Murder Shoots the Bull

by Anne George

  The food was delicious. Conversation came to a screeching halt while we enjoyed it. I finally sighed with contentment and pushed my plate away.

  “Good thing you’re anorexic,” Fred said. “You left the bones.”

  He was referring to the fact that Mary Alice is always claiming I have an eating disorder. I’ll eat one sandwich and she’ll eat three and swear I’m anorexic.

  I smiled at him. “That was delicious. Thank you, sir.”

  “Anytime.”

  “You know what? Mitzi told me today that Arthur’s become a vegetarian. Vegetables are great, but I’d hate to give up a meal like this.”

  “Arthur a vegetarian?” Fred’s left eyebrow shot up. It’s a talent I’ve always coveted. I can wiggle my ears, but somehow it doesn’t convey the sense of sophistication of a raised eyebrow. To tell the truth, ear wiggling just looks stupid, even if I can do one ear at a time. Only grandchildren appreciate it.

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with being a vegetarian?”

  “He was at Shakey’s Barbecue today at lunch scarfing down a plate of barbecue big enough to kill a horse.”

  “Arthur was?”

  “Yes, indeedy. Arthur Phizer and a very attractive young woman. At one point, unless I was having a sudden slight stroke, I saw her slip a sliver of dill pickle into his mouth.”

  “Slip a sliver?” All this sibilance was confusing.

  “Slip slowly. Fingers definitely involved.” Fred motioned for the waitress, ordered each of us a slice of key lime pie, and then turned back to me. “Unless I was having a sudden slight stroke.”

  “Shut up,” I warned. I thought about what he had said for a moment. “Maybe it was Barbara or Bridget. Bridget’s blonde now.”

  “Nope. This woman was redheaded. Very attractive.”

  “You said that.”

  “Worth repeating.”

  “You’re sure it was Arthur?”

  “With a silly grin on his face. Or maybe it was a grimace from the dill pickle.”

  I frowned at him. “This isn’t funny. Mitzi wasn’t acting right today when she was over at the house. Surely Arthur isn’t mixed up with another woman.”

  Fred shrugged.

  The waitress placed our pie before us. As Fred reached for his fork, I grabbed his hand.

  “You do understand that if there is ever a hint of you looking sideways at another woman, your voice will be so high you’ll be eligible for the Vienna Boys’ Choir.”

  “Lordy! Cutting off your own nose to spite your face.”

  “I’ll find a good plastic surgeon.”

  Fred grinned. “Eat your pie. Your nose is safe.”

  I knew it was. Forty years of marriage and I was absolutely sure that Fred had been faithful to me. He might have lusted in his heart like Jimmy Carter but, like Jimmy, that was as far as it had gone.

  I squeezed his hand, let go, and ate my pie. For the millionth time, though, I thought about how different men and women are. If I’d been the one to see Arthur with a silly smile on his face being slipped a slice of dill pickle by a good-looking redhead, it would have been the first thing I would have told Fred when he came in. After all, Mitzi and Arthur are our dear friends. Instead, he hadn’t even thought of it until I mentioned Arthur’s name. For some reason, and I haven’t quite figured out why, I think this is why there are so few women politicians.

  We finished our pie, had a cup of decaf, and declared ourselves stuffed to the gills.

  “Don’t worry about Arthur, honey,” Fred said as we walked to the car. “If you were going to have a rendezvous with someone, you wouldn’t take her to Shakey’s where everybody in the world would see you.”

  There was some sense in that, but I couldn’t erase the picture of Mitzi sitting by her daylilies, staring into space.

  “You got a Tum?”

  I reached in my purse and handed him a couple. One wasn’t enough to do battle with five cornsticks.

  The September evening was still warm as we drove back over the mountain past Vulcan. I wondered how Mary Alice’s date was working out. I thought about how happy Haley had looked when she and Philip had said their vows.

  And when we turned into our street and our lights flashed across Mitzi and Arthur walking down the sidewalk, obviously out for an evening stroll, I didn’t even mind Fred saying, “See. I told you. Everything’s fine.”

  A couple of nights later when Mitzi woke us up beating on our door and screaming, I remembered how easy it had been to believe Fred’s words. They were what I had wanted to hear.

  Four

  “It’s me!” Mary Alice called the next morning as she came into the kitchen. I was in the bedroom changing the sheets, and she paused long enough to pour herself a cup of coffee before she came down the hall. “You need a cleaning service,” she said, standing in the doorway. “You could use some new sheets, too. A hundred percent cotton. I swear, Mouse, you can see right through those things you’re putting on the bed.”

  “Don’t you buy me any hundred percent cotton sheets.” It may have sounded ungrateful, but my days for ironing sheets are long gone. Blends suit me just fine. I pulled the sheets around the corner of the mattress. Not a wrinkle anywhere. “And I don’t need a cleaning service, either. Not with just Fred and me.”

  “Tiffany is mighty nice.”

  “She’s a doll. But I don’t need any help.”

  Tiffany came to Mary Alice from the Magic Maids. It was supposed to be a one-day cleaning deal, but Tiffany is taking on more and more of the chores at Mary Alice’s house. A cute young blonde, she looks as if her hands have never touched a mop. But they have. Tiffany is as hardworking as she is pretty. And, according to Sister, she’s a whiz at finding lost library books, a talent everyone could use.

  I shook a pillow down into its thin blend case and asked how the blind date had gone the night before.

  “Pretty good. I didn’t talk to Judson about World War Two.”

  “Just pretty good?” I plumped the pillow and pulled the spread over it.

  “I felt a little bad about taking advantage of him. You know. About what I’d told him.”

  If I could have raised my eyebrow, I would have. “That’s a surprise. Let’s go in the den,” I suggested.

  Sister put her coffee on the coffee table and sank onto the sofa; the springs screamed. “There’s something wrong with this sofa,” she said.

  “Just getting old,” I lied. “Tell me about your date.”

  “Well, he picked me up in a cab, and we went to The Club for dinner. Which was nice. But like I said, my conscience was bothering me. Just a little.” She stopped for a sip of coffee and sighed. “I just couldn’t believe it. My conscience seldom bothers me.”

  “And?”

  “We were eating our salads and I was about to tell him I was fifty-three and pleasingly plump when his girlfriend showed up, wanted to know what the hell he was doing.” She hesitated. “I assume it was his girlfriend. Unless it was his wife.”

  “Really? What did you do?”

  “Finished my salad. Then I had leg of lamb.”

  Sister’s answers frequently miss the bull’s-eye. You just have to help her aim again.

  “I mean about the girlfriend.”

  Sister looked at me as if I were the one missing the mark. “I didn’t do anything about the girlfriend. But Judson went chasing after her.” She finished her coffee and put it down. “I swear, Mouse, you’d never have known he couldn’t see. He didn’t bump into a thing.”

  “And he never came back?”

  “Nope. Sent a waiter with his apologies.”

  “Well, that’s terrible.”

  “No. It worked out fine. A real nice man at the next table asked if he could join me. He’s English. Visiting his daughter. And guess what, Mouse. He was at Dunkirk during the war.” Sister leaned back and smiled. “We had a wonderful evening. I’m seeing him again tonight.”

  I had to smile back. I swear this woman could swim a mile i
n Village Creek and come out smelling like a rose.

  “She was ugly as sin, too,” she giggled.

  “Who was?”

  “The girlfriend. Little beady eyes.”

  We were both laughing when the phone rang.

  “I saw Mary Alice’s car over there,” Mitzi said when I answered, “and I just talked to Connie and she said they want to have the first investment club meeting Wednesday morning at the Homewood Library. Does that suit y’all?”

  I turned to Mary Alice. “Wednesday morning for the investment club?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure,” I said into the phone.

  “Good. Connie said to tell you there’s room for a couple of more people if there’s somebody else you think might be interested. I’ll call you back and tell you for sure if it’s Wednesday and what time.”

  “Mouse, ask Mitzi if she wants to have lunch with us,” Sister said.

  I relayed the message.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a lot to do today. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hung up the phone. “We’re having lunch?”

  “You need to get out more often. There’s a lot more to life than cleaning house.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Let me grab a shower,” I said. “How about Chinese?”

  “I’ll call Bonnie Blue and see if she wants to go. I need to look for a new outfit, anyway.”

  Bonnie Blue Butler is the manager of the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe. She came into our lives when Sister made the mistake of buying the Skoot ‘n’ Boot, a country-western night spot out Highway 78 where Bonnie Blue was working.

  “Good, clean fun,” Sister had said. “Line dancing, sweet country music, good company.”

  The band’s name was The Swamp Creatures which should have clued her in on how sweet the country music was going to be. But she and her then boyfriend, Bill Adams, were into line dancing, the place was for sale, and she’s got more money than she has sense. What she bought was a passel of trouble.

  We met Bonnie Blue, though, and she is a delight. She’s as large as Sister with skin like smooth milk chocolate. I love to see the two of them together because they have many of the same mannerisms. I remember the first time I saw Bonnie Blue I thought it was like seeing Sister’s negative.

  Except there’s nothing negative about Bonnie Blue.

  “Girl,” she said to Mary Alice an hour later when we walked into the Big, Bold, and Beautiful, “I don’t know why in the world you come in here. You ought to go to New York and buy you some of those Versaces.” She hugged the two of us. “I mean it.”

  I watch Style on CNN. There’s a whole lot more to wearing a Versace than being able to pay for it. Let’s face it. My sister is not a runway model.

  “Put the shovel down, Bonnie Blue,” Mary Alice said. “I think I’d like a nice pants suit. Something I can just throw on.”

  “And off.” I thought it was funny, but the other two simply looked at me.

  “Well, you said you’re going out with a nice Englishman named Cedric tonight.”

  Mary Alice gave me what I swear was my own schoolteacher look. “And Englishmen are noted for their reticence, Patricia Anne.”

  “But you’re not.” Bonnie Blue put her arm around Sister’s shoulder. “You come on back here. I think I’ve got just the thing you want. Got it in today. Little gold braids on it like medals.”

  They went toward the back of the store giggling. I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue and sat down with a magazine. I can’t resist magazines that have tests in them, and this one was a good one—Are You Ready For Marriage? I got a pencil from my purse and passed the test with flying colors. The only question that threw me was “Are you turned on by his/her intimate wear?” I couldn’t say that Fred’s striped boxers that come in packages of three from Sears really turn me on. Particularly from behind where there’s that triangular gusset that Fred calls the ballroom. I did okay on the rest of the questions, though. I was definitely ready for marriage.

  “You like this?” Mary Alice had on a navy pants suit trimmed with wide gold braid around the lapels and across the shoulders.

  “You look like an escapee from H.M.S. Pinafore.”

  “I do not.” She walked over to a full-length mirror and studied herself from several angles. “I kind of like it.”

  “I do, too.” Bonnie Blue had walked up.

  Sister turned, trying to get the rear view. “Patricia Anne said I looked like I’d jumped ship.”

  Bonnie Blue turned to me. “You taking your estrogen?”

  “Yes, I’m taking my estrogen. I just think all that gold braid is a bit much.”

  “You couldn’t get away with it because you’re too little,” Bonnie Blue said. “But God blessed Mary Alice with the size to wear things that make a statement.”

  The pants suit was paid for and in a hang-up bag before I could think of an answer. Given all the women in Birmingham that God has similarly blessed, I realized Bonnie Blue was not going to be a store manager for long. She’s heading for bigger things.

  “Going to lunch,” she called to someone in the back, probably Katrinka, her assistant, who is a wisp of a girl. “Want me to bring you something?”

  “No thanks. I brought some yogurt.”

  “That girl doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Bonnie Blue whispered.

  We walked down the street to the Hunan Hut which had at one time been a Pizza Hut. It’s hard to make a Pizza Hut look oriental, and the new owners were smart enough not to do much to change the decor. They had hung a couple of stylized prints of big waves and long-legged birds on one of the walls, and painted the salad bar gold and red, a jaunty effect.

  People were crowded around the salad bar where the luncheon buffet was served. We staked out a table, ordered iced tea, and joined them.

  “Get a lot of rice,” Sister cautioned. “Some of this stuff will take the hair off your tongue.”

  I played it safe and started with a bowl of egg drop soup. I took it back to the table and started eating. Might as well. It would be cold by the time the other two finished helping their plates.

  “Arthur Phizer’s over yonder in the corner booth,” Mary Alice said as she put her plate down and pulled out her chair.

  “By himself?” I looked toward the booth but could see nothing but the top of a bald head.

  “With some woman.”

  “Redheaded?”

  “Grayheaded. That streaked yellow gray they put bluing on. Lord, that looks good, Bonnie Blue.” This last remark was accompanied by the pointing of a fork toward Bonnie Blue’s loaded plate. “What’s that stuff with the peanuts? I didn’t see that.”

  “Don’t know, but it looks good.” Bonnie Blue settled down for some serious eating.

  “I’ll bring you some, Sister,” I offered.

  I sashayed back to the buffet table, getting a good look at Arthur and the lady who appeared to be in her sixties and who did, indeed, have the kind of gray hair that has yellow streaks in it. She and Arthur were deep in conversation.

  I found the peanut stuff that Mary Alice wanted, put some on a salad plate and helped my own plate to a little bit of everything with a big mound of rice in the middle. By this time, I noticed, Arthur was holding the woman’s hand. Not just holding it, stroking it.

  Trusting that Mitzi would have done the same thing if she had seen Fred stroking some woman’s hand, I headed for their booth. Arthur stood up when he saw me, not an easy trick in a booth. Actually he was sort of hunched.

  “Patricia Anne,” he said, not flustered at all. “I’d like for you to meet my friend, Sophie Sawyer. Sophie, this is my nextdoor neighbor, Patricia Anne Hollowell.” He sat back down, figuring, I suppose, that he had given politeness its due.

  Sophie Sawyer smiled, a lovely smile. “Patricia Anne.”

  “Hello, Sophie. It’s nice meeting you.”

  “Sophie has just come back to Birmingham,” Arthur volunteered.

  “I’
ve lived in Chicago for thirty years. Birmingham’s home, though.” Sophie Sawyer eyed the plate I had fixed for Sister. “Watch that peanut stuff. It’s a killer. You should have seen Arthur’s eyes watering.”

  “It’s for my sister, but thanks, I’ll tell her.”

  Sophie was a very pretty woman, I realized, with wideset brown eyes and high cheekbones. She must have been a dramatically beautiful young woman.

  I said my goodbyes and headed back to Bonnie Blue and Mary Alice.

  “Who is she?” Sister wanted to know. “And did you bring me some of that peanut stuff?”

  “Here.” I handed her the plate. “And she’s a friend of Arthur’s. That’s all he said. ‘My friend, Sophie Sawyer.’”

  Sister took a bite of the peanuts and reached for some water. “Whoo.”

  “I told you.” Bonnie Blue pointed toward some Parker House rolls that the waitress had placed on our table along with our iced tea. Like most Chinese restaurants in Birmingham, the Hunan House is eclectic. “Bite into one of them.”

  “Whoo,” Sister said again.

  I decided I’d stick to rice.

  “He’s holding her hand,” I said.

  Sister nodded toward Arthur’s booth. I assumed she was asking.

  “Yes. And yesterday he was having lunch with a redhead at Shakey’s. Fred saw him. Said Arthur was being very chummy with her, too.”

  “Chummy’s about all you can get at Shakey’s and the Hunan Hut.” Bonnie Blue speared a dark brown morsel and held it up. “Reckon this is a mushroom?”

  I had no idea. “Yes,” I said.

  “Bonnie Blue’s right.” Sister had recovered her voice though it sounded raspy. “You can’t get too much hanky panky going in a barbecue place and a Chinese restaurant.”

  “Best hanky-panky I ever got was at Dreamland Barbecue.”

  Mary Alice and I both looked at Bonnie Blue, but she didn’t elaborate, just smiled and popped the mushroom or whatever it was into her mouth.

  Arthur and Sophie Sawyer got up, walked toward the door, and waved to us.

  “She’s very pretty,” I said. “I can’t believe Arthur’s messing around, though. I mean, surely not.”