The Glass Is Always Greener

  TAMAR

  MYERS

  The Glass Is Always Greener

  A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Welcome to the Den of Antiquity

  Larceny and Old Lace

  Gilt by Association

  The Ming and I

  So Faux, So Good

  Baroque and Desperate

  Estate of Mind

  A Penny Urned

  Nightmare in Shining Armor

  Splendor in the Glass

  Tiles and Tribulations

  Statue of Limitations

  Monet Talks

  The Cane Mutiny

  Den of Antiquity Mysteries by Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  I was in the mood for some Ben & Jerry’s ice cream; but I most certainly wasn’t in the mood to discover Jerry dead in Ben’s freezer. Perhaps I’ll be forgiven, then, for scraming bloody murder. For those of you unfamiliar with my screams, it may be of interest to learn that—petite though I am—they can knock starlings out of trees, shatter goblets with ease, and even start the kettle to boiling. This is not to brag, mind you; I am merely explaining how it is that everyone in the backyard heard me shrieking, even though I was in the walkout basement of Ben’s house.

  Trust me, finding a body in a complete stranger’s deep freeze could easily happen to anyone on a warm summer day—if he, or she, didn’t mind his, or her, manners. It wasn’t my family gathering—I was only a guest—and I was bored and hungry, as well as hot, and I wandered into the walkout basement to cool off for a few minutes, as well as get away from as big a group of loons as you will ever find on a New England lake. That’s when I spotted the freezer, and the thought occurred to me that, if I wished hard enough, there might be a pint of Cinnamon Buns–flavored ice cream in there. And, of course, that I’d find a clean sterling silver spoon somewhere nearby.

  But no, there had to be a corpse in the front-loading freezer; which seems to be my luck these days. At any rate, due to the extreme stress I’ve experienced just by describing the above situation, I’ve gotten slightly ahead of myself. Therefore I shall now backtrack from Charlotte, North Carolina, the scene of the crime, to lovely and gracious Charleston, South Carolina.

  Both cities are winners, but they are worlds apart and cannot—should not—be compared.

  What the cities do have in common is that, although they are Southern at the core, in recent years their respective characters have been heavily influenced by Yankee immigration. What Sherman could not accomplish with his army, the Highway Department has accomplished with its interstates. It is almost impossible to hear a native accent in Charlotte these days, and only slightly less so in Charleston.

  Thus it was that my petite ear perked up at the dulcet sounds of Dixie as I perused the display of baby eggplant at the Harris Teeter on East Bay Street.

  “Well, look what the tide washed in!”

  I turned quickly to see the Rob-Bobs, who are two of my closest friends, pushing a shopping buggy of their own. However, it took me a second or two to adjust my thinking, as this was the first time I had ever seen either of them in such a mundane place as a supermarket.

  Rob, the tall, handsome one, who looks like an even slimmer George Clooney, and Bob—bless his heart—who is spindly with a balding, oversized head, are both far more sophisticated than I could ever hope to be. I might not be surprised to encounter them at Whole Foods or at the farmers’ market; just not here.

  “Rob! Bob!”

  “Always second,” Bob boomed. “What else is new?”

  “It was Rob who spoke,” I said in my defense. I kissed each man, starting with Bob, so as to allay his jealousy.

  “Abby,” Bob said, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m shopping for dinner; what else? The real question is: what are you two doing here? Bob, don’t you usually order your emu meat from a catalogue?”

  “No—I mean, yes, but what are you doing to that aubergine? You seem to have a death grip on it.”

  “Say what?”

  “He means eggplant,” Rob said.

  “Oh that.” Indeed, I was hugging the shiny black vegetable as if it were a precious child about to be snatched from my arms by a ruthless kidnapper. “Aubergine. I’ve read that word, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard it pronounced before. I think it would make a lovely girl’s name.”

  “Abby,” Rob said, his handsome face lighting up and becoming even more attractive—as if that was possible. “You and your eggplant have just given me a fabulous idea.”

  “Not moussaka,” Bob said. “That is so pedestrian. Can’t we think of something a little more original, like—”

  “Aubergine opossum,” Rob said, pronouncing the O. “Bob, I love you dearly, but please put a sock in it. This is between me and Abby.”

  “Why, I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life,” Bob said, and taking the buggy he stalked off.

  “Rob Goldburg,” I said sternly, “that was rude—and unnecessary.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  “He’s forever butting in, and it’s usually with some damn recipe.”

  “I know. The thing is that he just wants to be included.”

  “Well, he is included; he’s my partner. That doesn’t mean we have to share our friendships equally—does it?”

  I sighed. “Of course not. But you will apologize to him, won’t you?”

  “You know I will. Probably even before we leave this store.”

  “Good. Now what was your fabulous idea?”

  “I want you to come with me to my Aunt Aubergine’s party.”

  I put the eggplant back before it ended on the floor and was suitable only for dip. “Uh—you have an Aunt Aubergine? As of when? Five seconds ago?”

  My friend smiled, revealing teeth that were even and still exceedingly white. “Actually, I do have an Aunt Aubergine, but she goes by Jerry. Always has, ever since she was a little girl. And she spells it like the boy’s name because when she first was learning to write cursive she decided that the letters J and Y were more beautiful than G and I.”

  “Hmm, someone who knows her own mind; I like that.”

  “I thought you would. And I’m not drawing any parallels here, so don’t get me wrong, but Aunt Jerry is also extremely eccentric.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Give me an example.”

  “This party that I’m going to, it’s her going-away party.”

  “That’s nice. Where’s she going? On a cruise?”

  “She’s dying—I think. As to where she’ll end up is anybody’s guess. We Jews don’t believe in Hell—not one that lasts for all eternity, at any rate—but Aunt Jerry says that if by chance she gets to Heaven and sees the likes of Pat Robertson, she’ll turn right around an
d go the other way. She can’t abide homophobia. And Abby, even though she’s almost as old as God and grew up in who knows what century, she’s always been in my corner. Right from day one.”

  “She sounds like a really special— Wait just one cotton-picking minute. What do you mean by ‘she’s dying, I think’?”

  “Oh that. Well, you see, Aunt Jerry visited a psychic in Florence, Italy, who predicted that on August tenth she would leave her earthly body behind and begin the next phase of her soul’s progression—whatever that means. I’m sure it lost something being translated into English. What matters is that she really believes this. So”—he closed both his eyes and his fist somewhat dramatically—“she has put together this good-bye soiree that is de rigueur for everyone in the family—even the in-laws—but Bob won’t attend.”

  “Why not? You said she isn’t prejudiced.”

  “Yes, she’s not, and a lot of them aren’t, but there are enough holdouts to make Bob truly uncomfortable—Mama included.”

  “Oh, her.” I’d met Mrs. Goldburg on more than one occasion. Like a category five hurricane, she was a force to be contended with.

  “Come on, Abby, my mama’s not that bad.”

  “Let’s not turn this into a game of Truth or Dare. The bottom line to all this is that I’m to be your backup Bob, am I right? I’m your Bob stand-in.”

  Rob shifted from one polished Ferragamo to the other. “Must you always be so plainspoken?”

  “The truth, Rob. I demand nothing but.”

  “Okay! All right! I surrender! But will you come? Please? I’ll put you up at the Ballantyne Resort Hotel.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Give me a break. You’ve heard of the Ballantyne Country Club, haven’t you? There have been some famous golf tournaments held there. Everyone knows where that is.”

  “Oh yes, of course; it’s right next door to the NASCAR Museum of Fame.”

  “No, it isn’t! In fact, it’s on the opposite side of Charlotte—touché. Anyway, it’s on the south side of town, just off 485, one exit down from Rea Road. That’s where you’ll be getting off for the big event.”

  “Wait a minute; I didn’t say that I’d come. What do I get out of this? And who is going to mind the Den of Antiquity while I’m gone?”

  “How about my credit card for Neiman Marcus? After all, South Park Mall is only twenty minutes from the hotel. Fifteen from Auntie’s house. As to minding your shop, you’re hardly in there anymore now that you have such a competent staff.”

  I stared him in disbelief. “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that enough? I’d give you my blood, but I’m squeamish when it comes to needles.”

  “No, silly, I mean is that all you want to say about your credit card? Don’t you want to set a limit?”

  “I trust you.”

  And therein lay the catch. Although Rob was well-off, he knew very well that I would rather spend fifty-nine dollars on a blouse at Stein Mart than twelve hundred dollars on a blouse at Neiman Marcus. Conspicuous consumption has never been my thing. If an item looks good, and feels good, that’s all that matters.

  “Okay, Rob,” I said. “But I’m going whole hog on this. I’m going to Dillard’s at Carolina Place Mall, and I might even spend five hundred dollars.”

  “You go, girl.”

  “Yippee. So when do we get started?”

  “Put down your eggplant and go pack your bag, Abby. My chariot awaits.”

  “Hey, you can’t do that,” Bob bellowed. “I have a nice goat testicle stew simmering—”

  “Come on, we don’t have a moment to waste.” Rob grabbed my arm and propelled me past a pile of melons and around a tower of sweet corn. The next thing I knew I was headed up north to Charlotte, my old stomping grounds.

  Of course I had to smooth clear the way first with my husband, Greg, and Mama, who lives with us. But since Rob poses no threat at all to Greg, and Mama is a better cook than I am—plus she’s been feeling a little bit useless lately—it didn’t take all that much convincing. The price I’d pay was that upon my return my dear sweet husband was going to expect a lot more pampering than I was used to giving. Also, I fully expected Mama to have rearranged my kitchen, and maybe even to have gotten rid of my cat, Dmitri—no, she wouldn’t dare.

  Rob’s Mercedes-Benz was so quiet that, when we weren’t talking, I could hear the pulse in my ear. I think I heard my pulse for a total of five seconds during the four-hour trip.

  “Now spill,” I said, as soon as we’d cleared city traffic. “Tell me everything there is to know about your Aunt Jerry. She sounds like quite a character.”

  “Abby, she is the epitome of eccentric. She married young, to the love of her life, who made his fortune in textiles, but then she was widowed young. And she was very rich at the time. She was also never the same.”

  “How so?”

  “She lives in a parallel world, where there are always parties going on—soirees, she calls them. Her house is always lit up, there is always music playing—from the 1940s—and even though you can have a conversation with her, occasionally she will interrupt it to have another conversation with someone who isn’t even there!”

  “You mean she’s nuts? Oops. I’m sorry! That just slipped out.”

  “While that wasn’t PC, Abby, believe me, it’s been said a million times in our family. The thing is, even though she has this alternative universe, she still functions in this one quite well. And in case you’re wondering, she can’t be committed; she has no children, but her siblings have all tried.”

  “Hmm. So what’s with this good-bye party? Is she planning to commit suicide? Just asking.”

  “No, not Aunt Jerry. That’s not her style. Think Auntie Mame with a Dixie accent. Abby, do you know what a basenji is?”

  “Isn’t that one of the barkless breeds of dogs?”

  “Very good! It’s from Africa. They’re beautiful little dogs that trot on their tiptoes like Thoroughbreds. Anyway, Aunt Jerry had a basenji named Pagan.”

  “I love it already!”

  “Because Pagan couldn’t bark like other dogs, whenever they were out and about the neighborhood and they encountered a barking dog, Aunt Jerry used to do the barking on Pagan’s behalf.”

  “You’re joking!”

  Rob grinned. “I swear that’s the truth. That’s the kind of thing she does. Harmless stuff, but really nutty.”

  “Actually she sounds like fun.”

  “In small doses. But don’t ever cross her; at least not in public. There was this one time, in a home improvement store, where she felt she’d been slighted by a male ‘associate.’ She was in the plumbing department at the time, so to demonstrate how she felt about the service she sat on a toilet that was on display.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Don’t worry, she kept her skirt down and her knickers up, but she drew quite a crowd. Eventually the store manager had to call the police, because even the store security was unprepared for the tongue lashing they were getting.”

  “I’ll try not to tick her off. So where do you think she’s really going? On a cruise?”

  Rob shook his head, clucking all the while. “No, Abby, you don’t seem to get it; Aunt Jerry isn’t playing games here. She sincerely expects to die on August tenth. That’s what the psychic in Florence said, so that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “But that’s silly—I mean, well, you know what I mean.”

  I watched the muscle in Rob’s jaw twitch. “Abby, meet my Aunt Jerry first, then you decide.”

  We stopped at the hotel just long enough for me to check in and drop off my weekend bag in the suite that my sweet friend Rob at had reserved for me. No matter how things went over the weekend, at least my accommodations would be very nice indeed.

  My smile grew even wider shortly after we turned right on to Rea Road from I–485. The four-lane highway began its life there as a boulevard; the center median lush with crape myrtles and seasonal plantings. Low, woo
ded hills greeted the eye on either side, and one beheld not the slightest suggestion of urban stress, much less blight of any kind.

  “Rob, if every visitor to Charlotte first saw it from this approach, it would always be voted the most beautiful city in the country.”

  “Amen, hallelujah, and pass the mashed potatoes.”

  I emitted a small gasp, as behooves a very small lady. “I totally forgot; should I be bringing food? A dish to share?”

  “You’re my guest, Abby. You’re not going to a community oneg.”

  “A what?”

  “An oneg is kind of like a church coffee hour—but on steroids. At least at Temple Beth El. Do you know that we have our own chef?”

  “Now you are kidding me.”

  “Nope. Her name is Lorrie—I think. I’ve lost track. Anyway, nothing is expected of you, and certainly nothing is required; this affair at my Uncle Ben’s house is to be catered.”

  “Still serious?”

  “Oh yeah; we Ovumkophs take our celebrations very seriously.”

  “Very funny. Ovumkophs indeed. Thought you’d fool me with that one. But ovum means egg in Latin and koph means head in Yiddish—I’m not exactly a dummkopf, you know.”

  Rob laughed. “Well, unfortunately, my great-grandfather was. You see, Ovumkoph really is my mother’s maiden name.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. Great-granddaddy was a physicist from Germany. He knew Einstein as a matter of fact. He had a sense of humor but very little patience. When he arrived at Ellis Island and the clerk had trouble recording his name, Great-granddaddy suddenly switched it to Ovumkoph. Said later it made more sense anyway since he was a scientist, and scientists are eggheads.”