“I don’t like them, Abby,” Rob said, before I had a chance to even say hello. The inventor of caller ID is not going to get a Christmas card from me.
“Why don’t you like them? It’s her hair, isn’t it?”
“No, but come to think of it, she could get a job hosting late night horror flicks on TV. But they’re fakes, Abby.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re not married, for one thing.”
I sighed. “Here we go again. I suppose you’re going to tell me that Nick Papadopoulus is gay. For your information, Rob, not every handsome man is gay. And neither is every celebrity. And don’t you start in again on Santa Claus.”
“Abby, darling, how many straight men do you know who wear bright red suits with white fur trim?”
I was unconvinced. “How many gay men wear red suits with white fur trim?”
“Touché. But it was as plain as the nose on Bob’s face that this couple had no chemistry between them. Zip, zero, nada.”
I could hear Bob protesting loudly in the background. His nose is remarkable, but his deep bass voice is his most distinguishing attribute.
“Leave my schnoz out of this,” he boomed.
“That’s right,” I said, “leave Bob alone. Besides, I know plenty of married couples who lack chemistry.”
“Then how about his chains?”
“What about them?”
“Ten carat gold, Abby. And the longest one is just plate.”
“You can tell that from across a room?”
“Seen enough cheap stuff to spot the difference. What is this guy, anyway? A pimp?”
“He’s a Wall Street broker.”
“Just like my grandmother was a grand champion on Fear Factor.”
“She was? I mean, so what’s this guy’s game?”
“It’s your job to find out, Abby. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. By the way, thanks for a really good lunch. Bob thanks you, too.”
“But we still have the lunch I made, and the emu salad sandwiches are soggy now,” Bob blared in the background. “And what the heck am I supposed to do with all those quail eggs?”
Mercifully, Rob hung up.
Bob should have given his peculiar lunch to C.J. The big gal will eat anything. Her Granny Ledbetter back in Shelby believed that every living creature was a potential meal. She used real amphibians when she made toad-in-the-hole. When she couldn’t find toads, she used frogs. Kiss one of Granny’s casseroles and you might well find yourself face-to-face with a prince—albeit a dead one.
C.J. had just closed a sale on a Hepplewhite dining room set when I entered my shop. She greeted me with her usual goofy grin.
“Hey Abby, you’re not here to check up on me, are you?”
“Of course not, dear. But how are things going?”
She told me about the sale.
“Did you give them the standard discount?” I asked. Many customers don’t realize that we in the trade often build a discount into our asking price. Since this particular dining room set cost an arm and a leg (very nice legs I might add, barely scarred by centuries of use), ten percent was a hefty hunk of cash.
“They didn’t ask, Abby.”
“Well, in that case, you and I will split the difference. And no need to thank me, C.J., because you deserve it.”
“Actually, Abby, they paid me more than the listed price.”
“Get out of town!”
“You see, some other couple was looking at it first, and I started going on and on about what a great deal this was, so then this second couple jumps into the conversation, and the next thing I know they’re bidding.”
“C.J., you’re a genius, you know that?”
“Don’t be silly, Abby. I’ve known that since I was one.”
I smiled patiently. “C.J., one-year-olds don’t know anything about intelligence quotients. They can barely speak.”
She looked me straight in the eye—of course she had to look down, while I looked up. “I could talk at three months, Abby. I began to read at four months.”
There was no point in arguing, especially since she was probably telling the truth. The woman could speak seventeen languages, including Mandarin Chinese. I, on the hand, sometimes have trouble with English—especially the hard words like “subliminal.”
“C.J., darling, as long as everything is fine here at the shop—and you’re obviously doing a great job—I’m going to leave everything in your hands for the next few days. If that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, Abby. And if you need any ideas about how to track down the killer, just holler.”
I turned my head so that rolling my eyes wouldn’t offend her. Having raised a teenage girl, I know firsthand just how irritating ocular rotation can be—at least for the observer. For the roller, it does help to relieve stress.
“Thanks, C.J., but I’ll manage just fine.”
“I’m sure you will, Abby. But if it was me, I’d start by inviting some of those bed and breakfast guests to tea. Tourists love having tea in historic Charleston homes. And that way, you could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, give your mama some business. Mozella is going to hang out a sign, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate any customers you bring over.”
“Hold it right there! Mama’s in business? What kind of business?”
“Serving tea. Abby, are you a little bit slow? Not that there is anything wrong with that. Cousin Arbuckle was the slow one in our family. Couldn’t even tie his shoes until he was six months old. Granny says she thought he would never amount to anything, until he and Al Gore invented the Internet together.”
“Mama can’t run a business out of our—make that my—home!”
“Why not, Abby? You told her to get a job.”
“Yes, but—oh, never mind. Where is Mama now?”
“Baking scones, I think.”
I ran for my car.
I was too late. In the space of a few short hours Mama had turned my beautiful eighteenth century home into a tea shop. She’d even hung her shingle: MAMA’S TEA PARLOR. It was a only a temporary sign, Magic Marker on cardboard, but she had done a good job of drawing a cup and saucer, and I must admit that the overall affect was cute. Mama was cute as well in her pink and white gingham apron with the extra long ruffles.
“So, Abby, what do you think?”
“I think you should have asked me first, because I would have said no.”
“That’s why I didn’t.” The oven timer buzzed. “Just a minute, dear, while I check on the scones.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “It’s not just that I don’t want a parade of strangers in my house, Mama, but this is illegal. You need a business permit, and a certificate from the board of health.”
She pivoted on her pumps. “But what will I do with all this food? Besides the scones, I made gingerbread with lemon sauce, some yummy macaroons, the cutest miniature quiches, and these little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Let’s see, there’s cucumber, watercress, tuna salad—”
“I’ll have some friends over for tea.”
Mama frowned. “Abby, I already know your friends. I want to meet new people.”
“These are new people, Mama.”
She yanked the scones out of the oven at just the right moment. They were golden brown, without being overdone, and smelled heavenly. There appeared to be two kinds: cheese and raisin.
“Will you have to be here when they come, Abby?”
“Of course. In fact, I was just about to ask you if you wouldn’t mind hanging out in the kitchen.”
“Why Abigail Wiggins Timberlake Washburn! Shame on you for trying to banish your poor old mama from her own living room.”
“Technically it’s my living room, Mama, and I need to speak to these people alone.”
“Abby, are you ashamed of me? Because if you are—well, I’ve never been so hurt in all my born days.”
My sigh helped cool the scones. “I’m not ashamed of you, Mama. Honest. It’s just that—well, these aren’t really friends. They’re just people I need to interview.”
Mama put her hands on hips, a gesture that emphasized her cinched waist even more. “This has to do with Wynnell, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe—okay, yes.”
“So what do you want me to do? Leave your house?”
“No.”
“Oh I see, you’re going to banish me to the kitchen. Well, in that case, there’s one thing you should know.”
My next sigh rustled Mama’s ruffles. “Make it fast, because I’m really pressed for time.”
Mama had a strange, triumphant look in her eyes.