by Anne George
"Arthur and Fred both need to retire, so we can go somewhere cool in the summer."
"God's truth."
"There's not a ghost of a chance that will happen though, is there?"
"Not anytime soon." Woofer lay down across my feet patiently. "You remember Philip Nachman?" I asked Mitzi.
"Mary Alice's second husband? Sure. Nice man. Why?"
"Well, his nephew, Philip the Second, acted as father of the bride at Debbie's wedding. Remember I told you about him? Anyway, I think Haley's fallen for him."
"That's wonderful, Patricia Anne! Haley's been a lost soul since Tom died."
"I think it's wonderful, too. But he's about twenty years older than she is."
"So what? You like him?"
"Very much. He's a widower with grown children. An ear doctor."
"An ENT? Lord! Tell her to marry that guy."
"That part pleased Fred, too." We smiled at each other.
"Is he as smitten as she is?"
"Seems to be."
"Sounds good to me. Is the age difference really bothering you?"
"Well, I keep thinking if he were her age, they would have a whole lifetime to spend together."
"Tom was her age," Mitzi reminded me. "There are no guarantees, Patricia Anne."
"True." I moved my feet so Woofer would get up. "Thank-you, Dr. Peale."
"Norman Vincent to you, honey. And any time."
I finished my walk feeling very chipper, gave Woofer his treat, poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, and settled down to read the paper. Mistake. I was in the dumps in about two seconds. Three fatal shootings, an airplane crash, and a multiple pileup on 1-59 -had made the front page. I put the paper down and turned on The Price Is Right. In a few minutes, I felt better. Bob Barker was as good for my mood as Mitzi had been. By the time a plump old lady with "One of Barker's Beauties" on her T-shirt won a Lexus, I was fine.
"The world is too much with us," I muttered, heading for the shower.
There were three phone messages waiting when I got out: a company wanting to do home repairs, Geor-giana Peach saying there was something she would
like to discuss with me, and Sister having lunch with Bonnie Blue and I could come if I wanted to.
I deleted the home repair message but listened to Georgiana's again. Her wispy voice had a strained, shaky quality to it, as if she weren't feeling well. I called the number she had left, but got her answering machine. Phone tag.
As for Mary Alice, she was going to the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe to buy a new outfit for Saturday night, and I needed one, too, she informed me when I called.
"I'm going to wear my red suit," I said.
"That red suit is shiny in the butt and the shoulder pads are too big. They don't wear shoulder pads that big anymore."
"Maybe 'they' don't, but I do."
"We're getting testy, aren't we? What about the outfit you wore to the wedding?"
"Too dressy. I told you. I'm wearing my red suit."
"Well, all right. Good heavens." Mary Alice paused. "Bonnie Blue and I are having lunch at the Blue Moon. You want me to pick you up?"
"I'm busy this afternoon." Actually, I was cross. There was not a damn thing wrong with my red suit.
"What are you doing?"
"I have an appointment," I lied.
"With a doctor? Are you sick, Mouse? What hurts you?" Sister sounded so alarmed, my conscience hurt me. A little.
"Not with a doctor. I'm fine."
"A lawyer? Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No. I am not in any kind of trouble. I'm just going to the library," I admitted.
"You have an appointment at the library? What kind of an appointment would you have at a library?"
"To discuss a program," I lied again, with the first thing that came into my head.
"What kind of program?"
Lord, when would I ever learn that lying to Sister is just too much trouble. Sixty years certainly hadn't been long enough.
Somehow I extricated myself from my tangled web enough to satisfy her. I fixed myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch, got the notes I had made yesterday, and headed for the library.
Emily, the cheerleader, was reading a House Beautiful today. She recognized me and informed me that Ms. Murphy was there again today, in the reading room. Did I want to see her?
I thanked her, said it wasn't necessary, that I would be working in the Montgomery County section.
"You got it." The girl leaned forward and showed me a picture of an ornate Georgian flower arrangement on a huge mahogany dining room table. "You like this, Ms. Hollowell?"
"Too fancy for my taste."
"Hmm." She studied the picture. "I kind of like it."
Some young man, I thought, had better fasten bis seat belt.
I located the section where I had worked the day before, and put my notebook on the table. One table down, I noticed, Camille Atchison was poring over a book. I moved down and sat across from her, startling myself more than I did her.
She glanced up coolly, and then looked back at her book.
"Tell me about Meg Bryan," I said in a low voice.
"Who are you?" Her green eyes appraised me.
"I'm Patricia Anne Hollowell. You were at my niece's wedding Saturday."
"Oh, yes. Debbie has done some pro bono work for the Symphony Association. I'm on the board. She's a nice woman."
"Yes, she is. What about Meg Bryan?"
"She was a bitch. I believe that's what I called her at the wedding, and I stand by it. Did she kill herself? No way. What's more, if I'd had the guts, I'd have been the one shoved her out the window. But I wasn't." Camille Atchison's cool expression hadn't changed. "Does that answer your question?"
"She did your family history for you, didn't she?"
"Wrongly and deliberately." Camille's face flushed. "Fortunately, I've been able to repair the damage." She pulled another book toward her. "If you will excuse me, Mrs. Hollowell."
I got up, started to another table, and then turned back. "I'm sorry," I said, reminding myself of Col-umbo, "but you really don't think there was any way Meg's death could have been suicide?"
Camille's green eyes narrowed. "I hope not. Somebody deserved the pleasure."
Well, I had asked and I had my answer. I moved to the other table and opened my notebook. Noah Hollowell, Winona Hughes Hollowell. It was fun to read about them and see what they had done with their lives, but I couldn't imagine the obsessive passion that Camille Atchison had just shown. "A dog-eat-dog world," Meg Bryan's words echoed.
I got to work. In Death Records from Montgomery Newspapers: The Civil War Years, I found an Oscar Hollowell as well as James and Bernard Hallowell. Oscar had died at Antietam. James and Bernard were killed in a neighborhood grudge. Actually, by the
number of deaths listed for this reason, these feuds seemed to have been fairly common at the time. Their name was spelled with an "a" instead of an "o," but I decided to write it down.
"You finding what you want, Mrs. Hollowell?" Cassie Murphy was standing beside me in a coral-colored knit dress that not only brought a glow to her skin but also outlined every curve. And Cassie had, indeed, "grown up."
"You look spectacular today," I said.
"Thank you." A flash of white, even teeth. "Can I help you with anything?"
I pointed to the Hallowell men. "The spelling is different," I said. "But not much."
"Close as that spelling is, chances are that a generation or two back, you'll find a common ancestor."
"This is fascinating. It says these men were killed in a neighborhood grudge, not the Civil War."
"There was an unusual amount of violence then because of political differences. They might have been Union sympathizers or out after some people who were."
"And we think of violence as being a modern-day thing."
"Not if you study history." Cassie waved to a man at a nearby table who was motioning for her. "That's one of our clients.
Let me go see what he wants."
"I met Georgiana Peach this week. I saw by your card that you work with her."
"Georgiana's a sweetie. She's out sick today, though, and still hasn't caught up from being in Charleston. And the lady who worked part-time with us had to leave suddenly to care for a sick relative. So I'm going in all directions."
"I hope Georgiana's not very sick."
Cassie shook her head. "Just a virus, I'm sure."
So was AIDS, but I didn't point out that fact. I returned to the records, where I had just discovered Oscar Hollowell's wife was Novalene Tate. Fred and I could be cousins by marriage about twenty times removed if Novalene was the sister of my great great grandfather. In the South that counts. I made myself a note to look up Novalene. With a name like that, she shouldn't be too hard to find.
Some time later, with the beginnings of a headache, I closed the Montgomery County census records from 1850, and stretched. I looked at my watch, and was startled to see it was almost three-thirty. A glance around the room showed most of the same people who had been there when I came in hard at work. A stalwart bunch. Camille Atchison, I noticed, was either gone or had moved away from my vicinity.
Cassie was nowhere in sight, probably back at The Family Tree. Emily was leaning over an elderly gentleman's shoulder, pointing something out in a book. The elderly gentleman seemed to be enjoying himself.
The sun was warm. A good night for cantaloupe stuffed with chicken salad. Some Sister Schubert orange rolls. I headed for the Piggly Wiggly with my stomach growling. The peanut butter sandwich had left me long ago.
Consequently, I was stuffing angel food cake into my mouth when I walked into my kitchen. It was supposed to be for dessert, but what the hell, I was starving. The phone rang as I put my sack down.
"Hello," I said as best I could.
"Is this Patricia Anne?" Georgiana's fluttery voice.
"Hello, Georgiana," I said.
"You don't sound like yourself."
"I'm eating a piece of cake. Wait a minute." I
chewed and swallowed. "Now," I said. "I'm sorry I missed you earlier. How are you feeling?"
There was a long pause. Then, ' 'I think I am losing my mind."
"What? Why would you think that?" I could tell by the tone of her voice that she meant what she was saying, that she was frightened.
' 'Could I come talk to you for a little while? I really think I need some help."
"Should you go to a doctor? I'll be glad to take you."
"Maybe I should. But can I come talk to you first? It's about Meg," she added.
"Do you feel like driving?"
"I'll be there in a few minutes."
I put up the groceries and put the chicken breasts on to boil for the salad. Georgiana losing her mind? And something about Meg? I tore off another chunk of angel food cake and ate it.
When the doorbell rang, I was prepared for an upset Georgiana Peach. I was not prepared for the woman who seemed to have aged ten years, whose face was white and pinched, and who was obviously ill.
"Come in," I said, taking her thin arm. "You shouldn't have driven over here. I could have come to your house."
"I'll be all right," she said weakly. "Do you have any brandy?"
"I have some bourbon. And some wine."
"The bourbon would be fine." She sank down weakly on the den sofa and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. "A straight shot."
I rushed into the kitchen and brought the bourbon back. Like her friend, Trinity, Georgiana turned the glass up and downed it in one gulp.
"Thank-you," she whispered. "I should feel better in a few moments."
"Don't you want me to take you to the doctor?"
Georgiana held up the glass, which I refilled. At the rate little old ladies were collapsing on my sofa, I was going to have to buy a new fifth of Black Jack.
This time she sipped the bourbon, looking into the glass between sips as if it were a crystal ball. "Someone," she said, "is playing a cruel joke on me. A hideously cruel joke. Or," she gazed into the glass, "I am communicating with the dead."
I sat on the sofa beside her. ' 'What are you talking about?"
Georgiana sighed. "Yesterday, I was feeling ill, one of those twenty-four hour things I probably picked up in South Carolina at the conference. Anyway," she gave a shiver, "I put my answering machine on and slept most of the day. Then last night, I forgot to check for messages."
She paused so long, that I finally said, "And?"
"Well, my stomach was still queasy this morning, but I knew I needed to get to the office because we are shorthanded. I was about to walk out the door when I remembered my messages." Georgiana chug-alugged the bourbon that was left in the glass and gave a slight cough. Another long pause.
"Well?" I said finally. This was like pulling teeth.
"There was a message from Meg. She said, 'Help me!' "
"Meg Bryan?"
Tears welled in Georgiana's eyes. "She said, 'Help me!' "
"Wait a minute." I was trying to think of some reasonable explanation. "Did you check your answering machine when you got home from your trip?
Maybe she left it while you were gone."
Georgiana nodded her head. ' 'The message was left yesterday."
"Then you mistook the voice."
"It was Meg." Georgiana reached for the phone on the end table, "See if you can hear it." She dialed her code number and listened. "Here." She handed me the phone.
"Saturday at twelve thirty," a woman's voice said. "Call me if you can't make it. Bye." Then the next message, whispered, urgent, but clear as a bell. ' 'Help me!"
I was so startled, I almost dropped the phone.
"You heard it?" Georgiana said. "Thank God. It's a cruel hoax then, because I don't think a spirit could leave a message on a machine, do you?" .
"What do I do to listen again?"
"Punch four." Georgiana reached over, got the bourbon bottle, and poured herself another shot. "I can't tell you what a relief it is that you can hear the voice. All I could think about was poor Meg caught between heaven and earth because of the violent way she died. Out there, wandering, like Cathy over the moors in Wuthering Heights. Calling to me for help. 'Georgiana! Georgiana!' "
I punched four and moved the bottle to where Georgiana couldn't reach it again. "Help me!" the voice whispered.
"Sounds just like her, doesn't it?" Georgiana began to cry. "Who would have done such a thing to me?"
"Done what?" Mary Alice stood in the den door loaded down with packages from the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, as well as from Parisian. "What's the matter, Georgiana?"
"Listen," I said. I punched four and handed Sister the phone. Packages rained to the sofa as she took it.
Sister put the phone to her ear. Georgiana and I both watched her. "Help who do what?" she asked when she had heard the message.
"You didn't recognize the voice? It's Meg Bryan," Georgiana explained.
"Really? What did she want you to do for her?"
"You don't understand." I began picking up packages. "The message was left yesterday."
"So it's not Meg." Sister turned to Georgiana. "I thought you said it was."
"I thought at first it was. I thought she was caught between heaven and earth like Cathy in Wuthering Heights, calling 'Georgiana! Georgiana!' "
Sister eyed the bourbon bottle. "Good Lord, Georgiana, it was probably a wrong number. Besides, Cathy called 'Heathcliff!' "
"Well, I know that!"
"It does sound like Meg," I said.
"Fiddle! Y'all are sitting here letting your imaginations run away with you." Sister picked up a Parisian package. "Let me show you what I bought you, Mouse. If you insist on wearing that shiny-butted red suit, okay. But I saw this blouse and this scarf that would be perfect with it." Material poured over the chair in a rainbow. "Actually a couple of blouses. Six petite. Right?"
But Georgiana wasn't in the mood to be distracted. "Who would have play
ed a joke like this?" She leaned forward, her arms crossed over her abdomen.
"Maybe you ought to tell the police about it," I said. I picked up the first blouse, a beautiful off-white silk with splashes of red and navy. "This is beautiful, Sister."
"I thought so. It'll dress up that red suit." Mary Alice sat down beside Georgiana on the sofa. "Dial the number and let me listen again, Georgiana."
She held the phone to her ear while I admired the second blouse, a sage-green silk, not a color I would have thought of as going with red but which I knew, instantly, would be perfect. I looked at the price tag. "Shit!"
Sister held her hand up for me to be quiet. "Nope," she said, hanging up the phone. "Probably just a kid calling around like they did in that movie. You know, the one where the guy had just killed someone and they said they saw what he had done."
"You really think so?" Georgiana rubbed her forehead. "You know, my first thought when I heard the voice was that Meg's not dead, that she needs my help. That's how upset I was. I had to tell myself that if someone is in trouble and can get to a phone, they'd call 911, not me. And then I thought, what if I'm the only one hearing it and Meg's spirit is wandering, lost, caught."
Sister caught my eye. "You got any coffee, Mouse?"
"And orange rolls."
"That sounds great. We'll bring you some, Georgiana. Okay?"
Georgiana nodded, still rubbing her forehead. Sister followed me into the kitchen.
"What do you think?" she whispered.
"About what?"
"You think it was Meg's voice?"
"How the hell should I know? You're the one who's convinced it's not."
"Well, how could it be?"
"It couldn't."
"Okay. It's settled then. Put the coffee on and come try on your blouses."
"I can't afford them."
"But I can. And I don't want you to look tacky Saturday night."
"Well, since you put it so graciously."
As we went through the den, Georgiana Peach was stretched out on the sofa snoring. I spread the afghan over her.
"You keep such strange company, Patricia Anne," Sister said. Since my arms were full of the clothes she had just bought me, I thought it would be ungracious to belt her one.
Eleven
I red called to say they had a rash order for TV A and were waiting for Athens Cartage to pick it up.
