Poison Ivory (10 page)

I waited until she was through fanning a pan of biscuits as black as Buford’s heart. “Mama, I believe I’ll be going back to bed now.”

“But my breakfast!”

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I’ve lost my appetite.”

She sighed. “Maybe it’s just as well that the biscuits burned. They turned out extremely heavy for some reason.”

“In that case,” I said, “take them to Sunday school with you. If you see adulterers, you can throw the biscuits at them.”

“I don’t think Buford would like that,” Mama said, and then despite our mutually hurt feelings, we laughed until we cried.

Greg generally goes to bed with a clear conscience, and invariably wakes up each morning with a mind as empty as a newborn baby’s. He tells me that these are good traits, but I’m not so sure about the empty mind. Case in point: the morning Mama burned the biscuits, Greg awoke unable—or perhaps unwilling—to recall that we had quarreled the night before.

“Whatever happened, I’m sure we were equally at fault,” he said.

“Grrrr!”

“Oh come on, hon, I’m sure I didn’t behave that badly. After all, you didn’t have me sleep on the couch.”

“We don’t own a couch, Greg.”

“Well, in the guest room, then. Say, what do you want to do today—besides argue?”

“Frankly—”

“Because I was thinking of going over to Mount Pleasant. Booger and I are finally getting around
to putting a head on the boat. It came in Friday, but I didn’t get a chance to even open the crate yesterday. Booger will be meeting me at the slip at eleven. You want to come along and watch?”

First of all, it was mighty kind of my husband to invite me to be a part of his day. And while having a head on the
Abby
would make going out on the water a whole lot more fun, staying in dock to watch the men attach a toilet to a redolent shrimp boat was not my idea of a fun way to spend a Sunday morning.

However
, some snooping (with my big strong husband safely close by), while not exactly fun, would certainly be entertaining. I took a moment to compose myself. After all, faking nonchalance isn’t as easy as one might think.

“Sure, that sounds all right. Hey, why don’t I make some sandwiches, and I’ll bring a book. Then you guys can work on the boat all you want. I mean, didn’t you also want to poop on the deck?”

Greg roared with laughter. “We want to varnish the poop
deck
, darling.”

I managed a grin. “Yeah, that was pretty stupid of me. You’d think that I would know better,” I said.

“Abby, you’re a hoot,” Greg said as he reached for me.

“And maybe a fool,” I whispered.

N
o project has ever proceeded smoothly from the tools of Gregory Washburn and Booger Smith. First, the hole they cut for the pipes was too small, then too large, then the seal cracked, and on and on the project went—or so I’m told. I don’t have firsthand experience because after watching them for only five minutes, I claimed to be bored. Then I casually expressed a desire to stroll over to the Old Village. Greg grunted a response, but since he was a man involved in a repair project, it meant absolutely nothing. Nor did Booger’s exceptionally loud belch.

Still, my conscience was as clear as the sky that morning (which was a lot more than Mama could say). Shem Creek was sparkling in the sunlight, the shrimp boats gently bobbing, the sea grass softly sighing, and at least a dozen other clichés were happening all around me, so that by the time I got out of earshot of grunting Greg and belching Booger, I was feeling pretty chipper.
When I got to Royal Street, my spirits were positively buoyant.

Of course I was a woman on a mission. The enigmatic Lady Bowfrey was not to be forewarned this time. I’d purposely dressed in winter browns and grays, hoping to blend in with the sidewalks and dormant centipede lawns. Someday I was going to learn to rappel and sharpen my tree-climbing skills, so I could move through the canopy like a life-size, if somewhat deformed, spider monkey. The thing is, no one ever looked up—least of all me. But with the ancient live oaks that still survive in parts of Mount Pleasant, there really is a potential for a highway of sorts in the sky.

“Oops, I’m sorry!” It’s that silly kind of thinking that gets me into trouble each time. In this case I’d plowed full force into a woman a good ten years older than Mama, almost knocking her to the ground.

“I’m all right,” she gasped. “My dear, you must be one of those writers.”

“I beg your pardon?” I put a hand to steady her, but she stepped back to let me know she was fine the way she was.

“Our famous local writers. They wander about our streets with minds off in faraway places. No doubt in their banks accounts, ha ha.”

I was too puzzled to respond.

She scanned my face. “Oh dear, you’re not one of them, are you?”

“I’m afraid not. Tell me about them.”

“Oh, they’re a reclusive bunch. Some live here on the mainland, some on the islands. I’ve run into a few of them in the stores, but I’m too shy to approach them—one in particular; she always seems to be scowling. Although I think I heard she moved to Charlotte—good riddance, I say. But anyway, I’ve tried to read their books, but I can’t get into them. Pat Conroy they’re not.”

“Well, I’m ashamed to say that the last book I read was
Eat, Pray, Love
. I enjoyed it, by the way. But then again, I’m only an antiques dealer.”

“That’s where I know you from! The Den of Iniquity, right?”

“Funny that everyone says that. It’s actually the Den of Sobriety.”

“It is? Then I’ve been saying it wrong all these years. No wonder all the friends I recommend it to can’t seem to find it.”

“You’re putting me on now, aren’t you?”

“Weren’t you?”

“I like you, Miss—uh—”

“Dora.”

“I’m Abby.”

“Are you a newcomer to Mount Pleasant, Abby?”

“No. I don’t actually live here; I live downtown.”

“An S.O.B. Well, la-dee-da.”

“Yes, but you live on the Pleasant side of the Cooper River.”

She laughed delightedly. “Very true! What brings you here?”

“My husband and his cousin have a shrimp boat that ties up at Shem Creek. They’re putting in a toilet today.”

“Is it a Toto?”

“
Toto
lly not. On a shrimp boat? We’re not
that
la-dee-da. Anyway, I’d rather spend my time walking around the Old Village than handing them wrenches.”

“You’ve obviously been here before.”

“Off and on for the last forty-some years. I’m originally from Rock Hill, but my family used to vacation at the beach. How long have you lived here, Miss Dora?” As a native Southerner, I knew that many ladies of the older generation, whether married or single, preferred to be addressed by the honorific “Miss” when called by their first name.

“Three hundred years—give or take.”

That
was what I needed to hear to make my day. “So you’re a native.”

“Uh-oh, you’re not going to hold that against me, are you?”

“I’ll try not to. But I must confess that ever since I moved to Charleston I’ve suffered from a mild case of
aboriginal envyitis
.”

“Abby, the church folk are about to let out. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? This is my house right here—and I would so enjoy your company. I am a widder woman, you know.”

“A what?”

“A widder woman; my husband is deceased.”

“That’s what I thought you said. I didn’t know the locals still used such a quaint expression.”

“They don’t, but I do. I think it’s colorful.”

That did it. Here was an eccentric older woman, one unconnected with Buford the Timber Snake, one who might possibly know Lady Bowfrey—or at least know of her. Bad reputations, like pebbles tossed into ponds, have far reaching spheres of influence.

“I’d be happy to have tea with a widder woman,” I said. Although my game plan had changed slightly, my mission was still the same.

You can always tell a family’s history by the amount of silver that is displayed in the dining room. Dora’s sideboard was groaning from the weight of a bath-size sterling punch bowl and cups the size of margarine tubs. A massive tea set took up most of the dining room table, and two glass cabinets were so full of silver odds and ends that it was impossible to keep the doors securely latched.

But instead of using her heirlooms to make and serve the tea, Dora boiled water in a red enamel kettle and poured it into a blue and green painted mug that had once belonged to Truman Capote.

“I bought it at Disney World,” she explained. “There’s a shop there that sells all kinds of things that were once owned by celebrities.”

“Were you a fan of his?”

“Not so much—not really. I just thought it would make a nice story.”

“And so it does.” I sipped from the same spot where presumably Truman’s lips had once pressed. “Ah, that’s good tea.”

“Here’s to Lady Grey,” she said, and held aloft an orange mug of humbler origins.

“I bet you must know everyone in Mount Pleasant.”

“Of course, dear—well, anyone who is anyone. I mean, I certainly don’t know all the carpetbaggers. And the Mexicans,” she added in a low voice.

“By carpetbaggers, may I assume that you mean Northern retirees?”

“You may. I suppose that I’ve met a few good ones along the way. I must have, don’t you think? But they so look down on us. Because
they
think we speak with an accent, therefore we must be uneducated.”

“I believe that attitude is changing. My husband’s cousin, by the way, is from an old Mount Pleasant family. They don’t live in the Old Village, but farther north along Rifle Range.”

That certainly got her attention. “What is his name?”

“Booger Smith. His daddy is Estus Claybill Smith and his mama is Rae Lee—shoot, I can’t remember her maiden name.”

“Pinochet. I know the family well. I used to babysit for Estus and his five brothers when they lived in closer to town. Why, I’ll be, Abby, you’re practically family.”

“Just as long as I’m not kissing cousins to Booger Smith; he comes by that name honestly.”

Dora laughed. “Like father, like son. Oh, the stories I could tell.”

I took another long sip of Lady Grey and carefully set Truman’s mug down. “Miss Dora, do you know a family named Bowfrey?”

My new friend scowled just as sternly as that unpleasant author who has thankfully taken her bad attitude with her to Charlotte. “A family, no, but a single woman, yes. She calls herself Lady—some sort of foreign aristocracy—and I tell you, Abby, she is bad news.”

I tried to adopt the demeanor of an eager young gossip. Sadly, it wasn’t hard to do.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Do you think she’s like the head of a smuggling ring or something?”

Dora’s pale blue eyes widened and she had to struggle to return her mouthful of tea into the cup, rather than spray it hither, thither, and especially on me. “
What
did you say?”

“Well she is very sinister looking, isn’t she?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever thought of that. Harriet—that’s Lady Bowfrey’s real name—is the sweetest woman this side of Heaven. When Rutledge died she couldn’t have taken better care of me. She insisted that I come stay with her, had her cook make my favorite meals—not that I was ever hungry—”

“But you say she was bad news!”

“She is, my dear: at poker! Harriet is a fabulous bridge player. A group of us used to get together every Wednesday night and play. Then someone
suggested poker, so a couple of us widows who had nothing to do on weekends started adding Saturday poker to our schedules. And oh what fun we’ve had. But let me tell you, dear, Harriet Bowfrey is the most formidable poker player you will ever hope to meet. She is absolutely inscrutable. I lost my shirt to her again last night.”

“Aha! How much was that?”

“Eight dollars and thirty-six cents.”

“Surely you’re joking! I mean—isn’t Lady Bowfrey rather well off?”

“Oh my dear, you must be nouveau riche, like the carpetbaggers and most especially the developers. We play for pennies because—well, what else is there to do with them?”

There is an old saying in my family: “If the ugly baby is yours, embrace it
.
” Mama says she heard it from her mama, who heard it from her mama. I’ve given that saying some thought over my forty-eight years, and have come to the conclusion that either we’ve given birth to a plethora of ugly children in our family’s history or else we have refused to hug them.

Mama claims that nary a one of her ancestors was anything less than photogenic, and that the saying simply means own up to your shortcomings. Instead, I decided to own up to one of Dora’s shortcomings, and that was her obvious distaste for developers.

“Just so you know, I am not entirely nouveau riche, because my family did have money before the Late Unpleasantness.”

“Well, that is an improvement.”

“And I
despise
developers.”

“Then we see eye-to-eye.”

“But speaking of Lady Bowfrey—”

“She’s the salt of the earth; the savory substance that adds that special exotic zing to the Old Village. Ah…” She sighed, and sipped deeply from the orange mug. “Of course there were a few old fossils—like me—who didn’t cotton to her from the beginning, but I think most of us have eventually come around. Did you know that on the first Wednesday morning of every month she serves an enormous breakfast buffet that is open to the entire community?”

I was stunned. “No, I didn’t. How?”

“She doesn’t actually cook it herself. She has it catered. White tents and everything. It’s become an Old Village tradition. Wednesday Mornings with Lady Bowfrey. Perhaps you saw it on the
Today
show?”

“I prefer
Good Morning America
.”

“You know, dear, you should come as my guest.”

“I’d be delighted.”

She cradled the orange mug in her mottled hands. “I don’t suppose that you—no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“To do what?”

Dora looked down and shook her head. “Please forget that I said anything. It was just an old foolish woman talking.”

“I doubt that. And anyway, I love foolish talk, so talk away!”

“In that case, would you be willing to pose as my daughter? At the breakfast next Wednesday?”

That caught me off guard. “Uh—”

“Abby, my daughter, Clara, hasn’t been home to see me in thirty-two years. We had a falling out, you see, and—”

“Stop, please. You don’t need to explain.”

“Just once, Abby, I don’t want the neighborhood to look at me as the woman whose daughter won’t even come home to see her old mama.” She took a deep breath, which sounded a bit like a gut-wrenching sob. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t even have brought this up.”

“Can we say serendipity?”

“No, dear, her name is Cassandra.”

“I’ll do it!”

“I don’t know what got into me. Marilyn Douglas, that’s what—or I should say, who. She’s always bringing family from out of town. She brings so many, and so often, why it’s even occurred to me that she might be dragging in tourists from the streets.”

I grabbed one of Dora’s hands. It was as light as biscuits. And even though she’d been cradling a warm coffee mug, it was cool to the touch.

“Miss Dora, I said that I’d
come
.”

“Oh Abby, really? I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“It wouldn’t be much trouble,” I said, while lying through my teeth, “it will be fun. But since I own an antiques store downtown, there’s a good chance that some of your neighbors have been in
it, and might even know me. I’ll have to wear a disguise. And anyway, I am a little shorter than most people.”

“Abby, my daughter was a dwarf. Aren’t you a dwarf?”

“I’m four feet nine inches.”

“Which officially makes you a Little Person, right?”

She was right, of course. The definition of a dwarf includes anyone, male or female, who is less than four feet ten inches tall.

“Miss Dora, how old is your daughter?”

“About your age, I suppose. She was fifty-eight in October.”

“Let’s not suppose, sweetie. I’ll just add some temporary gray to my hair.”

Dora smiled happily. “When I went on my walk this morning I was feeling lonely, practically dreading the week ahead. Now look at me: I have a daughter to come with me to Wednesday Mornings with Lady Bowfrey.”

“Just think,” I said, “Marilyn Douglas will be absolutely crushed.”

Dora giggled.

The truth be told, I missed Mama terribly. Yes, she could be a pain in the tushie at times, but at least that kept life interesting—in a mildly entertaining sort of way. When Greg and I returned from Mount Pleasant we found Sunday supper in the oven, and a note saying that Mama planned to be out for the evening and that we shouldn’t wait up.