Murder on a Bad Hair Day (10 page)

“What paintings?” Sister wanted to know.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Just ask him.”

“I will.” Sister took the suit from Bonnie Blue and we headed for the door. “Wonder what Ross is doing with Abe’s paintings.”

“Selling them for him?”

Mary Alice shrugged. I held the door for her and we exited onto the sidewalk.

“Have you heard that Thurman Beatty thinks Claire Moon is the cat’s pajamas?” I asked her.

“Good God. Cat’s pajamas? You’ve got to get out more, Patricia Anne.”

“I don’t have to. I have you.”

That seemed to please her.

The Green and White is a vegetarian restaurant that is so expensive you could buy the farm the vegetables came from with a tab for three. They specialize in things I have never heard of. Granted, being an Alabama native, black-eyed peas, corn, okra, and cabbage, with an occasional rutabaga thrown in, are the veggies I’m most familiar with. But asparagus, broccoli, and even artichokes appear on my table regularly. I am even aware that there is more than one kind of lettuce. But at the Green and White I can’t understand the menu. There have been times when
pasta
was the only word I rec
ognized. The upbeat mood I had left the school with had faded in the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shop. The Green and White succeeded in erasing it completely.

The owner, Andre, is a short, pudgy man who looks like he rushes out to McDonald’s as soon as he locks the door. He raises his own herbs in hanging baskets that fill the windows. It’s really a very pleasant place if you don’t think about how much each mouthful costs.

He spotted Mary Alice as soon as we walked in and probably would have kissed her on her cheeks except he’s a head shorter than she is. Instead, he held out his arms expansively, beamed, and exclaimed, “Mrs. Crane! Mrs. Crane!”

Mary Alice gave him an awkward half hug and introduced me. I’ve met him at least ten times but it has yet to register with him.

“Mr. Perry is here already,” Andre said. “Allow me to show you the way.”

Ross Perry was sitting about ten feet from us in plain view, but Andre showed us the way. Ross Perry tried to hop up, not very successfully, since he and Andre have the same weight problem. Sister and I appreciated the effort, though.

She introduced me to Ross Perry while Andre stood by, rubbing his hands together in pleasure.

“I noticed you at the gallery opening the other night, Mrs. Hollowell,” Ross Perry said.

“Call me Patricia Anne.”

“Wine! Wine!” Andre exclaimed. “A nice chablis?”

“I’d like iced tea,” I said. Sorrow filled Andre’s face. “I’m allergic to alcohol,” I explained. “I could go into anaphylactic shock, die right here in convulsions.”

“Chablis would be wonderful,” Mary Alice said to Andre, who was backing away from the table.

“Why does it surprise me to see wine in a vegetarian restaurant?” I asked.

Mary Alice shrugged. “It’s grapes.”

“The nectar of the gods,” Ross Perry said. His red nose and the broken capillaries in his cheeks indicated he had been sipping on the nectar frequently and for a long time. Today
he was wearing a black suit with white stripes that looked like a costume for
Guys and Dolls
. The basket of herbs hanging across from us cast a shadow on his bald head that looked exactly like Gorbachev’s birthmark, including the drip.

Andre came back with the wine and the tea and announced that one of today’s specials was angel-hair pasta with a delightful tofu and cubonelle sauce sprinkled with sun-dried tomatoes, another—”

“That’s what I’ll have,” I interrupted, having recognized two ingredients.

Andre pushed his bifocals down and glared at me. I pushed my bifocals down and returned the glare. The music to
High Noon
pulsed between us.

“Or you could make my day with a T-bone,” I said.

Mary Alice kicked me. “What are the other specials, Andre?” she asked sweetly.

He held his hand to his chest as he recited them. Mary Alice and Ross Perry both said everything sounded so wonderful that Andre should choose for them. Pretty smart.

“What’s the matter with you, Patricia Anne?” Mary Alice fussed as Andre bounced away.

“He’s so show-offy. What’s wrong with iced tea and black-eyed peas?”

“Who mentioned black-eyed peas?”

“Nobody. That’s the problem.”

“You want black-eyed peas?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Ladies”—Ross Perry held up his wineglass—“I’m so glad you could join me for lunch today.”

“I hoped it would be all right. I ran into my sister and she wanted to come so badly.” Mary Alice turned to him and smiled at the same time she aimed another kick at me.

“Yes, indeed,” I agreed, smiling. The kick had missed by a mile. We clinked glasses and exchanged pleasantries.

Before the food arrived, though, the conversation had worked its way around to Mercy’s murder and Claire’s disappearance. Ross knew about the DMSO that had been used to kill Mercy. “Diabolical!” he exclaimed. But he hadn’t
realized I was the one who had taken Claire to the hospital, that she had come to me. I told him the complete story.

He shook his head. “Claire’s a sweet girl, so fragile. I’ve always pictured her as the Arthurian Lady of the Lake with a lily in her hand.”

It was a pretty good simile, I thought; the alliteration could use a little work.

A pretty blond waitress brought our food and a small loaf of bread straight from the oven, crusty and steaming.

“Looks as good as black-eyed peas,” Sister said.

We concentrated on the food for a few minutes. Whatever it was, it was delicious.

“I went by to see Liliane Bedsole last night,” Ross said, reaching for the bread. “Anybody want more?” he asked. Sister and I shook our heads no. “Anyway”—he sliced a large piece and buttered it—“she’s in pretty bad shape, understandable, given the fact that her niece has just been murdered and her foster daughter has disappeared.”

“Was Betty Bedsole there?” Sister asked.

“No. She’s got a suite at the Tutwiler. I went by to see her, too. Bless her heart. Completely devastated.”

Mary Alice and I looked at each other. Oh, God. To lose a child. Both of us put our forks down.

“What about her husband? Mercy’s father?” I asked.

“Had a stroke in Mexico, I understand. He’s in his eighties and apparently it did him in. And the son is in China making a picture.”

“Is anybody with her?” Mary Alice asked. The thought of a bereaved mother alone in a hotel room was as unsettling to her as it was to me.

“Her secretary and her companion.” Ross Perry took a big bite of buttered bread that left his lips greasy. “The companion’s really a nurse, you know. Betty just got out of the Betty Ford Clinic.”

“A slightly dysfunctional family.” I moved my foot quickly before Mary Alice could kick it.

Ross Perry wiped his mouth with Andre’s oversized napkin. “Sad,” he agreed. But there was a look in his eyes that
belied his words. I remembered what Mary Alice had told me about Mercy’s throwing a can of cola at him. That act was becoming more understandable by the minute.

Ross pushed his chair back. “If you ladies will excuse me a minute, I need to make a phone call.”

“He’s a doll,” I said, watching him waddle across the floor.

“If you weren’t so old, I’d swear you were having PMS,” Mary Alice said.

“We had a Peeping Tom last night. I’m still upset about it.”

“What happened?”

I told her about the footprints and Woofer barking.

“Probably some kid,” she said. “Out playing in the snow.”

“I hope so.” I watched Ross Perry leaning against the wall as he talked on the phone. He was having an animated conversation. At one point, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and bald head. “I don’t like that man.” I motioned toward the phone.

“Don’t let on. If he knew, he wouldn’t sleep nights worrying about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, coming back to the table. “It was something I’d forgotten for my column.”

“Quite all right.” Mary Alice smiled. She spotted Andre and held up her wineglass. He came rushing over and gave her and Ross both a refill. At this rate, they wouldn’t suffer much at Mercy’s funeral.

“Some decaf coffee?” I asked Andre. He pursed his lips. “The food was delicious,” I added. He nodded, which meant he was agreeing with me about the food or was going to bring me some coffee. I would have to wait and see.

“I know this will sound premature,” Ross Perry said to Mary Alice, “but last night when I saw Liliane I think I realized for the first time how little she has in her life. I think the board of directors of the museum should consider asking her to take Mercy’s place. What do you think?”

“It hasn’t crossed my mind,” Mary Alice said.

“Well, think about it. I believe it would mean a lot to her.”

“I will,” Mary Alice promised.

I couldn’t believe this. “Better hurry,” I said. “Mercy’s been dead two whole days.”

Mary Alice slammed her wineglass down. “Patricia Anne, you are crossing the pig tracks.”

I excused myself and headed for the ladies’ room. Granted, none of this was any of my business. Granted, I hadn’t been in the mood for lunch and shouldn’t have let Mary Alice talk me into it. And maybe I had been too smart-mouthed. But pig tracks! I didn’t deserve that!

Our grandmother Alice, who lived in Montgomery, and from whom Mary Alice inherited her size, was a formidable disciplinarian. We were taught very early that there were three things the women in our family never were. First was tacky. Wearing patent leather shoes after five was an example of this. Then, there was common. This included smoking on the street and not writing thank-you notes within a week. Finally, there was common as pig tracks. God forbid. I was never accused of this by Grandmother, but Mary Alice was. Grandmother caught her cutting her toenails on the front porch, a common as pig tracks offense, and she was taken to the bus station and sent back to Birmingham immediately for Mama to deal with.

“Thank God your grandmother didn’t live to see this,” Mama said one day while we were watching the people on a talk show. “It would have killed her. These folks are commoner than pig tracks.”

I combed my hair and put on some lipstick, reassuring the woman in the mirror that she was not as common as pig tracks. I was closing my purse when the door opened and Claire Moon walked in. I was so startled, I dropped my purse and the contents went everywhere.

“Claire!” But the moment I said it, I knew I was wrong. This woman was taller, and her eyes were a pale blue.

“I’m Glynn,” she said. “Glynn Needham.”

“And I’m Lynn,” said the identical woman who had come
in behind her. “Here, we’ll help you pick up your things.”

“I thought you were your sister,” I said weakly.

They both grinned.

“Not a bit alike,” Glynn said.

“Y
ou’re Mrs. Hollowell,” Glynn said. “We recognized you when you came into the restaurant.” She and her sister were both scrambling around picking up the contents of my purse, which consisted of old receipts, change, half pieces of gum, and used Kleenex as well as the usual wallet, checkbook, and lipstick.

“You want these?” Lynn held up two capsules which looked like some kind of antibiotics. They were covered in lint.

“I don’t know what they are,” I admitted. “Maybe from a sinus infection last spring.”

“Then we toss them.” She threw them into the wastebasket. “You need to get you a backpack, Mrs. Hollowell. See?” She turned so I could see brown leather that seemed to cover her whole back.

“I don’t carry that much,” I explained. I accepted the articles they had picked up and crammed them back into my purse. “Thanks. You really startled me, you know.”

“We’re sorry,” they said in unison.

“You shouldn’t have bounced in like that, Glynnie,” Lynn said.

“It was your fault, Lynnie.”

They stood on either side of me, arguing into the mirror.
It was a slightly surreal experience being sandwiched that way between identical twins.

Lynn caught my eye in the mirror. “We knew you at Alexander High. Knew who you were. We only went there one year and didn’t take AP English like Claire did.”

“She’s smarter than we are,” Glynn said.

I looked at the two beautiful young women who stood beside me. Their shiny black hair was cut in the same style as Claire’s with heavy bangs and the longer sides that brushed their cheeks, emphasizing high cheekbones. Their skin was as pale. But the eyes were startlingly blue, accentuated by the light blue sweaters each wore over jeans.

“She’s no prettier,” I said.

They both smiled. “We work at it harder,” Glynn said.

“Like every day,” Lynn said.

“You got any idea where she is?” I asked.

“No idea.”

“She’ll show up.”

That was what Bo Peep Mitchell had said. Either they knew something I didn’t, or they were being mighty callous about Claire’s disappearance. I looked from one to the other. “Did you follow me in here to tell me something?”

“Just hello,” Glynn said.

“Hello,” Lynn said.

That wasn’t good enough. “How come I didn’t see you in the dining room?”

“We were hiding from Ross Perry,” Glynn said.

“In a booth. Behind a big basket of basil. We hate him.”

I nodded. That was understandable. “You’re here for Mercy’s funeral?”

Lynn turned to Glynn. “The funeral. Of course. We should go to the funeral. Don’t you think?”

“Who is doing the eulogy?” Glynn asked.

I snapped my purse closed and moved from between them. They slid together, turned, and looked at me. I’ve read the studies on identical twins and have even had some in my classes, but they never cease to amaze me. I was facing oneness here.

“Thank you for taking care of Claire,” Glynn, or was it Lynn, said. Since they had turned from the mirror I was confused.

I nodded. “I wish I could have done more.”

Glynn turned to her sister. “Claire wouldn’t want Mrs. Hollowell to be worried, would she, Lynnie?”

“Certainly not, Glynnie.”

“You know where she is, don’t you?” I said.

“Did we say that, Glynnie?”

“Of course not, Lynnie. Turn around.” Glynn reached into Lynn’s backpack and took out a comb and lipstick.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?” Lynn reached down and took the two antibiotic capsules from the top of the wastebasket. “Here. Stick these in Ross Perry’s throat for us.”

“Or any other orifice,” Glynn said.

They were both laughing as I left the rest room. Surely, I thought, I had gotten the message right. Claire was okay and her sisters knew where she was. On the other hand, what had they really said? That I was not to worry. That Claire wouldn’t want me to worry. There was a lot of room there for misunderstanding.

Mary Alice and Ross Perry were having a halfhearted argument over who should pay the check as I walked up. Both were insisting on the honor.

“You invited me,” I reminded Mary Alice. No way I was going to get drawn into this argument.

“I’ll leave the tip,” Ross said.

Andre bowed and waved us into the street. As I went through the door, I looked around to see if I saw the Needham twins. If they were hiding behind the basil baskets, they were doing a good job.

“I’ve got to rush home to get dressed,” Mary Alice said.

Ross Perry nodded. “And I’ve got a couple of things need doing. I’ll meet you at Saint Paul’s about a quarter to three.” He shook my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Patricia Anne, it was a pleasure meeting you.” He smiled and walked
off down the street, turning to give a small wave as he reached his car.

“What are you going to do?” Mary Alice asked me.

“Christmas shop. I think I’ll look around here for a while. There are some interesting places. Did you see that shop called the Witchery? I’ll bet I could find Freddie’s Celia something in there.”

“It’s the Stitch Witchery, a fancy sewing shop.”

“Oh. I thought maybe it was one of those New Age goddess places. Crystals and stuff.”

“In Birmingham? Are you crazy? Stick to T. J. Maxx, Mouse.”

“Well, it could have been,” I called to Sister as she disappeared around the corner, laughing.

It was a beautiful afternoon, no sign of the snow flurries of the night before. The sky was a clear blue, and abundant sunshine had pushed the thermometer on the bank building to a balmy 60 degrees. I threw my heavy coat onto the backseat of the car and headed for the mall to do some serious shopping. Fred and I usually shopped for the boys’ presents together and Fred bought mine (I’d point it out to him), but the rest was up to me.

I found a parking place fairly close to an entrance, dropped some money into the Salvation Army bucket, and bought a paper angel from the Humane Society. Three hours later, I emerged, dropped some more money into the Salvation Army bucket, and bought another angel from the Humane Society. Mary Alice says don’t be silly, send them one check a year. But if I did, I’d still have to stop and put in money and buy the angels. I know I would. When the Santa ringing the bell looks particularly bedraggled or they’ve brought puppies from the Humane Society, I’m a goner.

The sun was getting low in the sky, and I was tired, but Woofer hadn’t had his walk the day before or this morning. I rushed home, took a package of bean soup from the freezer, put on my sweats, and went to the dog yard. Woofer was delighted to see me. When I bragged on him for barking the
night before, he rolled over on his back and wriggled with pleasure.

We set out at a brisk walk. We usually do, slowing down within a couple of blocks and, like the old couple we are, meandering home at leisure. More Christmas decorations had sprung up in the last two days. Some of my neighbors, I realized, could have been students of Ms. Felix. Her Jewish Santa bulletin board and the Holy Family in a sleigh on the next block had a certain tangential similarity.

While we walked, I thought of Lynn and Glynn Needham and their cryptic message. If it
was
a message. Claire wouldn’t have wanted me to worry. I stopped for Woofer to investigate a crack in the sidewalk. I should have pinned them down more, I thought. I glanced at my watch. The funeral would have been over a couple of hours ago. I wondered if the girls had gone to it. They certainly hadn’t seemed bothered by Mercy’s death.

The Bedsole granddaughters: Mercy, whom nobody seemed to like and who had been murdered; Claire, the lost one, the abused one whom someone hated enough to try to kill; Lynn and Glynn, each a beautiful half of a whole.

“Amos,” I said to the late afternoon, “you might should have kept your pants zipped.”

Woofer thought I was talking to him and stopped, wagging his tail.

“Not you, buddy. We had you fixed.”

Fred’s car came into the driveway as Woofer and I turned onto our block. He saw us and waved. He was waiting with the newspaper in his hand when we got there.

“I’ll put him up.” Fred reached down and scratched Woofer’s ears. “Come on, boy.”

I watched them cross the yard, two gentle old men.

“Sorry, Amos,” I said guiltily to the late afternoon. “Maybe some of us are just luckier.”

Fred got a beer from the refrigerator and disappeared into the bathroom while I heated the iron skillet for corn bread. Bean soup and corn bread on a chilly winter night are hard to beat. After I put the bread in the oven, I called Mary Alice
to see how the funeral went. The main thing I wanted to know was if the Needham girls had been there. I got her answering machine. Maybe she had gone to relieve Tiffany, the Magic Maid, at the mall.

I put the soup in a saucepan to thaw and turned the burner on low. I could have done this in the microwave, but the smell of bean soup is too good to miss. It would take the bread a while, anyway.

Fred came in freshly showered and in his terry cloth robe. “We going out tonight?” he asked, nuzzling my neck.

“Did you see the bed?”

“Couldn’t. There were too many packages.”

“Then let’s spend the evening admiring all I bought and getting the decorations down.”

“Suits me.” He turned me and cupped me against him. “Umm,” he said, kissing me lightly.

“Umm,” I echoed.

“I swear this is a den of iniquity,” Mary Alice said behind us. “Don’t y’all ever quit?”

Neither Fred nor I moved. “Mary Alice,” he said quietly, “go outside and knock on the door.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the polite thing to do.”

“I could see through the window, anyway.”

“Mary Alice.” Fred still had not raised his voice.

“Shit.” I could hear the door open and close.

Fred shoved me aside and slammed the dead bolt lock on the door. He whirled around the kitchen and den, closing the blinds so quickly, they rattled in their casements.

“Now,” he said, coming back and putting his arms back around me. “Where were we?”

“Not breathing quite as hard,” I giggled.

“Mouse?” I could hear Mary Alice calling. “Mouse, that’s not very nice.”

“Don’t answer her,” Fred said.

“Mouse, I came to tell you something terrible.”

“Ignore her.”

“I don’t want to hear anything terrible!” I yelled back.

“Mouse, Ross Perry is dead. Somebody shot him.”

“Oh, shit,” Fred said, releasing me. He went to unlock the door.

“May I come in?” Mary Alice asked politely. Fred shrugged and she stepped back inside the kitchen. “That really wasn’t necessary, you know. I know when I’m not welcome.”

“What do you mean, Ross is dead?” I asked.

“Dead. Shot. Somebody shot him.”

“Who’s Ross Perry?” Fred asked.

“Where?” I wanted to know.

“In the head.”

“Where was
he
? Not where did the bullet go in.”

“Down in Shelby County. He didn’t come to the funeral and all of us were pretty pissed because our going together was his idea. But he must not have been there because he was dead.”

“Good excuse,” Fred said. “Who’s Ross Perry?”

“A friend of Sister’s,” I explained. I turned the burner off under the soup and sat down at the kitchen table. “I don’t understand.” I turned to Fred. “We had lunch with him today at the Green and White.”

“I’m sorry.” He patted my shoulder. “Let me put on some clothes. I’ll be right back.”

Mary Alice pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. She still had on her elegant new black suit.

“That suit was a good buy,” I said.

“Comfortable, too. I hate skirts you can’t sit down in or cross your legs in. This one’s just right.”

“A Baby Bear skirt.”

“What?”

“I’m just babbling. Tell me about Ross.”

“All I know is he’s dead. James Butler and his wife were on their way to the funeral and saw this car weaving down the road toward them. Then while they were watching it, it went off the road and down the embankment into Kelly Creek, about a thirty-foot drop. The car was upside-down in the creek when the Butlers got there. James’s wife called 911
and James grabbed his vet’s first aid stuff and climbed down the bank. He even managed to get Ross out of the car, God knows how, upside-down like it was and under water, and dragged him over to the bank. By that time, his wife—what’s her name?”

I shrugged that I had no idea.

“Anyway, James’s wife had crawled down the bank and they started trying to revive him. Ross wasn’t breathing, but he’d been under the water for several minutes. James even had this oxygen pump he carries in his car and he tried that, but nothing. Mrs. James, whatever her name is, said they were working so hard on Ross, they didn’t notice the blood pooling under his head. Looks like a doctor would have noticed that, doesn’t it? It’s an important symptom.”