Poison Ivory Read online

  “Abby, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but you’ve been charged with a federal crime, not a state crime. And yes, I am qualified to represent you in front of a federal judge.”

  “What federal crime? I don’t even know the charges.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know the charges? Weren’t they read to you?”

  ‘ “Contraband goods.’ That’s all I’ve been told. For all I know, I’m being accused of importing lipsticks made in Shanghai that are fifty percent lead—which I’m not!”

  A smile pushed Buford’s jowls apart in an agreeable fashion. “Hell’s bells,” he said, “I think we just caught ourselves our first break. This arrest is not going to stick.”

  I felt woozy with relief. “It’s not?”

  “Nope. Now we just have to worry about the second set of charges. They’re not federal, by the way.”

  “Since I’m having trouble following any of this, please explain.”

  “It concerns your behavior in the holding tank.”

  “Buford, I am not a prostitute. Not that I’m judging those women, mind you, but my business is still very successful, and I’m still happily married, and as monogamous as a goose.”

  “I can’t say I’m happy for that last bit of news, but I’m not surprised either. Anyway, you’re not accused of being a prostitute—you’re being charged with inciting a riot.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. The day was going from awful to extremely horrible. Was there an even worse category waiting for me around the next bend?

  “That’s patently false,” I protested. “A riot? The women were just laughing. How does that constitute a riot?”

  “According to the guard, they were out of control because you had physically assaulted one of the other detainees.”

  “Is that what I am? A ‘detainee’?”

  “Well, you haven’t been arraigned yet. But you will be—on your new charges—in about an hour.” Buford’s jowls jiggled again. “You can be grateful that I’m well-connected, Abby. Congressmen, senators, heck, even the President is a golfing buddy these days. You know what they say, don’t you? A little charm goes a long way.”

  So does a little fertilizer. In my opinion Buford had always been too well-connected. In college he had channels through which to obtain papers, rather than have to write them. Even when he was in law school (which I helped put him through, by the way), we socialized with judges, small business owners, and even the ministers of some of the area’s larger churches. Sometimes I rode with Buford to a bar at the edge of town, where he met men who wore sunglasses at night and dressed in dark suits. On those occasions I nursed watered-down glasses of rum and Coke and danced by myself.

  When Buford passed the bar he quickly became a force to be reckoned with. In no time at all he made partner in a criminal law firm and his circle of contacts began to extend nationally. Having been raised in a small town, I’d grown up with the concept of the good old boy network, so I wasn’t taken by surprise. But as much fun as it might sound to meet congressmen and-women. senators, and even the occasional governor, hosting them is a lot of work, even if you hire a caterer.

  Why, there was that one time he brought home a drunken Texas oilman who had aspirations to be President…

  “Abby, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “Uh—mostly. Be honest, Buford: you do have a tendency to pontificate.”

  Buford frowned and his eyes disappeared behind newly acquired folds of fat. “Call your mama, Abby, and have her bring some clean clothes. Tell her to make it a dress—a suit, if you have one. Heels, but not too high, and hose are a must. Got that?”

  I saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  “I’m doing this for our children, Abby. So be a smartass, I don’t care; but our children don’t deserve to have a convict for a mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Buford. This is all so surreal—us here, in a jail.”

  A fleshy hand reached across for one of mine. My instinct was to jerk it away. Not only was Buford supposedly happily married, but he’d traded me in when I turned forty to a woman who was twenty years old and at least twenty percent silicone. But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; perhaps he really was just being kind.

  After a very awkward minute or two I pulled gently out of his grasp. “Buford, I ordered a rosewood commode for Mama’s birthday. Since when has rosewood become contraband?”

  “That’s just it, Abby. The crate that you came to pick up didn’t contain rosewood—in any form—it was ivory.”

  “Ivory? But I didn’t buy any ivory. It’s illegal to import ivory, unless it’s more than a hundred years old, or the tusks in question are one’s hunting trophy.”

  “Exactly. But someone in Charleston has been on the receiving end of a great deal of illegal ivory. That’s why the Feds may have come down a little hard on you.”

  “A little hard on me? Buford, your children’s mother was practically beaten into the pavement—”

  “They beat you?”

  “No. But they tried to handcuff me. They also swore at me. And they were anything but gentle with Cheng—formerly known to you as C.J.”

  He nodded; I’m not sure he was still listening. “Now here, take my phone and call your mama. And while we’re waiting for her to show up, I’ll have the matron take you someplace for a shower. You certainly can’t appear in front of a judge smelling like that.”

  I did the pit sniff test and nearly passed out. “I’ll tell Mama to bring some deodorant,” I said. I swallowed a huge lump of pride. “Buford, thanks. Really. This is awfully nice of you. Just so you know, I insist on paying you your regular going rate; no special breaks for me just because I’m an ex-family member.”

  His jowls quivered, his double chin trembled, and he licked his lips with a tongue as pale and unappetizing as boiled cow’s liver. “There’s no need to think about payment just yet, Abby. I’m sure we’ll come to an understanding once this little unpleasantness is behind you.”

  I reeled, just as surely as if I’d been slapped. “Buford, are you suggesting that payment be—uh, of a personal nature?”

  “And why not?” Buford said. “After all, we are both over twenty-one, aren’t we?”

  “And married! Have you lost your marbles, or did the sun on Kiawah Island bake your brain?”

  “I see that you’re as feisty as ever; don’t think that I’ve forgotten how it used to be for a minute. We were like ferrets in bed: always nipping at each other—”

  “Stop! I’m getting sick to my stomach.”

  “Good times, Abby. As far as I’m concerned, we can share plenty more.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She left me.”

  “Buford, you didn’t!”

  Although he did have the decency to blush, the color was fleeting. “I only cheated once; besides marriage to Catherine was a mistake, Abby, you shouldn’t have encouraged it.”

  “Encouraged it? You came to me for moral support, and that’s what I gave you.”

  “Just the same, you know what kind of cad I am. You should have put one of your tiny feet down.”

  “If my tiny foot was wearing a more pointed shoe, Buford, you would be begging me to put it anywhere but your backside.”

  “Golly, how I miss you, Abby.”

  “I’m calling Mama, Buford. And I’m telling her to bring my Jimmy Choos.”

  4

  The good news was that Buford is one of the best lawyers in the entire Southeast. The really good news was that he is extremely well-connected, and that the judge before whom I was to appear was the brother of Buford’s college roommate. Don’t ask me how the system works, but the key element in my retelling of that morning’s events is that I didn’t even have to make a courtroom appearance—although I did have to shower under the supervision of the matron, and dress in the clothes that Mama brought (they weren’t what I’d requested).

  The bad news is that Buford immediately began pr
essing me for a date—even though Greg was right there—and the really bad news was that Mama did nothing to keep the two men apart. In fact, she seemed rather stimulated by the idea of two men simultaneously pursuing her daughter.

  “Abby,” she said, right in front of them on the courthouse steps, “did you know that there are actually cultures where the women have more then one husband? They’re called Pollyanna, I think.”

  “Mozella,” Greg said softly, “I believe the word is polyandrous.”

  “Well, I was close,” Mama said. She reached up with a gloved hand and felt the hat she was wearing. Satisfied that it was in place, she plumped the starched crinolines that kept her full-circle skirt inflated. “I heard about this custom from a missionary woman who spoke at our church. The poly-uh-whatever wife gets to do the choosing. Personally, I think that the prospect of being rejected would be just awful. I mean, not everyone is as lucky as you.”

  “Mama! What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know perfectly well, dear. Here you are—little, itty-bitty you—and here is big, handsome, strong Greg, and here we also have the very wealthy, powerful, and dare we say, well-connected Buford Timberlake, and both of these gentlemen would gladly throw their cloaks over a puddle to keep your slippers from getting wet. You must admit—not every woman has this choice.”

  “But I don’t have a choice! I’m happily married, Mama. And shame on you for even suggesting that I might be willing to entertain cheating on my husband. And even if I did—which I’m not—it wouldn’t be with the man who cheated on me.”

  “There, you see, Buford,” Mama said, “my daughter has publicly rejected you yet again. At this point any decent man should feel humiliated. Do you feel humiliated, Buford?”

  Jowls jiggled as Buford attempted to grin. “Not at all.”

  “Snakes don’t feel humiliated either,” Mama said. “That’s why we call you Timber Snake.”

  The forced grin froze and Buford stared at Mama with his beady little eyes until she waved a glove in front of his face. Then he took forever to clear his throat.

  “I wasn’t aware of that nickname,” he said at last. “Nevertheless, I choose to take it as a compliment.”

  “It isn’t meant as one,” Mama said. “Come on, Abby—Greg—let’s go.”

  “Why Mozella,” the snake in question said, “you’ve got even more spitfire than your daughter. How could I have been overlooking something this good all of these years? How old are you? Fifty? Fifty-five?”

  “I’m forty-eight,” I shouted loud enough for all of Charleston County to hear.

  Mama patted her ubiquitous pearls. “But dear, I got married very young.”

  “But not when you were two! Or even seven years old.”

  “Well, you don’t look a day over fifty-five,” Buford said, “and I ought to know. Between this wife and the one before, I spent enough time in the waiting rooms of plastic surgeons to write a book on the aging process and what one can possibly hope to achieve by surgery. I’m telling you, Mozella, my hat is off to whomever did your face. That guy, or gal, is a genius.”

  Mama twittered shamelessly. “You silly thing, Buford, now just hush. You know when I was born; you did my will.”

  “I can’t remember dates, Mozella. Boy Scout’s honor.”

  “Well, in that case I guess I should be kind and put you out of your misery. Next Tuesday is my birthday, and I will be turning sixty-four.”

  I started to correct her, then decided to just let it go.

  “In that case, happy birthday!” Buford exclaimed.

  “Come to think of it, your children will be calling to wish me the same, so why don’t you stop by and—”

  The right combination of brow lifts and eye rolls from me, and my sweet, strong husband got the message without me uttering a sound. He slipped behind Mama and picked her up by the elbows. Then walking bowlegged—so as to avoid her kicks—he carried her the rest of the way down the courthouse steps and halfway back to the car.

  Thanks to the strangely detached world we live in these days, folks hardly noticed. A family of round tourists from one of the square states clapped, a couple of people driving by honked, and some old dude in a tie-dye T-shirt and a gray ponytail said “Right on, dude” before mumbling something about the end of the world, but to my knowledge no one called the police to report a kidnapping, and certainly no one confronted us directly.

  As for the Timber Snake, although he slithered away quietly, I knew him well enough to predict that he would strike again.

  Cheng had not been charged with inciting a riot, so she was released before I was. Still, she’d been through a grueling day—and on my account, no less. Therefore I was quite happy to give her the week off that she requested to visit her family up in Shelby, North Carolina, and I insisted that it be with pay. And since I am not the best person at taking care of myself, my darling husband insisted that I also take a week off—which I did. We flew down to Vieques, Puerto Rico, where we did some fabulous snorkeling, lay about in the sun, and engaged in some horizontally challenged marital bonding.

  As a result I returned to the Den of Antiquity glowing with sun-damaged skin cells and eager to get back to work. Wynnell Crawford, my dearest friend, not to mention my trusted employee, grabbed me the second I planted a size four boot over the threshold of the shop’s rear door.

  “Abby, that man from the news was just here looking for you.”

  “Matt Lauer?”

  “You know Matt Lauer?” Wynnell’s voice had risen to a frightening pitch.

  “No; it was wishing thinking. I did meet our local weatherman once—we were both judging sandcastles for Piccolo—but I can tell by the look on your face that that is not who you mean.”

  “You’re right about that, Abby. This is the guy who arrested you and hauled you off to jail. Mr. Curly, he said his name was. Who is he, Abby, one of the Three Stooges?” Ever supportive, my buddy draped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. “I told him you were taking a cruise around the world and called me last night as you were sailing away from the Palagados Islands.”

  “Hmm. Are those anywhere near the Galapagos Islands?”

  “Well he seemed to get the drift. You don’t see him here now, do you?”

  “I haven’t been inside the shop yet, Wynnell. Apart from Mr. Curly, how is everything? How are you? How is Cheng?”

  “Cheng called to say that she won’t be in until tomorrow—if that’s all right.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t call me.”

  “Because you might have said no.”

  “Good point. How have sales been?”

  “Sales are always down in February, Abby, you know that. But I took advantage of some of the quiet times to work on our displays. Cheng simply doesn’t have the knack for it—I mean, either you have the gift for it, or you don’t—and you’ve never claimed to have an eye for staging.”

  “Staging?”

  “You know, like they do in model homes, when they set up tableaux. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  My knees felt weak, but meanwhile my heart raced. Wynnell is a good person, and a loyal friend, but she was born without taste—bless her heart. Every time she’s taken it upon herself to set up a display, I’ve felt compelled to quietly dismantle it. It’s either that or run the risk that she’ll hear the rude comments of some tourist and have her heart broken.

  “Don’t worry, Abby,” she said. “You’re going to like what I’ve done. And anyway, we better get out there on the floor, because the register is untended.”

  The U word was motivation enough, and I trotted along behind her, willing myself to be calm. Whatever she’d done, I could gradually undo—I hoped.

  Wynnell had indeed taken advantage of the February lull. Her husband, Ed, is an avid fisherman, but not a professional like Greg. He usually fishes with bait and tackle off the pier on Folly Beach. Occasionally he goes trout fishing in the mountains of North Carolina, and on even rarer occasio
ns he forks out enough money to indulge in deep-sea fishing off our own coast.

  Judging by Wynnell’s displays, either Ed had given up his hobby or purchased a great deal of new equipment. Hip boots, rods and reels, tackle boxes, lures of every description, these were spread across every flat surface or stuck into any cranny that would hold them—whatever best applied to them. Frankly, it looked more like I was running a disorganized garage sale than a high-end antiques store.

  “What do you think, Abby?”

  I bit my lip, trying to buy some time. “It’s uh—very—uh—”

  “Mrs. Washburn.”

  The male voice coming from my right was familiar, but I couldn’t place it before I made the mistake of turning to see who it belonged to. I recognized the man instantly, and my hackles were hiked so high I nearly achieved liftoff. Only once before—the second time I discovered Tweetie’s lipstick on Buford’s collar—did I ever get so angry so quickly.

  “S-you!” I sputtered.

  “Take it easy, Mrs. Washburn, I’m not here to arrest you.”

  “Then get out of my shop!”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I need to talk to you.”

  “Go!” I pointed to the door.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry for how it went down earlier; you see—”

  “You heard my friend,” Wynnell said. “You go, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Wynnell,” I whispered, “I think he is the police. Or the FBI. Something like that.”

  “Well, I’m calling someone,” Wynnell said. “You mess with my friend, Abby, and you mess with me. I wasn’t such a picky eater when I was little, so as you can see, I’ve grown a bit since I was six.”

  “Wynnell,” I protested, “I’m not a picky eater anymore, and it has nothing to do with being short.”