It’s a forgery,” I sobbed in a hoarse whisper into my cell phone.
“A forgery?” Bob bellowed into my ear. “Abby, how can a carpet be a forgery?”
“I don’t know!” I realized with a start just how loud I must have been speaking. Andrea was staring at me from across the room, but at least Thackeray had the training to ignore the wild machinations of—No he hadn’t; he was grinning from ear to ear. I’d have bet dollars to doughnuts that Thackeray was yet another drama student at the College of Charleston. With nothing to lose, I decided to heed a lesson from the book of “The Wise Words of Abigail Washburn, Chapter Eight, Verse Two”: When caught staring at the headlights and with no time to jump, you might as well wave.
“Are you there?” Bob demanded.
“Drawn and quartered, and about to be hung on the village gates for all to see.”
“Then at least the worst part is over.”
“Ha ha. Bob, what do I do? How do I stall Andrea? She seems like a nice enough person—a good sport even—but she wants to go to the police. Funny, but she didn’t mention the police when she came to the shop this morning.”
“What did you say her name is again?”
“Andrea Wheating.”
“It couldn’t be—could it?”
“How should I know? You haven’t told me what ‘it’ is.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Michigan.”
“Getting closer, feeling warmer. Do you know where in Michigan?”
“Kazoo…Kalamazoo, that’s it.”
“Hot, hot, hot!”
“Weird, weird, weird, but you’re still a dear friend.”
“Where are you now, Abby?”
“Isle of Palms, just down from the public beach.”
“Go with her to Coconut Joe’s and snag an outside table. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“What if she doesn’t like seafood?”
“Then she can eat chicken. Or a salad.”
“Shall I tell her you’re coming?”
“No!”
His no was so loud that I fumbled with the phone, thereby making a total fool of myself.
“Is anything else wrong, Abby?” Bob has a basso profundo voice, but Andrea booms pretty well herself.
I shook my head. “Shoot, a monkey, Bob,” I hissed. “Can you keep it down? She already thinks I’m a total incompetent, if not an out and out thief. What if she refuses to come to lunch altogether?”
“Nobody from Kalamazoo, Michigan, ever turned down a free lunch,” he said, and hung up.
Coconut Joe’s restaurant is upstairs facing the sea. In the afternoon, when the breezes shift and come off the Atlantic Ocean, lunch there can be a truly delightful experience. The food and service are great too, a fact of which Andrea was well aware, because she offered to drive.
Thackeray wanted to come as well, but Andrea ordered him to clear away our drinks and make sure he had all the ingredients to prepare a proper beef Wellington for some guests she was having over that night.
Then she nudged me. Dunce that I was, she had to nudge me twice.
“Anyone special?” I asked.
“Why yes, as a matter of fact. The head of the household at Buckingham Palace, Mr. Michael Grimswater. He says he knows you quite well, Thackeray, and he’s looking for a chance to catch up. Tut tut, cheerio, and all that sort of rot.”
Once outside, Andrea couldn’t stop laughing, if indeed one could call the loud trumpets and snorts coming from her proper laughs. Without meaning to be rude, I can only describe it as if someone had spliced together two National Geographic nature tapes, one on elephants, the other on wart hogs. At any rate, long after we were seated at our table, Andrea was still emitting the occasional honk. Because school year was still in session, I was indeed able to snag an outdoor table facing the ocean. Mercifully, her back was turned to the other diners and she missed out on their expressions and, I believe, most of their comments.
I saw Bob Steuben coming toward us from the bar area, but I didn’t expect him to sneak up behind Andrea and put his hands over her eyes.
“Quick,” he said, “what is the main ingredient in kangaroo tail soup, Miss Kalamazoo?”
Andrea not only managed to jump straight off her seat several inches, but to somehow swivel in the air before plastering herself on Bob like a barnacle on a piling. There was no kissing, to be sure, just the pressing of leathery tanned flesh against pale freckled flesh. The entire time, Andrea was shrieking like a banshee on steroids. Customers and waiters who’d formerly been snickering at wild hog and pachyderm sounds now found themselves in the primate house just before feeding time.
Trying to think fast on my little feet, I dashed to the specials board and erased it with the back of my blouse. Then I wrote: Long lost lovers. She was just rescued from a desert island. Been there fifteen years, bless her heart.
Tobias, the highest ranking waiter, is a real sweetheart. When he saw what I’d written, he held up the board, whereupon there was enthusiastic applause and an empty bread basket was passed around to collect money so the poor leathery woman could buy a bottle of sunscreen and some new clothes.
At last the effusive and prolonged greeting was over—at least to the point where I could convince them to sit down. Tobias brought the bread basket over and gave each of the startled “lovers” a peck on the cheek.
“What was that all about?” Bob asked. “Is he single? Not that I’m in the market, but it doesn’t hurt to know what’s out there.”
“Tobias is straight,” I said. “He’s also French; they kiss everyone.”
Andrea was more pragmatic. “What’s the money for?”
“Your fellow diners took up a collection for you. Wasn’t that thoughtful of them?”
“A collection? Whatever for?”
“I told them that you’d been stranded on a desert island for fifteen years, à la Tom Hanks in Castaway. They thought you might need some new things.”
Andrea jumped up and took a series of deep bows, which inspired a standing ovation, the donation of more cash, and the demand for a speech.
“Keep it short,” I begged. “We have a crime to discuss.”
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Andrea began, her face deadly serious. “My lover, Reginald”—she gestured at Bob—“and I were standing on the poop deck, utterly pooped from an evening of tepid sex, when a giant origami type wave washed me overboard. Reginald heard me cry out, but couldn’t see, and neither could the captain, who has astigmatism and needs new glasses in the worst possible way. Thankfully, I was washed ashore on a desert island, where I subsisted for fifteen years on a diet of coconuts, fish, and radicchio. Then one day the captain got a better medical plan, some new specs, and here I am. By the way, meeting Reginald here today was totally unplanned. I only wish he had waited for me. Even if the Church came through and gave him an annulment, how would he explain his thirteen kids?”
She took another bow, but instead of more applause, the air rang with boos as poor Bob was pelted with dinner rolls and virtually anything that could be flung except for money and heavy water glasses. While Tobias tried to gain control of his dining room, I crawled under the table with my newly arrived order of blackened chicken, red beans and rice, and fried plantains. As a mother I am quite aware of the five second rule, and have at times extended it to thirty seconds, so I was well supplied with bread.
Nothing can restore order quite like a sincere threat to call the cops, especially where local businessmen might be caught lunching with secretaries or receptionists—at least of some description or another. When order was returned and it was safe to resume eating above lap level, my calm gaze met the flashing eyes of a rather angry Bob, who turned them on Andrea.
“Yes, Andy, I am glad to see you, but thirteen children? Did you have to throw that in?” he said.
“Well you know that’s what she wanted,” Andrea said.
“What who wanted?” I said.
“How long have you been down here, for Pete’s sake?” Bob asked.
“A year this July,” Andrea said.
“So how do you two know each other?” I asked.
“And you never thought to look me up?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” Andrea said. “Not after the way things ended between you and Melissa.”
“Who the heck is Melissa?” I asked.
“Andrea, that was sixteen years ago. Besides, I could have helped you to settle in down here.”
“Bob, are y’all talking about your ex-wife?” I said.
“Abby, shut up,” they said in unison.
“Damn, Yankees,” I muttered.
That got their attention. They both apologized, then I apologized, after which Bob explained that Andrea was his former sister-in-law. The last bombshell was Andrea’s.
“Speaking of children,” she said, “at least in theory, it might not be too late to produce one. That is to say, I’m divorcing what’s his name.”
“Edward?” Bob said.
“Heavens no! He was three husbands ago. This mistake is Chalmers Wheating III. This one is actually leaving me, can you believe that?”
“I can’t believe that,” Bob said, sounding as serious as a Baptist preacher come Judgment Day.
“How interesting,” I said. It’s a Southern euphemism for, Yes, I can surely believe it, based on your thoroughly unpredictable whacky behavior. In that regard it’s very much like exclaiming, What a tiny little baby! when forced to admire a newborn that looks just like Mr. Magoo.
“Yeah, he said it was too hot for him. He said that since he was going to Hell anyway, he didn’t want to sit through a bunch of previews during his time spent on earth.”
“Can we finally get down to business?” I whined.
“By all means,” Andrea said, having the nerve to suddenly sound impatient. “You’ll never guess what happened, Bob—Hey, do you two know each other?”
Bob winked at me—at least I hope he did. Given that he wears glasses and doesn’t have discernible eyelashes, it was hard to tell.
“If this was the 1970s, Abby would be our fag hag.”
“Now I’m just a hag,” I said, strangely flattered.
She ignored my self-deprecating humor. “Our?” she asked archly.
“Yes, I’ve been in a committed relationship for eleven years. But no divorces. My people still aren’t allowed to engage in legalized monogamy. Somehow, it seems, it will have a deleterious effect on the institution of marriage.”
“You were always so droll, Bob; I can’t wait to hear the details.”
“Maybe tonight? Over cream of lichen soup and musk-oxen steaks. The musk oxen are farm raised, of course. I found this place up in Vermont that even packs a few homegrown tundra berries in with your order for garnish. It’s all very good; in fact, I think I’ll order some more.”
Andrea laughed delightedly. “I see that you’re still into weird cooking. Well, I’m still into eating it.”
I drummed on the table, which, given the size of my digits, went unnoticed. “We’re here to discuss a carport that’s a fogy,” I bellowed. “I mean a carpet that’s a forgery!”
Fortunately, when I bellow, the decibels rise just above the level of the average conversation, so nobody other than my luncheon companions heard me.
“Abby, you’re certainly right about that,” Bob said, “so please explain. We’re all ears.”
The bellowing had me hoarse, so I cleared my throat. “Bob, Andrea, although I have no doubt that Lloyd Knudsen’s carpet is not a handmade Tabriz, I can’t vouch for the fact that it isn’t the one Rob sold him.”
“Rob and I don’t sell schlock!” Bob is as Waspy as a nest full of yellow jackets, but over the years he’s picked up a smattering of Yiddish phrases from his partner.
“Don’t get your tighty whites in a bunch, sweetie,” Andrea said. “Abby knows that you don’t sell junk.”
“Anyway,” I said, “the Bijar I sold to Andrea is a different story. I was in love with that carpet; I almost didn’t put it up for sale. In fact—and I shouldn’t be saying this—I had it in my living room for three years before putting it in my shop.”
Andrea feigned shock. “What? You sold me a used carpet?”
“That’s the beauty of owning an antiques store,” Bob boomed. “You get to try out the merchandise at home and it doesn’t lower the value.”
“What fun,” Andrea said.
“My point,” I said, “is that I am intimately acquainted with your Bijar. When we had boring guests, I studied its pattern. Likewise, on those occasions when a loved one might get it into his, or her, head to lecture me—not that it happened often—I studied its pattern. If I could draw, I could recreate it on this napkin. Had I sent it out for a cleaning and gotten back a rug that looked similar, I would have immediately spotted the substitution.
“Now the really weird thing is, when Andrea sent this rug out, she got back an exact copy, the only difference being that they were woven from different materials. That means one of two things: either the cleaners had access to a machine-made rug that was copied from the original before I bought it at auction, or, through some technogadget wizardry of some sort, they were able to make a replica. Obviously they then kept the original, and most probably for resale.”
Bob raised his glass of chardonnay. “Well thought out, Abby. Brava!”
“Except for one thing,” Andrea said.