If I didn’t close my mouth soon the cat was going to get my tongue. Literally. But it would be only a snack for a feline that large.
“Uh—”
“You seem at a loss for words.”
“Uh—you’re darn right! You know about the skull? You must, since you brought it up.”
“Abby, relax. It’s no big deal.”
“Are you nuts? I mean—well, that’s exactly what I mean. I might be in a lot of trouble because of that skull.”
His hands were raised as in self-defense. “Whoa! I’d forgotten about Hortense, I swear.”
“You knew her name?”
“No. I never even saw the skull, but Daddy did. He told me about it, but it was never written on the file, like the canes were. It’s been years, and I forgot about it, Abby. I swear on a bag of cat litter.”
Darren Cotter was driving me crazy. I wanted to leap up, grab him by the lapels and shake him. However, he wasn’t wearing lapels; just a navy blue pocket T-shirt that accentuated a rather buff physique for a man his age. Besides, if I did shake him, Catrina the Great was bound to make mincemeat of me. Cats are not the most reliable of allies.
“There’s no need to get your knickers in a knot, Abby,” he said, which, of course, did not improve my mood. “Mr. Yaco was a sculptor. He bought the skull from a medical supply company. Well, at least that’s what my daddy said. He told me about Mr. Yaco and the skull because Mr. Yaco had named it Hortense. That was the name of my daddy’s sister. It isn’t a very common name, is it?”
“That depends. In Dorset County, England, there are thirty-five Hortenses per square mile.”
He smiled broadly. “You’re sure of that?”
“Pretty sure. But it is a statistic, and sixty-five point three percent of all statistics are made up.” I stood. “Thank you for your time. I’ll tell Mama to be expecting you.”
Much to my astonishment he reached down, grabbed the jungle cat, and hoisted her up unto his shoulders. “As long as she’s up here she won’t be making a mad dash for the door. If she ever got out, she’d be shot in a heartbeat. Some yokel would have his picture in the paper with her, claiming he’d shot a cougar. There have been rumors of cougars in the Francis Marion National Forest for years. No evidence, though. But it wouldn’t surprise me. You can buy a cougar cub online. If you ask me, they should shoot the jerks who get rid of their so-called problem cats after a year when the cuteness wears off. A lot of people think they can just turn their cats loose into the wild and they’ll be fine. After all, there are plenty of squirrels and rabbits in the woods to eat, right? And cats are great hunters. The truth is, the cats usually starve to death. A cat of any species has to grow up watching its mother hunt. No, I say shooting is too good for the jerks. Turn them loose in the woods without a gun, and see how long it takes them to starve.”
“Amen and glory hallelujah,” I said. I wasn’t the least bit sarcastic.
“Wynnell. Wynnell!”
My shaggy-browed buddy was not in the car, nor was she anywhere in sight. Frantically, calling her name, I raced along the side of the parking lot that fronted the rows of buildings that comprised Safe-Keepers Storage. My only response was a shrill mockingbird.
I dashed back to my car. It was still devoid of a passenger. My heart in my throat, I began driving slowly back up River Road, in the direction from which we’d come. There was no sign of Wynnell. My pal has a reputation for being geographically challenged, so after about five miles I reversed my course for ten miles. At that point I’d not seen a living being along the highway with the exception of a limping armadillo. In desperation I called Greg.
“Yes,” he said, picking up after the fourth ring.
“Sweetheart, I can’t find Wynnell anywhere. Has she called you?”
“Abby, what kind of an apology is this?”
“Apology? For what?”
“Try the fact that you barged out of here in a snit and for the last two hours I’ve called your cell phone a million times and all I get is your voice mail.”
Oops. I always turn it off at night for a bit of peace, and in the unpleasantness of the morning, I’d forgotten to turn it back on.
“I had it turned off, dear. And about that so-called snit—”
“Abby, I know your mother goes too far when it comes to Toy. But that doesn’t mean I have to be your whipping boy.”
“Greg! You are not my whipping boy. And I’m sorry, I really am. Will you forgive me?”
I meant it. But even if I hadn’t, I probably would have apologized anyway at that point. I have found that a sudden, and complete, apology will disarm just about anybody. And once they are disarmed, and no longer gunning for you, it makes it easier to apologize for real. Therefore, putting the cart in front of the horse can be the wisest course of action.
“I’m sorry, too, hon. Dang, but I hate fighting with you. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Wynnell was coming up the steps when I barged out, as you put it. I had a breakfast meeting with a cane collector on the Isle of Palms and she came with. Then I went back to see Darren Cotter, the guy who held the locked trunk sale, but Wynnell wouldn’t go in on account of a silly old cat. When I came out, she was gone. I couldn’t find her anywhere.”
“Hmm. I heard that silly old cat stands sixteen inches at the shoulder and weighs twenty-five pounds. I can’t say as I blame her, Abby.”
“Yes, but she’s really a sweetheart—Greg! Is Wynnell there?”
“No, but she called. She said that she’s pissed at .you for making her wait so long. She hitched a ride with a friend from church, and that when you apologize you should bring a dozen Krispy Kremes, still warm from the bakery.”
“Then I’ll have to buy two dozen.” Krispy Kreme doughnuts on Savannah Highway displays a sign when there are fresh warm doughnuts to be had. While normally I can stop after just one or two doughnuts, if they are warm, I can eat to the point of bursting. “Death by Doughnuts” might well be my epitaph.
“Hon, just after you left I got a call from one of my contacts in the department. Tweedledee and Tweedledum have been given a two week suspension without pay. He also said he’s going to keep an eye on Detective Gaspar. The guy is a rookie who’s in a hurry to make a name for himself. He doesn’t even want to stay in the area. Once he’s made it, he’s going to apply to the L.A. Police Department. Of course all this is on the QT. If you’re ever asked, you don’t know anything about this, right?”
“Right.”
“Oh, and another thing. C.J. was right: the skull you found in the gym bag is the skull of a female mountain gorilla.”
“Get out of town!” Having this confirmed didn’t bring the relief I’d expected. In fact, it opened up a very large can of worms. What other of my future sister-in-law’s fantastic stories were true after all? Well, no matter what, I refused to believe that she caught Granny Ledbetter kissing Santa Claus under the stairs one Christmas Eve.
Greg, bless his heart, tries to give everyone a fair shake. “Due to a comparable size with a human skull,” he said, “an amateur—I mean, someone without forensic, or anthropological, training—might temporarily mistake a female gorilla skull for human. But these yokels, Tweedledupe and Tweedledope, should have known better.”
“I guess I should have left it alone,” I said. “If my impetuousness was in any way responsible for Roberta Stanley’s death—”
“Stop it, Abby. Hold it right there. I’m not going to let you assume any guilt. Her murder had nothing to do with you. And just so you know, my contact in the department said that the gorilla skull was not an unimportant discovery.”
“It’s not?”
“These animals, which are among our nearest relatives, have been teetering on the brink of extinction for a long time. Nobody knows how many there are. Maybe less than four hundred, which is barely a sustainable population. In my opinion, anyone who possesses a gorilla skull has some explaining to do.”
“What if they worked for a zoo?”
“Then that would be an explanation. Abby, I’m not trying to argue. I’m just trying to be supportive.”
“Thanks.”
“So you’re coming home now?”
“Well—uh, I thought I might stop at the mall and see if there are some good sales.”
“And I think I’ll paint the house green with purple polka dots.”
“I’d prefer a yellow base color.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“Greg, darling, love of my life, you know how I am.”
“Stubborn as a blue-nosed mule?”
“Guilty. I wish I could promise to be right—H-Holy guacamole!”
“What is it, hon?”
“It’s C.J.”
“Our C.J.?”
“Do you know another Calamity Jane?”
“Where is she? Where are you?”
“I’m on River Road. Actually, I’m pulled over to the side. She pulled up right behind me and is getting out of her car. Can I call you later, dear? You know how she is. This may take a while.”
“Take care,” Greg said, and then hung up.
As they say, a word to the wise is sufficient.