Death Is a Cabaret Page 5

  Jeff figured that the ladies’ antique canes would each bring four figures at auction. He’d seen historically valuable pieces—those that had belonged to former U.S. presidents or British aristocracy—fetch more than ten grand.

  After Jeff secretly admired the women’s walking sticks, he realized what a strain the situation must put on the third woman. The tiny thing, whose skin and eyes were nearly as blue white as her hair, was seated between the other two. Likely, she’d been stationed conveniently in the middle so that she could be of assistance to either of the others when they needed it. She would be expected to hold doors open, pick up dropped canes, and retrieve canes left behind in restaurants or hanging on shopping carts (much as they declared needing them, cane users were always leaving the artificial appendages somewhere). In spite of this extra burden, she seemed to be enjoying herself. She wore a smile of anticipation, of someone who waited for exciting things to happen around her.

  As Jeff listened to the three females talk, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Steel Magnolias. They were what Clairee, M’Lynn, and Ouizer would be like in another thirty years: sharp-witted and still not willing to take any crap off anybody.

  He grinned when the woman closest to him, in her whiskey-smooth Southern drawl, made a remark about a man’s salmon-colored jacket. Instinctively, Jeff looked at the man in question.

  Something cuffed Jeff’s shin. Startled, he jumped.

  “You agree with me, don’t you, young man?” The woman nearest him had reached out and tapped him with her cane.

  She looked a little younger than her companions, although her light brown hair was heavily shot with gray. Her hazel eyes still sparked and hadn’t yet begun to cloud like so many older people’s did.

  Jeff couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called a young man. Everything was relative, he supposed. The old woman winked. He grinned, then looked at the man in question. “It does stand out in the crowd, doesn’t it?”

  “Black after six, as simple as sticks,” said the woman in the middle.

  “Now, Ruth Ann, I don’t know as I agree with you.” This came from the large lady at the opposite end. She was black, with dark, supple skin. Her black dress had an ivory panel running the length of it from neckline to floor, and her lipstick and huge disk earrings were the same vibrant orange. She put Jeff in mind of a king penguin. “A little color makes for individuality.”

  “Well, Asia, we can always count on you for that.” The woman who had cuffed Jeff’s shin rolled her eyes.

  “Now, we’re from New Orleans,” the one called Ruth Ann said, pronouncing it N’awlins, “and you don’t necessarily have to wear black after six down there. Lord, we’d probably have more people a dyin’ of the heat stroke than we would of old age. But we know enough to wear black when the function calls for it, don’t we, girls?”

  “That’s right,” said one.

  “Yes, indeed,” added the other.

  “Where are our manners?” said the woman nearest Jeff. “I’m Lily Chastain. This is Ruth Ann Longan, and down there is Asia Graham.”

  “My pleasure, ladies.” He was drawn in by their Southern charm and when each offered her hand in the manner requiring a kiss and not a shake, he willingly obliged. With a bow, he introduced himself.

  “Just like a true gentleman,” Ruth Ann said, sighing contentedly.

  “Is this your first time here?” asked Asia. “I’d like to think we would’ve remembered you if you had attended the festival before.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. I arrived just today from Seattle, and I’m beginning to think I’m the only new face here.”

  “Well, you won’t want to miss it again,” said Ruth Ann. “It’s quite the to-do.”

  “Yes,” added Lily, “and our most anticipated trip of the year. Isn’t it, girls?”

  Asia and Ruth Ann chimed their agreement.

  “Then, Miz Chastain, I’ll have to put it on my schedule for next year.”

  “Please,” said Lily, “call us by our first names, would you? So many people say Miz this and Ma’am that. Why, I’m afraid sometimes that we’re going to forget what our given names are, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Not likely, Miz Lily,” Asia said. “You’ve got that damned brooch the size of Shreveport pinned to your front porch to remind you.” Asia rolled her eyes. “Lily collects anything and everything lily of the valley.”

  “Don’t get ugly, Asia,” Lily said. “It’s really no different from why you collect your stuff.” She gazed up at Jeff. “It’s for my name, don’t you know?”

  “Good reason,” Jeff assured. “Be careful what you buy these days. I understand someone’s reproducing an inkwell with a lily of the valley design. I’d hate to see you lose a few hundred dollars to some shyster.”

  “Why, thank you, young man. I swan, it’s getting more and more challenging to determine what’s real and what isn’t, and I certainly don’t want to buy anything new. My father always wanted everything new and shiny, said things that had been used by others should be thrown out with the dishwater.”

  “I’m afraid lots of people feel that way.” Nearby, someone vacated a chair. Jeff pulled it over and sat down. “You can’t get the thrill of collecting across to anyone who doesn’t collect something. It helps to learn if a person collects things still being produced, like baseball cards or Hot Wheels or”—Jeff clenched his jaw—”even Beanie Babies. Then we can appeal to their sense of acquisition.”

  “Sounds like you feel the same way I do about those things—Beanie Babies.” This was Asia again. Jeff liked her way of cutting to the core. “Ruth Ann wondered if she should start grabbin’ those up—Ruth Ann collects bears and dolls and such—but I told her she was a fool if she did.”

  “That don’t mean you’re right, Asia,” said Ruth Ann.

  “Ruthie, by the time those things have any value—if they ever do—we’ll be long dead and buried. I say spend your money on something from way back, something with a past.” Asia gave her head one determined nod, then made a noise that indicated the subject was closed.

  Ruth Ann pouted but didn’t offer a rebuttal.

  Jeff felt sorry for the tiny woman, but he was afraid to address her for fear she’d start crying. He directed the conversation elsewhere. “What do you collect, Asia?”

  “Black history—African-American, if you’re politically correct, which I ain’t. Not that it ever surprises anyone. The collection part, not the PC. But it did start on a personal level. When I was ten years old—a very impressionable age, mind you—my grandmother presented me with the slave tags of her maternal grandparents.” Asia paused. “Do you know what slave tags are?”

  Jeff said he’d heard of them, but the woman commenced explaining anyway.

  “To boil it down, slave owners had to pay a tax and register their slaves. The tag had an ID number to match the town treasurer’s records—the town usually bein’ Charleston—and listed the slave’s work: porter, servant, blacksmith, and so on. There are a lot of fake tags being made nowadays.

  “Anyhow, I became obsessed with our culture, readin’ and collectin’ everything I could get my hands on. Back then, a lot of people didn’t want the stuff, so they’d just bring it to me.”

  “Asia’s got one of the largest black memorabilia collections in the United States,” Ruth Ann boasted. “Even Ray Charles has been to her home to see it.”

  Ruth Ann’s sudden change took Jeff by surprise.

  Asia leaned toward Jeff. “Course you know he can’t see.” She said it low, like it was a big secret.

  Jeff acknowledged that, yes, he knew.

  Asia fell back in her chair and continued. “He’d heard about the hangin’s, though, felt drawn to come down to—”

  “Hangings?” Jeff snapped backward as if he’d been hit.

  “I guess you don’t see much of the stuff up—wait a minute. You thought I meant real hangin’s? Lord no, child! Photographs of hangin’s. God knows they’re real enough, though.�
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  Jeff felt only marginally better. Still, he had to confess that he didn’t know what the woman was talking about. He told her so.

  “You’ve read about how in the Old West, everybody would go to town and gather round to watch the lynchin’s? Well, they did it in the Old South, too. Only not near that long ago. Photographers took pictures of the black folk a hangin’ there. Not just of men, neither. Women, half-grown kids. Made postcards out of them, postcards people sent through the mail, just like you’d send a card from Mount Rushmore. Till the Postal Service banned them, that is.”

  It gave Jeff a chill. He wondered how the hell it was he’d never heard of these pictures, never come across any of them. “How can you stand to look at something like that?”

  “Couldn’t, in the beginning. First time I saw one, I had nightmares for months. I was about twelve then. There was one in some of that stuff people brought me. Alter that initial fright, though, I felt it was my duty to make people aware of what had been done to us.

  “If you’re ever in New Orleans, I’d be happy to show you my collection. It takes up most of my home.”

  “There you go, Asia,” Lily said, “invitin’ strangers to your home. Not that you’re not trustworthy, young man,” she hastened to add, “but we keep tellin’ her she needs to be more careful.”

  Asia waved off her companion and Jeff seized the opportunity to steer the conversation in a different direction. He turned to Ruth Ann and asked about her collections.

  “Dolls and teddy bears, mostly,” she said. “And those little muffin pans and rolling pins. All the things we couldn’t afford when I was a little girl.”

  “Any Steiffs tucked away in that collection?”

  “Two or three dozen, I suppose,” Ruth Ann said distractedly. She’d seemed more fascinated with Asia’s things than with her own.

  Jeff speculated that the Steiff bears alone—depending on condition and rarity—were valued in the six figures.

  He’d learned their history from his Auntie Pim and, following the instructions in her will, had sold her collection and donated the profits to a children’s charity.

  The German-made bears got a real boost in the United States when Teddy Roosevelt refused to kill a bear cub while on a hunting trip. That act drastically increased the demand for Margarete Steiff’s button-in-ear creations, and teddy bears were put on the map.

  Conversation with the three women had been overwhelming, like walking into an antique mall and not knowing where to begin. Jeff needed some air.

  He stood. “Ladies, I hope I have the pleasure of visiting with you again this weekend. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take another stroll down the porch.”

  “Oh, refer to it as a veranda, dear,” Lily said. “It’s so much more soothing a word than porch. Don’t you agree?” She smiled warmly.

  “You’re absolutely right, Lily.”

  Jeff bowed. Southerners do have a way with their words.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jeff went out onto the porch—veranda—but it was as crowded with people as the Parlor. He descended the stairs and crossed the narrow, paved path that separated the hotel from the sprawling grounds below. An arched passageway, nearly concealed by foliage, led to the gardens and pool. He descended more steps and stopped on a small landing. Stretching before him was a large expanse of manicured green, bordered with several carefully tended flower beds. Trees whose leaves were turning colors, giving a texture and depth not seen in summer, showcased a large stone fountain. Actually, there were a dozen or so fountains: a large center one with several more around the perimeter of the pond, the water gushing from stylized shells.

  To his right, more steps led down to a concrete walkway that was lined with streetlamps. If he recalled the guide map correctly, the walkway led to the swimming pool. It was named after Esther Williams, according to the information accompanying photographs he’d seen in the hotel’s corridors, as it had been used in the making of her 1947 film, This Time for Keeps. Another film had been shot on location at the Grand, and Jeff found it interesting that both had the word time in them. Fitting, for an island that maintains its Victorian charm from another era. Jane Seymour, who’d gone on to act in a western series, had fared better with horses than Christopher Reeve in the years since they’d starred in Somewhere in Time. This second movie to be shot at the Grand Hotel was filmed about thirty years after the Williams flick. It was a shame Reeve couldn’t go back in time now, and stay away from horses.

  A small group of swimmers, wrapped in towels and walking briskly, made their way up from the pool area, darted up the steps, and disappeared behind him. On a bench near the fountain sat a couple romantically entwined and oblivious to the world. Jeff felt a twinge of envy.

  Suddenly, from directly below him, Jeff heard a voice—gravelly, angry—as it chastised someone for leaving hedge clippers in the garden. The answering voice was young and filled with a sullen attitude, using words like dude and chill, man.

  Jeff figured the kid had dreamed of a cushy summer job. He probably expected to make enough money for some new wheels and still have plenty of time off to pursue tanned beach bunnies. Jeff had been that way himself and liked to think it wasn’t that long ago. He smiled as he climbed the stairs and headed back to the hotel.

  The Gallery was just off the Parlor, with a short, wide staircase leading to the Conference Center. Jeff arrived just as the ribbon-cutting ceremony was starting. This kicked off the preview party. There was such a press of people, however, that he really couldn’t see anything. After the cutting, an official with the festival invited the guests to visit the booths. Purchases could be made at this time. Jeff went in the opposite direction. This land-rush approach didn’t fit his idea of antiquing and, besides, he’d confirmed that the cabaret set was to be in Sunday’s auction.

  He made his way to the Geranium Bar, where he ordered a martini and stationed himself at one of the large plate glass windows to take in the view of the Straits.

  He had a few minutes before his dinner companions were due to arrive. Although he enjoyed meeting new people, he could only take them in small doses. He was used to spending a lot of time alone, driving the region around Seattle, hunting down places that looked promising for finding loot. He nursed the martini. The evening promised a lot more liquor and he wanted to pace himself.

  He finished his drink and left the bar. He got only a short distance down the corridor when he saw the Hursts approaching. He stopped. With them was a man so large that the young couple looked like a pair of candlesticks flanking Buckingham Palace.

  Jeff had seen photos of the man. Photo, he corrected, because the same black and white head shot always accompanied the man’s articles that were frequently published in the trades. In it was the white hair, the bushy mustache, the portly jowls. The photo had been taken several years before, Jeff now observed. The hair had obviously gone silver early in the man’s life, and he was heavier now. Also, the photo had given no indication of his massive height. He could’ve checked the top of a highboy for dust without so much as straining his ample neck.

  Ben Hurst hadn’t mentioned that their dinner companion was Edward Davenport, the most sought-after auctioneer between America’s two coasts.

  Davenport wore an expertly tailored black tuxedo, generously cut to accommodate his bulk. His vest, bow tie, and pocket square were of royal blue brocaded satin that enhanced his sapphire eyes. As the man drew closer, Jeff wondered if it might actually be the other way around, and the shimmery fabric was picking up its hue from the intensely blue eyes.

  Jennifer spotted Jeff and smiled. He nodded, returned the gesture. Ben and the auctioneer were deep in conversation, walking and talking without being aware of anything or anyone around them. Jeff didn’t envy the type, but he did find their way of gliding through life, seemingly untouched, somehow appealing. They walked along, oblivious to their surroundings, confident in some inner homing device that assured they would always arrive intact at their destin
ation. They never tripped, or ran into things, or ended up lost. Everything was waiting for them when they arrived, as they believed it should be. Some—those who appeared to take this gift for granted—truly believed that life was supposed to work this way. They neither questioned it nor tried to explain their ability to utilize it.

  A second species consciously strove for this sort of existence, and those belonging to that group were usually pains in the neck. They abused their gift.

  Jeff belonged in another category entirely, a third one, whose members paid attention, planned ahead, watched for exits, rechecked tickets, double-checked reservations.

  They were always running into snags, waiting in lines, and being put on hold, in spite of their concentrated efforts to avoid all such problems. Jeff had learned to accept his fate long ago, thus allowing extra time for damn near everything.

  Jennifer touched her husband’s arm slightly, subtly. Without missing a beat or allowing his conversation with his guest to be interrupted, he reached into his breast pocket, withdrew two small red booklets, and flashed them to the hostess at the podium. Simultaneously, Davenport did the same. Jeff recognized the booklets as those that served as guest identification; he retrieved his from his pocket and joined the three at the podium.

  Jennifer took Jeff by the arm, pulled him into the fold.

  Ben extended his hand. Jeff grasped it firmly and said, “This little book is more valuable than I thought.”

  Ben laughed. “Jennifer has threatened to keep these little treasures in the pocket of her pajamas in case we’re evacuated because of fire. She’s afraid she won’t be able to get back inside without it.”

  “That’s nonsense, Benjamin Hurst. You know I don’t wear pajamas.” Jennifer looked directly at Jeff as she delivered the line.

  Jeff smiled and glanced at Davenport, who was blushing.

  Ben didn’t react one way or the other. “Allow me to introduce you to one of the best auctioneers in the country. Edward Davenport, Jeffrey Talbot.”