by Anne George
"But she didn't have the computer with her when she went to his office. She left it with your Aunt Sister and me."
"He tried to steal it, though. You just happened to see him and stop him."
"Wait a minute," Fred said. "Meg was doing research. She would have made backup disks of everything."
"True," Haley agreed. "But the hard drive would have everything right there."
Let them talk about their computers. I went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. Ten minutes later when I came back into the den, Haley and Fred were still talking about the merits of a certain computer program.
"Where's Trinity?" I asked. "She hasn't come back?"
They looked at me blankly. I raced down the hall, expecting to see all six feet two of her dead on the
bathroom floor. But the bathroom was empty. A glance in the middle bedroom told me why. Trinity Buckalew was sound asleep stretched from one corner of the bed to the other.
Haley, who had followed me, handed me an afghan, and I spread it over Trinity and slipped off her shoes.
"Size thirteen," I whispered to Haley, and turned off the light.
Seven
I rinity Buckalew was still asleep when I left to take Woofer for his morning walk. I had put a pair of Fred's pajamas and a new toothbrush in the guest bathroom the night before, and a peek told me she had found them. Fred had left very early, telling me to go back to sleep. We hadn't talked about his problems with Universal Satellite the previous night. In fact, Haley had stayed until after ten, and Fred had gone to sleep in his chair long before that. If he had heard anything, though, he would have found time to tell me.
The morning was sunny and still. Too still. People who live in Alabama are suspicious of warm March days when there is no breeze stirring. It means the warmth and humidity of the Gulf of Mexico are sitting right over us. A cold nudge from the north, which is inevitable in March, and tornado sirens start blasting. But that was to worry about later. The morning was absolutely beautiful with the whole neighborhood smelling of wisteria, and dogwood and cherry trees vying to see which could be brighter. Woofer, that admirable mix of every breed of dog known to man,
enjoyed himself thoroughly, checking out which dog, cat, or squirrel had been by, and blazing the trail himself for the ones who would follow.
By the time we got home, Trinity was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. She was dressed, but her hair was still damp from the shower. "I have a headache," she said. I reached into the cabinet and handed her the aspirin bottle.
"Your sister called. I told her I was here because of my incarceration and your kindness." She poured four aspirin into her hand; I handed her a glass of water. "She left a message. She said he's a tiger."
"A tiger, huh?"
Trinity gulped the aspirin down in the same chicken-head-thrown-back way as the day before. "A tiger," she repeated.
"She's talking about an ancient Richard Gere she had a date with last night. I'll call her and get the details," I said. "You want some cereal?"
"That would be nice. And thank-you for the pajamas and the toothbrush. I trust my overnight bag is still in my impounded car."
"You're welcome." I poured each of us a bowl of raisin bran, and brought them all to the table. "We need to call and find out where your car is and how to get it."
"I talked to my friend, Georgiana Peach, just a while ago. She got back late last night. She said she would come take me to get it." Trinity began to eat her cereal. "Fortunately, I was not the one who had to break the news to her about Meg. One of the women who works for her called her in Charleston yesterday."
I thought about the package still sitting on the cof-
fee table. As if reading my thoughts, Trinity said, "I'm taking Meg home today."
I couldn't think of anything to say except, "I'm so sorry."
Trinity nodded. We sat eating our cereal quietly, while outside the bay window, Spring took one giant step.
Trinity broke the silence. "Meg was a beautiful girl, Patricia Anne. You saw her as an old lady, but when she was young, she turned men's heads like you wouldn't believe."
"She was still beautiful," I said.
"And determined." Trinity smiled. "When she made up her mind to marry Bobby Haskins, he didn't stand a chance."
"I doubt he fought very hard." I got up to pour some more coffee. "How did Meg get so interested in genealogy?"
Trinity reached for the sugar bowl. "I think she always was. The Grand Hotel was a hospital during the Civil War, so there's a big Confederate cemetery right outside Fairhope, actually right behind our house. Anyway, we had a game we used to play back there in the cemetery when we were children. Yankees and Rebels. We'd take a name-off a marker, you know those little white crosses they used, and make up a story for that person. Make up whole families. Meg said we were bringing them back from the dead. Beth hated it, said it gave her the creeps. She'd go along with it, though."
The front doorbell rang just as the back door opened and Mary Alice walked in.
"That would be Georgiana Peach at the front door," Trinity said.
"Y'all ordered some of those expensive peaches,
too?" Sister asked. "Those third world countries are getting rich, aren't they."
"What?" Trinity asked.
"She has a friend named Georgiana Peach who is at our front door right now," I explained to Sister.
"I'll go let her in." Trinity disappeared down the hall.
"Georgiana Peach?" Sister looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"He's a tiger?" A raised eyebrow back at her.
Sister giggled. "I'll tell you later."
Women's voices down the hall, and there was Georgiana Peach, she of the exotic name that summoned up ripeness, sexiness, boldness, a strip joint on Fourth Avenue. There she was, a little gray bird of a woman. A wren. A sparrow. Beside her, the well-named Trinity towered.
Introductions were made, coffee poured, and the four of us sat at the kitchen table.
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it." Georgiana Peach dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. "I've been telling Meg she better let some of those sleeping dogs lie. You know I've been telling her that, don't you, Trinity?" Her voice matched her name, a breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice; her little-bird eyes inventoried my kitchen and yard. This woman, I thought, had known exactly where every stock certificate was in her late aunt's house. She caught my eye and looked down at her coffee.
"Yes, you did, Georgiana," Trinity agreed.
"She was on to something big. Wouldn't tell anybody."
Trinity chimed in. "Those bastardy papers of Bobby Haskins."
"Something bigger," Georgiana said.
"A woman at the wedding called her a bitch," I said. "Camille somebody."
"Atchison?" Georgiana asked.
"That sounds right."
"Meg kept her out of the DAR, I think. Made her furious. Something bigger than that, though." Georgiana Peach closed her eyes and put her fingertips to her forehead. "Let me think."
"Georgiana's something of a psychic," Trinity announced proudly.
The fingertips came down. "Sometimes I see things. But it was my brother, George Peach, who was the psychic. He hid under the house once when he was a little boy and Mama was chasing him to spank him, and he touched a drainpipe or something, and there was a loud crack, and he said a white horse came running by, plain as anything. We dragged him out almost electrocuted, but he was all right. After that he could see things, though. Visions."
"You've got a brother named George Peach?" Mary Alice asked.
"I did. A twin. Killed in Vietnam. We always knew he would go early on account of that white horse. It's a sure sign." The fingertips went back to the forehead. "Let me think."
"I'll get more coffee," I said. "And who would like a sweetroll?"
Sister followed me from the table. "Flake," she murmured. But I didn't think so. There was nothing in my kitchen that those bird eyes had missed.
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I got a package of sweetrolls from the freezer and stuck them into the microwave for a minute. The phone rang and Sister answered it.
"A great time," she assured the caller, giggling as
if she were fifteen. "Here," she said, handing me the
phone. "It's Fred."
"Just checking to see if you're okay this morning,"
he said. The joys of a long marriage, the unsaid things
in the most ordinary conversations.
"I'm fine. I'm fixing sweetrolls. Are you all
right?"
"I'm going to run over to Atlanta. I've decided I
can't let this Universal Satellite thing ride any longer.
I've got to get to the bottom of the problem." "Be careful." "I'll be home before dark. By the way, how's our
company this morning?"
"She seems okay. A friend of hers is here." "Good. I'll call you if I'm going to be late." "Okay. I'll fix you a special supper." We said good-bye and hung up. Sister was taking
the sweetrolls from the microwave, and looked at me
questioningly. "He's just going to Atlanta for the
day," I explained.
"He needs a jet. You can be there in a half hour." "Shut up." I took the sweetrolls, and put them on
a plate. "Bring some more coffee."
Georgiana's fingertips were still to her forehead
when we got back to the table. She opened her eyes
and announced that it was a man who had taken
Meg's life.
Trinity nodded. "Bobby Haskins. I knew it."
I put the sweetrolls on the table. "Did you see what
he was wearing?" I asked.
Georgiana's bird eyes stabbed me. "No."
"Was he young or old?" Sister was serious. She
sat down and reached for a roll.
"I couldn't tell," Georgiana said in her whispery
voice. "But it was a man."
"Bobby Haskins," Trinity repeated.
I reached for a sweetroll, too. Sitting between Julia Child and Marilyn Monroe was a slightly surreal experience.
"These are good." Georgiana licked icing from her lip.
"Tell them about George Peach and the Moon Pies," Trinity said.
Georgiana smiled. "He was the Moon Pie champion of the world."
"Tell the whole story," Trinity insisted.
"Well, they have a Moon Pie Day every year in Oneonta, and George Peach just loved Moon Pies. So nothing would do but we had to go to Oneonta to see what was going on. And one of the things was a Moon-Pie-eating contest. They had this long table set up with vanilla and chocolate and banana Moon Pies, and George Peach couldn't resist." Georgiana paused to take a sip of coffee. "I remember he mixed the flavors up because he figured he'd get tired of one. And, Lord! You've never seen people eat like that. Crumbs flying. Marshmallow cream all over the K-Mart parking lot. Like stepping on chewing gum, pulling up those strings with your shoes. And George Peach just stuffing Moon Pies. We knew he was going to win. One man tried to say he'd eaten fifteen like George Peach had, but he was disqualified because he hadn't swallowed the last one. Some people will do anything, won't they?"
We agreed that they would.
"But George had his fifteen minutes, didn't he?" Mary Alice said. She held her coffee cup out. "To George Peach."
"To George Peach," we responded, drinking solemnly. I glanced over at Georgiana and her eyes were
brimming with tears. The unwarranted antagonism I had felt toward her disappeared like the steam from the coffee.
We sat quietly for a few minutes, each engrossed in her own thoughts and memories. Finally, Georgiana pushed her chair back. "Are you ready to go get your car, Trinity? I really must go. I've been out of the office for three days, and I know there's a stack of work waiting for me."
"Where do you work?" Sister asked.
"I've had my own genealogical research service, The Family Tree, for about a year. I have two ladies who work for me, one part-time, and we stay busy. Meg did some work for me, too. I have to get extra help sometimes, and she did some research. Of course, she had a lot of her own clients." She turned to Trinity, who had also risen. "What was she working on, Trinity?"
"I have no idea."
I spoke up. "She said it was the Fitzgerald family from Mobile, didn't she, Sister? Or maybe it was Fitz-patrick."
Mary Alice shrugged. "I don't remember."
"Well, if you really believe Meg didn't commit suicide, and I, for one, believe she didn't, you should look at what she was working on." Georgiana pulled on a green sweater that added a greenish tint to her complexion. "I know what program she usually used, if you want me to check her computer."
"The computer's gone," Mary Alice said. "Didn't I say that?"
"Gone? Gone where?" Trinity had started to rise from her chair, but sat back down.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"It's gone. I had it on the bed with Meg's stuff to
bring over here this morning, and when I went in to get everything, it wasn't there. The rest of the stuff was, though. It's out in my car."
"Wait a minute." Georgiana sat down and stared at Mary Alice. "Let me get this straight. You are talking about Meg's little notebook computer, the one in the leather case."
"I don't think it was real leather," Mary Alice said. "And the other briefcase is gone, too. Or seems to be. I thought I put everything together so I wouldn't forget anything this morning. I was in a tizzy trying to get ready to go to Atlanta to the opera, you understand, so there's an outside chance I might have put it somewhere else. I don't think so, though."
"Shit," Georgiana Peach said. Which I took to mean that she didn't understand. "Some of the research was for my company."
"Was your burglar alarm on?" Trinity asked.
"Of course. And everything was fine when I got home." Sister held her palms up in an "I give up" gesture. "It's got to be around there somewhere. But, you know, I can close my eyes and see that computer and that briefcase lying right there in the middle of that bed."
I spoke up. "Are you going to call the police?"
"Not until I've looked over every inch of that house. Some twenty-year-old cop would come in, sure as anything, and find it sitting right on the kitchen counter where I put it." Mary Alice pressed her palm against her forehead. "Dear God, I'm getting paranoid."
"Who knows your alarm combination other than you?" Georgiana asked.
"Nobody but Patricia Anne and my daughter Debbie, who's in Gatlinburg on her honeymoon." Sister
turned to me. "Incidentally, she called this morning, Mouse. She said they had been out jogging. Can you imagine Debbie jogging early in the morning? And she's very happy."
I beamed. "I'm so glad. I told you Henry was wonderful, didn't I? You could tell that by the papers he wrote in my eleventh grade AP English class. I still remember one he did on Madame Bovary. I knew he'd make some woman a good husband right that minute, because he understood how Emma was suffering."
Georgiana got us back on track. She turned to Trinity and asked about Meg's backup disks. Where did she keep them?
"I have no idea," Trinity said. "I don't know a thing about Meg's computer stuff."
"Except Judge Haskins tried to steal it in the park the other day." I explained to Georgiana about his rushing away with the computer under his arm.
"Well, Bobby Haskins hasn't been in my house," Sister said. "Which means the computer has got to be there somewhere. It'll show up."
Trinity stood up. "You're right. And I'm not going to worry about it. You can bring it with you to Meg's fond farewell party."
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.
