Poison Ivory (6 page)

I
wouldn’t characterize myself as the impatient sort, nor am I lazy by any means. It’s just that once I have a plan of action in place, I can pretty much rationalize taking shortcuts if they’ll get me to the end result quicker. For instance, why rent a P.O. box for the initial contact? Why not just use my cell phone number? After all, a really determined criminal can stick a gun to the head of a post office worker and make him, or her, cough up my address.

As for notifying Mr. Curly of our plan—well, I certainly intended to do that. At some point. But isn’t there a well-known saying about erring first, and then asking for forgiveness? What if Mr. Curly was against the plan? Then what? It’s not like he was getting anywhere, and he’d been working on the case for years.

At any rate, the woman who worked in the advertising department of the paper said she probably couldn’t get my ad in until the day after
next, but when my cell starting ringing before seven the next morning, I knew exactly what was going on. All I can say is thank God that Greg was already out for the day fishing with his cousin Booger.

“Hello?”

“Are you the ivory lady?”

“In a manner of speaking. I swim, but I don’t float.”

“What?”

“Nothing; that was just a little soap humor.”

“Is this some sort of a scam? You’re not one of those Amway dealers, are you?”

It was one thing to offer ivory for sale in print; it was quite another thing to push it over the phone. But in this case the ends justified the means, and believe me, I can’t be nearly as mean as my friend Magdalena Yoder up in Pennsylvania, and she’s a sweetheart in a curmudgeon’s clothing. As long as I didn’t lose sight of the fact that I was merely role-playing, I was in no danger of losing my way.

“Sir, I’m offering a collection of choice ivory artifacts to serious collectors. You may, or may not, realize that this puts me in a tenuous position. If at any time I feel that
you
are wasting my time, I will simply hang up on you.”

“Ma’am, I assure you that I am a serious collector. Are you selling whole tusks, or carved pieces? African or Asian? Live ivory, or dead?”

Live
ivory? What on earth was that? Perhaps it was a trick question.

“To whom am I speaking—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all. My name is Conrad Stallings. And you are?”

“Hortense Hogsworth,” I said, without pausing to think. As I have never met a Hortense or a Hogsworth in
this
life, it has occurred to me that perhaps I was saddled with at least one of those names in a
previous
life—bless my heart.

“Are you English?” Conrad Stallings asked.

“No, sir: red-blooded American all the way back to before the Revolution on at least one line.”

“But surely Hogsworth is of English derivation. I have a particular fondness for the English, you know. My late wife, Janet, was English: born in Malaysia, schooled in Hong Kong, but still English—funny how that goes. Have you ever been to Southeast Asia, Miss Hogsworth? Or should I call you
Mrs.
Hogsworth?”

“I’m not particular; one’s as good as the other. Mr. Stallings, I was wondering if we could meet for lunch. I’m really not very comfortable discussing business over the phone.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be managed.”

“Speaking of Asia, there’s a Chinese restaurant on King Street called Chopsticks. Do you know it?”

“Do I know it? It serves the only unadulterated Chinese food in Charleston, if you ask me. The others offer either upscale Asian fusion or Chinese barf bag buffet—pardon my graphic description.”

“No pardon needed. If I see iceberg lettuce or
Jell-O squares in a buffet line, I leave and go somewhere else. In all seriousness, I’d rather eat at Chucky Cheeses with a million screaming kids for company than shovel down a lot of tasteless gunk that’s supposed to be Chinese.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart, Miss Hogsworth. Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

“Noon too soon?”

“That’s a lot of O’s for one short sentence.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. That will be fine. Can you bring some samples and a portfolio?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Then I panicked.

“Now what do I do, C.J.? He wants to see my wares. Duh! Why didn’t we think of that before?”

“Calm down, Abby, we did.”

“We
did
?”

“When I was in the Atlanta airport last week I saw a display of contraband ivory. It was very nicely done, so I took a picture. Anyway, last night I photoshopped it, along with some other photos I found on the net, and then I dug up an old album I wasn’t using and put you together this.” C.J. bolted from the break room and returned a few seconds later with what looked like a professional catalogue of select ivory pieces for sale—including asking prices. The girl was an absolute miracle worker! I made up my mind then and there that at the next presidential election I was going to write C.J.’s name down on my ballot—should there be a spot for it.

“C.J! How can I ever thank you?”

“Change the name of your shop, Abby.”

“What?”

“The Den of Antiquity just doesn’t work; half the people get it wrong. You should answer your own phone sometime.”

“I do, dear.” She had a point. Folks did tend to say “iniquity” instead of “antiquity,” just because they were more familiar with the former. Although frankly, I didn’t really mind, since “iniquity” did have a certain cachet.

“And while I’m on the subject, Abby, you should change
your
name as well.”

“What?”

“You can’t seem to decide if you’re a Washburn or a Timberlake. No wonder Buford still thinks he has a chance. So Abby, I think that maybe you should change your name to Hortense Hogsworth. And you know what? It seems to suit you.”

“C.J., look closely at my ears. Do you see smoke coming out of them?”

“Maybe just a little from your left ear.”

In order not to laugh, I had to bite my tongue.
Hard
.

“Well, keep watching them, because I’m starting to get mad. By the way, where are the actual ivory samples?”

“Ooh, don’t be silly, Abby. You don’t want to be caught with something contraband, do you?”

“But C.J., as wonderful as this book is, he’s going to want to touch and feel the goods.”

“That’s where I come in, Abby—I’m your safety net. You see, you’re going to be wired. And you’re going to tell this guy that you think that maybe you were followed—but just for a little bit. In order to be on the safe side, you left any hard evidence back in your car. Explain that you wanted to check him out first; it’s not like you’d show your samples to just any old Tom, Dick, or Bildermouse who answered your ad.”

“I think that’s Harry, C.J.”

“What’s hairy?”

“I mean the third name; it’s not Bildermouse—or whatever it was you said.”

“That’s exactly what I said, of course. Everyone knows that. Those are the three most common names for boys in the English language.”

“They
are
? I don’t mean to be contentious, C.J., but I’ve never heard the name Bildermouse before.”

The big galoot cocked her head. “Hmm. My bad, Abby; those are the three most common names for boys in
Shelby
.

I knew better than to argue. C.J.’s Shelby stories were like religious beliefs—or presidential facts, for that matter. No amount of “proof” was going to change her mind.

“Okay, C.J., so you’re going to be listening in on our conversation?”

“You betcha, Abby. And if he gives you any trouble, I’m going to give him a Dutch burr.”

Wisely, I declined to ask what that was.

Not only does Chopsticks serve delicious food, but it’s reasonably priced, and the foyer was packed with College of Charleston students picking up their carry-out orders. I managed to slip under, and through, them relatively unscathed—I got whacked once up the side of the head with an order of egg foo yung—to the back room where the tables are located.

When I was much younger a bad case of nerves would cause my digestive tract to rebel. Now anxiety makes me ravenous. That explains why I was midway through a plate of spicy Szechwan beef when Conrad Stalling arrived promptly at one.

There were about a dozen other diners in the room, but he headed straight for me, his hand extended. “Miss Hogsworth?”

I am not a huge fan of pressing body parts just before, or during, meals. Especially during the flu season. Instead of responding in the Western manner, I laid my chopsticks across my plate and folded my hands together. It was a gesture of respect that I’d observed Asians perform many times on television.

Unfortunately, Conrad Stallings did not withdraw his hand. Like a moray eel, it bobbed and darted under my nose as he all but demanded that I shake it like a proper American. And this from a self-confessed Anglophile!

“It’s a very nubile hand, Mr. Stallings,” I said. “You must be very proud of it. And nicely manicured as well.”

“And you are the height of arrogance, Miss Hogsworth.”

“I apologize if I have offended you; it’s just that I don’t shake hands at mealtime. With
anybody
. Direct contact is the number one way colds and flu are spread.”

“I’ll have you know that I have neither!”

“Perhaps you have no symptoms, but at this very moment you might well be carrying a virus you picked up, and of which you are still unaware.”

“Harrumph.”

“
Harrumph
? Nobody says that anymore, Mr. Stallings. I happen to find that utterly charming.”

He stared at me, which I took as an invitation to stare back. He was, bless his heart, a very unattractive man, with a concave face and a pickle for a nose. His lipless mouth was pulled back in a sneer, and the deep lines across his forehead extended high up his smooth shiny dome. What little hair he had was white and confined to the back of his head, and extended no higher than the tops of his ears.

One cannot blame a man if he was born so ugly that his mama had to borrow a baby to take to church. That is no fault of his own. But surely Conrad Stallings was responsible for his wardrobe choices; he was dressed like an English memsahib from a 1930s movie depicting the declining days of the Raj. Khaki shirt with epaulettes, khaki shorts, knee socks, he was even holding a cork helmet in the hand not proffered.

“Miss Hogsworth,” he said at last, “are you mocking me?”

“Indeed, I am not. Please sir, be seated.”

He nodded his acceptance, withdrew the bobbing moray eel, and settled into one of Chopsticks’ molded plastic chairs. “Any specials today?”

“A broccoli something or other, but I didn’t pay attention. Mr. Stallings, would you like to see the catalogue I brought?”

“In due time, Miss Hogsworth. First I’ll read this menu, and then I’ll get around to reading you.”

E
xcuse
me?”

“I’d like to read your palm, Miss Hogsworth.”

“Why?”

“To see if we’re compatible, of course—and, to be perfectly honest, I have to keep my bases covered. My first wife, Amelia, had a very short life-line. That is something that I learned only in retrospect from her sister. When I think of the grief I might have saved myself—”

“Mr. Stallings,” I said, pointing my bosom toward his face, so that C.J. was sure to catch every word, “do you read the palms of everyone you do business with?”

“Huh? What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course not! What would be the point unless I was considering marriage?”

I jumped to my feet. One of the few pluses of being so short is that I didn’t have far to go.

“
M-Marriage?
What on earth gave you that idea?”

“You did, of course.”

“How?”

“You practically propositioned me, Miss Hogsworth. Did you not claim to be red-blooded, and then invite me to lunch in the back room of restaurant?”

“Yes, but—”

“And that business about the hands; your obstinacy is nothing if not provocative.”

“Then it’s nothing! C.J., are you there?”

“Even now you reference someone I don’t know just to make me jealous. Miss Hogsworth, believe me when I say that it works.”

I was trembling with rage and frustration, while he seemed to be purring with satisfaction. “C.J.,” I practically screamed, “where the heck are you?”

Conrad Stallings’s concave mandible appeared to collapse further as he mouthed a mock,
Oh, dear me.

“What did you just say?” I demanded.

“That’s too bad,” he said, “about your boyfriend not being reliable. You’ll be a lot better off with someone more mature—like me. Say, does the waitress come back here, or does one have to take one’s order up front?”

I glanced at the remains of my lunch, and thought about dumping them in his lap. But I am a Southern belle, born and bred. In addition to being raised to have good manners, I was brought up to be practical. Why waste perfectly good food when there was still enough for tomorrow’s lunch?

“Some wet birds do fly at night, but they almost never fly backward,” I mumbled. I said it so softly, he couldn’t possibly have caught more than two words.

“What’d you say?”

I smiled graciously and left. As I passed the open door to the kitchen I ran into Veronica, the only waitress on duty. Veronica was as Chinese as a basketful of hush puppies, and she often had trouble communicating with the Mandarin-speaking cooks.

“Hi. How goes it?” I said to her.

“Not so good. The owner’s wife stayed home today; she usually does the translating. This,” she nodded at an order on her tray, “was supposed to be moo shu pork, but I don’t see any meat. I’ll be happy if I get any tips this shift.”

I fished in my purse for my wallet and extracted three twenty dollar bills. “Veronica, this is my tip, and a little extra for special services rendered.”

She smiled, and her tired eyes danced conspiratorially. “What am I about to do
this
time?”

“You see that bald guy over there dressed in khaki? The one who’s got a helmet in front of him on the table?”

“Yeah, what is he? A Nazi?”

“Just an American who wants to be a British colonist married to woman named Hogsworth.”

“A real weirdo, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, I want you to totally ignore him. If he tries to wave you over, pretend like you don’t see him. Can you do that?”

“With pleasure.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck, Abby—with whatever you’re up to.”

Poogan’s Porch, at 72 Queen Street, was built as a spacious home in 1888, surrounded by a lovely garden and enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. In 1976 the owners sold their home and moved away, leaving behind their faithful dog, Poogan. The charming Victorian structure was subsequently turned into a restaurant, but Poogan remained, claiming a perch on the front porch, from which he greeted customers until his death. The heartbreaking story alone makes it worth a visit. Throw in an Apparition American—Poogan’s is haunted—and you have the perfect place to lunch. But even if you’ve already had lunch, it is worth spending one’s calorie allotment on the bread pudding with rum sauce.

I’d made arrangements to meet Pagan Willifrocke there at two o’clock. She said she was in advertising and that I would recognize her when I saw her. Now, I hoped that no one I knew would recognize
me
.

There would have been no such risk at Chopsticks, because none of my social set would deign to dine in such a humble, and anonymous, place unless they were having an affair, in which case they wouldn’t have dared speak up. Not so, with Poogan’s Porch, which was popular both with tourists and locals, and brightly lit to boot.

I elected to arrive a few minutes late, and was
vastly relieved to find that Pagan Willifrocke had already been seated and was waiting for me in the back room. Just as I was breathing my sigh of relief, the hostess piped up again to serve me a dollop of karmic justice.

“You know, Miss Hogsworth, I would swear that you were in here just the other day, only you had a different name. Timberlake—no, that’s Justin—Tumblelake, that’s it! Mrs. Tumblelake, and you had that really handsome husband, and a kind of strange mother—but not too strange—I mean, you oughta see mine. Anyway, I know that Pagan Willifrocke is kinda like a big deal, local celebrity—”

“She is?”

“Oh yeah, she’s in all them car ads. You know, where she bends over the red convertible, flicks her tongue around the corners of her mouth like a sexy snake, and says ‘yum.’ But like I was about to say, I’m like, totally cool, if like, you and Miss Willifrocke are, like, you know, ’cause my cousin Diane back in Terra Haute, she’s a lesbian, and she’s about the nicest person you could ever know. She wouldn’t abuse you, if you were the last person on earth—oh crap, that didn’t come out right, did it? Really, I’m sorry, Miss Tumblelake, I shouldn’t have said anything. There—There she is, by the table over by the window.”

Holy guacamole! It was indeed the blond-haired beauty who salivated all over the latest model vehicles, promising that no other area dealer could go lower than the one she represented. Much to
my surprise she was even prettier in person; she had wide full lips, pronounced cheekbones, and eyes as blue as Newman’s own.

Some years ago a wise person told me that even celebrities have to put their panties on one leg at a time. Translation: we’re all pretty much the same. Bearing in mind that nugget of truth, I stepped forward and introduced myself—as Abigail Timberlake.

“But I was supposed to meet a Miss Hogsworth,” the pretty blonde said in an accent that was clearly from north of the Line.

“Oh that was hog
wash
,” I said. “I was trying to be clandestine about this meeting, but since you’re here, and using your real name—well, then it seems sort of silly for me not to, doesn’t it?”

She tossed her platinum locks as she laughed. “I suppose so. Especially considering the fact that Pagan Willifrocke is my professional name.”

“
Excuse
me?”

“Miss Hogwarts, do you really thing that a mother somewhere would name her baby daughter Pagan?”

“I know someone who named her dog that,” I said stubbornly.

“I’m sure you do. I see that you brought a book of some sort with you. May I take a look?”

“Will you tell me your real name?”

I could see her surreptitiously eye the door. “Are you a cop, Miss Warthog?”

“I most certainly am not!”

“Do you swear?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!”

“Then may I see the book, Miss Piggy?”

“Certainly. Hey, the name is Sweathog—I mean Hogsworth—no, Timberlake. Do you see what you’ve done?”

Pagan Willifrocke flashed me an expensive smile. “I can be naughty at times, even wicked. One thing you should know about me, Miss Timberlake, is that I have expensive tastes. I live on Sullivan’s Island, but I’m tired of the so-called ‘beach house’ look that is
de rigueur
for a house on the coast. Quite frankly, I’m sick of sea-foam green, and I think that pelicans are hideous birds. I don’t want any of that crap in my house. My decorator is doing the entire house in a black and white theme.

“The formal living room is going to have black walls, high gloss, with white cotton sofas, and white objets d’art. Do you know what an
objet d’art
is, Miss Timberlake?”

“I am not a rube, Miss Whatever-your-real-name-is.”

“I prefer Pagan Willifrocke. If I told you my real name, I’d have to kill you.” She then produced the obligatory laugh, but it didn’t sound convincing. “Anyway, Maurice—that’s my decorator—was going to commission some white fiberglass sculptures, but then I saw your ad for the ivory. I don’t normally read that section of the paper, but I needed some for the bottom of Ivory’s cage. Ivory’s the name of my new cockatoo that I got just for the
living room—because he’s white, you know. That’s almost like a sign, isn’t it? Now where was I?”

“Pleasantly lost in space?”

Pagan laughed. “You forgot to say ‘bless your heart.’”

“Sorry; please consider it said. Miss Willifrocke, what do you know about ivory? Where it comes from? How it’s collected, etcetera.”

“You may not be a rube, Miss Timberlake, but I’m not the stereotypical dumb blonde. Were you expecting me to say that it grows on ivory bushes? I know that it comes from elephants. But here’s the way that I look at it: any ivory that you have to sell, obviously comes from elephants that are already dead. It’s not like I’m putting an order in to a poacher.”

“Yes, it is, because once I sell this shipment, then I’ll turn to my supplier, and he’ll turn to his source, which
is
the poacher.”

“Are you saying that you
don’t
want to sell to me? This is really weird, Miss Timberlake. I haven’t even glanced at your stupid catalogue, and I’m getting this really bad vibe off of you.”

“My bad,” I said quickly. I didn’t much cotton to this expression when I first heard it, but it’s grown on me. I certainly like it a lot better than saying,
You’re right, it’s my fault.

But it
was
my fault. I’d gone on the defensive and referenced a nonexistent supplier and a source for him. If I ever did resort to a life of crime, got caught, and sang, I might perform an entire opera.

Pagan Willifrocke was about to say something perhaps a tad less than profound—she had an evil glint in her eye—but we were interrupted by Gwen, our waitress. Much to my surprise, Pagan ordered what I did, and nothing more: bread pudding with whipped cream and warm rum sauce. Gwen promised to bring the desserts momentarily and then scurried off.

“Miss Timberlake,” Pagan said the second Gwen was out of earshot, “I have a confession to make.”