The Cane Mutiny: A Den of Antiquity Mystery

240 Pages·2007·1.32 MB·English

by  Tamar Myers

Cover
The Cane Mutiny
Dedication Page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
About the Author
Den of Antiquity Mysteries by Tamar Myers
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher
The
Cane
utin
y
M
A DEN OF ANTIQUITY MYSTERY
For Rabbi Henry Okolica of blessed memory
Contents
The city of Charleston, South
1
1
Carolina, has more ghosts than…
2 Colonel Beauregard Humphrey is a
10
legend in his own mind,…
3 Wynnell Crawford is my oldest and
dearest friend. When I… 23
4 Tweedledee recoiled when she saw
me. “It’s you,” she said.
36
5 There are few things more
embarrassing than having one’s 51
mother…
6 I beg your pardon?” 68
7 Mr. Murray defi nitely had our
attention. Mama, bless her heart,… 81
8 Rob’s mom. We did tell you she’s
coming to visit,… 96
On the way back into Charleston,
9
with a game plan… 110
0 I stared, open-mouthed. If a colony of bees had been…
1
128
11 You’re a woman,” I managed to say, after an embarrassing…
141
12 Now make yourself useful,” the Colonel ordered the dead beast,… 153
13 The “must” word rattled my teeth like a Yankee saber. 167
14 On mornings he takes the boat out, Greg gets up… 181
15 Wynnell didn’t mean to knock me down. She picked me… 197
16 Marvin’s collection was displayed in what appeared to have been… 212
17 Had I not been warned, I would have thought she… 222
18 If I didn’t close my mouth soon the cat was… 234
19 I can’t think of a single soul who
242
would call…
20 The former beauty queen
responded by backing up through
the… 252
21 Abby. Abby. Abby!” 261
22 Hermione Wou-ki sat
resplendent on a green and gold 268
sofa…
23 A second later C.J. entered the
278
room bearing a silver…
24 The rear rooms of the house
exhibited none of the… 288
25 She’s coming to,” I heard C.J.
say. “Look, her beady…
296
26 I leaned forward on my chair.
302
“Who?”
27 I shall begin by telling you how I
met Roberta… 306
28 So Aida Murray was indeed
alive and involved in the… 322
29 It was obvious that C.J., oblivious
332
to wickedness, didn’t see…
30 She clicked off the safety. “Shut
up. I don’t like… 340
31 C.J. has no father, and rather than
348
choose among her…
About the Author
Cover Other Books by Tamar Myers
Copyright About the Publisher
1
he city of Charleston, South Carolina, has more
ghosts than natives. But it is not quite true, as one rude
tourist recently put it, that our ghosts—or, Apparition
Americans, as they prefer to be called nowadays—show
more life than their flesh and blood counterparts. I was
not particularly surprised, therefore, to see a pirate
hobbling down the alley behind my antiques shop, the
Den of Antiquity.
It happened one exceptionally foggy night in early April, when Mama and I were
returning home from a musical recital at the College of Charleston. I’d decided
to stop by my shop on King Street to retrieve a book on antique canes that I had
recently purchased. My plans for the remainder of my evening were to snuggle
up in bed next to my handsome husband, Greg, and peruse the book while he
watched the end of a basketball game. Mama’s plans were to curl up in front of
her own TV and watch reruns of Leave It to Beaver.
can, I stomped on the
At any rate, upon seeing the Apparition Ameri
brakes, and as soon as we’d jerked to a stop, I flipped on
the high beams. Unfortunately the light reflected off the
moisture in the air, and in the split second it took to put
the low beams back on, the ghost had disappeared.
“Did you see that, Mama?”
“Abby, I’m old, not blind.”
“That was a pirate, wasn’t it?”
Mama sighed. “A very handsome pirate. If my arthritis wasn’t acting up, I’d
jump out and chase after him. Wherever it is he went.”
My heart was still pounding, and my legs too weak to support my full weight, so
I remained behind the wheel of my silver Mercedes. I did, however, drive the
entire length of the Alley, and finding no one about, either spectral or real,
hightailed it back to my house on Squiggle Lane.
When Mama and I burst into the den, where my handsome hubby was already
deeply absorbed in the game, we must have brought with us a surge of intense
energy.
“So the concert was that good,” Greg said, without shifting his gaze.
“The concert was just okay,” Mama said. “It’s the pirate who’s put the wind back
in my bloomers.”
I cringed. “Mama!”
“You have to admit it, Abby, he was really a hit-tie.”
“The word’s hottie, Mama.”
“That’s what you think. I meant what I said. If he was twenty years younger, I’d
hit on him.”
“Mama!”
Despite the fact that my mother, who stands all of five feet tall, is trapped in a
1950s time warp along with June Cleaver, she at times displays disconcerting
flashes of lust. If it were not for the fact that my minimadre is still a virgin—two
children notwithstanding—and will forever stay that way, I assure you, I would
have been really creeped out. As it was, I felt nauseous.
“Abby, I’m only human.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, he wasn’t all that cute.”
Greg pressed the mute button on his remote and jumped off the sofa. “What’s all
this about a pirate? Or did you say ‘parrot’?”
Meanwhile my sweetie pie jumped off the sofa as well, ambled toward me, and
rubbed his cheeks against my calves. This sweetie pie, by the way, is my ten-
pound orange tabby, who sometimes responds to his name, Dmitri. Greg, on the
other hand, seldom rubs his cheeks against my calves, and never responds to
Dmitri.
“We saw a ghost,” Mama said. “A really cute pirate.”
“We saw an Apparition American and he was ugly enough to turn a train down a
dirt road.”
Dmitri purred loudly.
Greg smiled. “As ugly as that?”
“Even uglier. I bet that when he was born his mama had to borrow a baby to take
to church.”
“He was six feet tall,” Mama said. “Just like Greg. And he had a huge black
beard.” She gasped. “I bet it was the ghost of Blackbeard.”
“He was no taller than you, Mama. And he didn’t have a beard; only stubble, and
a scar that went from his left ear to his nostril. And those beady dark eyes—I’ll
never forget them. He even had a wooden leg, Greg, just like the stereotype.”
“Yes, he did have a wooden leg.” Mama agreed reluctantly. “But it was cute.”
Greg laughed before kissing me on the mouth and then pecking Mama on the