Death of a Rug Lord (14 page)

Greg hopped to his feet and made a move as if to hug me. I deftly dodged him. “Abby, since when have you settled for a machine-made replica when you could afford the real thing?”

“What?
Look who's talking nonsense now! For your information, Gregory Thomas Washburn, I examined that carpet and it's the real McCoy.”

“It's not.” He had the audacity to look me right in the eye.

“Oh yeah? You want to bet? What do you want bet?”

“What would any red-blooded American husband in the South want to bet?”

“Fine. That's how sure I am. If I lose, when you recover you get to play eighteen rounds of golf every Saturday for six weeks in a row. And of course makeup days for rain. But if I win—and I will—I get six deluxe treatments at Lazy Susan's, that new spa that's opening up in Summerville. The deluxe package, by the way, includes the twenty-four-carat gold leaf facial peel.”

Greg smiled. “So they're going to gild the lily, just to peel it off again?”

“Compliments aren't going to get you anywhere, darling, because you're losing this bet. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay. Now, I know you're not going to take just my word for it, but I want you to look with me anyway. Think of it as a way of humoring the old ball and chain.”

“Sure.”

“Please, Greg, pretty—
what
did you say?”

“You said it, hon, I didn't; I was just agreeing—to look, I mean. I certainly wasn't calling you an old ball and chain.”

“Who stole my husband and inhabits his body even as I speak?”

“Come on, Abby, just prove your point. It's almost lunchtime, and I plan to watch a movie on TMC while I eat.”

I dropped to my knees and, all the while willing my face to remain a mask of indifference, flipped back a corner of the carpet. “You see this row of stitches, dear? And the rows on either side of it? You see how they—oh my fathers!” I shrieked. “This can't be right. Someone's playing a joke on me.”

“Hon, could the carpet have been switched at this Marianne woman's house?”

“It had to have been switched! That's the only explanation. But
why
? Is this how the über rich get their kicks?”

The love of my life shrugged. “Beats me. I don't know any über rich. The Rob-Bobs are as wealthy as it gets for me. Look hon, given that someone pulled the
rug out from under you—pun intended, I'm afraid—you don't have to honor this bet. I can't take time off work most Saturdays anyway.”

“No! A bet's a bet; I insist on honoring your win. Greg, can we TiVo this movie, pick up some fast food, and head right back out there?”

“And do what? Have it out with her at the front door? You know she won't answer the bell. Does she have security cameras?”

“Does she ever! She has it rigged so she can see inside your car once you pass through the pillars and head up their dirt lane.”

“Ah, one of
those
kind of rich. We had some of those up in Charlotte too. I just didn't know any of them personally. At any rate, they're almost a different species altogether. Funny thing is, the nouveau riche
think
they've made it to the top until they meet one of these blue-blood über rich; that's when they realize they've barely even started up the ladder. Abby, I say write this one off to experience. You didn't pay anything for this rug—except for some pride—so enjoy it for what it is: beautiful in its own right.

“I guess,” I said.

But if I ever saw Marianne Über-Rich-Beauxoiseux again, I was going to wring her neck—well, metaphorically speaking. I'm capable of wringing out a dish rag, but not much more. Still, the girl was going to rue the day she'd made a fool out of Abigail Merely-Well-to-Do Washburn.

I
was ashamed to get on the phone when Bob called late that afternoon. “So Abby,” he boomed into my ear, “what happened after I left? What was the offer you couldn't refuse?”

Although the truth is often stranger than fiction, in the end it makes things simpler for everyone. I told Bob what a boob I'd been and apologized for having left him in the lurch.

“No apology needed, Abby. Love means never having to say you're sorry, right?”

“Bull skins,” I growled.

“You can say that again. That was one of the stupidest lines of dialogue I've ever read—or heard. Well, I was able to keep nine out of the twelve appointments on our schedule; two called and canceled, and the third slammed the door in my face when she saw that I wasn't Rob.”

“That poor baby. If only she knew.”

“Yeah, right. Anyway, I got nipped by three dogs, scratched by a cat, shat on by a free-flying parakeet, and had gum pressed into my hair by a pair of two-
year-old twins. Abby, you didn't warn me about the perils of house calls.”

“It's like the pain of childbirth, Bob. Mercifully, you forget it after a while. So, did you uncover anything of interest?”

“I'll say, or I wouldn't have lasted that long.”

“Do tell!”

“Well, George and Myrna Saunders at 1137 Fish Grove Mar—”

“Save the details for later, sweetie. Just give me an overview now.”

“All right.” I heard him shuffle papers. “Seven of the nine people had been led to believe they'd purchased handmade, antique carpets. In fact, five of these carpets came with rather extensive paperwork detailing origins, composition, etcetera. But all seven of these carpets were machine-woven from new wool, and probably in the twenty-first century.”

I was dismayed but not surprised. “Can you think of anything these carpets might have in common?”

“Oh yes. At one time or another every single one of them was sent out to Magic Genie Cleaners.”

“Aha! Now we're getting somewhere.” Suddenly my mood went from despair to one where I felt like doing the happy dance.

“Maybe—if we had a genie of our own. I did some checking and discovered that Magic Genie Cleaners folded about six months ago. The businesses on either side say they have no idea where the owner or his employees went, and the Better Business Bureau seems reluctant to hand out information willy-nilly to just any old Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

“Or Bobby.”

If glares could have been transmitted over wires as electric signals, I'm sure I would have dropped the phone.

“Oops, that just slipped out. Sorry. So how many visits do we have scheduled for tomorrow?”

“Just ten. Abby, I've been thinking. Given that I've already been bitten, scratched, and shat upon—i.e., initiated—why don't I continue doing this tomorrow, and you try and dig up some info on Magic Genie Cleaners? Maybe Greg can use his detective skills to help you. At the very least you have your feminine wiles, your perky personality, and, of course, that bodacious bod of yours to use as weapons of mass distraction.”

“Sucking up to me will get you nowhere, Robert. But sure, okay. I'll play Colombo.”

“With Greg?”

“Without. Greg's a stickler for following the letter of the law. What fun is there in that? I'll do it with Mama.”

“Oy vey,” Bob moaned, and hung up.

 

Believe it or not, Mama enjoys my company. It's not that she doesn't have a life; she plays bridge, mah-jongg, and Scrabble, belongs to a book club, is on the Altar Guild at Grace Episcopal Church, is an active member of their sisterhood, needlepoints kneelers for the church as well, and is enrolled in a beginners' class to learn the jitterbug. Nonetheless, she finds our escapades “refreshing,” despite the fact that she often complains mightily at the time.

When I picked her up the next morning, she was
wearing a blue full circle skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a red and white polka-dot kerchief that covered her hair. Those who know Mama well would not have been surprised to see that she was carrying a wicker hamper. If it wasn't for the character lines on her face, I might have thought Mama was Doris Day all set for a picnic.

“I left Cary Grant at home,” I said. “I was tired of his wisecracking.”

“Did you bring Rock Hudson?”

“As promised; he's in the trunk. What's in the basket, Mama?”

“Guess.”

“Fried chicken, biscuits, celery and carrot sticks, brownies—and a thermos of sweet tea.”

“And potato salad, dear. Didn't I raise you right? And made with Duke's mayonnaise, of course.”

“Mama, we're not leaving the city limits. I bet there's a Kentucky Fried Chicken within biscuit-heaving distance.”

My petite progenitress smiled sadly. “I
didn't
raise you right; I can see that. Fast food is just not the same. Oh it might taste a sight better than my cooking, and it might be better for you as well, but it's not the same.”

“I can't argue with that.”

My acquiescence made Mama happy, so she was content to sing ponderous Episcopal hymns all the way to Upchuck. We took Interstate 26 west as far as the Mark Clark Expressway, and then backtracked south a couple of blocks on Rivers Avenue. By the time we got to the abandoned building that had once been Magic Genie Cleaners, Mama had switched over to show tunes.

Allow me to state right here that there is nothing wrong with the way Mama sings, just as long as no one, or no thing, is compelled to listen to her. If Mama could be convinced to sing at prisons across the country, and threatened the prison populations with repeat performances, there would be no recidivism. At any rate, I cringed as I opened my car door, because at that very moment Mama was raising my car roof with a rousing rendition of the theme from
Oklahoma!

“Mama, please,” I hissed in vain.

Although I know from experience that my mother's caterwauling can set cats wailing and dogs to howling, it is impossible for her to sing both soprano and baritone simultaneously; her three previous attempts failed miserably. Thus, when I heard a very stirring male baritone join Mama's operatic soprano, I began to look around for a second singer. Sure enough, in the doorway of a neighboring business called Finnaster's Finnery, stood a tall handsome man with silver curls.

Mama spotted him about the same time, turned azalea pink and clammed up in the middle of a word. The gentleman finished the verse by himself, and then bowed in Mama's direction as he clapped.

“Brava, madam, brava.”

“I think you have an exceptionally fine voice,” I said.

“Nonsense, dear,” Mama said. “Do you really think so?”

“Not only that, but I think he looks like an Irish Omar Sharif.”

“Get out of town,” Mama said as she fluffed up her crinolines and patted her hair.

“Don't look now, folks, but Mozella Wiggins seems to be smitten with a perfect stranger.”

“I most certainly am not!”

If actions speak louder than words, Mama decided it was time to drag out the bullhorn. From her white patent leather purse (it was summer, after all) she extracted the one item ladies of her generation never leave home without: their spackling kits. I believe they are also known as compacts. At some point in history a few women got to together and decreed that worn lipstick was uncool, that it took away from their feminine mystique, but that reapplying it at the table did not destroy the illusion. So it was that while the handsome stranger watched, Mama repainted the door to her stomach, secure in her belief that she was somehow invisible as long as she could see her reflection in her magic compact. (Applying powder is quite another thing, and must be done in the privacy of the ladies' room.)

When she was satisfied with the image she wished to project, she snapped the gold tone case shut with a flourish and returned it safely to her purse. The next step in her seduction was to reach into the depths of her prodigious bosom and whisk out a beautifully embroidered and heavily scented handkerchief. This she waved about her at arm's length as if to charm the native into a state of cooperative somnolence.

“Yoo-hoo, young man,” she called, without first consulting me, “may we speak with you?”

Irish Omar nodded and smiled, but stood his ground, waiting for us to come to him. Perhaps he'd been hypnotized by Mama's hankie and was incapable
of locomotion. Or perhaps I was hallucinating, and had been for the past twenty-four hours, due to stress. Whatever the reason, Mama stopped dead still about six yards away, and the three of us traded stares for so long I had to borrow a pair of retinas from a passerby just to see anything from there on out.

Omar from the Emerald Island spoke first. “Mozella Wiggins, as I live and breathe, is that really you?”

“Why Fagin Finnaster, if this doesn't beat all, nothing does! What on earth are you doing down here on the coast?”

“Me? I've been living down here since 1952, that's what. Ever since my Lula Mae passed on. And yourself?”

“I came down just three years ago to be near my daughter. This is Abby right here. Abby, say hello to Mr. Finnaster. His wife, Lula Mae, and I were roomies at Winthrop College for Women,
and
we were bridesmaids in each other's wedding parties. I know you've seen her picture a million times.”

Fagin Finnaster stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Despite having silver hair, he was well-preserved for a man of his years.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am. And call me Fig, like my friends do—seeing as how we're both adults.”

Mama turned to me. “Lula Mae died of breast cancer two years after they were married; mammograms weren't available back then.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Fig, did you ever remarry?” Mama asked.

He smiled sadly. “Nah, not officially anyway. Just couldn't see punching the forever card with anyone
else. How about you, Mozella? From time to time word of Rock Hill filters down here, so I know about your husband getting called Up Yonder, thanks to that sea gull, and him leaving you with two little ones, but nothing about you since then.”

“Well, I never remarried,” Mama said, and giggled shamelessly.

“Although she does have a boyfriend,” I said.

“I most certainly do not!”

“His name is Big Larry,” I said.

“We're just friends,” Mama said.

“The post office gave him his own zip code last year, but Bell South has been slow to follow up with the area code. You might want to check before you call.” To be sure, the Devil made me do it.

Fig laughed at my joke, even though he undoubtedly saw Mama kick my ankle with the point of her white patent leather pump. “What brings you two ladies to North Charleston—I mean, I'm assuming you live downtown someplace. Mozella, you always seemed like an S.O.B. to me. No offense intended, of course.”

Mama's face glowed with pride. “We most certainly do live downtown.” The truth is my mother couldn't afford to live downtown on her own, but what the heck, if she didn't feel compelled to mention it, then neither did I.

“We were looking for the Magic Genie Cleaners,” I said. “Did they move?”

Fig pursed his lips as if to spit, but then remembered there were ladies present. He swallowed instead.

“They cleared out, lock, stock, and barrel, about a month ago. It was the strangest thing. It was like this movie I saw when I was a kid, in which an Indian camp disappeared overnight, and the next morning the white men who came to attack it found only warm coals where the campfires had been. The movie was sad and kind of romantic, but this Magic Genie Cleaners business was just downright irritating. For the next week or two I had their customers demanding to know what happened to their things.” He chuckled unexpectedly. “On the plus side I sold two complete saltwater setups to those folks, and believe me, those things aren't cheap.”

“Fig, whatever got you into selling fish?” Mama asked.

Forgetting my manners, I slipped in front of her. “Do you know where the Magic Genie Cleaners people might have gone?”

He shrugged. “Why don't you ladies come inside where it's a mite cooler.” We took him up on the offer, but I had a feeling—just pure woman's intuition—that he wanted to get us out of sight of busy Rivers Avenue.

Inside it was a warren of gurgling tanks. Dozens of the aquariums served as temporary homes to the usual tropical fish to be found in most pet stores, but there was an entire room devoted exclusively to saltwater tanks. These were my favorite. The intricate shapes of the corals, the gently waving anemones, jewel-toned fish—all proved that magic
could
be had for a price.

Fig excused himself to say something to an assistant, then steered us to a back room. Like storage
rooms anywhere, it contained stock, a toilet reserved just for employees, and a messy lunch table surrounded by folding chairs. He asked us to sit.

“I didn't get along with the owners from the beginning. You see, their drivers didn't respect my reserved parking sign out back. When I called the owners to ask them to move their trucks, they claimed the lot out back was community property. It wasn't, of course, but they were nasty as hell—pardon my French, ladies—so I let it slide. What I mean is, they were tire-cutting nasty and I didn't want any trouble. Neither did Andy Garcia, the feller on the other side of them. Anyways, 'bout all I can tell you, young lady, is that their trucks had Chester County license plates.”

Mama patted her pearls, which is sign of many things, but in this case was the preamble to a flirtation. I'd have staked a Louis XIV chair (completely original) on that.

“Fig,” she said, “why don't you—”

“Tell us,” I said, “have you, yourself, ever used Magic Genie Cleaners?”

“Why Abigail Louise, how rude of you!”