kept my maiden name, and not those of all my former husbands. Oh well, at least they’re no longer around to bother me.”
By then Mr. Chergonia had risen to his feet. The poor man’s face was as white as parboiled grits and he’d begun to sway like a palmetto in a category four storm. I have never taken a bona fide CPR class; all I really know is that the techniques have changed a bit over the years and—thank heavens—giving mouth-to-mouth is no longer de rigueur. Then again, like I said, I really know squat. I just knew enough to dig my cell phone out of my purse and mentally review the procedure for dialing 911.
“I think you need to sit back down,” I whispered.
“Yah, mebbe, dats a goot idea,” he said.
By then the ridiculously expensive footwear was no longer to be seen. Having caused such consternation, I took it upon myself to at least see what, if any, the lasting damages were, so I crept to the doorway and gradually peeled back enough of one panel to allow me to peep into the showroom. You can imagine my relief then when I saw the hostess cleaning the top of a display case at the far end of the room. She looked entirely absorbed in her task; calm and peaceful even. The tray of champagne glasses waited nearby on another countertop. All was well with the world.
I scurried soundlessly back to my source of information. “So? Have you been contacted?”
“Ahuuug—” he said, and slid to the floor.
Chapter 15
It was already past six when the police let me go. Ergo I didn’t stand a chance of winning the bet.
“Abby, darling,” Mama said, over her fillet at the Texas Roadhouse, “you should lock yourself up in your hotel room until Greg gets up here. Bodies are dropping like flies wherever you go.”
“Please, Mama,” I said, “the waiter might hear you.”
“Did you say you wanted fries, ma’am?” the waiter said.
Everyone burst out laughing except for Douglas, our flummoxed waitperson, and yours truly. “No,” Mama said, “but we’ll take another basket of those rolls—um, make that two baskets. And more honey butter, please. I swear, I could fill up on just those rolls.”
“I hear you, Mozella,” Wynnell said. “Those rolls make my tongue want to come out and slap my head silly.”
This time everyone, including Douglas, laughed—except for C.J. “Ooh, Wynnell, I know that’s a good Southernism, but I really wish you wouldn’t say it. Cousin Cornelius Ledbetter really did have a tongue that long and it got him into all kinds of trouble. He went up North one winter—it was really cold up there—and his tongue got frozen to—”
“To a light pole.” Mama sighed. “C.J., we all saw that movie.”
“It wasn’t a light pole, Mozella,” C.J. said, somewhat piqued. “That just doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
“No pun intended,�
� I said, and we all laughed—except C.J.
“Really, y’all,” she said, turning red, “do you want to hear the story, or not?”
“Of course we do,” Wynnell said quickly. I can’t blame the poor woman for capitulating so quickly; after all, it was she who had to endure the ride up to Charlotte with my ex-sister-in-law. (A pouting C.J. is enough to drive a busload of optimists over a cliff on a sunny day.)
“Well, it’s like this. It was actually both tongues that came out—”
“Now wait just one biscuit-baking minute,” I said. “You really expect us to believe that your cousin has two tongues?”
The big galoot rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever wear tie-up shoes, Abby? Like sneakers?”
“Oh!”
“Cheese and crackers, Abby—I mean, you didn’t really think I meant his lingua, did you?” Of the seventeen languages C.J. speaks, Latin gets the least use, so she is always happy when she gets to toss in a word that we’ll understand by context.
“Of course not—” Thank goodness our conversation was interrupted by the delivery of two baskets of soft, warm yeast rolls, and freshly filled tubs of honey butter.
After Mama had inhaled two rolls she nudged C.J. “Let’s go make a scene and embarrass the girls.”
“This time you’re keeping your clothes on, Mozella,” C.J. said to my seventy-five-year-old mama.
“Whatever,” Mama said.
I knew what they were up to. The Texas Roadhouse has a genuine saddle that you get to sit on if it’s your birthday. Mostly children do this, and while they’re in this photo opportunity the waitstaff sings the birthday song and onlookers clap. In short, everyone has a good time. However, my wee madre insists on climbing aboard the saddle every time we visit the restaurant (which is every time we’re in Charlotte), and while I blush and look away, and no one officially sings, she hees and haws and has such a good time that when she finally climbs down, she somehow manages a standing ovation. Go figure.
“So tell me, Wynnell,” I said, the second those two overgrown children were out of earshot, “how was your afternoon?”
“You should know, Abby,” Wynnell said. “We seemed to hit every place you did—except that we arrived a few seconds after you stirred up the hornets’ nests.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Abigail Louise,” Wynnell said, “don’t you lie to me. That nice Melissa Ovumkoph said you pocketed all her Moon Pies but one, and she was so upset that she ate it herself, so she had nothing to offer me but a glass of rather strange-looking wine which, by the way, was really quite good.”
“Oops,” I said sheepishly. “I still have some of the Moon Pies. Would you like one?”
“Maybe later,” Wynnell said.
“Were you able to learn anything?” I asked.
“She’s not a natural blond,” Wynnell said.
“You should work for the government,” I said.
Wynnell smiled, and given that she now had two eyebrows and they were shaped, she was really quite attractive. Not jump-her-bones-attractive, of course, few women are—now where was I?
“The blond thing was a joke,” Wynnell said. “But she really is an impostor; a fake.”
“What?” I said.
“Maybe you didn’t see it, Abby,” Wynnell said. “That’s only because you’re always looking for the good in people.”
“Yee-haw!” Mama whooped in the distance.
“Oh, I get it now,” I said. “Melissa Ovumkoph is a Yankee pretending to be a native-born Southerner. What gave her away?”
“She kept addressing me as ‘y’all.’ When will they ever learn that ‘y’all’ is plural and stands for ‘you all’?”
“When you put your guns down and surrender,” I said. “Wynnell, the war has been over for almost one hundred and fifty years.”
“Humph.”
“Were you able to get any information that might pertain to the case?” I asked.
“She was fixing to fry up some chicken and take it over to her husband,” Wynnell said.
“That’s definitely the mark of a killer,” I said.
“Abby,” Wynnell said, “you’re getting as smart-mouthed as your friend Magdalena. Frankly, honey, it isn’t as becoming on someone as tiny as you.”
“Why fiddle-dee-dee,” I said. “Okay, dear, I’ll zip my lips if you’ll just cut to the chase.”
Wynnell demonstrated that two brows can indeed be quite effective in denoting displeasure. “I was at the chase,” she said. “Melissa was dredging chicken parts in flour as we talked, and that’s when I happened to notice the empty package lying in the sink. Knowing that they are cash poor, I casually mentioned to her that it is cheaper to buy a whole chicken and cut it up oneself. Well, wouldn’t you know she turned white as a sheet? She has an absolute phobia about knives. Turns out her twin sister committed suicide by—well, trust me, Abby, Melissa Ovumkoph did not stab her husband’s aunt, and I very much doubt if her husband did either.”
“Good job, Wynnell!” I said. Finally I had something to jot down in my notebook. “Was Mama any help?”
“Abby,” Wynnell said, “your mama’s a peach, and you know that I love her dearly, right?”
“Of course!” I said.
“She wouldn’t come inside,” Wynnell said, “all on account of she couldn’t get her puffed up skirts through the door without getting them dirty. I whispered to her that she should slip off a few of her crinolines so as not to appear rude, but you know that she can be as stubborn as a herd of concrete mules—especially to suggestions. So she stayed back in the car, listening to the radio. Now was that rude, or what?”
“What,” Mama said breathlessly, having returned from her romp in the saddle. “What are you two talking about?”
“Your bad behavior at Melissa Ovumkoph’s house: refusing to squeeze through the front door.”
Mama has plucked her brows so much that what one sees now is mostly pencil. “Abby, that place was filthy,” she said. “Besides, there is a lot that a good sleuth can deduce merely by quiet observation from afar.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Well,” Mama said, “Aaron and Melissa might be dirt-poor, but they own a boat. I know because I peeked into their garage.” Mama delivered her nugget of info with immense satisfaction. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d commenced to purring just then.
“Which they are trying to sell,” Wynnell said. “Neighborhood covenants don’t allow them to keep the boat in their driveway. And it’s a right shame that they have to sell it too, if you ask me. Melissa used to be a professional water-skier down in Cypress Gardens, Florida, before she got married. She’s got a powerful grip; I told her she could rip a chicken into pieces. No need to cut it.”
“Sounds like you two got along swimmingly,” I said, “pun quite intended.” I turned back to my mother. “Mama, is there anything else extraordinaire that you saw?”
“They haven’t stopped their newspaper subscription,” she said happily. “It seems to me that would be a luxury to someone in their situation.”
“Unless they need it for the classifieds,” C.J. said.
“Humph,” Mama said, and reached for another yeast roll.
“Wynnell,” I said, “did you pay Aaron a visit as well? If so, what did you think of his shop?”
“Abby, was that a dig?”
“Of course not,” I said. Wynnell was never able to make a go of it with her shop, the Wooden Wonders, in Charleston. Yes, she displayed her merchandise in a jumbled, haphazard fashion, but at least she wasn’t all over the board—pun also intended.
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for that,” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t like that man at all. I thought he was trying to hide something from us.”
That certainly piqued my interest. “Like what?” I asked.
“Like he pushed some stuff aside on the watch counter,” she said, “and covered it with an apron, and then kept trying to move us away from there to
where the cards were. Every time I took a step back toward the watch shop, so did he. And he got all nervous and his voice went up an octave. Oh, and he kept trying to sell me some face cream, or some gewgaw or another.”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Mama managed to say, despite her left cheek being distended with a wad of yeast roll. “I think he was a charming man. Absolutely delightful, in fact.”
“Argh,” Wynnell said. “She’s just being—”
“Ben Ovumkoph has a thing for you, C.J.,” I said.
Mama managed to swallow the roll and speak first. “Talk about a conversation stopper. How do you know this, dear?”
“He told me—well, not flat out; this isn’t grade school. But he did say that he frequents my shop on account of he enjoys doing business with the tall gal with blond hair from Shelby. Who else could he mean?”
C.J. grinned happily. I don’t blame her; it’s always nice to be admired, even if nothing can come of it.
“Why I think that’s disgusting!” Wynnell said. “C.J., how old are you now?”
“Twenty-nine—unless you’re counting in goat years,” she said. “In that case—”
“We’re not counting in goat years,” Wynnell snapped. “But Ben Ovumkoph is an old goat. How old is he, anyway? Sixty-something?”
“Probably close to seventy,” Mama said. “I didn’t smell a whole lot of testosterone when we shook hands.”
C.J. slid out of the booth and appeared to inflate like the Michelin Man, so great was her anger. “Stop it, y’all! What matters is that I am a fully grown woman, and in charge of my senses. If a septuagenarian finds delight in my multitudinous charms, and I in his, it is none of y’all’s beeswax.”
“You tell ’em, girlfriend,” I said evilly. Okay, so I wasn’t really being evil; I was just tired of Mama and Wynnell judging C.J. so much. It was a generational thing, not a personality clash; Lord knows they were all three as nutty as a bridge mix.
