Authors: Nancy Bell

Biggie and the Quincy Ghost (8 page)

BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost

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“Lucas? Hell, no. He’s too feeble. Wouldn’t have the
strength to drive the knife home. The man’s eighty-three for God’s sake! Besides, why?”

“Suppose he didn’t want the Quincy family blood to be corrupted by Baugh blood,” Biggie suggested.

“That’s reaching,” Alice said. “Still … Lucas is a nut when it comes to this town. Keeps his mind too much in the past. Hmm, I’ll have to think about that.”

“And Hen Lester?” Biggie asked.

“Aw, hell! That woman’s dull as ditch water. You want to know anything about her, you’ll have to ask her yourself. Still and all, she never liked the girl. Never missed a chance to bad-mouth her. I put it down to puredee snobbery, but there might have been some other reason she didn’t like the kid.”

“What can you tell me about Annabeth’s family?” Biggie set her empty glass on the table.

Alice’s face froze. “Not a damn thing. More punch?”

Biggie shook her head. “I had the impression that the Baughs had been in this county for a long time.”

“County folks and town folks don’t mix,” Alice said. “Can we change the subject?”

“Strange,” Biggie said. “This being a small county, and all. Over in Kemp County, everybody knows everybody else. Do you know how Mary Ann happened to hire Annabeth?”

“Nope. Haven’t the foggiest.”

Alice looked down at her glass, then drained it. She was kind of wobbly when she stood up and led us out of the room. “Hate to rush y’all off, but the sun’s down, and I go to bed with the chickens. Take these glasses out to the kitchen, Em.” She weaved her way down the hall and all
but pushed us out the front door. “Bye, now. I’ll see you in the morning at the hotel.”

Before a cat could lick his fanny, the door had slammed behind us and we were standing out on the sidewalk in front of the house.

W
hen we got back to the hotel, the moon was rising over the store buildings across the street. Brian and two of his friends were sitting in rocking chairs out front. I took a seat on a cement bench.

“Hey, J.R.” Brian looked glum.

“Hey.”

“Hey, dude,” said one of the guys, who had one brown curl falling over his forehead. “I’m Jason and this here’s Matt. We’re, like, tryin’ to cheer old Brian up, but he ain’t havin’ any. Tell him he ought to go get a beer with us.”

The kid named Matt, who had a real cool earring, said, “Tell him there’s plenty of women out there. All he’s gotta do is give um a chance. I bet you get all the women you want, huh, kid?”

“I do okay,” I said, trying to be cool.

They thought that was very funny, and I turned red.

“Come on, man.” Jason gave Brian a shake. “Ain’t nobody here but a bunch of old folks. We’ll even take the kid with us.”

“Okay,” Brian said. “You guys are going to hang around until I do. But J.R. can’t go.”

“Yes I can,” I said. “I’ll go tell Biggie …”

“No,” Brian said. “Where we’re going’s no place for a kid. See you later, J.R.”

With that, they all got up and ambled off down the sidewalk. I hoped the beer would make him feel better. I didn’t care what the others thought; I knew Brian couldn’t hurt a flea. Alice must have been making it up when she said he mistreated his dog.

Inside, things were pretty quiet. Lucas Fitzgerald was sitting in an easy chair beside a potted palm in the lobby reading a book and smoking a cigar. A glass of brandy sat on a little table beside the chair. Mary Ann and Lew Masters were sitting on one of the couches watching
60 Minutes
on television, which surprised me a good bit because I never knew they had a TV in that lobby. It had been hidden behind an antique Chinese screen. Biggie sat down and started watching it with them.

Personally, I think
60 Minutes
is probably the most boring show on TV, so I strolled into the kitchen to look for Willie Mae and Rosebud. I found Willie Mae rolling out a batch of cinnamon rolls. She sprinkled the dough with cinnamon and sugar, then put little dabs of butter on top. After that, she rolled the dough into a big cigar shape and, with a knife, sliced off big, fat cinnamon rolls, which she
placed on a pan. When they were all laid out in rows, she put them under a clean, white dishtowel to rise. Rosebud was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.

“Boy! Those sure smell good,” I said. I sure was glad Willie Mae had agreed to stay here and cook for Miss Mary Ann as long as we were here. Nobody makes cinnamon rolls like Willie Mae.

“They for breakfast. Where you been off to?” Willie Mae asked, plopping herself down at the table with a sigh.

“Helping Biggie investigate,” I said. “Willie Mae, what happens when the wrong person gets accused of a crime?”

Willie Mae got up and poured me a glass of milk, and set a little plate of cookies beside it. “You have to ask Rosebud that. I don’t have no truck with the law.”

“Been there many times,” Rosebud said. “And it ain’t a happy place.”

“Humph,” Willie Mae said.

“How come you askin’, boy?” Rosebud pulled a cigar out of his pocket and sniffed it.

“They’re trying to say Brian killed Annabeth, and I know he wouldn’t do that. That old Alice LaRue is trying to say he might have done it because she saw him beating his dog once when he was little. Does that make any sense to you, Rosebud?”

“Puts me in mind of my cousin, Daniel P. Trahan,” Rosebud said, pulling out his big Zippo lighter.

“You ain’t lightin’ that cigar in this kitchen,” Willie Mae said.

Rosebud grinned. “Come on, son. We’ll go out in the courtyard and I’ll tell you about Daniel P. while I smoke my cigar in peace.”

I finished my milk and stuck two cookies in my pocket. “Ain’t—I mean isn’t it still roped off?”

“Nope. The sheriff took the tape down this afternoon. Said he’d gathered all the evidence he needed.”

Rosebud headed down the hall to the French doors that led to the courtyard. I followed. We found a seat on a bench and Rosebud lit his cigar, taking a deep draw. He blew out three perfect smoke rings.

“What happened to Daniel P.?” I asked.

“Wellsir, it went this way.” Rosebud leaned back and crossed his legs, looking up at the moon. “Daniel P. wasn’t really my cousin, doncha know. My Auntie Blanche found him amongst the cypress knees down in Big Mamou when he wasn’t no bigger than a possum. He was wrapped up in a old dirty blanket and settin’ in a washtub.”

“His mama had just left him there?”

“Yeah.” Rosebud blew another smoke ring. “Wellsir, Auntie Blanche, she taken him home and took good care of the little feller. In time, she came to love him like he was her own. Thing was, as he grew older, old Daniel P. kept on asking ‘Who my momma? Who my momma?’ All the time he kept askin’ that same question. Auntie Blanche, she say, ‘Who feed you all the crawfish pie you can hold? Who stitch up the fine clothes you wear? Who nurse you back to health when you sick with the gallopin’ croup? Nobody but me, that’s who.’ But Daniel P., he just keep askin’ ‘Who my momma?’ and then ‘Where my momma?’”

“What was wrong with him? Seems like he’d of been grateful.”

“Don’t it? Well, things went on like that until Daniel P.
was about six. ‘Long about that time, he found a little old stray hound dog somebody had dumped out beside the road. He brought it home, and when Auntie Blanche said he could keep him, Daniel P. washed him and fed him ’til that dog was fat and fine. Old Barney, that was his name, turned out to be the best coon dog in the parish. Ooo-wee, that boy was proud. Go in the kitchen and bring me out a glass of sweet milk.”

I ran in the kitchen and, when I came back with the milk, Rosebud took a big swig, then continued. “Wellsir, one morning, bright and early, Daniel P. got out of bed, taken up his gun and went out the back door, hollering for Barney. He hollered and he whistled, but old Barney, he never came. Daniel P. never saw that dog again.”

“Poor Daniel P.,” I said. “Did he get him another dog?”

“Nope. Never wanted another dog. It was after that that Daniel P. took to robbing birds’ nests and smashing the eggs and runnin’ after Auntie Blanche’s hens ’til the poor things would fall over from exhaustion. Once, he tied two of her kittens’ tails together with baling wire and throw’d um over the clothesline. The poor little things dern near clawed each other to death.”

“I don’t think I like him much.”

“Wasn’t much to like. Well, when Daniel P. come to be about fourteen or so, he fell in love with Maydella Lejeune, a girl he met at school, and she said she loved him back. Ooo-wee, Daniel P. seemed like he changed overnight. He was kind to animals and sweet as sugar to Auntie Blanche, who told all her friends it was a miracle.”

“Love did that?”

“Yep.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothin’ much except Maydella found her another feller, Artis Johnson, who was a big strappin’ guy who could run, shoot, and fight rings around poor old Daniel P.”

“So, then what happened to Daniel P?”

“Oh, he’s in Angola Prison now. Been there might’ near all his life. ’Bout ten years ago, he found the Lord, so now he sets in his cell most of the time readin’ his Bible and prayin’ for forgiveness for shootin’ Artis Johnson in the back of the head with a 12-gauge shotgun.”

“I don’t like that story.”

“They can’t all be pretty. But if you listen real good, you might just learn something.” Rosebud got up and brushed off the front of his trousers.

“Rosebud, sit back down,” I said. “What’s that story got to do with Brian?”

“All I’m sayin’ is that once a feller’s momma or papa runs off and leaves him, sometimes he don’t feel too good about himself. Some can take it—others can’t. Daniel P. just didn’t handle it too good is all.”

“And then when that girl dumped him, that was the last straw. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, you’re saying Brian could be the same way?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll have to think about that. Hey, look Rosebud. There goes a white possum!”

Rosebud looked where I was pointing. “Sure is,” he said. “If you can catch him, he’ll give you three wishes.”

I didn’t believe that, but I took out after the possum anyway. Possums can’t run very fast, and they’re dumb as
dirt, but they can turn on a dime. I chased him across the courtyard and back, and almost had my hands on him, when I tripped on a loose stone and fell flat on my face. Naturally, Rosebud had to laugh his head off. I ignored him and kept chasing, but just as I was right up on him, he scuttled under the bushes next to the hotel and disappeared down a hole in the foundation.

“Darn!” I said.

I looked around for a stick to poke down the hole when I saw something.

“Look, Rosebud,” I called. “Looky here what I found.”

What I’d found was a door in the bricks at the base of the building. It wasn’t much taller than me and was hidden by the tall shrubs that grew up next to the wall. Rosebud walked over and stood beside me.

“What?” he said. “I don’t see nothin’.”

“Look right here.” I pointed.

Rosebud bent over and examined the little door. “Well, what do you know about that.”

“What do you think it’s for, Rosebud?” I asked.

“Could be it leads to the cellar, or something. Don’t matter much, I reckon. Hey, what’s this?” He picked up something white off the ground and held it out for me to see.

“Looks like a lady’s purse,” I said. “Let’s look inside.”

Rosebud had already snapped open the clasp and was running his hand inside the bag. He pulled out a little blue billfold. “Come over here by the light so we can see,” he said.

We moved over next to the kitchen window and looked at the billfold by the light that shone through.
“Lordy.” Rosebud pulled out a driver’s license. “This purse belonged to the dead girl.”

I looked at the card. Sure enough, printed on the front, bigger’n Dallas, were the words
Annabeth Baugh.

“You take this in to your Biggie right this very minute,” Rosebud said.

I took the purse and ran for the lobby, where I found Biggie sitting on the couch talking to Miss Mary Ann. Mr. Lew Masters was sitting on a chair leaning toward them like he was awfully interested in what they were saying. The TV had been turned off and the Chinese screen pushed back in front of it.

“Biggie!” I said. “Guess what me and Rosebud found. We found …”

Biggie turned and glared at me. “J.R. haven’t I taught you any manners at all? Grown-ups are talking. Now sit down and wait your turn.”

I sat, jiggling the purse on my knees hoping Biggie would notice. She didn’t even look at me.

“Now, calm down, honey,” she said to Miss Mary Ann. “There’s no problem so big that we can’t put our heads together and solve it.”

“I just don’t know how on God’s green earth I could have forgotten.” Miss Mary Ann’s hands fluttered in the air. “What am I going to do? If it was anything besides a wedding, I’d just call the folks and tell them we had a murder on our hands, and they’d have to go somewhere else.”

Biggie nodded. “You can’t do that to a brand-new bride and groom,” she said. “Besides, where else would they go in this little town?”

“That’s just it!” Miss Mary Ann’s voice rose. “The only other place with enough room would be the Surrey House Inn where the Rotary and Kiwanas Clubs meet. But they’re not fancy enough to cater a wedding brunch. My soul, they’d probably serve meatloaf and canned green beans.”

Biggie stood up. “Well, the first thing we need to do is go out to the kitchen and talk to Willie Mae. Then we can inventory the supplies on hand and try to make up a menu.”

Miss Mary Ann seemed to relax a little and Mr. Masters reached across his knees and squeezed her hand. She smiled weakly at him, then stood up and followed Biggie back to the kitchen. I trailed along, swinging the purse beside me.

“How many you ‘spectin’?” Willie Mae asked after they explained the problem to her.

“Twenty counting the bride and groom,” Miss Mary Ann said. “They wanted to eat in the courtyard, but under the circumstances …”

“What you want to serve?” Willie Mae interrupted.

“Oh!” Miss Mary Ann jumped up from the table where she had been sitting. She went over to her little desk by the window and pulled a slip of paper out of a basket. “Here’s the menu they asked for. Let’s see, quiche with Brie and baby shrimp, fruit salad with poppy seed dressing on a bed of baby field greens, angel biscuits with sliced ham, and Lane cake for dessert.”

Biggie got up and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.

“You ain’t gonna get a wink’s sleep tonight,” Willie Mae said.

BOOK: Biggie and the Quincy Ghost

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