The Cane Mutiny by Tamar Myers

pretentious, but that’s before my friend Kim had a car full of women double-park directly in front of her shop. Before she could think clearly, they barged through the door, two at a time, grabbed every single piece off a rack of vintage clothing, and then skedaddled before Tweedles Dee and Dumcould be summoned. Since then I’ve been thinking of replacing my cow bells with a buzzer.
    At any rate, having seen Ms. Wou-ki’s picture in the paper, I knew that the dour woman who finally opened the door for me was not the owner. When I asked to see Ms. Wou-ki, Mrs. Crabcakes expelled a lungful of stale air in my face.
    â€œMy employer is busy,” she snapped.
    â€œTell her that makes me very happy. Busy is good, right?”
    â€œIf you say so. What do you want?”
    â€œI want you to give Ms. Wou-ki a message for me. Please tell her that her assistant has a nasty disposition, bless her heart, and is as homely as a toad in the high speed lane.”
    â€œ I am her assistant.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œPositive.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, dear, you’re very nice. I could tell that right away. But her assistant—wow, Ms. Wou-ki needs to rethink that decision.”
    The woman mumbled something about me having it all wrong, but she immediately headed for the back. I took advantage of her absence to poke around. The shop was short on space but high on value. Everywhere I looked museum-quality merchandise met the eye. From stunning rosewood carved furniture to the finest porcelainvases. I could just hear Ms. Wou-ki’s register go ca-ching with the sale of each Ming.
    When an uncomfortable length had passed since the assistant had disappeared into the back room and not returned, I stood on my tiptoes, cupped my hands to my mouth, and hollered. “I’m no one important. Never mind that I have a bundle of cash with me that could choke a horse.”
    Immediately Ms. Wou-ki swooped out of nowhere. “How may I help you?” she said, her voice as clear and delicate as a crystal bell.
    â€œI’m Abigail Timberlake,” I said, and offered to shake hands.
    She regarded my hand with some distaste, but took it nonetheless. “Hermione Wou-ki.” It was very much apparent my name didn’t ring a bell, crystal or otherwise.
    â€œYes, I know. I understand you’re an expert on walking sticks.”
    She was a beautiful woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with flawless ivory skin and dark brown hair that fell beneath her shoulders. Her smile seemed genuine enough, and if she could read my thoughts, perhaps she’d chosen not to look into the wasteland that is my mind.
    â€œI don’t consider myself an expert on anything,” she said. “But I do have some lovely canes I could show you.”
    Without waiting for a response, she led me to a nook that was lighted from above and roped off with a golden cord. The walls of the nook were covered in blue velvet and mounted with clear Plexiglas rings that were not in the least bit obtrusive. Lining the walls of the nook, like soldiers on parade, were canes of every description. At first glance even my untrained eye could tell that these walking sticks were a step above even the finest I’d recently acquired.
    There were canes with highly glazed porcelain handles, enameled handles, ivory hands, pewter handles, silver handles, vermeil handles, even jeweled handles. The designs ranged from brightly painted flowers to three-dimensional lifelike animal heads. Even the simplest were works of art. I strained to read one of the tiny price tags without having to lean forward or touch it.
    â€œSixty-nine hundred.”
    I tried not to show my reaction. She’d read my mind through the back of my head, which was pretty darn unnerving.
    â€œIt’s very beautiful,” I said. And it was. The handle appeared to be carved from ivory or bone, and it depicted what looked like a water buffalo.
    â€œThe