Tiles and Tribulations Read online

  The large woman was conservatively dressed, had short gray hair cropped in a blunt wedge. She sported the first pair of hexagonal spectacles I’d ever seen. When we shook hands I was reminded that I needed to schedule a mammogram.

  “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding my house,” C.J. said.

  Thelma Maypole peered through her poly-sided lenses. “I did have a bit of trouble. Mozella said you lived directly opposite Colonial Lake. You actually live two thirds of the way down, if you’re coming from the northwest, but one third up, of course, if you’re coming from the southeast. Even those distances are only approximate.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” C.J. said cheerfully.

  Thelma Maypole was not finished. “Did you know that Colonial Lake was formed in 1768 as a marina for the leisure class? Hitherto, this part of town was marsh. You see, the plantation owners—”

  Although not particularly religious, I said a prayer of thanksgiving when the doorbell rang again. “I’ll get that,” I said, and scurried past the hostess.

  It was my fault. I should have let C.J. answer her own door. But how was I to know that the next pair of Hustlers were just that. Hustlers. Mama had cagily withheld some pertinent facts—most important of which were Hugh and Sondra Riffle’s names. All she’d said was that they were used-car dealers.

  Hugh and Sondra Riffle are used-car dealers—but used-car dealers with an edge. They only sell cars that once belonged to famous people. Want to buy the ’54 Chevy where your favorite rock star lost his or her virginity? Hugh and Sondra have it. Or did your favorite movie star end his or her life in a ’69 Ford, a rubber hose funneling the toxic fumes from the exhaust into the front seat? Maybe even an automobile that had seen a grisly wreck. Don’t worry, the Riffles have those cars as well. Cars of the Stars, they call their business.

  You may think that Charleston, South Carolina, is an odd place for a celebrity-related business to flourish, but the peninsula south of Broad Street does, in fact, contain the fifth-highest concentration of wealth in the country. And, of course, we get tourists from all over. You’d be surprised how many folks fly in to the Lowcountry, as we call our coastal counties, and drive out in a car in which somebody famous has either died, had an orgasm, or otherwise left behind some DNA.

  I’d seen the Riffle ads on local television, and they were as tasteless as the concept itself. Hugh Riffle is a blocky ex-linebacker with a face like a side of raw beef. Sondra is a former beauty queen, whose heart-shaped face has seen one too many facelifts. She looks perpetually surprised, although perhaps that’s intentional on her part. I had the feeling that underneath her much-tightened exterior was a brain of no small dimensions.

  Hugh was dressed in white slacks and a blue shortsleeve shirt, open halfway to the waist. He didn’t have a whole lot of chest hair to show off, but the gold chain I saw was thick enough to tether an elephant. Sondra wore a white silk pantsuit and surprisingly little jewelry. Sure, she had a wedding band, and a diamond engagement ring the size of an acorn, but the only other bauble she wore was a brightly colored enameled frog pin on her lapel. She wasn’t even wearing earrings. Even her shoes—while nice—didn’t cost a fortune.

  “What a lovely house,” she said, stepping into C.J.’s foyer. “Georgian, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” She had extended her hand to be shaken, and I did so slowly. You can tell more by a woman’s hands than her face. These hands hadn’t waved to a runway audience in decades. Still, she had a firm grip.

  Hugh Riffle, on the other hand, had a surprisingly lax shake. I felt like I was holding a boneless chicken breast.

  “You Miss Cox?” he asked. “This your house?”

  “I’m Abigail Washburn. I’m Jane’s friend.”

  His left brow shot up.

  “Not that kind of friend. But if I was, so what? Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all, little lady. Sondra here swings both ways—if you get my drift.”

  “I think I’m getting your draft,” I said, and letting go of the boneless chicken breast, scooted around him to greet the next guest on C.J.’s behalf.

  Something interesting was coming up the walk.

  4

  Madame Woo-Woo looked like the carnival caricature of a gypsy fortune-teller. She wore layers of orange, purple, and hot pink ruffled skirts, a white peasant blouse, and a lime-green polyester scarf. The cheap gold-tone hoops that hung from stretched earlobes were big enough for a basketball. Her hair was dyed an impossible shade of black and her lipstick was the color of fresh blood. My first impulse was to laugh.

  “Good-evening,” I said. Southern girls are bred to suppress their impulses. “You must be Madame Woo-Woo.”

  She extended a gnarled hand with nails as black as my ex-husband’s heart. “And you are Abigail Washburn.”

  “I am? I mean, I am! But how did you know?”

  Madame Woo-Woo wrapped her other set of ebony claws around my hand. She gazed fixedly into my eyes. I wasn’t sure, but in the dim light of C.J.’s gas lantern, it appeared as if Madame Woo-Woo’s peepers were baby blue.

  “Mrs. Washburn—Mrs. Wiggins Timberlake Washburn—you have the healthiest aura I have ever seen.”

  “I do?”

  She leaned close enough for me to confirm her eye color. I also confirmed that she had eaten curry for supper.

  “You are entering what I like to call the golden age of your life—”

  “But I’m not even fifty,” I wailed.

  “Bah!” She expectorated on C.J.’s verandah floor. “The senior years are not so golden. But you—you are now in the prime of your life. Your children—Susan and Charlie, yes?—are doing well in college, and you have a new husband, and a new house south of Broad Street.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Madame Woo-Woo knows everything, Mrs. Washburn—well, almost everything. I wish I’d known about the stock market slump of 2001.” She chortled briefly. “But of course you didn’t need to worry about that. And business for you, by the way, is going to exceed your expectations this year.”

  “It is?”

  “Without a doubt. The planets are aligned in your favor this year. In fact, they haven’t been in such a lucrative position—for you, I mean—in decades. But you will need to act fast. There,” she said, and although she hadn’t moved her hands from mine, I could feel a card pressing into my palm. “This is my private number. Call anytime for a complete evaluation of your future. The card also allows for a twenty percent discount.” The talons pressed harder. “Why don’t we just set up a meeting for, say, ten o-clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Well, I—uh—”

  “Mrs. Washburn, I know for a fact that you are a brilliant businesswoman. You would be a fool to pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity. And you are anything but a fool, Mrs. Washburn. Am I correct?”

  Before I could think of a clever rejoinder, Madame Woo-Woo whooshed past me, swirling her taffeta skirts. It was time to greet the next guest.

  Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill was a letdown after Madame Woo-Woo. He wore a blue and white seersucker suit, which is the summer uniform of adult male native Charlestonians and longterm residents. His bald pate reflected C.J.’s gas light, but what little hair the doctor had was short and neatly combed. He spoke in a cultured voice, but softly, and through clenched teeth. It was obvious that the man was used to having people listen when he spoke.

  “Welcome Dr. Whippersnapper—I mean spoonbill!”

  He ignored my gaff, and pointed to the dress he’d supplied. “It fits very nice.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re Mozella’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, I’m Mozella Wiggins’s daughter, Abigail. I’m a close friend of Jane Cox, the hostess. Won’t you please come in?”

  He seemed hesitant. “Are the others here?”

  “All but one, the re
al estate agent, I believe.”

  “Ah yes, our honorary Hustler. Well, Chiz is always late.”

  “Chiz?”

  “Chisholm Banncock IX. Chiz we call the young one in each generation.”

  “So you’re a native Charlestonian, Doctor?”

  “Three hundred years,” he said. At least that’s what I think he said. He spoke so low he might well have said “three hungry years.”

  At any rate, two centuries is the minimum length of time one’s ancestors have to have resided in Charleston, in order to qualify someone as a native—although three centuries is obviously much better. Any pedigree that does not extend from before the Late Unpleasantness, and one might as well be “from off.” As in “from off” yonder; Kalamazoo, Katmandu, or any place in between.

  Generally the topic of origins is something the natives bring up on their own—usually within the first five minutes of a conversation. Believe me, there is no need to volunteer one’s “offness.” “Who are your people?” in some version or another, is probably the first question a newcomer is asked.

  By foolishly broaching the subject myself, I deserved to feel like an outsider. But much to my surprise, Dr. Whipperspoonbill appeared to be too much of a gentleman to put me on the spot. Gratefully, I ushered him inside.

  “Well,” I said, “as soon as Chiz gets here we can get started.”

  “Did I hear my name spoken in vain?”

  I whirled. Standing in the open door behind me was the handsomest man I’d ever seen—besides my husband Greg, of course.

  Chiz deserved his nickname. His face had the chiseled look of a classic Roman statue. As a married woman I shouldn’t notice such a thing, but his body was chiseled as well. His pecs strained against the expensive micro-fiber shirt, and his thighs bulged within the confines of tight chinos. And while I’m being frank, that’s not all that bulged there. In short, he looked like something from off the cover of a romance novel—he even had dark curly hair and dimples!

  I couldn’t believe neither C.J. nor my mother had warned me—although no warning was necessary, mind you. Still, given that C.J. and Mama are both as man-hungry as sharks, it was a wonder they hadn’t drowned me with drool just mentioning him. For the record, I was utterly unaffected by his maleness—er, his presence.

  “You already know who I am,” he said with a grin that revealed perfect, white teeth. “Care to clue me in on who you are?”

  “Abigail Timberlake!” I cried. “No, I mean Washburn.”

  The dimples danced. “Washburn Timberlake. Hmm—Washburn is an interesting name for a pretty thing like you. I’m assuming it’s a family name.”

  “It certainly is,” a voice from behind me said. “It’s her married name.”

  “Mama,” I growled. I smiled at Chiz. “Well, now that you’re here, we can start.”

  Chisholm Banncock IX was in no apparent hurry to go anywhere. “Cool duds,” he said giving me the once over. “Say, didn’t I try to sell you a house?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” My real estate agent had been a rotund little man with enough hair in his ears to stuff a mattress.

  “Well, you look familiar. Where are you from?”

  There it was; the “from off” question. It was one thing to be asked it by the older generation, but for a stud muffin like Chiz—surely they no longer cared about such things. I found myself unusually annoyed.

  “Two minutes,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It took you two minutes—less, in fact—for you to ask where I’m from.”

  Chiz grinned. “I hope that’s not against the law.”

  “No, but it ought to be—unless you’re asking Yankees. For your information, I was born and raised in South Carolina. Mama, isn’t that right?”

  “You’re still from off, dear,” Mama whispered. “Give it up.”

  Chiz’s grin widened. “What was that?”

  “She said you shouldn’t ask someone where they’re from, if all you’re trying to do is make a point.”

  “I said no such thing, Abby.”

  I ignored my petite progenitress. “Okay, what she really said is it’s time for us to go inside and get started. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of coming inside.”

  “Why would I be afraid? I sold Miss Cox this house.”

  “Exactly. So you know all about the Apparition American. You’re probably afraid of coming face to face with her at the séance.”

  “I am not.”

  I flapped elbows to simulate chicken wings. “Buck buck brat!”

  “Abby,” Mama pleaded, “be good.”

  I could feel myself blush. I had been flirting shamelessly, and my mother knew it. The only way for me to save face was to accept my own challenge and head inside.

  Madame Woo-Woo was one tough fortunetelling cookie. She insisted on assigning seats. She put drop-dead gorgeous Chiz on her left, and then continuing the clockwise pattern, seated Ella Nolte, Hugh Riffle, C.J., Mama, Sondra Riffle, Thelma Maypole, myself, and to my left, Dr. Francis Lloyd Whipperspoonbill.

  Earlier she’d had C.J. light four candles and place them in the approximate corners of the room, before turning off the lights. In the center of the table Madame Woo-Woo herself had placed an inverted water glass. Except for the cassette recorder, those were the only props of which I was aware.

  “Let us begin,” Madame Woo-Woo said in a clear, strong voice.

  “And with Thy Spirit,” Mama responded. She is, after all, a devout Episcopalian.

  We had not yet been told to close our eyes, and I could see Madame Woo-Woo scowl. She cleared her throat as a warning.

  “There is to be no speaking—except for myself, of course. Mediums are allowed to speak. And our honored guest, if that is what she wishes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mama said, thoroughly chastised.

  But even that was too much for Madame Woo-Woo. She turned to C.J.

  “This woman will have to leave!”

  C.J. may be my best friend, but she and Mama are as close as bone and gristle. The poor girl was mortified.

  “Mozella is sorry. Aren’t you, Mozella?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Mama sniffed.

  “You spoke,” Thelma Maypole said.

  I gave Thelma the evil eye. “You just now spoke as well.”

  “Enough!” Madame Woo-Woo leaped to her sandaled feet, knocking her chair over behind her.

  I don’t think any of us was fooled by this theatrical display. We sat quietly, but unrepentant, and in a moment Madame Woo-Woo settled her voluminous and hideously colored skirts back on C.J.’s Chippendale-style captain’s chair.

  “Now close your eyes,” she barked.

  I closed mine just enough to give the appearance they were shut. At times like these it helps to have long lashes and wear lots of mascara. I had no trouble peeking through the slats, and what I saw pleased me immensely; Madame Woo-Woo’s hands disappeared beneath the table.

  A second later she began to moan. She sounded just like my ex did in the bathroom every time he ate chili dogs. It was all I could do to not suggest she try Pepto-Bismol.

  The moaning stopped abruptly. “I find myself unable to channel tonight,” Madame Woo-Woo announced. “I am going to have to speak to the spirit directly.”

  Having learned our lessons, we said nothing.

  “Open your eyes,” Madame Woo-Woo ordered.

  We opened them—or opened them wider, as the case may be. It was clear to me what the fickle fortune-teller was doing. It was all just part of her act, a ploy to build up the drama.

  She made it a point to look each of us in the eye before continuing. “Contacting a spirit directly involves risk. They’re not always benevolent, no matter what those mediums on TV say. If the spirit demands a certain course of action, we are obliged to comply. Otherwise we risk paying the consequences. Before I continue, are they any questions?”

  Hugh Riff
le, who sold dead celebrities’ cars for a living, had the pallor of cottage cheese. “What sort of consequences?”

  Madame Woo-Woo’s forehead formed furrows so deep I heard the melodic tones of Mandarin emanating from one of them. She stared at the glass in the center of the table.

  “Some spirits have such strong presence that, when they get really angry, they have the power to take another back with them into their realm.”

  Sondra Riffle gasped. “You mean, like kill someone?”

  Ella Nolte rolled her eyes. “Why, that’s just ridiculous. Ghosts—if they exist—are just confused souls who haven’t realized yet that they’re dead. They’re not out to get anyone. In my latest book, Give Us This Day Our Daily Dead, I have a character—”

  Madame Woo-Woo’s glare cut Ella Nolte’s self-promotion short. “Enough! You are wasting my time. The spirit’s time too.”

  “I should think the spirit has more than enough time on her bony hands.” I clamped a petite paw over my maw. I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  Madame Woo-Woo was on her feet again, her chair tipped on its back on the floor. “There will be no séance.”

  “I’m sorry!” I cried. “I really am!”

  “Ooh, ooh, please don’t go!” C.J. was beside herself. It was she, after all, who had to live with the Apparition American on a daily basis.

  Madame Woo-Woo was far too angry to shoot mere daggers at us. She shot full-length hari-kari swords, daring us to eviscerate ourselves if we said another word. We hung our heads in shame and closed our eyes again.

  “Very well,” she growled. “I will give it one last try. But if I hear one word”—she paused to toss me another sword—“I’m out of here. Is that understood?”

  We nodded mutely. At last, the séance could begin.

  5

  I peaked again through lacquered lashes. Sure enough, Madame Woo-Woo’s black claws were sliding under the table. She cleared her throat.

  “Oh resident spirit, please come forth and make your presence known.”

  My heart was pounding so hard that I didn’t hear the windstorm begin. Perhaps the others did. But when Sarah MacGregor began to speak, Thelma Maypole started with such a jolt that her hexagonal glasses slid to the tip of her stubby nose.