The Ming and I Read Online Free PDF

minutes until nine, so I wandered over to Wynnell’s shop, Wooden Wonders. Wynnell and I met in the business, and we have only been friends for a couple of years, but I like to think of her as the older sister I never had. I do have a brother—Toy Wiggins—but he lives in California, where he works hard to look like he’s playing. Last we heard he was parking cars at Planet Hollywood at night, and patrolling the streets of Malibu by day,in both cases hoping to pick up a starlet.
    We shop owners are generally very busy in the minutes just prior to opening—straightening stock and such—so Wynnell was both pleased and surprised to see me.
    “Is something wrong?” she asked, pulling me into the shop and locking the door behind me.
    I nodded. There was no need to tell Wynnell that the homemade outfit she was wearing had given me a sudden fit of nausea. I had never seen such a conglomeration of patterns and colors—even Joseph’s coat of many colors would have paled by comparison. Don’t get me wrong. I am not putting down those less fortunate than myself. Wynnell can well afford to buy store-bought clothes—even the best—but suffers from the delusion that she is both a seamstress and a designer. Picasso might have agreed.
    “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “ I’m fine,” I wailed. “It’s the Ming!”
    Wynnell’s shrub-size eyebrows fused in confusion. “What’s amazing?”
    “Not amazing—a Ming! A genuine fifteenth-century Ch’eng-hua period Ming vase. A tou ts’ai !”
    The eyebrows remained fused. “You aren’t making a lick of sense, honey! Are you sure you’re all right?”
    I spit out my tale of woe. Wynnell has a face that law enforcement departments should copy and patent if they really want a foolproof lie detector. It was clear that I couldn’t have stabbed her any worse had my words been pitchforks and her heart a block of warm butter.
    “So you think that I might have taken it?”
    “Of course not!”
    “Then why are you here, Abigail?”
    “Well, uh—I—”
    She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost opening time, and I still have work to do.”
    “Wynnell, I’m sorry, I really am! I don’t know what got over me. Panic, I guess. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Please, Wynnell, forgive me.”
    What began as a bushy-browed glare dissolved into a warm, slightly gap-toothed smile. “Help me do inventory next month?”
    “Do we have to move those around?” I gestured at the jumble of heavy dressers, beds, and armoires that make up the bulk of the merchandise that packs Wooden Wonders.
    “You bet you do.”
    “Deal,” I said, and gave her a quick hug.
    “You speak to C.J. yet?” she asked sensibly. C.J. was the youngest of Greg’s suspects and the most likely to borrow something without permission.
    “Unh-unh. What if she doesn’t have it?” I wailed.
    “Don’t worry, she’ll have it,” my pseudosister said, and patted me encouragingly on the back.
    “But if she doesn’t?”
    Wynnell scowled, hopelessly snarling her brows, I’m sure. “Then it’s the Yankees. I saw this TV documentary about a band of roving thieves—”
    “I saw that same show, Wynnell, and the thieves were from South Carolina. Besides, my shop was locked when we arrived last night. What thief is going to break in, and then lock the shop behind him?”
    Wynnell shrugged, unconvinced. The dear woman spots a Yankee behind every bush. If she had her way, the North Carolina Highway Department would erect barriers at the state’s northern border and screen all motorists. Perhaps make them say their vowels.
    “Well, I don’t think it was stolen,” I said. “Just borrowed. I’m sure you’re right, though—C.J. must have it.”
    Wynnell patted me again. “She has it, honey. But good luck all the same.”
     
    C.J. said she didn’t have it.
    “Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean—if you did, it’s all right. Just give it back. No more questions asked.”
    At twenty-three,