by Anne George
I nodded.
“Anyway, you see why I don’t want to have anything to do with him. He’s not a gentleman.” Mary Alice picked up her sandwich and began to eat again.
And I knew I couldn’t deal with him either. I could just imagine trying to talk investment club business with him and all the time seeing that car bump the tree. I’d have to call Joy and tell her to forget my being the financial partner.
Eventually I calmed down, took the soggy top off of my sandwich and got up to get a fork. The two men at the Phizers’ were down on their hands and knees looking under the house.
“What do you think those men are doing?” I asked. “You think they’re insurance adjusters?”
Mary Alice stood up and looked. “Probably. Or detectives. Looks like they wouldn’t have worn good suits, though.”
We watched them for a minute. One of them was pointing at something; the other nodded.
“Where did the fire start?” Sister asked.
“Under the back bedroom, I understand. And spread to the kitchen.”
“Gasoline?”
“I guess. The batteries were gone from all of the smoke alarms.”
“And they think Arthur killed Sophie Sawyer and then set fire to his house as a diversion? Fun and games.”
“Well, you heard Mitzi.” Then I remembered what Bo Mitchell had said about Arthur’s watching his rear. “No. I think they believe somebody else is involved.” I told Sister what Bo had said.
The men next door got up and brushed off their knees. One of them took a cell phone from his pocket and was talking to someone as he walked toward my house. In a moment the front doorbell rang.
“Mrs. Hollowell?” He was a small man with very black hair and olive skin. “I’m Joe Pepper. Arson. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Of course I didn’t mind. I invited him into the living room. It took Sister all of a minute to join us.
I introduced them and the first thing she asked was if he was a sergeant.
“No ma’am. Why?”
“It would be fun to be Sergeant Pepper.”
The man was too young for the Beatles. I could tell he didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. He smiled politely, though, and got out the usual spiral notebook.
Yes, I was checking on my dog who had been sick, probably bitten by a possum. No, I hadn’t seen anybody at the Phizers’. All I saw was a glow and then a flame and I called 911 and then the Phizers and told them to get out.
“Anything else?”
The firemen were there in about two minutes which was great. They smashed some flowers, but all in all, did a good job.
“We stood on the sidewalk and watched,” I added. “Then the Phizers came home with us.”
“Was it gasoline?” Sister asked.
“Some sort of flammable substance.” Joe Pepper closed his notebook. I noticed he hadn’t written anything. I obviously was not a font of information.
“Thanks, ladies,” he said. “I may be back in touch, Mrs. Hollowell.”
“He seemed nice but you sure didn’t have much to tell him,” Sister said as we went back to the kitchen.
I got a package of cookies from the cabinet and put them on the table. “You want your tea freshened?”
She nodded yes.
“How much did you have to pay Peyton Phillips?” I asked.
“What?”
“Peyton Phillips. Her retainer. Your own daughter said Peyton charges a fortune, but Mitzi hasn’t mentioned any charges. You weren’t buying Cedric a fishing license.” I poured her tea. “How is he, by the way?”
“Fine. He called this morning.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Hawkins. Why?”
“Mary Alice Tate Sullivan Nachman Crane Hawkins.”
Sister helped herself to several cookies. “I may not take his name. Or maybe I’ll hyphenate the Tate and Hawkins. That’s real English. Mary Alice Tate-Hawkins.”
She looked too pleased at the idea. It was time for a subject change. “Have you been thinking about any stocks to suggest next week? You are going, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. I’m going to suggest AmSouth Bank. Tick Al Jones off. I’ve heard they’re about to buy his bank out.”
“I’m sure that will upset him.”
“I hope so. Him and his Ruffner Mountain.” She reached for another cookie. “Just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
Among other things.
Sixteen
The next few days were fairly uneventful. The good late summer weather hung on with no heat waves, something we dread in Birmingham in September, especially if there’s no rain. September and October are always dry, and we depend on the occasional thunderstorms to see us through. This year was perfect, the late afternoon rains rolling in on time.
Woofer was feeling well; we resumed our walks. Lisa called and said she and Alan were going for counseling and they were taking the boys white water rafting on the Nantahala in a couple of weeks. One morning the doorbell rang, and the florist handed me a beautiful azalea topiary from Alan. I took this as a sign he was feeling properly remorseful.
E-mails were coming in regularly from Haley. I even sent her one when I went to tutor. Shatawna, delighted to get out of class for a few minutes, showed me how. “It’s so easy, Mrs. Hollowell.” And it was. I started shopping for a computer.
The Gateway store was down the street from Bonnie Blue’s shop, so I dropped in on her and we went to lunch. She asked about “what’s-his-name” and Mary Alice. She’d heard they were engaged. Cedric, I assured her, was fading like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.
There was no work going on over at the Phizers’. Big surprise. But Mitzi had stopped by and told me that she, Arthur, Arabella, Sue, Joseph, and the two grandchildren had scattered Sophie’s ashes off of Vulcan, that she thought it would be nice like in The Bridges of Madison County when the ashes blew gently into the river by the bridge. But they must not have done as good a job of cremating Sophie as they had Francesca.
“It wasn’t all ashes, Patricia Anne. Plus, some of it blew back on us. Sue fainted.”
“They don’t get much experience here cremating.”
“True. Looks like they’d have done a better job, though. They’re advertised in the Yellow Pages.”
She and Arthur were okay, though, getting settled. And they had gotten all their clothes from the cleaners. And they had put the stuff from the fire safe into their safety-depositbox. Arabella had admitted that she had not been staying with Sophie all the time, but had been staying with a friend close by so she could check on her frequently.
“A man, I assume,” Mitzi said. “She didn’t volunteer any names.”
“But why would she have lied about it?”
“Didn’t want us to think she was neglecting Sophie, I guess.”
That didn’t make a grain of sense, but not much about the Sawyer family had.
Things seemed so peaceful that first part of September, it surprised me to look out of the kitchen window and see the Phizers’ charred kitchen, to remember that Arthur was out on bail, charged with murder.
I used the time well, though. I studied the Beardstown Ladies’ Common Sense Investment Guide, watched the stock market analysts on TV, and bought several Wall Street Journals. I even requested and received the annual report for Bellemina Health. I’d told Joy McWain that I wouldn’t be the financial partner, but that wouldn’t stop me from doing my homework. And Bellemina Health was the way to go.
When Mary Alice picked me up for the next meeting, she was wearing what looked suspiciously like a bullfighter’s outfit: black pants that fit her lower legs tightly, a white shirt, and a red cape. I was pretty sure I knew who the bull was.
“Nice outfit,” I lied. “Did you get it at Bonnie Blue’s?”
She shook her head no. “Bought it on one of those TV shopping networks. This woman who used to be on The Young and the Restless designed it. I tell you they’re all int
o that now. I think that’s one of the stocks we ought to buy. They’re making fortunes selling stuff on TV.”
“Buy shopping network stock? I thought you were going to recommend AmSouth.”
“Changed my mind. That was just to bug Al Jones.”
When we got to the meeting, Miss Bessie, the lady who had been scalped, had saved us seats and waved to us. Today she was wearing a pink crocheted hat. Alcorn Jones was at a table by the door, pouring himself some coffee. Sister swished by him on her ballet slippers. Torro!
If the bull saw the red flag, he ignored it.
We got a lot done that day. The partners were chosen, a committee was appointed to write the partnership agreement, and those who were ready suggested stocks. Carnival Cruise Lines was mentioned as a possibility because Kathie Lee was their spokesperson and Cody had been conceived on a Carnival Cruise. And, bless her heart, Kathie Lee had held up her head through all of her troubles.
“She’s a real Christian,” the Baptist lady said.
“Any of the cruise lines would be a good investment,” Alcorn Jones agreed. “They’re certainly popular. Most of them aren’t American companies, though. I think Carnival is Liberian.”
A lady in a purple suit spoke up. “That’s the truth. I went on a cruise and most of the crew didn’t speak English. I don’t remember if it was Carnival or not. The food was great, though.”
“What about Wal-Mart?” another lady said. “Kathie Lee does Wal-Mart, too.”
Miss Bessie spoke up. “I like Kathie Lee, but I don’t like that Gelman. He’s too full of himself.”
“Regis is nice. And so is Joy,” someone added.
Everyone agreed that was so.
When my turn came and I recommended Bellemina Health, Alcorn Jones was enthusiastic. He would have mentioned it if I hadn’t. Nowhere but up. Great buy. Locally headquartered, too.
Mary Alice recommended AmSouth Bank; Alcorn Jones looked pained. Torro!
“I don’t know about that Bellemina Health stock,” Miss Bessie informed me later. She, Sister, and I were doing some serious eating at a restaurant in Homewood where you could get two vegetables, meat, cornbread, and tea for $4.99. “I’ve known that Joseph Batson all his life. His family lived next door to us when he was growing up. Mean as a snake. I wouldn’t let my kids play with him.”
“What did he do?” Mary Alice dipped a piece of country fried steak into her mashed potatoes, swished it around, and lifted it, coated, to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Lord, that’s good.”
“Beat up on them. He was just spoiled rotten. Change of life baby.” Miss Bessie followed Mary Alice’s example with the mashed potatoes, but held the fork in the air, potatoes dangling precariously, while she said, “Never thought he’d amount to a hill of beans. Just shows.” She put the food in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Helped to marry that rich Sawyer girl from Chicago.”
“What do you know about his family?” I asked.
“His mama and papa or his wife and children?”
“Any of them.” I explained about Arthur and how he was mixed up with the Batsons.
Miss Bessie nodded. “Been reading about that in the paper.”
“Well, Arthur Phizer didn’t kill Sophie Sawyer,” I said. “You can take my word for that. He was set up.”
“By one of those Batsons, probably.” Mary Alice motioned for the waitress to pour us some more tea. And did they have peach cobbler today?
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Miss Bessie said after the waitress left. “That Joseph was spoiled rotten.”
“We were at Sophie’s apartment the other day getting her some clothes when Zoe showed up,” I said. “She seems nice.”
“That’s what I hear.” Miss Bessie sipped her tea. “Her brother’s spent more time in his daddy’s hospitals than he has at home, though.”
“On drugs?”
“Alcohol. Something. I remember when old Mrs. Batson was sick and in a nursing home,” Miss Bessie frowned, “must have been six or seven years ago. Anyway. I went to visit her, and all she could talk about was how worried she was about Dickie. And he couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen at the time. Bless her heart.”
Mary Alice pushed back her already empty plate. “His other grandmother would have known it, too, then. That would be a good reason not to hand money over to him. I’d love to read that will.”
“But he’s already swimming in money,” I said.
“I doubt that,” Miss Bessie said. “Joseph Batson’s made such a success out of Bellemina because he’s got the first dollar he ever made.” She pushed her empty plate aside, too. “Of course, Dickie and Zoe will have it someday.” She burped slightly and patted her chest. “From both sides.”
But what if Dickie had wanted it right now? He wouldn’t have known that Sophie had made Arthur the trustee of the estate. He would have assumed that with Sophie gone, the money would be theirs.
But then I was back to one of the essential problems. They knew their grandmother wasn’t well. All they had to do was wait a while.
Unless. I took a mouthful of broccoli and chewed thoughtfully. Okay, Dickie was on drugs. He could have gone to his grandmother for some quick money. She refused, and he decided to hurry her death along. Then he found out Arthur stood between him and his inheritance. Get rid of Arthur. Set his house on fire. But could Dickie have planted the poison some way? The odds were against it.
“Is your sister on one of those chew-your-food-fifty-times diets?” Miss Bessie asked Mary Alice.
“She has an eating disorder,” Sister said.
I swallowed quickly. “I do not. I was just thinking.”
“She does, too. She’s anorexic.” Sister waved to the waitress. “Y’all want ice cream on your cobbler?”
We did.
The next day the peaceful week was over. Somebody shot Arthur Phizer in the butt.
I had just come in from walking Woofer when the phone rang. It was Bridget Phizer, saying that her father was in the emergency room at UAB, that he had been shot as he was leaving his apartment.
“Oh God, Bridget,” I said. “How bad is it, and who did it?”
“We don’t know, Mrs. Hollowell. Somebody shot him in the back. That’s all I know. But I’ve got the baby here. Could you come get him and keep him for a while?”
Of course I would. I didn’t even stop to change clothes.
Mitzi, Bridget, and Barbara were sitting in a corner of the emergency waiting room when I rushed in. Bridget was holding Andrew Cade and they all seemed to be in better shape than I had thought they would be.
“Here’s Mrs. Hollowell, Mama,” Bridget said to Mitzi who was reading a People magazine.
Mitzi looked up. “Oh, Patricia Anne.” Barbara moved over and I sat by Mitzi and took her hand.
“What happened?”
“He went out the front door and I didn’t even hear the shot. The man in the next apartment did, though, and went running out.”
“Is he conscious?”
“I’m sure they gave him a local. They’re sewing him up.”
“He’s going to have trouble sitting for a few days,” Barbara said.
Relief flooded me. “He’s shot in the behind?” I turned to Bridget. “You scared me half to death when you said he was shot in the back.”
“I’m sorry. Mama wasn’t specific about the location when she called me.”
“I didn’t know,” Mitzi said. “He had on his gray suit and he was yelling.”
“The neighbor banged on Mama’s door and called 911,” Barbara said.
Shot in the butt. Damn. Bo Peep was right. He should have covered his ass.
“Did he see who did it?”
Bridget answered this time. “No. They’re in the corner apartment. Whoever did it stepped around the corner as Daddy came out, shot him from behind, and ran back.” Andrew Cade lifted his plump hand to her mouth; she kissed it and spoke around it. “The police don’t think it was robbery. One of those damn S
awyers, if you ask me, and I told them so, too.”
“Mrs. Phizer?”
We all looked up at the young nurse who stood before us.
“Mr. Phizer’s all fixed up, but the police would like to talk to you. They’re with him back in the emergency room.”
“Was it bad?” Mitzi’s voice shook.
The nurse shook her head no. “Right across the cheeks. Both sides. We sewed him up so neat, he can still wear his bikini Speedo.”
The idea of Arthur in a Speedo bikini was more mindboggling than the gunshot.
“You want us to go with you, Mama?” Bridget asked. “I want to make sure the police know it was one of those Sawyers who did it. It’s been nothing but trouble since they showed up.”
“I’ll keep Andrew Cade,” I volunteered.
Bridget handed the baby to me, and the three of them followed the nurse down the hall. Andrew Cade’s face puckered up as he saw his mother leaving.
“She’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart,” I said. I reached in my purse and handed him my car keys to play with. My key ring is a small plastic cylinder filled with clear liquid. In the liquid are suspended hundreds of tiny colored stars that swish from one end to the other when it’s moved. Much like a snow dome. Andrew Cade was immediately fascinated.
There is no place in the world much worse than an emergency room waiting room and, believe me, I am not into suffering. I jiggled Andrew Cade on my knees (this child was getting heavy) and glued my eyes to one of the three TVs bolted high on the wall. Regis and Kathie Lee were on which reminded me of the investment club, which reminded me of Miss Bessie, which reminded me of what she had told us about Dickie Batson.
“Mama,” Andrew Cade said.
“She’ll be back in a minute, darling.”
Maybe it was Dickie who had shot Arthur this morning. It was possible. And it could have been Dickie who had set the Phizers’ house on fire. He might have been willing to wait for his grandmother’s death (or maybe he hadn’t), but Arthur could control Dickie’s inheritance for a long time.
“Hey, I thought you might be here.”
I looked up and saw Bo Mitchell.
