Murder on a Bad Hair Day
Murder on a Bad Hair Day
A Southern Sisters Mystery
For Tina, my daughter
“I tell you, Patricia Anne, I’m sick and tired of…
I drove home through the mildness of the early winter…
Fred was sound asleep when I got home. I undressed…
Claire sat straight up and covered her face with both…
Bo Mitchell had Claire’s name removed from all admittance records…
I went out early the next morning to get the…
The sleet had turned back into rain by the time…
“Come here, Patricia Anne. You’ve got to see this.” Fred…
“You’re Mrs. Hollowell,” Glynn said. “We recognized you when you…
Ross Perry’s death made the front page of the paper…
The moment James Butler’s car left the driveway carrying the…
The next morning I put a load of washing on…
Around ten o’clock, Fred and I went out, untangled the…
“How come Thurman Beatty was still married to Mercy if…
“Where did that poinsettia come from?” Fred asked as he…
I sat down at the kitchen table and put my…
The phone’s ringing awoke me. “Good heavens, are you still…
“We startled you again, didn’t we?” Mary Alice said. “But…
“I
tell you, Patricia Anne, I’m sick and tired of always being some man’s sex slave.” Mary Alice shut the kitchen door firmly and headed for the stove. “Is this fresh coffee?”
I looked up from the morning paper and nodded. I also grinned. My sister is sixty-five years old, six feet tall, and admits to weighing two hundred fifty pounds. The idea of her as a sex slave is mind-boggling.
“You look like a jackass eating briars,” she said. “But I’m telling you the truth.” She got a cup from the cabinet, poured her coffee, and helped herself to a muffin from a plate on the counter. “What kind are these?”
“Blueberry.”
She took a second one and came to the table in the bay window where I was reading the paper and having a second cup of coffee. “What are you doing?”
“Reading Omar Sharif’s bridge column.”
“Oh, God, I love that man. Those daffodils!”
“I know.” For a moment it was not December in Birmingham, Alabama, but springtime in Russia with “Lara’s Theme” soaring. “How many times have you seen
Dr. Zhivago
?” I asked.
Mary Alice took a bite of blueberry muffin. “Maybe twenty. I still keep hoping they’ll get back together.”
“But they did in a way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He dies every time. Splat. Right there in the street.” She took another bite of muffin. “You know, being his sex slave wouldn’t be so bad. Unless he plays bridge all the time.”
I folded the paper. “Why don’t you pull off your coat? And what is this sex slave bit?”
“I’m just staying a minute. And it’s what all of us women are. You. Me. Working our butts off to please some man.”
I could have pointed out that my husband, Fred, was at work while I was sitting in the kitchen in my bathrobe reading the paper, but I decided not to push my luck.
“We iron their clothes, cook their food, mop their floors, and do God knows what just to please them.”
“Sister,” I said, “I think a sex slave is used sexually.”
“That, too,” she said.
I decided not to pursue this line of conversation. “You want some more coffee?” I asked.
Mary Alice shook her head no. “Mouse,” she said, using her old childhood nickname for me, “I want to show you something, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She stood up and unbuttoned her coat but still clutched it around her. “Swear.”
“I told you I wouldn’t laugh.”
She pulled her coat off and all promises were off; I laughed like hell. Mary Alice was Mrs. Santa Claus, complete with a short red skirt, red leggings, and a white knit shirt decorated with the words “Mrs. Santa” that flashed sporadically with lights that apparently were beyond Sister’s power to control.
“I knew you would laugh,” she said morosely. “There’s a wig that goes with it, though.” She reached into the pocket of her coat, brought out what looked like a dead white poodle, and placed it over her own short pinkish hair. “You think anyone will recognize me?”
“Oh, Lord,” I laughed. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, maybe they won’t,” she called as I rushed down the hall.
When I got back to the kitchen, she had her coat on again and, except for an occasional giggle, I was in control. “What’s this about?” I asked.
“Bill’s got a job as Santa Claus down at the Rosedale Mall. They wanted a couple. It’s supposed to keep the kids from being so scared.” Mary Alice shrugged. “See? I told you I was a sex slave.”
Seventy-two-year-old Bill Adams is Sister’s current “boyfriend.” He has lasted for several months, probably because he can dip her when they dance. Or at least that’s what Fred and I thought. There just might be more to the relationship if she was willing to go along with him on this.
“Rosedale Mall’s on the other side of town,” I assured her. “You won’t see a soul you know. Besides, what does it matter? You’re being a good sport.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Just think of all the kids you’ll make happy.”
“That’s true.” Mary Alice looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to remind you of the gallery opening tonight. It’s from five until eight, drop in, and I won’t get off work until six, so I won’t pick you up until seven. Okay?”
“Why don’t I meet you there?”
“The way you drive? Don’t be silly. And wear that sweater I gave you last Christmas, the off-white with the pearls on it.”
“And which skirt should I wear?” Mary Alice is immune to sarcasm, which can be both a blessing and a curse for a sister.
“The off-white, of course. And for goodness sakes don’t wear those shoes you bought that are supposed to be ‘winter white.’ I can’t believe you were suckered like that.”
“One every minute,” I said, grinning again.
“I’ll see you at seven.” Mrs. Claus picked up another muffin on her way out.
“See you.” Sooner than she thought. I had a date for lunch at the Rosedale Mall.
As soon as Omar Sharif made his impossible six no-trump bid, I threw on some sweats and went out to take my old Woofer for his walk. It was a beautiful morning, crisp but not cold, and though it was just three weeks until Christmas, a few pink geraniums still bloomed in the containers on the deck. Woofer was sleeping late. The year before, I had paid a fortune for an insulated doghouse that looked like an igloo, but it had been money well spent. The problem was getting Woofer out of it.
I lifted the flap and poked him. “Hey, lazy.”
He came out stretching, looking a little sheepish that I had sneaked up on him, and smelling mightily of warm dog.
“Walk time,” I said, rubbing his head and noticing how gray he was getting. Well, weren’t we all. I put his leash on and we started out.
Our neighborhood is an old one of front porches and sidewalks. We have a saying here, “On a clear day, you can see the moon.” This refers to the huge statue of Vulcan, the god of the forge, placed on top of Red Mountain about a hundred years ago as a symbol of Birmingham’s iron and steel industries. Which is fine. I’ve got no quarrel with the big iron man. Tourists climb him as they would a lighthouse to get a great view of downtown, and they buy postcards and souvenirs. The postcards are always pictures of the front, though.
Wisely, given his trade, Vulcan is wearing an apron. Unfortunately for the tree-lined residential streets on the other side of the mountain, that’s all he’s wearing. As long as I can remember, there have been petitions floating around to cover up Vulcan’s rear end. But nothing has come of them. If they decided to put a wraparound apron on him, we would lose, as Mary Alice says, the butt of most of our jokes.
I grew up by the light of this moon and thought nothing about it until a small cousin visiting from Atlanta stood on our front porch and, eyes round with awe, announced, “There’s a nekkid man up yonder.”
“With a great ass,” Mary Alice said. She couldn’t have been more than ten at the time.
The moon was very clear today. Woofer and I walked under a bright blue sky, moseying along, taking our time. When I retired in May, right after my sixtieth birthday, this was the sort of morning I had in mind.
I admired the Christmas decorations that had begun to appear Thanksgiving afternoon. Our neighborhood is nothing if not gaudy at Christmastime. We don’t go for those little white lights. The big colored ones strung around the eaves of the houses suit us just fine. Add a few life-size nativity scenes in the yards and a lot of Rudolphs and Santas sprinting across roofs and we’re ready for the season.
When we got home, I gave Woofer a treat, took a quick shower, and put on my red suit in honor of the season. I was meeting Bonnie Blue Butler for lunch at Rosedale Mall. She was going to get a kick out of Mrs. Santa. And it was the first thing I was going to tell her about.
Meeting Bonnie Blue was one of the few good things to come out of Mary Alice’s purchase a few months back of the Skoot ’n’ Boot, a country-western bar out Highway 78. Mary Alice still swears it was a good idea and everybody in Birmingham would be up there today line dancing up a storm if it hadn’t been for all those unfortunate murders. Of which I was almost one. I shivered thinking what a close call it had been. But today was a beautiful day, I had on my red suit, and it was three weeks until Christmas. Fiddle-dee-dee, Miss Scarlett!
I got to the Blue Moon Tea Room first, and had just started on my first cup of decaf when I heard “Yoo-hoo, Patricia Anne!” and saw Bonnie Blue working her way toward the table with a large package wrapped in Christmas paper.
Every time I see her, I am amazed at how much she reminds me of Mary Alice. They are the same size. They dress alike, walk alike, even their personalities are alike. But Bonnie Blue is black and about fifteen years younger. Still, it’s like looking at a negative image when they are together. I
got up to help her with the package and we hugged each other.
“Whoa,” she said, easing into her wrought iron chair. “This place is a tight fit.”
“You want to go somewhere else?”
“Lord no. I picked the place, didn’t I? Their chicken salad and orange rolls are worth a little squeezing in.” She looked over at me. “You still weigh a hundred five?”
I admitted that I did. “But I’m just five foot one, remember.”
“You eating?”
I said that, indeed, I was eating. Mary Alice tells everyone I’m anorexic and has convinced Bonnie Blue, apparently.
“How are Fred and Haley?”
I said that my husband and daughter were fine.
“She still dating that Sheriff Reuse?”
“Some,” I admitted.
“Hmmm.” Sheriff Reuse had been the main investigator at the Skoot ’n’ Boot. He was not one of Bonnie Blue’s favorite people.
The waitress came and got our orders, chicken salad and orange rolls for both of us. When she left, Bonnie Blue reached down for the Christmas package that was propped against the wall.
“This is with my thanks,” she said.
“Oh, Bonnie Blue, whatever for?” I asked.
“The job.” She held the package toward me. “All sorts of things.”
Tears filled my eyes. “You got the job yourself.”
“But you told them about me. And it’s a good job, Patricia Anne. Nice people.”
After the fiasco at the Skoot ’n’ Boot, Bonnie Blue had been working at a truck stop, which would be hard work for a young, skinny girl—which Bonnie Blue definitely is not—and I was worried about her. I was in the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shop buying Sister a present and got to talking to the owner, who said she was looking for a saleslady. One phone call and Bonnie Blue had the job. It was still hard
work, and she was still on her feet a lot, but compared to the truck stop, it was a snap.
“With my thanks,” she said.
I took the package, which was poster size, and began to peel the wrapper off. A piece of painted plywood came into view, and the signature “ABE” with the
E
backwards. I looked at Bonnie Blue in shock.
“It can’t be,” I said.
“Go ahead.” She smiled. “Be careful.”
I tore the rest of the paper off and saw the painting of an old black man dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt. He held a cane in his hand. The legs were too long, the arms too short, the feet both pointed toward the left. The background was white, and around that, around the edge of the plywood, the artist had painted a black border as a frame. A pop-top opener served as a hanger. The man was smiling, two tiny rows of white dots, and what looked like gray cotton had been glued to his head. On the back of the plywood was printed “ME” with the
E
going the wrong way. What I was holding, I knew, was an original Abraham, a picture by the most famous of Alabama’s “Outsider” or folk artists.
The tears spilled over. “My God, Bonnie Blue. This is unbelievable!”
She was smiling proudly. “You like it?”
“Like it? I can’t believe it. I bought a little one of his paintings a couple of years ago of children on a bus but he’s gotten way out of my range.”
“He’s my daddy,” Bonnie Blue said.
“Abraham’s your daddy?”
“Abraham Butler. That’s my daddy.” Bonnie Blue pointed to the hair on the painting. “You see that? That’s his real hair. I said, ‘Daddy, this is for a friend of mine,’ and he said, ‘Hand me the scissors, Bonnie Blue.’”
I wiped my eyes with a napkin and held the painting to me. “It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten,” I said. “I may have to sleep with it.”
“Well, watch that hair. I don’t know how good it’s on there. Daddy uses whatever’s around.”
“That’s the most special thing of all,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”
Bonnie Blue gathered up the wrappings.
“So Abraham is the man who got so carried away during
Gone with the Wind
that your mama got pregnant with you.”
“Tell me I’m not glad. My sisters’ names are Myrtice, Viola, and Gladys.”
I held the picture out to look at it again.
“He has to use that cane all the time now,” Bonnie Blue said. “Sometimes a walker. He still gets around, though. He’s eighty-four.”