Read The Cane Mutiny for Free Online

wiser.”
    I stared at the woman who’d given me thirty-six hours of her undivided attention. How disconcerting to realize that she could read my mind, as small as it was. I’d hoped the fine print would have been an impediment.
    â€œMama, if I let you tag along, will you promise you won’t breathe a word of this to Greg? Not even one of your famous hints.”
    â€œWhat famous hints?”
    â€œLike the time I’d planned a surprise cruise for his birthday, and you gave him a guidebook to the Caribbean.”
    Her face turned pink, but she wasn’t bothered enough to apologize. “The first thing we’ll do is take you home and give you a nice hot shower. No offense, dear, but you smell a bit ripe.”
    â€œI was in jail for two hours, Mama.”
    â€œIn that case, let’s quit burning daylight.”
    She turned right on Broad, followed it into Lockwood, and then left across the Ashley River.
    Â 
    River Road on Johns Island, just south of Charleston, retains much of the charm that has brought thousands of people to the area. The irony is that these people need houses, which results in the cutting of ancient trees and encroachment on thesalt marshes, so that the vistas that were once part of the main attraction no longer exist. Here, at least, are reminders of how Charleston County used to look.
    Safe-Keepers Storage, however, is a blight on the landscape, a boil on the face of Mother Nature. It makes me cringe every time I drive by it. Even Mama knew exactly where it was, and her pink pump pressed the pedal to the metal, covering the distance from downtown in what had to be record time. Thank heavens she was driving her own car, because gravel sprayed against the sides as we skidded to a stop upon arrival.
    â€œMama, aren’t you worried about damaging your finish?”
    â€œDon’t sweat the small stuff. Haven’t you learned that yet, Abby?”
    â€œI have,” I said. I didn’t dare tell Mama it was an expression I’d told myself whenever my ex-husband, Buford, demanded sex.
    Mama got out and plumped up her crinolines before looking around. “So how do we find the owner?”
    â€œFortunately—although I would have guessed otherwise—he lives in the house over there.” I pointed to a dwelling that was as ugly, if not uglier, than the storage units.
    Without further ado we crunched our way to the home of a Mr. Darren Cotter. Mama has a thing for ringing doorbells, so I let her do the honors. She had to mash it twice before anyone answered. Unfortunately, on the drive over I hadn’t had time to warn her about Mr. Cotter’s unusual appearance; his eyes were every bit as blue as a Siamese cat’s. Shaped a bit like a cat’s eyes as well.
    When he came to the door, Mama overcorrected. “Hello. My name is Mr. Cotter,” she said.
    â€œSomehow I don’t think so.”
    I nudged Mama gently aside. “She’s actually Mrs. Wiggins. I’m Abigail Washburn. Although Timberlake is my business name. I’m the one who bought the contents of shed fifty-three.”
    â€œMa’am, there are no returns on locked trunk sales. The ad made that very clear.”
    â€œOh no, I’m not intending to return what I bought—or keep it, for that matter. But I would very much like to find out who the previous owner is.”
    â€œSorry, ma’am, but that information is confidential. Besides, it won’t do you any good. I’ve been trying for years to get in touch with this guy. If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t have had to go to the bother of setting up an auction.”
    It was Mama’s turn to elbow me aside. The three inches she has on me, plus a few pounds, give her an advantage.
    â€œFrom what I heard, Mr. Cotter”—she pronounced the t’s sharply—“you had about twenty dealers, plus a crowd of eager fortune hunters bidding on that shed. That’s a lot of