Biggie and the Quincy Ghost

by Nancy Bell

  Emily Faye put her fist to her mouth and ran back down the hall.

  “Don’t you like her?” I asked.

  Brian shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t like her, or dislike her,” he said.

  I wondered if I should tell Biggie about that.

  Just then, I heard the grown-ups talking as they left the dining room. Lucas Fitzgerald came over to me. “Son, we’ve got a date,” he said. “That is, if you still want to help me at the museum.”

  I looked at Biggie.

  “Sure, you can go,” she said. “I’m going to have a little nap, then maybe go exploring in the shops for a while. We’ve put off our meeting until tomorrow morning.”

  As Mr. Fitzgerald and I walked across the street to the museum, I saw Rosebud get into the car and drive off. I wondered where he could be going.

  7

  When we got to the tall red-brick museum building, which Lucas told me had been the original First State Bank, Lucas stopped at the tall marble steps and took a deep breath. “Look around you, boy,” he said, sweeping his arms up toward the green trees and blue sky. “It’s far too fine a day for messing around with dusty old papers. What say, you and me take a carriage ride around town?”

  “Sure!” I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

  We walked down the sidewalk past little shops and offices, past the post office and a drugstore, until finally we came to the end of the business district. After that, we crossed another street and climbed a hill that took us through a neighborhood of houses, small but old. At the end of the next block, we came to a little park with tall trees, picnic tables, and playground equipment. Back toward the back, I saw a shed, open on three sides, and beside it stood an old gray horse hitched to a black carriage. The carriage had three pairs of seats, one behind the other, and a bench up front for the driver to sit on. A large man wearing a straw hat was giving the horse water from a bucket.

  “Hidy, T.C.,” Lucas said. “How’s business?”

  The man looked up and grinned, showing that he had three teeth missing in front. “Slow for a Saturday,” he said. “Ask me if I care. The city pays me and Belle here whether we ride or not. Belle was just tellin’ me, she’d ’bout as soon stand right here in the shade as to tote a bunch of tourists around.”

  Lucas laughed. “Reckon whether she’d mind taking me and my friend here for a little spin? This is J.R. Weatherford from over in Job’s Crossing, and he’s never been to Quincy before.”

  “Hop aboard.” T.C. emptied the bucket and hung it on a hook in the shed, then untied the reins from the hitching post before swinging himself into the driver’s seat. “Y’all want the five-buck spin around town or the ten-buck all-you-can-see?”

  Lucas looked at me.

  “I got nothin’ to do,” I said.

  “The works, then.” Lucas threw his cane aboard and hopped into the carriage. I wondered why he carried that cane in the first place. He seemed spry as a cricket to me.

  T.C. clicked his teeth and pulled the reins to the left. Belle gave us a sorrowful look, then began to edge toward the path that led through the park. The old buggy creaked and moaned as we bumped over the curb and into the street.

  T.C. picked up a little speaker from the seat beside him and commenced telling us in a singsong voice what we were looking at. You could tell he’d told the same story at least a thousand times before.

  “On your right, you’ll notice the old one-room schoolhouse, built in 1871. It ain’t been in use as a school since the early 1900s when the town built the new school over on Kelly Street. The city was about to tear it down and build a parking lot when Miss Hannah Byrd and her sister, Anna, bought it. Now it’s home to Hannah’s Handmade Fashions. And if you’ll look to your left, you’ll see the old cotton gin. It’s now an artist’s studio and gallery.”

  We went up and down a slew of streets lined with houses and buildings while T.C. droned on about what they used to be and when they were built. Lucas added comments and bits of information to T.C.’s spiel. The rocking of the carriage and the warm sun made me awful sleepy. In fact, I was dern near asleep sitting up, when the carriage turned and started going down a rutty dirt road. Pretty soon, I could see a muddy shallow creek ahead of us. On the opposite side stood a few dilapidated wooden buildings and a dock that was sitting up on a rise of dry land.

  “And this,” Lucas said, opening his arms wide, “used to teem with activity. This is the riverboat landing. See those buildings over there?” He pointed. “They were all thriving businesses!” His eyes shone as if he could actually see the huge boats swaying in the water and the workmen along the banks loading and unloading cargo.

  All I saw was a lonesome tomcat sitting at water’s edge hoping to catch a fish. Then, suddenly, the roar of a motor broke the silence, as a Suburban came barreling out from behind one of the old buildings. It was full of teenagers, and I know they were drinking beer, because one of them threw a can out right in front of us, causing poor Belle to rear up. They all laughed their heads off, and as they drove by, I saw a familiar face looking at me from the backseat.

  “That was Emily Faye,” I said to Lucas.

  “You better tell your granny to get you some glasses, boy,” Lucas said. “Why that little gal doesn’t go anywhere except where her mama tells her to.”

  I didn’t argue, but I knew what I’d seen.

  When we got back to the park, the sheriff’s car was parked near the shed. Deputy Elmore Wiggs strolled over to the carriage. The sheriff wasn’t with him.

  “Hidy, sonny,” he said.

  “Hidy,” I said.

  “Got a few more questions to ask you about the killin’. Now then, what time was it you said …”

  “Just a minute, Wiggs.” Lucas raised his hand. “This young man shouldn’t be questioned without his grandmother present. And anyway, where is the sheriff? You’re not in charge of this investigation.”

  Deputy Wiggs kicked the dust with the toe of his boot. “Sheriff’s in the hospital,” he said. “Appendicitis attack.”

  “Did he tell you to try to question this minor child?”

  “No, sir. Not exactly.”

  Lucas glared down at the deputy. “Then exactly what did he tell you?”

  “Well, sir, what he said was, he said I was to ask Miss Biggie to stop by his hospital room and have a little talk with him. Son, would you give your grandmother that message?”

  I nodded and hopped down from the carriage.

  When we got back to the hotel I ran upstairs to Biggie’s room and found her sitting in a chair reading some pamphlets. “I got these at the Chamber of Commerce,” she said. “This town certainly has a colorful past.” She put the pamphlets on the table beside her. “How was your afternoon?”

  “Okay,” I said then told her we’d taken a carriage ride instead of working at the museum. “Biggie, I saw that Emily Faye riding around in a car with some boys that were drinking beer. Does that sound like her to you?”

  “Nope,” Biggie said. “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Well, it’s none of our business,” Biggie said. “Anything else happen?”

  “Just that we saw that Deputy Wiggs. He says the sheriff’s in the hospital with his appendix. He wants you to come visit him.”

  “Fine.” Biggie got up and moved to the dressing table, and commenced combing her hair. “I’d like to have a word with him, too.” She looked at me through the mirror. “What do you think of him?”

  “The sheriff?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “He’s got hair growing out of his ears. Biggie, are you gonna help solve this murder?”

  “Hard to say.” Biggie looked at her watch. “Oops, it’s almost five. We’ve just got time to drop by the hospital before supper.”

  “Do you know where it is, Biggie?”

  “Yep. We passed it coming in. It’s just a few blocks away. Feel like a walk?”

  I nodded and before a cat could lick his fanny,
we were out on the sidewalk walking toward the one-story, red-brick hospital.

  Biggie pushed open the heavy glass door and walked to the information desk to ask which room the sheriff was in. A large lady with big blond hair pointed down the hall. “Room one-oh-seven,” she said.

  Biggie tapped on the door of the room, then pushed it open and stuck her head in. Deputy Wiggs was sitting in a chair next to the bed. The sheriff was propped up in bed wearing a pair of red-and-white striped pajamas that didn’t quite close over his big belly. His dinner tray still sat on the nightstand next to the bed. It had a small bowl half full of red Jell-O and another of what looked like plain boiled rice.

  The sheriff saw me looking. “I know,” he said, looking sad. “Pitiful, ain’t it?”

  I nodded. “Is that all they gave you for supper?”

  “Yup. Wiggs, get up and give Miss Biggie your chair—and get that tray out of here. I cain’t stand to look at it any more.”

  After the deputy picked up the tray and left the room, Biggie plopped down in his chair. I went over to the dresser and stood leaning against it.

  “So,” Biggie said, “I understand you’ve had surgery.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Emergency appendectomy. My wife rushed me to the hospital at midnight last night. They had me on the operating table by one.”

  “My,” Biggie said. “You seem to have made a fast recovery.”

  The sheriff winced as he reached for a water glass with a bent straw in it. “No’m. Recovery’s gonna take some time. You see, my appendix had ruptured and I have peritonitis. They’re keeping me in here for another few days, then I have to take it easy for six weeks. That’s why I asked you to drop by.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Biggie said.

  Just at that moment, Deputy Wiggs came back into the room carrying his tape recorder. He drug up a straight chair and set the recorder on his knees.

  “Put that away, Wiggs,” Sheriff Dugger said. “This is off the record.” He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pajama pocket and looked at it, frowning. “Mrs. Weatherford, I’ve been told you’re acquainted with Ranger Red Upchurch.”

  “We’ve met on several occasions,” Biggie said blushing a little. I think Biggie is sweet on the ranger.

  “The ranger was my first boss when we were both with the D.P.S.,” he said. “I would trust that man with my life. Red Upchurch says you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met and if I’ve got any sense at all, I’ll get down on my knees and beg you to help on this case.”

  Biggie nodded. “The ranger and I have worked on one or two cases together.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s what he said. Well, here’s the deal. Since I’m going to be laid up for a while, I’m asking for your help, and it may be a godsend.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, it’s like this, I’m not from here, doncha know. I come from over in Flower Mound. Know where that is?”

  Biggie nodded. “Not too far from here.”

  “Ma‘am, it might as well be Timbuktu as far as these folks are concerned. If your great grandpappy didn’t grow up in this town, you’re a foreigner. Only reason I got elected sheriff is because it’s a job no local would have on a bet. Mostly, what I do is control tourists and the transients staying in the motels out along Highway 20.” He licked his lips. “Now then, one of their own has done got themselves killed. That’s the first problem I got. Not only that, it’s a pretty good bet one of their own did the killin’. Follow my drift?”

  “They’re not going to tell you diddley.”

  “Gawd damn! Upchurch was right. You are fast on the uptake.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open. Report back to me. Mrs. Weatherford, I don’t have to brief you very much. Red Upchurch says I should just give you your head.”

  “What do you know so far?” Biggie asked.

  The sheriff nodded to Wiggs who took a little notebook out of his pocket and began to talk. “Hmm, let’s see. ’Course we had to go out and notify the girl’s family. They took it pretty hard, but when we tried to question them about her life here in town, they clammed up. Said she’d picked up biggity ideas since she came to town and they don’t hardly know her no more.”

  The sheriff nodded. “That’s right. I reckon the county will have to bury the poor girl, because those sorry Baughs say they don’t have the money to hold a funeral. I reckon they’re right about that. Old Mule Baugh used to operate a pretty profitable still out in the woods, but since the county voted wet, his income dried up. Now, all he gets is a little from his vegetable stand out by the road. ’Course, they pretty much live off the land out there.”

  “How about the others?”

  “You know as much as I do,” the sheriff said. “They all say they didn’t know her very well. She did work for Hen Lester a couple of months last summer, but that’s all.”

  “What about the casket salesman?”

  “Nothing, so far. I’m waiting for a report from the county up in Arkansas where he came from. I’ll have Wiggs let you know what we find out.” The sheriff lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes. “That’s about it, Mrs. Weatherford.”

  Biggie stood up. “Call me Biggie,” she said.

  When we got back to the hotel and walked into the lobby wonderful smells were coming from the back of the hotel. Gumbo! It could only mean one thing. I raced down the hall, through the dining room, and pushed open the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

  Willie Mae was standing at the stove stirring a roux in a big pot. Rosebud, with an apron tied on, was chopping up onions and green peppers and celery on the table; I could smell French bread baking in the oven.

  I ran over to Willie Mae and threw my arms around her. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”

  Willie Mae looked down at me with what might have been a smile. “I come to help out Miss Mary Ann,” she said. “And what did I tell you about running in the house? Get you an apron on and hand me that bowl of shrimps out of the ice box. Then look in the pantry and see do you see any red pepper in there?”

  That night, we all sat down and stuffed ourselves with Willie Mae’s special seafood gumbo, the best in the whole wide world.

  8

  “It’s a lovely evening.” Biggie pushed herself back from the supper table in the dining room and patted her stomach. She had just polished off a big bowl of Willie Mae’s famous raisin bread pudding topped off with rum sauce. “I think I’ll take a little stroll around town. Anybody else want to go along?”

  “I can’t go, Biggie,” Butch said, brushing crumbs off his black velvet jeans. “I’m meeting Chip, you know, I told you about him. He owns the Gilded Lily Tea Room. We’re getting together with some of his friends to watch an old Judy Garland special on video. Don’t you just love Judy?”

  Biggie nodded. “How about you, Mattie? Feel like some fresh air?”

  Miss Mattie made a face. “Can’t,” she said. “Norman’s been having a hissy fit for me to trim his ingrown toenail.”

  “Well, it hurts,” Mr. Thripp whined. “I can’t hardly walk without pain.”

  “Why can’t you do it yourself?” I asked.

  Mr. Thripp stretched out his long legs and set one of his feet on the chair next to him, then leaned over. He bent over and stretched as hard as he could, but he could just barely touch his toes with his hands. “It’s a curse,” he said, “the curse of the Thripps. We’re all built the same, long legs and short arms.”

  “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Rosebud said, coming in with a tray to clear the table. “If that don’t beat Old Billy.”

  “I have to trim his toenails regularly,” Miss Mattie said. “You should have seen that man’s feet when we married. He did not have one single pair of socks that didn’t have holes in the ends.”

  “I’d had to go to a size larger shoe … .”

  “Ee-yew,” Butch said. “If y’all don’t hush, I’m just gonna to lose all my supper.”r />
  Biggie grinned. “How about you, J.R.?”

  Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. What I wanted to do was go home, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen until me and Biggie found out who the murderer was.

  Biggie turned right when we left the hotel and I followed her to the corner. “Hmm, if we go this way,” she pointed, “we’ll just see the shops, and I covered all them this afternoon. Let’s go the other way. That looks like a residential neighborhood.”

  The sun was setting behind the trees and a cool breeze rustled the leaves on the big oak trees that lined the street. We passed tall Victorian houses with terraced yards and fancy iron fences. Biggie would pause from time to time in front of a house and make comments. “Just look at that birdbath,” she said, stopping in front of one house that was painted green with rust-and-cream trim. “What would you think of us getting one of those to go in the middle of the hosta bed in the side yard?”

  “I don’t know, Biggie. I’m just a kid.”

  “Sure you are—but you’ve got your father’s good taste.”

  “Biggie, my daddy rented out porta-potties to construction sites for a living.”

  “I know, but everybody said he had the prettiest and cleanest portable toilets around. They only went to the finest building projects in Dallas.”

  “Yes’m,” I said.

  “So, what do you think about …”

  “Hey!” a voice boomed out from the front porch of the house. “What are y’all standing around for? Come on in!” Alice LaRue came down the steps holding a pitcher in her hand. She was wearing overalls with a white tee shirt and had no shoes on. “Come on up here. I just made a big pitcher of planter’s punch that I’m just dying to share.”