Murder on a Bad Hair Day

by Anne George

  The phone rang while I was getting my second cup of coffee.

  “Mercy’s dead? Did Bill get the message right? What happened?”

  “I heard it on the local news. They said she died of an apparent heart attack at the gallery and Thurman Beatty found her.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Mary Alice said. “She was fine when we left. What did she do? Just keel over?”

  “How do I know? I never met the woman until last night, and the only time I talked to her she was in a snit about her bad hair.”

  “Her hair looked fine.”

  “Bonnie Blue said she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein when they got there. Some kind of curling mousse she’d used.”

  “Maybe that’s what killed her,” Mary Alice said. “Maybe she was allergic to the stuff and had one of those fatal attacks like Molly Dodd’s boyfriend had just before they got married. Remember that? She was pregnant and they were going to the opera. What do you call it? Some kind of shock.”

  “Anaphylactic. And who died of it?”

  “On The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd. You remember. Didn’t have a laugh track. Her boyfriend.”

  “Of course. Ate some shrimp by mistake.”

  “Was it shrimp? You ought to be able to spot shrimp.”

  “Maybe it was something else,” I said. “You die right away with that stuff, though. If Mercy was allergic to the hair spray she’d have been dead when we got there.”

  “Well, this is just unbelievable. And so sad.”

  “Did she have any children?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard any mentioned.”

  We were both silent for a moment, thinking.

  “You got anything special planned today?” Sister asked.

  “No. I was thinking about getting the Christmas decorations down from the attic.”

  “Then let’s go see Fay and May.” These precious identical twins belong to Mary Alice’s daughter, Debbie. They are almost two years old and are their grandmother’s heart. Mine, too. Mary Alice says a trip to see the babies is better than Prozac. She’s even resigned herself to the fact that Debbie, a successful single lawyer in her mid-thirties, opted for a sperm bank instead of a husband.

  “What about Mrs. Claus? The sex slave?” I asked.

  “Oh, God. I forgot that. Damn.”

  “Maybe I could bring them to see Santa Claus.”

  “That would totally confuse them.”

  “Kids are always confused about Santa Claus anyway.”

  “That’s true. I’ll check with Debbie and call you back.”

  I got the paper out of the kitchen door and looked to see if there was anything about Mercy’s death. There wasn’t. I put on my sweats, grabbed a handful of dog treats, and went to walk Woofer.

  The weather was changing. The cold front that had been sitting over the Midwest was rapidly approaching. High clouds of moisture from the Gulf were already dimming the sunlight. By nightfall, we would probably have thunderstorms.

  I walked along and thought of the party the night before. It had been so cheerful, so fitting for the holidays. I thought of Claire Moon and how she had changed, and of Thurman Beatty. Had he loved his wife deeply? Was he devastated by her death? I would call Bonnie Blue when I got home and see if she knew any more of the details.

  And then I saw it, the mother lode of plywood! A neighbor making a nativity scene had piled the leftovers by his garbage can. I looped Woofer’s leash around my arm and picked up several pieces. The Wise Men were empty spaces surrounded by plywood. As were the manger and Mary and Joseph. It was slightly eerie that they were so recognizable. A little Christmas Zen.

  There was enough for two trips. Abe Butler was going to love this.

  “We’re not through with our walk, old boy,” I assured Woofer. Bless his heart.

  As we came around the house, he started barking. “We’re going back,” I said as he began to pull at his leash. “Let me put this plywood down.”

  I was holding the pieces in front of me and the back steps were blocked from my view. When I put the wood down, though, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Sitting on the steps was what looked like a very dirty child. Woofer was barking like crazy, and I backed up a step just as the child looked up.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Hollowell,” said Claire Moon. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  She looked, as Sister is fond of saying, like the wrath of God. Her face was streaked with mascara, the gray sheath she had worn the night before was torn and stained, and she was trying to cover her bare feet with the long skirt. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and put her head down on her knees, sobbing.

  “My God, Claire. What’s happened?” I started toward her and nearly fell over Woofer’s leash. “Wait a minute. Let me put him up.” I pushed the reluctant dog inside his fence, sat down by Claire, and put my arm around her.

  “I’m so cold,” she whimpered.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m just so tired and cold.”

  “Well, let’s go in where it’s warm. Do you feel like standing up?”

  “Yes.”

  As I helped her to her feet, I could feel her whole body shaking with a hard chill. First things first, I thought. I would find out what happened later. Right now, I had to get her inside and get her warm.

  I am a small woman. Fortunately, Claire was even smaller, probably five feet tall, but wraith thin. She leaned heavily on me as I got her to the den sofa and covered her with an afghan. I got the heating pad from the closet and put it under her feet, which were scratched and dirty.

  “Think you can keep down some coffee?” I asked.

  She nodded and closed her eyes. The lids were bluish against her black brows. She needed medical attention, I realized. We could be dealing with shock or hypothermia here.

  “No doctor,” she said, reading my hesitation. “Please, no doctor. I’ll be okay when I get some coffee.”

  “I think you need some help, Claire.” I reached over and smoothed her bangs back from her forehead.

  “Please, Mrs. Hollowell.” Tears rolled from her closed eyes. “Please. I’m already feeling better.”

  The quivering of her body told me she was lying, but upsetting her more wasn’t going to help.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” I said.

  She sighed deeply. “Thank you.”

  When I got back, a matter of only a minute or two, she was asleep. For a second, it frightened me. She lay just as I had left her, on her back with the afghan covering her. Her mouth was slightly open, and tears still ran down her cheeks, but she was breathing quietly and the shaking had lessened.

  “Claire?” I said softly, wondering if this was a natural sleep.

  She mumbled, and turned into a semifetal position.

  “You okay?”

  “Don’t do it,” she said.

  “Do what, Claire?”

  She mumbled again, and put her hand under her cheek. I sat down and looked at her. Her breathing gradually deepened, and I realized this was the sleep of deep exhaustion. The best thing I could do was let her rest. While I watched, her black hair slid down over her hand. Claire Moon, I thought. Beautiful Claire Moon. Are you still Claire Needham in your dreams?

  I tiptoed from the room and called Sister to tell her I couldn’t bring the twins to see Santa.

  “Claire Moon?” she said, when I explained. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Cold and exhausted. How she got this way, I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask her? My Lord, Patricia Anne.”

  “I didn’t get a chance. I thought for a few minutes I was going to have to call 911 or take her to the emergency room.”

  “Does she know about Mercy?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Sister made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe that. I’ll call you from the mall. Okay? Maybe by that time you’ll know something.”

  “I’m taking the phone off the hook.”
r />   “Fine. You do that, Miss INF.”

  “What?” I said. “What?” But Sister was gone. I was about to dial her again when I remembered INF stood for intuitive, introverted, feeling, three personality traits that Mary Alice wouldn’t be caught dead with.

  I finished the cup of coffee I had fixed for Claire and called Bonnie Blue. Her brother, James, answered and said she had already left for work, that the shop was opening early during December. I asked him if he had heard about Mercy Armistead’s death, and he said Thurman had called him.

  “Pretty shook up,” he said. “I’m going over there this morning.”

  “Did they know she had a heart problem?”

  “Old Thurman’s the one with heart problems,” James said. “That’s why he had to quit the NFL. Sort of ironic, isn’t it?”

  I agreed that it was and then remembered to tell James that I had found several pieces of plywood for Abe.

  “He’ll be tickled,” he said.

  I left the phone off the hook and went to check on Claire. She hadn’t moved, so I tiptoed around the kitchen fixing cereal and toast, which I carried into the bedroom to eat.

  The thought had occurred to me that Claire was distraught over Mercy’s death. She had glowed the night before when she was talking about working at the gallery, and when Mercy was making her catty remarks about the Outsider artists, I was the one who had snapped back, not Claire. She had been nothing but admiring of Mercy and of Mercy’s work. But how had Claire ended up on my back steps? Where was her car? Her shoes? And what about that “no place else to go” bit? She had an apartment somewhere, and a husband, presumably, since she wasn’t Claire Needham anymore, but Claire Moon.

  When I am upset, I lose my appetite. I tried to eat, but the cereal tasted like paper. I put the bowl down, went to the bookcase, and got out the yearbooks that Claire was in. It was startling to see her as a pale teenager with dark blond hair parted in the middle and hanging limply beside her face. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her the night before. Only her eyes seemed the same, dark, with a slight oriental slant to them. A pretty girl, but one who would have faded into the crowd. Beside her picture, where honors and activities were listed, was “Art Club.” That was all. Though she had been in my Advanced Placement English classes, she had not participated in debate or the literary magazine or the drama club, things that usually go hand in hand.

  She had lived with foster parents. I remembered that. But had she gone to college? I had no idea, and I could have kicked myself. So many students. So many lives. I closed the books and wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, if these students had learned anything in my classes that was helping them in their lives. Had Frost made wrong choices easier to live with? Or Crane shown the true face of bravery? Had Agee taught them to deal with loss?

  “For God’s sake, Mouse.”

  Mary Alice’s voice scared me so, I jumped straight up and the books went flying, landing on the floor with a thump.

  “Damn it, Sister!” I hissed. “I’ll bet that woke Claire up.”

  “I’ll go see.” She disappeared from the doorway but was back in a moment. “Nope.”

  I was picking up the books and willing my heart to slow down. “Where did you come from?”

  “Home. Where do you think?”

  “I mean, how did you get here so quickly?”

  “I’m not dressed.” Mary Alice opened her raincoat to show a short pink nightgown and a lot of Mary Alice. “Good thing I came, too. You were getting ready to have one of your existential snits, weren’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t know an existential snit if one hit you on the head. And have you got on underpants?”

  “Of course, Patricia Anne. You think I want Mama to roll over in her grave? Speaking of which, you really should lock your back door.”

  “What?” Trying to follow Mary Alice’s thought processes is not easy.

  “Anyone could come in.”

  I agreed that they could, indeed.

  “Anyway,” Mary Alice said, plumping herself onto the bed, “I got the scoop on Mercy’s death to tell you, and I wanted to check on Claire.”

  “You’re so kind, Mrs. Claus.” But I sat down to listen.

  “Bonnie Blue told me and James told her and Thurman told him, so this is straight. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “The last people left the gallery about eleven o’clock, and Thurman said he was going to follow Mercy home, not that that’s a bad neighborhood or anything, but he didn’t want her locking up and driving across town by herself. So he helped her straighten up some and went to his car thinking she was coming right out behind him. Only she didn’t.”

  “Where was Claire?”

  “James Butler took her home earlier. Mercy stayed to talk to some customers.”

  “I wonder if she knows Mercy’s dead.”

  Sister shrugged. “Do you want to hear this?”

  I did.

  “Well, when Mercy didn’t come right out, he thought she’d gotten a phone call or gone to the bathroom. Finally he went to check on her and she was lying on the floor by the door clutching her chest.”

  “On the floor by the door.”

  Mary Alice clutched her ample chest to demonstrate. “A heart attack. He called 911 and Bonnie Blue says they used the paddles and everything, but it was too late.”

  “And no history of heart problems.”

  “None,” Mary Alice said. We were silent for a moment, both of us, I’m sure, picturing the seemingly healthy red-haired woman we had seen the night before circulating around her gallery, full of life.

  “So, what about Claire?” Mary Alice asked.

  “What do you mean, what about Claire? You saw her when you came through the den.”

  “I thought maybe you found out why she showed up on your doorstep.”

  I shook my head. “She seems to be resting quietly,” I said. “I’m not going to bother her. Whatever her problem is, it’ll come out in due time.”

  “Hmm,” Sister said. “Maybe she has fever.”

  “Maybe she does,” I said, “but you’re not going in there poking at her to see. She needs the sleep.”

  “Well, you must admit it’s strange that you haven’t seen her in years and she shows up like this.”

  “She saw me last night. I was on her mind.”

  “Maybe her husband abuses her,” Mary Alice said.

  I shivered, remembering how frail Claire had felt when I helped her into the house. “God, I hope not. She’s had too much of that in her lifetime.”

  “Any at all is too much,” Mary Alice said.

  For once I agreed with my sister completely. “I’ll find out when she wakes up,” I said. “She may just be in a state of shock at Mercy’s death.”

  “Let me know. We don’t have to be at the mall until two o’clock, but I’ve made an appointment with Delta at Delta Hairlines for eleven.”

  “You haven’t. You’re not having your hair dyed black!”

  “I told Delta I wanted her opinion.”

  “Ask for a second one.”

  “You ought to go with me, Patricia Anne. Get something done to yours.”

  I ran my hand through my curly gray hair. “Forget it.”

  Mary Alice got up from the bed and slipped her feet into white huaraches.

  “Are those winter white?” I asked.

  “They were the first ones I found, Miss Smart-ass!”

  I followed her down the hall and into the den. We stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping Claire, who was again lying on her back.

  “You think she’s okay?” Mary Alice whispered.

  Claire’s eyes opened suddenly, widely, and she stared at us.

  “The police,” she said. “Oh, God. We have to call the police. Right now.”

  Four

  Claire sat straight up and covered her face with both hands.

  “Ohhh,” she moaned, rocking back and forth.

  “Claire,” I said, “Claire
.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and put my arm around her, trying to soothe her. “You’ve just had a bad dream.”

  “Nooo.” It was a loud breath. “Call the police.”

  “But why, Claire?”

  Mary Alice, who had jumped a foot when Claire opened her eyes, reached for the phone on the end table. I slapped at her hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “She said call the police.”

  I glared at Mary Alice. “Will you wait just a minute? I’m sure Claire was just having a nightmare. Weren’t you, Claire?”

  Claire pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her face in the afghan.

  “I wish I could bend like that,” Sister whispered.

  “Shut up,” I mouthed.

  “Someone tried to kill me last night.” Claire’s words were muffled.

  “What?” Mary Alice and I both asked.

  Claire lifted her head. “Tried to kill me. Last night. Somebody.”

  “Who?”

  Claire shrugged and put her face back into the afghan.

  “See?” Mary Alice said. “That’s why she wanted the police.”

  “Claire, are you sure?” I asked.

  “In my apartment. When I came in. They had a knife. I ran and I ran and I’m so scared.” She whimpered like a hurt animal.

  Mary Alice reached for the phone; I didn’t stop her. I sat beside the terrified Claire, patted her, assured her everything would be all right. The girl’s shoulders were rigid with fear. Tears came to my eyes when one of her hands came up slowly to cover mine.

  “They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Sister said. She sat down in Fred’s recliner and we looked at each other. Sisters for sixty years, we didn’t need words for our conversation.

  “What is going on here?” she asked with a motion of her head.

  “I have no idea,” I shrugged silently.

  Mary Alice looked at Claire, who was still slumped over but was holding my hand.

  “I’m worried,” Sister said by pressing a finger to her lips.

  “Me, too,” I nodded.

  “Claire,” Mary Alice said, leaning forward. “Do you want a Valium?”

  Claire nodded yes.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. “She may be in shock.”