by Anne George
So I did.
I think it should be clear by now that my sister is a joiner. The Angel-sighting Society is new on her agenda, though. In fact, it may be new to Birmingham. Mary Alice has been trying to get me to go with her for a couple of months in spite of the fact that I’ve never seen an angel. She hasn’t, either, she says. All you have to do is believe in them and clap when people tell of their sightings. Shades of Tinkerbell. So far I’ve managed to stay clear, but Sister knows when I’m vulnerable. She assured my cooperation by mentioning on the way over that she and Marilyn had had a nice conversation and that she understood why I hadn’t told her that Marilyn was in Birmingham.
So there I was, sitting in a meeting room at the Vestavia Library, listening to a woman read a poem about sighting an angel. Before she read, she had handed out photocopies of it, so we wouldn’t miss a word.
Oh, angel, flying above the earth
You bring such joy, laughter, and mirth.
Landing on the foot of my bed
To bring us all our daily bread.
There were many verses of it, and I clapped with everyone else when it was over. But the night’s lack of sleep was catching up with me. A couple of times during the reading, Sister had to poke me with her elbow.
“You’re drooling,” she muttered.
I wiped my chin and tried to perk up. One of the sightings caught my attention. A nicely dressed lady told of picking up a young woman standing by the entrance to the Red Mountain Expressway with a sign that read: WILL WORK FOR FOOD.
“My grandson was in the front with me,” the lady explained, “so the girl got in the back. I told her I had some windows that needed washing and that I would pay her, and she said, ‘God bless you’ and disappeared.” The woman paused. “I turned my head and she was gone.” A longer pause and a look toward the heavens. “An angel thanking me for my kindness.”
Everyone clapped.
“Did you ever get your windows washed?”
Mary Alice and I smiled at each other at hearing the familiar voice right behind us.
“No, Miss Bessie,”
“Then I got a number for you to call.”
The angel-sighter held out her hands, palms up. “You see, ladies? That’s how it works.”
More clapping.
As Mary Alice and I turned to speak to Bessie McCoy, she leaned over and whispered, “It’s going to cost her a fortune.”
“What are you doing here, Bessie?” Sister asked our favorite member of the investment club.
“The Lord’s work. Hey, Patricia Anne.”
“Hey, Bessie. I like your hat.”
“My new spring model.”
Actually every one of Miss Bessie’s hats is exactly alike, crocheted with little brims. She wears them all the time. Rumor is that she was scalped when she was a child, a rumor that has gained her a lot of respect, though no one has ever come up with a believable version of the scalping. Today’s hat was crocheted with multicolored acrylic yarn. Fortunately, being crocheted, there were a lot of holes to scratch through, which Miss Bessie proceeded to do.
“Have lunch with us,” Sister said.
Miss Bessie nodded.
I was immediately more cheerful. With Miss Bessie along, Sister wouldn’t harp on the fact that I had harbored her daughter without her knowledge for two days.
“Let’s go to the Hunan Hut,” I said. “Lunch is on me.”
“Then let’s get Bonnie Blue, too, since the Hunan Hut is right down the street from the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe.”
I smiled at Sister. “Great.”
“The ebony and ivory twins,” Miss Bessie murmured to me as we followed Bonnie Blue Butler and Sister down the street to the Hunan Hut.
It’s true. The two of them are the same size, have the same walk, the same mannerisms. The big difference is that Bonnie Blue’s skin is a lovely dark chocolate color and that she is younger than Sister. She used to work at the Skoot ’n’ Boot, the country-western bar that Sister had lost her mind and bought for no other reason except that she loved to line dance. After the Skoot’s unfortunate end, Bonnie Blue had gone to work at the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe and had quickly become the manager. No surprise. Bonnie Blue’s customers adore her because she’s honest with them. If Bonnie Blue tells them an outfit looks good on them, they know that it does.
The Hunan Hut, which used to be a Pizza Hut, has a wonderful lunch buffet. One doesn’t come in here for the ambience, which is Chinese-Italian, but to eat. And to talk. The first thing that Bonnie Blue wanted to know after we had heaped our plates and sat down was about Sister’s wedding plan.
“You and Virgil really going to do it?” was the question.
“Absolutely. And it’s going to be different this time. Will Alec and I got married at Trinity Methodist Church, Roger and I got married at City Hall, and a rabbi married Philip and I at Temple Beth-el.”
“A rabbi married me,” I said.
Mary Alice put down a forkful of fried rice. “He did not. You and Fred got married at home by that Baptist preacher with the real red face. I thought he was going to have a stroke at any minute. And we didn’t even have nine-one-one at the time. All I could think of was how on God’s earth are we going to get this huge man to the hospital if he collapses on us.”
“You said a rabbi married Philip and I. It’s Philip and me. Objective case, for heaven’s sake. And while I was getting married, all you were thinking about was how red the preacher’s face was?”
“Rabbi Newman married Philip and I. I, I, I. Screw the objective case.”
Miss Bessie laughed. “You two sound like me and my sister.”
“They do it all the time.” Bonnie Blue took a bite of egg roll. “Eat your lunch, girls.”
“I can’t remember my wedding,” Miss Bessie said, “I hardly remember my husband, but I sure as hell remember my mother-in-law.”
Sister buttered a Parker house roll. The Hunan Hut’s cuisine is somewhat eclectic. “That’s one thing I never had to worry about, a mother-in-law.”
“Your husbands were all too old,” I said.
“But virile. I didn’t get those three children out of the air.”
“Parting shots.”
Bonnie Blue frowned at me. “Tell us about the wedding, Mary Alice.”
“We’re thinking about having it at the little church at Tannehill Park. You know that old church they moved there from somewhere out in the woods? And I want you to find me a dress like the one Carolyn Bessette wore because I want a picture on the steps of Virgil kissing my hand and I want the dress swirling around.”
Bonnie Blue rubbed her forehead as if she were getting a headache. “She was pretty skinny, Mary Alice.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be exactly like hers.” Mary Alice shoveled the forkful of fried rice into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “But what I can’t decide,” she said, after she had swallowed and taken a sip of tea, “is whether to have it at eleven o’clock and have lunch afterward, or at four o’clock and have a cocktail reception.”
“I vote for the cocktail reception,” Miss Bessie said.
“But there’s a problem with that, Bessie. The church is in a state park, so we can’t serve alcohol. I was thinking about talking to the folks who live across the road from the park and seeing if we could set up a tent over there by that little lake.”
I thought about the land across the road from Tannehill State Park. “That’s a cow pasture, Sister, and a pond.”
“No. Farther down where the sign says FISHING, TWO DOLLARS A DAY. That little gravel road.”
“Still a cow pasture.”
Bonnie Blue frowned in concentration. “Have the reception at your house, Mary Alice. You can set up a large tent in the front yard, and everybody wouldn’t have to be watching where they stepped. Somebody would probably show up dead in the pond, anyway, the way you two have been finding bodies.”
Mary Alice pointed a fork at me. “It’s her bad karma. The onl
y dead people I ever saw were laid out, until Patricia Anne retired. Except for my husbands, that is.”
“Didn’t one of them die on an airplane?” Miss Bessie asked.
“Roger. He didn’t even tell me he couldn’t breathe until we were halfway across the Atlantic. And by that time I could hardly make out what he was saying.”
By this time I had eaten my egg roll. Damned if my karma was going to take the blame for the bodies. I pointed my fork back at Sister. “It was your son who married Sunshine Dabbs, Miss Smarty. And I’ve got a permanent knot on my head from falling over that turkey she left on your stoop.” I leaned over to Miss Bessie. “See my knot?”
“Hmm,” she said.
Bonnie Blue frowned in concentration. “Can we back up here a minute? The problem is the time and place to have the reception. Right?”
“Just don’t serve potato salad,” Miss Bessie said. “That stuff is dangerous in the summertime, especially when you make a big batch. Folks would be falling out with food poisoning right and left. I was at a family reunion one time where that happened. Lord. Worst thing I ever saw.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “I wonder if corn salad would be as bad.”
Miss Bessie nodded. “It’s the mayonnaise.”
“Would you two just hush?” Mary Alice said. “I’m sure the caterers will make sure that everything’s fine.”
We concentrated on our food for a few minutes. Then Bonnie Blue said, “Well, if they do have potato salad, I hope they don’t put mustard in it. I hate mustard in potato salad. My auntie always puts mustard in her potato salad and wonders why nobody eats it. She sure knows how to make chicken pie, though. The best crust. Everybody fights over it.”
Another few minutes of eating. The waitress came over and freshened our tea.
“Actually, there’s another slight problem,” Mary Alice said. “Virgil, Jr., is an Elvis impersonator, and he’s going to be the best man.”
Bonnie Blue looked up from her almost-empty plate. “He’ll be wearing a tux, won’t he?”
Mary Alice shook her head. “Virgil says Virgil, Jr., always wears the white jumpsuit on dress occasions. He says nobody will notice it. Now can you believe that for a minute? We’re standing up there, the wedding party at the front of the church all dressed up, with Elvis in the middle, and nobody noticing?”
“Some things you just have to accept,” Miss Bessie said philosophically. “I wish I could remember my wedding. I wonder if there was an Elvis in it.”
“Y’all ever seen a black Elvis impersonator?” Bonnie Blue asked. “Used to be one around Birmingham. Had that white suit and big belt. And sweat! That man squished in his shoes. Looked like a fool marching down Fourth Avenue.”
“Well, hopefully Virgil, Jr., won’t sweat like that.” But Mary Alice looked worried.
“Too bad about what happened to that Elvis at the Alabama the other night,” Bonnie Blue said.
Sister and I looked at each other, but neither of us said anything. We didn’t have to. Bonnie Blue had caught our glances.
“Y’all were there? Should have known.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” I said. “Anybody want some more sweet-and-sour shrimp?”
Sister said, “Get me some.”
As I left the table, I heard her saying, “In the front row. He fell, splat, right into the orchestra pit.”
I was in no hurry to get back to the table and hear the saga of Griffin Mooncloth again. I went to the restroom and washed my hands, came back to the buffet, and loitered while the three women at my table still had their heads close together, engrossed, I was sure, in the Russian spy story. Finally Sister looked up as if wondering where I was. I got her some more sweet-and-sour shrimp and headed back to the table.
“I don’t want to hear any more about it,” I said, shoving the plate in front of her.
“Can’t say that I blame you,” Miss Bessie said. “You sure something isn’t wrong with your karma?”
“My karma’s fine.”
And I really believed that, until later at the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe.
I keep my credit cards in a little leather card case that Haley had given me one Christmas. It gets lost sometimes in the bottom of my purse, which means I have to dig around for it. That is what I was doing when the back of my hand brushed against something metallic. I paid the lunch bill, and we walked back to the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, where Mary Alice wanted to look at some pictures of wedding dresses. Miss Bessie and I sat down to wait and I casually looked in my purse to see what it was that my hand had touched when I was rummaging for my credit cards.
“I’ve got to quit dumping change in my purse,” I told Miss Bessie. “I need a smaller purse, too. This one is heavy as lead.” That was next to the last sensible thing I said. The last sensible thing I said was, “Call Bo Mitchell.”
And then, for the first time in my life, I fainted.
Ten
Fortunately I was sitting in one of the wicker chairs that Bonnie Blue has arranged in the corner of the showroom for people who are waiting for customers. So I just slid to the floor, the room reeling around me. I’m not even sure I totally lost consciousness because I heard Miss Bessie saying, “Patricia Anne?” and then yelling, “Mary Alice!” I remember Bonnie Blue propping my feet up in the wicker chair Miss Bessie had been sitting in and Sister wiping my face with a cold washcloth.
“I’ll call nine-one-one,” I heard Bonnie Blue say.
That revived me. “No,” I said, struggling to sit up but fighting nausea. “I’m all right.”
“What happened?” Sister asked.
Miss Bessie answered. “She just looked funny, said to call Bo Mitchell, and fell out of the chair.”
“Bo Mitchell? She’s a policewoman.” Bonnie Blue rubbed my legs as if I had frostbite.
“Confused,” Sister said. “We’d better get the paramedics over here. It may be a reaction to the Chinese food.” She put the washcloth against my throat. The coldness felt good. “Can you breathe, Mouse? You’re not having a heart attack, are you? Chest pains?”
“Sister,” I said. “I need Bo.”
“Don’t you dare try and sit up,” Bonnie Blue said, holding my feet in the wicker chair.
“But y’all, there’s a switchblade in my purse.”
Bonnie Blue held me even tighter. “And there’s a pistol in mine, but I’m still not gonna let you sit up.”
“You packing, Bonnie Blue?” Miss Bessie looked pleased. “I used to. Damn it was fun.”
Fun? Miss Bessie and a gun wouldn’t do to think about.
Sister leaned over me. “What do you mean there’s a switchblade in your purse?”
“There is.”
She picked up my purse and turned it upside down. Lipsticks, combs, wallet, receipts scattered. And thunk, a switchblade knife hit the floor. Six inches long with a brown bone handle with a swirled design, the knife’s switch was a small gold crown. Sister picked it up, mashed the crown, and the blade erupted almost cutting my arm.
“Damn!” I jumped back, dislodging my feet from the wicker chair and Bonnie Blue’s hold, and jarring my whole body as they hit the floor. “Be careful with that thing.”
“Lord have mercy,” Sister said, looking at the knife with awe. Bonnie Blue, Miss Bessie, and I also looked. “It’s rusty,” Sister said.
Bonnie Blue held out her hand. “Let me see that,” Sister handed it to her carefully, and she held it to the window and examined it. “That’s blood, sure as anything. Not rust.”
I had known when I saw the knife where that blood had come from, what the knife had been used for. But how the hell had it gotten in my purse? The room reeled again, but I closed my eyes and willed myself to be steady.
“We’d better call Bo,” Sister said.
Einstein was right about time being relative. I’ll vouch for the old fellow. The twenty minutes that we waited for Bo lasted for hours. Vicki Parker, Bonnie Blue’s assistant, had left for lunch as
soon as we had walked in from the Hunan Hut, so Bonnie Blue had to help the customer who came in looking for an outfit to wear to the Museum Ball. Sister, Miss Bessie, and I sat huddled in the reception area, Sister and Miss Bessie in the wicker chairs, and me semistretched out on the love seat. I felt better, not as if I would faint again or throw up, but every now and then I had a cold chill. The knife was back in my purse, which was lying on the end of the love seat. I was very aware that it was there.
“No, honey, that beige won’t get it,” Bonnie Blue said to her customer. “Everybody there’s going to have on beige or black. Let me show you this emerald green we’ve got back here. Cut down to your belly button, but you’ve got the figure for it.”
“I think I had an emerald green dress once cut down to my belly button,” Miss Bessie said, scratching her head through the holes in her hat with a crochet needle she had pulled from her purse. I wished that was all that was in my purse.
Sister got up and walked to the plate-glass window that overlooked Twentieth Street. “I wish Bo would hurry up.” Then to me, “You know we’re jumping to conclusions here.”
“What conclusions are we jumping to?” Miss Bessie wanted to know.
“That this is the knife that killed that Russian spy at the Alabama Theater the other night.” She turned back to the window.
“I haven’t jumped to that conclusion,” Miss Bessie said. “There must be hundreds of thousands of switchblade knives in Birmingham. Any one of them could have ended up in Patricia Anne’s purse.”
Hundreds of thousands? Lord. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. The first thing that Bo was going to ask me was where my purse had been for someone to drop a knife into it. The Hunan Hut? It had been hanging on my chair there. But one of us had been at the table the whole time. The Angel-sighting Society? The purse had been on the floor by my feet and Sister had been sitting on one side of me and a woman who had introduced herself as a Unitarian minister on the other side. Not likely. Last night at Sister’s? In a chair at the game table where the snacks were. Totally un-watched. I had just picked it up when I left and hadn’t opened it until I got ready to pay the bill at the Hunan Hut.
