Free Poison Ivory by Tamar Myers Page A

The other half was from elsewhere in South Carolina, and the third half was from Ohio.”
    “That’s three halves, Abby; there can only be two halves of something.”
    “I know; it was just a joke.”
    “Unless you’re Cousin Ripley Ledbetter from up in Shelby, North Carolina. He was born with a third butt cheek, only it wasn’t on his bottom, but across the top of his skull. When he was growing up the other kids used to call him ‘fathead’ and ‘wiseass.’”
    I shook my head. “Sorry, C.J., but this Shelby story makes even less sense than some of your others. I mean, if the fat was on his head, what made it a butt cheek?”
    “Trust me, Abby, you don’t even want to know—although I’ll give you a hint: his own mother once called him a potty-mouth.”
    I groaned. “That would be a very crude reference for a cozy novel—although perhaps I’m being unduly prudish in my judgment, given the anything goes aspect of family hour television these days.”
    It was C.J.’s turn to shake her massive head. “I swear, Abby, I love you bunches, but sometimes you make less sense than a congressman preaching ethics.”
    “ Touché, ma chérie . So please, just tell me your idea.”
    “It’s very simple, Abby. You just put an ad in the Post and Courier , under the antiques and collectibles section, and then sit back and wait to see who takes your bait.”
    “Uh—that’s a brilliant idea, C.J., but just whom am I fishing for, and what the heck am I using as bait?”
    C.J. sighed. “Ooh, Abby, I keep forgetting about the difference in our respective IQ points, on account of you’re so well-spoken for a person who is merely above average in intelligence. You would be fishing for ivory collectors and, of course, the bait would be ivory.”
    “Of course.” I was a bit miffed at my pal’s remarks, and rather than respond immediately, I decided to cool off for a moment by turning my attention back to people-watching. As if on cue, a rather cadaverous, yet extremely flabby, woman appeared on the sand dressed in a thong bikini. Her buttocks—she had only two cheeks—hung down on either side of the thong like the twin jowls of a bloodhound. With every jaunty step she took, they swung to and fro, proclaiming to all who saw her that here walked a self-confident woman of a certain age, one who knew no shame. It was all I could do to keep from running after this clueless soul and offering to buy her a beach cover-up.
    “Abby, are you mad at me?”
    “Whatever would give you that idea?”
    “Because you have that look.”
    “That ‘look’?”
    “You know, like you’re about to cry.”
    “No, I’m not mad—not anymore. But I don’t sell ivory, C.J.; you know that.”
    “Yes, but the people reading your ad wouldn’t have to know that. You could say that you’re expecting a huge shipment, and that early birds could have first choice—something like that.”
    “So you’re purposing a sting.”
    “Exactly!”
    “Have you thought about who is likely to get stung? We’re not in a movie, C.J., or some characters in a zany mystery novel. Mr. Curly would be on me faster than chickens on cracked corn.”
    “Not if you tell him first what you’re doing.”
    “You mean get his permission?”
    “Well, you’re on the same side, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, but—okay, C.J., let’s suppose—and we’re just supposing here, that Mr. Curly agrees to this, and I arrange for a bogus ad. What should I expect to learn from this? Just because someone wants to buy ivory doesn’t make them a criminal.”
    C.J. clapped her hands several times. It was a gesture borne out of frustration, I’m sure, but nonetheless it garnered unwanted attention from the other diners.
    “Ooh, Abby, you’ve got to use your imagination. This won’t be an ordinary ad; it will be for a large collection of ivory, and anyone interested will have to initially respond to a P.O. box. That’s the kind of thing that will get the attention of