Monet Talks Read online

  For all its tackiness, Chez Fez exudes a certain charm, and the man responsible for this is the very charming Blackmond Dupree. He is a slight man with dark brown eyes and hair, but a black handlebar mustache that appears to have been dyed. His costume consists of white pants, a white V-neck shirt with gold embroidery around the collar, and an ill-fitting red fez that has to be kept in place with bobby pins. His red slippers curl up at the toes, like those of Santa’s elves. Monsieur Dupree claims to have been born in Casablanca of French parents, and his unconvincing accent aside, we all want to believe that this is so.

  “Ah, Madame Washburn,” he said, greeting me with a limp handshake, “your friends, they are already seeting at zer table.”

  “Splendid—but I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes. In private.”

  “Zat would be very nice, madame, but zees eez zee lunch hour, no?”

  “But zees eez—I mean, this is rather important. It’s about the birdcage.”

  “Birdcage?” His eyes darted about like minnows in a pond, never quite making contact with mine.

  “The one shaped like the Taj Mahal.”

  “Ah, zat one.” Monsieur Dupree snapped his fingers and a waiter, dressed in a similar costume, appeared at his side. The owner mumbled something into his employee’s ear, then beckoned me to follow him through a pair of moth-eaten green drapes I couldn’t recall seeing before.

  I hesitated only a second.

  7

  Monsieur Dupree’s office was a wallboard box, perhaps not unlike hundreds of other work cubicles in greater Charleston. It was piled high with papers, clipboards, and what appeared to be cookbooks. Hanging from a nail behind the desk was a calendar of Morocco, displaying a breathtaking scene of the Atlas Mountains covered in snow; a photograph of a beautiful young woman, who seemed oddly familiar; and a shadow box containing about a dozen bent forks. He caught me staring at the last item.

  “Zose are ferks zat my customers have make bend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Een zer teez.”

  “Y’all must serve some mighty strong tea.”

  “No, no, not zee tea, zee teez.” He held a pinkie in front of his mouth and mimed chomping on it.

  “Ah, their teeth! Gotcha. Well, in that case, they must have some mighty strong teeth.”

  He nodded vigorously. “I sink zees happen only in America—zees very strong teez. Eet eez zee fleride zat eez to blame, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Nescafé all the way,” I said, trying to be agreeable. “Is the beautiful woman in that picture your wife?”

  His dark eyes danced. “Zat eez my daughter!”

  “Get out of town! Forgive me, sir, but you don’t look nearly old enough to have a grown daughter.”

  He shrugged. “Oui? Zen again, perhaps eet eez she zat does not look young enough.”

  “Uh—right.”

  “Do you recognize hair?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My daughter. Do you recognize hair?”

  “Actually, I do recognize her. I mean, she looks very familiar—but I can’t quite place her.”

  “She works for zee robbers.”

  “Come again?”

  “Rob-Bob and Bob-Rob,” he said with a flourish of R’s. “She eez zer assistant.”

  “No kidding! Funny, they’ve never mentioned that. You can bet that as soon as I see them—oh my gosh, look at the time! I’m supposed to have met them inside ten minutes ago.”

  Monsieur Dupree glanced at his watch. “Oui, zee time, she flies. But first we must to talk about zee birdcage, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, the birdcage. Monsieur Dupree, do you mind sharing why it is you have such a strong interest in this particular cage? Or is it, perhaps, the bird?”

  “Mai non, eet eez not zee baird. But zee cage—she eez a work of art, no?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Eef she wear mine, I would poot hair on zee stage weef zee musicians. Zen peoples would say zees eez zee most beautiful restaurant een Charleston.”

  “That’s it? That’s why you bid so high against me?”

  “Eez zat not enough, Madame Washburn?”

  “I suppose it is,” I said, half believing him. For the moment I had no more questions.

  My timing stank. I had no trouble finding the Rob-Bobs, supine upon their Pier One pillows, but an extraordinarily large belly dancer all but blocked the entrance to their velvet hideaway. She had good peripheral vision, and before could I sneak past her, she turned to face me.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I just want to get by.”

  “Oh no you don’t, sister. These two are mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” she shouted above the deafening music. Meanwhile she shimmied and shook, although not in sync with the music.

  “My hearing is just fine,” I shouted back. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to get out of my way—”

  “I said they’re mine. I got first dibs.”

  “You can have them. I just want to join them for lunch.”

  “Get lost, you hussy.” She advanced, and her belly, which had been shaking like a paint mixer, began a series of slow downward rolls, known in her business as belly rolls. Unfortunately, the dancer had, during the course of her lifetime, consumed more than a few jelly rolls. The spectacle was both gross and engrossing.

  “Look lady, I’m a happily married woman,” I told her. “And besides, they’re my cousins. I just want to eat couscous with my cousins.”

  “Yeah, right. Yesterday this woman claims to be this guy’s wife, and she’s his mistress.”

  “And you know that how?” I tried to look away from her stomach, but the rolling had been replaced by a move called the flutter. Frankly, it was rather alluring.

  “Intuition, honey. It ain’t just something you use for college. Now beat it, sister.”

  I stood my ground, all the while trying hard not to look at her titillating tummy. “Not that it’s any of my business, but do you think this is the best place to look for a single man?”

  “Honey, do you know how hard it is for a woman with four children to find herself a husband?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t go trolling for one in a family restaurant.”

  “A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do. Honey, I don’t want no trouble, and you look like the troublemaking kind, so I tell you what. You let me have the big handsome hunk—the one with the hair—and you can have that skinny bald guy with the glasses.”

  “I don’t want the skinny bald guy!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  Alas, the music had stopped abruptly, a signal that the belly dancers were to scurry back into the kitchen. But there was no scurrying just then, only stares. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the tent trained on me.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with skinny bald guys,” I said, my words echoing as if I were in a tomb the size of the Taj Mahal, and not a tent. “As a matter of fact, I prefer my men scrawny and hairless. And as for the glasses, the bigger the better I always say.”

  “Abby,” Rob whispered, “what the heck is going on?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered back. I turned to the tart with the twitching tummy. “You can have the hunk—after you get off work, of course.”

  “Promise you won’t touch him until then.”

  “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  Satisfied, she shimmied her way back to the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of cheap perfume.

  I dove into a pile of cushions. “Pull the drapes please,” I choked.

  “What just went down?” Rob asked, after sealing us in a cloth cocoon.

  “You’ve got a date tonight.”

  “A what?” Bob brayed.

  “Don’t worry, dear, it’s with a woman. That dancer has the hots for Rob.”

  “What about me?”

  “She has the hots for you, too, but I thought it was only fair that she share, so you’re mine.”

  “Ah, so that
’s why you shouted out a description of me. Let’s see, how did it go? Scrawny, hairless—”

  “But I forgot the good cook part. Did I say good? I mean excellent.”

  Bob beamed. “Abby, you’re not going to believe what I’m making for dinner tonight.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “Well, we’re having some discerning friends over for dinner—not that you’re not discerning, dear—so I’ll be serving squab giblet pâté on toast points as the appetizer, marinated turkey wattles on a bed of endive for the salad, and then for the main course, it’s alligator balls in alfredo sauce over homemade pasta, and topped with a special parmesan cheese that has been aged for three years in caves above a monastery on an island in the Aegean, where the only woman allowed to set foot is the Virgin Mary—although I’m told she seldom visits.”

  “Whoa, back up a bit. I didn’t know alligators have—”

  “Like meatballs,” Rob said, “but made from ground alligator meat. Just be happy you’re not invited, Abby. And speaking of invitations, you promised to give us the scoop on the other bidders if we met you here for lunch. So spill it, girlfriend.”

  “Ah, the other bidders. As it turns out, y’all have a connection.”

  “We do?”

  “Your shop assistant, Simone Dupree, is the daughter of Blackmond Dupree, owner of this fine establishment.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. And here I thought she was a struggling grad student at the College of Charleston.”

  “She may be that. Restaurants often operate in the red for the first couple of years. Or she may have a bad relationship with her father. All I know is that they are father and daughter.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I was just interviewing him in his office. I saw a photo of her and asked.”

  Bob caught on first. “So you’re saying that the swashbuckling Blackmond Dupree was one of the five top bidders on your birdcage?”

  “I’d hardly call him swashbuckling,” Rob said, clearly annoyed.

  I winked at Bob. “A little jealousy is a good thing. Yes, he’s one of the five. Believe it or not, he wants to put the Taj—it’s far more than just a birdcage—up on the stage with the musicians. Sort of a centerpiece.”

  “But this is a Moroccan restaurant, not Indian.”

  “It’s an eclectic restaurant. The last time I was here they had paella on the menu. So tell me, guys, why would someone be willing to pay ten thousand dollars for a stage decoration?”

  Bob shrugged.

  “Why did you?” Rob asked.

  “I bought it because it was beautiful, because it spoke to me—thanks, Rob, I think I just answered my own question.”

  “Think nothing of it. And anyway, it’s not the most outrageous thing I’ve heard of. I was once asked to design a room around a piece of chewing gum that had supposedly seen the inside of Elvis Presley’s mouth. The gum was on a gold dish, under a glass dome, on a pedestal in the center of the room. The owner was so proud of that thing—claimed it held Elvis’s DNA—that she couldn’t help bragging about what she’d paid for it.” Rob took a chug of his sweet tea, just to taunt us.

  “How much did she pay?” I finally demanded.

  “Fifty thousand smackeroos. Can you believe that?”

  “Holy Toledo!” Bob barked. That’s his favorite expression, which isn’t surprising, given that he’s originally from Toledo.

  Rob grinned, happy to be the center of attention. “The story doesn’t end there. One of my client’s friends stole the gum, hoping to clone Elvis and have his baby. But when the thief took the gum to a lab for analysis, she learned that the gum had only been chewed by a woman. Anyway, the thief sued my client for causing her “undue stress,” and won a judgment of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “It sounds like my partner’s been spending too much time in the supermarket checkout line,” Bob said.

  “I swear it’s true!”

  I tapped my water glass with a spoon. “Okay, guys, I’ve got this one figured out. There is no limit to how much an object is worth—as long as there is a buyer who meets the asking price. But given the fact that most restaurants struggle the first few years, and that Simone Dupree is working for minimum wage, it’s unlikely he would be willing to spend ten grand just to pretty this place up some more. The Taj Mahal birdcage means more to Blackmond than he’s letting on. Therefore, I am putting him at the top of my list of suspects.”

  “We most certainly do not pay Simone minimum wage,” Rob hissed.

  “Plus, I bring in leftovers just about every day,” Bob growled.

  It was starting to sound like a menagerie in our private booth. “Sorry guys, I didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers.”

  “Besides,” Rob said, “people spend money all the time on things they can’t afford. Granted, those things usually involve mortgages or horsepower, but the operating principle is the same. When we humans desperately want something, we’re willing to throw caution to the wind. Before you circle his name in ink, tell us the other four names on the list.”

  “I only know two of the others; Wynnell is tracking down the other two. But the names you want are Catherine Deephouse and Martin Gibble.”

  “Our Martin Gibble?”

  “Is there any other?”

  “The one who hates your guts?”

  “He doesn’t—okay, maybe he does, but that’s not why he made the list. First of all, he wanted the Taj so bad he could taste it, and second, he was unduly concerned about Monet pooping in it, and third, when I told him the mynah was missing, he jumped to the conclusion that Monet had been stolen. How suspicious is that?”

  My friends exchanged smiles. “Not very,” Rob said. “The Taj, as you call it, is uncommonly beautiful, so who wouldn’t lust over it? And nobody in their right mind—sorry, Abby—would allow a starling, no matter how exotic, to foul a work of art. And frankly, what other explanation would there be for a missing bird, especially one that has been replaced by a stuffed look-alike?”

  “I didn’t tell him about the stuffed look-alike.”

  “Even so, it’s a logical conclusion for him to make.”

  Bob, who is more sensitive than his partner, picked up on my vibes. “Hey, we love you. You know that, right?”

  “But you think I’m nuttier than a Payday.”

  “No, make that a small Snickers. And Abby, I mean it when I say that in the past you’ve done some dynamite sleuthing.”

  “But now I’m so far off base even the Jolly Green Giant couldn’t tag me?”

  “So tell us about your visit to Catherine Deephouse,” Rob said.

  The diversion worked. “She claims she was bidding on the Taj for a secret client. Believe it or not, she offered fifteen grand for it.”

  Bob whistled. “A fifty percent markup! Not bad.”

  He was just trying to humor me. It was a good offer, but not outstanding. In this biz we try to resale for three times what we’ve paid for an item. This allows us to mark down merchandise that’s been taking up valuable space too long, as well as give our customers discounts upon request.

  “Yeah, well I might have taken the fifteen grand, but I want to see if she’ll go any higher. She’s being cagey, so I know she’s hiding something.”

  “Good one, Abby.”

  “What?”

  Before Bob could point out the clever thing I’d said, albeit inadvertently, the drapes that formed our cubicle were drawn back to reveal a trio of waiters bearing silver-plated salvers. The men were dressed in white tunics and leggings, and red slippers with curled-up toes, and each sported a red, ill-fitting fez. All three had handlebar mustaches, none of which were real.

  “We took the liberty of ordering for you,” Rob said.

  “I hope you like sheep’s head,” Bob said. “In a nice cumin and yogurt sauce. Yummy.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, and struggled to my feet.

  “But Abby, we’re only kidding. It’s shish ke
bab, rice pilaf, and salad.”

  I bolted anyway. When I was out of sight of the Rob-Bobs’ cubicle, I ducked into the ladies’ room. Just as I’d hoped, one of the waiters was right on my heels.

  8

  “Wynnell! What on earth are you doing in that costume?”

  “You told me this was where you were having lunch. Abby, couldn’t you at least have kept the drapes open? Yours was the third table I had to serve.”

  “The costume, Wynnell!”

  “Oh that. My neighbor, José Garcia, works here. He also owes me a few favors. How did you recognize me, Abby? I’ve got my hair tucked up under this fez and I’m not wearing any makeup.”

  My friend would have been hurt if I told her it was her unibrow that gave her away. Especially since I’d helped her wax only a week before.

  “Your boobs,” I said kindly.

  “Funny, because José is a bit on the pudgy side. I’ve always thought he was bigger than I.”

  Suddenly we both heard loud female voices. Just in time I ripped the mustache off Wynnell and snatched away her crimson fez. The poor woman screeched in pain. At least I wouldn’t have to wax her upper lip for a few days.

  The women were so involved in their conversation they didn’t hear Wynnell’s screech or notice her curled shoes. They kept a steady stream of gossip going throughout their business, and then left without washing their hands.

  “Gross,” Wynnell said.

  “Wynnell, out with it! Why the charade?”

  “Abby, I went out to see John at the auction house, like you told me.”

  “And? Did he give you the names and addresses of the folks who bid against me?”

  “You bet he did. The African American man who bid against you is Bubba Johnson. He owns a string of dry-cleaning shops. Hi-N-Dry is the name of the business. John said that Bubba Johnson is very successful. In fact, he owns a mansion on Battery Street.”