Death of a Rug Lord (23 page)

I barely heard her last comment. There were at least two other Zorrolike creatures in the room, and they were standing next to the immense spread-eagled body of Big Larry. The pretend duke was with them, and that's precisely where I wanted to be as well.

A
lthough I do realize that humanity is somehow connected, and that the death of even just one of us diminishes all mankind, nonetheless, I approached the scene before me with a mixture of awe and revulsion. Spread out on the floor, without even his personality to contain him, Big Larry seemed to take up twice as much space in death as he did in life.

I read somewhere that nowadays funeral homes are stocking plus-size coffins in order to accommodate the helpless victims of fast food chains, but I doubted if even one of those would be adequate to see Big Larry into the ground. Since Charleston is a port city, stacked to the gills with containers, it would make more sense to pick up the deceased in one of those, seal it, and use that as his final home. The only downside in my opinion is that metal containers are generally fireproof. The Devil's flunkies were going to have their work cut for them.

“I didn't see him go down,” I said. “What happened?”

“You shouldn't be here, Mrs. Washburn,” the fake duke said. “Agent Krukowski,” he bellowed, “take her outside!”

“Agent Nadel,” she said calmly, “we owe a lot to Mrs. Washburn, not the least of which is an explanation.”

Agent Nadel grunted and pointed to one of the other Zorros with his chin

“I shot six rounds into him,” said the third Zorro. To his credit, he sounded sad. “I used a silencer; that's why you didn't hear anything, that and the fact that Agent Krukowski kept you occupied. Plus, all this machinery humming makes a lot of ambient noise.”

Agent Nadel grunted again, but with less hostility. “We can't have civilians watching people die—not if we can help it.”

“Thanks—although to be entirely honest,” I said, “it would have been interesting.”

The fourth Zorro snickered, but stopped abruptly when Agent Nadel whipped off his mask and glared at him. “How about some professionalism, Agent Newman?”

Suddenly I felt like throwing up. One minute I'd been fascinated by the corpse of a killer, the next I saw a
man
lying dead on the floor at my feet. No doubt Big Larry would have happily killed me, had perhaps killed others, but he was a husband and a father, as well as somebody's son. At some point he had even been an innocent child brimming with potential. What a waste of life, what certain heartbreak for others.

I felt Agent Krukowski's arm across my shoulder. “Mrs. Washburn, are you going to be alright?”

“Yes—just not anytime soon. I feel like it's somehow—I know it doesn't make any sense, but—”

“That it's your fault?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Because you're a kind, caring human being, who unfortunately got mixed up in this awful mess. But you have to understand, Lively Tupperman's death had nothing to do with you. He was going to take out Agent Nadel; that's why we brought him down.”

“Come again?”

“Big Larry.”

“Ah yes, of course. I remember now. Mama read that off his library card—Mama! We have to save Mama!”

“Where is she?”

“What do you
mean
where is she? I was beginning to think you spooks lived inside our underwear. How come you don't know where Mama is?”

“Mrs. Washburn—”

“You have your arm around my shoulder; you may as well call me Abby.”

“Thank you. Abby, as you've probably guessed by now, we've been keeping close tabs on you.”

“You stayed at the Princess and the Pea, didn't you?”

“Don't you think that with a name like that, they should have provided better mattresses?”

“For real—hey, we don't have time to compare motel amenities.”

“Right. As I was about to say, we knew you were headed out here, so when you stopped at Bojangles we went on ahead and got into place. Security was absolutely appalling—although easy on us. We took every
one out, except for Mr. Tupperman. Sorry, Abby, but we needed to keep him in the game in hopes of getting a confession out of him. But thanks to you, we did better than that! Your conversation with the Rug Lord herself was brilliant.”

I shook off her arm. “But Mama! We have to get back to Mama!”

“Yes, certainly. Where is she?”

“She's having coffee with a killer named Cynthia,” I wailed.

 

They used to say that death and taxes were the only two inevitable things (although the very wealthy get closer each year to avoiding both). Now they've added a third exception to this rule: Abigail Louise Washburn cannot be kept from her beloved Mama.

Short of pistol-whipping me into submission and tying me up with yarn, I left the FBI no choice. In fact, so intently (and perhaps eloquently) did I plead my case that they let me pick my own team; I picked Agents Elizabeth Krukowski and Clyde Dilworth Standingwater. Agent Standingwater was the man who'd brought Big Larry down. He was also a member of the Cheyenne Nation.

We all got into Agent Krukowski's car, which is the same car that had trailed us up from Charleston. Upon sighting Cynthia's house, Agent Krukowski pulled over and cut the engine.

“Who's that child on the porch?” Agent Standingwater asked.

“That's no child—that's my mother!”

Although the agents may have muttered words of
admonishment, neither of them made an effort to stop me from jumping from the car. I took off running so fast that I plumb left my shadow behind (it made an embarrassed appearance a nanosecond later).

“Mama,” I screamed. “Mama!”

My minimadre was both tapping her feet and spinning her pearls. In her free hand she held her cell phone.

“It's about time, Abigail Louise. I was fixing to come look for you, and in my brand new Naturalizers too. I could have gotten these new pumps all scuffed up.”

“Are you all right, Mama? Where's Cynthia?”

“She's taking a nap, dear.” She stiffened when she noticed my trailing entourage. “Who, pray tell, are these people? Oh Lordy, they look like Lithuanian acrobats to me; I saw some once on the Ed Sullivan show who dressed just like that. Abby, are you being held hostage by insurgents from the Baltics?”

“No Mama, they're FBI agents. It turns out that Kitty Bohring was the mastermind behind an international distribution ring of stolen and counterfeit carpets. She's dead now, by the way. She committed suicide just a few minutes ago, rather than be taken into custody.”

“Oh, my.” She let go of her pearls and scooped me into her arms. “You poor, poor baby.”

“I didn't see it, Mama; it happened in Charleston. But I was there when Lively Larry Tupperman went to meet his Maker—although again I was spared the sight. Agent Krukowski, here, kept me distracted during the actual event.”

Like it or not, both agents got a dose of “Mama love.” While she fussed over them, holding their heads
to her bosom, each in turn, and giving them memorable whiffs of her very expensive French perfume called Eau de Pan, commingled with the odors one might expect to pick up on a stress-filled trip sans deodorant, I sneaked into the house. Just inside the back door, mere inches from where Mama was marking the FBI with her scent, Cynthia sat slumped in a dinette chair, her head resting on a Formica-topped table. The drool seeping from her mouth was frothy in places.

I dashed back out. “Mama, that's no mere nap. What have you
done
to her?”

Mama reluctantly released the very handsome Agent Standingwater, who likewise seemed somewhat reluctant to stand on his own. “I made her some coffee, dear, and then we chatted. It's as simple as that.”

“Details, Mama!”

“Well, you know that she lied about the grandchildren. How evil can one person get? One minute those two little darlings were happy and healthy, and just as cute as buttons, and the next minute—poof!” Mama snapped her fingers. “She killed them! Just like that she killed them by saying they never existed.”

“Listen to yourself, Mama; she couldn't have killed them if they never existed in the first place.”

“Abigail, this is no time for logic. Now where was I? Oh yes, so she's trying to keep me occupied, and she has a gun, but she's Southern too, you see, so she asks me if I want coffee. Of
course
I want coffee; it's Sunday morning, for goodness sake. Does a hoppy toad want a nice moist spot in the garden? Anyway, then she confesses that she doesn't know
how
to make a good cup of coffee on account of she grew up in a culture in
which caffeine was forbidden and has never developed a taste for the stuff—did I tell y'all that this isn't even her house?”

“No ma'am,” Agent Krukowski said.

“It belongs—I guess belong
ed
is the word—to Kitty Bohring. This whole development does. It has no official name, because they don't want it on a map, but some of the folks call it—in fun, they say—Stepford Acres. My, but I do seem to prattle on.”

“Prattle, please,” Agent Standingwater said. “I insist.”

Mama beamed. “Very well then, just for you. At any rate, as I was going to say, I managed to convince Cynthia that she might like coffee the way I fix it: with lots and lots of sugar and milk, and just a pinch of cinnamon. Then when she was helping me hunt for the cinnamon, I emptied the contents of my pill case into her mug. The rest, as they say, is his—”

Much to my surprise, Mama didn't seem the least bit surprised to have her story cut short by the arrival of two squad cars and an ambulance.

A
nd what
was
in your pill case?” Rob's mother, Sandra Goldburg, is capable of conducting interrogations in the most charming of Southern accents, while at the same time not moving a single facial muscle. One gets the impression that her face has been freeze-dried with disapproval, and that just one wrong word from you will cause the facade to crumble into the salad serving bowl, where it will disappear amidst the croutons and bacon bits.

“Oh just about everything,” Mama said. She was thoroughly enjoying her moment in the spotlight, and was oblivious to the existence of the anti-pill-popping, but wine-swigging, contingent of contemporary society, or else she didn't give her proverbial gnat's ass.

“Be more specific.”

“Mama, please,” Rob begged.

“Yes, Mother Goldburg,” Bob pleaded even more strongly.

My dear friends had every right to demand that Sandra toe the line tonight. The occasion was, after all, a dinner to celebrate Mama's heroism. Okay, so the
dinner party may have been thrown in my honor as well, but I've been given awards before, and have lots of time to get more. However, outside of church functions, this was Mama's first public recognition, and it was a joy to see her lapping it up.

Because so many folks in the area had been ripped off by Magic Genie Cleaners, and were glad to see the counterfeit ring exposed, pressure was brought on City Hall to throw Mama an official parade. Since parades are expensive—there is always a huge amount of cleanup—so Mama's route was very short, just once around the Battery in a horse and carriage, but afterward she said it was the high point of her life. Personally, I think it was well worth the $25,000 I donated toward the city's new sewer system.

That evening, because Mama's head was still in the clouds, she stepped right up to Sandra's challenge. “Let's see. I've had that pill case for a very long time, so there was a birth control pill in it, two acetaminophen, a thyroid pill, a muscle relaxer, three tranquilizers, and two prescription sleeping pills. The timed release kind.”

Sandra's face thawed instantaneously. “You could have killed that poor woman with your drugs! You're not a doctor. Shame on you, Mozella.
Shame on you!
”

Unfortunately, the two women had been seated next to each other, and I could see Mama wince with each word Mrs. Goldburg practically spat in her face.

“There wasn't a chance I could have killed her with my drugs,” Mama said. “She hated my coffee; she took just three sips, and then only because I dared her. If I hadn't tapped her on the head—Oops, did I say that?”

We all gasped, but I gasped the loudest. “Mama, you
didn't
,” I wailed.

“It was only a light tap, dear. Like this.” Mama picked up her salad plate and gave Sandra a rather solid thwack on the noggin.

Well, at least from my perspective it looked that way, but Sandra just snorted in derision. “I'm sure it was harder than that. But just so you know, Mozella, if you weren't the mother of my son's best friend, I would sue you.”

Too bad Bob had gone to so much trouble to make such a lovely gourmet dinner, because at that point no one was eating. The musk-oxen scrotums stuffed with lichens were getting cold on the serving platter, and the side dish of thrice boiled dandelion leaves cooked in a reduction of farm-raised caribou broth had developed a sheen that didn't appear to be what the cook intended. It was time to move the show along, for the best was yet to come. But first I needed an answer to a very important question.

“Mama, did you tell the paramedics what you did? Because I certainly did not hear you mention it to them.”

Mama gave me the evil eye. “I did; you can ask Greg.”

“What?”

Greg cleared his throat. “While Mozella was waiting for you to return from reconnoitering, she called and told me everything. I
am
a retired police officer, remember? You see, she was afraid that if she called 911, their arrival might put you in danger. I talked to the York County sheriff on her behalf, and a couple of
squad cars and an ambulance were waiting just about a mile down the road. Did you notice how quickly they arrived on the scene, Abby?”

“Uh—sorry, Mama.”

“Apology accepted, dear.” Dang it, it just wasn't right that Greg and Mama had kept me out of the loop. It's not like I would have disapproved of Mama conking a criminal on the bean with a frying pan. Okay, I might have disapproved a little; it
was
assault, after all.

“Well, no matter how you slice and dice it,” Sandra said, her face beginning to refreeze around the edges, “it's still assault. That poor woman has every right to press charges.”

Although Bob rolled his eyes, he was careful to do it in a way that neither Rob nor his mother could see. I pitied my friend. Our experiment with Aunt Nanny had come to naught, as she had fled the Rob-Bobs' house bleating in despair and exasperation. Sandra Goldburg had repeatedly thrown out Aunt Nanny's stash of timothy hay, and had, on more than one occasion, served mutton for dinner when it was her turn to cook.

Unless our surprise, due to arrive any minute—it was past due, in fact—worked, it looked as if Rob's mother was going to be a permanent part of my friends' household. Without as much as asking, she had declared her intention of taking over two of the six bedrooms, the butler's pantry, and the maid's room, gutting all of them and turning them into one grand mother-in-law suite. In fact, the first of many designers was scheduled to arrive on the morrow. One of them had even been on HGTV.

Sadly, my respect for Rob had eroded a great deal since his mother's arrival in Charleston. Not only had she taken over the house, which was only half his, but she'd practically taken over his half of The Finer Things as well. The woman was insidious, like an algae bloom on an ornamental pond; one didn't really notice how much she'd taken over until it was too late.

Unless something drastic happened, the Rob-Bobs were bound to split up, and become just ordinary singles named Bob and Rob, names that, frankly, had no cachet. More importantly, I might be forced to take sides and choose one of the two with whom to remain friends, which was the last thing I wanted to do; although I've known Rob much longer than Bob, and I
do
consider him my best friend, I could never just throw Bob's friendship away.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Rob said. The man is a mind reader, but fortunately he has become myopic in recent years.

“A penny?” I said in mock indignation. “I'll have you know that my thoughts are worth at least a dollar now because—”

The doorbell rang just then, a fact for which I'll be eternally grateful. Bob and I jumped up simultaneously, both knocking back our chairs. Silly us; we were like children who believed Santa Claus was waiting on the other side of a couple of stained wooden planks.

“What the heck?” Rob said.

“I bet that's the flowers I ordered,” Sandra said. “They were supposed to arrive three hours ago. In
Charlotte they would have arrived on time. Not only is this guy
not
getting a tip, but I'm not paying for the damn things.”

But by then the door was wide open and there were no flowers to be seen, only Cousin Imogene and an oversized handbag. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she was practically ecstatic to see Mama. After the requisite hugs and kisses, I introduced her all around. To be sure, I saved the best for last.

“Now,”
I whispered.

“Everyone,” Bob boomed in his marvelous basso profundo, “Abby and I have an announcement to make.”

“And what would that be, darling?” Sandra said. “Will she be inviting that woman to this so-called dinner of yours?”

“Mama!” Rob's jaw twitched with anger.

“Why that
is
a lovely idea, Mrs. Goldberg,” I said. “Cousin Imogene, seeing as how this
is
my celebratory dinner, I feel as if I have a right to ask you: would you care to have dinner with us? We've hardly begun.”

“I'd love to, thank you very much.”

Sandra Goldburg, who'd always been a class act in my eyes, turned her back on the new arrival and addressed the ceiling in low but quite audible tones. “What's next? Are y'all going to ask her to move in?”

“Thank you, Mother Goldburg, for
yet
another wonderful suggestion!” Bob slipped a scrawny arm around Imogene's scrawny shoulders. Funny, but the two of them looked as related as it is possible to be.

Rob looked stunned. “You're not serious—I mean, if you are, that's great, but—well, shouldn't we have talked it over first?”

“I think it's a fabulous idea,” Mama said. “We're going to have such fun together, Imogene.”

Bob had managed to maneuver Imogene around the dining room so he could put his other scrawny arm around his partner. “Hey Rob,” he said, “Abby is your best friend, and you're terribly fond of Mozella. I thought you'd be pleased if I invited their cousin to stay with us for a while.”

“With
us
? What does that mean?” Rob's beautiful, and very wealthy, mother was far too much of a control freak to raise her voice outside of the bedroom (I doubt if she'd ever done so, even in there), but it was exceedingly clear that she'd already had all four of her burners lit. When not speaking, her lips totally disappeared in a thin hard line.

Bob smiled. He'd rehearsed a casual, slightly condescending smile, but the one that appeared on his lips was as twisted as a stick of red licorice. Clearly the man was nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs.

“It
means
,” he said, “that Cousin Imogene can be my guest here for as long as she wishes to be.”

Sandra gasped, despite her intentions. “You can't do that! It's my house too. Rob, darling, say something to these dear people.”

At least Rob had the courtesy to look us each in the eye for a second or two before responding. “Mama,” he said quietly, “Bob does have a right to have guests.”

“Why I never!” Her voice had risen three notes, so great was her agitation.

“But speaking of guests,” I said, trying my best not to gloat, “Rob, do you like pets?”

“Pets?”

“
No
pets,” Sandra said. She closed her eyes and shivered. “Absolutely
no
pets! The shedding, the smell—it's unthinkable.”

“Abby,” Rob said, “you know that I love cats, but we can't have any because of Bob's allergies.”

“Do you like even smaller pets?”

“You mean like hamsters?”

“Sort of. Cousin Imogene brought along Willard and Ben. They're very quiet, so you won't even know they're here.”

Sandra opened one eye and fixed it on me. “That's completely out of the question. We haven't even said yes to that woman, much less her rodents.”

Rob squared his shoulders and, I swear, grew three inches in height at the same time, even though he was already fifty years old. “Cousin Imogene,” he said, gallantly kissing her hand, “you are welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Cousin Imogene blushed and giggled like a nine-year-old. “Abby, you didn't tell me how cute he was.”

“That's because he's spoken for,” I whispered.

“Oh you naughty, naughty boy,” she said before giggling again. “Well, I suppose a fellow can always have two girlfriends, can't he?”

“Uh-uh,” Bob stammered, “you see, Cousin Imogene—”

“Are Ben and Willard in the car?” I asked.

“Oh no, dear,” she said, her attention quite diverted for the moment, “they're right here.”

She hefted the oversized handbag up on the nearest chair and held the wooden handles about an inch apart. Immediately two very whiskered snouts poked out and commenced twitching.

“What the hell?” Rob said.

“Lord have mercy,” Sandra and Mama said simultaneously.

“Come on out boys,” Cousin Imogene said. She tore the bag open the rest of the way and out clambered two of the biggest and ugliest rodents I've ever seen, and that includes everyone in my ex-husband's family.

Mama, who'd raised a son who kept white mice as pets, was green around the gills, but still a step or two away from fainting. She grabbed her purse from the console by the door.

“It's been a lovely evening everyone,” she said, speaking faster than a Southern woman ought to. “Good night y'all.”

“Good night,” we chorused.

Perhaps it was the door shutting hard behind Mama, but something definitely spooked one of the rats. It took off like greased lightning and disappeared in the direction of Sandra's bedroom.

“Oh my,” Cousin Imogene said, “Willard's always been a bit rambunctious. But don't you worry, he'll come out when he's hungry.”

“That could be days,” I said, “because rats will eat just about anything—if you know what I mean.”

“Oops,” Cousin Imogene said as she unsuccessfully
lunged at Ben, who proved himself the less intelligent of the two by jumping on the table and heading straight for the stuffed musk-oxen scrotums.

“That does it,” Sandra said, her voice a full octave above normal. “I'm moving back to Charlotte,
tonight
, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

Nor did we even try.