Free Poison Ivory by Tamar Myers Page B

someone trading in ivory big-time—not a littleold missionary lady who’s hoping to sell a single figurine. Then, one by one, you interview the respondents in a neutral location. Of course you’d have somebody with you: somebody big, strong, and worldly, for security reasons.”
    “Like Greg?”
    “Don’t be silly, Abby. We can’t tell Greg. Face it, we can’t even tell Mr. Curly. You know how men are when it comes to rules. I was referring to me, Abby. You and I could pull off this scheme, just as sure as a hog will head for a wallow.”
    An order of coconut crusted shrimp arrived, and I munched on those while I cogitated on C.J.’s proposed ruse. It made a surprising amount of sense. And I could just hear Greg telling me what a stupid idea it was, which made it all the more attractive. Don’t get me wrong: Greg and I have a very happy marriage. It’s just that I don’t like being told what to do, even if the orders I’ve been given are still all in my head. I’ve known my darling husband long enough to know what he would say, and it was those observations that I found myself reacting to.
    “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
    “Ooh, Abby, really?”
    I smiled. “You, young lady, better learn some kind of martial arts—and fast!”
    “Abby, have you forgotten that I know shiitake?”
    “Isn’t that a mushroom? How do you plan to protect me with a fungus?”
    C.J. appeared crestfallen.
    “But then again,” I said, “what do I know about martial arts? Or mushrooms for that matter? I get the two mixed up all the time.”
    My buddy perked up. “Then we’re on?”
    “You bet,” I said.
     
    I dropped C.J. back off at the Den of Antiquity after swearing her to secrecy—both about the upcoming “sting” and lunch at Coconut Joe’s. If I had to pick one of my two best friends to save from drowning, it would be Wynnell. She is, after all, my very best friend, and I’ve known her longer. Besides, she can’t swim. She also has a jealous streak as long as the Indianapolis 500.
    Wynnell, like just about every single one of us, can be easily distracted, if the conversation is turned around so it focuses on us. When she asked where we’d eaten lunch, I told her that I’d never seen her hair looking quite so beautiful, and I asked her to write down the names of all the products she used, along with the name, phone number, and address of her hairdresser. While she was busy doing that I slipped out the front door and across the street to The Finer Things.
    This antiques store lives up to its name. You won’t find 1950s bird cages and velvet Elvis paintings in The Finer Things (or in my shop either, for that matter). To gain entrance to this upscale purveyor of good taste one must be “rung in.” And this is a privilege that is not doledto just anyone—although to be sure, race is not a factor.
    Once you are in, however, you are treated like royalty. The staff bows and scrapes to you while offering champagne, coffee, canapés, and a host of other treats. In the background the soft, seductive tones of classical jazz weave a trance-like spell that soon becomes a snare. In the end, well-dressed tourists who merely meant to browse find themselves leaving after having spent such outrageous sums as twelve thousand dollars on a worn leather ottoman that never got near a real Ottoman; or thirty-five grand on a crystal chandelier that may—or may not—have graced the dining room of the thirteenth Duke of Ulcer, or Worcestershire sauce, or whatever.
    The masters of seduction are the owners, and my dear friends, the Rob-Bobs. Rob Goldburg shares the title of “best friend” along with Wynnell. He is stunningly handsome: in fact, a lot of people think that Pierce Brosnan looks exactly like him. Rob hails from Charlotte, North Carolina, and is the epitome of refinement.
    Bob Steuben, on the other hand, has a big heart. The fact that he comes from Toledo, is bald, pigeon-chested, has exceptionally large feet, and