Murder on a Bad Hair Day

by Anne George

  “I’ve got one for you, too, Mary Alice, but I didn’t think I’d see you today.”

  “Mrs. Santa hits all the malls at Christmastime,” I said.

  Mary Alice kicked my foot. “I’m helping Bill,” she explained to Bonnie Blue. “I just wish they wouldn’t keep arresting him. It’s unnerving.”

  “Gives you a chance to stand by your man,” I said, moving my foot before she could get to it.

  “Shut up, Mouse.” She picked up a spoon and helped herself to the chicken salad on my plate. “Umm. That’s good.”

  “Where’s Bill now?” Bonnie Blue asked.

  “Taking off his outfit. This is our lunch break. They have a cute sign that says we’ve gone to feed the reindeer.” She took another bite of my salad.

  “Bonnie Blue’s going to be at the gallery opening tonight,” I said, moving my plate as far as I could from Sister’s reach.

  “That’s great.” She held the picture up again. “Why didn’t you tell us Abraham was your daddy, Bonnie Blue?”

  “It just didn’t come up.”

  “Well, I know you’re proud of him. He’s getting more famous every day, you know.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “And I can’t wait to see my picture.”

  “I’ll bring it tonight,” Bonnie Blue promised.

  “Yours doesn’t have Abraham’s hair on it,” I said.

  Just then, fortunately, Bill came into the tea room. He’s a handsome man, large but not paunchy, with a ruddy complexion and a lot of white hair. Even at seventy-two, he can turn women’s heads, a fact that was obvious as he walked toward us through the lunch crowd at the restaurant.

  “Hey, Patricia Anne. Hey, Bonnie Blue.” Bill put his hand on Sister’s shoulder, a gesture which didn’t escape me. Her hand went up to cover his.

  “Unh-huh,” I said to myself. This was beginning to look serious. Mr. Bill Adams just might be husband number four, though he didn’t fit the mold: Mary Alice’s three husbands had all been at least twenty-five years older than she was and extremely wealthy. And she had had a child by each. At sixty-five I suppose it was time to break the pattern. There weren’t too many available men twenty-five years older, she would have to be a biblical character to give birth, and she had more money than she knew what to do with from the first three.

  Bonnie Blue and I both greeted Bill, and I showed him my painting, which he admired.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us Abraham was your daddy,” he said to Bonnie Blue. “I have a sweatshirt with one of his snowmen on it.”

  “He’ll be at the gallery tonight,” Mary Alice said. “You want to come with Patricia Anne and I?”

  “Me,” I corrected. “Come with Patricia Anne and me.” I automatically jerked my leg back so Mary Alice couldn’t make contact, so all I got was a dirty look.

  “Can’t, Babe. I’m playing poker tonight, remember?” Bill patted her shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave these ladies to their lunch and go find a McDonald’s.”

  “Only if you’ll order a McLean,” Mary Alice said.

  Babe? A McLean? “What’s with them?” I asked Bonnie Blue as they walked out of the restaurant holding hands. “They’re looking mighty cozy.”

  “Don’t ask me,” she said. “I’m too old to know everything.”

  I laughed and pulled my plate back in front of me. “Do you have time to come look at the coat I’m thinking about getting Haley for Christmas?”

  “One more orange roll,” she said.

  I love malls at Christmastime. Rosedale was especially pretty with Christmas trees sparkling with tiny lights down both sides of the wide corridor of the first floor and the balcony of the second. Santa’s throne was in the center of the food court, and children were milling around, waiting for Santa to finish feeding his reindeer. It was crowded, but not as crowded as it would be the next week. I had no trouble maneuvering with the picture.

  Bonnie Blue and I went into Macy’s and headed toward the coat department.

  “I saw it out at the Galleria,” I explained, “but I’m sure they’ll have it here, too.”

  And they did. A white trench coat made out of a light wool gabardine that would be perfect for our southern winters. I had seen Haley admiring it in the Christmas catalog and I thought, Why not? It had been two years since her husband Tom’s death, two years when all she seemed to be interested in was her work as a scrub nurse in an open-heart unit. Recently, though, she seemed to be coming out of her shell. She was beginning to take an interest in clothes again and had even had a few dates with Sheriff Reuse.

  I looked at the price tag again; it was way over my budget.

  “That’s beautiful. What size does she wear?” Bonnie Blue asked.

  “Six petite. Same as me.”

  Bonnie Blue shook her head. “No way you and Mary Alice could be sisters.”

  “We were born at home, Bonnie Blue.”

  “But whose home?”

  “I look like Mama, blond and little, and Sister looks like Daddy, big and brunette.”

  “Mary Alice was brunette?”

  “Best I can remember.”

  Bonnie Blue took the painting from me. “Try the coat on,” she said.

  It did exactly what I had known it would. The material curved to my body in all the right places. Just as it would Haley’s. Even my mousy hair seemed to pick up highlights.

  “Buy it for yourself,” Bonnie Blue said. “That thing’s a work of art.”

  “I’ll just borrow it,” I said, whipping out my charge card without another moment’s hesitation. Sixteen more presents to buy and I was already over budget. Lord, I love Christmas!

  Two

  I drove home through the mildness of the early winter day. Not all the leaves had fallen from the trees, and there were still a few splashes of color, the deep of the last reds and oranges. Cold weather up north was poised, waiting to pour over us. But not yet. Sister and I have lived here all our lives and have never seen a white Christmas. Which is just as well, considering what happens in Birmingham when a few flakes of snow fall. Old Vulcan, the god of the forge up there on Red Mountain, looks down on a totally paralyzed city on one side and moons an equally paralyzed one on the other. Lights go out; roads are impassable. When the citizens of this very southern town sing “White Christmas,” they keep their fingers crossed.

  I stopped by the Piggly Wiggly and picked up a barbecued chicken and some tossed salad. A couple of potatoes in the microwave, and supper would be done. Where had all the wonderful fast foods and salad bars been when I was teaching and raising three children? Back then I’d get home from school and start cooking. Of course, there were some shortcuts then, too. My daughter-in-law, Lisa, is still begging me for my cherry pie recipe that Alan remembers as being remarkable and which I am embarrassed to tell her consists of Jiffy Pie Crust Mix and Lucky Leaf Cherry Pie Filling. So I tell her I’m still trying to remember all the ingredients. She knows I’m lying but forgives me, probably thinking it’s some great secret like the formula for Coca-Cola and that someday I will break down and confess all. Maybe I should. A slice of that pie with a dab of Cool Whip is something no boy should miss, and Lisa and Alan have two, our only grandchildren. Fred Jr., at thirty-nine, is not married but is living with a woman named Celia who is startlingly lovely and startlingly strange. She can, so she claims, put a “hex” on people. My darling husband made out a list of names and sent it to her with a note saying “Not too much.” So far all of them are still healthy and still beating Fred at golf and pinochle. He says he’s going to drop Celia another note saying “Just a tad more.” Somehow, I don’t think Celia and Freddie are planning on children. And Haley, who does want children badly, lost her beloved Tom to a drunk driver.

  When I got home, I walked around with the painting, finally deciding that it would look great on the den wall where we could also see it from the kitchen. I hung Haley’s coat carefully in the guest bedroom closet and straightened up the house some befo
re I went out to take Woofer for his late-afternoon walk. Lights were coming on when we got back. I fed him and went in to fix our own supper. We would have to eat early since I was going to the gallery opening with Mary Alice.

  The message light was blinking on the telephone. I turned it on and heard Sister’s voice: “His beard, Mouse.”

  His beard? Bill’s Santa Claus beard?

  Fred came in while I was trying to figure out what she was talking about. So at sixty-three he has a little paunch and maybe not quite as much hair. He still looks mighty good to me. He leaned over and kissed me.

  “Listen,” I said, running the tape back.

  Mary Alice’s voice said, “His beard, Mouse.”

  Fred patted me on the behind and said, “What’s the problem? That’s just Mary Alice.”

  “But I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “I never do.” Fred went to the refrigerator and got a beer.

  “Maybe it’s about Bill getting arrested,” I said.

  “Bill got arrested?”

  “Not really. Just sort of.” I explained about Mrs. Santa and her chest that lit up, and Bill’s job at the mall where he set off alarms, and lunch with Bonnie Blue and the Abraham picture, and Haley’s coat. I left the price of the coat out.

  “Where’s the picture?” Fred asked.

  I went into the den and he followed me.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” I said, holding it up. “An Abraham. That’s his real hair, too. He cut it off and glued it on.”

  Fred looked at the picture. “His feet are going the same way,” he said. “And how come his nose starts in his hair?”

  “He’s a primitive painter, Fred. One of the best folk artists in the state. You’d pay a thousand dollars for this painting in a gallery in Nashville or Atlanta.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Fred took the picture from me. “Where are you going to hang it?”

  “I thought right here”—I pointed—“so we could see it from the kitchen.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fred said. He looked at the picture more carefully. “There’s a pop-top opener here for a hanger and it’s not even in the middle. I’ll put a regular hanger on it tonight while you’re gone and we’ll decide where to put it.”

  I snatched the picture back. “You’ll do no such thing! That pop-top hanger is part of the authenticity. Part of the charm, damn it. Don’t you dare touch it.”

  “Well, Lord, Patricia Anne. It looks funny.”

  “Put a finger on my painting and you’ll pull back a nub!” I clutched the painting to me, being careful not to smush the hair, and marched back into the kitchen. I propped my treasure carefully against the table and began to scrub the potatoes.

  In a few minutes, Fred was standing in the den door. “Well, look, honey. I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s just not a real pretty picture, that’s all.”

  I didn’t answer, and he took a few steps into the kitchen. “I’ll hang it for you tonight, okay? Right there in the den. You just tell me where.”

  I nodded reluctantly.

  “Just one thing.” By this time he had made it over to the table and was looking at the picture. “Can I move the pop-top to the middle so it’ll hang straight?”

  Mary Alice blew the horn for me at seven o’clock, right on time. She is always punctual, a trait that doesn’t match the rest of her personality and one I’m grateful for. When I slid into the car, she wanted to know which shoes I had on.

  “Taupe. Okay?”

  “Just so they’re not those winter white.”

  “Shut up about my shoes, Mary Alice. I’ll wear what I want.”

  “Temper, temper.”

  We rode without talking for a few blocks. Mary Alice was halfway singing, halfway humming “Joy to the World.”

  “Fred like your picture?” she asked as we turned up the interstate ramp.

  “He wanted to know why both feet were at a ninety-degree angle turned to the left.”

  “Fred has no imagination.” She blended easily into the traffic. “That’s why he needs you.”

  “He does, too, have an imagination.”

  “No, he doesn’t. And you don’t have any common sense, and that’s why you need him.”

  “Of course I have common sense. A lot of it.” A light was beginning to dawn. “You’ve been watching a lot of Oprah, haven’t you?”

  “Bill and I are taking a course at UAB called ‘The Real You.’ I’m the ETJ type and so is Bill. That’s extroverted, thinking, judgmental.” She looked over at me. “You’re introverted, intuitive, feeling. Sure as anything. And Fred’s ITJ, I’ll bet you.”

  “Hey,” I said, “we get along. Okay?”

  “Of course you do, and that’s why.”

  Mary Alice went on explaining the personality tests she and Bill had taken, and I looked out of the window and let my mind drift. We were on part of the highway that is elevated above downtown and I could see the decorated trees sparkling in the park at the library, and the Sonat Building that has colored blinds in certain windows to create a seasonal picture. On one side is a Christmas tree, on one a stocking. A third side has a wreath on it, and the fourth side has “Joy” spelled in huge letters. Fred and I flew in from Philadelphia once just before Christmas and we could see that building’s Christmas greeting miles before we landed.

  “He tends not to notice things, though.” Sister was still talking about Bill and the personality tests. “That’s why the alarms kept going off. I said, ‘Bill,’ I said, ‘how come you didn’t notice that big chunk of plastic in that beard? It had to be hitting you on the chest.’ You know how big those things are. And he said he thought it was supposed to be there.” Mary Alice turned on her right turn signal and we exited the interstate. “I can’t imagine what one of those plastic shoplifting things was doing on a Santa Claus outfit anyway. Doesn’t make sense.”

  I agreed that it didn’t.

  “Start watching for Sixth Avenue, Mouse. What’s this? Fourth?”

  “Yes,” I said. Actually, I didn’t know. I didn’t have on my glasses. But if I’d said I couldn’t see the street signs, I would have gotten a lecture on contact lenses, which I had tried once and kept losing.

  There was no question of our finding the place. The Mercy Armistead Gallery was located in an old bottling plant that someone had been smart enough to divide into spaces for boutiques and gift shops. Several artists had studios there, and there was at least one other gallery. The building looked festive with my kind of Christmas lights strung around it, and the parking lot was almost full.

  “This is great,” Mary Alice said. “Mercy’s got a good turnout.”

  “Who is she, anyway?”

  “You know who she is, Patricia Anne. Her mother was Betty Bedsole. Remember? The Miss Alabama that married that big movie guy.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Anyway, she used to spend her summers here with her grandparents. You know the Bedsole Steel Company? That’s her family. And about a year ago she moved here for good. You obviously don’t read the society page.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  Mary Alice ignored this. “I met her a couple of times at fund-raisers and things, and now that she’s moved here, she’s on the Museum Board of Directors with me. She’s real interested in folk art. Thinks the Outsiders are the hottest thing since sliced bread.”

  “Is that what she said? How old is this woman?”

  Mary Alice got out and slammed the door. “It just so happens I was planning on buying your Christmas present here. Don’t push your luck.”

  I hopped out and rushed in behind her.

  My first impression of the gallery was a riot of color, so much color that it was dizzying. The soft gray of the walls and floors couldn’t mute the vibrancy of the quilts and paintings that hung there. And the cheerfulness of the works was reflected by the people admiring them. Christmas music played softly while glasses clinked. This was a party. Merry Christmas!

&nb
sp; Mary Alice held up her arms as if she were blessing the gathering. “Would you look at this, Mouse!”

  “Welcome, ladies. Would you sign our book, please?” The voice belonged to a beautiful young woman with very black shiny hair cut like a flapper’s, straight bangs that ended just above black eyebrows, and straight sides that were longer than the back and which swung against her cheek. She could have been Rudolph Valentino’s co-star. The gray, floor length knit sheath she wore showed a body that was as sleek as her head.

  “I’m Claire Moon,” she said, holding out a very white hand.

  “Mary Alice Crane,” Sister said, shaking the proferred hand, “and my sister, Patricia Anne Hollowell.”

  “Mrs. Hollowell,” Claire Moon said. “I was Claire Needham. You taught me about twelve years ago.”

  This happens frequently when you’ve taught school as long as I have. Sometimes I remember the students, sometimes I don’t. But I am seldom so astonished at what has happened to them that my mouth falls open.

  Claire Needham Moon took pity on me. “I know I’ve changed a lot.” She laughed a little tinkly laugh.

  “Just your hair,” I said. We both knew I was lying.

  “Your hair is fantastic,” Sister said.

  Claire Moon ran both hands over her sleek head. “Delta,” she said, “at Delta Hairlines. She can do anything.”

  I was still confused at Claire’s metamorphosis. I had no idea what she was talking about. She got her hair done on a plane?

  “I’ll have to look her up,” Sister said.

  “You’ll be pleased.” Claire handed Sister a pen. “When you sign the book, just make yourselves at home. Mercy’s around here somewhere. It’s good seeing you, Mrs. Hollowell, Mrs. Crane.” She seemed to fade away into the gray carpet and gray walls like the Cheshire cat. Only it was her white face we continued to see for a while.

  “Who’s she?” Sister asked. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “When I taught her she was Clarissey Mae Needham, one of the most pitiful children you could imagine. Came from a very abusive family, alcoholic father, mother totally unable to protect herself or the children. Youth Services finally took the children away, and by the time I taught her, she was in a foster home. Timid, frail. Cried all the time.”