Monet Talks by Tamar Myers

auction house, like you told me.”
    â€œAnd? Did he give you the names and addresses of the folks who bid against me?”
    â€œYou bet he did. The African American man who bid against you is Bubba Johnson. He owns a string of dry-cleaning shops. Hi-N-Dry is the name of the business. John said that Bubba Johnson is very successful. In fact, he owns a mansion on Battery Street.”
    â€œI use Hi-N-Dry! In my opinion they’re the only establishment that can do a decent job of pressing silk. Most cleaners leave shiny areas—never mind. Who was my European-American blonde competition?”
    â€œAbby, you shouldn’t be making fun like that.”
    â€œI’m not. I’m trying to prove a point. If wequalify every American except for white ones, aren’t we then saying that white is the norm? There may be more of us, but that doesn’t make us the gold standard. An American is an American. Adjectives divide.”
    â€œWell, I don’t agree. But anyway, the gorgeous blonde is George Murphy.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThat’s what he said. Here’s her phone number, and Mr. Johnson’s.”
    More voices alerted us to the fact that the door was about to swing open. On impulse I dragged Wynnell into a stall. To avoid the problem of two pairs of feet being visible, I hopped up onto the toilet seat.
    â€œThe trouble is she knows she’s cute,” Voice One said. “Thinks she can get away with anything. You should see how messy their house is.”
    â€œShe’s just so tiny!” Voice Two said.
    â€œAbigail this, Abigail that, that’s all Harry seems to say anymore,” Voice One said. “He’s absolutely smitten.”
    â€œLinda admits she’s jealous,” Voice Two said.
    â€œWhy that little bitch Abigail!” Voice One said. They both laughed.
    â€œWhy I never!” I said, but Wynnell has lightning-quick responses and covered my mouth almost immediately.
    â€œWhat was that?” Voice One said.
    â€œI think someone’s in there,” Voice Two said.“Anyway, I warned them. I told them getting a Chihuahua puppy was like giving your heart away.”
    The second they closed the restroom door behind them, Wynnell and I came tumbling out of the stall like a pair of acrobats. She was the first to recover.
    â€œWe’re taking this back to the alley,” she said, grabbing my arm.
    â€œWhy don’t we just join the Rob-Bobs?”
    For the record, Wynnell is eight inches taller than I and probably outweighs me by a good sixty pounds. I barely got a glimpse of the Chez Fez kitchen on my way to the rear entrance. But the glimpse I did get included about a dozen belly dancers standing around, spooning couscous into their mouths.
    â€œDoes this mean I get the bald one, too?” one of them yelled.
    In the alley, Wynnell propped me up against a brick wall. “Abby, I know that Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben are close friends of yours. I’m fond of them as well. But they’re human like the rest of us.”
    â€œI can’t argue with you there. What’s going on, Wynnell?”
    â€œI’m not suggesting they kidnapped Mozella. She could identify them and then they’d have to—” She let go of me with one hand and made a slashing motion across her throat. “Of course if it came to that, I’m surethey’d hire an expert to do the job for them, and your mama wouldn’t feel a thing. Come to think of it, there’s any number of Yankees who would be only too glad to do that kind of work for free. After all, Mozella was—I mean, is—the quintessential example of the Deep South; gracious to a fault, and as eccentric as they come.”
    I squirmed out of her reach. “What on earth are you talking about, Wynnell? Are you on some new medication? Has C.J. been giving you samples of her granny’s home remedies again?”
    Wynnell’s unibrow