by Anne George
I ignored this. “Fuchsia red?”
“Sort of mahogany but with some purple in it. Isn’t that fuschia?”
Not to me, it wasn’t.
“Sounds pretty,” Lisa said.
“Bye, y’all. Thanks for the coffee, Lisa.” Fred patted me on the behind, picked up his thermos and package of macaroni and cheese, and went out the back door.
“Pop’s a lot nicer than Alan,” Lisa announced. “Alan would have a fit if I handed him a package of frozen macaroni and cheese for lunch.”
I ignored this, too, but I felt a twinge in my stomach. Being a good mother-in-law might cost me an ulcer. I poured a cup of coffee, put a lot of milk in it, and sat down across from Lisa. I hadn’t taken my first sip when the phone rang.
“Anything going on next door this morning?” Mary Alice asked.
“As a matter of fact there is. A woman with fuchsia hair just arrived with a suitcase. I think maybe it’s Sophie Sawyer’s daughter.”
“Fuchsia?”
“Actually it’s sort of a mahogany. Fred called it fuchsia.”
“Well, the murder made the front page of the Birmingham News today. There’s a picture of Sophie, too, probably taken when she graduated from high school. I hate it when they do that.” She paused. “It doesn’t say anything about Arthur.”
“Why should it?”
“Don’t be dense, Mouse. He was the one having lunch with her when she was poisoned. The paper says it was strychnine. Isn’t that rat poison?”
“For heaven’s sake, Sister, I don’t know. And Arthur wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“You and I know that. But why do you think the police were over there last night?”
Questioning Arthur, of course. I sighed.
“Tell Lisa I’ll pick her up a little before eleven. I’ve got a call waiting.”
Not even a goodbye.
“Honey,” I said to Lisa, “Aunt Sister’s said to tell you she’ll pick you up a little before eleven. Where are y’all going?”
“She’s made an appointment at Delta Hairlines for me. She says I look more like a half-plucked chicken than a Spice Girl.” She ran her hand through her hair. “She’s probably right.”
And Aunt Sister could say it and get away with it; she wasn’t the mother-in-law. If Delta could do anything with Lisa’s hair, she could turn water into wine. But, like Brer Rabbit, I just lay low, reached for the Frosted Flakes and began to eat them like peanuts.
“And then we’re going to have lunch somewhere good. Aunt Sister said to tell you you could come if you wanted to.”
A lovely invitation. “Thanks, but this is the morning I tutor at the middle school.”
“Alan said you were doing that. I didn’t know you knew anything about math.”
I shoved a fistful of Frosted Flakes into my mouth, but it didn’t stop me from saying, “I can even do ratio and percent.”
“That’s nice.”
Actually, it was nice. When I signed up to do tutoring, I had assumed it would be English. A math tutor was needed worse, though, so I took the job. And Lord, middle school math is easier to teach than English. Probably all the math teachers would argue with me about that. But it’s such a relief to have one way to do it and one answer.
“Why don’t you go get the paper?” I suggested. “It’s probably in the shrubbery. Sister said the murder made the front page.”
While Lisa was gone, I headed back to the bedroom. I’d throw on some jeans and take Woofer for a walk. By that time, it would be time to go to school. When I got back from school, Lisa would still be out with Mary Alice. Another twinge of guilt hit me, but so did another twinge in the belly. Come to think of it, I’d been twinging all morning. I took a deep breath. Enough.
I looked over next door. Arthur’s car was still in the driveway, but there was no sign of the woman with fuchsia hair. Fuchsia hair? After I dressed and was walking into the kitchen, though, there was a knock on the back door and Mitzi stuck her head in.
She looked neater than she had the day before. At least she had on clothes and shoes. But her face looked swollen, and the circles under her eyes were an olive green. They almost looked as if they had been painted on.
“I need to borrow some milk,” she said.
This was startling. Mitzi never borrows anything. I’m the borrower, she the lender. This was totally out of character.
“Sure. Come in.”
She stepped into the kitchen and held out a glass. “Can you let me have this much?”
“I’ve got plenty.”
“Hi, Mrs. Phizer,” Lisa said. She was sitting at the table reading the paper.
Mitzi started. “Hey, Lisa. I didn’t see you over there. Are you okay?”
“I’ve left Alan.”
“That’s nice.” Mitzi handed me the glass. “I just need enough for cereal, Patricia Anne. Arabella Hardt, Sophie’s younger daughter came in a while ago. She and her sister got in some kind of a big fight. Arthur says he’s not surprised, that they never agree on anything.”
Mitzi’s hand was shaking.
“Why don’t you sit down a minute,” I suggested. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
She didn’t argue. “That would be nice. They can wait a few minutes.” She pulled out a chair and sank down at the table. “Say you’ve left Alan, Lisa?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lisa folded the newspaper and placed it on the floor beside her. Sophie Sawyer’s picture looked up at her. “He’s been committing adultery with a woman in his office named Coralee Gibbons.”
An office named Coralee Gibbons? The English teacher in me cringed.
Mitzi was quiet for a moment as if Lisa’s words were just sinking in. She took the coffee I handed her and stared into it.
“Well, don’t kill her,” she said.
“No, ma’am. I wasn’t planning on it.”
I looked at the two of them. They appeared normal.
Mitzi reached for the sugar bowl and nodded toward the newspaper. “Last night after the police left our house, I realized they think I killed Sophie Sawyer.”
I handed her a spoon. “Oh, Mitzi, of course they don’t. Why would you think that?”
“They asked questions like where I was the day Sophie died. And the night before.” She picked up her coffee. “What did they think I was going to say, out buying strychnine?” A shrug. “Actually, the night before, Sophie called and Arthur went back over there and I thought, Damn it, I’m tired of sitting here by myself. So I went to a movie.”
Lisa leaned over and patted Mitzi’s hand. “No way anybody would think you killed that lady, Mrs. Phizer.”
Mitzi patted Lisa’s hand. “Thanks, Lisa.” She took a sip of coffee and pointed her head toward the newspaper. “Did you see that big article about Sophie’s death?”
“I’d just started reading it.” Lisa picked the paper up and handed it to Mitzi.
“Well, let me read the highlights to you. They really messed it up.”
I joined them at the table as Mitzi read parts of the article aloud.
“Ha,” she said a couple of times as she read, the kind of “ha” that means, “that’s what you think.”
Mitzi put the paper down in disgust. “They didn’t even get her husband’s name right.”
Lisa got up and put her cereal bowl in the dishwasher. “Anybody want any more coffee?”
“What was his name?” I reached for the paper.
“Milton Sawyer. He was an outstanding man, Patricia Anne, some kind of la-de-da financier. One of Ronald Reagan’s advisers. The paper called him Hilton. Said she was the widow of Hilton Sawyer.”
“Anybody?” Lisa asked again, holding up the coffee pot.
Mitzi and I both shook our heads no. I scanned the article. The only new information which was especially interesting was that Sophie’s son-in-law, Dr. Joseph Batson, was the founder and CEO of Bellemina Health. Bellemina Health is a Birmingham based company which has hospitals all over the south specializing in dr
ug rehabilitation, especially for adolescents. And the company is growing like kudzu.
“You didn’t tell me her son-in-law was Joseph Batson,” I said.
“Who’s Joseph Batson?” Lisa wanted to know.
“One of the richest men in Birmingham. Started Bellemina Health,” I explained.
Mitzi sighed. “It slipped my mind. Arthur says he’s a real nice guy, too. Arthur handles some of the company’s insurance. It’s a shame that Arabella hasn’t had as much luck with husbands as Sue has. Her last one ended up in prison. I think he was a hit man for the mob. Or something.”
“Really?” Lisa and I exclaimed together.
“Something like that.” Mitzi drank the last of her coffee and pushed her chair back. “I’ve got to get home. They need the milk for their cereal.”
I got the milk from the refrigerator. “Do you need more? I’ve got plenty.”
“No, just a glassful is fine. I guess I’ll have to go to the grocery today and do some big-time shopping. I don’t know how long Arabella will be with us.”
“She was staying with her mother?”
Mitzi nodded. “The whole thing was a temporary setup, a rented condo so Sophie could be near the hospital. I guess if Sophie had gotten better, she’d have bought a condo or a town house and Arabella might have gone back to Chicago.” Mitzi took the milk from my outstretched hand. “Anyway, Arabella says she can’t stay in the apartment now, that it’s too lonesome, and I can’t say that I blame her.”
“And her last husband’s in jail because he’s a hit man?” Lisa was still stuck on this bit of information.
“One of them was. I think it’s the last one.”
“How many has she had?”
“I’m not sure. Several.” Mitzi took the glass of milk. “Thanks. I’ll talk to y’all later.”
“Wow,” Lisa said as the door closed. “A real hit man.”
I grabbed another handful of cereal, declared I had to go get dressed, and left as she picked the newspaper up again. When she started checking hit men’s phone numbers, prices, and availability, I’d step in.
That morning I had three students to tutor. One-on-one is by far the best, but it isn’t always possible. So in a little room off the library, Sharon Moore, Shatawna Bishop, and Shawn Crawford and I sat, trying to get negative integers straight. It was the first month of school, but I had tutored these three the year before and was well acquainted with them. The three S’s are not my easiest group. Sharon couldn’t be less interested. She can hardly see the plus and minus signs because of all the mascara loaded on her eyelashes that she bats at poor Shawn who tries to keep his mind on math, but who is a hormonal wreck at fourteen. Shatawna I haven’t quite figured out. There is a distinct possibility that she knows all of this stuff already, is bored stiff, but will do anything to get out of the regular classroom where she is even more bored. It happens, as every teacher knows; these are the kids who’ll drive you crazy. Even so, you keep hoping you’ll reach them.
After a fairly unproductive forty minutes of eye batting from Sharon, squirming from Shawn, and yawns from Shatawna, I told them they could go back to class. I watched them crossing the library and noticed that as Shatawna passed by one of the computers, she hesitated and patted it lovingly.
Hmmm.
I caught her as she started down the hall.
Oh, yes, ma’am. Computers were her favorite things in the world.
Then if I sent a note to her teacher, could she come back and look something up for me?
Oh, yes, ma’am.
There was no mistaking the delight in her eyes which were a startling green against her African-American skin.
I went back into the library and got a computer pass, wishing that Bill Gates could have seen the expression on Shatawna’s face. The schools of Alabama had been the first recipients of his foundation to provide computers so under-privileged children could have access to the Internet. They were for educational purposes, of course, but I told myself that Shatawna’s wandering around on the Internet on my behalf would be educational.
She was back in a few minutes. “What do you want me to look up, Mrs. Hollowell?”
“A man named Milton Sawyer. He was a financier. One of Ronald Reagan’s advisors.”
“Why don’t you just look him up in Who’s Who?”
“Because I didn’t think of it, Miss Smart Aleck.” We grinned at each other. “You see what you can find and I will, too.”
I couldn’t remember how long Mitzi had said that Sophie had been widowed. I figured I was safe with the 1992 edition, though. I hefted it down from the shelf and looked in the index. There were two Milton Sawyers, Milton P. and Milton R., both on page 426. One look told me that Milton Price was the one I was looking for. His birth date was listed as 1928. He was still alive when this edition had been printed.
“It’s Milton Price Sawyer,” I told Shatawna who was happily clicking away. “And he was born in 1928 in Rochester, Minnesota.”
“Okay. That’s a help.”
I went back to my reading. Undergraduate degree from Yale. M.B.A. Harvard, 1953. Founding partner Sawyer and Thorpe, Investments. Served as a special advisor to President Ronald Reagan. He also, I noted, had served on the board of directors of at least a dozen companies that I recognized. Railroads, cosmetic firms, even giant entertainment entities.
“Lord, Mrs. Hollowell, there’s over five hundred entries for that man,” Shatawna announced. “What do you want to know about him?”
I wasn’t sure. “Something about his family, maybe.”
A couple of clicks and Shatawna informed me that his father had been a doctor, a professor at the Mayo Clinic. His mother, Sarah Weeks Sawyer, had been a well-known sculptor. There were two older sisters. He married Sophie Bedford Vaughn in 1954. There were three children, David (1955–1974), Susan (1957), and Arabella (1959).
“He died in 1994,” she added.
I looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t know they had a son.”
Shatawna nodded. “Nineteen in 1974. I’ll bet he was killed in Vietnam. That’s so sad.”
It was. It was terribly sad.
Several students had come in to use the computers. A couple seemed to be waiting.
“You want me to look up anything else for you, Mrs. Hollowell?”
“See if there’s anything on Bellemina Health.”
“Spell it. I’ll look in Dog Pile.”
“Dog Pile?”
“You just type it in and tell it to fetch.”
Lord. I spelled Bellemina, and after a few clicks on the mouse, Shatawna informed me Bellemina had their own web site that was updated each day. Why didn’t she print it out for me? Mrs. Quick charged for the paper but not much, and it looked like a lot of stuff. I could just take it home and read it.
That sounded good to me. Reading about it earlier had reminded me that it might be a good Birmingham based company for the investment club to put money in. I’d study up on it and be able to make an informed suggestion.
Shatawna hit the print button and pushed her chair back. “You really ought to get you a computer, Mrs. Hollowell. They’re great.”
“Shatawna,” I asked, “what do you get if you add negative seven and negative five?”
She grinned widely. “Who cares?”
“Anyone who wants to get out of the eighth grade.”
No use. The grin didn’t fade.
I went to the school cafeteria salad bar and got a salad to go. At home, I fixed some iced tea and settled down in the den to eat and read about Bellemina Health. I don’t know what I had expected, but it was boring. Today’s big web site news was that they were opening a new facility in Jonesboro, Tennessee, which would be headed by a Dr. Cranston Jordan. Dr. Jordan’s credentials, which were very impressive, followed. The only thing that really caught my eye was that this would be the forty-second Bellemina Health facility, the fifth to be opened this year. I put down my salad and got the newspaper from the kitchen table. Bel
lemina was trading at fifty-two dollars a share, up four for the year. Fifty-two sounded like a lot, but what did I know? Teachers aren’t big investors in the stock market. Neither are the wives of husbands who own their own small businesses.
I put my salad plate in the dishwasher and went out to speak to Woofer. We had never gotten to take our walk this morning. He came out of his doghouse reluctantly.
“You need to be out in the sunshine,” I told him, offering him a dog biscuit and rubbing my thumb over his gray head. “It’s warm out here. Old animals need Vitamin D.”
He took the treat and then dropped it on the ground, totally unlike him.
“What’s the matter, boy? You okay?” I knelt beside him and looked into his eyes. They seemed bleary. He lay down beside me and I felt his nose to see if it was hot. I know that’s not an accurate way to check if an animal has fever, but it’s what you do instinctively. His nose felt cool and moist.
“You okay?” I asked again. He stretched out, his head on his front legs.
“No, you’re not, are you?” I ran my hand down his back, and he shivered. I felt my stomach knot. He really was sick. I sat and pulled as much of him as I could onto my lap. Woofer is a blend of every breed of dog known to man. His head and chest are large, the rest of his body medium size. His legs are short, and he has a fan tail. We got him from the Humane Society when he was six weeks old, and he was listed as a mixture of Collie/Dachshund; the mental picture of that mating boggled my mind.
I was sitting there holding him when I heard the gate open.
“Hi, Mama.”
I turned and saw Lisa, a very pretty Lisa with short curly ash blonde hair. Delta had turned the water into wine.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I think Woofer’s sick. Come see what you think.”
She came over, knelt beside us, and ran her hand over Woofer’s head. “You sick, boy? You sick, Old Woofer?”
Woofer agreed that he was. He shivered again.
“I’m taking him to the vet,” I said, not waiting for her opinion.
“You want me to help you?”
“I’d appreciate it. I’ll sit with him on the backseat. Let me go call and make sure they can see him now.” I moved Woofer and got up. “Your hair looks great.”
