George, Anne (12 page)

We all looked at her blankly.

"A party at the Grand Hotel. We don't have funerals in our family, just a fond farewell party. It's a fairly common thing in South Alabama. You can even prearrange them."

Tears sprang to my eyes. I thought of Fred's calling the wedding a "celebration of life." And it was. But how sensible to celebrate the whole of a life.

"I hope you'll come," Trinity said.

We assured her that we would, to just let us know when it would be.

"Do people get a chance to say nice things about the guest of honor? Because that's what Patricia Anne and I were doing the other night about Meg."

Meg had clean fingernails? Wasn't that what Sister had said? The ends so white they didn't look real? Lord! I could just see Sister at the Grand Hotel informing everyone of that.

"Sometimes they do," Trinity said. "Sometimes they tell the truth." She gave a wry smile. The rest of us stood up. "I'll call you," she said.

Sister said she would take Trinity down to the city garage to get her car, that she wanted to hear all about Trinity's incarceration, and was it true what they said about the Birmingham police? Surely it wasn't.

"They were ladies and gentlemen," Trinity said. "One of them who lives under the interstate taught me a great way to cheat at cards."

"We really do need to pay them more," Sister said.

Georgiana left for work in an old beige Plymouth that belied her newly acquired wealth. But the other two took off into the warm spring morning, top down on Sister's convertible, Trinity clutching her blue felt hat on her head. They left me standing on the sidewalk wondering if Meg's ashes would make it back to Mobile Bay.

The house seemed strangely empty when I went back inside. Since before the wedding, there had been company and all the activity that goes with a large family gathering. I breathed a sigh of relief and sank down on the den sofa with the morning paper.

On the second page was the first mention I had seen of Meg's death. A small paragraph stated that a ruling of suicide had been found in the death of a woman who had leaped from the tenth floor of the Jefferson County Courthouse on Monday. The woman had been identified as Margaret March Bryan, 64, of Fairhope, AL. Mrs. Bryan, a well-known genealogist, had been in Birmingham to attend a wedding.

They obviously hadn't talked to Trinity, I thought.

I turned to the next page and read who was at the forefront of the Oscar race. Then I turned back and read the tiny paragraph about Meg again. I looked at the shoes Rich's had advertised, and then turned back to the second page again.

The paragraph was haunting. There was something about seeing Meg's death reduced to a few words that bothered me. Deeply.

"There wasn't a suicidal bone in her body." Trinity's words.

"I'm having a hard time believing Meg Bryan would commit suicide that way." Fred's words.

"It wasn't a ladylike way to do it." Mary Alice's words chimed in with the others in my head.

I read the paragraph again. A healthy sixty-four-year-old woman, actively involved in work she found challenging and was successful at, a woman who had no history of depression, who had eaten a good lunch with friends and seemed fine, had suddenly decided to jump from a tenth-floor window. A woman, incidentally, who was fearful of heights.

This we were supposed to believe?

Obviously, the authorities did. Judge Haskins had seen to that.

"Stay out of this, Patricia Anne." I could hear Fred saying the words. Fred, who was on his way to Atlanta. Bless his heart. With so much of himself tied up in his business.

I sighed, reached for the phone, and called the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe. I needed a sharp listener to run all this by. Someone who didn't know Trinity or Judge Haskins, or even Georgiana Peach.

"Big, Bold, and Beautiful," Bonnie Blue answered cheerily.

"Have lunch with me," I said.

"Hey, Patricia Anne. I was just thinking about you. How come you're not tutoring today?"

"Spring break." Since my retirement, I had been tutoring at a local junior high school in, of all things, math. And after all those years of grading English papers, math was a delight. "Can you have lunch?"

"Sure. The Green and White?"

"The ferns get in your food and tickle your neck."

"All right, Miss Picky. You choose. I can't be gone but an hour, though."

"How about I go by the Piggly Wiggly deli, and we take it to the park?''

"Sounds good. Don't get the potato salad with mustard."

"Okay. One o'clock?"

"Fine."

When I hung up, I felt better. Bonnie Blue Butler always has this effect on me.

I changed the sheets on the guestroom bed, and put a tub of washing on. I ate the last of the sweetrolls and cleaned the kitchen, even mopping the floor. By the time I vacuumed the den, took a shower, fought for a parking place at the Piggly Wiggly during lunch hour, and got to the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, I was ten minutes late. Bonnie Blue was standing in front, waiting.

"I'm sorry," I apologized.

i>ne looked into the car. "You didn't get the mustard kind, did you?"

We found a concrete table and bench that were empty. I had brought a red-and-white plastic tablecloth, and I spread it out while Bonnie Blue checked the contents of the grocery sack.

"Umm. Polski Wyrob pickles. I love those things. Umm. Baked beans."

"I got each of us a chicken breast, too," I said.

"And diet Coke. Thanks, Patricia Anne."

We helped our plates and dived in. After all the sweetrolls, I was surprised to find how hungry I was.

"This is good," Bonnie Blue said, taking a big bite of chicken. "A good idea."

I agreed that it was. Because it was spring break and such a warm day, the park was full of children running and playing. I ate and watched them idly.

"Potato salad," Bonnie Blue said. I handed her the carton.

"I need to run something by you," I said when our plates were empty and we were putting the lids back on the cartons.

"What? You want another cookie?"

"No. You know I trust your judgment, don't you?"

"Oh, Lord, Patricia Anne. What have you done now?"

"Nothing. Not a thing. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Okay. But don't do what I tell you to do and make me feel guilty."

"I promise. Now listen, because it's pretty complicated. You remember that nice cousin of Henry's that sat in as the mother of the groom? Meg Bryan?"

Bonnie Blue nodded. "Sure. The one who does family histories."

"
Did
family histories, Bonnie Blue. Past tense. The woman jumped out of the courthouse last Monday and committed suicide. Or at least that's what the authorities are saying."

"Say what?"

I had Bonnie Blue's total attention. I told her about the lunch, the veal medallions with orange sauce, Judge Haskins, the library and the sirens, the park, the body. I told her about the computer and Trinity and Georgiana Peach and the narcotics agent who lived under the interstate.

But, most important, I told her I didn't think that Meg Bryan had killed herself.

Bonnie Blue listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When I finally wound down, she tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her upper lip and looked over at the children playing.

"You haven't talked to the police?" she finally asked.

"No. Judge Haskins did. And Trinity Buckalew, of course. She told them she was sure the judge killed Meg."

"Well, what if you went to them and said you thought she was murdered?"

I thought about this a moment. "They wouldn't do anything. To them, the case is closed."

"Then I got myself a scrumptious lunch for telling you what you already knew, didn't I?"

"I guess so."

Bonnie Blue narrowed her eyes. "Stay out of this, Patricia Anne."

"I will. I promise. It's really none of my business."

"You got that right. Just remember it." Bonnie Blue checked her watch. "I got to go."

We shook the crumbs from the tablecloth and threw the trash into a receptacle. A slight breeze had risen from the south. Too warm.

"Gonna storm," Bonnie Blue said.

Eight And it did. The Weather Channel radar showed a dark green front interspersed with flashing red and yellow advancing inexorably toward Birmingham from the west. Fred was coming from the east, and their arrivals were simultaneous. He opened the kitchen door just as a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky.

"Lord!" He jumped into the kitchen. "Are tornado warnings up?"

"Severe thunderstorms. And hello to you, too." I was standing at the stove stirring a vegetable taco filling that Fred is especially fond of.

He came over and kissed the back of my neck. "Hi, sweetie. That smells good."

I turned and hugged him. He was home; now it could storm. "How did your day go?" I asked.

"Well," he pulled off his coat and reached into the refrigerator for a beer, "I found out what the problem is, and it's nothing we've done here at Metal Fab. Universal Satellite is doing some restructuring, including some early retirements. The two buyers who gave us most of our orders got caught in the sweep."

He sat down at the table and looked out at the storm. "Gone with the wind."

I put the taco mix on the back burner and sat down at the table across from him.

"One of them was fifty-six," he said. "I doubt the other one was much older. Both knowledgeable. Easy to deal with." He shook his head. "It's terrible what some companies will do. They'll get away with it, too."

"You think the men got a decent retirement? Or any retirement? Surely they had to give them something."

"Nothing like the salaries they were getting. They got shafted, Patricia Anne." He drank from his beer. "And you know what?"

"What?"

"They put two women in their places." He stared at the beer can as if there might be some explanation there. "Not even women. Girls. Just out of college. Calling themselves metallurgists!"

"How awful," I murmured.

Fred glanced at me with his eyes narrowed; I looked back innocently, "One of them called me 'Pop,' " he admitted mournfully.

A crash of thunder and a sudden fit of coughing hid my laugh. Twenty years ago when I was at the height of my personal feminist revolution, I would have been incensed at the chauvinist across the table. I've mellowed, though. To start with, Fred really does respect women, and not just in traditional roles. He's very happy with our family doctor, who is a lovely woman (So he calls her a "girl." He's getting there!), as well as our "girl" dentist. He even voted for a "skirt" for governor last time, calling her that only once, to my knowledge. So when he opens doors for me or moves to the outside when we're walking down the sidewalk, I just say "Thank-you." And I'm glad he taught our sons to do the same things.

"They seemed okay," he continued, "just have a lot to learn. I asked them if they'd like to go get a drink after work and we went to a damn coffee bar. You ever hear of such a thing? A coffee bar? I swear I got a cup of coffee that could have walked in on its own legs. Juan Valdez wouldn't have claimed it. And in about ten minutes, they both had to go. One had to pick up her kid, and the other was going to the gym for a workout." Fred looked out at the driving rain. "Just as well. I beat the storm home."

"Did they sound encouraging?"

"Who knows. Guess I'll find out in a week or so."

The lights flickered and came back on. "I better get the candles," I said.

Fred drained his beer. "I just hope Malcolm and Carl are okay."

"Malcolm and Carl?"

"The guys that had to take early retirement."

I got up and headed for the den closet to find the candles. "Call them tomorrow. Find out."

"Hell, I'll call them tonight. I'm sure I've got their cards here." Fred followed me into the den and switched the TV to The Weather Channel radar. "Looks bad," he said. "Is that portable fluorescent light in the closet?"

"Here it is." I handed him the light as well as several candles. Chances were they would soon be needed. It doesn't take much of a storm to knock the power out in Birmingham.

There's a simple explanation. This is a city of trees, pine, oak, maple, cherry laurel. This is a city of people who treasure those trees, each and every one of them. Consequently, this is a city whose populace is always at outs with the Alabama Power Company. In a scene enacted dozens of times each day, a Power Company truck wheels into a driveway. Men jump out to cut tree limbs that are hanging over power lines.

We residents rush out! "For God's sake. Are you crazy? There's a bluebird nest in that tree!" Or squirrel, possum, jaybird.

"Where?" The men walk around the tree, looking up into the limbs.

"Up yonder in the next to the highest limb past the second fork. See?"

The Power Company men see. They are kind men. They agree to come back in six weeks. Probably they will be back in three because the neighborhood lights are out. "Damn Power Company!" we complain.