“Abby, darling,” Mama said, “I’ve already invited guests to tea.”
I wish I could say that I couldn’t believe how much nerve she had. Unfortunately, I could. The examples were legion. Perhaps the example that stood out the most in my memory, and which I still chafed at, if I allowed myself to think about it, was my high school prom. The senior prom. Mama canceled my date with Brad Belk, a college freshman she didn’t like, and “substituted” Howard Craighead, a high school sophomore. I would have spent the entire night on my bed crying, but since Howard had yet to get his driver’s license, and had a daddy richer than Howard Hughes, I got to ride to the prom in a real, chauffeured limousine, one that was privately owned. Not the kind that smells vaguely like puke, and into which promgoers pack themselves like circus clowns.
“Then you’ll have to uninvite them, Mama.”
“You don’t want me to, dear.”
“Yes, I do.”
The smallest of smirks played at corners of her perfectly rouged mouth. “I invited the Zimmermans and the Thomases.”
“I don’t care if these are your church friends—”
“They’re not, dear. They’re guests at double 0 Legare St.”
When I was a little girl and stared with my mouth wide open, Mama used to say that my eyes would pop out. Not that it would matter, she’d tell me, because I would choke to death on a fly at the same time. It’s a good thing there weren’t any flies in the house at the moment, and although my peepers didn’t pop, they must have presented quite a sight.
“Abby, that look—you’re doing it again. Just don’t be mad, dear, because I’m only trying to help. Wynnell is my friend, too, remember?”
Never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it’s just a tiny pony named Mozella. Besides, there would be plenty of time to yell at her—respectfully, of course—when my friend was cleared of wrongdoing and out of the clinker.
“Why not the Papadopouluses as well?” I asked.
“They said you were meeting them for lunch. Lordy, Abby, it was hard enough trying to find these two couples. I had to get descriptions from the maid, and then hunt for them in the Market. You know what that’s like.”
Indeed I did. The Market, which runs the length of Market Street, between Concord and Meeting, was built in 1788, and is at times referred to as the Slave Market, although slaves were never sold there. House slaves were, however, sent to shop for produce and dry goods at the many stalls on the lower level. Today it is thronged by tourists in search of a good deal on souvenirs, which range from elegant sweetgrass baskets woven by the Gullah descendants of slaves to general flea market knickknacks manufactured in China. At times the narrow aisles of the market can get so crowded that a small woman like myself—or Mama—can get literally carried along with the masses. I once visited all the buildings twice without ever intending to do so.
“Yes, I know what the place is like. It’s a wonder you found them. Did you have any trouble convincing complete strangers to come over for tea?”
Mama has a strong Upstate accent, the kind folks up there used to have before Yankee transplants, relocating to Charlotte, spilled over the border into South Carolina and modified our speech. Although I suppose television is partly to blame for homogenizing our speech. At any rate, Mama’s Rock Hill accent differs from a Charleston one. The latter pronounces “house” a bit like they do in Tidewater, Virginia, which, to my ear, sounds a bit like the way many Canadians say it. Fortunately, most tourists from north of the Line can’t tell the difference between Upstate and Lowcountry accents.
“Now, sugar,” she said, “you know I can be just as charming as Miss Scarlet herself.”
“Frankly, Mama, I’m surprised you don’t wear wooden hoops instead of petticoats. Think of the all money you’d save on starch.” I smiled sweetly. “So, what time is this tea?”
“Four o’clock. That gives you plenty of time to change into something decent.”
“You mean a dress, right?”
“Of course, not dear. I’m not as old-fashioned as you think. A Sunday skirt and blouse combination will do just fine.”
“Whatever, Mama. Just as long as you agree not to bother us during tea.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. It was my idea.”
“I know, but this is a murder investigation, and I’m the one with the expertise. Relatively, at least.” I already knew that Mama was going to be as hard to shake loose as a tick, but it was worth a try.
“Abigail, darling, what if I serve you the tea, and then retire to the kitchen?”
“Promise you won’t interfere in any way?”
“You have my word.”
“And you won’t stick your head out the door every five seconds with questions of your own?”
“Why Abby, I’m offended.”
“Mama!”
“All right, dear. There is no need to get your knickers in a knot. I’ll behave.”
And I’ll never eat another piece of chocolate.
The two couples arrived separately. Like most tourists, they’d elected to stroll through our charming streets and absorb the ambiance. The route from number 7 Squiggle Lane to double 0 Legare is flanked by the some of the city’s most historic architecture, and certainly its finest gardens. I often wish I could see my new hometown through the eyes of a tourist again.
At any rate, Herman and Estelle Zimmerman arrived first. Herman is a beefy man with a farmer’s tan and a ruff of graying hair sticking up from underneath his collar. He is one of those rare people whose lips don’t part when smiling, but the huge grin stretches practically from ear to ear. His wife Estelle is a slender woman whose body looks much younger than her head. I’m sure she cannot help the suitcase-size bags under her eyes (no doubt quite handy for short trips), but it is immediately obvious that her hair is not only an improbable color, but too dark for a woman her age. As for her thin penciled brows, she would be better not having any. She looks perpetually surprised, although perhaps she is—every time she sees her blue-black coiffure in the mirror.
“Howdy, little lady,” Herman said, and thrust out a hand the size of Switzerland.
I shook hands reluctantly. I value my fingers and the ability to write and eat unaided. Although I was not permanently maimed by this senseless ritual, I would like to refute the adage that one cannot squeeze blood from a stone.
Estelle’s handshake was quite the opposite. It felt like someone had placed a boneless, skinless fillet of fish on my palm. Mahi mahi, I think. I dropped it as soon as I could do so without appearing rude.
“Welcome to Charleston,” I said, and ushered them inside.
Herman and Estelle glanced around my living room with the same apparent reverence and awe one might experience at a special exhibit at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Are those sconces Venetian?” Estelle asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Yes. Aren’t they lovely?”
“I thought so. Eighteenth century?”
“Right again. Are you an antiques collector?”
“Me?” She giggled behind a damp hand.
“My wife was a history major,” Herman said. “But she knows everything. Ask her a question. Any question. Doesn’t have to be about history.”
I attempted a gracious smile. “Maybe later. Won’t you two please be seated?”
They appeared not to hear me. “Go ahead, ask her,” Herman insisted.
“Okay,” I said, grasping the first thought that flitted through my mind. “Why was Napoleon defeated at Waterloo?”
She giggled again. “Because he had hemorrhoids.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, most history books will tell you that he made a tactical blunder by waiting until midday for the ground to dry out before moving his troops. But they don’t usually print why such a brilliant mind made a mistake of this magnitude. The answer is that he suffered from hemorrhoids and was sleep-deprived that day.”
It sounded like one of C.J.’s infamous Shelby stories, but who was I to argue? I had, at best, a precious few minutes to grill this couple before the Thomases arrived, or before a crafty Clouseau clad in crinolines cavorted in, carrying coconut cookies.
“Please,” I begged, “have a seat.”
One of the perks of owning your own antique store is that you get to redecorate with whatever pieces of merchandise catch your eye. One month I’m in a Victorian mood, the next month I’m in a rococo frame of mind. This month it was Italian. Although Herman wasn’t the largest man I’d seen lately, I must confess I was nervous about him sitting on my eighteenth-century chairs, which, although quite sturdy when they were built, were not intended for twenty-first-century bottoms. To be sure, I breathed a small sigh of relief when the gilt and needlepoint chair held its own.
But no sooner had his bottom connected to the chair than Dmitri came prancing in from one of the rear rooms of the house and jumped into Herman’s lap. My beloved pussy must have landed on a fairly sensitive area because Herman gasped loudly.
“Dmitri off!” I commanded.
My ten pound bundle of joy ignored me as usual. In fact, his reaction was to knead Herman’s thigh while swatting the poor man in the face with his tail.
“It’s all right,” Herman said, between swats. “I love cats.”
I smiled, much relieved. The world is sharply divided between cat lovers and cat haters. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground with this species. Incidentally, I love both cats and dogs, but lost custody of our dog when Buford and I divorced.
Dmitri appeared to love the Zimmermans, because after finally settling in Herman’s lap, he left abruptly to explore Estelle. However, it didn’t take him too long to decide that Herman’s lap was more comfortable, and after settling in a second time, he fell right to sleep.
“Mr. Zimmerman,” I said, over the sound of Dmitri’s snores, “where is home, and what do you do there?”
“Call me Herman, little lady. And we’re from Wisconsin. We own a dairy farm—mostly Holsteins. Of course we’ve got ourselves some help now that we’re getting older. Used to sell our milk to the big cheese outfits—” He slapped his knee. “That one always makes me laugh. Anyway, still do, but ice cream’s the moneymaker now. You ever count the number of flavors at your local supermarket?”
“I can’t say that I have. So, what brings you to Charleston?”
He looked confused. “We’re on vacation.”
Estelle leaned forward. She seemed uncomfortable on her chair. Perhaps she was worried that she might perspire and stain the needlepoint with unabsorbed hair dye.
“We’ve heard so much about South Carolina,” she said. “Charleston in particular. It certainly lives up to its reputation.”
“Thank you.” I could only hope that was a compliment. “Herman, Estelle—if I may—”
“Please, call me Estee.”
“Estee, it is. And you may call me Abby. I hope the two of you don’t judge Charleston by what happened last night. It’s really a very safe city.”
Herman forgot to grin. “I had no idea I would be putting Estee in so much danger. This kind of thing doesn’t go on in Wisconsin.”
Estelle reached over and patted her husband’s knee. “It does in Milwaukee, just not where we live.”
Herman looked at me. “Tell me, little lady, why a maniac like that was running loose in the first place.”
“We heard the fight,” Estee said, before I could defend my friend. “It was horrible. At first I thought it was someone’s TV. All that screeching, and those ugly threats.”
Herman nodded. “Sounded like crazed banshees—not that we hear a lot of them up in Wisconsin, mind you.”
Fortunately for all three of us, the doorbell rang before I could formulate a careful reply. I skipped gratefully from the room to answer it. But man, was I ever in for a big surprise.