by Anne George
“Okay, sweetheart. Tell Charles I’m happy for you both.”
Astonished for them both was more like it. And to leave word on your mother’s answering machine that you were married? That was downright tacky.
At least I had something to think about other than Day Armstrong as a murderer and Larry Ludmiller on the verge of death. Marilyn had sounded happy. I got up and stuck a cup of water in the microwave. Some spiced tea would be good. I was warm enough to pull off my jacket, too. The shivering had stopped.
Maybe Marilyn would be happy. In cultures all over the world there were arranged, loveless marriages that turned out very well. And Marilyn was no spring chicken like I had been when Fred and I got married. I’d been so much in love that the first time I washed a tub of our clothes together at the Laundromat, I thought I would die of happiness. I’ve never told anyone that, not even Sister. Especially not Sister.
I was taking the water out of the microwave when there was a tap on the kitchen door. I looked up and saw Bonnie Blue Butler standing there, a couple of large books propped on her hip.
“Hey,” I said, opening the door, grateful to see one of my favorite people in the world. “What are you doing off from work?”
Bonnie Blue nodded toward the books. “I’m working. These designs just came in, and I wanted Mary Alice to see them. She was supposed to meet me at her house, but she’s not there.”
“Come in.” One of the books was sliding sideways. I caught it just in time. “She’s at University Hospital. Larry Ludmiller, Virgil’s son-in-law, was hurt at the Alabama Theater. Hurt real bad.”
“What happened?” Bonnie Blue came in, and we put the books on the table.
“Somebody tried to kill him, Bonnie Blue. Hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”
“Well, do, Jesus. What would they go and do that for?”
I wanted to say, “Because he saw her kill Griffin Mooncloth.” Instead, I shrugged. “Sit down, and I’ll fix you some spiced tea.”
“Is he going to make it? That’s the husband of the cute little girl who was in the shop with you. Right?”
I nodded. “It’s her husband. And I don’t know if he’s going to make it or not. He looked pretty awful.” I felt the shivering beginning again.
Bonnie Blue didn’t pick up on the fact that I had seen Larry Ludmiller, which suited me. I didn’t want to have to go through the events at the Alabama again.
“Marilyn just called,” I said, putting another cup in the microwave. “She and Charles Boudreau got married this morning.”
Bonnie Blue was the person Marilyn should have talked to instead of me. She clapped her hands and said, “Well, do, Jesus” again. And then, “Now isn’t that wonderful?” And I began to think that, yes, maybe it was.
“Mary Alice is going to be pleased.” I turned on the microwave and got out another envelope of tea. “Marilyn was considering the UAB fertility clinic. She really wants a baby.”
“Well, a turkey baster can do the job, but the old-fashioned way has got to be more fun.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I fixed the tea and took it to the table. “They’re going to live in condos right next to each other. Marilyn says she doesn’t think they could live together.”
“Sounds like a perfect arrangement. You have a fuss, you send him next door. Invite him to dinner when you want to. Send the kids over next door to play at Daddy’s apartment.”
“Oh, Bonnie Blue. You don’t believe that.”
“I know it.” She stirred her tea. “What do you want to bet that a wall gets knocked out in two months’ time?”
“We’ll see.”
Bonnie Blue was looking out at the yard. “Woofer okay?”
“He’s fine. That arthritis medicine has made him a happy dog. He even digs holes in the yard again. Chases chipmunks.”
“That’s great. I need to get some for Daddy.”
“Don’t tell me he’s quit chasing chipmunks.”
She and I smiled at each other. Her father, now in his eighties, is a renowned Alabama folk artist. He’s also a renowned ladies’ man.
“Not hardly. Just slowed down his catting a little.” She moved her tea to the side. “Let’s let that cool a minute. I want to show you what I’ve got picked out in these books. See what you think.”
I pulled my chair around. “What kind of books are they?”
“There’s a lady in Atlanta who designs wedding dresses for big, bold, and beautiful ladies like Mary Alice. These are some of her designs. She’ll also do the whole wedding party, but she specializes in larger sizes.”
Bonnie Blue had several pages marked. She opened one to a picture of a girl in her early twenties dressed in a white, strapless bridal gown that was probably a size four. “You have to use your imagination a little.”
I tried to imagine Sister in this dress and failed miserably.
“And then there’s this one.” Bonnie Blue turned to another page where the model was dressed in a clingy jersey number. Flat stomach. Perky breasts that would pass the pencil test.
“What do you do about underwear in this dress?” I asked.
“Don’t wear any. Get waxed.”
I cringed at the thought. I had an idea that Sister would, too.
We looked at several more pictures. Some of them actually had possibilities.
“We’ll need to get right on it,” Bonnie Blue said. “A couple of months is pushing it.” She pulled the other book over. “This is bridesmaids and mothers of the brides.” She looked at me and frowned. “I guess they could make one to fit you.”
Damned if I was going to feel guilty for being small.
Bonnie Blue glanced up at the clock. “I really need to get back to the store. Tell you what. How about I leave these books with you? You can look through them, and you’ll see Mary Alice before I will.” She drank her tea in one long gulp. “Be sure and point the jersey one out to her.”
“I will,” I said truthfully.
On the way out the door, she stopped and turned. “If Larry Ludmiller dies, it won’t have any effect on the wedding, will it?”
“I guess everybody would still be sad.”
“But they’d still have it?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“Good.” She waved and went down the steps. I swear she and Sister were cut from the same pattern.
I put on some jeans and a sweatshirt to take Woofer for a walk and then decided that I’d better wait as long as I could in case Sister called. I made a salmon loaf, stuck it in the oven, and cut up some squash to boil. There was a package of angel-hair slaw in the refrigerator. I dumped it in a bowl, drizzled John’s slaw dressing on it, and put it back in the refrigerator.
For a little while, between Marilyn’s news, the bridal gowns, and fixing supper, I had managed to keep Day Armstrong at the back of my thoughts. But as soon as I sat down in the den, she came whirling back. I couldn’t even concentrate on the new Oprah Book Club selection. When the phone rang, I grabbed for it. Her second victim was dead, I knew it.
But it was Debbie. Had Marilyn called me? What did I think about it? Was I as shocked as she was? Marilyn had said that the last thing she would ever do was marry Charles Boudreau, and what on God’s earth were they thinking about living next door to each other? Had I ever heard of such a thing? Did I think it would work out? Did I think Marilyn had lost her mind?
I admitted that I was surprised. And then I told her what Bonnie Blue had said about the wall coming down.
“I hope so. I know I wouldn’t want Henry living next door.”
We were both quiet for a moment, thinking. Then we burst out laughing. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t move her husband out sometimes. Just next door.
Then I asked her if she had heard about Larry Ludmiller.
“That he didn’t come home last night? Yes. Mama told me Tammy Sue was beside herself with worry.”
“No. That we found him at the Alabama Theater almost dead. Your mama didn
’t call you? Somebody had hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”
“Oh, my God, Aunt Pat. Where is he? Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know, Debbie. He’s at University Hospital. I’m waiting for your mama to call.”
“Oh, that’s awful. And poor Tammy Sue.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then I said, “Debbie, I think I know who did it. Who hit him. Who killed Griffin Mooncloth, too.”
“Who?”
“Day Armstrong.”
“Day?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure.” The shakes were back. “I just don’t know what to do about it. Nobody’s going to believe me.”
There was a mumbled conversation at the other end of the phone. Then Debbie said, “Aunt Pat? Richardena’s here with the children. I’m coming over there.”
Ordinarily I would have insisted that I was okay and that she needn’t bother. Today I said, “Hurry.”
“You could be right.” Debbie was curled up in the corner of my sofa. “I’d hate to think it, though.”
“And it is illegal to marry someone so they can become a citizen?”
Debbie nodded. “I’ll have to look it up to see what the law is exactly, but it’s illegal. Dusk would have been in trouble if Griffin Mooncloth had decided to report her.” She paused. “Of course, he’d have been cutting off his nose to spite his face because he never would have gotten back in the country again. But, you know, I can’t imagine what he thought I could do for him.”
“Dusk said he didn’t want a divorce. Maybe it was about some kind of legal separation hoping Dusk would change her mind, or maybe he thought you might know some kind of loophole that he could use to stay here.”
Debbie frowned and rubbed a spot on her sweater that looked suspiciously like dried milk. “But if Day recommended that he come to see me and thought he could work something out legally, why would she kill him? There’s something missing there, Aunt Pat.”
“I know. But I’m still sure as anything that she put the knife in my purse.”
Debbie gave up on the spot, which was going to take more than rubbing, and frowned. “You know, maybe she was protecting somebody else. Maybe she saw Dusk with the knife, and got rid of it for her. That would make sense.”
“I guess so.”
“Or she could have seen it on the floor at the theater and assumed Dusk was responsible and picked it up.”
“That’s a possibility, too.”
The phone on the table beside Debbie rang. She picked it up and said hello.
Mama, she mouthed to me. Then, “Just visiting. Yes, ma’am. She told me about it. How is he?” A pause. “What do they say?”
So Larry was still alive. I went in the kitchen, took the salmon loaf from the oven, and glanced at the clock. I opened the door and called Woofer. If I couldn’t take him for a walk, he could at least come in for a visit. But he was sitting by the fence eyeing a little white poodle who had wandered into Mitzi’s yard. No way he wanted to come in.
“Mama wants to talk to you, Aunt Pat,” Debbie called.
I picked up the phone. “What do the doctors say?”
“They’re still running tests. They’re going to have to do surgery.”
“What are his chances?”
“Not good, I think.”
“Are you going to stay there?”
“No. His whole family is here. And Tammy Sue needs Virgil to herself. I’m going to leave in a few minutes.”
“Well, come have supper with us.”
“What are you having?”
“Salmon loaf.”
“Dill sauce?”
“I can make some.”
“Then I’ll be there in a little while. I need to bring your chair anyway.”
I hung up and went back into the den.
“Did she say anything about Marilyn?” Debbie asked.
I shook my head.
“I guess she hasn’t checked her messages yet. I can’t believe Marilyn did that, can you?”
I shrugged. Worrying about Marilyn could wait. “Your mama’s bringing the chair Bernice Armstrong gave me for Haley. The rocker.” I sat down and looked at Debbie. “How can I tell the police that Bernice’s daughter probably dumped a murder weapon in my purse and chances are that she’s the murderer? I wonder what Miss Manners’s advice would be on that?”
“Does Mrs. Armstrong know anything about Dusk and Griffin Mooncloth?”
“No. She doesn’t even know that they were married. She thinks Dusk knew him in dance class.” The mention of Bernice and the chair had reminded me, though. “They have a grizzly bear in their house named Maurice.”
“What?”
“The Armstrongs. A real grizzly bear in their foyer. Stuffed. Got his arms up like this.” I held my arms up Maurice style. “Scared the hell out of your mother and me.”
“What?”
“Mr. Armstrong’s uncle shot him years ago. He’s molting, and it’s really sort of pitiful because Bernice is embarrassed by him, you can tell. I mean he’s standing right there in their foyer. But she says her husband treasures him. And he’s already had open heart surgery, the husband has, and damn it, I know it was Day who put that switchblade in my purse, and I don’t know what to do.”
Debbie handed me the phone. “Call Detective Hawkins, Aunt Pat.”
“But what if I’m wrong?”
“What if you’re right?”
“Hand me the phone book.” I dialed and left word for Tim Hawkins to return my call. No, it was not an emergency.
I gave the phone back to Debbie to put on the table. “Now,” I said, “let’s talk about something else. How about I show you the books of wedding designs that Bonnie Blue brought over.”
“I’m not wearing yellow.”
I got the books and sat down by Debbie on the sofa. I turned to the first one that Bonnie Blue had marked, the strapless one. Debbie sighed.
“And Bonnie Blue liked this one, too.” I turned to the jersey, the one that you couldn’t wear anything underneath. Debbie sighed again.
I glanced up. Her chin was on her chest, and her eyes were closed. Bless her heart. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a two-month-old baby.
I straightened her, put a pillow under her head, and covered her with the afghan. She woke up enough to smile slightly.
When Fred came in, she was still sleeping, and Tim Hawkins hadn’t returned my call. When Mary Alice came in, Debbie was still sleeping, Fred was taking a shower, and Tim Hawkins still hadn’t returned my call.
“Well?” I asked as Mary Alice came through the kitchen door.
“He’s still alive. That’s about all they know.”
I nodded toward the den. “Debbie’s in there asleep.”
She looked around the door. “Worn out, bless her heart.”
“You want something to drink?”
“I’ll get me a beer after I check my messages.”
I stirred the dill sauce and waited for her reaction to Marilyn’s message.
“How about that,” she exclaimed happily as she hung up the phone. “Marilyn’s finally married Charlie Boudreau, Mouse. I knew she had good sense.”
Sixteen
Supper was a quiet affair. Before Fred came in, I had told Sister I knew that it was Day Armstrong who had put the knife in my purse. I also told her that Tim Hawkins was going to call, but if the call came while we were eating, she was to take it on the bedroom phone and tell him what had happened, that Fred was going to have a nice quiet meal. “He’s still upset about my being arrested, and I don’t want to worry him anymore,” I added.
Sister rolled her eyes. “God forbid that Fred should be worried.”
“And don’t mention Larry Ludmiller, how bad he’s hurt, or that we found him. I’ll tell him later on.”
“Hey, the world’s going around, Mouse. Don’t you think he’s going to find out?”
I gave the dill sauce one last stir, put it on the back burner, and
turned off the front. “I told you I was going to tell him. It’s just that he worries about how we keep finding bodies. He says it’s not normal.”
“Well, it’s not my fault that people keep getting killed around here. It never happened before you retired.” Sister opened the refrigerator and got out a beer. I offered her a glass, but she shook her head. “The other day at the Angel-sighting Society meeting a tacky woman said, ‘Oh, you’re the one who keeps finding bodies.’ I think I’d have slapped her, if I hadn’t been a lady.” She held the top of the beer bottle by the knuckles of two fingers, tipped it up, and drank half of it in one gulp. “Besides”—she burped lightly—“Mama would have turned over in her grave.”
I was too tired to fuss with her or point out the obvious, the fact that she was the one who had gotten us involved in most of the murders with her harebrained schemes like the country-western bar and the investment club.
“Anyway,” I said, “just don’t mention Larry.”
“Okay. I guess we can talk about Marilyn and Charlie. I wonder what she wore. I’ll bet they just went down to City Hall like Philip and I did.”
“That was Roger. You and Philip were married by a rabbi and you wore an off-white chiffon dress.”
“Did I say Philip? I meant Roger, my old teddy bear.” Sister, I swear, has her husbands categorized as the lantern-jawed but sweet (Will Alec), the intellectual (Philip, because he read books), and Roger the teddy bear (I’m not sure why; maybe he was hairy).
Which reminded me. “Bonnie Blue left you some wedding dress books. They’re on the coffee table.”
“Great. Have you looked at them?”
“Some.”
“What do you think?”
“Some of them are beautiful.”
Debbie woke up when her mother sat down on the sofa. “I’m not wearing yellow, Mama,” she mumbled when she saw her mother pick up one of the books.
“Of course you are. It’s your color.”
Debbie groaned and sat up. “I’ve got to go feed Brother.”
“You want to stay for supper?” I asked.
“I can’t, Aunt Pat. I’m hurting.”
