Monet Talks by Tamar Myers

this is as close as I’m going to get.”
    â€œI was there last winter. It was a disappointment.”
    â€œThen I should be glad I haven’t spent the money to visit the real thing.”
    â€œA tomb’s a tomb, I always say. Okay, Abby,you drive a hard bargain. Sixteen five, and we’ll call it a day.”
    I smiled. The view from the catbird’s seat can be fabulous, especially for someone as vertically challenged as myself.
    â€œCat, if you didn’t like the Taj Mahal, why would you want to pay so much for a birdcage replica?”
    Her scarlet lips came together in a soft smack, and I could see the wheels in her head pick up speed. “Actually, it’s for a very wealthy client. Fell in love with it at the auction—said he must have it for his new home on Legare Street.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you snag it on Saturday? If he’s that rich, I mean.”
    â€œWell, you seemed so determined, and like I said, you’ve always been fair to me. It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face—when the gavel fell—that I realized how much he wanted it.”
    â€œWho is this client—if you don’t mind me asking?”
    â€œHe wants to remain anonymous. I’m sure you understand that, dear.”
    â€œI see.” I slipped a business card from my purse and held it out. “Give this to him, would you, please? Tell him to check in from time to time. Who knows, I could tire of that thing tomorrow and slap a price tag on it.”
    There are limits to expressing shock when one’s muscles are frozen by toxic mold. “Butyou wouldn’t just put it on the market like that, would you? Not without telling me.”
    A very wise person once told me that silence is the most powerful weapon there is, mightier even than the pen. Unfortunately, it is hard for my lips to stay sealed, unless there is a piece of candy behind them.
    â€œSure, I’ll give you a call.”
    She nodded. “Abby, you still haven’t told me why you came here this morning.”
    â€œOh, that. Well, I just got this shipment in from Aiken, South Carolina, most of which is to die for. Although a few appear to have been died in—but that’s part of the charm of old things, isn’t it? Gives them that certain patina, don’t you think? For instance, there’s a grandfather clock, which C.J. swears used to belong to her Granny Ledbetter—oh, my gracious! I totally forgot about C.J. She woke up with a nasty toothache and I promised to spell her so she could go to the dentist.”
    With that I turned and fled. I’m not very good at lying, unless it involves my age, and even then I don’t see the point. Why pretend to be younger than you are, and have people think time has treated you badly? Better to add a few years, and leave them with the impression that genetics have been kind to you.
    At any rate, it was because I tend to flub fibbing that I headed straight from the frying pan and into the fire.

6
    M artin Gibble fancies himself the most knowledgeable antique dealer in Charleston. I won’t argue with this, but surely Rob Goldburg comes in a close second. I, on the other hand, would fly completely under Martin’s radar were it not for the fact that last year I outbid him on an unprepossessing little table that turned out to have been made right here in Charleston in the early eighteenth century, and which I resold for ninety thousand dollars. I suppose there would be no good reason for me to further rub it into Mr. Gibble’s face and mention that I paid a mere fifty bucks for this piece of history.
    So it was with mixed feelings that I rang the bell beside the door of Encore on King Street. Through the glass I could see Martin wrinkle his patrician nose before buzzing me in. He turned his back to me as I approached.
    â€œHello, Martin.”
    â€œAbby.”
    â€œIt’s going to be another hot one.” Weather