Murder Carries a Torch (20 page)

“Thanks. And aren’t you tactful.”

He grinned. “Sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Not as bad as I look.”

“Good.”

I gave him my schoolteacher look which he recognized. He laughed and held out a Piggly Wiggly sack that was folded several times at the top and that he was holding with his hand under the bottom.

“I’m on my way to Tuscaloosa and Mama wanted me to stop by and check on you and bring you this soup. She said you probably wouldn’t be up to snuff today.”

“I can’t believe you said that.”

He laughed again. “I’ve been waiting an hour to say that. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I appreciate the soup.”

“There’s a pone of cornbread in there, too.”

“Your mama is an angel. You want some coffee?”

“Sure. And I’d like to borrow your bathroom.”

“Down the hall,” I pointed. “Then come on back to the kitchen.”

I was plugging in the percolator when he came in and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Nice house,” he said. “Homey.”

“Thanks. We like it. We had the bay window put in several years ago, the skylights in the den, too.”

I got out a plate for the few chocolate chip cookies that remained in the package after Mary Alice’s feeding frenzy and put them on the table.

“Did you know that Louellen Mahall isn’t dead?” I asked him.

“Balls?” he grinned. “Sure. She was living here in Birmingham last I heard.”

“Well, what was that wild story about the interstate ramp then? Where did that come from?”

“God knows. It’s like the Chandler Mountain booger. It’s been told so much that everybody believes it. I think my mother could run into Louellen on the street, have a conversation with her, and still believe she’s cemented in the highway.” He stroked his beard. “Stories like that fascinate me, don’t they you? The way they become truth.”

“To a certain point. Until they start hurting people. Everybody thinking he’d killed his wife must have bothered Eugene Mahall.”

“I doubt it. More incentive for people to pay their bank loans on time.”

I looked up, surprised at the sudden bitterness in his voice. “I take it that he’s not exactly Mr. Popularity in St. Clair County.”

“You’re right about that. And this goes back a long way. Everybody still believes he knew more about the Daisy Belle mine explosion than he ever admitted. That there could have been some criminal indictments, but he lined his pockets instead.”

“This isn’t an interstate-ramp story?”

“I don’t think so.”

The coffee quit perking. I got up, poured us each a cup, and sat back down.

“Tell me about Terry and Betsy,” I said, passing the sugar. “We were surprised when we found out they were living with him.”

“He probably insists on it. I think they ask old man Mahall’s permission to breathe. Terry tried sowing a few wild oats when he was a teenager, nothing much, and he got slapped in a military academy. And I think Betsy’s so
crazy about Terry that she’ll put up with anything.” Albert put two teaspoons of sugar in his coffee and stirred.

“Betsy says he’s fond of the children, that he rides them around on his wheelchair.”

Albert shrugged and sipped his coffee, holding his beard back.

“She says Terry’s thrilled to have them, too, which is good.”

“Not surprising. They’re Susan’s children.” Albert dabbed at his beard with a napkin and then reached for a cookie.

I’m sure I looked startled.

He stopped with the cookie halfway to his mouth. “What? Terry was crazy about Susan when they were teenagers. You didn’t know? That was when he got into some trouble, when she married Ethan Crawford. I remember one thing he did was break all of the windows out of Monk’s church.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Albert nodded. “But last year he asked Betsy for a divorce. After Ethan was killed.”

“He did? Because of Susan?”

“According to the Chandler Mountain grapevine.” He bit into the cookie, chewed, and took another sip of coffee while my mind was racing.

“No. It was more than the grapevine,” Albert Lee added. “Betsy told my mother. Mama said she cried like a baby, said she was going to get Terry to counseling.”

“They looked a lot alike, didn’t they? Betsy and Susan.”

“Which everybody was reminded of when Terry married Betsy.”

I picked up my coffee and drank some of it. All kinds
of thoughts were racing through my mind. Terry had asked Betsy for a divorce because he was in love with Susan. Betsy couldn’t have children. Now she had two, and Susan was dead. “I’m scared,” she had said. She had been worried about where the cameo was. Susan’s body had been laid out neatly on the church bench. Luke had thought it was Virginia behind him. It could have been another woman.

Oh, surely not.

“Who do you think killed Susan and Monk?” I asked Albert.

“The Chandler Mountain booger.”

As soon as Albert left, I raced to the phone and called Mary Alice. For once I didn’t get her answering machine.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you.”

“Taking a bubble bath. Some of that freesia stuff Debbie and Henry gave me for Christmas. It smells wonderful.”

“And you’re talking on the phone? You’re going to get electrocuted, fool.”

“Don’t be silly, Mouse. It’s the cell phone anyway. What’s up?”

I told her about Albert Lee Packard’s visit, about Terry Mahall being in love with Susan Crawford and asking Betsy for a divorce. I told her the whole story and ended with, “I think Betsy may have killed her sister.”

“Wait a minute,” Sister said. I heard water running into the tub. “It was getting cold,” she explained when she picked up the phone again.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked.

“I think not.”

“And why not?” I could envision a whole bathtub full of bubbles and Mary Alice.

“How could she have carried her into the church? Betsy’s a little woman.”

“So was Susan, and the adrenaline was pouring. People pick up pianos when the adrenaline’s pouring.”

“Well, how could she have put the rattlesnake in my car? She was right there with us the whole time. Somebody else had to sneak up and do that.”

Damn. She was right.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “Enjoy your bath.”

“You should take one, too, and relax. I know you don’t have any bubble bath, but that Palmolive liquid that you bathe Woofer with for fleas ought to work.”

I hung up.

Well, I certainly couldn’t tell her about her Aunt Sister being bitten by a rattlesnake and us having a wreck. Especially after she’d just had us blessed.

The soup was delicious. We topped it off with some pralines and cream ice cream that had been in the freezer so long it was chewy around the edges. But still good. Afterward, while I was leaning over putting the dishes in the dishwasher, Fred enveloped me in a bear hug and said, “You interested?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I just wanted you to know the potential is still there.”

“Good. How about you and the potential going and turning on
Biography
. I’ll be there in a minute.”

A half-hour later, Fred, the potential, and I were all sound asleep halfway through Nelson Rockefeller’s life. Nelson was dead and buried and they were showing American castles when the phone rang for so long, I
couldn’t ignore it. I was lying on the sofa and I reached behind me and knocked the whole phone off the end table.

Muffin went skittering into the kitchen, and Fred opened one eye then closed it.

Damn. Damn. I got down on my hands and knees and found the receiver under the table. This had better not be one of those call-every-night-at-suppertime charities.

I thought whoever it was might have hung up, but when I answered, a woman said, “Mrs. Hollowell?”

“Yes.” I waited to hear that their truck would be in our neighborhood next week picking up discards, but the woman surprised me.

“This is Louellen Conway. Bonnie Blue Butler said you were asking about me today. Are you all right? Would you rather that I call back some other time?”

“Oh, no. This is fine. I just knocked the phone off the table. We got back from Europe a few days ago and I’m still a little jet-lagged.”

A slight tinkly laugh. “I know how that is. They say it’s a day for every decade of your age.”

I glanced over at Fred whose mouth was open. “At least.”

“Well, Bonnie Blue told me about your wreck and the snakebite. She said you wanted to know about Eugene.”

“We heard he killed you.”

“Almost. It’s taken a lot of Prozac and a lot of years to get over that episode in my life.”

“Well, do you mind telling me what happened? There are two little children living in that house now that I’m frightened for.”

“Susan’s children. I read about it in the paper. Why are you frightened for them?”

“Because I think there’s a distinct possibility that either Terry or Betsy might have killed their mother.”

“Oh, I doubt that seriously. Why do you think so?”

I glanced over at Fred who seemed to be sound asleep. His mouth was still open. But I decided to take no chances. He hates for me to get tangled up in anything more dangerous than meeting with the investment club that Sister and I belong to. Which, come to think of it, can be pretty dangerous at times. Anyway, I don’t like to worry him.

“Let me go in the bedroom and take this,” I said.

Sitting on the bed, I told her the whole story, including Albert Lee Packard’s visit and the news that Terry had been planning on leaving Betsy for Susan. I also included the fact that it was believed on Chandler Mountain that Eugene Mahall had feathered his nest with the mining company’s money.

I finished with, “And did you know he can walk?”

“A few steps. He’d do a lot better if he’d stuck to his physical therapy.”

Louellen cleared her throat. “Now let me tell you what I know.”

“Okay.”

“Let me light a cigarette.”

There was a pause. Then, “Eugene Mahall adored his wife. He adored his son, and I’m sure he did feather his nest. God only knows why he married me or why I married him. He’s mean as a snake, and I was a drunk. I’d been hanging around Nashville for years, had one hit, ‘Kicking Balls,’ and couldn’t handle it. I was broke and singing at a club called the Tennessee Line. Eugene came in several nights and then one night he asked me to marry him. And I thought, ‘Well, hell, why not? I’ll straighten
myself up and be a good wife for this poor rich man in a wheelchair. That shouldn’t be hard to do.’ Hah. Shows how clear I was thinking.”

“Did he physically abuse you?”

“No. He didn’t touch me. Turned out what he wanted from me was children. Lots of them. I guess he thought he was going to start a Mahall dynasty. God knows why he picked me. And I’d failed to tell him about my little hysterectomy. Just didn’t think it was important. When he found out, he totally ignored me. And I needed help, honey, let me tell you.”

“What about Terry?”

“If I could have had children, I wouldn’t. Not after I saw the way Eugene treated Terry. I don’t think the child’s ever had a thought of his own.”

I doubted that last statement. I asked Louellen if she had known any of the snake handlers.

“I knew Monk Crawford. And Susan, of course. I know Eugene had a fit when he found out that Terry’s girlfriend was one of that crowd. Told him he couldn’t date her.”

“Well, do you think he’ll welcome her children?”

“He’ll conveniently forget their background, turn them into Mahall clones.”

There was silence for a moment. I could imagine Louellen taking long drags from her cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“How did you get out?” I asked. I had no idea if she would answer or not, but it seemed important to know.

“Monk Crawford came to paint the house one day. When he left, I went with him.”

That sounded so familiar I almost laughed. For a mo
ment I wondered how things were going in Columbus with Luke and Virginia.

“But, Mrs. Hollowell,” she continued, “I truly don’t think you have to worry about those children’s safety. Children are what Eugene’s always wanted.”

And what Terry and Betsy hadn’t been able to give him.

I thanked her for her help and hung up with the promise to let her know if I learned anything about the murders. Then I stepped into a warm shower, closed my eyes, and tried to relax. Terry Mahall had handed over to his father what he had always wanted, the beginning of a dynasty. Or had it been Betsy? One more reason for Susan Crawford’s death.

The next morning was cold, but clear. I warmed the leftover soup from the night before and put it into a thermos for Fred’s lunch, kissed him goodbye, and went to check my E-mail. Nothing. Even the large lesbians seemed to have deserted me. I got Woofer’s leash, and we walked around several blocks. My face still looked as if I had been in a fight, but it felt better.

As we came back by Mitzi’s house, she opened the front door and called, “How’s Brother?”

“Fine. I’m going over there this morning. You want to go?”

“Can’t. I’ve got to keep Andrew Cade while Bridget goes shopping. Tell Debbie I’ll be over soon, though.”

I wanted grandchildren close enough to keep while their mothers went shopping. Lisa and Alan and our two grandsons have always lived in Atlanta, a little too far for a drop-in visit. Haley, get pregnant with twins, I said to the morning sky. A boy and a girl. I’ll baby-sit all you want.

I gave Mitzi a wave and opened the gate. A couple of treats for Woofer, which he took into his igloo, and I was in the kitchen pouring myself my second cup of coffee. Morning sun was gleaming across the white table in the bay window. Muffin was lying across the heating vent and cat hairs were flying. Probably worse than Mary Alice’s Bubba Cat on his heating pad on the kitchen counter. I moved Muffin over to her rug. She immediately got up and moved back to the vent. How was I going to bear parting with her when Haley came back?

It was an ordinary day. I sat at the table and glanced through the paper. Bosnia, Kosovo. The statue of Vulcan was falling apart. The crack in his butt had widened some more; he would have to be taken down to be repaired. I tried to imagine Red Mountain without Vulcan’s bare rear end mooning us everytime we drove anywhere on the south side of the mountain. They couldn’t take him down. Surely there was some other solution.

It was still an ordinary day when Sister came in the back door and said she was going over to Debbie’s and did I want to go.

I did.

Well, let her run to the bathroom a minute. She had so much to tell me about last night, I wouldn’t believe.

The first inkling that it was not an ordinary day was when she came back into the kitchen holding up a brown leather wallet.

“Whose is this? It was on the floor in the bathroom.”

“Don’t know. Look inside and see. You want some coffee?”

“Okay.” She handed me the wallet. “You look. I’ll get the coffee.”

And then I remembered. “I’ll bet it’s Albert Lee Pack
ard’s. He used the hall bathroom when he came by here to bring the soup.” I opened it and saw the picture on his driver’s license. His beard hung below the camera’s head shot, so it was impossible to see how long it was.

“That’s one more ugly beard,” Sister said, looking over my shoulder. “How old is he, anyway?”

I looked at the date on the license. “Forty-six.”

“He ought to do better than that. Makes him look like a troll. Billygoat Gruff.” Sister sat down and reached for the sugar. “What else is in there?”

“None of our business.”

“Well, of course it is.” She put down the sugar and took the wallet from me. “It was on your bathroom floor.”

Sometimes Sister’s reasoning defies reason.

“Let’s see. Forty-eight dollars. A Visa and a library card. Blue Cross. And a whole pack of pictures.”

“Put that up,” I said. “I’ll call his mother and tell her it’s here. I’ll bet he’s worried to death about it.”

“Hmm. Mouse, all of these pictures are of the dead girl.”

Maybe that was the moment that the day really ceased being ordinary.

“What? Susan Crawford?” I reached over and grabbed the insert of pictures. Sister was right. There was Susan Crawford in a bathing suit, Susan Crawford pregnant, her hands folded on her large belly, Susan Crawford in a glamour pose, one made in a studio, her red hair pulled over her shoulder provocatively. I pulled it from its plastic cover and looked at it closely. What a beautiful girl she had been. Betsy was pretty, but Susan had been a knockout.

“There’s something written on the back,” Sister said.

I turned it over. In a childish half-cursive, half-printed
handwriting was the inscription, “To my Chandler Mountain booger. With love, Susan.”

“Who do you think killed Susan, Albert?”

“The Chandler Mountain booger.”

The words were as clear as if Albert Lee were in the kitchen. I handed the picture to Mary Alice and pressed my shaking hands together.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You sick?”

“I know who killed Susan Crawford.”

“Who?”

I nodded toward the picture she was holding. “The Chandler Mountain booger. Albert Lee Packard.”

She looked at the inscription on the back of the picture. “What makes you say that? This booger thing is just a joke.”

“This part isn’t.” I told her what Albert Lee had said the night before.

“I don’t believe that for one minute. I know for a fact that Virgil thinks Joe Baker killed Susan and Monk. And why would Albert Lee have done it anyway?”

“He was in love with her, had been for years.”

“So?”

“When Ethan died, maybe Albert Lee thought it was finally his chance, and she turned him down.”

“That’s dumb. I’ve turned lots of men down and they haven’t killed me.”

I closed my eyes and thought. I knew I was right, but I was having trouble putting two and two together here.

“He was the only person we know who was out there when the snake was put in your car, remember?”

“But he’s not a snake handler.”

“Doesn’t matter. He could have gotten a snake anywhere on that mountain.”

I picked up the wallet and looked in it again. Behind the money was a cash receipt from Rich’s, $2,472.92,
FINE JEWELRY
. It was dated December 23. I handed it to Sister.

“Engagement ring?”

She shrugged. “Could have been anything.”

“Not on a teacher’s salary. Especially a book collector.”

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.

“It’s Albert Lee. I know it is.” And I did know it, just as sure as I knew he had killed Susan Crawford.

“Here.” I handed her the wallet. “Put the pictures back in and throw it in the bathroom, quick.”

“Hell. Last night you figured out it was Terry and Betsy.” But she pushed her chair back while she was inserting the pack of pictures. “Take your time so I can get back in the kitchen. It’s probably not him, anyway.”

But my intuition was right. I got the same view of the scraggly beard through the peephole that I had gotten the day before.

“Okay,” Sister called. By this time the doorbell had rung twice.

I opened the door. “Good morning, Albert Lee. Sorry. I was on the phone.”

“Morning, Mrs. Hollowell. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if by any chance you’ve seen my billfold.”

“Why, no, Albert Lee.” God, what an awful actor I am. I should have just handed the damn thing to him and hoped he would believe we hadn’t looked in it.