Death of a Rug Lord by Tamar Myers Page B

aside to usher them out of the May humidity.
    Three ladies sailed through, but a fourth stopped just inside. It was immediately clear by the frown lines on her face that she was not a believer in Botox, and that she’d been the one responsible for the annoying racket.
    â€œHow may I help you?” I said.
    â€œYou can stop being so perky, for one thing.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWhen I moved here from Michigan, I anticipated there’d be times when I’d have to fight that damn Civil War all over again. That’s what friends who’d moved here from Kalamazoo warned us about. But aside from letters to the editor complaining about Yankees ruining everything, everyone has been so damn polite. And no one ever says anything bad to your face. Not ever.”
    â€œYou sound disappointed.”
    â€œYou’re damn tootin’ I am.” She grinned. “Nah, not really. But I’ve been here almost a year and I’m still on the defensive, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. So let me ask you, is it for real? This niceness, I mean?”
    She was a large woman and sweating profusely (Southern women don’t sweat, we dew), so I steered her toward the office, where I keep a box of tissues. There, she accepted the guest chair, which is nearest the air-conditioning vent.
    â€œMy name is Abby, by the way.”
    â€œYes, I know. I’m Andrea Wheating.”
    â€œWell, Andrea, I have heard stories of northern transplants who’ve been accosted by ill-mannered locals and told to go home. Happily, these stories are few and far in between.”
    She flashed me a smile. “Good. Abby, you don’t remember me, do you?”
    I shrugged. “Should I?”
    â€œOh say it isn’t so!”
    â€œYou’re not a long lost relative of Daddy’s, are you?”
    She brightened considerably. “Your father has relatives in Michigan?”
    â€œSadly, my father has passed, but his granddaddy, Great Grandpa Wiggins, liked sowing seeds as much as Johnny Appleseed.”
    â€œCool. To my knowledge, we don’t have any Wigginses in our family tree, so that’s not why I’m here.You sold me—oh shoot; I knew I should have written it down. It has something to do with bees and a jar.”
    â€œAh, a Bijar! That’s the name of a city in Iran. Describe the carpet please.”
    She did better than that; she extracted a photo from her purse. And yes, I remembered her carpet. In fact, I remembered it as well as my first date with my husband, Greg. Then again, Greg took me to the Red Lobster and I had a giant margarita and got so tipsy that I ended up in the men’s room by mistake, and it was only on my way out that I noticed the urinals.
    At any rate, the carpet I sold Andrea Wheating was mid-nineteenth century, and although it had been in constant use, it was in excellent condition. It had a triple floral border—the background was orange, the flowers blue—a large cream insert, with an orange medallion inside that, and a bazillion flowers woven everywhere, but in a symmetrical, formal design. It was a real showstopper and, quite honestly, the price tag was a heart stopper.
    â€œAre you asking me to buy it back?” I asked. “Because I will, assuming we can agree upon a price.”
    â€œ Agree upon a price? What kind of crap is that? I want a complete refund, of course.”
    I could feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “But you see, dear, that’s not the way most antiques stores operate; that’s why we post signs that say all sales are final. It’s too easy for someone—not you, of course—to take a one-of-a-kind item home, then bring back something that resembles that item and demand a refund. How can I—the dealer—prove that what you’ve returned isn’t what I sold you?”
    â€œListen, Abby, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you; I’m just trying to get my money