Estate of Mind Page 11

  Wynnell was silent.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  Nothing. But I could hear her breathing, so I knew she was still on the line.

  “Wynnell, I called to say I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t call to laugh?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why not? I’m the laughingstock of Selwyn Avenue, aren’t I?”

  “But you’re not. That was a total lie. I just said that because I was angry.”

  “Angry? Try mad, Abigail. Mad as in crazy. It was like talking to a stranger.”

  “I know, and that’s why I’m calling. To say I’m sorry.”

  She sighed but said nothing.

  “So, will you forgive me? Please, pretty please, with sugar on top?”

  “Oh, all right. But only because you’re my best friend and I hate being angry at you.”

  “And I hate having you mad at me. So, what are you doing?”

  “Watching a rerun of North and South.” Wynnell hates the miniseries, thinks it’s Yankee propaganda, but watches it every time it’s aired.

  “It’s not going to change, you know. The South is always going to lose.”

  “I know. It’s just wishful thinking. Hey, you want to come over and watch with me? Ed’s in the bedroom watching some international soccer match.”

  “Thanks, I’m kind of tired. It’s been a long day, what with getting back with Greg and all.”

  “Yeah, it’s been a long day for me—what do you mean getting back with Greg?”

  I told my friend about our reunion in Bubba’s.

  “Abby, I’m so glad for you. I didn’t want to say this before, but I just couldn’t see you and Buster as a couple.”

  “He has an excellent sense of humor, dear.”

  “That may be, but the two of you together were just too cute.”

  “Because we’re both short?”

  “Face it, Abby, your children would be munchkins.”

  “I’m not having any more children!”

  I could hear Wynnell smile. “So now that you’re back with Greg, you’re going to drop your other boyfriend?”

  “I already told you that. He’s with Hooter as we speak.”

  “I mean your other boyfriend. The one you won’t tell even your best friend about.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Peter Fonda.”

  “Wynnell, did you open a new bottle of Livingston Cellars?” Watching the South lose has driven her to drink before.

  “You really don’t know who I’m talking about?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  She hesitated, obviously not sure she believed me. “Young man, maybe mid-thirties. About five feet ten, medium build, with a slight paunch. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes.”

  “Are you reading this off a wanted poster?”

  “And he rides a Harley, Abby. Who do you know like that who rides a Harley?”

  My blood may not literally have run cold, but it was cool enough for Wynnell’s wine.

  “What time was this?”

  “This morning. Not long after you left here.”

  “You talked to this man?”

  “Of course. You know I’m not the judgmental type. He came into my shop asking for you, so I sent him down to your mama’s.”

  “You what?”

  “Well, that’s where you went, wasn’t it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Abby, that’s where you always go when you piss off your friends.”

  I would have hung my head in shame, except that I was lying on my back. “He asked for me by name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he call me Abigail or Abby?”

  “I forget. But he made it clear that he knew you.”

  “How so?”

  “Abby, what is this, the third degree? He seemed like a very nice guy, that’s all.”

  “He’s following me.”

  “Like a groupie?”

  That was a new and exciting concept. Antique groupies that followed me around from shop to estate sale.

  “No, not like a groupie.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. But after I left Mama’s, I drove out to a nursing home south of Rock Hill, and he followed me there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. And what’s more, a woman’s been following me, too.”

  “Another biker? You know what C. J. would say, don’t you? She’d say this biker and his chick have picked you to be the third side of their ménage à trois. No doubt the same thing happened to her up in Shelby.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, this chick is no biker. She drives a dark blue car. And both of them were at the auction last night.”

  “Hmm. I don’t mean to scare you, Abby, but you don’t suppose they’re after your painting.”

  “I don’t see how. The painting they saw at the auction wasn’t worth the ten bucks Greg paid for it.”

  “You made him pay?”

  We both laughed. “Seriously,” I said, “what do you think I should do?”

  “Well, you’re back to dating a detective. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did. About the woman, anyway. Greg thinks there’s nothing to it. Thinks I’m jumping to conclusions.”

  “Men! They’re all so innocent.”

  “Just little boys with big penises. Makes you want to mother them, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d love to mother Greg,” Wynnell whispered.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  “I was just kidding, of course. Do you think Hooter has really fallen for your doc friend?”

  “Hook, line, and floaters.”

  “I can’t figure that out. No offense, Abby, but what would a tall, voluptuous thing like Hooter want with Buster?”

  “Free maintenance on her body parts?”

  “Oh, you’re bad. So, Abby, are you going to let me broker the painting?”

  Boy, did that take me off guard. “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do about the painting.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly how it sounded. In fact, I don’t know if it’s even mine to sell.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, unfortunately, I’m not. Gilbert Sweeny called me last night to tell me the painting belonged to his mother, and that he had no right to sell it at the church auction.”

  “Well, you tell him—”

  “He’s dead, Wynnell. Gilbert supposedly killed himself this morning.”

  “Oh, gosh, Abby, that’s awful. I suppose this wouldn’t be a good time to straighten things out with his mother.”

  “Unfortunately, no time is. His mother doesn’t seem to be all there.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “Probably. At any rate, my plans are kind of on hold.” That was only a partial lie, mind you.

  “I understand totally. But if the painting does belong to you, give me first crack at brokering, okay?”

  “Well—”

  “At least think about it.”

  “Will do, dear.”

  Wynnell and I chatted for few minutes more—until her wine glass needed refilling. Apparently something horrible was about to happen to the South. Something called Gettysburg.

  I called Rob next. Unfortunately, Bob answered.

  “We’re not buying tonight,” he said tartly.

  “This is Abigail.”

  Click.

  I tried again. “I just want to say—”

  Click.

  “Sorry!” I screamed the second he picked up the third time.

  “Go on.”

  “Go on what?”

  Click.

  “Okay! I’m sorry I treated y’all so shabbily. Y’all are two of my dearest friends in the whole world.”

  Bob harrumphed. “And?”

  “And what?” I wailed.

  “And you want us to broker Field of Thistles, right?”

>   I gave Bob the same story I’d given Wynnell. Unfortunately, he was not such an easy sell. Perhaps my theory on men was all wrong. Or was it just that gay men are different? Maybe only Greg was a little boy with—not that I’ve ever seen it, mind you.

  “Where did you buy the painting, Abby?”

  “You know,” I said annoyed. “At a church auction.”

  “Were you the only one there?”

  “Of course not. There were a hundred others. Maybe two hundred. I’ve never been good at estimating crowds.”

  “My point is that dozens of people saw you purchase it from a church sale. It was open bidding, and you paid a fair price for what you thought you were getting. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Abby. The painting is yours.”

  “You’re not a lawyer, dear.”

  I swear I felt the receiver turn cold against my ear. Perhaps it was just the extraordinarily long pause on Bob’s side.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he finally asked.

  “It means I need to get my legal ducks in a row before I make a major move. I wouldn’t want to”—I chuckled pleasantly—“be arrested for fencing stolen property.”

  “You certainly wouldn’t want to do anything rash like benefit your friends.”

  “Let me speak to Rob,” I said patiently.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Give me a break. Rob never goes to bed this early.”

  “He has a migraine.”

  “Since when does Rob get migraines?” I’ve known Rob a lot longer than Bob has, although of course not as intimately. Still, I would have known if my friend got migraine headaches.

  “Since you’ve been acting like such a jerk,” Bob said.

  I hung up and called Mama.

  “Abby, I really can’t talk now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have been so rude at lunch.”

  “Think nothing of it, dear. It’s a mother’s job to forgive, and I forgave you before you were out of the driveway.”

  Perhaps so, but she hadn’t forgotten. I could bet my business on that. Mama has a memory that elephants envy.

  “So, Mama, now that that’s out of the way, I’ve got some really good news.”

  “That’s nice, dear, but like I said, I really can’t talk now.”

  “Mama, you don’t go to bed until ten, and it’s not even nine-thirty.”

  “It’s not that, dear. I have company.”

  “You Know Who?”

  “Of course not, dear.” That’s all she said.

  “Then who?” I prompted gently. You would be right to think it was none of my business, but Mama was given a different script than most folks, and, besides, if it was one of her regular friends, she would have told me.

  “Her name is Marina, dear. Isn’t that a beautiful name?”

  “It’s lovely—particularly if you’re a boat. Is this woman in your book club?” All right, I was being nosy, but it was only fair. In high school, Mama hadn’t let me date anyone until she’d examined their bloodlines. In Rock Hill, it isn’t what you know but who you know, and Mama was not about to waste her only daughter on some nobody. Mama has more connections than a box full of Tinkertoys, although a fat lot of good it’s done me.

  “Don’t be silly, dear; she’s from Oregon.”

  “Come again?”

  “She’s a tourist. She stopped to ask for directions, and I invited her in for some tea.”

  “What? You have some perfect stranger sitting there in your house?”

  “She isn’t a perfect stranger, dear. We had a nice long chat outside first. I was watering the garden after supper—it was too hot during the day—and she pulled up. Did you know that folks come all the way to Rock Hill to see the Civitas statues?”

  “Think how many would come if religious fanatics hadn’t insisted that the city file off the statues’ nipples.”

  “We’d be inundated, dear. Marina says she’s been to Paris, Rome, and Athens, and none of those cities have anything quite like our Civitas statues. Although I’m sure the statues in those places have nipples.”

  “Hmm. Paris, Rome, Athens, Rock Hill—she’s certainly well traveled. Retired, eh? I take it she’s about your age?” Mama was in fairly decent shape and had, in fact, been talking about taking karate. A tea-sipping little old lady was not a serious threat.

  “Oh, no, dear, she’s younger than you. And she’s very well groomed, Abby. You could take a page or two from her book.”

  “Thanks, Mama. Why don’t you just adopt her? Better yet, just tell folks that she’s the long-lost daughter you forgot you had.”

  “Don’t think I’m not tempted, Abby, although they’d never believe me. Marina is black.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “African-American,” Mama said, still whispering. “I didn’t know any lived in Oregon.”

  It’s a good thing I have short hair, because it was standing on end. Since I was lying on my bed, I sat up to keep my hair company. Thank heavens the South is integrated now, but you still don’t find many black tourists roaming the byways of small towns, not predominantly white byways like Mama’s neighborhood.

  “Does she have cornrows?”

  “Yes, and they’re beautiful. I want my hair done up like that before I leave for Africa.”

  “That’s nice, Mama. What is Marina wearing?”

  “A denim dress with a beautifully embroidered bodice. Frankly, it looks more like it’s from India than Africa.”

  “Mama, stay right where you are.”

  “Of course, dear. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a guest to attend to.”

  “Mama, keep her there, too. I’m coming right down.”

  “That’s very nice of you, dear. She’ll be impressed with our southern hospitality.”

  “But don’t tell her I’m coming, Mama. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Keep her there, Mama!”

  My hair and I made a beeline to Rock Hill.

  15

  I got on Eden Terrace at Sullivan Middle School and was just a block from Mama’s house when I saw the car pull out of her driveway and head south toward Winthrop. In the streetlight, it appeared blue. I couldn’t see the driver, but she was accelerating awfully fast.

  For a split second, I struggled with the choice of chasing the blue car or checking on Mama. What if Mama was perfectly all right, but the blue car got away? On the other hand, what good would a license plate number do if, while I was obtaining it, Mama breathed her last breath? The choice was obvious. I swerved into Mama’s driveway like a teenager on a joyride and, before my headlights dimmed, was ringing the bell with my right hand while pounding the door with my left.

  “For heaven’s sake!” It had taken Mama all of five seconds to open the door. She appeared to be in one piece, and there was no visible blood.

  “Mama! Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right, dear, which is more than I can say for you. Perhaps I’m having another senior moment, Abby, but did I raise you in a barn?”

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. There was no point in giving the Queen grist for her rumor mills.

  “Sarcasm does not become you, Mama.”

  Mama recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Why, I never! I can’t imagine having talked to my mama like that.”

  “Your mama probably never invited death in for tea.”

  “Death?” The fingers of Mama’s right hand played across her pearls. “I don’t have to go to Africa as a missionary. I suppose I could stay here and nurse you through your convalescence.”

  “Convalescence?”

  Mama nodded somberly. “Your nervous breakdown, dear.”

  “I’m not having a breakdown,” I wailed and threw myself on an overstuffed gingham sofa.

  Mama sat demurely on a plump armchair on the opposite side of the room. Although she had been working in the garden earlier, she was wearing a dress, and her crinolines pu
ffed around her like the crust of a bubbling pot pie. Her white pumps didn’t come close to touching the floor.

  “It’s all right, Abby. It happens in the best of families.”

  “Mama! I’m not having a breakdown!”

  “Yes, you are, dear. My cousin Betty—I think she died before you were born—had one, and I remember the signs. First she—”

  “Mama, I just want to know about your guest.”

  “What guest?”

  “The one who just left!”

  “Oh, Marina. Well, she wasn’t really a guest, dear, she was company. There is a difference, you know.”

  “Yes, Mama. A guest is always invited; with company, it’s not necessarily so. Why didn’t you make her stay until I got here? I asked you to!”

  “You’re beginning to sound like company, dear.”

  I sighed. “Tell me about Marina.”

  As Mama settled back in her chair, her crinolines puffed higher. “Such a lovely girl. And considerate, too. Some folks like to do all the talking, but Marina made sure I had a chance to say something, too.”

  “I bet she did. So what worked, sodium pentathol or bamboo slivers under the nails?”

  “Now who is being sarcastic, dear? She even asked about you, you know.”

  “What did she ask?”

  “The usual.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Mama shrugged. “You know, what you do for a living. Were you married. Did you have any children.”

  “Mama, did you tell her where I lived?”

  “Of course not, dear, I’m not stupid.”

  “But you told her about my shop, right?”

  “She loves antiques, dear. She made that very clear.”

  “I bet she did. So, Mama, what part of Oregon is she from? Portland? Eugene?”

  Mama shrugged again. “I never asked.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “Abby, I didn’t interrogate the poor woman.”

  “But you answered all her questions about me!”

  “Not all, dear. She asked if you were involved with anyone, and I said you were dating Greg.”

  “Well, as a matter of—”

  “I know, I know, you’ve had your head temporarily turned by that coroner down in Georgetown, but—”

  “I’m back with Greg.”

  Mama glowed. “I’m so happy for you, dear. You know how fond I am of Greg.”