The Cane Mutiny (19 page)

H
ermione Wou-ki sat resplendent on a green and gold sofa on the far side of a palatial room. Perhaps it was a ballroom. She was wearing a shimmering, pink silk pantsuit, and her thick, dark hair cascaded free over her shoulders. Her porcelain face and hands gave the impression that one was looking at a doll. A very large and expertly crafted doll. At this great distance that might well have been what I was looking at.

“Ah yes,” she said, “please come in.”

Rufus, who was as powerfully built as a Neanderthal, managed to slip around us and disappear, all in the blink of an eye. As C.J. and I crossed the polished hardwood floor, my nervousness escalated. I felt like I was approaching the queen.

C.J. did not share my state of mind. “Hey Hermione,” she said, her loud voice echoing in the
sparsely furnished room, “did you get the invitation yet?”

“To your wedding? Yes, how lovely. Unfortunately, C.J., I'll be in England then. Prince Harry has a significant birthday coming up, and after all, I am his godmother.”

C.J. squealed with excitement. “Give him hugs and kisses from his Auntie C.J.”

Auntie C.J. indeed! It's one thing to have a trolley that skips the tracks every now and then, but to have one capable of getting airborne for bizarre flights of fancy is downright admirable. I was going to have to get a list of the big gal's meds and see if my doc would prescribe me the same. If that didn't work, I would try and steal her address book.

“I sure will,” Hermione said with a straight face. She turned to face me. “And how are you today?”

“Would you like to hear the polite, Southern version, or the wicked unvarnished truth?”

She patted the sofa beside her as she laughed. “Come, sit with me. C.J., be a darling and pull up a chair for yourself.”

My buddy had to walk practically the length of a football field to get a chair, but she did so without complaining. Hermione made good use of that time.

“I expected you to come alone,” she whispered.

“But I thought you liked C.J.”

“I do. However, this is a very delicate matter. Can she be trusted?”

“Absolutely. I'd trust her with my life.”

“What about
my
life? Can she be counted on not to gossip?”

“Sure. But you'll have to tell her it's not for anyone else's ears. No, be more direct than that. C.J. is very literal.”

That was an understatement. Once, I sent my assistant to an estate sale to buy a particular French commode I'd seen listed in the inventory list that was published in the
Post and Courier.
My instructions were that she buy the piece at all cost.

She did just that, paying three times what the commode was worth for resale. This shocked me because normally the big galoot is a savvy businesswoman. But instructions are instructions, and I was counting on her to bring the piece home. I might have remained annoyed at her for a long time had it not been for that fact that as I was cleaning the commode I discovered a “secret” drawer that contained a bundle of letters, tied up with a rose-colored ribbon.

The letters, written in 1848, were to a prominent Charleston housewife from her lover, an escaped
slave who managed to find his way north to Pennsylvania. I offered this treasure trove to the housewife's descendants, who currently live in Charleston. They wanted nothing to do with the letters, and threatened to sue if I even implied to anyone that they might be descended from this escaped slave. So vehemently did they deny any connection that I concluded they were, indeed, the product of this unorthodox union.

Eventually I put the letters up for sale at an auction house, with an international reputation, in New York City. There the letters fetched three times what I had to pay for the commode. Thanks to C.J. It was literally found money.

When my big-spending employee returned with a chair, Hermione Wou-ki wasted no time in getting down to business. “I assume you've both heard that Roberta Stanley was murdered.”

“Yes, ma'am,” we said in unison.

“Abby—I believe you gave me leave to call you by your first name?” Her voice rose at the end, forming a question out of what sounded like a statement. Perhaps Hermione was secretly a Canadian. I've heard there are a great number of Canadians living in stealth in this country. Someone even suggested to me that these hidden Canadians are planning to take over the U.S. and turn it into their country's eleventh province.

“By all means,” I said.

“I understand that you are a sleuth, as well as a collector who is held in high esteem by her colleagues.” Again the rising inflection.

“I am? I mean, they really say that?” I was turning into a Canadian as well. A couple of “
eh
's” and I would be totally assimilated.

“Abby, in this business tongues wag all the time. Fortunately for you, they wag in admiration.”

“Wow. Who would have thought?” Wisely, I took a moment to bask in the good news. Good news, like a really tasty fortune cookie, is a rarity in my experience.

“Cousin Dewlap changed his skin every year,” C.J. said, apropos of nothing.

“That was your Cousin Monty Python,” I said, and gave her the Timberlake glare. That glare, and my two beautiful children, were all I got out of my twenty year marriage to Buford.

Hermione knew just as well as I did that having C.J. in the room would prolong any conversation. “C.J., would you be a dear and see if you could help Rufus bring us a spot of tea? Oh, and bring those shortbread biscuits Abby is so fond of.”

“Sure thing,” C.J. said, and clomped out of the room just as cheerfully as if she'd been invited on a picnic.

“Gotta love her,” I said. I meant it.

“Yes, she is very special. Abby, I wish you'd come here by yourself—but never mind. It's too late now. You see, dear, I have reason to believe that I'm next.”

“Next to what?”

Her eyes flickered impatiently, but her voice remained cultured, under control. “The next to die, Abby.”

I leaned toward her, so as not to miss a word. “You mean like Roberta?”

She nodded. “Hopefully not
just
like Roberta. That is too gruesome to contemplate. I've never been a fan of violent death Twenty-three lifetimes ago—or was it just twenty-two—I was thrust into the Roman coliseum, my hands tied behind my back. There were a bunch of us; all Christian, all women and children. And five hungry lions. That, I remember clearly.” A faraway look glazed her eyes. I waited patiently, long enough for the lions to satiate their hunger, before she shook her head, returning to planet Earth. “Sleeping pills in my tea would be much preferred,” she said, without a trace of embarrassment.

“So you know who the killer is?”

“I haven't a clue. I was hoping you could help me with that. All I have is a possible motive, and I daresay it's not a very good one.”

“And that would be?”

“Because of my connection to Beauregard.”

Beauregard?
Did I detect familiarity that went beyond the usual shopkeeper/client relationship?

“Could you please elaborate,” I said.

“Colonel Humphrey—except that he wasn't a Kentucky colonel back then—was a world-class big game hunter. Some people think it takes guts to hunt a tiger, but I think all it takes is tiny nuts, if you'll pardon me being so crass. Yes, the animals are dangerous—there's no denying that—but in the end the hunter has a gun, something a tiger never has. In my opinion people who hunt large animals that they won't be eating themselves are trying to compensate for feeling powerless in other areas of their lives.

“Anyway, before he took up hunting in Africa, Colonel Humphrey hunted tigers in India and Burma, and rhinos in Sumatra. My father was a broker for traditional Chinese pharmacists, and hunters from all the world would come to his office and sell various animal body parts that were, and still are, in demand. Bear feet, rhino horns, tiger bones, even tiger penises.” She paused to catch her breath. “Do you know how much a tiger penis can go for to the right buyer?”

I shook my head. I'd done my share of dozing off during college, but I doubt that this subject
had been touched on in any of my courses. I'm almost positive I would have woken up for that.

“At least three thousand dollars. In Taiwan there are restaurants that sell tiger penis soup. Wealthy old men eat this soup believing that it will cure their impotence. The tigers they prefer are from northern China, from the Amur River region. There are about only three hundred of these tigers left. It frustrates me to no end that these adult men can't see beyond their immediate desires. When the last of these tigers is slaughtered, then what will they do?”

“Buy Viagra?”

Her laughter contained no mirth. “Conservationists have been trying to pound that lesson home to them, but without much success. The traditionalists say that this is how it has been done for thousands of years, and that the West simply doesn't understand. But understand what? Annihilation of a species? I span two cultures, Abby. Unfortunately, I can see both sides.”

“Why is that unfortunate?”

“Isn't it easier to see everything in black and white? I have just as much faith in Chinese medicine as I do Western, or so-called modern, medicine. I know of so many cases in which patients did not respond to modern medicine but were cured by Eastern practitioners.”

“Yes,” I said, “but things are changing. I think both traditions are becoming open to examining what the other has to offer. Take acupuncture as one example: many pain management clinics in the West now have acupuncturists on staff.”

“That's good. But I think it's easier to accept new ways than to disregard old ways. Wild tigers, I think, are doomed. My father is dead now, but I like to think he would have seen the handwriting on the wall and gone into a less destructive occupation. Which brings me back to Beauregard.”

“It does?”

“Abby, Beauregard claims to have repented from his wholesale slaughter ways. My, that is a mouthful. Anyway, I think it's possible he may possess knowledge of some black-marketing in endangered species, and that's why his lover was killed.”

“So Roberta was telling the truth. They really are—were—lovers!”

“My dear, surely this does not come as a surprise. Everyone in Charleston knows this.”

“Not everyone. I bet the man who cleans the restrooms at the bus station doesn't know.”

She looked perplexed, rather than annoyed. For women like Hermione Wou-ki, “everyone” does not mean
everyone.
Instead, it pertains to all the folks who are at her social-economic level. To be
brutally honest, my “everyone” doesn't include the Trailways janitor either.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I was nitpicking. At any rate, I don't understand how it is that your father's business connection with the Colonel has anything to do with Roberta Stanley's death, or you being ‘next', as you put it.”

Before she had time to explain the obvious to my dim-witted self, we both heard a rather lively conversation between C.J. and Rufus as they approached from the hallway. Hermione leaned so close that her lips almost touched my ear.

“Abby, if anything happens to me, then you'll be next.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“These people—the smugglers—have a lot of power. More than you can imagine.”

A
second later C.J. entered the room bearing a silver tray loaded with tea things.

Rufus was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, don't stop on my account,” the big galoot said. “Who am I to judge? But Abby, don't you think you should ask Greg if it's all right with him if Hermione kisses you?”

I can't always think fast on my feet, so it was a good thing I was sitting on the sofa. “You're absolutely right, C.J. Hermione, we're going to have to put our affair on hold until I've had a chance to tell Greg.”

Worldly woman that she was, Hermione smiled. “Abby, I believe you take cream, and C.J., if memory serves me right, you take both. Something about your granny having invented cottage cheese that way while having tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace.”

“Yes, ma'am,” C.J. said, “but back then it was
called palace cheese. It wasn't until Granny Ledbetter took the idea back to Shelby that folks started calling it cottage cheese.”

I'd heard this story so many times I was beginning to think it was true. “Hermione, do me a favor, and don't ask C.J. how farmer's cheese got its name. Swiss cheese either.”

She nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Please, ladies. Help yourselves to the pastries. These are savory—miniature quiche—and these, I believe, are sweet. Let's see, this looks like almond paste, and here we have various Danish, and, oh, look at these strawberry tarts. I have never tasted strawberries as delicious as the ones grown locally. They have got to be the best in the world.”

Hermione was right. Lowcountry strawberries are unparalleled, not only in my opinion, but in the minds of the thousands of people who can be seen bent at the waist in “you pick ‘em” fields every spring. Perhaps it has something to do with the warm sunny days and cool nights that accompany strawberry season in this climate.

At any rate, just the sight of the strawberry tarts made me salivate, and they were the first thing I reached for. Ditto for C.J. and Hermione. C.J. and I practically inhaled our tarts, but Hermione popped one in her mouth and chewed twice before turning the color of that luscious fruit.

“C.J.,” I said, “I think she might be choking.”

Hermione nodded vigorously, all the while slapping her chest.

“I'm calling 911,” I said, and reached for my cell.

In the meantime the big galoot had gotten out of her chair, picked Hermione off the sofa, and put her arms around the woman's diaphragm. The next thing I knew a strawberry flew across the room with the force of a speeding bullet. Hermione grunted, then moaned loudly.

“I think you might have broken one of her ribs,” I said, and punched 911 even though the crisis had passed.

“Yeah,” C.J. said, “that does tend to happen with me.”

“What do you mean? Is this a regular occurrence?”

“I can't help it, Abby. Granny always said I didn't know my own strength. Which is why I got banned from the Annual Shelby Car Toss.”

“The what toss?” I asked, only half paying attention. Hermione's face was returning to its normal color, and I was beginning to wonder if the emergency folks were going to be cross with me for having issued a false alarm.

“Abby,” C.J. said, no longer the least bit concerned about our hostess, “Shelby isn't nearly as
big as Charleston, but to tell you the truth, Shelby is a whole lot more exciting. Y'all have Spoleto, but we have the Annual Car Toss. And even then, the toss isn't an official event, but just something we locals do for fun.

“Anyway, the first time Granny took me to the toss, I registered as a contestant. Of course folks teased me because I was the only girl to do so. And of course they insisted that I, being the only girl registered, had to go first. So I got down there on the field—we use the high school football field—grabbed the front of the car with my right hand, and tossed it over my left shoulder. It wasn't hard at all, because that silly old car didn't even have an engine in it.

“At any rate, you should have heard all the hollering and complaining, folks saying that I cheated, on account of I used only one hand, and was ten, instead of twelve, which is the official minimum age for contestants. But I knew what was really going on.”

“What?” Hermione asked. She seemed to have totally recovered.

“They were embarrassed, that's what. You see, most men can't lift the front of the car but a few inches off the ground, and here I was actually tossing it. But y'all, they shouldn't have the word ‘toss' as part of the name if they don't want you to
actually do it. And as for that other little thing—well, if you ask me, Coach Shafor should have known to duck.”

“Yes, he should have,” Hermione said with a laugh. “That reminds me of the time I went kayaking in northern India. It was just me, the Dalai Lama, Prince Philip, and—Shhh! I hear something. It must be Rufus. Ladies, forgive me if I must again appear as a pompous ass.”

Wailing sirens was all anyone heard for the next few minutes.

 

C.J. and I slipped out while the paramedics rushed in. That's how I would like to remember our exit. The truth is, I had to drag C.J. out by a bra strap, and every few steps I had to kick her gently in the shins. I felt like I was riding a burro up the north side of the Grand Canyon.

“But Abby, why can't I—”

“Not now, dear.”

“Abby, do you think Rufus is up to something? I mean, something no good?”

I waited until I got her in my car. “It's clear she doesn't trust him. While you were in the kitchen helping him with the tea, she as much as told me that Roberta Stanley's death was connected to the fact that Colonel Humphrey used to supply a broker in Hong Kong with contraband animal parts.
Her father was that broker. She seems to think that because of that she'll be the next to go.”

“Abby, you're not making a lick of sense. Who would want to buy animal parts?”

“Unfortunately, a lot of people. Even though these animals are endangered, there are still people who want to buy ivory, snow leopard skins, sun bear paws, you name it. Think, C.J. Use that oversized noggin of yours—oops, I'm sorry. That was ugly of me. I didn't mean to say that.”

“Yes, you did, but that's okay, Abby. I have to bite my tongue lots of times.”

“You do?”

“‘Abby, you mental midget,' I think to myself. ‘Just because you're tiny doesn't mean you have to have a small mind. Good things come in small packages? Ha! So do bee stings and fire ant bites. If there was room inside that teensy-weensy head of yours for a brain, you'd be dangerous.' That kind of thing.”

“Touché.” I burst out laughing. “Do you really think those things?”

She nodded gravely. “Ooh, Abby, sometimes I think things that are much worse. I know people think I'm as loony as a Warner Bros. cartoon, but I constantly have to deal with folks whose IQs are half what mine is. Can you imagine how stressful that is?”

“Not by half. C.J., buckle up your seat belt and let's get ready to rumble.”

When she giggled, I knew I had my friend back. She giggled again when my cell phone rang. It is programmed to sound like a kitten's meow, but quite frankly it sounds more like a queen in heat. Even Dmitri, who is neutered, has shown an unnatural interest in this electronic device.

“Wassup, dog?” I said, mimicking Randy Jackson from
American Idol.
By the way, I knew it was Greg on the other end.

“I'd like to speak to Miss Abdul, please.”

“Sorry, dude. Will Mrs. Washburn do?”

“In a pinch. Hey Abby, I did the checking you asked me to do. Not only does this Aikenberg guy still practice in Charleston, but he is
the
number one ambulance chaser in the county.”

“I thought that dubious honor went to—uh—you know. I can't think of his name at the moment, but he's got beady eyes and breath that could kill a dragon.”

“Aikenberg doesn't need to advertise. It's all word of mouth for him. You know how I feel about ambulance chasers, Abby, but I'm keeping this guy's name on file.”

I thanked Greg for the info and pressed the pedal to the metal. My Mercedes purred.

 

Rubberneckers love a grizzly death, but will settle for murder by gunshot. The crowd milling in front of Colonel Beauregard Humphrey's mansion was even larger than the previous day's crowd. A massive black taffeta bow had been affixed to the double front doors, but the wrought iron gates were padlocked and there was no docent masquerading as the Colonel.

“Alley, here we come,” I said. But stupid me. The grand homes that line the Battery have no alley behind them. Instead, they are backed by other grand homes that face Atlantic Street. Between them are high brick garden walls that delineate property lines. In order to sneak in through the kitchen door, one of us would have to divert the crowd's attention.

“Ooh, ooh, let me do it.”

“Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.”

“Abby, I've been meaning to speak to you about that.”

“What?”
I felt my chin, which, I am relieved to report, was still as smooth as a baby's bottom.

“Gotcha.” The big galoot giggled.

It was time to take the matter into my own minute hands. What was good enough for Marvin was good enough for the minions.

Cupping my hands to my mouth, I called upon every decibel that lurked in the depths of my
diaphragm. “Look over there beyond the seawall. A whale just spouted!”

The mob turned and moved as one person. In the meantime, C.J. and I made a mad, unobserved dash for the side garden and the kitchen door. Much to my relief, the door was unlocked. At worst we could be charged with entering, but not breaking. To cover my tiny, and C.J.'s rather large, tracks, we'd stopped at the Harris Teeter supermarket and picked up a prepackaged fruit basket. Sympathetic neighbors bearing gifts couldn't be prosecuted, could they?

“Yoo-hoo,” I called softly. My intent was not to make our presence known as much as it was to determine whether we were alone—at least in that part of the house. When Daddy died we were besieged by helpful friends and family. But the Colonel had no family in town, and hadn't really lived here long enough to make close friends. That assessment went hand in hand with his penchant for engaging tourists in the little dramas he staged out front. The man was lonely.

Perhaps Roberta Stanley had been his only real friend. If that was the case, he would most probably have to make the arrangements for her funeral, which meant that the Colonel was probably spending the day looking at caskets, hooking up with clergy, and the like. No doubt there were
also visits to the police station, the morgue, and his attorney.

“Ooh, Abby, look,” C.J. whispered, stirring me from my reverie, “the poor man is so heartbroken he couldn't even finish his cereal this morning.”

There are few sights sadder than a bowl of soggy flakes left uneaten by a grieving lover. One of them is a crossword puzzle worked in ink with as many wrong guesses as there were right ones.

“Come on,” I said. “There doesn't seem to be anyone here. Now's our chance to look around.”

“That's so wrong,” C.J. said.

“I know. But C.J., if I left it all up to the police, your buddy, Hermione, could end up dancing with the fishes.”

“Not that, silly. I mean the crossword puzzle. Sixteen down should be
im
plode, not
ex
plode.”

I grabbed one of C.J.'s oversized mitts and pulled her along behind me. Whatever lay ahead in the dark labyrinth of rooms, we would face together. Perhaps even, with a bit of coaxing, I could get C.J. to lead the way.