Poison Ivory Page 7

  “Abby, are you mad at me?”

  “Whatever would give you that idea?”

  “Because you have that look.”

  “That ‘look’?”

  “You know, like you’re about to cry.”

  “No, I’m not mad—not anymore. But I don’t sell ivory, C.J.; you know that.”

  “Yes, but the people reading your ad wouldn’t have to know that. You could say that you’re expecting a huge shipment, and that early birds could have first choice—something like that.”

  “So you’re purposing a sting.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Have you thought about who is likely to get stung? We’re not in a movie, C.J., or some characters in a zany mystery novel. Mr. Curly would be on me faster than chickens on cracked corn.”

  “Not if you tell him first what you’re doing.”

  “You mean get his permission?”

  “Well, you’re on the same side, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—okay, C.J., let’s suppose—and we’re just supposing here, that Mr. Curly agrees to this, and I arrange for a bogus ad. What should I expect to learn from this? Just because someone wants to buy ivory doesn’t make them a criminal.”

  C.J. clapped her hands several times. It was a gesture borne out of frustration, I’m sure, but nonetheless it garnered unwanted attention from the other diners.

  “Ooh, Abby, you’ve got to use your imagination. This won’t be an ordinary ad; it will be for a large collection of ivory, and anyone interested will have to initially respond to a P.O. box. That’s the kind of thing that will get the attention of someone trading in ivory big-time—not a little old missionary lady who’s hoping to sell a single figurine. Then, one by one, you interview the respondents in a neutral location. Of course you’d have somebody with you: somebody big, strong, and worldly, for security reasons.”

  “Like Greg?”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby. We can’t tell Greg. Face it, we can’t even tell Mr. Curly. You know how men are when it comes to rules. I was referring to me, Abby. You and I could pull off this scheme, just as sure as a hog will head for a wallow.”

  An order of coconut crusted shrimp arrived, and I munched on those while I cogitated on C.J.’s proposed ruse. It made a surprising amount of sense. And I could just hear Greg telling me what a stupid idea it was, which made it all the more attractive. Don’t get me wrong: Greg and I have a very happy marriage. It’s just that I don’t like being told what to do, even if the orders I’ve been given are still all in my head. I’ve known my darling husband long enough to know what he would say, and it was those observations that I found myself reacting to.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Ooh, Abby, really?”

  I smiled. “You, young lady, better learn some kind of martial arts—and fast!”

  “Abby, have you forgotten that I know shiitake?”

  “Isn’t that a mushroom? How do you plan to protect me with a fungus?”

  C.J. appeared crestfallen.

  “But then again,” I said, “what do I know about martial arts? Or mushrooms for that matter? I get the two mixed up all the time.”

  My buddy perked up. “Then we’re on?”

  “You bet,” I said.

  I dropped C.J. back off at the Den of Antiquity after swearing her to secrecy—both about the upcoming “sting” and lunch at Coconut Joe’s. If I had to pick one of my two best friends to save from drowning, it would be Wynnell. She is, after all, my very best friend, and I’ve known her longer. Besides, she can’t swim. She also has a jealous streak as long as the Indianapolis 500.

  Wynnell, like just about every single one of us, can be easily distracted, if the conversation is turned around so it focuses on us. When she asked where we’d eaten lunch, I told her that I’d never seen her hair looking quite so beautiful, and I asked her to write down the names of all the products she used, along with the name, phone number, and address of her hairdresser. While she was busy doing that I slipped out the front door and across the street to The Finer Things.

  This antiques store lives up to its name. You won’t find 1950s bird cages and velvet Elvis paintings in The Finer Things (or in my shop either, for that matter). To gain entrance to this upscale purveyor of good taste one must be “rung in.” And this is a privilege that is not doled to just anyone—although to be sure, race is not a factor.

  Once you are in, however, you are treated like royalty. The staff bows and scrapes to you while offering champagne, coffee, canapés, and a host of other treats. In the background the soft, seductive tones of classical jazz weave a trance-like spell that soon becomes a snare. In the end, well-dressed tourists who merely meant to browse find themselves leaving after having spent such outrageous sums as twelve thousand dollars on a worn leather ottoman that never got near a real Ottoman; or thirty-five grand on a crystal chandelier that may—or may not—have graced the dining room of the thirteenth Duke of Ulcer, or Worcestershire sauce, or whatever.

  The masters of seduction are the owners, and my dear friends, the Rob-Bobs. Rob Goldburg shares the title of “best friend” along with Wynnell. He is stunningly handsome: in fact, a lot of people think that Pierce Brosnan looks exactly like him. Rob hails from Charlotte, North Carolina, and is the epitome of refinement.

  Bob Steuben, on the other hand, has a big heart. The fact that he comes from Toledo, is bald, pigeon-chested, has exceptionally large feet, and wears thick black horn-rimmed glasses, doesn’t seem to have put Rob off in the least. The two have been a couple for fifteen years, and are every bit as monogamous as any two Southern Baptist preachers you can randomly find. Did I mention that Rob has a bass voice as deep as the Mariana Trench? Perhaps that is something else Rob loves about his partner.

  At any rate, I was lucky that it was Rob himself who rung me in, and not one of the gatekeepers they hire from the drama department of the College of Charleston. I was in no mood to confront an actor playing the part of a snooty doorman, yet feeling far too good to want to send anyone home in tears (I’m ashamed to say that the latter has happened before).

  “Hey Abby,” Rob said as he bent low to kiss me. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “Hey yourself, good-looking. Can’t friends just drop in on each other?”

  “It’s a lovely idea in theory, but we’re both in business, and it’s the middle of the day. My maydar says there’s a crisis brewing in the Kingdom of Abbydom.”

  “What, pray tell, is maydar?”

  “Mayhem radar. So, am I right?”

  Although I was slightly offended, I responded with brave chuckling sounds. “Wrong! I just wanted to check on how things were coming along for Mama’s surprise birthday party.”

  Rob swallowed and tried to clear his throat. When an attempt to whisper proved unsuccessful, he pulled me into his office and closed the door.

  “Abby, I tried talking sense into him, but you know how he is.”

  I felt light-headed and needed a place to sit. I knew from experience that the chair behind Rob’s desk was by far the most comfortable, so I slipped into it.

  “Are you saying that Bob is planning to cook?”

  “Abby, darling, the caterer bailed out. It only happened this morning. I tried to call you: I did call you, as a matter of fact. Where’ve you been?”

  “Nowhere—the beach—I mean, you didn’t call my cell.”

  “That’s because you keep changing it, and I don’t have the new number punched in. But not to worry, Abby, I made Bob promise that the menu will be very down-to-earth this time. ‘Comfort food,’ I said. Things that a native of Rock Hill, like Mozella, is sure to enjoy.”

  “No eye of newt?”

  “Nary a one. For the moment Mr. Gingrich gets to keep all three of his.”

  “You’re bad,” I said.

  “I try. And another thing: he won’t be doing the cooking by himself. He’s planning to invite the top chefs of Charleston to come in and make it a joint affair.
Abby, this should be the social event of the season.”

  I managed a smile. I was writing a blank check for all the expenses, and while Mama was certainly worth any amount of money, I still wasn’t convinced spending that much money on one night of food and drink was the way to go. Yes, it would help the local economy, but given the hunger elsewhere in the world, it felt indecent.

  Rob must have noticed me equivocating. “Say Abby, you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Ask anything you want; but I reserve the right not to answer.”

  “Understood. What were you really doing this morning?”

  “Probably getting into a whole lot of trouble.”

  Rob sighed. “Okay, darling, have it your way, but just remember that if you get in over your head, I’m always here to help you dig your way out.”

  “Thanks, Rob. That means more than I can say.”

  “And Bob would say the same thing too if he were here right now; but he’s helping a customer.”

  “Thank him too. And remind him that I want comfort food for Mama on the twenty-eighth, not wallaby steaks with lingonberry sauce and fricasseed iguanas.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re never serving that menu again; we never could decide if iguanas took a red or a white wine. Talk about a stressful evening!”

  Before I could change my mind, which would mean having to look for another caterer, I bade Rob a fond farewell. As soon as I was out on the sidewalk again I called the number for the Post and Courier, Charleston’s one, and only, daily newspaper. It was time to put C.J.’s diabolical plan into action.

  10

  I wouldn’t characterize myself as the impatient sort, nor am I lazy by any means. It’s just that once I have a plan of action in place, I can pretty much rationalize taking shortcuts if they’ll get me to the end result quicker. For instance, why rent a P.O. box for the initial contact? Why not just use my cell phone number? After all, a really determined criminal can stick a gun to the head of a post office worker and make him, or her, cough up my address.

  As for notifying Mr. Curly of our plan—well, I certainly intended to do that. At some point. But isn’t there a well-known saying about erring first, and then asking for forgiveness? What if Mr. Curly was against the plan? Then what? It’s not like he was getting anywhere, and he’d been working on the case for years.

  At any rate, the woman who worked in the advertising department of the paper said she probably couldn’t get my ad in until the day after next, but when my cell starting ringing before seven the next morning, I knew exactly what was going on. All I can say is thank God that Greg was already out for the day fishing with his cousin Booger.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you the ivory lady?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I swim, but I don’t float.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing; that was just a little soap humor.”

  “Is this some sort of a scam? You’re not one of those Amway dealers, are you?”

  It was one thing to offer ivory for sale in print; it was quite another thing to push it over the phone. But in this case the ends justified the means, and believe me, I can’t be nearly as mean as my friend Magdalena Yoder up in Pennsylvania, and she’s a sweetheart in a curmudgeon’s clothing. As long as I didn’t lose sight of the fact that I was merely role-playing, I was in no danger of losing my way.

  “Sir, I’m offering a collection of choice ivory artifacts to serious collectors. You may, or may not, realize that this puts me in a tenuous position. If at any time I feel that you are wasting my time, I will simply hang up on you.”

  “Ma’am, I assure you that I am a serious collector. Are you selling whole tusks, or carved pieces? African or Asian? Live ivory, or dead?”

  Live ivory? What on earth was that? Perhaps it was a trick question.

  “To whom am I speaking—if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not at all. My name is Conrad Stallings. And you are?”

  “Hortense Hogsworth,” I said, without pausing to think. As I have never met a Hortense or a Hogsworth in this life, it has occurred to me that perhaps I was saddled with at least one of those names in a previous life—bless my heart.

  “Are you English?” Conrad Stallings asked.

  “No, sir: red-blooded American all the way back to before the Revolution on at least one line.”

  “But surely Hogsworth is of English derivation. I have a particular fondness for the English, you know. My late wife, Janet, was English: born in Malaysia, schooled in Hong Kong, but still English—funny how that goes. Have you ever been to Southeast Asia, Miss Hogsworth? Or should I call you Mrs. Hogsworth?”

  “I’m not particular; one’s as good as the other. Mr. Stallings, I was wondering if we could meet for lunch. I’m really not very comfortable discussing business over the phone.”

  “Yes, I suppose that could be managed.”

  “Speaking of Asia, there’s a Chinese restaurant on King Street called Chopsticks. Do you know it?”

  “Do I know it? It serves the only unadulterated Chinese food in Charleston, if you ask me. The others offer either upscale Asian fusion or Chinese barf bag buffet—pardon my graphic description.”

  “No pardon needed. If I see iceberg lettuce or Jell-O squares in a buffet line, I leave and go somewhere else. In all seriousness, I’d rather eat at Chucky Cheeses with a million screaming kids for company than shovel down a lot of tasteless gunk that’s supposed to be Chinese.”

  “You’re a woman after my own heart, Miss Hogsworth. Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

  “Noon too soon?”

  “That’s a lot of O’s for one short sentence.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. That will be fine. Can you bring some samples and a portfolio?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Then I panicked.

  “Now what do I do, C.J.? He wants to see my wares. Duh! Why didn’t we think of that before?”

  “Calm down, Abby, we did.”

  “We did?”

  “When I was in the Atlanta airport last week I saw a display of contraband ivory. It was very nicely done, so I took a picture. Anyway, last night I photoshopped it, along with some other photos I found on the net, and then I dug up an old album I wasn’t using and put you together this.” C.J. bolted from the break room and returned a few seconds later with what looked like a professional catalogue of select ivory pieces for sale—including asking prices. The girl was an absolute miracle worker! I made up my mind then and there that at the next presidential election I was going to write C.J.’s name down on my ballot—should there be a spot for it.

  “C.J! How can I ever thank you?”

  “Change the name of your shop, Abby.”

  “What?”

  “The Den of Antiquity just doesn’t work; half the people get it wrong. You should answer your own phone sometime.”

  “I do, dear.” She had a point. Folks did tend to say “iniquity” instead of “antiquity,” just because they were more familiar with the former. Although frankly, I didn’t really mind, since “iniquity” did have a certain cachet.

  “And while I’m on the subject, Abby, you should change your name as well.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t seem to decide if you’re a Washburn or a Timberlake. No wonder Buford still thinks he has a chance. So Abby, I think that maybe you should change your name to Hortense Hogsworth. And you know what? It seems to suit you.”

  “C.J., look closely at my ears. Do you see smoke coming out of them?”

  “Maybe just a little from your left ear.”

  In order not to laugh, I had to bite my tongue. Hard.

  “Well, keep watching them, because I’m starting to get mad. By the way, where are the actual ivory samples?”

  “Ooh, don’t be silly, Abby. You don’t want to be caught with something contraband, do you?”

  “But C.J., as wonderful as this book is, he’s going to want to touch and
feel the goods.”

  “That’s where I come in, Abby—I’m your safety net. You see, you’re going to be wired. And you’re going to tell this guy that you think that maybe you were followed—but just for a little bit. In order to be on the safe side, you left any hard evidence back in your car. Explain that you wanted to check him out first; it’s not like you’d show your samples to just any old Tom, Dick, or Bildermouse who answered your ad.”

  “I think that’s Harry, C.J.”

  “What’s hairy?”

  “I mean the third name; it’s not Bildermouse—or whatever it was you said.”

  “That’s exactly what I said, of course. Everyone knows that. Those are the three most common names for boys in the English language.”

  “They are? I don’t mean to be contentious, C.J., but I’ve never heard the name Bildermouse before.”

  The big galoot cocked her head. “Hmm. My bad, Abby; those are the three most common names for boys in Shelby.

  I knew better than to argue. C.J.’s Shelby stories were like religious beliefs—or presidential facts, for that matter. No amount of “proof” was going to change her mind.

  “Okay, C.J., so you’re going to be listening in on our conversation?”

  “You betcha, Abby. And if he gives you any trouble, I’m going to give him a Dutch burr.”

  Wisely, I declined to ask what that was.

  Not only does Chopsticks serve delicious food, but it’s reasonably priced, and the foyer was packed with College of Charleston students picking up their carry-out orders. I managed to slip under, and through, them relatively unscathed—I got whacked once up the side of the head with an order of egg foo yung—to the back room where the tables are located.

  When I was much younger a bad case of nerves would cause my digestive tract to rebel. Now anxiety makes me ravenous. That explains why I was midway through a plate of spicy Szechwan beef when Conrad Stalling arrived promptly at one.