Murder on a Bad Hair Day

by Anne George

  We rode in silence for a few minutes. I was tired because of the interrupted sleep of the night before.

  “What did the twins have to say?” Sister asked. She had laughed until she cried when I told her they were staying at the Tutwiler, that the whole night had been unnecessary.

  “They know where Claire is.”

  “They say so?”

  “Not exactly. They said they got drunk because they saw Betty Bedsole leaving and she looked sad.”

  “That’s a new excuse.”

  “Their mother and their aunt are both alcoholics. I hope they remember that.”

  “They say anything about Mercy?”

  “That she was a slut because she didn’t wear underpants.”

  “What?”

  “I swear.”

  “And these are the sophisticated New York models?”

  “Go figure.”

  Mary Alice giggled. “Will Alec loved it when I didn’t wear underpants.”

  I stuck my fingers in my ears. “I will not listen to this.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mouse,” Mary Alice yelled. “You’re such a prude!”

  I removed my fingers. “I am not a prude. I just don’t want to know things like that about poor dead Will Alec.”

  “You don’t want to know that he was happy frequently?”

  “Happy, yes. Kinky, no.”

  “Am I talking to the sister who stole The Kinsey Report from the library?”

  “Am I talking to the sister who fought me for it?”

  “Well, I kept wondering why you were squealing so much.”

  “Mama would have died, wouldn’t she?”

  “Don’t be silly. She probably read it.” Mary Alice passed a pickup that had a Christmas wreath attached to the back window. It was blinking like Mrs. Santa’s shirt.

  “I looked Betty Bedsole up at the library. Read some of Ross Perry’s columns, too. He really lambasted Mercy when she had her first showing. Unmercifully. No pun intended. Anyway, in the clipping file on Betty, there he was at her debut and seeing her off to Atlantic City, too. You sure he was gay? Maybe he was madly in love with Betty and she dumped him. That would explain why he had the grudge against Mercy.”

  “Maybe he was. I don’t know. Odds are it was Mercy’s father he hated.”

  “Samuel Armistead? Why?”

  “You remember the movie Mer-men?”

  “No.”

  “Neither does anybody else.” We passed another truck with a wreath. Something new. “Ross followed Betty to Hollywood, thinking he was going to be a big star. They say Samuel Armistead had promised to give him a hand up in a movie career. You know Ross always acted in plays around Birmingham. And was pretty good. I saw him do Scrooge and, I swear, if his wig hadn’t kept slipping, I’d have cried.”

  I was confused. “What about Merlin?”

  “Not Mer-lin. Mer-men. You know, men mermaids. Samuel Armistead got Ross a leading role in what is supposed to be the worst movie ever made. It’s so bad, they still teach it in film courses and show it at film festivals. It was Ross’s only movie.” Mary Alice looked over at me. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard this story.”

  I shook my head. “I had no idea he’d been in movies.”

  “Just the one.”

  “You ever see it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Mercy had a party for the museum board one night and showed it.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yep. Old Ross had to sit there and watch himself flap around and say things like ‘My tail is my prison.’ Or something like that.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t leave.”

  “He stayed and tried to act like he thought it was funny. I’ll give him credit for that. No telling what his blood pressure was, though. One of us should have had the guts to tell Mercy to turn the thing off, but we didn’t.”

  “Sounds like a fun evening.”

  “A long one.”

  I thought about this new information for a few minutes. “You think Samuel Armistead was jealous of Ross?”

  Mary Alice shrugged. “Who knows? He had a reputation for being the A-number-one son of a bitch in Hollywood. He might have just thought it was funny, doing Ross in like that.”

  “I wonder how Betty felt about it.”

  “I doubt that it mattered.”

  We passed the sign that said POLICE JURISDICTION, HARPERSVILLE. “God, we’re lucky,” I said.

  “We’re lucky, little sister,” Mary Alice agreed. “All my husbands were wonderful. And sweet. Didn’t you think so?”

  “And rich. And old.”

  “Mature. I got three kids from them, remember.”

  “They were old.”

  “Not too old.” Sister turned at the sign for the Christmas tree farm.

  “Did you have a favorite?” I’ve always wanted to ask Sister this.

  “Hmmm. Philip was the handsomest. The most intellectual, too. Remember how he used to read all the time? Will Alec was the most fun, but he didn’t have a chin. Do you call that lantern-jawed? Seems like you do.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And Roger was probably the sweetest. A teddy bear.”

  “One of the originals.”

  But Mary Alice wasn’t paying any attention to my remarks. She was busy comparing husbands. “Will Alec liked to dance, but Roger was more sensitive. He cried at movies. Philip liked to fly, but it made Will Alec sick.”

  Her litany, which continued, was better than a sleeping pill. By the time we turned into the Christmas tree farm, I was fighting to keep my eyes open.

  “So I can’t choose,” she concluded, pulling into a parking space.

  I opened the door and sat there, letting the cool, damp air revive me.

  “Come on, Mouse,” she urged.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t do this. Fred really has a thing against live trees.”

  “Tough titty” was my sister’s comment.

  I settled for a tree small enough to go in the bay window. Mary Alice chose another huge one.

  “Weren’t you ladies here yesterday?” asked the man who tied the trees on the car.

  “We were so pleased we came back for more,” Sister said. “You have very nice trees.”

  “We think highly of them.” The man handed Sister one end of the rope to hold while he went around the car.

  “We can tell,” I said, making out a check. “Why didn’t you tell me they cost a small fortune?” I fussed at Mary Alice when we got back in the car.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mouse. Spend your money so your children won’t have to.”

  It sounded like it made sense.

  We went by the cross garden, past the scene of Ross’s accident, and past the entrance to the pink confection of a house and James Butler’s veterinary clinic.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Bonnie Blue said Leota Wood lives down this road. I’d really like to see some more of her work. You know how my girls love quilts. You mind?”

  I didn’t mind at all. I thought Leota Wood’s “story” quilts were beautiful. “You think it’s okay, just dropping in?”

  “She’ll tell us if it’s not. I’ve got an idea she’ll be happy to sell without giving a gallery its forty percent.”

  The trees closed in on us again after we passed James Butler’s property. We were running parallel to the creek that Ross’s car had plunged into. Wisps of fog still hung above the water since the sunshine we had been promised had not materialized.

  “This place should be covered in Spanish moss,” I said. “This is definitely a Spanish moss place.”

  “It would be if it were south of Montgomery.”

  “And popcorn trees would be everywhere. Fred still misses them.”

  There is a line straight across the state of Alabama called, simply, “The Spanish Moss Line.” It is such a clear demarcation, you can see it when you drive down I-65 and approach the Alabama River just outside Montgomery, where trees are
suddenly laden with Spanish moss. Chinese tallow trees, popcorn trees, tend to stray slightly outside the line, but not far. It has to do with the slight variance in temperature and distance from the Gulf. But it’s startling how obvious the line is.

  “Start looking for her mailbox,” Mary Alice said. “Bonnie Blue said it wasn’t far.”

  “This is nothing but trees.” But as soon as I said it, we came around a curve and saw a dirt road on the left. A mailbox, painted with bluebirds, had “Wood” on it.

  Mary Alice turned onto the dirt road, which was full of ruts and mud holes. The Christmas trees scratched the roof as she tried to miss the deepest holes.

  “My God,” she said. “These people must have a Jeep.”

  “Or a truck.” I was clutching both my seat belt and the door handle.

  “I don’t think we can make it,” Sister said.

  “Well, you sure can’t back up.”

  “What’s underneath a car that can get smashed?”

  “I think we’re going to find out.”

  Fortunately, the house was close, in a small clearing that we didn’t see until we were right on it. It was a log cabin that looked as if it had been added onto several times. A porch, with small logs supporting the roof, ran the width of the house. Several big caned rockers were lined up along the porch.

  “Is that a real log cabin?” Mary Alice asked.

  “Sure it is.”

  “I mean, like an Abraham Lincoln log cabin, not one you buy in a kit.”

  “Looks like it. Looks like an Abraham Lincoln dog on the porch, too.” The ugliest dog I had ever seen, gray and white striped with a huge head, had raised up from behind one of the chairs. Not happy to see us. Hackles up, teeth bared.

  “Is that a dog?” Sister asked.

  “What else could it be?”

  Just then the front door opened and a tiny black lady with white hair came out and waved. I let the window down a little. I had no doubt that the dog could hurtle across the swept yard and into our car window with one leap. “Y’all wait a minute,” she called. “Let me put Rover up.”

  “She must be kidding,” Mary Alice said. “Rover? That dog’s an Attila.”

  “Look at him.”

  Rover had rolled over on his back and Leota Wood was scratching his belly. “Come on,” we heard her say. He hopped up and followed her inside.

  Mary Alice watched. “I hope it’s someplace with iron bars.”

  Leota Wood came back to the porch and motioned for us to come in. “Rover makes folks nervous,” she said after we had introduced ourselves. “He’s a sweetie, though.”

  “What breed is he?” Mary Alice asked.

  “A coydog. Half coyote, half dog. Born to my hound Bessie. There’s lots of coydogs around here. Mostly wild. Run in packs. You ought to hear them some nights. Rover’s a sweetie, though,” she repeated. “Y’all come on in. You want to see some quilts?”

  We said that we did, and she ushered us into a quilt lover’s dream. Log Cabin, Grandmother’s Fan, Heaven and Earth, Storm at Sea. They seemed to cover every surface, glowing with color as if they had captured the sun.

  “Oh, my,” I gasped. For once Mary Alice was speechless.

  “They’re right pretty, don’t you think?” Leota Wood folded her arms across her chest and rocked back and forth slightly as if daring us to differ.

  “They’re absolutely wonderful.” Mary Alice found her voice.

  Leota Wood smiled. “My daughter did some of these. I do mostly the story quilts now. I help her with the colors, though. I swear that girl thinks brown and black are fancy and I tell her, I say, ‘Look, Doreen, folks like bright quilts. Get that old dirty brown out of there.’ And she does, mostly. Still sticks some in sometimes.” She walked over to a television in the corner and turned off The Price Is Right. Bob Barker’s smile faded like a Cheshire cat’s. “Y’all look around. You want some coffee? I was just fixing some.”

  We said that would be nice and she opened a door that led into a small kitchen. “I wonder where Rover is,” Mary Alice murmured nervously.

  “He’s in the bedroom,” Mrs. Wood called.

  Mary Alice and I looked at each other in astonishment. “How could she have heard that?” Sister mouthed.

  In the kitchen, Leota Wood laughed. “I didn’t hear you. I just know what you said. Everybody says the same thing. Worrying about that sweet animal. He won’t bother you. Y’all look around.”

  I had already been captured by a quilt in the Heaven and Earth pattern. A deceptively simple pattern, consisting of alternating light and dark triangles in every color, it seemed to change as I took it from the back of a chair and unfolded it. An occasional placement of two dark or two light triangles together gave the impression of mountains slicing into the sky.

  “That’s one of Doreen’s,” Mrs. Wood said, coming back with a tray of coffee and cookies and seeing what I was admiring. “Mercy Armistead was going to put it in her gallery. Said she’d call it ‘Space-Time’ or something like that and sell it for a lot of money.” She put the tray down on the coffee table and invited us to sit down.

  “This is very nice of you, Mrs. Wood,” Mary Alice said. “We weren’t sure whether we should just drop in like this.”

  “Lord, yes, honey. And call me Leota. I’m used to having folks come by. It’s the way I used to sell all my quilts. Then they came up with this ‘Outsider’ thing and claimed I was a primitive artist. I told that Ross Perry, I said, ‘Listen here, Ross Perry, okay, so I live outside the big city, but I’m damned if I’m primitive. I got an inside bathroom and a satellite dish.’ I said, ‘Primitive? Do primitive folks take People magazine?’” Leota Wood shoved a plate of cookies at Mary Alice.

  “I’m sure he meant it as a compliment,” Mary Alice said, helping herself to a couple of old-fashioned teacakes, each with a pecan half placed precisely in the middle.

  “I reckon. Anyway, he liked my quilts, all right. Bought a lot of them.”

  “I can understand why,” I said. “They should be in museums.”

  “Can’t make any money there, honey,” Leota said. “I guess since Ross and Mercy are both dead I’ll have to hit the craft shows again.” She offered me the cookies and I took one. It tasted just like the ones Grandmama used to make.

  “These are wonderful,” I said.

  “It’s the almond extract. Almond, not vanilla.” Leota Wood sat back in her chair. “You know, I can’t believe Mercy and Ross are both gone. Wham. Just like that.” She slapped the arm of her chair to show what she meant.

  “And somebody tried to kill Claire Moon,” I said. “Probably the same person.”

  “Do, Jesus! That sweet child?” A shocked Leota put her coffee cup down.

  “You didn’t know?” Mary Alice seemed about to launch into a detailed description of Claire’s plight.

  “She’s all right,” I interrupted quickly. I didn’t add “I hope,” which would have been closer to the truth.

  “But somebody tried to kill her?” Leota Wood’s face, which had had a coppery glow to it when we came in, seemed ashen.

  “Looks that way.”

  Leota folded her hands and brought them to her chin. The fingers were in the “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple” position. The “steeple” pushed against her lips. She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she turned her hands over (“here’s all the people”) and said, “Y’all gonna buy any quilts?”

  We were. Mary Alice bought three, one for each of her girls and one for Haley. I bought the Heaven and Earth. Less money my children would have to worry about.

  With the bright quilts inside the car and the Christmas trees tied on the top, we looked festive as we pulled up to the clinic to pick up Bubba. James Butler was just coming around the side of the building, waved, and walked over. He was smiling brightly.

  “Claire has shown up,” he said. “She’s okay and Thurman has gone to check on her.”

  “I’ll bet I know where he’s gone,” I
said. “To the Tutwiler Hotel.”

  “I’ll be damned,” James said. “How did you know that?”

  “Would you believe a wild guess?”

  “With you ladies, I’d believe anything. Y’all come on in and tell me about it. Bubba’s chomping at the bit.”

  “Chomping at the bit?” Mary Alice murmured.

  I laughed. “Well, what do you expect when you take your cat to a horse hospital?” We got out and followed James into the clinic.

  Fourteen

  “How come Thurman Beatty was still married to Mercy if he was so in love with Claire Moon?” Mary Alice asked as we made our way home through the Christmas traffic on Highway 280. Bubba’s carrying box was on the front seat between us, and, between yowls, he would snake his leg out of the holes, claws unsheathed.

  “Maybe Bonnie Blue’s wrong about Thurman. Maybe he’s just a nice man, worried about a lady in distress,” I said, dodging Bubba’s paw. “This cat is dangerous.”

  “He just wants some attention because he’s sick.”

  “I’d hate to see him mad.”

  “He’s a good boy, yes he is.” Mary Alice patted the top of Bubba’s box and jerked her hand back as Bubba made a swipe. She wasn’t quite fast enough. “Shit!”

  “He’s a good boy, yes he is. Maybe he’s a coycat.” I watched her sucking her wrist.

  “Shut up, Patricia Anne, and get me a Kleenex out of my purse. I mean,” she continued after she had wrapped the tissue around the scratch, “supposing Bonnie Blue is right. People don’t have to stay together nowadays unless they want to. If you were in love with someone else, would you want to stay with Fred?”

  “I’d take him with me.”

  “You probably would.” She put on her right turn signal.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Jake’s. I’m starving.”

  “What about Bubba? Or are you getting something to go?”

  “He can go in. Nobody will know he’s there.” Bubba howled his answer to that lie.

  Jake’s Joint has the best barbecue in the whole state. In the South. Jake doesn’t fool around with all that other stuff like slaw and beans and Brunswick stew. He serves barbecue, period. With white bread. And there are always crowds of people waiting to commit gastronomical suicide. Ask any of them if they know they are shortening their lives by hunkering down over a rack of ribs that requires a loaf of white bread and dozens of paper napkins to soak up the fat and they’ll just grin, their mouths encircled with either red or yellow barbecue sauce. For here is the cosmic question Jake has presented us with: red or yellow sauce; the red being more traditional, the yellow a mustardy, spicier sauce. Families have split over which is better. Baptists tend to order red, Unitarians yellow. A routine question asked Alabama political candidates is “Red or yellow?” It’s a good question, but being Alabama political candidates, they all say the good old traditional red sauce. Occasionally a maverick will admit to liking both.