Murder on a Bad Hair Day (18 page)

I came up the steps with the stand. “Most probably,” I agreed. “How come you’re not at work?”

“Not much elective surgery this close to Christmas.”

“People
elect
to have heart surgery?”

“They can put it off. Sometimes.”

I looked at tiny Haley. The thought of her routinely rummaging around in people’s chests still boggles my mind. I have never wanted to know what’s under my skin. Let sleeping guts lie, is my philosophy. A bad one, according to Haley, who drags me in for mammograms, Pap smears, and other various and sundry indignities. She needles her father into going, too, fortunately. Several years ago, he had an early-stage melanoma removed from his back that neither of us had paid any attention to.

“See?” Haley told her father when the lab report came back. “See? I told you so.”

“What do you do,” Fred asked me, “when your children start telling you ‘I told you so’?”

“Say thank you.” And I meant it. Now he and I check each other over like monkeys.

“It’s a nice tree. Bigger than mine.” Haley was holding
the tree up when I came up the basement steps. “You got any decorations for it?”

“I can probably find a few. Help me get it in the stand.”

This is never an easy job, trying to get those screws in the trunk of the tree. I was grateful for Haley’s help.

“I need to borrow your black evening bag,” she said as we hauled the tree that had looked so small in the field up the back steps. “And Grandmama’s cameo. And that gold hair thing of yours. You know, the butterflies. I’ve decided to wear my hair up for the Policeman’s Ball, Mama, because I’m wearing a dress that looks, I swear, like a slip or a nightgown. In fact, I bought it in Rich’s lingerie department, but the tag said it could be used as a dress so I’m taking them up on it.”

“Sheriff Reuse is a lucky man,” I said. It was wonderful hearing Haley babbling happily like this.

“Whoa,” she said as we went through the kitchen. “Where did those gorgeous flowers come from?”

“The Needham twins, Lynn and Glynn. Claire Moon’s sisters.”

“Because you took Claire to the hospital? That was certainly thoughtful.”

“No. Because I dragged them home last night.”

We put the tree in the corner of the den while I explained to Haley that I had been afraid for the twins to drive and had brought them home from the very spot where they were staying. “And I was right,” I finished. “They had Claire there with them. They were the ones who took her from the hospital.”

“Have you seen her? Is she okay? And why did they take her?” Haley was down on her hands and knees trying to straighten the tree up. “How’s that?”

I backed up and looked. “A fraction to the right. And no, I haven’t seen her. James Butler said Thurman Beatty had gone to get her. We were out at his horse hospital getting Bubba.”

“Aunt Sister’s Bubba was in a horse hospital?”

“And held his own, I’m sure.”

Haley backed away from the tree and stood up. “Is it still leaning?”

“Looks straight to me. Do you think I ought to move Abe’s painting? The tree’s not touching it, is it?”

“It’s fine,” Haley said.

The mention of the painting reminded me of the Mafia art connection lurking out at Leota Wood’s house. I told Haley about Mary Alice’s conclusions when she had seen the bedroom full of Outsider work. To my surprise, Haley didn’t laugh.

“Mama, two people are dead and another had a close call, and the only connection among them is the gallery, the Outsider’s work. Think about it. Aunt Sister may be on to something.”

“The Mafia hanging out at Leota Wood’s? Get serious, Haley.”

“I am serious. Not the Mafia, but what do you know about Leota Wood?”

“That she’s a nice old lady in her seventies who lives in a log cabin in the woods and who makes the most beautiful quilts I’ve ever seen in my life.” I started to the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll fix us some coffee, or would you rather have Coke?”

“Coke. I’ll get it.” Haley got two glasses down and pointed one toward me. “Suit you?”

“Sure. I need something to cool Jake’s barbecue down.”

“Red or yellow sauce?” Haley stuck the glasses under the ice dispenser.

“Red.”

“Mama.” Haley poured the Coke. “You ought to live dangerously sometimes.”

“Eating at Jake’s
is
dangerous.” I sat down at the table. “And do you know they had a ninety-eight health department score?”

“Jake knows the right people.” Haley joined me at the table.

“Maybe some of that art connection Mafia.”

But Haley refused to take this lightly. “Tell me again about Leota Wood.”

I did, including the coydog, Rover, and my phone call to Abe Butler when he thought I was Leota and told me to get off his ass. I also told her that it was possible Ross Perry had been on his way to Leota’s since he was killed only a mile or so from her house, but that he could have been going to see anybody who lived along that road, including James Butler. “She’s just a nice, talented old lady, Haley,” I concluded. “There’s a logical explanation for all that artwork being in her bedroom. You can bet on that. Probably wasn’t as much as your aunt Sister said, anyway.”

“She’s a fence,” Haley said, gazing into her glass as if it were a crystal ball. “All that stuff is stolen and when Ross called she told him she had one particular thing that he collected, knowing he would pay her a fortune for it.”

“Then who stole all the stuff and fenced it with Leota and why did she shoot Ross Perry?”

Haley stirred the ice with her finger. “Claire Moon stole it.”

“What?” My head was beginning to throb. “Why not her sisters?” I got up and took two aspirin from a bottle that was almost empty. “Or her aunt Liliane.”

“The twins weren’t here for Mercy’s party, were they?”

I swallowed the aspirin. “I have no idea. Why?”

“To kill Mercy.”

I had started a grocery list on a notepad that had “Keep on truckin” printed across the top. Some company Fred did business with. I tore a couple of sheets from the back and handed them to Haley. “Here. Write me a short synopsis. I’m still confused about some points.”

“So am I.” Haley grinned good-naturedly. She stuck the paper in her pocket. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Well, in the meantime, let’s get the stuff you came for and see what we can find to go on this tree. And we need to talk about the boys. It’s okay for Freddie and Celia to stay with you, isn’t it? Like they did last Christmas?”

“Sure, Mama. I enjoy having them.”

“Well, Aunt Sister said she would love to have them. The thought of Mary Alice and Celia together for a couple of days bothers me, though. No telling who would get hexed.”

Haley laughed. “I’ll change the sheets on the bed for them. Even mop the kitchen floor.”

“The” bed. That bothered me, too. Damn it, why didn’t folks get married like they used to?

“Mama?” The tone of Haley’s voice changed. “Is it all right if Jed comes over for Christmas dinner? I haven’t asked him yet, but I think he’s still having a hard time with holidays. You know, since his wife’s death.”

“Of course, honey. Ask him.” Sheriff Jed Reuse was not the man I would have picked for Haley. Not that there was anything wrong. He was just a rather formal man, very reserved, the opposite of what Haley’s Tom had been. Which was probably my hang-up. A rowdy Christmas at our house should be interesting for him—and us, too.

Haley patted the pocket where she had put the sheets of paper. “I’ll get him to help me with this,” she said.

“Frankly, my dear, I think Celia might do a better job.”

“Don’t bet on it.” There was a softness in Haley’s voice that I welcomed back almost as much as I did her laughter.

“W
here did that poinsettia come from?” Fred asked as he walked into the kitchen. “That’s the prettiest one I’ve ever seen.”

“The Needham twins.” I was standing at the stove sautéeing mushrooms. Two small steaks waited to be popped on the grill and fresh asparagus was already placed in the microwave, thick parts to the center, forming an incredibly expensive wheel.

“That was nice,” Fred said. He came over and nuzzled my neck. The steaks caught his eye. “What is this? You’re actually allowing pieces of marbleized red meat into this kitchen?”

“The rice and asparagus don’t have any fat. We can splurge occasionally.” I thought about my lunch at Jake’s Joint and realized
splurging
might not be the right word to describe my cholesterol intake today.
Going overboard
was more like it. Drowning in fat. I’d have to do better tomorrow. I reached around and patted Fred’s behind. “Get a beer, why don’t you? The paper’s on the table.”

“You bought a Christmas tree today, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” I said defensively. “And don’t think for a moment I’m trying to get you in a good humor about it with steak. I quit playing that game a long time ago.”

“It’s fine, honey.” He gave me a hug and headed for the refrigerator.

“Fine? You’ve been saying for years you didn’t want us to have a live tree and now it’s fine?”

“Patricia Anne”—Fred popped a beer open—“there is a Christmas tree in our den, decorated and lighted. I can see it reflected in the picture there.” He pointed toward a framed poster of a Georgia O’Keefe poppy that hangs next to the bay window. “Now, the way I see it, I have a choice. I can go into the den, sit in my chair, read the paper, and enjoy the tree. Or I can throw a fit and say, ‘I’ll not have that fire hazard in our house, Patricia Anne,’ in which case we would have an unpleasant evening. I’m opting for the first. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll put the steaks on the grill.” He picked up the paper and disappeared into the den.

He drives me crazy when he’s so sensible. Takes all the wind out of my sails.

We did have a nice evening, though. The steaks were delicious, and the Christmas tree, scantily decorated though it was, added to the brightness of the season. Even Fred’s propping the fire extinguisher noticeably near the tree didn’t dispel the magic.

Fred was dozing in his chair and I was dividing my attention between reading a new biography of Greta Garbo and watching
Christmas in Washington
when the phone rang.

“What are you doing?” Mary Alice asked.

“Reading about Greta Garbo. Finding out a lot more about her than I wanted to know.”

“Fred like the tree?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Oh.” Mary Alice sounded disappointed. “Well, what I called for was to see if you wanted to have supper here tomorrow night. I know it’s Fred’s pinochle night.”

“Sounds great.”

“I’m going to see if Frances Zata can come. I owe her a thank-you for filling in for me at the mall. And Bonnie Blue. Reckon they play bridge?”

“As well as we do, I imagine.” Neither of us plays worth
a hoot. I plod, trying to remember the rules, refusing to take chances, and Mary Alice makes up the rules as she goes along. And usually wins. Our mother, who was an expert bridge player and who tried for years to teach us, finally refused to let us fill in at any of her parties, swearing neither of us had a lick of card sense.

“We might play some bridge, then. You can still come if the others can’t, though.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Sure. Seven o’clock?”

“Okay. How’s Bubba?”

“That angel’s asleep right in the middle of my bed.”

“Where’s Bill, then?”

“Soaking in Epsom salts. That Santa costume’s giving him a rash like you wouldn’t believe. You ought to see it.”

“I’ll pass. You want me to bring some fruit drop cookies tomorrow night?”

“Sure. And Mouse?” Mary Alice hesitated.

“What?”

“Nothing. I have to go rub calamine on Bill.”

“Have a good time,” I said.

Fred had opened his eyes and was yawning widely. “Bill has a bad rash,” I told him.

“That’s understandable.” He got up and stretched. “What are you reading?”

“A biography of Greta Garbo. You wouldn’t believe some of the things she did.”

“Turn off the tree and come show me.”

I took him up on the invitation.

The next morning I got my silver flatware from the freezer and polished it. Fred laughs at my keeping it there and says it’s the first place a thief would look. But in the pull-out drawer under the peaches and blueberries I put up last summer? I doubt it. Plus, it’s wrapped in heavy freezer paper and has “Shrimp” written on the side. I feel pretty safe about it.

I washed my crystal and china and put the red tablecloth
through the gentle cycle since it smelled musty. While it was in the dryer, I started making out a combination grocery list and things-to-do list. “Bert—Mortal Combat,” I wrote. I had been assured by his parents that this was what my ten-year-old grandson wanted. I nibbled on my pencil eraser. It sounded awfully violent. Should I check it out? I put a question mark by “Mortal Combat” knowing full well that I would buy it, but feeling better for questioning it. A ten-year-old boy should be getting Erector sets, the fancy kind with lots of motors so he could build ferris wheels and helicopters.

The doorbell rang and somehow I knew before I opened it who it would be. And it was. Claire Moon stood there smiling. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants, which I realized by now was the sisters’ usual outfit, she was a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn. She looked pale, but her eyes were clear; in her arms was a large pink poinsettia. I smiled and held the door open for her.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hollowell. And thanks for everything.” She handed me the plant.

“Come on in,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She followed me into the den, where I put the flower on the coffee table and turned to hug her.

“You had us worried to death,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know the twins were trying to protect you. At least now I know it. At the time we didn’t know what had happened.”

“I don’t remember any of it.”

“I’m not surprised. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make us some coffee.”

Claire sank down on the sofa. “That would be wonderful.”

I went into the kitchen to start the coffee. “The flower’s beautiful,” I called. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad I got the pink. I see you already have a red.” Claire could see the bay window from the sofa.

“Your sisters sent that,” I said.

“Glynn and Lynn?” She sounded surprised.

I turned on the percolator and came back to the door. “You didn’t know I kidnapped them?”

Claire shook her head no. I sat down in Fred’s chair and told her about the night the twins had spent with us. The whole episode was beginning to seem funny, and I expected to see Claire smiling about it, at least. Instead, she looked upset.

“Oh, Mrs. Hollowell, I’m so sorry. We’ve been nothing but worry to you.”

“I was worried
for
you. Nothing that happened was your fault. Remember that, Claire.”

“Then why do I feel like it was?”

“My niece says guilt is a ‘chick’ thing. She’s a lawyer and says if she’s got a female client who was hit by a car that ran up on the sidewalk, the woman will feel guilty because she was standing at that particular corner waiting for the light to change. You think a man would?”

Claire grinned. “I don’t think all women would. Mercy wouldn’t. She’d be up checking the driver’s insurance.” Her smile faded.

“My sister, Mary Alice, wouldn’t either. She’d just say it was my fault she was on that corner and make
me
feel guilty. The crazy thing about it is I probably would.”

Claire and I looked at each other and her grin came back.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” I said. I went into the kitchen and got mugs from the cabinet.

“Mrs. Hollowell?” Claire was standing in the den door. “You went to the hospital with me, didn’t you? I meant it when I said I was having trouble remembering what happened, but it seems like you were there holding my hand.”

I nodded. “I went with you. You were in shock and that can be pretty dangerous. The paramedic said your stress signals were stuck on go. Or something like that. You were really out of it.” I put the coffee on the kitchen table and
motioned for Claire to sit down. “Put a lot of sugar in it,” I said. “For energy.”

“I’m feeling okay. When I woke up, I was with Glynnie and Lynnie at the hotel. I didn’t even know how much time had passed or how they got me out of the hospital. I made them promise to let you know I was all right and I went back to sleep. That’s all I wanted to do—sleep.”

I thought about the lunch at the Green and White, the twins’ startling me. “They told me,” I said. “But what about your aunt Liliane? She was so worried, she came here wanting to know if I knew anything. Made me promise to let her know if I heard anything.”

Claire looked up from stirring her coffee. “Liliane came here?”

I nodded. “I didn’t know anything to tell her at the time. In fact, even after the twins told me you were safe, I wasn’t sure where you were.”

Claire shrugged and sipped her coffee. She was holding the mug with both hands as if to warm them.

I asked the questions I had been wondering about. “Why aren’t the twins staying with Liliane? And how did they know you were in the hospital?”

“Did Liliane tell you that Dania story? She usually does.”

I nodded, surprised.

“Well, it’s a lot simpler than that. Liliane’s our grandmother. She got pregnant when she was in college and had our mother. Everything was covered up, of course, and the baby was adopted by an employee of my grandfather’s who was paid well for the favor, I’m sure. God knows where Liliane got that Dania story. From a soap probably.”

“I believed it,” I admitted, remembering my tears.

“It ticks Lynn and Glynn off. They take it personally, the fact that she won’t come out and claim us. The twins and Liliane have always fought like cats and dogs. Always. About everything from the length of their skirts to their friends. The day they graduated from high school they swiped the money from Liliane’s purse for one-way tickets to New York and took off.”

“How do you feel about Liliane?” I asked.

Claire shrugged. “Maybe she did the best she could, given the time and circumstances.”

“And the circumstances were certainly different fifty years ago.”

“Yes. On the other hand, I can understand how the twins feel.” Claire was quiet for a minute. “You asked how they found out I was in the hospital. You know, I didn’t think to ask. But they’re in Birmingham because Mercy sent them an invitation to the gallery opening. Of course, they got here a day late, but that’s Glynn and Lynn for you. Typical.” Claire ran her finger around the rim of her cup.

“Were the twins and Mercy good friends?”

“The twins and Mercy? Not particularly. I was surprised they came. They pop in every now and then, though, since I’ve been back in Birmingham. I’m always happy to see them. But they take it upon themselves to bedevil poor Liliane. Lynn and Glynn showed up at a fancy party last spring at the Botanical Gardens, picked her up about a foot off the floor, and gave her a big juicy smack on each cheek. They angled in so it looked like Liliane had red cat whiskers. They’ve always driven her crazy with stuff like that.”

I could imagine Liliane Bedsole with her orange hair and her tight skin sporting red cat whiskers. “I wish I had seen it,” I said truthfully.

“They act like mischievous kids sometimes seeking attention.” Claire motioned to the purse she had hung over the arm of the chair. “That’s Glynnie’s purse I’ve borrowed, and I swear I’m scared to open any of the compartments, scared something will pop out like a jack-in-the-box.”

“That’s not such a bad trait,” I said.

“No, it’s not.” Claire pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to get their rental car back before they wake up. I need to go over to my place and get some clothes and things. I’m going out to James and Yvonne Butler’s to stay a few days.”

“Is it okay, your going in the apartment?”

Claire, who had started for the hall, turned. “You think it wouldn’t be?”

“Well, it’s a crime scene.” The rest of the sentence, “where somebody tried to kill you,” hung in the air between us.

“You think I ought to check with that police lady? What’s her name?”

“Bo Mitchell. And yes, I think you should. If she says it’s okay, I’ll go with you. I don’t want you out there by yourself.”

“It’ll be okay. I know what to expect this time. And it’s daylight.”

“Just make the call,” I said.

The twins’ rental car was hardly large enough for Claire and me. “I hope you aren’t planning on getting a bunch of stuff,” I said as we pulled up to her town house.