Monet Talks by Tamar Myers Page A

talk may be trite, but it’s seldom controversial.
    â€œYes, I suppose where you come from this could be considered hot.”
    Martin Gibble is a native Charlestonian, born in one of the mansions that fronts the Battery. It is a fact that he trots out within minutes of meeting a new person. If he dislikes you, he trots it out in every conversation thereafter as well.
    â€œMartin, one doesn’t get credit for where one is born. Or to whom, for that matter.”
    He turned. “Excuse me?”
    â€œUnless, of course, before conception, one is offered a choice. If that’s the case, and I chose not to be born in Charleston, I must have had good reasons.”
    Patrician nose aside, Martin has the messy hair and facial stubble currently popular with celebrities. He looks more like he’s been on a three-day bender than he does stylish. At any rate, he scratched his chin with nails that had been lacquered a transparent pink.
    â€œAre you just here to taunt me, Abby?”
    â€œIt’s about the birdcage.”
    â€œAha, so you are here to taunt.”
    â€œMartin, I didn’t realize what I was getting when I outbid you on that table last year. We both thought it was a knockoff until Antiques Road Show came to town. I was going to use it in my potting shed and—”
    â€œSo you say.”
    I bit my tongue while I counted to ten in Portuguese. It is a language of which I have only a tourist’s knowledge, so Martin got an extra second of grace when I made a false start.
    â€œBack to the birdcage, Martin. I wanted to tell you that I have no plans to resell it.”
    â€œYour point in telling me this?”
    â€œI didn’t want you to think I was going to make a huge profit from it.” There was no need to add “like last time.”
    He snorted and started to turn, but stopped abruptly. “What about the bird?”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œSurely you’re not going to continue to let that bird crap in a ten thousand dollar replica of the Taj Mahal.”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œAbby, I know we don’t get along—never have—but I’m asking you a favor, as one connoisseur of beautiful things to another. Please,” he said, almost imploringly, “don’t let that stupid bird crap one more time in that exquisite piece of art.”
    I don’t know which surprised me the most: his strange, and somewhat moving, request, or his assertion that we’d never gotten along. To the best of my memory, we’d gotten along quite well until the Keeno brothers came to town.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said, trying to appear unruffled. “Monet will not be crapping in that cage today.”
    He tugged on his right earlobe, home to a sizable diamond stud. “Am I supposed to believe you capitulated this easily?”
    â€œBelieve what you want,” I said, and flashed him what I hoped was an enigmatic smile.
    â€œOkay, I’ll bite. What gives, Abby?”
    â€œMonet’s missing.”
    â€œWhat the—” The diamond stud popped loose from his ear, pinged off the inlaid surface of a Louis IV commode, and disappeared under a row of French high chests.
    â€œOh gosh, I’m sorry!” I cried and dropped to my knees.
    â€œThat can wait,” Martin said with astonishing sharpness.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œIt’s only a CZ. I mean, why wear the real thing to work, right?”
    I hopped to my feet. “Right. And I promise not to tell anyone.”
    â€œGood one, Abby. So fast with the quips. Perhaps I misjudged you.”
    â€œMost likely you didn’t.” I started for the door.
    â€œThe bird!” he shouted. “Did you say it was stolen?”
    I pivoted slowly. “Stolen? Oh no, I think you heard wrong. Monet isn’t stolen; he’s simply misplaced.”
    â€œMisplaced?”
    â€œWell, you know C.J. She was cleaning his cage over the weekend,