Death of a Rug Lord (10 page)

“I'd love to live there,” Bob said. “I've heard there are dozens of underground rooms. The potential for a good wine cellar is, well—through the roof!” He demonstrated his appreciation for his own joke with a hearty belly laugh.

“You've obviously never been inside; it presents some real decorating challenges. Not only that, but I'd find all those rooms kind of spooky at night.”

“Abby, you know I'm not afraid of ghosts.”

“That's because you've never met one. You'd change your tune really fast if you had.”

“Do you have a tail?”

“Hmm, not last time I checked. Do you?”

“Not a wagging type tail. I mean, is Greg having you followed again?”

“What?”

As it doesn't do me much good to just turn my head, because then all I see is the back of my seat, I undid my belt and climbed into a kneeling position. There was indeed a car idling about a hundred feet behind us, and I was able to catch a glimpse of the driver before he put it into reverse. Despite clipping a large chunk from a yucca plant, he did some fancy driving and was soon out of sight.

“Abby,” Bob said, “you look as if you just saw one of those ghosts right now.”

F
or your information, Bob, they no longer like being referred to as ghosts. The preferred term now is Apparition Americans.”

“Isn't that a bit racist?”

“How so? It applies equally to deceased Americans of all races.”

“Isn't saying Apparition American making fun of hyphenated Americans, even if most copy editors leave out the hyphens these days?”

“That's exactly the point that Apparition Americans are trying to make. They think that unless one gives the continent of racial origin in each case, then one is assuming that there exists a norm—a regular American, so to speak. You don't speak of
European
Americans, do you?”

“Abby, you're hopeless.”

“So is Mama.”

“Why, pray tell, are you dragging
her
into this conversation?”

“Because the guy driving that car was one of her paramours.”

“Did you say
one
of her paramours? How many does she have?”

“She'll tell me she isn't seeing anyone, but just about every night of the week she has a different gentleman caller. And lately some of them have even gotten halfway to first base. Heck, I caught one of them kissing the top of her head the other night.”

“Mozella gets a peck on the noggin. How sweet! Now how about this guy we just saw?”

“He's not a guy; his name is Big Larry McNamara.”

“What do you mean he's not a guy?”

“Well, he is, but he's also as big as Texas and Rhode Island combined. And he's really weird. He talks in a down-home, good old boy drawl when he thinks you're listening, but then he switches to California mystery English when he thinks you're not.”

“California mystery English?”

“You know, what you hear on television—for the most part.”

“Ah, when they're not mocking the South, Minnesota, etcetera.”

“Anyway, Big Larry was there when Detective Tweedledee pulled Gwendolyn from the harbor. He actually assisted me in not getting trampled by the crowd. Then he somehow positioned himself into being Mama's date at the fiasco of the twenty-first century. But there's more to it than that. He's got his eye on me. I felt it immediately. This just confirms it.”

Bob shook his head slowly from side to side and exhaled dramatically. “Abby, we're getting a little full of ourselves, aren't we?”

“You haven't met this creep. If you knew him, you wouldn't be saying that.”

“Oh no, don't get me wrong. I'm sure Lecherous Larry is a creep; I'll take your word for that. What I meant is, it's a little premature to declare your royal debut at the Bohring mansion as the fiasco of the century—isn't it?”

We laughed all the way back to King Street as we tried to imagine worse scenarios. Unfortunately, we were rather successful.

 

I might not spend much time there, but I actually have a home. It's a beautiful Georgian Revival at 7 Squiggle Lane, in the much coveted lower part of the peninsula south of Broad Street. That, of course, is what makes me an S.O.B. In addition to my very handsome husband, Greg, our house is inhabited by a fifteen pound marmalade tabby cat named Dmitri. And, of course, Mama.

Dmitri was named after one of Erica Kane's innumerable husbands. She, by the way, is the star of one of television's longest running soap operas, and no, I am not ashamed to admit that I've been watching it for thirty-odd years. I got hooked in college but am slowly getting unhooked, as yesteryear's beefcakes and power brokers grow portly or long in the tooth, and most of the players are now the ages of my own children.

The day before Bob and I were to start our house-to-house carpet appraisal clinic (Rob was none too thrilled with the idea and begged off), I took off early from work, and when I opened the front door I got the surprise of my life. Standing in my foyer, with only a
white Turkish towel slung low around his narrow hips, was a six-foot-tall, deeply tanned man with a glass of sweet tea in his hand. He held the drink out to me, his azure eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Hey babe, I thought you'd never get here.”

Standing just as expectantly beside my lover was a much shorter male, one with a good deal more body hair.

“If it isn't my two favorite guys in all of Charleston,” I said happily.

Greg, still smelling slightly fishy, gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “Surprised?”

The shorter male settled for wrapping himself around my legs and purring loudly.

“Yes, I'm surprised. You're never home this early. How long have you been standing there like that?”

“Really? Not more than a minute.”

“Then how did you know when to expect me?”

“I had Wynnell call me when you left work.”

“What happened, Greg? Was the shrimping bad today?”

“Rotten is more like it. Fishing altogether wasn't worth our time. In fact, I'm thinking of staying home tomorrow. If you can spare a couple of hours, I thought we might hang out together. You know, play tourists in our own town. It might be really fun. We could start tonight even, by going out to eat. I vote for Slightly North of Broad. What about you? Remember, your vote always trumps mine.”

“Uh…yeah, sure. SNOB sounds great.” Frankly, I would have preferred Magnolias, which is right across the street.

“Wait a minute. I saw those wheels turning in your head. You're holding back, Abby. Out with it.”

“Wheels? What are you talking about?”

“I only work with Booger Boy on a shrimp boat, hon; I don't have boogers for brains. I used to be a detective, remember?”

When you're caught and there is no way out, you can either confess immediately or stall a bit and hope that some
spin
formation comes to you in the interim. I chose the latter course, one that I learned from our government. For them, at least, it seems to work very well.

“Let's eat first, and I'll tell you everything while we're waiting for dessert to arrive,” I said.

“And since we don't have reservations, and it's a weekday night, we don't need to eat right away,” Greg said.

Dmitri, always a jealous cat, stopped purring.

 

After strengthening our bonds of marriage, we'd dined sumptuously. I started with a cup of red bean soup, which was slow cooked with peppers, onions, celery, and garlic, and topped with jalapeno salsa and sour cream. Despite the fact that he had spent the day at sea, Greg chose mussels as his appetizer. They were poached in white wine, garlic, parsley, and a touch of butter.

For my main course I picked the jumbo lump crab cakes, which were served over a sauté of corn, okra, roasted yellow squash, and grape tomatoes. To keep things interesting, my darling ordered the skinless sautéed duck breast, leg confit with plum glaze, braised
greens, mashed sweet potatoes, and honey thyme reduction. Of course we both had multiple helpings of warm, freshly baked bread,

Greg hasn't met a crème brûlée he didn't like, and I'm pretty sure I can say the same thing about triple chocolate cake. After we placed our orders he turned to me. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

“It was fantastic. And you?”

“I've never had a bad meal here yet.”

“Good. Uh…then maybe you won't mind so much calling up a couple of guy friends and going golfing?”

“Abby, was that a statement or a question? I swear, sometimes I think you should have been a Canadian.”

“It was a declarative sentence, unless you object strongly, in which case it was a very weakly posed question—one not at all worth getting upset about.”

“And why the heck should I get upset having a day to spend on the golf course with my friends? What aren't you telling me?”

At that very second the waitperson, whose name was Jance, but who was of yet undetermined gender, sidled up between the two of us. “Excuse me, but did yinz say decafe, or regular coffee with dessert?”

“Regular,” Greg growled. “Who knows how late I'm going to be up tonight?”

“Decaffeinated,” I said. “I intend to fall into bed the second I walk in the door. Who knows, I might be asleep before I even get there.”

Jance laughed, without divulging any clues. “Coming right up.”

“Are you from Pittsburgh?” I asked, forcing a bit of cheer.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You said ‘yinz.' That seems to be a Pittsburghism.”

“Well, shoot. I've lived here two years; I was hoping I sounded like yinz—I mean
y'all,
by now.”

“Did you move here with your family?” Greg asked.

“Yes, sir.” Jance started to turn away.

“How do your parents like it?” I asked.

“Oh no, ma'am, it wasn't my parents. I moved down here with my spouse.”

“Evil word, spouse,” Greg said after Jance was out of earshot. “It gives no clues. Okay, Abby, no more excuses. Out with it.”

“I have to work tomorrow.”

“That's
it
? You made ants and a gorilla just for that?”

“You mean
gantzeh megillah
,” I said. It's a Yiddish expression we learned from Rob, which essentially means a big deal. Foreign languages have never been my sweetie's strong point.

“Whatever,” Greg said, his azure eyes now twin stormy seas. “You know how I hate lies.”

“I'm
not
lying; Bob and I are conducting a carpet appraisal clinic. We'll be busy all day.”

“Where is this clinic? Your shop, or his?”

“Actually, we're visiting our clients in their homes.”

“You
what
?”

“Honey, didn't I show you our ad in the paper?”

“If you did, I sure the heck don't remember it. Abby, do you know how dangerous that could be?”

“Yes, but like I said, Bob will be with me.”

“No offense, because he's your—I mean,
our—
friend and all, but Bob is a tad on the skinny side.”

“That may be, but he has a black belt.”

“He
does
?”

“Yes.” What self-respecting gay man in this country doesn't own a nice black leather belt? Perhaps even a brown leather belt as well?

“How come it's never come up in conversation before?”

“He's modest, that's why—especially in that area. You know that if it had to do with cooking, we'd never stop hearing the last of it.”

“You've got a point. So how many days is this clinic anyway?”

“Just two—tomorrow and Saturday. After that, my weekends will be free until—oh, crapolla and a pocketful of posies. It's
him
again.”

“Him
who? Abby, are you trying to change the subject?”

“Two tables behind you, one table over toward the door, there's this guy built like a professional wrestler gone to seed. Mama's been dating him, which is neither here nor there, but what is important is that he's been following me. And no, I'm not trying to change the subject.”

Fortunately, Greg has seen me survive enough scrapes with truly dangerous characters to trust my judgment. Also, as a former detective, he was savvy enough not to turn immediately. Instead he started coughing. He told me later that his intent was to cough just hard enough to have an excuse to turn his head. The last thing either of us expected was for Godzilla to leap to his feet, cover the distance between our tables in what appeared to be a single bound, and then attempt to do the Heimlich on my dearly beloved husband.

“Stauuugh,”
Greg managed to say, the veins at his temples bulging in frustration.

“He said stop!” I shouted. “He's not choking!”

“Just remain calm, little lady,” the giant said. “I've done this a million times.”

“Leave him alone!” this mouse roared.

Big Larry, however, was bent on saving Greg's life. I'd read that in many cases the Heimlich maneuver can result in broken ribs. That might seem like a small price to pay for one's life, but was far to steep a fee for just a quick look-see of the man who'd been tailing me. But what was I to do? Grab the wine bottle off our table, jump up on a chair, and whack the wacko over the head? What if Greg got cut by the glass?

“Stop him!” I climbed on the table and again implored the other diners to come to Greg's aid. No one moved a muscle. It was if we'd been eating in Madame Tousaud's Wax Museum. What made the scene especially weird was that a local television station, which had been filming an author interview in the corner, now had its camera trained on us. Yet neither the crew nor the interviewer was making a move to help us. As for the stuck-up author, she couldn't even be bothered to look our way. Needless to say, I made a mental note to never buy a copy of Ramat Sreym's books again.

Think, Abby, think. But there wasn't time to think. Suddenly the answer came to me! I'd do what any red-blooded American would do if he, or she, were in my situation.