by Tamar Myers
“Hello?” I said.
“Hon, it’s Greg.”
“Darling, you’re on your way, right? Please say that you’re calling from the lobby.”
“I’m afraid not, Abby.”
“Oh shoot, this sounds like a cell phone. And I think I hear a boat engine.”
“Yeah, what’s left of one. After I closed your shop, Booger and I decided we’d go out and meet a school of tuna that a small plane pilot had supposedly seen on his way down from Myrtle Beach. Unfortunately The Charming Abby decided that she had other plans. So, to make a long story short, we’re being towed into McClellanville, where we’ll be spending the night at Booger’s in-laws. You remember Ted and Wilma Greer, don’t you?”
“Oh Greg,” I said, “I’m really disappointed. Things are going terrible up here in Charlotte.”
“Terrible? How so?”
“I’m not making any headway; I’m just floundering in my investigation.”
“That’s because it’s not your investigation, hon; it’s the detectives’ investigation. All you’re supposed to do is cooperate.”
I wasted precious minutes pouting. Meanwhile we could have lost our phone connection at any second. What an idiot I could be when it came to my ego.
“But I have discovered something interesting,” I finally said.
“What’s that?”
“Rob’s Aunt Jerry was sort of an Auntie Mame on steroids. Throw in some Hugh Hefner as well.”
“You mean she liked the ladies?”
“No! But she liked the men. And loved jewelry. She has—I should say had—two safes in her closet that were filled with fine pieces, but here’s the catch: they were CZ copies.”
“Holy shiitake mushrooms! Doesn’t it cost a lot just to make a copy?”
“It depends on whether or not the piece is custom-made. If the finding happens to be mass-produced, then of course it is a lot cheaper.”
“So what’s a finding?” he said.
“The setting,” I said tiredly.
“Then why didn’t you just say so,” he said irritably.
“Greg, I really have to go. My dogs are barking and all I want to do is take a nice long hot bath and then—”
“—and pull up your drawbridge. Do you have chocolate?”
“I have two bags of Peanut M&M’s from the machine. They’ll do. I’ll find an old movie to zone out with and I’ll be fine.”
“Well, okay. If I was there, I’d give your dogs a nice rub—after you’d soaked them in the tub, of course.”
“Of course. Good night, darling. I love you, and give my love to Booger.”
“I love you too, hon. More than you love me.”
“Greg, before you hang up; isn’t Wilma the one who used to vacuum naked, and somehow managed to run over one of her own boobs with her machine, and sued the company for thirty million dollars and they settled for three million?”
“She’s the one. Booger says to expect mighty nice accommodations tonight, so don’t worry about me.”
“I seldom do, dear.”
It was C.J. who I was starting to worry about. And Mama too. The bridges hadn’t been drawn up yet, so I tried calling one more time.
I didn’t get the big galoot, but I did get Mama in her room. We ended up getting separate rooms as well on account of the fact that Mama snores like a chimpanzee on steroids. (Don’t ask me how I know.)
“Abby, make it quick. The commercial just came on.”
“What are you watching?”
“Big Brother. If only I could get on that show, I would clean their clocks.”
“Mama! Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Survivor. I could wipe their clocks clean as well; I’ve never seen such a bunch of whiners. There’s only one area in which I couldn’t compete and that’s because my loins no longer quicken—”
“TMI! Too much information! I’m coming over,” I said. Her room was next door.
“Oh Abigail, don’t be such a prude,” she said, as she let me in. “It’s the bare-naked truth; isn’t that something you young people are always accusing us old folks of avoiding? Ever since your father died—killed as he was by that dive-bombing seagull with the brain tumor the size of a walnut—I haven’t felt a speck of, well, you know.”
“No, I don’t.” Of course I did.
Mama glanced all around the room, and it wasn’t until I obligingly checked under the bed that she spoke again. This time she whispered.
“The urge.”
“Oh.” I nodded solemnly, wishing I’d never chosen to go there.
But before Mama could participate in reality TV, she needed to overcome issues besides that of learning to play a convincing temptress. For starters, she sets her hair in curlers each night and wears pounds of cold cream to bed. Her daytime costume consists of a dress that shows off a tightly cinched waist, and a full circle skirt buoyed up by yards of starched crinolines. Pearls and pumps that match the dress complete the outfit. Of course Mama never leaves the house without a hat. My point is that she couldn’t last five minutes if her grooming opportunities were curtailed. Take the poufy skirts away from Mama, and poof, there goes her spirit.
“Mama, have you heard from C.J.?”
“I thought she was with you?”
“She was, but then she took off. You know how she is.”
“You mean extremely inconsiderate at times? Remember how she held up her wedding to our dear, sweet Toy because she decided to run down to Poogan’s Porch to have a bowl of bread pudding with brandy sauce?”
“Turns out the bread pudding was the smart choice.”
“Abby, this is your brother we’re talking about. Admittedly Toy was—and is—a ne’er-do-well—but at least he was almost ordained an Episcopal priest; it really isn’t his fault that the Robinson twins moved in next door and put the make on him— Isn’t that what you young people say these days?”
“I’m not so young anymore, Mama, and neither is Toy. He should have resisted the Robinson brothers.”
Mama patted the bed. “Let’s not argue, dear. The show is about to start, and I have a five-pound box of assorted gourmet chocolates that I have yet to open. I know that you like to do your drawbridge thing, so why not do it here?’ ”
“Well, I still have some Moon Pies that I guess I could contribute, but I’m calling first dibs on any chocolates with maple crème centers, and we watch Design Star at ten.”
“It’s a deal,” Mama said, and scooted over on her king-size bed.
C.J. didn’t answer her room phone in the morning, so of course I tried her cell, and when that didn’t work I started to worry. Big time.
“Mama, close your eyes and tell me what you smell.”
“Abby, I warned you about trying that generic deodorant. But if you don’t shampoo again we can still meet the girls for breakfast at eight.”
“That’s just it, Mama. I mean, we might be meeting only one girl—one woman; C.J. seems to be missing.”
“And you thought I could smell trouble!”
“That’s what you claim—isn’t it?”
“Abby, didn’t I tell you? My special power has been diminishing ever since my last birthday. I guess it is just yet another thing that we gifted sexagenarians have to accept.” Mama likes the word sexagenarian, but I’m afraid she hasn’t been one for quite some time.
So I called Wynnell before she went down for breakfast, and Wynnell said that she had not seen or heard from C.J. since the Texas Roadhouse. That meant that I was the last one of the three of us, and in fact I’d had a feeling that something was amiss when I couldn’t find her at Jerry Ovumkoph’s townhouse in Amherst Green, but I hadn’t given it enough credence. And to think that I was the one who kept preaching about the hunch from a woman carrying so much weight.
Well, I had the hunch now. But, what could I do? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. C.J. was a grown woman, so a missing person’s report was going to have to wait. And as nutty as she was—she coul
d feed a tree full of squirrels through a New England winter—she was not in danger of hurting herself or anyone else.
Not wanting to come across as the perennial damsel in distress, I resisted calling Greg again. No matter, because no sooner did I make up my mind not to call him than he called me.
“Mozella’s House of Earthly Pleasures,” I purred into Mama’s room phone. “How may I be of service?”
Mama was horrified. “Abigail Louise! How could you?”
“That depends,” Greg said in his deep, manly, and quite unmistakable voice. “Do you have any openings today?”
“Sir, your innuendo is not appreciated at this hour of the morning. This is the room of an elderly scion of Charleston society. She doesn’t care how young and handsome you might be, because her loins no longer quicken.”
Greg chuckled. “You don’t say.”
Mama grabbed the phone from my hand. “Don’t believe a word she says. My loins quicken like crazy—say, who is this?”
“Wrong number,” my sweetie mumbled, and a few minutes later he called me back on my cell. By then I’d also returned to my room.
“Why did you even call Mama’s room? How did you know I’d be there?”
“I didn’t,” my husband said. “I really wanted to speak to your mother.”
“What on earth for?” I said.
“Hon, she’s your mother, but she’s also my mother-in-law. And my friend—I hope. Unless you told her it was me on the phone.”
“No, I did not,” I said.
“Good,” Greg said. “And please don’t tell her.”
“So?” I persisted. “Why did you call?”
“What if I said it was personal?” Greg said. “Would you respect that?”
“Of course I would. Now tell me, please tell me. You’re driving me crazy.”
He laughed. “All right, but you just lost this argument; make a note of that.”
“I wasn’t aware that we were arguing,” I said.
“Our clever banter, amusing though it is, does not serve the purpose of advancing this story.”
“Too true. Proceed then with your explanation.”
“I merely called to check in on you,” he said.
“What?” I cried in indignation.
“Hon, you have to admit that you tend to go off half-cocked.”
“I most certainly do not!” I said. “Okay, so maybe I do—sometimes,” I said. “But no one likes to have her faults pointed out to her. No one I know, at least.”
I gave him to the count of three to retract his assertion, or at the very least, cushion it somehow. When all I got was silence, I hung up.
Chapter 20
Wynnell is a fiercely loyal friend, both to me and to C.J. There are times, however, when her clock starts keeping its own time. Once, when she was not feeling particularly appreciated, she ran off to Japan with some Japanese tourists and tried to become Japanese. It was then that she learned the same lesson that she used to try to drill into Yankees who have moved South: just because the cat has its kittens in the oven, that don’t make them biscuits.
At any rate, Wynnell decided to spend her day in the nearby town of Waxhaw which is famous for its antiques shops, instead of blundering about with Mama and me—well, let’s just say that I don’t blame her. If I was in her size eight-and-a-half narrow shoes, I’d probably do the same.
“Now what?” Mama said, after she’d managed to drag breakfast out with a third cup of coffee.
“I go to the police station and turn myself in. Just promise me that you’ll see that Dmitri gets fed. Sometimes Greg, bless his heart, forgets. I can’t bear to think of my baby going hungry. And it’s a shame to let someone as kind and handsome as Greg go to waste. So I think I’ll ask for a divorce so that some other woman can be just as lucky as I have been.”
“What other woman?” Mama had been in the act of applying fresh lipstick, but she snapped her compact mirror shut now and dropped it in her bag.
I shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Someone who could keep him happy.”
“Well, it couldn’t be just any woman, Abby. You need to think about this more.”
“Actually I have; I was thinking about you as my replacement, Mama. What with your loins that quicken like crazy—whatever that means.”
Mama’s face reddened. “Abby, that’s sick and perverted. And it’s probably illegal, unless you’re a member of Congress. Then you can do anything.”
“I’m just kidding, Mama, but don’t you care about me going to jail? That didn’t seem to bother you any?”
It was her turn to shrug. “You’ve done it before, dear. And in South Carolina, no less. I figured that Charlotte had to be a cakewalk. But I must say that I am disappointed that it was you who killed Rob’s auntie. I thought surely I’d brought you up better than that. You know, dear, that if you’d have kept going to church with me, this probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“Mama, I didn’t kill Rob’s auntie! That was a joke; I was being sarcastic.”
“Sarcasm killed the cat, dear,” Mama sniffed.
“It didn’t do much for Dick Cheney’s career either. But it was curiosity that killed the cat, Mama, not sarcasm.”
“You’re so picky.” Mama sniffed. “And I wish you’d lay off our former vice president. You know how I feel about him.”
Indeed I did; it was time to back off. Mama is not a narrow-minded conservative; she’s an open-minded Republican. There are indeed some around, but probably not many who find Richard Bruce Cheney to be their ideal sexual type. He’s the one who really sets her loins to quivering.
“Let’s get a move on, Mama. The traffic on I–485 must be cleared up by now.”
“Where are we going, dear?”
“You’ll see. But you might want to run back to the room first and grab a book for the ride.”
“Should I bring you a book as well?”
“No thanks, Mama; I’ve given up reading while driving.”
For the record, I have never, ever read a book while steering a moving car. But before we even got on the highway Mama spotted a woman driving while applying eyeliner. This aspect of grooming requires a very steady hand, a good deal of artistry, and one’s full attention vis-à-vis a mirror. Mama watched in mounting horror as this woman—who was not even a young chickadee (her word, not mine)—continued to apply the black liquid as she maneuvered her car onto the ramp and merged into the highway traffic at sixty-five miles an hour. What was particularly mind-blowing was the fact that the beauty-obsessed driver managed to do this while steering with her knees.
Once the woman was done with her eyeliner, she brushed on several coats of jet black mascara. Suddenly, satisfied that she was the cat’s pajamas, she pressed the pedal all the way to the metal and left us in her dust.
“Keep up with her, Abby,” Mama said.
“What?” I said. “And get a ticket?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Mama said. “She’s driving a red car with Michigan plates. As soon as you hear a siren, slow way down. Then we’ll both start pointing like crazy up the highway. The police aren’t stupid; they’ll get the picture. In the meantime we get to drive—oh, just never you mind. Even if we had a rocket tied to our fannies, by now we could never catch up with her.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, “because already the cops have caught up with us. And I was only doing six miles over the limit.”
Mama undid her seat belt so that she could turn and kneel in her seat. It was my fault; I should have seen it coming. We’d been through similar situations dozens of times before. If I tried to force her to sit properly she’d simply refuse on the grounds that since she’d given birth to me (via a vacillating number of hours, all of them excruciatingly painful), she had a right to do as she pleased in my car.
“He’s not a cop,” Mama said.
“Mama,” I said, “the car may be unmarked, but it’s a Crown Vic, and the guy’s right on my ass-cot. He wants me to pull over.”
I changed lanes, all right. I got into the far right lane, and as soon as I got the chance I pulled over onto the shoulder, stopped, and in a movement just as smooth as a lizard’s belly, I pulled on my hazard lights. Sure, I was speeding—a little—but I knew how to handle a vehicle.
“And there he goes,” Mama said.
“What?”
“The man in the Cornish Vixen,” Mama said. “He didn’t even look our way.”
“That’s Crown Vic, Mama.”
“That’s what I said, dear.”
“No,” I said. “You referenced a female fox from extreme southwestern England.”
“Picky, picky,” Mama said, and made little hand motions in the air, as if she were gathering dust motes and putting them in an imaginary basket.
I kept my counsel—for a change. When we were growing up, and either Toy or I came to her with hurt feelings, Mama often consoled us by saying: “Consider the source.” How strange, and sad, that now I thought it best to apply those words to her.
Yet she was totally cognizant of the fact that we were in Myers Park as I neared Chanti Ovumkoph Goldburg’s home. When I pulled up in front of house and parked the car I swear that I could see her ears flatten just a little.
“You do know, Abby,” she sniffed, “that I don’t get along with that woman. Never have, never will.”
“Why is that?”
“For starters,” Mama said, “it’s the way she treats her son-in-law.”
“You mean Bob?”
“Does she have another?”
“Yes, Rob’s sister is married to some guy named Antonio. He claims to be the son of a count—or something. It’s just the kind of snootiness that Rob’s mother eats up with a spoon.”
