Death of a Rug Lord (16 page)

N
orthwoods Mall began life as a flat, one-story affair that might have given tall people claustrophobia. A few years ago it underwent some renovations that brought both light and life into it. Folks tell me that it feels much airier now, and judging by the crowds that day, they were right.

One would think that with so many stores at her disposal—and a hundred dollars cash pressed into her hand—Mama would be happy to wander off and amuse herself for a half hour or so. Of course one would be wrong. It wasn't until I'd upped the ante to three hundred—which meant finding an ATM—that I got rid of her, and even then I didn't trust her.

Perhaps Andy Garcia wasn't to be trusted either, because by the time I finally got to the Dillard's mall entrance, there wasn't anyone standing there, short or tall—except for me. I was only five minutes late. In a city like Charleston (and by extension, North Charleston) where the living is easy, that was almost like being early.

No sooner had I decided to give Andy Garcia ten
more minutes than a man matching his description popped out of nowhere.

“
Mr. Garcia?
Where did you come from all at once?”

“Actually, I've been watching you for the last five minutes from the other side of the perfume counter. I used to date the woman who works there. Still, she almost made me buy some. Man, that stuff's expensive.”

“You find that amusing, do you? Watching me grow panicked?”

He touched my elbow lightly. “We need to start walking. You're being stalked by a real nutcase.”

“Me?”

“A wack job, if I've ever seen one.”

“Where? Who?”

“She ducked in that formal store a minute or two after you arrived, when your back was turned. She's hiding behind that mannequin in the long red dress.”

My stomach sank, while the hair on the back of my neck rose. “Uh-oh. What does she look like?”

“She's an old woman in a costume of some kind—like in
I Love Lucy
.”

Although I already knew the wacko's identity, there was an infinitesimal chance I was wrong. After all, just that morning I'd heard on the news that a flock of pigs was spotted flying over Cincinnati. I always swore that would never happen.

Andy put his hand even with my head and then raised it several inches. “She's about this tall, I guess.”

“Okay, I confess. That nutcase is my mama. She's afraid you're going to make a pair of gloves out of me.”

He laughed, showing lovely white teeth. “Mrs. Washburn, I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I couldn't make much more than one glove out of you.”

“Just for that, bear with me, and follow me into the store.”

“Sure, I'm game.”

I led him straight to the mannequin in red, where we stopped and I pretended to look around. “Mr. Sanford,” I said, “I'm telling you, I did see a chimpanzee come in here; I'm not making it up.”

“I'm not accusing you of lying, Mrs. Washburn, but the three other reports we had were of an escapee from a mental institution, not an ape. Two of those reports were official, by the way. They describe her as being wild-eyed, with stringy gray hair, and dressed in a 1950s costume.”

“Yes, that's it! A chimpanzee in a dress. Did the reports mention how it smelled? I mean it smelled like—well, like woof!”

“Like
woof
?” Mama tumbled out from within the folds of the red gown. “What is that supposed to mean? That I smell like a dog? Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake Washburn, how could you? And after all I've done for you too? Who else would have endured fifty-six hours of unbearably painful labor just to bring you into this world?”

“Mama, it was thirty-six, not fifty-six. And we were only yanking your chain because you were spying on us.”

“As well I should. You'd consented to meet a total stranger—a marked man yet—on the spur of the moment. Someone needed to keep tabs on you. Then I
spotted this oddball hanging out in the perfume section, and he was making the goo-goo eyes at you, which would have made it impossible for the Mexican gentlemen and you to rendezvous, so what was a mother to do?”

“Mama loves to contradict herself,” I said to Andy, “but she's not a racist; she has a ruminate for a daughter-in-law.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Ignore her,” Mama told him, “she's just trying to get my goat. My name is Mozella Wiggins, by the way. And yes I am Abigail's mother, but I was a child bride.”

Andy took Mama's outstretched hand and kissed it as he bowed deeply. “I am very pleased to meet you Senora Wiggins,” he said, adopting a slight accent. “My name is Andre Garcia Corrales Reynoso Delarosa Escobar Salcido Fuentes Sosa Hidalgo Vallejo Iglesias Zambrano Lucero Viera Tamayo Barajas.”

Mama giggled. “My, what a mouthful. Although I suppose Hatshepsut isn't much easier.”

“What did you say, Mama?”

“Hatshepsut. She was the most powerful queen in all of ancient Egypt.”

“Yes, I know, but what does that have to do with you?”

“Because that's my middle name.”

“No, it's not.”

“Then what is it?”

“The letter H. You always told us it didn't stand for anything—except maybe for
handsome
. In the old sense of the word.”

“That's because I didn't want to put on airs.”

“So here in the mall, in front of a complete stranger, you reveal that you're named after the most powerful woman in all of ancient history?”

“Abigail Louise, there is a time and place for everything, and I do think that a pouting episode is quite inappropriate at the moment. Might I suggest that we move on down to the food court, find ourselves a table, and then over some lunch we could interview this very attractive young man.”

“Who is young enough to be your
grandson
. Excellent idea about the food, though.” Mama's picnic could wait.

Andy agreed, so we headed for the food court. He and I both got the teriyaki chicken from the Japanese vendor, and Mama, who only eats what she calls American, had a slice of pepperoni pizza—with extra cheese.

“So,” Andy said, taking care to swallow before speaking, “Fig said I can trust you.”

“Likewise,” I said. I may not have been quite as considerate about what I did with my food, but at least it was all pushed into one cheek.

“How can I help you ladies?” he asked.

“I don't know if Fig told you this, but I'm primarily an antiques dealer. It's my suspicion that Magic Genie Carpet Cleaners is involved in a racket whereby folks turn over their genuine antique Oriental rugs for cleaning, but in return get machine-made copies worth a fraction as much.”

Andy groaned. “That doesn't surprise me. But I don't think it's the counter people or the drivers who are in on the scam. Don't get me wrong—they're mean
as snakes, but—oh man, this is going to bring on the bad karma for sure—they're just not that bright.”

“How would you describe them?” I asked.

“Country people through and through. But from the Upstate.”

“How do you know that?”

“You can always tell those people by their accents.”

Intrigued, I pressed on. “How do you mean?”

“Imagine trying to quack with your mouth full of marbles.”

Although born and reared in the Upstate, I found this immensely funny. Fortunately, before I broke into loud guffaws and started slapping bruise marks on my thighs, I noticed Mama's lips disappear into a thin straight line. Her Wigginsness was not amused.

“Hmm,” I said. “An interesting observation, Mr. Garcia Corrales Reynoso Delarosa Escobar Salcido Fuentes—”

It was Andy who laughed. “Please, Mrs. Washburn, call me Andy. Now how in the world did you memorize my name so fast?”

“Whew! I didn't; that's as far as I've gotten. Thank goodness you stopped me there. And please, call me Abby.”

“Is this little love fest going to last as long as his name?” Mama asked.

“Mama, how rude!”

“Rude of
me
? Abby, he just said we speak with marbles in our mouths.”

Poor Andy turned the color of ricotta cheese. “Uh…I'm so sorry, Mrs. Wiggins. Abby. I didn't realize—I mean, how wrong that was of me. I apologize.”

“And just so you know,” Mama said, scooting up an inch taller in her seat, “we're not country folk.”

“Maybe we shouldn't dis country folk either,” I said. “Believe me, it's always easier for me to get off my high horse than to get on it in the first place. I might as well just stay off the dang thing.”

“Actually,” Andy said, “I'm originally from just outside Fort Lawn, South Carolina. Do you know where that is?”

Mama and I exchanged glances. “
That
place is smaller than a speck on a gnat's navel,” Mama said. “How can there be an ‘outside' to a place that has no ‘inside'?”

“Touché. My parents were actually
legal
immigrants from Mexico City. They picked Fort Lawn because they thought it sounded nice—lots of grass and stuff. They stuck it out until I was three. So who am I to talk, right? I could just as easily end up speaking like those women at the cleaners.”

“Do you think they were from Fort Lawn?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes friends of parents come to visit, and they sound sort of like that.”

“Did only women work at Magic Genie Cleaners? Can you describe anyone or anything that might be distinctive?”

He laid down his chopsticks. “I go to church regularly,” he said, “so I'd take my dress shirts in there to have them laundered. And yes, as far as I could tell, only women worked inside, and the drivers and loaders were always men. As far as anything distinctive—well, there was Big Tina.”

Mama slurped up a string of cheese that was dangling from her chin. Her eyes flashed like a pair of warning lights.

“Was that a truck name?” I asked.

Andy laughed. “Nah, but it sounds like one, doesn't it?”

“That isn't kind,” Mama snapped. “Abigail, I'm especially ashamed of you. When you were a little girl other children called you ‘elf' and ‘Barbie Doll' and even ‘Dinky Toy.'”

“Go on, Andy,” I said, feeling properly chastised.

“I swear, Abby, I've never seen a bigger woman in my life. I'd say about six-five and three hundred pounds. A real giantess. All the other women were afraid of Big Tina, and I didn't blame them. All she had to do was say a word or two and they got cracking, but I'm telling you, if those women hadn't obeyed, Big Tina could have ripped their heads off using just her pinkies.”

“Do you think she was a transvestment?” Mama asked.

“No Mama, I'm pretty sure she wasn't.”

“How do you know, Abby? You didn't see her.”

“Mrs. Wiggins,” Andy said, “when I first saw Big Tina she was four or five months pregnant. When I last saw her she was carrying Little Larry around on her hip. Tell me, has either of you ladies ever heard of a baby weighing thirteen pounds at birth? That's what he weighed. And when he was one-year-old he looked like a four-year-old child. It even occurred to me that the government might be up to something—you know, like a secret breeding program of some kind.”

Lacking Andy's good manners, I licked the tips of my chopsticks before setting them aside. “Mama, where did you
really
meet Big Larry?”

I could see Andy start out of the corner of my eye. As for Mama, if she drew back in her chair any farther, she was going to become one with the hard plastic.

“You can't hide inside yourself, Mama. You're not a turtle, for crying out loud. And don't tell me you met Big Larry at the Senior Center, or the Shepherd's Center, because I know that those answers aren't true.”

“All right, all right, you don't have to get your knickers in a knot,” Mama said, patting her pearls. “It's possible that I met Larry on my doorstep.”

Remain calm, I ordered myself. Flying off the handle only works for axe heads, and then they have logistics problems.

“
When
, Mama?”

“It might have been the day we went to Pasha's Palace and you bought that carpet as a wedding present for Toy and C.J.”

“And what was he doing there?” Even though my voice was an octave higher, I believe it still registered as calm.

“He might have been distributing coupons to use at Magic Genie Cleaners.”

“And just how likely are these ‘mights'?”

“Pretty probable. Abby, don't be angry with me. I'm just a poor old widder woman with very few friends. What am I supposed to do when the Almighty drops a big old bear of a man on my doorstep? I have needs too.”

“Euw!”

“TMI,” Andy muttered as he looked away.

“Mama, you didn't!”

“Are you saying I'm undesirable, Abby?”

“No, I'm saying no such thing.” Then I remembered how long it took to dissuade Mama of that notion the last time it took hold of her. “Tell her how desirable she is, Andy.”

“What?”

I mouthed the words
sweet nothings
.

Euw,
he mouthed back.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a pair of Wiggins-Washburn eyes is worth an entire novel. The poor lad didn't stand a chance.

“Mrs. Wiggins,” he said, “for, uh, a woman of your age, you are—uh—very nice looking. And your hair is very attractive.”

Mama pushed her greasy paper plate aside, laid her head on her arms and proceeded to wail. It sounded as if she was mourning an entire village of closely related dead relatives, Middle Eastern style. It was certainly an inappropriate response from an elderly woman, just because a virile young man had been somewhat guarded with his praise. Clearly there was more to the situation than met my eardrums.