Murder on a Bad Hair Day

by Anne George

  I had promised Sister I would follow her home to check on Bubba. If he needed to go to the vet, she had informed me, I would have to drive while she held him, though if there were a kind God in heaven, the problem would be minor and she wouldn’t have to ride with me driving. Truthfully, she informed me, she was fervently praying for a hairball.

  Mary Alice’s house is on the crest of Red Mountain. It’s a beautiful old English Tudor home that was built by her third husband’s grandfather, who made his fortune in steel. I love the house and the view, which is the same one you get from Vulcan Park. Mary Alice has always wanted columns on it, though. Like Tara. She’s had the most outstanding architects from Birmingham and Atlanta study the feasibility of an addition that would incorporate just a few large columns, preferably Ionic.

  “Hell, I’d even settle for a Truman balcony,” I heard her tell one reputable young architect who was thoroughly appalled.

  “Architects drink a lot,” she grumbled to me one day. “Offer them something and it’s bourbon straight. Always several. They’re so tight-ass, too. Lord, even Frank Lloyd Wright was eclectic.”

  I pulled into the circular driveway and stopped behind Sister’s car. The front door is the one that is used most there because the kitchen steps are a half mile around in back.

  “She needs to get her a smaller place,” I told Fred one day after we had been there for a family gathering. “She just rattles around in all those rooms.”

  He cut his eyes around at me.

  “I’m here,” I yelled down the hall.

  Sister appeared at the study door. “I can’t find him.” She was about to cry. “I never should have gone off and left him.”

  “Well, he can’t be far,” I reassured her, though the thought of searching through that big house for Bubba was not a happy one. “He usually stays in the kitchen or in your bedroom, doesn’t he?”

  Sister nodded. “He’s not in his usual spot, though, on the heating pad on the kitchen counter.”

  “Bubba has a heating pad on the counter?”

  “Well, he’s not a spring chicken anymore, Mouse.”

  “But that’s a fire hazard!”

  “It is not. It’s set on low.” She sighed. “Anyway, he’s not there.”

  “Call him.”

  We went through the downstairs with Mary Alice calling “Bubba! Sweet angel! Tiny pussycat!” I made a detour through the kitchen and felt the heating pad. It was warm, all right.

  “Here he is!” Mary Alice exclaimed.

  I followed her voice into the dining room and saw Bubba under the table regarding us coolly.

  “Are you all right, Mama’s angel?” Mary Alice cooed. Mama’s angel seemed fine. “Crawl under and get him, Mouse.”

  “You get him. Or better still, just leave him there.”

  “He’s sick, Patricia Anne. He never comes in here unless something’s wrong.”

  I looked at Bubba and he looked back at me. Maybe his eyes did seem a bit bleary.

  “Your knees are in better shape than mine, Mouse.”

  “What’s wrong with your knees?”

  “Standing at the mall. Picking all those children up to see Santa Claus.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I got down, crawled under the table, and dragged a protesting Bubba out. “Here.” He weighed a ton. Mary Alice took him and cuddled him against her shoulder.

  “Damn, Patricia Anne. You didn’t have to be so rough!”

  Bubba turned and stared at me as if he agreed. My knees cracked loudly as I got up.

  “A shot of cortisone would help that,” Mary Alice said. Bubba agreed.

  Fortunately, just at that minute the doorbell rang.

  “Probably the UPS man. I’m having to shop mainly out of catalogs this year.”

  “Are you getting Fred the Fruit of the Month again?”

  “Of course.” Mary Alice headed toward the front door with Bubba draped over her shoulder. I rubbed my knees and then followed. I love the mystery of packages.

  “Mrs. Crane?” A handsome black man stood at the door. “I’m James Butler, and my sister, Bonnie Blue, asked me to bring this by for you.” He held out what had to be the painting Bonnie Blue had promised.

  “It’s my Abe!” Mary Alice squealed. “Here, Patricia Anne.” She handed Bubba to me and took the painting. “Does it have hair?”

  James Butler smiled. “I don’t know. Depends on Daddy’s mood and how long since he’s been to the barber.”

  Mary Alice tore the paper away. It was another self-portrait, very similar to mine, except a few brush strokes of white paint instead of real hair topped the head. But real glasses were affixed to the bridge of Abe’s nose. “Oh, my,” Sister said. “Would you look at that, Mouse.”

  It was a totally charming painting. You couldn’t look at it without smiling. “It’s wonderful,” I said.

  “Daddy does good stuff,” James Butler agreed.

  Mary Alice held the picture out admiring it. “Dr. Butler”—she nodded her head toward me—“this is my sister, Mrs. Hollowell.”

  “We met the other night at Mercy Armistead’s,” I added.

  James Butler nodded. “How are you, Mrs. Hollowell?”

  “Tell him how your knees crack, Mouse. He’s a doctor.”

  “He’s a vet, Mary Alice.”

  “That’s right! Hand him Bubba, Patricia Anne.”

  “Mary Alice!”

  She reached out, put her hand on James Butler’s arm, and drew him into the hall. “Please come in, Dr. Butler. We have an emergency here with my cat and I’m sure you’re the answer to my prayers. Things just seem to work out, don’t they?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they do.” A puzzled James Butler looked around. “Is this the sick cat?” He looked at Bubba, who narrowed his eyes and looked back.

  “This is Bubba. Where would you like to examine him?”

  “How about on the heating pad on the kitchen counter?” I said.

  “You really want me to look at him?”

  “Of course. He’s sick.” Mary Alice led the way to the kitchen, carrying her painting like a shield before her. I followed with Bubba hanging over my shoulder, and James Butler brought up the rear.

  “It started with projectile vomiting,” Mary Alice explained over her shoulder. “Then when we got home, he wasn’t on his heating pad.”

  “He sleeps on a heating pad?” James asked.

  “Of course.”

  “On the kitchen counter,” I added.

  James reached over and rubbed Bubba’s head. “Lucky cat.”

  “Do you need a flashlight or anything?” Mary Alice asked.

  “Please.”

  While she went to get one, I put Bubba down on the counter and James began to press his hands skillfully down the cat’s body, concentrating on the abdominal area. “Okay,” he said. “I think he’s running some fever, though. I wish I had a thermometer.”

  “Will a regular one do?”

  “A rectal one would.”

  Mary Alice, who had come in with the flashlight, handed it to me and disappeared again. In a moment she was back with a thermometer.

  We were quiet watching James work. All except Bubba. He began to purr loudly when the thermometer was inserted.

  “Good boy,” Mary Alice said, rubbing his head.

  “He’s got a pretty high temp,” James said when he removed the thermometer. “His abdomen is soft, though. Has he been out anywhere where another animal could have bitten him?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Well, you need to take him to your vet. I’m guessing it’s a urinary tract infection, but it’s just a guess without tests.”

  “You must be joking. Take him to Dr. Adkins? It’s Saturday afternoon,” Mary Alice said. “If his answering machine were honest, it would say he’s teeing off on the fourth hole just about now.”

  “Well, we really don’t want this cat to get dehydrated. I could take him to my clinic, but it’s all the way down in Shelby Count
y.”

  Bubba purred, yawned. Enjoyed the attention.

  “That would be wonderful. You want us to follow you?”

  James Butler shook his head. “I’m going to have to keep him overnight. Why don’t you just call and check on him tomorrow? Chances are you can come get him. I’ll put him on an IV tonight, though.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go get his carrying case.” Mary Alice disappeared again.

  Afternoon sun poured into Sister’s kitchen and over the strong dark hands kneading the fur at Bubba’s neck. I put my hand over and touched James’s. He looked up, startled.

  “Do you know where Claire Moon is?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  Why did I not believe him?

  Eleven

  The moment James Butler’s car left the driveway carrying the indignant Bubba, Mary Alice sank to the steps, her hands pressed against her chest.

  “I should have gone with him,” she said. “What do we know about that James Butler?”

  “He seemed competent,” I assured her.

  “Because he knew where to stick a thermometer? I tell you, Patricia Anne, cats’ health care isn’t what it used to be. Remember Mama’s Sugar Pie?”

  I was trying to figure out Sister’s thought processes, a losing battle. Sugar Pie was a huge gray tabby who terrorized the neighborhood for twenty years, who was never sick a day in her life, and who sent all of us to the emergency room at least once for stitches or tetanus shots. Mama adored her.

  “I should call and check on his references,” Mary Alice said. “It’s not too late to stop him.”

  “Who are you going to call? The Better Business Bureau? The Medical Society?”

  “It’s Saturday, Mouse. Bentbrook Golf Club would be more like it.” She pushed herself up. “Or I could just follow them. At least I can check on the clinic and get a Christmas tree.”

  Mary Alice’s synaptic path had eluded me again.

  “Don’t you want one?” she asked.

  “A tree? We put ours up last night.”

  “Not that bottlebrush thing. It smells, Patricia Anne.”

  “But it won’t catch on fire.”

  “Don’t be too sure. And if it does, they’ll have to evacuate the neighborhood because of toxic fumes. What is that thing made of, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “Where are you going to get your tree?”

  “At the Christmas tree farm in Harpersville. You could at least get a wreath or a swag for your mantel, Patricia Anne.”

  I hesitated. “What about Frances? You told her you would be back in a little while.”

  “And I will. We can run down to Shelby. County, check on James Butler’s clinic, and cut a Christmas tree in nothing flat.”

  At the moment, it seemed like a good thing to do. It was a beautiful December afternoon; a stroll through a Christmas tree farm would revive my spirits. Some greenery would be nice, too.

  “I’ll drive,” Mary Alice said.

  “Do you know how to get there?”

  “I’ll call for directions.”

  Five minutes later we were headed south, following James and Bubba.

  The city of Birmingham is located in the last gasp of the Appalachians. Three gentle old mountains—Red Mountain, Shades Mountain, and Double Oak Mountain—run parallel east to west across the area. South of Double Oak Mountain, the land flattens suddenly and soon becomes the coastal plain, fertile and semitropical. The mountains, though, rich with coal, iron, and limestone, are the reason for Birmingham’s existence. The city was, and still is, a steel city.

  The population has spread toward the south, first up and over Red Mountain, then Shades Mountain, and now is marching up Double Oak as inexorably as a battalion of army ants. I hate to see the mountains denuded. Fortunately, the state has bought much of Double Oak and intends to keep it wild.

  Shelby County begins between Shades Mountain and Double Oak. The northern part of the county is the fastest growing metropolitan area in the state as well as one of the wealthiest. Cross Double Oak, though, and you are in rural Alabama. Old barns lean against the wind and advertise SEE ROCK CITY with faded paint. Small farm ponds dot the landscape, and washing machines adorn front porches.

  “The lady said we couldn’t miss it,” Mary Alice said, turning onto County Road 17. “It’s a couple of miles past the cross garden.”

  “What’s a cross garden?”

  “I asked. She said we’d recognize it.”

  We did. We passed a house that was surrounded by hundreds of crosses of all sizes. Some were wood, some metal, some plain, some decorated with paint or pieces of colored glass. There were so many of them, they had spread out into the adjoining field.

  “A cross garden,” Mary Alice said. “Isn’t that great?”

  I nodded, remembering what Frances had said about us embracing eccentricity.

  “Right along here must be where Ross Perry was killed,” Mary Alice said in a few minutes. “We can probably see where he ran off.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said. We had entered a stretch of road that was heavily wooded. Down an embankment, I could see fast-running Kelly Creek glistening through the trees.

  But we did. There was no mistaking the tracks that had been made. Cars, wreckers, and ambulances had knocked down saplings and left deep grooves in the bank.

  Mary Alice slowed the car and looked at the scene.

  “For God’s sake,” I said, ducking down. “There could be some more crazy hunters out here.”

  “I think he was shot,” Mary Alice said.

  “I know he was shot, Sister. What’s wrong with you? That’s what hunters do. Shoot.”

  “I mean I think somebody deliberately shot him.”

  “It’s very possible. Now, get the hell out of here!”

  Mary Alice stepped on the gas. “What did Ross have for lunch yesterday, Mouse?”

  “God knows. Some kind of unrecognizable vegetables. Why?”

  “People’s last meals are always significant. Don’t you think?”

  I cut my eye around at her. “Is there some point to this?”

  “I was just thinking. Was that the food Ross would have chosen if he had known it was his last meal?”

  I rubbed my forehead, which was beginning to ache slightly. “He seemed to enjoy it,” I said. “Drank a lot of wine.”

  “What would you like for your last meal, Patricia Anne? I read in Cosmopolitan or somewhere that that’s a good psychological test.”

  “I doubt it was Cosmo, and death makes me lose my appetite.” Fortunately, just then we saw the sign for Indian Trails Veterinary Clinic with an arrow pointing toward the left. Mary Alice turned onto a gravel road that ran a half mile across a flat field toward a house. The setting reminded me of the Texas of Southfork. That was the only resemblance, though. Two-storied and pale pink, the house had the columns Mary Alice had always wanted and not a tree to block the view.

  “Turn left,” I said. Mary Alice had been admiring the house so, she hadn’t seen the small sign that simply said CLINIC with an arrow pointing down another gravel road. She slammed on the brakes and backed up.

  The clinic proved to be a large building with stables attached. Beyond the parking area was a small lawn and walkway with a sign on it proclaiming INDIAN TRAILS EQUINE HOSPITAL.

  “Bubba’s in a horse hospital!” I exclaimed. “I thought you said this place was called Pet Haven.”

  Mary Alice got out of the car. “A vet’s a vet, Mouse.”

  “That’s like saying a doctor’s a doctor.”

  “They are.” She marched toward the door. “Are you coming?”

  I got out and followed her into an empty waiting room. “No one’s here,” I said.

  “Sure they are.” Mary Alice opened the door that led, presumably, to the examining rooms. “Dr. Butler? James?” she called.

  The front door opened behind us and James Butler walked in with Bubba in his carrying cage. “How did you beat me here?” he asked.
>
  “You must have stopped somewhere,” Mary Alice said accusingly. “And where’s your help? Nobody’s here.”

  James put Bubba’s cage down. The All-American Football Star and the Old Southern Lady glared at each other. Eye to eye. The outcome was inevitable. “I had to get gas,” Football Star muttered. “And Dr. Grable is here. Probably doing rounds.”

  “I’ll help you get Bubba out,” Mary Alice said.

  While they were in the back, I wandered out to look the place over. I would have liked to have seen the stables, but I wasn’t sure I should go back there. Sick animals, like humans, like to be left alone. Several Hereford cows were grazing in a pasture beyond a white fence. They seemed healthy enough. I walked over to the fence and looked at them.

  “You wouldn’t believe the cost of a good bull nowadays,” a voice said behind me. I turned and saw Thurman Beatty. He came and stood by the fence. “What brings you here, Mrs. Hollowell?”

  “My sister’s sick cat.”

  “James is doctoring a cat?” Thurman smiled.

  “Isn’t that okay? A vet’s a vet, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s just that James is the best large animal vet in this part of the state. He’ll have to make himself think little.”

  “Not with Mary Alice in there.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes, then spoke together.

  “I was sorry—” “Thank you—”

  Thurman grinned. “You first.”

  “I’m sorry about Mercy’s death. About all of your troubles.”

  “Thanks. I still can’t believe it. And the way it was done. That’s why they keep coming back to me, you know. Because James and I have a couple of horses together and they figure I’d know about DMSO.” He shook his head. “Weird.”

  “It’s not common knowledge, is it?”

  “More common than you’d realize.” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his flannel shirtsleeve. “What I wanted to thank you for was taking care of Claire, of getting her to the hospital.”

  “I hope she’s all right,” I said. “I saw her sisters yesterday and they told me she is.”

  Thurman turned toward me, startled. “You saw Glynn and Lynn?”