The Cane Mutiny Page 5

  “Mrs. Aikenberg,” Mama said, in a tone that was practically purring, “tell us all about yourself.”

  The former beauty queen tossed her head, rewarding us mortals with a thousand flashes of color from the diamond mines suspended from each ear. “Well, there’s not much to tell, really. My parents moved to Sugar Tit from Shelby, North Carolina, back in—”

  “The short version, please,” I said.

  Mama glared at me.

  Claudette smiled. “I was raised up poor. Mama took in other folk’s washing. She was a redhead like me. Daddy worked on a peach farm. He had one leg shorter than the other. Polio. My parents were so poor they couldn’t buy hay for a nightmare. I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of Sugar Tit, until I won the title. Never was very popular. Then this rich lawyer, Big Jim, came along—saw me win the title—and asked me to marry him that very same day. Said we were going to raise some fine-looking kids. But we never had any, see, because Big Jim was really Little Jim, and what there was of him was shooting blanks. Do you think I ought to have stayed with him, or what?”

  “What,” Mama and I said in unison.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? Because Big Jim’s out on his ear now. We moved down here on account of Big Jim has his practice here in Charleston. This house was his idea. It’s not my style, but all this water sure is pretty, even though two workmen drowned when they were putting up the dock. Anyway, after we’d been married ten years, Big Jim had himself an affair with his secretary. Make that three secretaries in a row—but I didn’t find out until the last one. He had it in his head that the doctors were wrong, and that he really could produce children. Well, the last secretary did get pregnant, but the baby was black, so it wasn’t his.”

  She paused to take a breath. “Don’t stop now,” Mama pleaded. “This is better than All My Children.”

  “That’s just it. I told Big Jim my life was turning into a soap opera, and that if he didn’t make peace with the fact that the Lord hadn’t seen fit to deal him a winning hand, I was going to leave him. He said he’d shape up, quit trying to spread his seed around, but of course he didn’t. So I sued for divorce, and won this house, the Jaguar, and over a million in stock. Not too bad for a skinny little gal from Sugar Tit, if you ask me.”

  “Not bad at all,” I said. “My husband was a lawyer, and when we divorced he got everything, including the dog.”

  Claudette fiddled with the fortune worth of diamonds that dangled from her left ear. “That might well have happened to me, but the last woman Big Jim fooled with was the wife of the senior partner. He had more connections than a bag full of clothespins. When it was all said and done, Big Jim was on his knees begging for mercy.”

  “You go, girl,” Mama said.

  As beautiful as her house was, and as fascinating as that story was, I had a job to do. The problem was how to get from small talk to shop talk without arousing suspicion. But then again, I’d totally underestimated the usefulness of Mama.

  “Tell me, dear,” she said to the former beauty queen, “what did you think of the locked trunk sale at Safe-Keepers Storage last Saturday?”

  Claudette clapped her hands together in a girlish gesture. “That was fun. I’d never bid at one of those, so my bid was way too low. You see, it’s a silent auction—hey, how did you know I was there?”

  “You’re a celebrity, Mrs. Aikenberg—”

  “I am? I mean, I am! So you’re saying people recognized me because I was Miss Sugar Tit?”

  “They’d have to be twits not to,” I said, taking it from there. “Are you a collector, Mrs. Aikenberg?”

  “Oh, yes! I’ve been collecting since I was fourteen. I was hoping to add to my collection Saturday, but no luck.”

  I glanced around the room. The furniture was Drexel Heritage. Good stuff, but not antique. There were two floral paintings on the walls, which, although hand-painted, were probably executed in a painting school in China.

  “They’re not in here,” Mrs. Aikenberg said, popping to her feet with enviable vigor. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  We followed her down a wide, airy hall to a secondary bedroom, also with a water view. But one would have to have her head in traction, and pointed at the window, to concentrate on the view. That’s because the walls, bed, and most of the floor were covered with Beanie Babies. There must have been a million.

  “How many are there?” Mama asked.

  “Fourteen thousand three hundred and sixty-four,” Claudette said proudly. “Of course they’re not all authentic Beanie Babies. Not by a long shot. But I collect the rip-offs too. Look at the shelf over there; those are all made in Senegal. Who would have thought they made bean-filled dolls there?”

  “Where is Senegal?” Mama asked.

  “Somewhere in South America, I think.”

  “It’s in Africa,” I said.

  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s in South America.”

  There was no point in correcting her. There was also no point staying even a second longer.

  “Well, this has been a delight,” I said. “But like they say, all good things must come to an end.”

  Miss Sugar Tit arranged her lips into a very convincing pout. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “Abby, we’re not in a hurry,” Mama said, thrilled that someone as rich and famous as Mrs. Aikenberg desired her company.

  “Yes, we are. We’re shopping for outfits, remember? Clothes without stripes.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. Now come on, Mama.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let you go,” Claudette said.

  6

  I beg your pardon?”

  The Sugar Tit queen tossed her head imperiously, setting free a hair comb, which released a torrent of red locks. It was like watching hot lava spill over the sides of a volcano.

  “I am just a country girl,” she said spitting out each word, “but I’m not stupid. Y’all didn’t stop by just to invite me to church. I bet the little one doesn’t even go to church.”

  A rich beauty queen and a mind reader? Jeepers, but life could be unfair. I wrestled with the truth, and unfortunately it won.

  “You’re right, I am a bit lapsed. But maybe only half.”

  “Half lapsed, my eye,” Mama said. “You only come for funerals and weddings.”

  I held up a petite pinkie. “Nonetheless, Mrs. Aikenberg, we owe you an apology. We did come here with an ulterior motive. You see, mine was the winning bid on shed number fifty-three, and when I went through its contents, I discovered something a bit unsavory.”

  “A bit?” Mama exclaimed. “That’s like saying Osama bin Laden is mischievous. Mrs. Aikenberg, there was a—”

  My pinkie and its four companions found their way over Mama’s pie hole. “A dead rat in one of the containers.”

  Two perfectly plucked eyebrows assumed impossible arches. “And what does a dead rat have to do with me?”

  “Well, nothing, I guess. But besides the dead rat, there was a rather large collection of walking sticks.”

  “Say what?”

  “Canes.” I mimicked leaning on a fine specimen, one with an inlaid handle. Lapis lazuli and eighteen carat would be nice.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  “Yes!” I snapped to my maximum height. “I thought maybe you had an interest in canes. Collecting them, I mean.”

  “I don’t. Besides, it was billed as a locked trunk sale. Nobody was supposed to know what was in there. Did you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She began herding us to the front door by injecting her sculpted body, with its wayward parts, into our comfort zones. “I could call the police, you know.”

  My heart froze. As small as it is, it doesn’t take much.

  “She’s married to a detective,” Mama said, rising to my defense. After all, she goes to church every Sunday and makes a public confession of her sins. She can afford to tell
a white lie.

  Miss Sugar Tit smiled tightly. “If you’re looking for canes, then it’s my neighbor you want.”

  I edged in front of Mama, risking contact with two of the woman’s most obvious assets. “Your neighbor?”

  “He’s an expert on them. You should see his collection. I think he said he has over a thousand.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck, for that’s what it was.

  “What are the odds?” she said.

  “Excuse me?” If this got any more clairvoyant, I’d have to come back, toting a crystal ball.

  “He was at the auction as well.”

  “Oh, really?” I snapped open my purse just wide enough for me to glance at the printout Mr. Cotter had given me. Sure enough, it listed two houses on Major Moolah Road. The numbers were consecutive.

  “Just turn left out of my driveway,” Miss Sugar Tit said, without me asking. “First house on the right—if you can call it that. His name is Mac, as in macaroni. I forget what his last name is. That’s the thing about living out here: we’re too far apart to see each other on a regular basis. Oh, don’t get me wrong; there is a bunch that gets together and has dinner, but they drink too much for my taste. They call themselves the Dead Sheep’s Club. You see what I’m up against?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Yes sir, having money can make you mighty lonely. Don’t ever wish to be rich. Wish for happiness instead.”

  We thanked her and took our leave, cowed by an onslaught of wayward silicone.

  Mama and I had a devil of a time locating the correct house. That was because we—silly us—were looking at the ground. Neighbor Mac lived in the treetops. Literally. This arboreal residence was not just a tree house, but a tree mansion. Recall, if you will, the rustic, but romantic, dwelling built by the Swiss family, Robinson, in the Disney movie by that name. Double that in size, add air-condition ducts, modern plumbing and wiring, and a satellite dish.

  This fantastic domicile was spread over several levels, each supported by the massive horizontal branches of a live oak. Quercus virginiana, as this species is known scientifically, is called live oak because it keeps its dark green leaves until late winter, a time when many other hardwoods are barren. Even then, the species drops its leaves in stages, as it is putting out new ones, so that it is never lacking foliage. On adjacent Johns Island there is an ancient specimen called angel oak, which has been estimated to be around fourteen hundred years old. This venerable giant has a trunk circumference of twenty-five feet, and its canopy covers seventeen thousand square feet.

  Although the Wadmalaw Island oak was certainly smaller, it was still mighty impressive. There was, however, no need to climb a rope ladder or wooden slats to reach the tree house, which loomed overhead like an island in the sky. One had a choice between a glass-enclosed elevator or very sturdy stairs. We chose not to climb due to the arthritis in Mama’s knees, a beguiling disease that comes and goes according to how badly she wants to avoid exercise.

  The elevator opened at the top onto a solid wood platform, a front porch of sorts. Faux terracotta containers, brimming over with impatiens, delineated the door. I mashed the doorbell.

  “She said she couldn’t remember his last name,” Mama said with a giggle. “If it’s Keebler, I’m asking him for a cookie.”

  “Just one?”

  The door opened, catching us by surprise. Even more startling was the fact that the man standing before us was very small; not a millimeter taller than Mama, which put him at about five feet. His face was lined, to the extent that one might expect on a man in his middle years, but there was a boyishness about his features that made him look—well, a bit like an elf. One would think I would have remembered such a vertically challenged man, but auctions have a way of getting my blood racing, and I pretty much stay focused on the prize.

  “What do you want?” he snapped, his voice both high-pitched and reedy.

  “Cook…canes,” I said.

  “I don’t sell drugs,” he said, and tried to close the door.

  Unfortunately for him, a sudden gust of wind blew Mama’s skirt and its attending petticoats into the doorway, preventing it from closing. When Mama pushed on it to clear her crinolines, I went on the offensive.

  “We’re not here to buy anything!” I shouted. “We just want to speak to the owner.”

  The door opened wide enough for Mama to tug loose. “The author or the architect?”

  “The author.” I had no idea what he meant.

  “Miss Aida isn’t here at the moment.” He paused, licking exceptionally pink lips. “Did you bring books for her to sign?”

  “Tons of them,” Mama said. Once she figures out the game plan, she’s usually more than happy to play along.

  The door opened all the way. “I don’t see any books.”

  “They’re in the car,” I said. “We had to see if you were home first.”

  “So which is your favorite?”

  “The latest one.” My feet may be small, but sometimes I can think quick on them.

  “Ah, The Poisoned Druid Libel. What did you think of the ending?”

  “Very satisfying.”

  “Me too,” Mama gushed. “It was very powerful.”

  The tree-dwelling gnome nodded. “Did you find the shaman a likable character?”

  “Absolutely,” I said quickly. Mama has been known to take our charades too far.

  “There is no shaman in that book,” he said, “because there is no book by that title.” He made no move to close the door. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”

  “I’m a dealer,” I said, relieved to finally be telling the truth. “I own the Den of Antiquity. I’m here to—”

  He didn’t even wait long enough to learn the nature of our visit. “Come in. But watch where y’all step. The floor isn’t exactly even.”

  He was right; it wasn’t even. It was, however, spectacular. We could see immediately that the tree house wasn’t just sitting on the branches, it incorporated them. In what appeared to be the main room, there were places where the limbs rose above the floor like serpentine couches. Custom-made cushions, with muted leaf patterns, created soft, safe places for resting one’s bottom. Across one corner an overhead limb swooped down almost to the floor and up again, disappearing into the walls. A shelf had been built in the bottom of this natural U, and upon it sat a television, a VCR, and a DVD machine.

  “There are no nails connecting this house to the tree,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “No invasive devices of any kind. I don’t mind telling you that this is an original design, and that it won the International Tree House Association’s Golden Bough Award. I’m sure you saw it on the news. Plus HGTV did a special segment on it that airs just about every week. Of course it usually comes on at three in the morning.” He chuckled.

  “What’s it like in a hurricane?”

  “So far so good. This tree’s been weathering them for a millennium. And believe me, this house isn’t going anywhere without this tree. Of course I do have to trim any dead branches before storms. There’s no point in asking for trouble.”

  “No point, indeed.” As fascinating as the house tour was, I’d come to talk to Mac about shed 53, and his motive for bidding on it. “Uh—sir—is someone named Mac here?”

  “That would be me. Mac Murray. I was the thirteenth child; by then my parents had run out of names.”

  “Then Aida is your wife,” Mama said. It was clear to me that she didn’t think that was the case. She is, incidentally, forever scouting for unmarried ladies to match up with the bachelor sons of her friends.

  “Aida is a friend,” Mac said. “Please tell me why it is you want to see me.”

  “Mine was the winning bid in the locked trunk sale at Safe-Keepers Storage last weekend.”

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’m not here to rub it in your face, Mr. Murray. I’m just curious why you bid.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Touché. I realize
this must sound bizarre, but you see, I’m writing an article for Antiques magazine about the thrill some collectors get when they acquire unitemized estates, or real locked trunks, or even just abandoned storage sheds. My theory is that these situations bring out the treasure seeker in us. That it’s sort of like guys who salvage shipwrecks, only we don’t have to worry about sharks, or getting the bends.”

  “Good save,” Mama mumbled.

  “I just think you answered your own question,” Mac said.

  “So you collect?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Not me, but Aida. And not canes. Oh, she’s had a few laying around, but that’s not her specialty.”

  “What is? If I might ask.”

  “Rare books.”

  “How exciting. Is it possible to view her collection?”

  “Follow me.”

  I trotted expectantly after him, with Mama at my heels. She was every bit as annoying as a street urchin hawking knockoff souvenirs at well-known tourist sites.

  “If I’d known you were that good of an actress, Abby, I would have insisted that you get the lead role in my community theater’s spring production.”

  “You don’t belong to a community theater.”

  “Well if I did, I would.”

  Mac Murray stopped unexpectedly, and I narrowly missed running him over. The only reason I didn’t is because Mama stepped on the back of my sandal.

  “Is everything all right, ladies?”

  “Fine as frog’s hair,” I said. “Except for the fact that my mother is worried you might be an ax murderer.”

  “Tell her not to worry; I gave that up for Lent,” he said.

  I turned to Mama. “He says to tell you—”

  “I know what he said, Abby. Mr. Murray, please don’t believe a word my daughter says. I dropped her on her head when she was just a month old. We were in Germany at the time, enjoying the sights from the balcony of our hotel room. Anyway, the doctor said she would always be subject to spells of paranoia.”

  He chuckled, then, no doubt seeing the expression on my face, stopped. “Please, step this way. Mind the bump.”