have to soon get extra pages glued into my passportâwhat with all the stamps Iâve accumulated.â
âDo you go with her?â I asked Nick.
âEvery chance I get,â he said. They were the first words heâd spoken all meal, discounting instructions to the waitress.
âBut isnât that difficult, given your job on Wall Street?â
The dead skunk lurched forward. âMrs. Washburn, did you invite us here to give us the third degree?â
âNo, Iâm only trying to be friendly. Down here the first three questions you ask new folks are: who are your people, where do you go to church, and where do you work. Youâd already made it clear you didnât want to discuss religion, and I didnât feel comfortable leading with the âwho are your peopleâ question, on account I always lose out when itâs put to me.â
âOh? Why is that?â
âBecause although my family has been in the South for generations, Iâm the first to live in Charleston.â
âI hear you,â she said with surprising sympathy. âManhattan has its pecking order, too. Fortunately my Nicky is so successful that we donât have that problemânot that we would anyway.â She took a sip of her third dirty martini. âYou see, my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.â
âAll the way from Greece?â
The dead skunk scowled, but I swear Nick snickered. âMrs. Washburn,â Irena said, âdo you make it a habit of insulting your guests?â
âNo, maâam. Iâm sorry. Say, did either of you happen to witness the argument yesterday between Mrs. Webbfingers and her garden designer? I hear it was quite something.â
Irena gave Nick what I could only construe as a warning glare. âIâm afraid we were out,â she said. âWent to some plantation. Boone Farm, I think it was.â
âThat would be Boone Hall, the most photographed plantation in Americaâwell, thatâs what they claim. Did you enjoy it?â
âActually we did. They have a cotton patch where you can pick your own cottonâalthough they said it was too early in the season. Still, who knew cotton grew on plants?â
Hadnât the woman ever cracked open a history book? Had she never read about slaves toiling in the broiling sun as they picked cotton? Had she not been forced to memorize the name of Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin? Or did she think that was the name of a cocktail?
âThereâs another plantation nearby that has polyester bushes,â I said wickedly. âThey also have special plots where they hybridize cotton and polyester bushes to produce a cotton-poly blend. Itâs really quite interesting.â
âMaybe we could see that tomorrow.â
âOhâand I forgot, thereâs a rayon farm just south of here on James Island. Rayon grows on trees, you know. The leaves are smooth and shiny, and the color is spectacular, but they tend to wrinkle when it rains.â
Irena pushed her now empty plate aside. âMrs. Washburn, I realize youâre a businesswoman, and probably have a full schedule, but would you consider showing us around the areaâfor a fee of course?â
I pretended to ponder her question. âYes,â I said after a long pause, âI suppose I might be able to rearrange my schedule.â
âExcellent.â
Feeling that I had made a little progress, I quite enjoyed my crème brûlée. Irena made no comment about her Key Lime Tart, although she wolfed it down in exactly four bites. Nick, on the other hand, carefully dissected his triple chocolate cake before eating it crumb by crumb.
I assumed that since the Rob-Bobs left the restaurant during our dessert, they had concluded that I was in no kind of danger. But when I called them the minute I was free of my guests, I learned just how wrong my assumption was.
9
âI donât like them,