by Anne George
“Yes. In the Green and White restaurant. My sister and I were having lunch with Ross Perry. They followed me into the ladies’ room and said Claire was all right. Words to that effect.”
“Did they say where they are staying?” Thurman clutched the fence rail.
“I assumed with Liliane Bedsole. They didn’t say.”
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Excuse me, Mrs. Hollowell, there’s something I need to tend to. It was nice seeing you.”
“You, too,” I said to the back of his plaid flannel shirt as he hurried away. Now, what was that about? I wondered.
Mary Alice came out in a few minutes, followed by James. Bubba had stayed, I noticed.
“He’ll be fine,” James was assuring Sister. “Like I said, he’s a little dehydrated and I’ll put him on an IV and get him started on some antibiotics. Call me in the morning.”
“Remember he only weighs sixteen pounds.”
“I promise.”
While we were standing there talking, Thurman Beatty came from the stables in a pickup, waved to us as he went by and headed out the gravel road.
“I wonder where he’s going,” James said.
I wondered the same thing. The question was answered as we left the clinic, though. Where we turned right on the gravel road to get back to the highway, Thurman had turned left toward the pink wedding cake house in the middle of the field. Reddish dust was still standing above the road, marking the path of his pickup. Maybe that was where Claire was. I hoped so.
“That is one more gorgeous house,” Mary Alice said. “Big enough for the whole Butler clan.”
“I think Abe and Bonnie Blue like it just where they are.”
“True.” Mary Alice turned onto the main road. “I think Bubba’s okay, don’t you? I feel better about him even if it is a horse hospital.”
“Bubba can hold his own,” I assured her. I didn’t mention that Thurman Beatty had said James would have to “think little” to doctor a cat.
On our way back to Highway 280, we passed the place where Ross had been killed. I looked at the deep woods and thought that it would have been very possible for a deer hunter to have shot him. We passed the cross garden. While I was wondering how many crosses there were, a bent old man stepped from behind one of the larger ones. He was carrying a rifle and pointed it at us. I hit the floor; Mary Alice hit the brakes.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said.
“Get out of here before he shoots us!”
“With a hole digger? For God’s sake, Mouse!” She tapped the horn and waved at the man.
“It’s a hole digger?” I extricated myself from the seat belt, raised up cautiously, and looked back. The man was waving with one hand and holding a hole digger in the other.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Mary Alice asked.
I rubbed my chest. “Let’s just say I’ll never pass the pencil test again.” I was referring to the pencil-stuck-beneath-the-breast test. If the breast is firm and perky, the pencil will fall. Needless to say, only the very young or flat-chested will try it.
“You haven’t passed the pencil test in forty years. What’s the matter with you, anyway?” She headed down the road again.
“A couple of murders, Peeping Toms, kidnappings, trips in ambulances. Just a few things like that.”
“Maybe you need to up your estrogen.”
I hooked the seat belt again, closed my eyes, and said my mantra.
“What are you doing? Saying your mantra?” Sister asked.
I nodded.
“I think we got into that too late, don’t you, Mouse? I mean, when you’re our age it’s too far in to the inner self. You know what I mean?”
In a strange way, I did.
“Warren Newman keeps wanting me to drag my inner child out and I said, ‘Well, hell, Warren, you’d think you were talking about a Shirley Temple doll in a cedar chest.’ And he said maybe he was, and then I remembered how you lost my Shirley Temple doll and told him all about it.”
I sighed. Warren Newman is the psychiatrist Sister visits just enough to confuse us all.
“He asked if you had ever apologized about losing the Shirley Temple doll and I told him no.”
“I’m sorry I lost your Shirley Temple doll, Mary Alice.”
“I forgive you.” She turned onto Highway 280 and headed toward Harpersville. “Don’t you feel better? I do.”
A mini traffic jam greeted us at the Christmas tree farm. The owner had decided to add to his income by providing mule-drawn wagon rides to the fields where the trees were planted. We each handed over two dollars and climbed on the wagon.
“This is wonderful,” Sister said. “You should have dressed more appropriately, though, Mouse.”
My red suit and heels weren’t exactly tree-cutting, mule-riding clothes. “I was having lunch at the Blue Moon,” I reminded her. “With Frances Zata. Have you forgotten her?”
“Of course not. I’m sure she’s fine.”
The mules lurched forward. “Here we go,” everybody said.
The next hour was wonderful. Trying to spare my heels, I tiptoed through the trees helping Mary Alice look for the perfect one.
“Here it is,” she finally said. I inspected it and saw she was right. It was a tall fir that would look perfect in her living room.
“It’s too pretty to cut,” Mary Alice said. But that didn’t stop her from calling over one of the helpers with an ax.
We rode back on the wagon and selected a couple of wreaths and swags. With the tree tied on top of the car, and the inside filled with greenery, we looked and smelled like Christmas. I tried not to think of the condition of my good navy shoes.
We passed the cutoff to Highway 17 on the way home. “There are some interesting things down that road,” I remarked, thinking of the fairy-tale pink house and the cross garden.
“Leota Wood lives down there,” Sister said.
“The quilt lady?”
Sister nodded. “I thought I might come out and do some Christmas shopping. Probably get a better price at her house.”
“Who told you she lives there?”
“Bonnie Blue. Said she lived right down from James. You want to go down there now?”
“You’ve got to get back to the mall, and I need to get home.”
“One day next week?”
“Great.” I doubted I could afford any of Leota Wood’s work, but it would be fun to look.
As we came over Double Oak Mountain, we saw clouds massing toward the northwest. The dark bank reminded me of the snow we had had a few nights before, of the footprints, and, for some reason, of Ross Perry.
“Tell me about Ross Perry,” I asked Mary Alice.
“What do you want to know?”
“What do you know about him? The only time I ever talked to him was at the Green and White.”
Mary Alice pursed her lips the way she does when she’s thinking. “He was knowledgeable,” she said. “A good board member at the museum. Maybe gay.” She paused. “Not that that bothered me, Mouse. You know that. The older I’ve gotten, the more I appreciate gay men. They’re a lot more thoughtful.”
I agreed. “Did he live with someone?”
“Not that I know of. He had a beautiful house in Forest Park and invited the museum board and their spouses out for a supper and pool party last summer. No one else seemed to be in residence.” Mary Alice stopped at a light at the foot of the mountain. “Didn’t seem to lack for money. Had some spectacular artwork.” When the light changed and she stepped on the gas, we could hear the scratch of the Christmas tree on the roof of the car. “Damn,” she said. “No telling how much that tree’s going to cost me.”
“Were Mercy and Thurman at the party?”
“The pool party? They were the only ones who went swimming. Mercy could pass the pencil test, Mouse.”
“But she and Ross didn’t get along.”
“They sure didn’t. That night she pushed him into the pool. Tried to act like it was an accid
ent. But she tripped him deliberately. I saw it. And so apologetic. Bouncing around in that bikini.”
“I hope he could swim.”
“Mouse, he walked out of there, he was so mad. And trying not to act like it. It’s a wonder he didn’t have a stroke right then.”
“Was Claire there?”
Mary Alice shook her head no. “The only person I remember being there who wasn’t a board member or a husband or wife was Liliane Bedsole. Knew good and well what Mercy had done, too, but did a great job of smoothing things over. By the time Ross got back into dry clothes, she had us all just about smashed.”
“The only job Ross had was with the paper?”
“Far as I know. He’d written a couple of books. Art books, not commercial. Not the kind you get rich on. He had money, though, probably family money.”
“He was from New Orleans? I saw in the paper that’s where his sister is.”
“Yes, but I think he came to Birmingham right out of college.”
The $64,000 question. “Did you like him?”
Mary Alice thought for a moment. “He was the kind of guy you didn’t want to turn your back on.”
“How so?”
“Damned if I know. A coldness, maybe. But I know this. If Mercy weren’t already dead, the cops would be questioning her around the clock.”
“I wonder why they disliked each other so.”
“Maybe I can find out,” Sister said. “Though if he was murdered, Mercy wasn’t the only one had it in for him.”
“There could have been a spurned lover.”
“And there could have been a stupid deer hunter.”
We were silent for a moment. The Saturday two-weeks-before-Christmas traffic was heavy along what’s known as the 280 Corridor. Housing developments, strip malls, and shopping centers have made what used to be a two-lane mountain road a traffic engineer’s nightmare. Many of the cars, like ours, had trees tied on the roof.
Mary Alice darted into the space between two cars in a lane that seemed to be moving faster. It wasn’t. We went about ten feet and stopped. “Where are all these people going?” she complained.
The woman in the lane of traffic next to us seemed to be addressing Christmas cards. Holding a list of addresses with one hand, she propped envelopes on the steering wheel and wrote. It didn’t look very comfortable or conducive to good penmanship, but I had to admire her efficient use of time. While we sat there, she addressed three.
“This is ridiculous.” Mary Alice drummed her hands on the wheel. “Don’t you think Christmas has gotten away from us, Mouse? Remember how we used to be grateful for a tangerine and some hard candy?”
“You’re thinking of the Cratchitts, Sister. We could hardly get into the living room for all the stuff.” It was true. Mama had always made a big deal out of Christmas, and since we were the only grandchildren on both sides, we racked up with gifts.
“But I remember being grateful for a tangerine and hard candy, too. Especially the kind with the little flower on the side. Reckon they still make those?”
“I haven’t seen any in a long time.”
“What color flower was it? Pink or yellow?”
“The candy was pink with a white side and a yellow flower.”
“I think some of the flowers were pink.”
“How could you remember? You were too busy tearing into packages. Yours and part of mine, too.”
Mary Alice sniffed. “You were always scared I was going to get more than you did.”
“You usually did. You got yours and half of mine when Mama wasn’t looking.”
“Not true.”
“True.”
“You lost my Shirley Temple doll deliberately, didn’t you? Because you didn’t get one.”
“I’ve already apologized for that.”
We had moved up beside a car in which the woman driver was reading Southern Living. I liked the cover, which showed a cozy fireplace decorated for Christmas.
“I talked to Thurman Beatty for a minute back at the horse hospital where you left Bubba,” I said, changing the subject.
“Did he say anything about Claire?”
“He seemed startled when I mentioned that I had seen Glynn and Lynn Needham. Upset. I think that’s why he took off like he did.”
“Because you saw Glynn and Lynn? Why would that upset him?”
We moved up beside a woman who was putting on mascara. “I guess he wants to find out what they know about Claire. Where she is. At first I thought maybe the twins had taken her from the hospital and then I thought no, it was Thurman, but the twins knew about it and knew she was okay. Now I’m thinking it was the twins again and Thurman didn’t know anything about it.” I paused. “Are you keeping up with this?”
“Sure. But there are bigger questions. Why did they take her and where is she? What do you really know about those twins, Patricia Anne?”
“Just that they are gorgeous and live in New York, and their aunt Liliane says they weren’t as harmed by their abusive childhood as Claire was.”
“Well, the way I see it,” Sister declared, “whoever took Claire from the hospital was either doing it to protect her or to get rid of her.”
“My God, Mary Alice!” I shivered.
“What? You know it’s the truth.”
“They did it to protect her.”
“From the person who killed Mercy and maybe Ross?” Mary Alice changed lanes again, needlessly. In a moment the card-addressing woman pulled up beside us.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I even got involved in this.” I rubbed my forehead.
“Just like you got involved out at the Skoot ’n’ Boot. You do that, Patricia Anne. Take things so personally.”
I didn’t remind Sister that the Skoot ’n’ Boot, the country-western bar where I almost got killed, was her place. Nor did I remind her that I had attended the opening of the Mercy Armistead Gallery at her invitation. Instead, I rubbed my head harder and asked her if she had any aspirin.
“Sure,” she said. “Look in the side of my purse. And there’s some Coke in that can.” She pointed to a Rubbermaid drink holder on the floor. “It might even have a little fizz left in it. I think I bought it yesterday.”
It didn’t, but I had to drink it to wash the aspirin down.
Mary Alice said Bill would help her get the tree off the top of the car, so I collected my swag and wreath and headed home. The clouds had moved farther across the sky, partially blocking the late-afternoon sun. As I drove along the valley, I could see Vulcan’s rear end gleaming golden and bare in the late light. Not for the first time, I thought how startling a sight this must be to strangers approaching the city from the south.
When I opened the kitchen door, I smelled hot dogs.
“Hey,” I called.
“Hey,” Fred and Haley answered. I looked into the den and saw them, each eating a hot dog and drinking a Grapico. Haley was sitting on the sofa, her feet propped on the coffee table; Fred was relaxed in his recliner. An empty Sneaky Pete’s sack was on the table.
“We’re watching It’s a Wonderful Life again,” Fred said. “Your hot dogs are in the refrigerator.”
“Did you get me a Grapico?”
“Of course.”
I put the greenery on the hearth. “Where’s your car, Haley?”
“Debbie borrowed it. Hers is broken. She dropped me off to show you the dress I bought for the Policemen’s Ball.”
“Good. Who went to Sneaky Pete’s?”
“We both did.”
“Smells wonderful.” I slipped my worse-for-wear navy heels off, got my hot dogs with everything on them, and zapped them for a few seconds in the microwave.
“What’s happening?” I asked, coming into the den with my hot dogs and Grapico.
“Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed just got married,” Haley said.
“Oh, good.” I unbuttoned the waistband of my skirt and settled onto the sofa happily. I’m no purist. I like Ted Turner’s colorizing. I a
lso like Sneaky Pete’s hot dogs. At that moment, I was a happy woman.
“And there are Goo Goo Clusters for dessert,” Haley said.
Heaven.
Twelve
The next morning I put a load of washing on and took Woofer for his walk through a light drizzle, more like a heavy fog than rain. It was a pleasant walk, the slight moisture refreshing and cool against my face. It made my hair frizz, a problem I had learned to ignore years before. It also must have emphasized smells, since Woofer had to stop and investigate every tree, fence post, and bush along the way. I didn’t hurry him. We were both enjoying ourselves.
When we got back, I called to see how Bubba was but got Mary Alice’s answering machine. She had ordered a set of seasonal greetings from some catalog, so what I heard was “We cannot come to the phone now, won’t you ple-ease leave a message” sung to a tinkly “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
“I’m calling to check on Bubba. I hope he is feeling better,” I sang back. “Just give me a ring when possible. I should be right here.”
“What was that about?” Fred asked, standing in the door and yawning. “And how long have you been up?”
“Ages. You’re a slugabed.”
He came over to hug me. “You’re wet.”
“I’ve already taken Woofer for his walk. It’s drizzling.”
“Coffee.” He shuffled over to the stove. Last Christmas Freddie gave him some nice leather house shoes with lamb’s wool lining. The trouble is that they are slides, appropriately named as far as Fred is concerned. He has never gotten the hang of keeping them on, tending not to pick his feet up so he won’t step out of them. He has the same trouble with flip-flops, walking across the beach like a man in dire need of an application of Preparation H.
“Scrunch your toes,” I tell him. It does no good.
“Paper.”
I pointed. He shuffled into the den, carrying his coffee. I put the clothes into the dryer, poured myself another cup of coffee, and went to join him.
“Ross Perry made the front page again,” he said, handing me that section.
“Well, he worked for the paper. They’ve got a personal interest.” I sat down and read that the police still had no leads. James’s and Yvonne’s role in pulling him from Kelly Creek was rehashed. The only thing new was that the family said a memorial service would be announced at a later date.
