by Anne George
“Sure, Mama. I enjoy having them.”
“Well, Aunt Sister said she would love to have them. The thought of Mary Alice and Celia together for a couple of days bothers me, though. No telling who would get hexed.”
Haley laughed. “I’ll change the sheets on the bed for them. Even mop the kitchen floor.”
“The” bed. That bothered me, too. Damn it, why didn’t folks get married like they used to?
“Mama?” The tone of Haley’s voice changed. “Is it all right if Jed comes over for Christmas dinner? I haven’t asked him yet, but I think he’s still having a hard time with holidays. You know, since his wife’s death.”
“Of course, honey. Ask him.” Sheriff Jed Reuse was not the man I would have picked for Haley. Not that there was anything wrong. He was just a rather formal man, very reserved, the opposite of what Haley’s Tom had been. Which was probably my hang-up. A rowdy Christmas at our house should be interesting for him—and us, too.
Haley patted the pocket where she had put the sheets of paper. “I’ll get him to help me with this,” she said.
“Frankly, my dear, I think Celia might do a better job.”
“Don’t bet on it.” There was a softness in Haley’s voice that I welcomed back almost as much as I did her laughter.
Fifteen
“Where did that poinsettia come from?” Fred asked as he walked into the kitchen. “That’s the prettiest one I’ve ever seen.”
“The Needham twins.” I was standing at the stove sautéeing mushrooms. Two small steaks waited to be popped on the grill and fresh asparagus was already placed in the microwave, thick parts to the center, forming an incredibly expensive wheel.
“That was nice,” Fred said. He came over and nuzzled my neck. The steaks caught his eye. “What is this? You’re actually allowing pieces of marbleized red meat into this kitchen?”
“The rice and asparagus don’t have any fat. We can splurge occasionally.” I thought about my lunch at Jake’s Joint and realized splurging might not be the right word to describe my cholesterol intake today. Going overboard was more like it. Drowning in fat. I’d have to do better tomorrow. I reached around and patted Fred’s behind. “Get a beer, why don’t you? The paper’s on the table.”
“You bought a Christmas tree today, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” I said defensively. “And don’t think for a moment I’m trying to get you in a good humor about it with steak. I quit playing that game a long time ago.”
“It’s fine, honey.” He gave me a hug and headed for the refrigerator.
“Fine? You’ve been saying for years you didn’t want us to have a live tree and now it’s fine?”
“Patricia Anne”—Fred popped a beer open—“there is a Christmas tree in our den, decorated and lighted. I can see it reflected in the picture there.” He pointed toward a framed poster of a Georgia O’Keefe poppy that hangs next to the bay window. “Now, the way I see it, I have a choice. I can go into the den, sit in my chair, read the paper, and enjoy the tree. Or I can throw a fit and say, ‘I’ll not have that fire hazard in our house, Patricia Anne,’ in which case we would have an unpleasant evening. I’m opting for the first. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll put the steaks on the grill.” He picked up the paper and disappeared into the den.
He drives me crazy when he’s so sensible. Takes all the wind out of my sails.
We did have a nice evening, though. The steaks were delicious, and the Christmas tree, scantily decorated though it was, added to the brightness of the season. Even Fred’s propping the fire extinguisher noticeably near the tree didn’t dispel the magic.
Fred was dozing in his chair and I was dividing my attention between reading a new biography of Greta Garbo and watching Christmas in Washington when the phone rang.
“What are you doing?” Mary Alice asked.
“Reading about Greta Garbo. Finding out a lot more about her than I wanted to know.”
“Fred like the tree?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
“Oh.” Mary Alice sounded disappointed. “Well, what I called for was to see if you wanted to have supper here tomorrow night. I know it’s Fred’s pinochle night.”
“Sounds great.”
“I’m going to see if Frances Zata can come. I owe her a thank-you for filling in for me at the mall. And Bonnie Blue. Reckon they play bridge?”
“As well as we do, I imagine.” Neither of us plays worth a hoot. I plod, trying to remember the rules, refusing to take chances, and Mary Alice makes up the rules as she goes along. And usually wins. Our mother, who was an expert bridge player and who tried for years to teach us, finally refused to let us fill in at any of her parties, swearing neither of us had a lick of card sense.
“We might play some bridge, then. You can still come if the others can’t, though.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sure. Seven o’clock?”
“Okay. How’s Bubba?”
“That angel’s asleep right in the middle of my bed.”
“Where’s Bill, then?”
“Soaking in Epsom salts. That Santa costume’s giving him a rash like you wouldn’t believe. You ought to see it.”
“I’ll pass. You want me to bring some fruit drop cookies tomorrow night?”
“Sure. And Mouse?” Mary Alice hesitated.
“What?”
“Nothing. I have to go rub calamine on Bill.”
“Have a good time,” I said.
Fred had opened his eyes and was yawning widely. “Bill has a bad rash,” I told him.
“That’s understandable.” He got up and stretched. “What are you reading?”
“A biography of Greta Garbo. You wouldn’t believe some of the things she did.”
“Turn off the tree and come show me.”
I took him up on the invitation.
The next morning I got my silver flatware from the freezer and polished it. Fred laughs at my keeping it there and says it’s the first place a thief would look. But in the pull-out drawer under the peaches and blueberries I put up last summer? I doubt it. Plus, it’s wrapped in heavy freezer paper and has “Shrimp” written on the side. I feel pretty safe about it.
I washed my crystal and china and put the red tablecloth through the gentle cycle since it smelled musty. While it was in the dryer, I started making out a combination grocery list and things-to-do list. “Bert—Mortal Combat,” I wrote. I had been assured by his parents that this was what my ten-year-old grandson wanted. I nibbled on my pencil eraser. It sounded awfully violent. Should I check it out? I put a question mark by “Mortal Combat” knowing full well that I would buy it, but feeling better for questioning it. A ten-year-old boy should be getting Erector sets, the fancy kind with lots of motors so he could build ferris wheels and helicopters.
The doorbell rang and somehow I knew before I opened it who it would be. And it was. Claire Moon stood there smiling. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants, which I realized by now was the sisters’ usual outfit, she was a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn. She looked pale, but her eyes were clear; in her arms was a large pink poinsettia. I smiled and held the door open for her.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hollowell. And thanks for everything.” She handed me the plant.
“Come on in,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She followed me into the den, where I put the flower on the coffee table and turned to hug her.
“You had us worried to death,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know the twins were trying to protect you. At least now I know it. At the time we didn’t know what had happened.”
“I don’t remember any of it.”
“I’m not surprised. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make us some coffee.”
Claire sank down on the sofa. “That would be wonderful.”
I went into the kitchen to start the coffee. “The flower’s beautiful,” I called. “Thank you.�
��
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I got the pink. I see you already have a red.” Claire could see the bay window from the sofa.
“Your sisters sent that,” I said.
“Glynn and Lynn?” She sounded surprised.
I turned on the percolator and came back to the door. “You didn’t know I kidnapped them?”
Claire shook her head no. I sat down in Fred’s chair and told her about the night the twins had spent with us. The whole episode was beginning to seem funny, and I expected to see Claire smiling about it, at least. Instead, she looked upset.
“Oh, Mrs. Hollowell, I’m so sorry. We’ve been nothing but worry to you.”
“I was worried for you. Nothing that happened was your fault. Remember that, Claire.”
“Then why do I feel like it was?”
“My niece says guilt is a ‘chick’ thing. She’s a lawyer and says if she’s got a female client who was hit by a car that ran up on the sidewalk, the woman will feel guilty because she was standing at that particular corner waiting for the light to change. You think a man would?”
Claire grinned. “I don’t think all women would. Mercy wouldn’t. She’d be up checking the driver’s insurance.” Her smile faded.
“My sister, Mary Alice, wouldn’t either. She’d just say it was my fault she was on that corner and make me feel guilty. The crazy thing about it is I probably would.”
Claire and I looked at each other and her grin came back.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” I said. I went into the kitchen and got mugs from the cabinet.
“Mrs. Hollowell?” Claire was standing in the den door. “You went to the hospital with me, didn’t you? I meant it when I said I was having trouble remembering what happened, but it seems like you were there holding my hand.”
I nodded. “I went with you. You were in shock and that can be pretty dangerous. The paramedic said your stress signals were stuck on go. Or something like that. You were really out of it.” I put the coffee on the kitchen table and motioned for Claire to sit down. “Put a lot of sugar in it,” I said. “For energy.”
“I’m feeling okay. When I woke up, I was with Glynnie and Lynnie at the hotel. I didn’t even know how much time had passed or how they got me out of the hospital. I made them promise to let you know I was all right and I went back to sleep. That’s all I wanted to do—sleep.”
I thought about the lunch at the Green and White, the twins’ startling me. “They told me,” I said. “But what about your aunt Liliane? She was so worried, she came here wanting to know if I knew anything. Made me promise to let her know if I heard anything.”
Claire looked up from stirring her coffee. “Liliane came here?”
I nodded. “I didn’t know anything to tell her at the time. In fact, even after the twins told me you were safe, I wasn’t sure where you were.”
Claire shrugged and sipped her coffee. She was holding the mug with both hands as if to warm them.
I asked the questions I had been wondering about. “Why aren’t the twins staying with Liliane? And how did they know you were in the hospital?”
“Did Liliane tell you that Dania story? She usually does.”
I nodded, surprised.
“Well, it’s a lot simpler than that. Liliane’s our grandmother. She got pregnant when she was in college and had our mother. Everything was covered up, of course, and the baby was adopted by an employee of my grandfather’s who was paid well for the favor, I’m sure. God knows where Liliane got that Dania story. From a soap probably.”
“I believed it,” I admitted, remembering my tears.
“It ticks Lynn and Glynn off. They take it personally, the fact that she won’t come out and claim us. The twins and Liliane have always fought like cats and dogs. Always. About everything from the length of their skirts to their friends. The day they graduated from high school they swiped the money from Liliane’s purse for one-way tickets to New York and took off.”
“How do you feel about Liliane?” I asked.
Claire shrugged. “Maybe she did the best she could, given the time and circumstances.”
“And the circumstances were certainly different fifty years ago.”
“Yes. On the other hand, I can understand how the twins feel.” Claire was quiet for a minute. “You asked how they found out I was in the hospital. You know, I didn’t think to ask. But they’re in Birmingham because Mercy sent them an invitation to the gallery opening. Of course, they got here a day late, but that’s Glynn and Lynn for you. Typical.” Claire ran her finger around the rim of her cup.
“Were the twins and Mercy good friends?”
“The twins and Mercy? Not particularly. I was surprised they came. They pop in every now and then, though, since I’ve been back in Birmingham. I’m always happy to see them. But they take it upon themselves to bedevil poor Liliane. Lynn and Glynn showed up at a fancy party last spring at the Botanical Gardens, picked her up about a foot off the floor, and gave her a big juicy smack on each cheek. They angled in so it looked like Liliane had red cat whiskers. They’ve always driven her crazy with stuff like that.”
I could imagine Liliane Bedsole with her orange hair and her tight skin sporting red cat whiskers. “I wish I had seen it,” I said truthfully.
“They act like mischievous kids sometimes seeking attention.” Claire motioned to the purse she had hung over the arm of the chair. “That’s Glynnie’s purse I’ve borrowed, and I swear I’m scared to open any of the compartments, scared something will pop out like a jack-in-the-box.”
“That’s not such a bad trait,” I said.
“No, it’s not.” Claire pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve got to get their rental car back before they wake up. I need to go over to my place and get some clothes and things. I’m going out to James and Yvonne Butler’s to stay a few days.”
“Is it okay, your going in the apartment?”
Claire, who had started for the hall, turned. “You think it wouldn’t be?”
“Well, it’s a crime scene.” The rest of the sentence, “where somebody tried to kill you,” hung in the air between us.
“You think I ought to check with that police lady? What’s her name?”
“Bo Mitchell. And yes, I think you should. If she says it’s okay, I’ll go with you. I don’t want you out there by yourself.”
“It’ll be okay. I know what to expect this time. And it’s daylight.”
“Just make the call,” I said.
The twins’ rental car was hardly large enough for Claire and me. “I hope you aren’t planning on getting a bunch of stuff,” I said as we pulled up to her town house.
“Just a few clothes. These are Glynn’s.” Claire parked in a space marked “Owner” and we got out. It had only been a few days since I had been there, but Christmas decorations had sprung up on the tiny lawns like mushrooms. “I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas,” Claire said.
“Do you know about Mortal Combat?” I asked.
Claire turned and gave me a puzzled, almost frightened look.
“It’s a TV game,” I hastened to explain. “My ten-year-old grandson wants it for Christmas and I was worried about how violent it is.”
“Give him one of those things that projects the night sky on his ceiling. All you have to do is put in the date and where you are.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Claire.” I meant it.
“My husband had one. He loved it.”
It was the first time I had heard her mention her husband, and it surprised me. She reached forward and put the key in the lock. “Well, here goes.” She stepped across the threshold.
The shock value was gone for me. The stuffing pouring out of the sofa was just that. Cotton. Claire and I stopped and looked around.
“Can I help you do something?” I asked.
“Recommend a good upholsterer.” She stepped over to the sofa and ran her hand over one of the cuts. “Why on God’s earth would anybody do this?”
“I don’t know, Claire.” And I didn’t.
She came back to the door and ran her hand over the hole the knife had sliced in the door. “Damn,” she whispered. “Damn.”
“Are you all right?” I asked. “I can go upstairs and get you some things. Just tell me what you want.”
“I’m okay. I’m not going to pass out on you again, Mrs. Hollowell.”
She did seem to be okay. She backed away from the door and eyed the knife mark. She walked toward it again, stood by it, measuring it against her body. “There’s something wrong here,” she said.
I agreed that there was a lot wrong.
“No. Wait a minute.” Claire went up a couple of steps, turned, and came back to the door. She held out her hand as if she were reaching for the doorknob. She shook her head, turned, and went back up the steps.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“There’s something wrong,” she repeated, coming back down the steps and reaching for the door again.
“You want to clue me in?” I asked after Claire had repeated this action several times.
“The knife slice is wrong. Look at it.”
I went over to the door and looked at the cut. It was on the left side of the door, and when I stepped close to it, I realized a knife plunged at this angle would hit me in the chest. “Lord!” I said, shuddering.
“But look.” Claire went up the steps again. “Come up here, Mrs. Hollowell.”
I followed her, wondering what in the world she was doing.
“Okay,” she said. “Get two or three steps above me.” She waited. “Now watch. I’m running down the steps and you’re chasing me with a knife.” She ran down the steps and lunged for the door, jerking it open. I stood on the steps and watched her.
She came back up the steps. “Now, this time you follow me and try to stab me.”
“This gives me the creeps,” I said.
“Please, Mrs. Hollowell. You’ll see what I mean.”
“What kind of knife was it? You remember?”
