George, Anne (14 page)

"What was that?" Fred asked.

"Sister's here. Did you hear Judge Haskins was murdered last night?"

"I did. That's one reason I called. Don't get messed up in this, Patricia Anne."

"Don't worry," I said.

Mary Alice screeched again. "Mouse!"

"Let me go see what she wants. I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you, too. You listen to me, now."

"Cross my heart." I hung up and went into the den. "What?"

"There's a police car out front."

"Well, my Lord! So what? They want to ask us about Trinity and Meg. Just like I said."

"Policemen make me nervous."

"Because you're always speeding."

"I am not!" Sister protested.

The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. Opened the door to a familiar, smiling face, that of Officer Bo Mitchell. Sister and I had gotten to know her just before Christmas, when we had somehow managed to become entangled in a very nasty crime at an art gallery.

"What are you up to now, Patricia Anne?" Bo grinned. "I swear, you girls are nothing but trouble."

Bo, plump at Christmas, had put on a little more weight, reminding me more than ever of Bonnie Blue. Bo's skin was darker and didn't have the coppery tones that Bonnie Blue's had. Bo was also about twenty years younger. But there was a definite resemblance, not only in their brilliant smiles, but in their attitudes. Bonnie Blue had described herself as "comfortable in her body." Bo had the same strength and assurance.

"Are you the only police officer in this neighborhood?" I asked. "How come we always end up with you?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

We hugged each other and she came into the house. "Mary Alice is back in the den," I said. "Biting her fingernails."

"Speeding again?"

"And ignoring parking tickets, probably."

"Do, Jesus. I'm gonna arrest that woman for sure."

Sister recognized Bo's voice, and came to give her a hug. I got us all Cokes and we sat at the kitchen table.

"Okay," Bo said when she had her notebook ready. "Tell me about the jumper first.'' She looked at her notes. "Margaret Bryan. Says here you knew her. That she was visiting you when she decided to play birdie."

"She came up for my daughter Debbie's wedding. She's the groom's cousin," Mary Alice began.

An hour later, we had gotten to Judge Haskins delivering Meg's ashes. I fixed pimento cheese sandwiches, and we ate them while we finished the story with how we had tried to call Trinity.

"Though I'm sure she's all right," Sister said.

"She is," Bo Mitchell said. "She spent the night in a motel in Montgomery."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Hey, give us credit." Bo flipped back several
· I* · /~IIT1II»I
pages in her notebook. "Yesterday she bought an English coal scuttle with brass inlay on the door and some 1950 tablecloths, the white ones with a fruit border like you used to put on those formica tables with the chrome legs. You know what I'm talking about?"

Mary Alice and I looked at each other. "I still have some," I admitted.

"Well, now you know there's a market." Bo popped the last of her sandwich into her mouth and reached for a lemon cookie.

"Nothing like a humble cop," Sister muttered.

Bo grinned, took a couple of cookies, and stood up. "I gotta go. Y'all take care now."

I walked her to the door, where she suddenly turned serious. "Bullet holes in the head and bodies pushed out of buildings are not pretty, Patricia Anne. Y'all stay away from it. Okay?"

"Give me a break. We've just happened to get involved in a couple of unfortunate incidents in the past."

"Just happened, huh?"

I grinned. "The motive is something in the computer, isn't it?"

"Tell you what, Patricia Anne. I'll go surf the Internet a while and let you know."

"Smart ass."

Bo laughed her deep laugh and started down the walk. "Thanks for the sandwich," she called back.

Behind me, Sister was tearing up the paper with the stick figures drawn on it.

"Well, at least Trinity is okay," I said. "Just shopping."

Mary Alice dropped the pieces of paper into a wastebasket. "So much for your investigative theories. Let's go see how many of those tablecloths you've got."

Nine I was in no humor to go digging into the back of the linen closet, and I said so. The tablecloths could just sit there, accruing in value. What was the difference between that and interest from the bank? Weren't the people who bought the tablecloths planning on their going up in value?

"Not necessarily," Mary Alice said. "They're buying them for their nostalgic value. You know, there's no telling what my Shirley Temple doll would be worth if you hadn't lost it. I can just see that little white dress with red polka dots and little red leather shoes right now, plain as day."

Time to change the subject. I reminded Sister that she hadn't told me about Buddy Johnson's tigerish activities on their date.

She was happy to oblige. "To start with," she giggled, "he kept trying to run his hand up my leg at the opera."

"Maybe he thought it was his," I said. "And that it had gone to sleep."

Sister snatched up her purse, which was so heavy that it elicited a small "woof" as she straightened up.

"You know what you are, Patricia Anne? Tacky." And with that announcement, she stomped out of the back door.

I guess I had gone too far.

I straightened up the kitchen and thought about all that had happened over the last few days. Who would ever have believed that a family history could be such a big deal? Or that a person could become obsessed with it to the point of murder? Unless there was another motive for the two deaths. Assuming they were connected. Assuming Meg was murdered.

I fished the pieces of paper from the wastebasket and put them together like a jigsaw puzzle. The fact that Trinity had shown up safe and sound, while certainly good news, changed the picture.

The phone's ring startled me.

"Patricia Anne? This is Georgiana Peach."

"How are you, Georgiana?"

"Pretty good. I'm calling to see if you've heard from Trinity. I called to tell her about poor Judge Haskins, and her sister said she hadn't returned from Birmingham."

"She stopped in Montgomery to buy some antiques, I understand."

"You've talked to her, then. She knows about Bobby."

"Well, actually, no, I haven't talked to her. A policewoman came by this morning asking about Meg and Trinity. She was the one who told us Trinity was in Montgomery."

"A policewoman?" Georgiana's breathy voice caught.

- "It may be dawning on them that Meg didn't commit suicide, and that her death and the judge's are connected."

"I see." There was a long pause.

"Georgiana? You there?'' I asked finally.

"Did your sister find Meg's computer?"

"She says it's absolutely not at her house. The other stuff isn't either. The other briefcase."

"Dear God." Georgiana hung up on me. I frowned and put the phone back in its cradle. It rang again. "Sorry," she said, and hung up again.

Enough. I threw the pieces of paper back into the wastebasket, changed into a lavender-colored windsuit Fred had given me for Christmas, and headed for the mall. His birthday was next week, and he had been eying a hammock at Brookstone. Bless his heart, he deserved it. And I needed to get out of the house.

The hammock was in stock, and the Brookstone guy even carried it to my car for me. I picked Fred out a card, which took all of five minutes, and my shopping spree was over. I've never enjoyed wandering around malls for hours like Sister loves to do. She says it shows a certain lack of imagination on my part. I say it makes my feet hurt. When I walk, I want it to be outdoors, preferably with Woofer. So I was soon on my way home to a stack of ironing I had been putting off for days.

, Now, it just so happens that the quickest way to I my house from the mall is down Lakeshore Drive, which is not located on a lake at all, but which is a very pretty name for a street, conjuring up images of mansions with green lawns sloping to water. Actually, there are some nice houses along Lakeshore. It is also where Samford University is located. Samford with the terrific genealogy program and library.

What,
I asked myself, tootling down Lakeshore,
would Fred appreciate for his birthday even more than the hammock?

He would appreciate some work on his family history,
myself answered.
Haley would be interested in it, too. Need to check those genes.

What about the ironing?
I asked myself.

It can wait,
myself said.

You 'II do anything to get out of ironing,
I told myself. I turned on my left turn signal.

Samford University has one of the most beautiful campuses in the United States. An old, prestigious school, it outgrew its city location after World War II, and the powers that be had the foresight to move to a site in Shades Valley that allowed them to follow a master building plan. Each building, each tree, each bench and flower seems to blend into a gracious whole. The day I turned in, the Bradford pears that line the entrance driveway were in full bloom. Beds of daffodils and bright red tulips were everywhere. And, to my surprise, the campus was almost deserted. Spring break, I remembered, hoping the library would be open.

It was. The number of cars in the parking lot said so. I pulled my old Cutlass Cierra in between a Jaguar and a Volkswagen bug. Fit right in.

The genealogy department was on the third floor. I took the elevator and turned left as the sign directed me into what seemed to be a whole wing of the library. At the main desk, a pretty cheerleader-type blonde was poring over a
Bride
magazine. She was so engrossed in it, she jumped when I spoke.

"I'd like to look at some records," I said.

"Yes, ma'am. Do you need some help?" Lord, the politeness of well-brought-up Southern children does my heart good.

I looked around the room. Several people were working at tables, using microfiche tapes. Others were reading or working on computers in carrels that lined the walls.

"I'm starting to look up my family's history and I'm afraid I don't know much about it."

"Well, I'll be glad to help you," the girl beamed.

"I'll do it, Emily." A tall, elegant woman in her early thirties came to the desk from the back. She was wearing a dress the color of new spring leaves, and her dark hair was pulled back simply in a barrette. Curly, escaping tendrils kept the hairstyle from being severe. She smiled at me. "You don't recognize me, do you, Mrs. Hollowell? I'm Castine Murphy. Cassie. You taught me at Alexander High."

"Castine Murphy?" I was amazed at the transformation.

"The same."

"No, definitely not the same." I looked at her admiringly.

She laughed, a nice throaty laugh. "Contacts, makeup, and a good hairstylist can do wonders."

I shook my head. "It's more than that."

Castine turned to the library assistant, who still stood between us. "I was the biggest nerd in school," she explained. "I admit it."

The girl looked shocked. "You, Miss Murphy?"

"Nerd of the world. Right, Mrs. Hollowell?"

"You were studious," I said, "not a nerd."

"Mrs. Hollowell is being kind."

And in a way, I was. Castine Murphy, poring my-opically over her books, probably had topped the other students' nerd list. If the other girls' skirts were short and bought at the Gap, Castine's were mid-calf from the Goodwill thrift store. If they were reading
Love Story,
she was reading Jung's
Man And His Symbols.
Teachers see students like this every year, defiantly different, making a statement. But Castine was not one of these. She was simply herself, and I had appreciated that.

"What about her parents?" I had asked Frances Zata, the counselor, when Castine had first come into my class.

Both doctors, Frances told me. Castine was an only child, born to them late in life, and they thought she hung the moon.

At graduation, when Will Butler, the principal, handed her her diploma, and Castine took it, saying only "thank-you," I remember wishing I had gotten to know her better.

And now Castine, who had metamorphosed beautifully into Cassie, stood before me, well-dressed, friendly, obviously successful.

"I grew up," she said.

I smiled happily. "Yes. You did."

"And you haven't changed a bit, Mrs. Hollowell. What can I help you look up?"

I explained that I would like to begin looking up Fred's family for a birthday surprise. I told her the names that he remembered, and that they were from Montgomery.

"Great," she said. "Montgomery's records are remarkably complete. A lot of times a fire has wiped out a courthouse and the old county records are lost. But Montgomery's records go back to the time when Alabama was part of the Mississippi territory. Land grants and deeds. Come on, I'll show you."