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Authors: Nancy Bell

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BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost
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T
he guests started arriving at twelve. The bride wasn’t even a girl. She was an old gray-headed lady, and her new husband had a bald head and a red face and talked real loud. Miss Mary Ann, who had come out of her room wearing a pink lace dress, greeted them at the door and led them out to the courtyard where they all made a big deal about how pretty everything looked. Rosebud and I watched through the French doors while they toasted the bride and groom. After that, the bride tossed her wedding bouquet over her head. I like to died when two of the women guests butted their heads together and fell on top of each other trying to get their hands on the thing. One large lady’s dress flew over her head so high you could see her underpants. I looked at Rosebud to see if he’d seen, and it was pretty clear he had, because he was doubled over laughing into his blue bandanna handkerchief. I
slapped my hands over my mouth to keep the giggles in, and took off for Biggie’s room to tell her what she’d missed.
I found her sitting on her bed with the contents of Annabeth’s purse dumped out on the pink coverlet. I took a seat on the other side of the bed and watched while she picked up a little silk bag with a drawstring tie and pulled the top open. She put her fingers inside and pulled out a gold lipstick, a plastic powder compact, and a little vial of perfume, the kind they give away at department stores. Biggie opened the perfume and smelled it, then made a face. Next, she opened Annabeth’s billfold and took everything out. “Let’s see,” she said, “according to this, she was eighteen years old in May. She was five-foot-two and weighed ninety-eight pounds.”
“About your size, Biggie.” I picked up the empty purse and began tossing it up and catching it.
“Don’t do that. Nope, I weigh a hundred and twelve. Here’s a library card, a credit card from Penney’s, and someone’s business card.” She held it out as far as she could and squinted at it. “Hmm, Texas Department of Mental Health and Mental Retardation, and there’s a local address and phone number.” She turned the card over. “Someone’s written a date and time on the back. Tomorrow at 10:00 A.M. Wonder why she was carrying that around.”
“I don’t know, Biggie.” I squinted at the card. “I reckon she might have had an appointment for that time.”
“Most likely—and I’m going to have to find out why. Well, hand me the purse. We might as well put these
things back.” She looked at her watch. “My soul, it’s nearly two. I’m hungry enough to eat fried buzzard.”
I picked up the purse to hand it back to Biggie, and when I did, I heard a rustling sound, like paper. I opened it up and felt something between the silk lining and the leather outside. “Biggie, there’s something in here.”
Biggie took the purse and ran her finger behind the lining. “It’s come loose,” she said. “And, you’re right. There’s something in here. I can’t quite reach it. Hand me my manicure scissors off the dresser.”
I got the scissors and Biggie began clipping the threads that held the lining in place. “Ah,” she said. “I’ve got it.” She pulled out a folded slip of paper about the size of my hand. This is what she read out loud to me:
Go back where you came from if you know what’s good for you.
And it’s signed,
The Angel of Death.
”
“Wow,” I breathed, “that’s spooky. Biggie, what do you …”
But I could have saved my breath, because Biggie was already stuffing the stuff back in the purse and looping her own purse over her arm. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to take this to the hospital and show it to the sheriff, but first let’s have some lunch. Hand me my little address book off the night table. I’ve got an idea.”
When we got downstairs, the folks that were staying at the hotel had gathered around the long table in the dining room. Platters of ham sandwiches sat on each end of the table along with pitchers of iced tea. Willie Mae had saved us a bowl of fruit salad from the wedding party and had even made a small Lane cake just for us.
“Y’all come on in and have a seat,” Miss Mary Ann said, starting to get up.
“Keep your seat,” Biggie said. “You must be worn to a frazzle. How’d the wedding party go?”
“Great,” said Lew Masters, who was chewing on a ham sandwich. “This little lady sure knows how to throw a party.”
Miss Mary Ann ducked her head and blushed while I was thinking about how the rest of us had done most of the work.
Butch sat at one end of the table wearing a red sequin-covered baseball cap, a big grin plastered all over his face. Miss Mattie and Norman Thripp sat side by side next to him. Mr. Thripp’s face was longer than a plow mule’s, while Miss Mattie frowned and refused to look in his direction.
“Lordy mercy.” Biggie pulled out a chair and sat down next to Rosebud. “Y’all didn’t stay long at the gambling boats. Did they take all your money so soon?”
“Not me, Biggie.” Butch pulled a fat wad of bills out of his pocket. “See this. All twenties. I’ve got four hundred and forty dollars here.” He fanned out the bills so we could all see. He pointed to his head. “I got this cap at the gift shop. Biggie, you should go over there. They have the cutest things!”
“Humph,” Miss Mattie said.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Did you lose the tearoom?”
“Of course not,” Miss Mattie said. “Just our whole savings account.”
Mr. Thripp seemed to shrink down in his chair.
“Not that I had a thing to do with it,” Miss Mattie went on. “I got tired and went down to the restaurant. Norman just kept on dropping those quarters in the machines like he was some big high roller. Finally, I went back up to see if I could get everybody to come on let’s go home, and there he was, cashing in his last hundred-dollar bill for another big pile of quarters.”
“Quarters won’t do it,” Butch said. “You gotta think big. I was playing the half-dollar machines.”
Miss Mattie turned to face Biggie. “Anyway, when do you think we can all go home, Biggie? Me and Norman are losing money every day we stay here.”
“Why ask me?” Biggie said.
“Because, you have influence. Now, Biggie, don’t try to tell me you don’t because I know better.” Norman tried to look stern. “We want you to go to that sheriff and tell him we didn’t have one thing to do with those murders.” He gave up on looking stern. “Will you, Biggie? Please?”
“Me, too,” Butch said. “Heather Fortenberry’s wedding is coming up in three weeks, and I haven’t even ordered the flowers. Of course, old Brother Fortenberry is so cheap, he wants to use white carnations for the bridal bouquet. Is that tacky, or what?”
“Real tacky,” Miss Mattie said. “Ruby Muckleroy says Meredith Michelle is going to have white orchids when she gets married.” She giggled. “If she ever does, that is.”
“Oh, she’ll get married all right,” Butch said. “She’s going to drag Paul and Silas Wooten to the alter, or I miss my guess. Then she’ll be your cousin, Biggie.”
“Maybe.” Biggie grinned. “We’ll deal with that back in
Job’s Crossing. In the meantime, I want to make sure I have the addresses and phone numbers of our new friends here in Quincy.” She took her address book out of her purse. “Lucas, would you mind entering yours in my book?”
“Gladly.” Lucas wrote quickly in the book and looked at Biggie. “I know the addresses of the other society members. Would you like me to enter them?”
“Nope,” Biggie said, taking the book and passing it over to Miss Mary Ann and Mr. Masters. “I’ll ask them later.” She waited until the others had signed and then put the book back in her purse and pushed her chair back. “Come, J.R., we have an errand to do.”
As we were leaving the hotel, we met the other members of the historical society coming in the front.
“We couldn’t stay away,” Hen said. “We just had to know how the wedding went.”
“Were there any refreshments left?” Alice LaRue wanted to know. “I heard you had a Lane cake. My mama used to make those every single Christmas. Haven’t tasted one in a coon’s age.”
“There’s plenty left,” Biggie said. “But, first, I have a favor to ask of you.” She took out her little address book. “Would you all sign my book? Put in your addresses and phone numbers. I don’t want to go back home without them.”
“Why sure, Biggie,” Hen said. “And we want yours, too.”
Alice took the pen and scrawled some words in the book. “Em has her own phone for some reason. Just had a wall-eyed fit until I had it put in. I don’t guess you’d care to have hers?”
“Never mind that,” Biggie said. “I’ll ask her myself when I see her.”
“Suit yourself,” Alice said, handing the book to Hen.
When we got to the hospital, we found the same lady with the large blond hair sitting at the volunteer’s desk. She was reading a hospital chart and scratching her head with the point of a yellow pencil. She jumped and shoved the chart under the desk when we walked up.
“Is it all right if we drop in on Sheriff Dugger?” Biggie asked.
“You could if he was still here.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “The thing is, he just up and left about an hour ago.”
“He left?” Biggie raised her eyebrows. “I thought he was to stay a few days more.”
“He was supposed to. Young Dr. Littlejohn was fit to be tied, said he wouldn’t be responsible if his stitches came undone, but the sheriff didn’t pay him any mind—just said he had things to do. He put on his clothes and Elmore Wiggs helped him out to the police car.” She pronounced it PO-lice car.
“Can you tell me where he lives?” Biggie asked.
“I could, but it wouldn’t do you a speck of good. He said he was going straight down to his office and work on that murder case. You hear about that?”
Biggie nodded. “Thanks for your help,” she said, turning and heading out the door.
The sheriff’s office was in a square concrete block building next to the courthouse. We found Sheriff Dugger and Deputy Wiggs hunched over a computer monitor.
The sheriff pointed to the screen. “Now what the hell do you suppose that means?”
Deputy Wiggs scratched his head but didn’t answer.
“Afternoon, boys,” Biggie said. “Having computer problems?”
The sheriff eased his chair around to face Biggie, holding on to his side. “Howdy, ma‘am.” He gestured toward the screen. “This machine ain’t been nothin’
but
a problem since that fuzzy-cheeked little county attorney talked the commissioners into puttin’ it in here.”
The deputy spoke up in a voice that sounded like a whiny girl. “We told um we didn’t want it. But they wouldn’t listen. Said they wanted to bring this county into the twenty-first century.”
“Hell, it’ll take more than a damn (’scuse me ma’am) computer to do that!”
“As far as I can tell,” Biggie said, taking a seat in the oak swivel chair opposite the desk, “this town is locked in the nineteenth century. The only thing these people are interested in is the past. But, the truth is, we have a very present problem on our hands, and that’s the murder of Annabeth Baugh.” She pulled the little white purse out of her big black one and pushed it across the desk toward the sheriff. “J.R. found this in the courtyard last night.”
“No problem.” The sheriff picked up the purse and dumped its contents, including the note, onto the desk.
“It belonged to Annabeth,” Biggie said. “Read the note first.”
The sheriff read the note and blew out a loud puff of air. He looked at Biggie. “Can’t see how my boys overlooked this,” he said. “What do you make of this note?”
Biggie wriggled in the chair, which was too big for her. “Well, I think this eliminates Brian. He was my first suspect. You know, lovers’ quarrel, or some such thing. But this note puts a different light on it. Don’t you think so?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because, if Brian killed her, it would have been a crime of passion coming out of strong emotions, like anger or jealousy. At least that’s what I think.” Biggie picked up the note. “This note indicates premeditation.”
“I suppose,” the sheriff said. “What about Mary Ann? Could she have written this note as a way of tryin’ to warn the girl off from marryin’ her boy? But then we come down to the
why
? What would Mary Ann have had against her?”
“Well, there’s this card from MHMR,” Biggie said. “Could she have found out Annabeth had some mental problems? No, that wouldn’t be enough to cause her to do murder. Besides, she seemed genuinely fond of the girl. I just don’t get the impression Mary Ann is all that smart—smart enough to put on such a good act, doncha know.”
The sheriff nodded again. “The way I see it, Mary Ann is just a nice lady that’s had to make the best of a bad situation.”
“Then you’ve heard about her husband running off and leaving her to raise Brian all by herself?”
“It’s a small town, Miss Biggie. Most everybody knows about that.”
“Another thing,” Biggie said, “when I asked Alice LaRue to tell me about Annabeth’s family, she shut up tighter than a twenty-dollar face-lift. Why would she do that?”
“Well, now we have to go back to ancient history. When Miss Alice first came here, as a young bride, they tell she was right nice looking, but wild as javalina. Old Manse couldn’t do nothin’ with her. She didn’t take anymore stock in convention than she does today.” The sheriff picked a cigarette out of the open pack on his desk. He lit it and blew out a cloud of yellow smoke. “Well, as the story goes, Alice was plumb crazy about horses, Tennessee walkers. You know, show horses.”
BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost
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