Larceny and Old Lace by Tamar Myers

supper, if it’s still light, you can help me plant my camellia bushes.”
    She teetered on the six-inch heels. “I beg your pardon?”
    I pointed to the bagged plants. “I thought they would look great where Mimi and Fifi are now. We could move those plaster mutts over a couple of feet—”
    Aunt Marilyn gasped, sucking in a generous chunk of boa. I hastened to extract it before she choked. Two aunts dead in one week by strangulation would be hard to explain to Greg Washburn. Especially if one of them asphyxiated in my shop.
    I patted her back to get her breathing again. “There, there, dear. If you insist, I can plant my camellias somewhere else. Maybe up by the front of the driveway.”
    I wouldn’t be a southern lady if I repeated what Aunt Marilyn said next—when she could get her voice back. I bet the real Marilyn Monroe didn’t talk like that. Hilton Head is just too close to Parris Island, I suppose. My guess, based on the words I heard, is that Aunt Marilyn regularly entertains marines. She sure didn’t hear language like that growing up in Rock Hill.
    â€œBut the neighbors all love my camellias,” I said calmly. “Even Mrs. Ferguson loves them. When she saw mine she went out and bought four just like them for herself. She said they’re the prettiest camellias she’s ever seen.”
    The boa bobbed dangerously close to my aunt’s open mouth. Even I would never gasp like that in public.
    â€œThen again, what does Mrs. Ferguson know?” I said helpfully.
    â€œOut!”
    â€œWhy, that’s exactly what I said to those pink flamingos,dear. Haven’t you had a chance to glance at the backyard yet?”
    â€œOut!”
    It was the only word she could say for the next few minutes. When she could finally manage a multiple word vocabulary she made it crystal clear that I, my cat Dmitri, and what few belongings I had in her house, were never welcome there again. Not unless I got down on my hands and knees and begged her forgiveness. This dictum inspired a few choice words of my own, which I will spare you.
    â€œAnd I don’t allow smoking in my shop!” I shouted as the last of her boa drifted through the door.
    It was too late. My favorite aunt—my only aunt, now that Eulonia Wiggins was dead—had just shut the door on me. Figuratively, that is. I was no longer welcome on Ridgewood Avenue. Thank the good Lord I had most of my stuff stored at Mama’s.
    Â 
    â€œWhat do you mean I can’t spend the night?”
    Mama paused a long time. Long enough for me to hear a stifled giggle.
    â€œAbigail, dear, you know you’re always welcome in my home. I want you to think of it as your home, too, but not tonight. I have plans.”
    â€œI’ll watch TV with you, Mama. I’ll even watch those infomercials you like so much. How about it?”
    â€œSorry, dear, but not tonight.”
    â€œCan I at least drop off Dmitri? Aunt Marilyn has threatened to run him through her neighbor’s composter if I don’t have him out of there by eight.”
    Somebody giggled again, and it sure didn’t sound like Mama. Neither did Mama, for that matter.
    â€œI told you, Abby, tonight’s not good. Try calling a vet.”
    â€œIs your bridge club there? Is it that Dot McElveen who hates cats? No problem, Mama. I’ll just sneak off to the guest room with Dmitri before anyone sees him, turn the TV on low, and you won’t hear a peep out of us.”
    There were two distinct giggles this time. One Mama’s, one belonging to somebody else.
    â€œIt isn’t bridge, dear. It’s other plans.”
    I sighed sympathetically. “Mama, you shouldn’t allow the Werrels to impose on you like that. They can afford a sitter. Maybe two. Just because—”
    â€œI’m not baby-sitting,” Mama said. There was a bounce in her voice I hadn’t heard in years. Maybe since Daddy