Death of a Rug Lord (13 page)

Bob and I exchanged worried glances; we were standing next to a veritable mountain of carpets and already running a half hour behind schedule. Even just flipping through the entire pile would take another thirty minutes, and it was hardly the kind of service we'd advertised in the paper.

“I know what you're thinking,” Marianne said, “which is why I'm prepared to make you an offer you can't refuse.”

I
'm afraid there isn't such an offer,” Bob said. “We have obligations.” His tone made it clear that if, indeed, he'd been initially charmed by Marianne, he no longer felt that way.

“Suit yourself,” she said, and whispered into my ear.

“Get out of town!” I said in response.

“I kid you not.”

“Robert, you may wish to reconsider.”

“Abby, we're not children; these are the same as contractual obligations.”

“But you know as well as I do that these people may not be there when we show up.”

“They will if we show on time—and if we call first.”

“He does have a point,” I said. “That is why cell phones were invented.”

“What if you split your time? Mr. Steuben could meet the appointments, and you, Mrs. Washburn, could take me up on this exceptional offer.”

“I don't think that's practical,” Bob said. “We've arranged our day in a semicircle; our last appointment is in Mount Pleasant, which, as you know, is in the op
posite direction. How would Mrs. Washburn get home? But besides being impractical, there is the ethical issue to consider. These people were given a verbal agreement—and a written one as well, if you count the newspaper ad—that two experts would come to their homes to evaluate their carpets. Having just one show up is like—well, it's like being promised Barbra Streisand and Ricky Martin at same concert and then just getting Ricky. Okay, so maybe Abby and I don't quite equate Babs to Ricky, but the principle is the same.”

I must admit that if I were on the receiving end of Marianne's mirth, I would find it a bit irritating myself. “Mr. Steuben,” she said, after laughing far too long, “you don't think I'd live out here by myself for three plus years without at least one car at my disposal, do you? I'll have Sedgwick drive her home in my brother's Aston Martin.”

“Sedgwick?” I said.

“The chauffeur. Nice old man; knows not to ramble—on, and on, and on.”

Bob's thinning pate glistened in the light of a hundred chandeliers. “You said you lived alone!”

“Well yes, of course I did. One never includes the staff—does one?”

I will never get stinking rich whilst being married to a shrimper and owning a secondhand shop (isn't that what an antiques store
really
is?). To date, Marianne's skeevy brother appeared to be the wealthiest person with whom I'd ever rubbed shoulders—okay, it was only by proxy—so I might as well enjoy it.

“How large a staff does it take to run a house this size?” I asked.

“When the family's in residence…” She moved her lips, as she counted on her fingers. “…twenty-three. When it's just me, then there's only five: the chauffeur, the cook, the housekeeper, the maid, and the groundskeeper. As you saw, I had to open the door myself, because the housekeeper is in town now, grocery shopping.”

I pretended to play a miniature violin. Bob looked horrified, but Marianne laughed hysterically.

“Yes, I know, I have it easy. I went to college with girls who didn't even have a maid. Not a single one! Their mothers actually scrubbed the family toilet and expected the girls to do so when they got married. Can you imagine a well-bred gentleman wanting to marry a young lady whose hand had been inside a toilet bowl?”

“I think they use brushes,” Bob said. “But then what do I know about that? Abby, what do you use?”

Pretending to be horrified myself, I gave Bob a playful smack and shoved him toward the door. “Run along, dear, and keep our appointments. But be careful not to get lost.”

The poor man actually looked afraid to step back into the hallway, and I didn't blame him. Even with a St. Bernard with a keg to lead the way, I'm not sure I'd have been brave enough to try and find my way back to the front door.

Marianne came to the rescue by speaking softly into an intercom that I had missed on my way in. Within seconds (or so it seemed to me) a young woman in a gray and white maid's uniform appeared from around the corner.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Please escort this gentleman to the front door.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Nice enough guy,” Marianne said when Bob was out of earshot, “but he seems a bit uptight.”

“William Tell's crossbow wasn't wound that tight.”

“I went to finishing school in Switzerland; William was just a legend.”

“Yes, but don't tell the Swiss that.”

She chortled with delight. “Okay, Abby, as I promised, you get to keep any single
one
of these carpets that your little heart desires—uh, no offense intended.”

“None taken—at your
large-
esse.”

She whooped with glee. “Stop it! Now really, Abby, I mean it. I've taken quite a shine to you, and you know what they say about girls who've spent too much time in boarding school.”

“They're spoiled rotten?” I stepped adroitly aside, lest she desire to frolic with me among the fringes, so to speak. “Let's get to work, shall we?”

Although one could hardly call it work. The mountain of wool and silk included some of the finest designs and most meticulous work I'd ever laid eyes on. Some of the Persian carpets had been executed by the hands of women, and some were executed by the hands of men who had executed women. And, of course, there were some by men who were innocent of such things. Each and every rug was exquisite: there wasn't a clunker among them.

I counted only twenty Chinese rugs, the rest having found their way to the Shanghai shop via the living rooms of foreigners or wealthy Chinese. There was one other possibility.

“Did the shop your sister-in-law bought these from import some from the West?”

Marianne shrugged. “I don't think so—but I guess there's always the possibility. I just know that they arrived in one big shipment, and that I had to go down to the dock and pick them up. Then I had to convince the customs official that they were for personal use. He was like, yeah right. It wasn't until he called over another official who recognized the family name that he believed me.”

“That you might actually have enough room in all your houses for that many rugs?”

“Yeah. So which one do you want?”

That was easy. About a third of the way through the pile my eye was drawn to a mid-nineteenth-century Bokhara carpet. It wasn't the most valuable one in the pile—I would have felt too guilty about taking
that
one—but to me it had the most appeal.

We had recently redecorated our guest room, following the old dictum: neutral tones make pleasant zones, for visiting bones—or something like that. Then again, it's possible I made up that saying. At any rate, I needed a nice warm color to add a little spice, and this brick red Bokhara, with its black and pale cream designs, was just the ticket.

I'd pulled several candidates aside, and when Marianne asked which one I wanted, I began to roll up the winner.

“Oh, no need to do that, Abby.” She strode over to the nearest wall where, also unnoticed by me, there was another intercom. Immediately a hidden panel in the side of the room opened and a middle-aged man in
a business suit stepped in. The most memorable thing about this character was that the breast pocket of his jacket sported sunglasses instead of a handkerchief.

Marianne looked at me looking at him, and convulsed into giggles. She tried hiding her mouth behind her hand, which just made things worse.

“What's so damn funny?” I said.

“You.”

“Well, you have to admit, not everyone has people popping out of walls like it's normal.”

“He didn't exactly pop out of a wall. That's a legitimate door. This is Delbert, by the way. He's Daddy's idea. Daddy's afraid I'll be kidnapped, so when I said I'd be driving you into town, I forgot to mention that Delbert will be riding with us.” She turned to her bodyguard. “The red carpet there on your left is for her. Please roll it and put it in the trunk of my black Mercedes limo.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She gestured to me with her head to follow her out the door through which we'd entered; apparently it was
not
all right to watch the staff carry out their duties. Appearing aloof and indifferent is actually a sign of respect, as it shows that the master trusts his servants—except they are not called by those names anymore. I wondered what someone like Marianne Beauxoiseux thought of someone like Kitty Bohring from Chicago.

“I suppose,” I said, “that you were there for the social fiasco of the year—hee hee.”

“
You
were there?”

“Don't tell me that you weren't!” I grinned slyly. “There was even a princess.”

“Hmm. I don't suppose you're referring to Jenny Breakwater's baby shower, are you?”

“You bet I am.”

“I mean how ironic is that! I'm telling you, I wouldn't have guessed she was pregnant in a million years. That just shows how good couture can hide a multitude of sins—no pun intended.”

“For shizzle,” I mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing—it was just some short-lived slang that deserved an early death.” Whew! Even a small wit, if quick enough, can get one out of most tight situations.

“But come to think of it, Charles and Camilla left the day
before
Jenny's baby shower, and she hasn't been given the title of princess yet. So which party were you thinking of, Abby?”

“Kitty Bohring's?” I felt it safer to pose it as a question.

Marianne shuddered as she folded her arms across her chest. “Gracious no, Abby. Our sort doesn't go to those, uh,
things
.”

“
Things
? You make them sound like diseases.”

“I'm sorry; I've offended you now, haven't I? What I mean to say is that—well, surely you must know what it's like where you come from on
off
. Where is that in your case?”

“Rock Hill.”

“North Carolina is such a beautiful state.”

“Rock Hill is in
South
Carolina—just like Charleston.”

“It
is
? Oh well, geography was never my strong point. And anyway, before I went to that finishing school in Switzerland, I was at Miss Amy's Preparatory School on Long Island. The only thing they were
preparing us for was the perpetuation of the species—
ours
of course. If you get what I mean.”

“The stinking rich.”

“I love it when you say that; it sounds so naughty.”

“Trust me, Marianne, it sounds positively evil to us cake-eaters, so you might want to watch out.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Thanks again for the rug.”

“Thank
you
, Abby. You've really made my day. Ever since moving back home I've felt terribly alone. I thought getting an apartment of my own might help—I could make friends on my own, invite them over. You know, live like a regular person. But now, after meeting you, I'm not so sure that I want to do that.”

Oh crap, I thought. What if I'd done something to make this woman-child want to run off and join a convent? The poor nuns hadn't done anything to deserve the likes of her.

I made a hasty decision to bite the bullet. “What is it you might want to do instead?”

“Keep picking out some stuff I like from the storeroom, and then go over the list of men that Mama and Daddy have already preapproved. The list is a season old and will need some updating, but I can still get started, can't I?”

“I suppose,” I said, feeling perhaps a wee bit let down.

“Come on,” she said with a laugh. “Delbert will already be waiting for us downstairs.”

 

Because the rug was for my guest room, I directed Delbert to drop me off at Squiggle Lane, instead of my
shop. Having already made up her fickle mind to tie the knot with someone
suitable
, rather than expend any energy to acquire a new friend, Marianne barely acknowledged my good-bye. Well that was just peachy keen with me; after all, I was old enough to be her mother.

The carpet was both heavy and unwieldy, so I was much relieved when Greg answered the bell immediately.

“Whoa,” he said, “what have you got there? You didn't fly home on your work, did you?”

“I gave up flying on carpets for Lent, remember? It's awfully dangerous; there's nothing to hang on to.”

Greg stooped down and planted a kiss on me before relieving me of my precious acquisition. “I'll never ride on one in the nude again, that's for sure. I had pretty good control of mine, but the rug burn was not something I'd anticipated.”

I asked my one-armed darling to carry the Bokhara to the guest room, which he cheerfully did. Since Greg has an inborn sense of composition, he placed the rug exactly where I wanted it, without me having to ask. He whistled as he worked, and not just some mindless notes either, but “Here Comes the Sun,” from the Beatles album
Abbey Road
. In order to make the carpet lie absolutely flat, he rolled the ends under the opposite way and then held them there for a minute.

“Isn't it gorgeous?” I said.

He whistled ominously to a slow stop. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Nothing, if that's what you're worried about. It was a gift from Marianne Beauxoiseux. Don't ask me how
to spell that name right now, but take my word for it, they are truly among the crème de la crème of Charleston high society. They wouldn't be caught dead at the home of someone like Kitty Bohring. Okay, now tell me what you think of the carpet.”

“The colors are beautiful, and the pattern is unusual. But Abby, it's just not you.”

“What do you mean by that? Greg, you
know
I love Oriental carpets. We have them in the living room, the bedroom, the dining room, and I sell them in my shop, for heaven's sake. You're talking nonsense, dear.”