Murder Boogies with Elvis

by Anne George

  I shivered again. Surely not. Maybe, just maybe, like Sister said, I was jumping to conclusions.

  “Here they come,” Sister announced.

  The bell over the door jingled merrily as Bo and Joanie Salk came in. Joanie has been Bo’s partner for only a few months and the two couldn’t be less alike. Joanie is tall, blond, and hangs loose while Bo is short, black, and tends to be a perfectionist. Bo’s ambition is to be chief of police someday, and the odds are that she will be.

  They spotted us and came over. Joanie had a lollipop in her mouth that she pulled out, wrapped in its original wrapper, and stuck in her pocket.

  “Thinks she’s Kojak,” Bo said.

  Joanie smiled. “I’m hooked on Dum Dum root beer suckers.”

  Miss Bessie shook her head. “Just don’t chew them. All of my children used to chew Dum Dums. Stayed at the dentist. Drove me crazy.”

  “No, ma’am. I won’t.”

  “Ice, too. They chewed ice.”

  “You rang?” Bo asked, sitting on the love seat beside me. “What’s up?”

  I reached in my purse, pulled out the switchblade knife, and mashed the crown. The blade swooshed out.

  Bo jumped back, startled.

  “Uh, that’s ugly,” Joanie said. “Where did you get that, Mrs. Hollowell?”

  “Found it in my purse. I was looking for my credit card at the Hunan Hut and felt something. When we got here I checked, and there it was.”

  “She fainted dead away,” Sister added, leaning forward to see around Joanie, who had knelt in front of me to examine the knife. “Probably not taking her iron.”

  Bonnie Blue said good-bye to her customer, who left carrying a garment bag. The woman looked over at us curiously as she went out the door. Then Bonnie Blue joined us. “It’s got blood on it.”

  “They think it belongs to a Russian spy,” Miss Bessie said.

  Bo and Joanie looked at each other, puzzled.

  “The Russian spy who was killed at the Alabama the other night,” Sister explained. “We were in the front row. I guess when he fell, the knife could have landed in Mouse’s purse.”

  I tried to imagine that scenario: the man falling into the orchestra pit with a knife in his back, which somehow became dislodged and flew through the air to land in my purse, which had been closed and on the floor under my seat.

  “The Mooncloth guy?” Bo asked. “He was a Russian spy?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Sister said.

  Bo took the knife from me carefully and closed the blade. “I suppose all of you have been looking at this, passing it around.”

  We nodded that we had.

  Bo handed it to Joanie. “Bag it anyway.”

  Joanie reached into the large black leather case that was hanging from her shoulder, took out a plastic bag, and dropped the knife into it.

  “And it just showed up in your purse, Patricia Anne?” Bo stood up.

  I nodded. “I felt it in the Hunan Hut and didn’t know what it was.”

  “Well, we’ll see what we find out. You go on home and get some rest now.”

  “And take your iron, Mrs. Hollowell.” Joanie reached in her pocket for her sucker.

  The bell jingled their departure.

  “Well, that sure didn’t take long,” Bonnie Blue said.

  “I guess that’s the end of that,” Miss Bessie added.

  Of course we all knew better.

  On the way home, Sister asked me if I wanted to stop by the doctor. “You’re still looking peaked,” she said.

  I said I didn’t, that I just had a headache. Which was true. Plus the sore throat I’d been battling for a couple of days.

  We rode in silence for a few minutes down the tree-lined streets. The green of new leaves contrasted with the darker magnolias and pines. Several people were working in their yards; one man was giving his grass the first cutting of the year. And last night a few snowflakes had fallen. Spring.

  “I’m sorry about Marilyn,” I said.

  “It’s okay. She told me she asked you not to tell me she was here.”

  I glanced around at Sister. She was being very understanding. I must look like death warmed over.

  “Did she tell you about Charles Boudreau?”

  I nodded that she had. “She said there was no way that she could live with him.”

  “I don’t think living with him was what he had in mind.” Sister dodged a pothole and nearly hit a pickup. “Get out of the way, fool,” she yelled at the hapless man driving the pickup. “Did you see that? He almost hit us.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember my mantra.

  “He comes from an impeccable gene pool. His grandfather or great-grandfather, I don’t remember which one, was governor of Louisiana.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Not the one who wrote ‘You Are My Sunshine’ or the one who took all his friends to Europe.” She turned onto my street. “Another one. You know, Mouse, sometimes I think Louisiana’s governors are more interesting than ours. Some of ours are just downright dull.”

  I tried to remember a downright dull Alabama governor but couldn’t.

  “But Marilyn may really be making a mistake. She’s got a bird in the hand here.”

  “As compared to two in the bush at UAB?” My heart was slowing down. I could see my house.

  “You know what I mean. Now don’t worry about supper tonight,” she continued. “I’ll bring something over around six-thirty. That’s when Wheel of Fortune comes on, isn’t it?”

  I pulled the visor down, looked in the mirror, and pinched my cheeks. No candidate for Miss America, but I didn’t look like I was about to step through the pearly gates.

  Sister turned into my driveway and stopped. “I know you’re upset about the murder weapon being found in your purse, Mouse, but we’ll get you the best lawyers in Birmingham. Debbie will know who they are.”

  “What?”

  “Not a thing to worry about. Now, how about some nice salmon croquettes for supper? You want dill sauce?” She clicked a button to unlock the door.

  “What?” I asked again stupidly. How had we segued from Charles Boudreau’s gene pool to my imminent arrest for murder?

  “Dill it is, then. Hop out, so I can go make some calls.”

  The murder weapon? The best lawyers in town? What happened to jumping to conclusions?

  I didn’t hop out of the car, more like a stumble. Mitzi was waving to me from her yard, and I headed toward her as if she were a beacon of sanity.

  “Dumbest thing I ever heard of,” Mitzi said. “To start with nobody knows if that was the knife that killed the Mooncloth guy. And even if it is, you were sitting in the front row of the theater with a hundred people around you who can swear that you were there. Mary Alice shouldn’t scare you like that.”

  I was sitting on the sofa with the thermometer in my mouth. “Unf?” I asked.

  Mitzi glanced at her watch. “Okay.”

  I took the thermometer out. Almost 101. Damn. I was really sick, and I’d been blaming my symptoms on being upset about Marilyn and on Griffin Mooncloth’s murder. Even on the excitement of Haley’s homecoming. The fainting today I had blamed on the switchblade.

  Mitzi took the thermometer and looked at it. “Yep. We’re calling the doctor, girl. I knew when I felt your arm that you had a fever.”

  “I’ll just take some aspirin. I’ll feel better.”

  Mitzi shook her head. “You told me the day before yesterday that you weren’t feeling good. You had me look at your eyes.”

  I rubbed the knot on my head, which had almost disappeared.

  “That’s not what’s wrong,” Mitzi said, noticing my gesture. “And you’d better go see about it. You don’t want to expose anybody.”

  As if I hadn’t exposed a hundred or so people. I reached for the phone to call the doctor.

  “I’ll drive you,” Mitzi volunteered.

  “I’ve just got the sinus,” I said.

  Which, of course, wa
s true. Given the high pollen count, plus the humidity and the change in temperatures, half the population of Birmingham snuffles through the spring. And to us, it’s not sinusitis. It’s the sinus. Haley’s husband, Philip, is an ear, nose, and throat doctor, one reason that Fred happily blessed the marriage. Free treatment for the sinus. Imagine.

  But free treatment was a few weeks away, so it was our GP who, after a quick strep test, which was negative, informed me that I had the sinus.

  “I won’t be contagious long, will I?”

  “You’re probably not contagious now.” She handed me some sample packets of medicine and a prescription. “This will take care of it.”

  “Now all I have to worry about is being accused of murder,” I told Mitzi on the way home.

  “Tell me the whole story again,” Mitzi said.

  Which I did, starting with Dusk Armstrong and ending with the dinner party the night before with Virgil’s family.

  “One of them had to put the knife in your purse, didn’t they?”

  “It stands to reason. It was sitting there on the game table.” I thought for a minute. “My guess is Larry Ludmiller. He was the one standing next to the Mooncloth guy in the line.”

  Mitzi stopped at a light. “But what would his motive have been?”

  I shrugged. “I guess it’s up to the police to find out.”

  “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, that the Russian guy had an appointment with Debbie. Out of all the lawyers in Birmingham, why Debbie?”

  “He got her name out of the phone book?”

  “What are the odds against that, Patricia Anne?”

  “Pretty far-fetched.”

  “So let’s say somebody recommended her. Who would it have been?”

  “All of Virgil’s family would be familiar with her name and the fact that she’s a lawyer.” I thought for a moment. “With the exception of Larry’s sister. She probably wouldn’t know.” I sighed. “I hate to think of someone in Virgil’s family being mixed up in this.”

  “I’m sure Mary Alice does, too.”

  I agreed. “Virgil seems like the nicest man in the world, but she’s only known him a couple of months. I’m sure she’s beginning to realize that there’s a lot about him that she doesn’t know.”

  “And vice versa.”

  We looked at each other and grinned. I wondered how many of the wedding plans Sister had told Virgil.

  Mitzi turned into her driveway. “Why don’t you go get on your nightgown and crawl in bed? I’ll walk Woofer for you.”

  It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I took two of the doctor’s pills as instructed, fixed myself a cup of hot tea, and put on my nightgown and robe. I had just settled on the sofa when the phone rang.

  “Aunt Pat?” It was Marilyn’s voice. “Is everything all right?”

  “I have the sinus. I’ve just gotten back from the doctor.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “But if you mean is your mother speaking to me, yes.”

  “Good. When are Haley and Philip getting home?”

  “The first of April.”

  “I’m going to come back to meet them.”

  “They’ll be jet-lagged.”

  “I just want to see them.”

  “Okay, honey, I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Get to feeling better, Aunt Pat, and thanks for putting up with me.”

  “I will, honey. And you’re welcome anytime. You know that.”

  “I know. Bye, Aunt Pat.”

  I hung up the phone thinking about my three children and Sister’s three, all of whom were in their mid-to late thirties. With the exception of my Alan, they had all put off marriage and having children until recently. When I was Marilyn’s age, I had had a son in college and two teenagers right behind him.

  I pulled the afghan over me and rubbed Muffin between the ears, remembering how old I had felt. On my fortieth birthday I had known there would be no more children. And here were my nieces and daughter just starting their families. Which way was better?

  “I’m keeping you,” I whispered to Muffin.

  And then I slept.

  Eleven

  Fred woke me up when he came in around five-thirty. I told him I had the sinus, and he felt my head to see if I had any fever. I told him that Mary Alice was bringing supper. I didn’t tell him that someone had dumped a switchblade in my purse. There was no use worrying him and, besides, for some strange reason I felt guilty about it. How many wives greet their husbands when they get home from work with, “Guess what, honey? A bloody switchblade knife showed up in my purse today.”

  Muffin deserted me, following Fred down the hall. I turned over on my side and drifted, neither awake nor asleep, but caught in that in-between state where dreams seem real and reality seems like a dream.

  I heard Mary Alice come in the back door and I smelled salmon croquettes, but I was at her house. I was sitting on her sunporch and Charles Boudreau sat across from me telling me that he had impeccable genes.

  “Don’t tell me, tell Marilyn,” I said.

  “Tell Marilyn what?” Sister asked.

  I opened my eyes, and she was standing over me.

  “I was talking to Charles Boudreau,” I said.

  “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  “I have the sinus. Mitzi took me to the doctor.”

  She sat down at the foot of the sofa. “I found out something.”

  I was still drifting. “What?”

  “Something about that Mooncloth guy.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was an illegal alien. The time had run out on his cultural-exchange visa, and he hadn’t left.”

  I turned over, opened both eyes, and looked at Sister. “How’d you find this out?”

  “Virgil. He said the Birmingham police called the New York City Ballet to see if they could get in touch with his family, and the folks up there said the immigration people had been there looking for him.”

  “Well, couldn’t he just have gone to the State Department and told them he wanted to defect?”

  Sister looked at me as if I had lost my senses. “Not if he was a spy.”

  “Who said he was a spy?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, somebody must have.”

  I rubbed my forehead. Sister asked if I wanted some more aspirin. I nodded that I did.

  She was back in a minute with two aspirins and a glass of water. I propped up against the pillows and took them from her.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.

  I had no idea. I swallowed the aspirin and shook my head. Sister sat on the end of the sofa, folded her hands, and said, “It means that a Russian killed him. They knew he was going to defect and spill all of their secrets, and they couldn’t have that happen.”

  Sister had a faraway look in her eyes.

  I said, “You’re writing a new story, aren’t you?”

  “I’m getting an idea for one.”

  “Well, in your story, was it a Russian agent who stashed the switchblade in my purse?”

  “Could have been.”

  “Was this Russian agent’s name Larry, Buddy, or Tammy Sue? They were the only ones who had access to my purse, Sister.”

  “I think her name was Olivia.” Sister looked at me and grinned.

  “What did Virgil say about the knife?”

  The grin disappeared. “He said he didn’t like it.”

  I hadn’t liked it much myself.

  “You told Fred?” Sister asked.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance yet.” Which was a lie.

  “Told me what?” Fred was standing in the doorway.

  Sister didn’t miss a beat. “That a Russian agent dropped the switchblade that he used to kill that Mooncloth guy into Mouse’s purse.”

  Fred looked puzzled. Then his face brightened. “Are you working on one of your stories?”

  Sister
nodded.

  “Sounds like a good one. Is that salmon croquettes I smell?”

  Sister nodded again. “With dill sauce.”

  He couldn’t say later that he hadn’t been told. And the evening was peaceful. Fred and Sister ate the croquettes and I ate yogurt. The guy on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire won $500,000 and could pay off his student loans, and Griffin Mooncloth’s name wasn’t mentioned again. All in all, a nice evening, even with the sinus.

  Of course, the next morning all hell broke loose.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking orange juice and looking at the newspaper when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. I had been up only a few minutes, had on my old pink chenille robe, and still felt miserable. Probably that Charles Boudreau again or a UPS package. I put Muffin down from my lap and went to the door.

  When I looked through the peephole I saw two well-dressed, middle-aged men. Mormon missionaries? Jehovah’s Witnesses? I opened the door, leaving the chain on.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Hollowell?” The older of the two men said. He looked to be in his early forties, but he had a lot of white hair. The other man reminded me of Ron Howard, still little Opie to me, with a bald head and a fringe of red hair.

  “Yes?”

  White Hair held out a wallet with a badge in it. “Mrs. Hollowell, I’m Detective Hawkins, and this is Detective Blankenship. Would you open the door, please?”

  “I’m not feeling well this morning. How can I help you?”

  “Oh, hell, Mrs. Hollowell,” White Hair said. “Excuse the language, Mrs. Hollowell, but I was scared it was you. I told Jasper here, I said, ‘Jasper, I’ll bet you anything it’s my favorite English teacher from Robert Anderson High.’ It’s me, Tim Hawkins, Mrs. Hollowell. Second row on the left. Long black hair. Wrote my research paper on Matthew Arnold. ‘Dover Beach.’ ‘Ah, love, let us be true / To one another.’”

  Jasper Blankenship snickered. Tim Hawkins gave him the look that probably turned Lot’s wife into stone.

  The pieces began to fall into place. The white hair had thrown me. “Timmy? My goodness.” I took the chain off the door. “Of course you can come in. Just don’t look at me or the house. I’ve got the sinus.”