Death of a Rug Lord (19 page)

“Hey,” he said. “Why does your mama call you that?”

I glanced around.

I
saw them for a split second. No more. And I could have been wrong.

“It was them,” Mama hollered in my ear. “I swear on Nanny's chin hairs.”

“What'll we do?”

“You tell
me—
you're the detective!”

I pulled her to the shoulder of the road, hoping for a better view of the vehicle lineup. It was a waste of energy. Although there were plenty of bright lights to the rear of us—rescue vehicles, squad cars, the helicopter—every one of the waiting cars, for as far as I could see, had its motor turned off in order to conserve gas. At that hour of the day the receding line of cars resembled a chain of dominoes, their black backs turned in our direction.

“No, I'm not a detective. I'm just a pint-size antiques dealer with a penchant for biting off a gallon's worth of trouble far too often.”

“Boy, I'll say.”

“Mama, you're supposed to disagree! Besides, this is an all volunteer mission.”

“Harrumph. Do I at least get combat pay?”

“Uhm—maybe. What seems fair to you? Aside from a free trip to the fabulous Upstate region of South Carolina, otherwise known as the Olde English District? For starters, I can promise you enough adventure to last a lifetime.”

“You can keep the adventure, Abby, but I've had my eye on this teensy weensy little emerald ring, of miserable quality, that you have locked up in your estate jewelry case. I know that must be a mistake, because it really belongs on the costume rack up by the register. At any rate, I thought that would make a very nice Labor Day present.”

“
Labor Day
present? Mama, who the heck gives Labor Day presents?”

“Children who appreciate the fact that their mama labored for sixty-five hours to bring them into this world.”

“Children with no math skills, I presume. And anyway, Mama, that teensy weensy emerald is really a five carat gem quality tsavorite.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Quite.”

“Okay, that's fine then too.”

“Can we drop the stones for a minute, Mama? What shall we do about their graces? Shall we tell the sheriff—although he doesn't look very happy, considering he won his battle to evict Sister Nash and Baby from their limo.”

In the last of nature's light I could see Mama's hand fly up to her pearls. “And what will we tell them, Abby? Shall we begin by saying that we're being fol
lowed by fake nobility, which we—more specifically I—
may
, or may
not
, be seeing?”

“What do you mean by ‘
may
, or may
not
be seeing'?”

Mama looked around before cupping her hands to my ear. “Do you know how old I am, Abby?”

“Only God and the IRS know for sure, Mama, but I have a pretty good idea.”

“And you know that I don't wear glasses, right?”

“Not unless you want to read, or do needlework, or do your nails, or write letters, or—”

“You know what I mean, dear.”

“No, which is why we're having this conversation.”

Mama sniffed. “Exactly, so then listen and stop arguing. I went to see my optimist last week and she said I'm getting a cataract on my left eye.”

“Oh my. It's a good thing she isn't a pessimist then, or else you might be getting them on both eyes.”

I could hear, but not see, Mama pat her pearls. “Was that a cruel joke at my expense, Abby?”

“Uh—no ma'am, and yes, ma'am. That is to say, I was trying to be clever, not cruel, and I'm sorry, and I totally take it back. Totally. Mama, how awful. What are you going to do?”

“Do? I'm going to have it removed, of course. This isn't the Dark Ages, dear. Anyway, my point is that I can't be one hundred percent sure it was them, but I'm pretty darn sure nonetheless.”

“How sure? Wager a guess.”

“Eighty-seven and a quarter percent.”

A quarter percent?
Gotta love the woman who bore me; at least she never bores me.

All at once it happened: people began running for their cars; headlights flashed, horns honked, scumbags swore.

“We're moving on out, Mama.”

But she was already running as fast as her size five pumps could carry her.

 

I will reluctantly admit that we had been too very irresponsible women. No matter how you parsed our ages, adding them together should have amounted to a hundred years of accumulated wisdom, not stupidity. For starters, what the heck were we going to do in the Upcountry now that it was dark? As for poor Greg, I realized that he must have been frantic, about to go out of his mind with worry. I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd already reported me missing to the Charleston police.

As if the gods were mocking me and my childish behavior, not five miles up the road from the overturned poultry truck there was an official rest area. Even though I had just barely gotten back up to the speed limit, I braked just in time and slipped into what was undoubtedly going to be a very crowded parking lot.

“Hallelujah!” Mama sang. “My bladder thanks you!”

“Then you better scoot on in and find a stall. I have a feeling there are a hundred other bladders waiting to be just as thankful.”

I jumped out and searched for a phone signal. Mama had wrestled her skirts out of the car and was traipsing after me.

“Who are you calling?”

“Mama, run! Here comes a high school activities bus. You know how noisy and messy those kids can be.”

“Yes, and speaking of which, I'm sticking to you like stupid to a teenager until you tell me who it is.”

“Mama, that was rude.”

“As a matter of fact it was, and so is lying to your mama. I don't see a bus in sight.”

I pressed the Send button on my phone. The party on the other end picked up immediately.

“Abby, I was just fixing to call you.”

“Greg! Listen, dear—”

“No, you listen. Hon, I lied to you; Booger Boy's boat didn't break down. I've been playing golf for the last—uh, coupla days.”

“Would you repeat that please? I think we have a bad connection.”

“I said that I've been playing golf for the last coupla days.”

I was careful to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. “That's what I thought you said.”

“What did he say?” Mama demanded.

“Greg, dearest,” I said, trying to keep him off guard by the lightness of my tone, “what exactly does ‘coupla' mean? Two, three? As in, ‘I drank a coupla beers last night'?”

“Is he drunk?” Mama said. “I knew it! The first time I met him I could smell mouthwash on his breath. That's never a good sign, you know. And once I could smell
too
much deodorant. That's got to mean something bad, Abby; I just don't know what yet.”

“Well, not exactly a
couple
,” Greg said in the meantime, although I could barely hear him with Mama yammering on. Then again, his volume had dropped to almost a whisper. “Maybe more like two weeks. But hey, that is a coupla weeks, isn't it?” The volume increased, as did his confidence, stoked as it was by his convoluted reasoning.

Mercifully I remembered that I had not tried the phone reception while still in the car. By then I was about a hundred yards from my vehicle, and although I was wearing strappy sandals, at least they had low heels.

“Look over there, Mama!” I screamed, pointing toward the nearest light pole. “Isn't that a wallet lying on the ground?”

It was no contest; I got there long before Mama did. Of course I locked the doors behind me and put the child safety on.

“What was that all about?” Greg asked. “Where are you?”

Someone once said—it's probably been said by hundreds of someones over the course of history—that if you're going to lie, at least keep it close to the truth. That way it will be easier for you—the liar—to remember.

“Mama got it in her head to go to Rock Hill and visit her cousin Imogene. We're at the rest area just south of Columbia. What you heard was me doing an evasive maneuver.”

“Trying to get some privacy out of the earshot of Donna Reed?”

“Bingo.”

“How long will you be up there?”

“We're coming back tomorrow—we better! You know how impetuous she is. I didn't even pack a toothbrush.”

“Abby, you don't sound pissed at all. Why is that? And how come no third degree?”

“Of course I'm pissed. And you better believe you're getting the third degree; all the way home I'll be thinking up ways to torture you. But seriously, dear, I figure that you must have a good reason for doing what you did, and an even better one for not telling me. At least you better have. Taking early retirement without telling your spouse is…well, it's kind of serious stuff. Like maybe we need to see a marriage counselor.”

“Geez, Abby, I knew you were going to say that, and that's exactly why I didn't tell you any sooner.”

“Yeah, right,” I said through clenched teeth. “I'm sure that was the only reason.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I leaned on the horn with my elbow. “Gotta go; some maniac really wants my parking space in the worst way.”

Before seeing Mama again I managed to make my way to the ladies' room through a veil of tears, do my business, wash my face, and regain my composure. At least I thought I had. But when I exited the restroom into the lobby that separates the women's from the men's, and saw Mama busy studying a highway map, I dissolved into tears again. I knew she was faking it, just trying to be kind.

Finally I went up to her. “Is there any chance we can stay with Cousin Imogene tonight? I told Greg that's
where we'd be, and knowing him, he'll check up on us.”

“Do you mean
my
Cousin Imogene? The one who breeds rats for a living?”

“Do you have another?”

“But you hate rats, Abby. The first time I took you to see her, you screamed so long and so hard, it brought on a full-blown case of tonsillitis.”

“Yes, but I was only six years old. Besides, she made me hold one.”

“Okay, Abby, if that's what you think you want to do, I'll give her a call. You go wait in the car, dear, I'll be back in a few minutes.” That was it, no first, second, or third degree.

As usual, the woman who'd suffered an undetermined number of agonizing hours to bring me into this world—at whose breast I fed, and reportedly gnawed; who comforted me when my daddy died and pulled double duty as a single mother to rear and support Toy and me; who was there for me when my own children were born; who propped me up when Buford Timberlake, the timber snake, cheated on me with Tweetie, a woman half my age, and then left me penniless—was there for me at the drop of a gumball. She didn't even ask me for details—not
yet
at any rate. She just went off looking for the pay phone so she could call Cousin Imogene and get directions to her house (Mama does not believe in using cell phones when land lines will suffice).

I waited inside the car at first, while I listened to a CD of Russell Watson music. He's my favorite male vocalist and he usually sends my spirits soaring. But
there are times when beauty can be so intense that it hurts; this, apparently, was one of those times. It was either turn Russell off or bawl my eyes out. Since I'd already shed enough cheap mascara for one day, I chose not to cry anymore.

As the evening air in the Piedmont can be somewhat cooler than on the coast, I decided to wait outside the car on the grass. Sure enough, a gentle breeze was blowing, and despite the bright lights over the parking lot, I could see hundreds of stars. Except for the carnage on the interstate, and Greg's disturbing news, it had the makings of a fine night. For a moment the smell of loblolly pines made me homesick.

“Abby?
Abby!
Where are you?”

“Over here, Mama. I'm up on the pet walk area.”

“Get down from there, dear, before you step in doo-doo.”

“I can see fine, Mama.” I got down anyway and walked back to my car.

“I did what you asked, dear.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Think nothing of it; that's what mamas are for. And do you know what else we're for?”

If Mama had been shouting through a bullhorn, she still could not have been heard any better. At this point the parking lot was filled and everyone in it, along with their mama, was beginning to look our way.

“Later,” I mumbled. “Let's get in first.”

“
What
? You hit a
gator
with your
fist
?”

I zapped the keyless entry button and slid in behind the wheel just in time. Dozens of eyes were already trained on my fists. It always takes Mama more time
to get in and settled, thanks to her layers of starched crinolines, so I will confess to having backed out of the parking space, and maybe even to have shot halfway up the ramp, before she was securely buckled in.

“Abby, what are you trying to do? Kill me?”

“Not this time, Mama.”

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

“I'm not sure, Mama.

C
ousin Imogene was delighted to “receive” us. She hadn't had overnight guests in thirteen years, which seemed like an auspicious number to me, until Mama reminded me that was how long it was since Cousin Cadaveat's death. In the meantime she'd been using the guest room as a breeding facility, so she put Mama and me up on the pull-out couch.

“I hope you don't mind sleeping on the Murphy bed,” she squeaked. She always did have a voice that registered an octave higher than the average woman's, but now it seemed to need a little oil.

“Absolutely not, dear,” Mama said graciously. “We've slept on much worse, haven't we, Abby?”

I certainly hadn't. I remembered the couch from when I was six, and some of Cousin Cadaveat's food stains (he loved to eat in front of the “boob tube”) seemed to remember me. As for the springs, they'd given up all memory years ago.

“We're very grateful, Cousin Imogene,” I said. “We should be ashamed of ourselves for barging in on you
without any warning like this, but you being family and all, we thought you'd be insulted if we didn't give you first dibs. And don't worry about the bed, I'm sure it's very comfortable.”

“Oh it is. It's a
de
luxe; says it right here on the mattress. See? No, it isn't the bed that I was concerned about in the first place. It's just that some folks have strange ideas about sleeping where someone has gone to meet the Lord—if you know what I mean.”

I processed that bit of information for a nanosecond—or maybe ten. After all, I was exhausted.

“Are you saying that Cousin Cadaveat passed away on this couch?”

“You mean you didn't hear?”

“Hear what?” Mama said. I knew for a fact that she was a bit squeamish about that sort of thing.

“Well you see, your cousin—strictly speaking that would be your mama's cousin by marriage, Abby—went to his celestial home while I was enjoying myself out in Vegas with my girlfriends. I suppose that was the Lord's way of punishing me.”

“I'm an Episcopalian,” Mama said, “remember? I don't believe God zaps us for playing the slot machines.”

“Believe whatever you like, Mozella, but when I left for Sin City my husband was as healthy as a plow horse, and when I returned home I found him lying dead on this very couch. According to the coroner, my dear sweet Cadaveat may have suffered a heart attack, and who knows, he might even have had it the very moment I sat down to my first nickel machine.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I didn't know the details.” I paused for ten more respectful nanoseconds. “Why
wasn't the coroner able to pinpoint the exact cause of death—if you don't mind my asking?”

“Well, shoot a monkey! I bribed Coroner Stokes ten thousand dollars—only he called it a political contribution—if he didn't breathe a word to anyone about how, or where, your cousin died. But I just assumed that folks found out somehow, because everywhere I go they look at me kinda funny.”

“To be honest, cousin,” Mama said gently, “perhaps you carry with you a certain eau de rat. You might consider housing the little dears in a separate facility altogether, or better yet, get yourself some new digs. Maybe a new wardrobe as well.”

“It could be fun,” I said. “I'll help you shop. But if you don't mind, for now, can we go back to the coroner and the secrets he kept?”

Tears filled the poor woman's eyes. “The rat business was really Cadaveat's idea in the first place. And there is money to be made, especially by breeding the fancy varieties. We ship to laboratories, pet stores—” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it might have been a heart attack. All we really know for sure is that it happened during the time period when my husband usually cleans the cages, and so the rats were running loose—they're very tame, you see. These aren't wild rats.”

“Go on.”

“So when I stepped into the house that day and saw a skeleton lying on my couch, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

“You're kidding!” I backed away from the couch. “Oh my heavens, you're
not
kidding, are you?”

“Achoo!”
I'd never heard such a loud sneeze come from Mama.

“Bless you, Mama. Did you hear what Cousin Imogene just said?”

“Achoo! Achoo!”

“Mama, are you coming down with a cold?”

“Mercy me, I think it's worse than that. Do you remember last winter when I was diagnosed with reoccurring galloping pneumonia?”

“Oh yes, that particularly virulent strain. Didn't your doctor say it could show up at a moment's notice, and probably would if you were subjected to stress?”

“Stress?” Cousin Imogene appeared to take umbrage at the word. “Mozella, do you find my company stressful? Why we used to play naked together in the bathtub.”

“Ah, that's so cute when baby cousins do that,” I said, forgetting for a moment that Mama was on a tear of some kind.

“We weren't babies,” Imogene said. “We were thirteen, if we were a day.”

“We were late bloomers,” Mama said. “Lordy, I think I'm about to pass out. Abby, you need to take me to Piedmont Medical Center. Tell them what I have, and warn them that if they have any laboratory animals, they better remove them from the premises pronto. Tell them what happened to the white mice in the lab at Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston.”

Imogene was all ears, and they were right in front of Mama. “What happened?”

“They died within twenty-four hours. Every last one
of them. It turns out that reoccurring leaping pneumonia is an airborne disease that is easily caught by rodents and always fatal. In fact, I shouldn't even be here.”

Imogene cocked her ears, and along with them, her head. “Just a second ago you said it was
galloping
, not
leaping
.”

“Huh?”

“That's one of its symptoms for sure,” I said. I stepped between Imogene and Mama and felt Mama's forehead. “Yowza! It feels like a steam iron.”

“Let me feel,” Imogene said. The woman was as stubborn as a brace of Georgia mules.

“No! You'll infect your vermin—I mean your rats!” I gave Mama a mighty push in the direction of the front door.

Thank heavens she didn't need more of a start than that to overcome the resistance of her skirts. All that material tends to act like a parachute, so that watching her go from zero to a flat out run is like watching water run uphill. Sometimes, on gusty days, I've observed her move backward for as far as a block before making any headway.

I heard someone shout, but I don't have a clue as to whether dear Cousin Imogene tried to chase after us. I wouldn't have blamed her. She was undoubtedly lonely, living as a pariah in her hometown, and all because her business took her husband to lunch.

 

Rock Hill is home to beautiful Winthrop University, and there are a number of historical treasures scattered about town. What a shame then that one of the main entrances to the city is nothing more than one
long strip mall. As Cherry Road begins on the north end of the town (in a location choked with motels), a cynic might postulate that the powers that be wish to discourage Yankee visitors from plumbing the city's riches and settle down for a spell.

Mama and I needed only a roof over our heads and a hot meal, nothing else. And anonymity, of course; it wouldn't do if word got out that Mozella Wiggins and her entrepreneur daughter from Charleston were staying at the Princess and the Pea out by the interstate. Just think of the rumors that could result from such a sighting. Since we were both too old to be hookers—well, at least Mama was—folks might speculate that we'd become drug runners, or worse yet, we were sneaking Buckeyes and Hoosiers into the pretty parts of Rock Hill. It was decided that I would leave Mama in the car while I ventured in to see if there was a room available.

When you're my height, the only way to go unnoticed is to walk fast and pray that folks don't look down. My subterfuge was wasted, however, by the total indifference of the teenage desk clerk, who was on the phone. And by the smile on her young face, interrupted by the occasional riff of giggles, it was clear that she was not on a business call. After five toe-tapping minutes I'd had enough and decided to
really
listen to what was going on. After another minute I couldn't stand it anymore.

“Hey Ayden, I'll leave my panties home if that's what you want.”

“You most certainly will not, Jennifer,” I said, having noticed her name badge.

Jennifer made eye contact with me for the first time. “Huh?”

“Tell Ayden to get his butt to work like he's supposed to—I mean like he said McDonald's is shorthanded tonight—and then you come wait on me. Please.”

“Hey, you can't tell me what to do.”

“Yes I can; I'm the customer. The first rule in any successful business is that the customer is always right.”

“Yeah? Well, my boss ain't here, so I'm saying you ain't right.” I could hear Ayden's tinny voice in the background, and Jennifer addressed him next. “Just some old lady who's trying to give me a hard time,” she said. “What? Hell no, Sean's not here, which means I'm covering for his ass too. Oh, and get this, she said I should tell you to get your butt over to McDonald's. Can you believe that?”

“Jennifer,
sweetie
,” I said, “I'm going to go now, but just so you know, I'm going to call Grayson Xavier Hollingsworth, specifically to tell him that Jennifer Latrobe Hollingsworth was rude, crude, and utterly inattentive. I will strongly urge him to terminate your employment here at the Princess and the Pea and not give you a favorable reference for any job—unless it involves pulling the wings off flies.”

“Gotta go, Ayden.” The phone slammed into its cradle. “Ma'am,” Jennifer said, but I was already halfway to the door.

“Yes?”

“Ma'am, I need to talk to you. It ain't like you think.”

“Then tell me how it is, Jennifer.”

I'd stopped, but I hadn't turned around. That forced her to leave the security of her counter and come around until she faced me. Shame on me for laying such a power trip on a teenager, but I was doing it for her mother, after all; I was doing it for mothers everywhere whose teenage daughters go on after-work dates and leave their panties at home.

“Ma'am,” Jennifer said, when we were face-to-face, but of course not eye-to-eye, “how did you know my—I mean, the owner's name? Like even his middle name?”

“Well, while you were busy flapping your gums to Ayden I had plenty of time to look around the lobby, and one of the things I noticed is that immense bowling trophy over the fireplace. Is that a working fireplace, by the way?”

“Yes, ma'am. But like only in the winter, on account of it can get real hot in here at other times.”

“I understand. At any rate, the name engraved on the trophy is Grayson X. Hollingsworth. As it so happens, I graduated from Rock Hill High School with a boy by that name. The Grayson I knew was also a champion bowler
and
said he was going to be a businessman someday. Now throw in the X. I'm willing to bet that not many people have X for a middle initial, and how many Grayson X. Hollingsworths can there be?”

“Wow, you're really good. You a detective or something?”

“Something is more like it.”

“But how'd you know my middle name? Or my last name? My badge just says ‘Jennifer'?”

“Again, while you were making promises to run
around town à la Brittany Spears, I was looking at the work schedule, laying there on the counter. I'm assuming the J. Hollings is meant to be you.”

“Yeah, there's another Jennifer—Jennifer Montgomery. She's J. Mont.”

“As for your middle name, that was just a guess. But your dad was dating Denise Latrobe when last I knew him. So he married her?”

“Yeah, but she died when I was only three. She was killed in a car accident. She was beheaded.” She paused. “I was with her.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be; I can't remember nothing. Hey, you want a room or something?”

“That is why I'm here. Do you have a quiet one—away from the elevator, maybe two-thirds down a hallway? Top floor is preferable.”

“Hey, the whole place is yours. We ain't got but one other couple staying here. You alone, or with someone?” She had the nerve to smirk.

“My mother is waiting in the car.”

“Two beds, or one?” The smirk was still in place.

“Two.”

“I'm going to need your driver's license and a major credit card.”

I promptly handed her the documents. She glanced at the photo and then back at me.

“You oughta sue them,” she said. “I heard it can be done. Hey, you're from Mount Pleasant. That's down by Charleston, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. On the pleasant side of the harbor, as we like to say.”

“Well, ain't that funny, because that other couple that's here, they're from Charleston too.”

For the umpteenth time that day tiredness drained from my body as adrenaline seemed to flow in from nowhere. I imagined that the exchange of energy was akin to the fluid exchange in the embalming process.

“Would it be possible to ask their names? Please.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I waited patiently while she jotted down the information on my documents and handed them back. “Jennifer?” I prompted her at last.

“Abigail,” she said, looking me straight in the eye, “I'm still waiting for you to ask.”

“What?”

“You know; you wanted to know if it was possible to ask their names?”

I wanted to wring her neck, that's what I wanted to do. Figuratively, of course.

“What are their names?” I tried—oh how I tried—to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.