Monet Talks Read online

  Monet Talks

  A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY

  TAMAR MYERS

  For

  Selina McLemore

  Contents

  1

  I bought the Taj Mahal for ten thousand dollars at…

  2

  Mama patted her pearls. They are a gift from Daddy,…

  3

  The Charleston police force has officers who number among the…

  4

  It was a fine summer evening, appropriate for Charleston’s finest…

  5

  “You didn’t!” Rob gasped, properly aghast.

  6

  Martin Gibble fancies himself the most knowledgeable antique dealer in…

  7

  Monsieur Dupree’s office was a wallboard box, perhaps not unlike…

  8

  “Wynnell! What on earth are you doing in that costume?”

  9

  “What was that all about?” Wynnell asked, badly shaken.

  10

  I closed my eyes and balled my fists. “Let me…

  11

  I took the phone hesitantly. “Who is it?” I asked,…

  12

  “But don’t let her see you,” I whispered.

  13

  “That doesn’t sound like a man in love, Abby. That…

  14

  It was hard to focus at Hocus Pocus because they…

  15

  I hit the floor every bit as hard as a…

  16

  Mama’s crinolines weigh only a few ounces each, but I…

  17

  “Agnes, darling, what a surprise to hear from you.”

  18

  Stretch limos are not an uncommon sight in Charleston. Movie…

  19

  “I’m in love.”

  20

  Could those possibly be Mama’s pearls? Mama never took them…

  21

  “Bob may be on to something,” Rob said.

  22

  “Excuse me?”

  23

  Please believe me, I wouldn’t have dreamed of destroying an…

  24

  The crowd of wedding guests was thinning when I arrived,…

  25

  I called my brother, Toy, from the emergency waiting room…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  I bought the Taj Mahal for ten thousand dollars at an estate auction. A slew of people bid against me, but I kept my cool, and when the auctioneer’s gavel pounded, closing the sale, I was the proud owner of India’s most identifiable landmark. The crowd applauded.

  Afterward, a number of people came over to congratulate me. “Way to go, Abby,” they said, “way to go,” but every single one of them sounded jealous. All in all, it was a very good day, even though I had one heck of a time fitting the Taj into the back of my Volvo station wagon.

  It wasn’t the real Taj Mahal, of course, but a handmade wire and sheet-metal replica that was actually a birdcage. The bit of information that came with it claimed that this piece had been commissioned by a British officer’s wife back in the days of the Raj. The strange black bird that came with the cage was a more recent addition. Other than that the bird’s name was Monet, and what he liked to eat, there was no further information.

  My name is Abigail Washburn, by the way. I’m an antiques dealer, the proud owner of the Den of Antiquity, on lower King Street in downtown Charleston, South Carolina. My assistant is C.J.—a.k.a. Jane Cox—which stands for Calamity Jane. She has a genius level IQ, is a brilliant businesswoman and a dear friend, but she is one beer short of a six-pack, if you get my drift.

  When I arrived at my shop with the Taj Mahal in tow, C.J. was all at twitter. “Ooh, Abby, he’s beautiful,” she said referring to the bird. “Where did you get him?”

  “He came with the cage. The auctioneer called him a, uh—well, I’ve forgotten. Sorry, but I’m not up on my birds.”

  “He’s a Gracula religiosa intermedia.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A Greater Indian Hill Mynah. They’re a member of the starling family. What are you going to do with him?”

  “I haven’t really thought about that. I was just so interested in buying this cage. Don’t you think this cage is beautiful, C.J.?”

  “I’ve seen prettier.”

  “But look at all that work. Whoever made this had to bend all these wires to create these filigree bars, and just look at all the bezel-set semiprecious stones on these sheet-metal domes. It must have taken hundreds of man-hours to make, and I’ll bet some of these larger stones—like that amethyst, for example—are worth something by themselves. I hope to double money on this with the right buyer.”

  C.J. shrugged. “The amethyst looks cloudy to me. Abby, can I have the bird?”

  “Well—”

  “This species of mynah is about the best talker in the whole world, Abby. They can sound just like a human, or a cat, or a fire engine, whatever they want to imitate.”

  “Is that so? He hasn’t said a word yet.”

  “Then I can have him?”

  There is nothing like someone else lusting after your property to make it suddenly seem desirable. I gave the bundle of feathers a second glance. He wasn’t much to look at; mostly black, with dark orange-brown shadings. There were featherless patches on his neck—wattles I’d guess you’d call them—that were bright yellow, but I certainly wouldn’t call them attractive. A mockingbird might have made a prettier pet, a blue jay surely.

  At any rate, neither C.J. nor I heard the man sneaking up behind us, which is why we both jumped when he spoke.

  “Whatcha looking at?” he demanded.

  We whirled. There was nobody there.

  “You looking to pick a fight, buddy?”

  “C.J., this is freaking me out.” The voice reminded me of my long-dead daddy’s, only without his Upstate drawl.

  “Maybe it’s a ghost, Abby. Have you ever had your shop exorcised?”

  “They prefer to be called Apparition Americans these days, and no, I haven’t had it exorcised. I’ve never had any problem with ghost—Apparition Americans.”

  “Dennis, Dennis,” a woman shrieked, “bring me a fresh pot of tea.”

  I’m four feet nine. C.J. is five feet ten. The thing that kept me from leaping into her arms was the look on her face.

  “C.J., what is it? Besides the fact that this shop suddenly has more spirits than the state liquor store.”

  Much to my horror, the big gal started laughing maniacally. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her horse-size head start spinning à la Linda Blair. Between guffaws she tried to speak, but wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “If you don’t stop laughing this minute, I’m going to have you exorcised.”

  C.J. sobered pronto. “Abby, it’s not one of them that’s your culprit. It’s him!” She pointed at the mynah.

  “Say what?”

  “I told you they were good talkers, didn’t I?”

  “Didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

  If I hadn’t been staring at the bird, if I hadn’t seen its throat bob up and down, I wouldn’t have believed my ears. It sounded exactly like C.J.

  “Now do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Betty bleaches her toe hair?” The new voice was high and sweet, with a breathy quality. “Get out of town!”

  “Ooh, Abby, you gotta let me have him. Please, pretty please.”

  I was about to say I would give her the bird when the bells hanging from my shop door jangled, and in walked two of Charleston’s grand dames. I won’t mention names, but they both wore wrinkled linen suits and chunky jewelry.
Their shoes came to roach-killer points and their handbags came from Moo-Roos. Yes, I know, that description fits half the women living South of Broad, and a good number of Junior Leaguers everywhere. Mama calls them Linen Ladies.

  “Will you look at that!”

  “Ladies, I apologize!” I cried, absolutely mortified.

  “That’s one hot mama, guys.”

  Linen Lady One walked straight to the Taj Mahal. “What a clever bird.”

  Linen Lady Two followed suit. “Dahlin’, I believe it was referring to me.”

  “You want to hear a dirty joke?” The bird used a child’s voice this time.

  The Linen Ladies twittered.

  “Jimmy fell in the mud!”

  The grand dames threw back their heads and laughed uproariously, an eerie sight given the limitations imposed on them by Botox.

  The mocking mynah threw back its head as well. “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  “Dahlin’,” Linen Lady Two gasped, “have you ever heard anything so precious in your life?”

  “Dahlin’, have you ever heard—who wants a second helping of pie? Pie? Pie?”

  I watched spellbound as two pillars of Charleston society fell in love with a starling from India. They were all over that bird like white on rice. They said everything they could think of to Monet, who obligingly parroted it right back—pardon the cross-species reference. But what really delighted the doyennes were things Monet had picked up prior to coming into my possession. The fact that some of his blather was on the bawdy side was icing on their cake.

  Had I contemplated such a scenario in advance, I would have surmised that a distraction like Monet would be bad for business. Au contraire. The ladies dropped a wad of money, and then immediately called all their friends, who, when they popped in to see Monet, were all too happy to push their plastic on me. The only loser was C.J.

  “Abby, are you sure I can’t have him?” C.J. was still whining a week after Monet’s auspicious debut. “His cage stinks, you know. You don’t want a stinky cage in your shop, do you?”

  “C.J., his cage stinks because you don’t clean it every day like you’re supposed to.”

  “C.J., his cage stinks. Okeydokey, senhora. Now they won’t find it.”

  “Shut up, will you please?”

  “Abby!”

  “I meant the bird. Look, C.J., why don’t you take off early today and go visit the pet stores. Maybe they have mynahs for sale, or know how to get one for you.”

  C.J. actually stomped one of her enormous feet. “It won’t be the same,” she whined.

  I’d never seen the woman so upset about anything. Not even when her great-uncle Horace Ledbetter vanished into the great blue yonder, after having tied all eighty-nine of his birthday balloons to the arms of his lawn chair.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m not willing to give him up. But I tell you what, from now on I’ll clean his cage.”

  “Clean his cage, clean his cage. Did you call the dentist? Fights powerful odors with just one application.”

  My friend and assistant was not amused. She stomped off to dust some highboys, while I fetched an old newspaper from under the counter and got to work on cleaning Monet’s elaborate abode.

  Engrossed as we were, neither of us really heard the bells ring for the umpteenth time that day. That’s why I nearly jumped out of my pumps when someone poked me in the ribs. Folks who sneak up on one like that deserve lumps in their grits for at least a week.

  “Mama!”

  “Sorry, Abby, but you saw me coming.”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “You were looking this way,” one said.

  “Maybe I was, but I didn’t see you. I was distracted. C.J. won’t take no for an answer and—”

  “Little people have little problems, dear, and big people have big problems.”

  “You’re not that much taller than me, Mama.”

  “Four inches,” she replied. “But I wasn’t referring to height. Like I said, dear, I have a serious problem.”

  I led Mama to my storeroom behind the shop, and then, to make sure C.J. couldn’t eavesdrop, I turned on a small radio I keep in there for company while I’m checking inventory. “Okay, Mama, spill it.”

  2

  Mama patted her pearls. They are a gift from Daddy, the last thing he gave her before he died in a freak accident that involved a seagull with a brain tumor the size of a walnut. That was going on twenty years ago. My minimadre has worn these mollusk secretions around the clock since then. That they still have nacre is a tribute to the high standards of Mikimoto. At any rate, Mama pats the pearls when she’s agitated. She twirls them when she reaches her breaking point. If you see her necklace spin, you best hightail it out of there.

  “Abby, it’s about the St. Necrophilia Society.”

  “Excuse me?” Mama only sometimes shocks me, but she never ceases to surprise me.

  “You know, that exclusive club to which only blue bloods can belong. I think your family has to have lived in Charleston three hundred years in order to join. Of course we aren’t eligible since we moved here only three years ago—”

  “Mama, that’s the St. Ophelia Society!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just a minute.” I tiptoed over to the door and pounded on it with my fist. I heard a muffled “ow” and the scraping of feet. “Yes, I’m sure. Look, I already know where you’re going with this. Why do you want to join a club that doesn’t want you as a member?”

  “But they don’t know me. If they did, I’m sure they would invite me.”

  “Mama, they aren’t going to change their rules just because you want them to.”

  “I know that, dear. I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”

  I made her wait until the count of ten. “You’re not old.”

  The telltale gems began a slow rotation. “Abby, you know how you’re always saying that your only wish is for my happiness.”

  “You say that, Mama, not me.”

  “Let’s not quibble over facts, dear. The point is, you want me to be happy here in Charleston, don’t you?”

  My husband Greg and I moved down to the coast when he retired as a detective on the Charlotte police force. Greg started a new life here as a shrimp boat captain. We invited Mama, who lived up in Rock Hill, South Carolina, to join us, which she did in a heartbeat. Greg and I were both amazed at how quickly she adapted to her new surroundings. She immediately joined Grace Episcopal Church—although she was not allowed to join the choir—and took advantage of their myriad activities. She also belongs to an eccentric circle of friends who call themselves the Heavenly Hustlers. To my knowledge, she was as happy as a body had a right to be.

  “Mama, I don’t have all day. Can you cut to the chase? What is it you want from me?”

  “Why I never, Abby! In my day—”

  “It’s still your day. Last time I checked you were very much alive.”

  “Well!” The pearls gained speed.

  “Theatrics aren’t going to help, Mama. If we’re through here, I’m going back out to work.” I started for the door.

  “I’m going to crash their ball.”

  I whirled as the pearls twirled. “The St. Ophelia Ball?”

  “Maybe ‘crash’ was the wrong word. You see, dear, Betty Lou Crustopper has two tickets again this year, and she’s not planning to go. In fact, she never goes. She hasn’t gone since her husband, Cotton Crustopper, died in 1947.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Crustopper, and what do her tickets have to do with you?”

  “Abby, if you went to church, you’d know her, too. Every Sunday they wheel her into the sanctuary and park her up next to the organ. She likes to watch Scott Bennett tickle those keys. She used to teach piano. Didn’t retire until she was eighty.”

  “How old is she now?”

  Mama’s sigh was meant as a comment on my poor church attendance. “She turned a hundred and two in June. The entire parish was there—well, except for you and
Greg. You should have seen Betty Lou try to blow out her candles. Some of the children tried to help—”

  “The tickets, Mama!”

  “I was getting there. Honestly, Abby, I don’t know where you get your impatience from.” She sighed again. “Anyway, as I was about to say, Betty Lou gave me tickets to the ball, and I plan to use them. There is no point in letting perfectly good tickets go to waste, is there, dear?”

  “She gave you her tickets?”

  “Essentially.” As Mama backpedaled, her pearls slowed to a crawl and then reversed directions.

  “Define ‘essentially.’”

  “I might have traded them for a basket of muffins. But they were homemade muffins, and I chopped the dates myself. And it was a very nice basket, Abby, and I tied a pretty pink bow on the handle. Everyone in the nursing home was ogling it.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “Let me get this straight. You talked a centenarian into trading two tickets to the St. Ophelia Ball for a batch of baked goods?”

  “Let’s not quibble over details, dear. The only reason I’m here is to ask you if you’re coming with me, or not.”

  “So that’s where I come in! Mama, from what I’ve heard, they have guards posted at the door, checking everyone’s identification.”

  “They check only the tickets, dear.”

  “Even so, we could never pass for Mr. and Mrs. Cotton Crustopper. Mr. Crustopper has been pushing up daisies for over half a century.”

  “But that’s the good part. No one has to pretend to be Mr. Crustopper. The tickets read ‘Mrs. Cotton Crustopper and guest.’ I’ll dress up as Betty Lou—of course we’ll have to rent a wheelchair—and you can be my guest. The only restriction is that the guest has to be male. They still don’t allow same-sex couples. They don’t allow divorcées, either, for that matter. They check on that. Divorced men, yes, but not divorced women. At any rate, we’ll hit one of the costume shops and get you a fake mustache and a little boy’s tux—no offense, dear.”