Murder Shoots the Bull

by Anne George

  “Sorry, Aunt Pat. Both of the girls wanted the same doll.” Debbie sounded out of breath. “I got so busy telling you about Dickie Batson, that I didn’t ask why you called.”

  “Believe it or not, I called to see if you’d heard anything from Peyton.”

  “Well, I answered that, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did. Where’s your mother tonight? I tried to call her.”

  “One of her meetings. The museum, I think. Maybe the botanical gardens. How’s the investment club going?”

  “Fine. I recommended Bellemina Health. I wonder what Dickie’s arrest will do to it.”

  “Probably nothing. They have a good track record. People will sympathize with the Batsons.”

  “Well, I sure do.” I was about to tell her goodbye when I remembered something else I had called for. “Debbie, if a will’s been probated, can anyone read it?”

  “Sure, Aunt Pat. After they’re admitted into probate, they’re on file in probate court on the first floor of the courthouse. Why?”

  “Just being nosy, actually. I thought I’d like to read Sophie Sawyer’s will. Now that we know Dickie may be responsible, though, I don’t guess it matters.”

  “I’m sure it’s interesting reading. I can’t imagine having that kind of money.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to.” After I hung up, I went in to tell Fred the news. He was deep into the ballgame.

  “Figures,” he said. “Screwed up kid. Hope his daddy doesn’t get him out of it.” He looked around me at the TV.

  It flew all over me. He could have asked some questions, shown some concern. “Fred Hollowell,” I said. “I’ve been married to you for forty years, and I don’t like you.”

  “Sure you do.”

  The dishtowel I had in my hand didn’t do a bit of harm when I popped him with it, though it did surprise him.

  Well, Lisa would want to know. I got my grandson, Sam, who informed me that his mother and daddy were out on the patio talking.

  “They don’t want us to hear what they’re saying so they have the door pulled shut. Wait a minute, Grandma, and I’ll get her.”

  “Never mind, honey. Just tell her it was probably Dickie Batson who did it. Okay?”

  “Did what?”

  “Your mama will know.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell her. Dickie Batson.”

  I hung up the phone, walked into the den, and picked up my smocking.

  “Lisa and Alan are talking, Fred.”

  “That’s good, honey.”

  “But they’re on the patio with the door closed so the boys can’t hear what they’re saying.”

  “That’s real good.”

  I thought about it for a minute. He was right.

  Eighteen

  Arthur was feeling better the next afternoon when I called, but was mean as a snake, according to Mitzi.

  “It hurts him to walk and to sit down. I got him one of those hemorrhoid doughnuts to sit on, but it doesn’t help a bit. You wouldn’t think everything would be that connected, would you.”

  Made sense to me. I told her we would wait until the next day to come see him. She admitted that would probably be best.

  “And don’t think about bringing flowers. The house is full. Joseph and Sue Batson have emptied out a couple of florist shops.”

  “Maybe it made them feel better.”

  “I don’t know. They’re both furious with the police. They believe Dickie didn’t do it.”

  “But I thought somebody saw him.”

  “Described the car and part of the tag number. But Dickie swears he was asleep at his apartment when it happened.” She paused. “Of course he says he was alone so he doesn’t have an alibi, and they found the gun there that had just been shot.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I hope he’s telling the truth. I don’t see how that’s possible, but I hope he didn’t do it.”

  Sweet Mitzi. If someone had shot Fred, I’d have been mad as a hornet’s nest.

  “And what about the arson? Do the police think he did that, too?”

  “He’s not charged with it, but they’re investigating it. If he did, I’m telling you, Patricia Anne, I hope he ends up under the jail.”

  So much for Mitzi’s bid for sainthood.

  “Where is Dickie now?” I asked.

  “Out on bail, just like Arthur is. Has it ever occurred to you, Patricia Anne, how many people we meet on the street who are out on bail?”

  Truthfully, no.

  I had turned on CNBC’s stock report to see if Dickie’s arrest had done anything to Bellemina Health, but of course it hadn’t. It was too large a company for the CEO’s son’s crimes to affect it. In fact, as Debbie had predicted, the stock had edged up slightly. The alphabet scrolling across the bottom of the screen made me dizzy and I turned it off.

  I should vacuum. I should get out my winter clothes and begin to decide what I needed to take to Poland for our Christmas trip and if I needed to buy some new warmer ones. I should register for one of the computer classes that Samford University was offering for the fall. The brochure had just come. By December, I could be proficient in Windows 98, Word, e-mail. You name it. Cyberspace would be mine.

  Instead, I picked up the latest Patricia Cornwell novel that I had found at the library a few days before. In a few minutes I was knee deep in blood in the autopsy room with Dr. Kay Scarpetta. An entrance wound? Of course. Probably caused by a .38. We needed to look for the casing, out there in the leaves by Arthur’s apartment. The police overlook things like that.

  “Your mouth’s open.” Sister was standing beside my chair.

  “It is not.” I picked up the book which had slipped to the floor. “I was just resting my eyes.”

  “Well, wake up. I’ve got news to tell you.” She sat on the sofa.

  “I’m awake,” I insisted.

  “You sure? Because this is important.”

  “I’m awake, dammit.” I considered throwing the book.

  “I had lunch today with Al Jones at The Club.”

  Why did this not surprise me?

  “I had that wonderful seafood au gratin. Lord that stuff’s good. And he had a small steak.”

  My hands tightened on the book. “Is this the important news?”

  “Of course not, though I know you’re surprised that I had lunch with Al, given the way I feel about him.”

  “You mean the fact that he’s not a gentleman.”

  “Well, he’s grown up, Mouse.”

  In fifty years I should hope so.

  “Anyway, we got to talking about Dickie Batson shooting Arthur and how sad it was, and I said I wondered if he’d killed his grandmother, and Al said that he figured when he heard about Sophie’s death that it might be Joseph Batson who killed her, that Sophie and her son-in-law were not on the best of terms to say the least. In fact, I believe his words were ‘they had the hot hates for each other.’”

  I really was awake now. “Why? Did he say why?”

  Mary Alice hugged a sofa pillow. “You remember somebody saying there were two other boys in the car when Sophie’s son David was killed?”

  “Yes. One of them died.”

  “Joseph Batson was the one who didn’t.”

  “Really? He was the third boy?”

  “Banged up pretty bad, but recovered completely. Al says Sophie never forgave him.”

  “For living?”

  “Probably. David and the other boy were dead. But there’s more. They were all apparently high as kites on something like LSD. Sophie and Milton always believed Joseph Batson was the supplier, and yet he was the one who lived.”

  “He was into dealing drugs?”

  “He’d had several run-ins with the police. And he was a poor kid from the south in a fancy prep school who always seemed to have money.”

  “Well, my Lord. That’s pretty circumstantial, isn’t it?” But my mind was racing. If he had been responsible for the drugs that caused the death of two of h
is friends, and had had to live with that knowledge, then his founding Bellemina Health certainly made sense. He wouldn’t want it to happen to others. And, yet, it looked as if he had failed with his own son.

  “How does Alcorn Jones know all this?” I asked.

  “He handled Sophie’s parents’ estate. Sophie’s mother told everybody. He said he thought she’d have a stroke when Sue married Joseph.”

  “I’ll bet she did. I doubt it made Sophie and Milton very happy either.”

  “Well, Sue must have believed Joseph was innocent.”

  “And married a man her family hated.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mouse. It happens all the time. The Capulets hated Romeo. Or the Montagues. Whichever. But the kids loved each other.”

  “Sue’s no Juliet.” I got up, went in the kitchen and fixed us both a Coke. “And where did he get the money to start Bellemina Health? From Sue?” I was thinking there might be more than love involved here.

  I handed Sister her glass. She drank about half of it in one gulp. “That seafood made me thirsty.” She burped slightly and then added, “Nope. He got it from the Sawyers, Sophie and Milton.”

  “Who hated his guts.”

  “Well, it turned out to be a good investment. Al says the Bellemina stock is probably the most valuable asset in Sophie’s estate now.”

  I frowned, trying to figure this out. “But you don’t set someone up in business who you hate. Who you think killed your son.”

  “He was their son-in-law by then. And the business was to fight drugs.” Mary Alice finished her Coke and put the glass on the table. “And, like Al says, he’s sure Milton Sawyer recognized Joseph Batson’s business acumen.”

  “Got a lot of acumen, huh?”

  “Loaded with it. Look at what he’s done with Bellemina.”

  I sipped my Coke thoughtfully. “And Sophie Sawyer owned a lot of Bellemina stock?”

  “A huge amount, according to Al. He’s on the board of directors, incidentally. I guess it will go to her kids now. So Joseph and Sue will end up owning no telling how much of the company.”

  “But Arthur Phizer has control of that stock now as long as he’s Sophie’s executor. Trustee. Whatever.”

  “True.” Sister wiped the coffee table with her paper napkin. “How is he?”

  “Can’t walk or sit. Mean as can be, Mitzi says. And Dickie’s out on bail.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance it was Dickie who killed his grandmother? Al said he thinks it’s possible.”

  “Lord only knows. The police must not think so. They still have Arthur charged with it. And Joseph and Sue Batson are swearing that Dickie didn’t shoot Arthur. He says he was at his apartment asleep and they believe him.”

  “You want to believe your kids, Mouse. We all believed Ray when he told us he wasn’t raising marijuana in the Bankhead National Forest.”

  This escapade, the only trouble any of our kids has gotten into, was indirectly the reason Mary Alice’s son ended up with a dive boat in Bora Bora.

  “True,” I agreed. I stirred the ice in my glass with my finger. There were so many things that didn’t add up here, though, with the Sawyer-Batson story Mary Alice was relating. The Sawyers set up their son-in-law in business, yet they thought he was responsible for their adored son’s death. Hated him. Sue married the man her parents hated, but why hadn’t she felt like they did? She, also, had adored her brother. I thought of her outburst in the courthouse. “Buried the same day.” And then there was the beautiful Arabella, here to take care of her sick mother, but not staying with her. Arabella and Sue who couldn’t get along with each other. And Dickie. Was he so unbalanced, so needful, that he had tried to kill Arthur Phizer?

  “What are you thinking about?” Mary Alice asked.

  “I’m thinking it would be interesting to read Sophie Sawyer’s will.”

  “Can we do that?”

  “Debbie says that once they’re admitted into probate, anyone has access to them. Probate court is on the first floor of the courthouse.”

  “It’ll just be a bunch of all that lawyer talk. What do you think we’ll find?”

  “I don’t know. For starters, I’d like to know how much Bellemina Health stock Sophie owned and what she did with it. She’s not listed in the annual report as one of the major stockholders, but Mitzi said she was.”

  “And so did Al.” Sister looked at her watch. “Think you’ll have time to do that and still get what’s-his-name’s supper on the table early enough?”

  This time I did throw the book. Missed, but threw it.

  The probate court where the records were on file reminded me of a McDonald’s. You put in your order at a counter, stand aside and wait, and then when your order is handed to you, you take it to a table. They didn’t have the quick service down though. There were only a couple of other people in the room, but we had to wait fifteen minutes before Sophie Sawyer’s will was brought out.

  “Heavy,” the clerk said, bumping it down on the counter. “What all did she leave? Half the state of Alabama?”

  “A bunch of happy lawyers,” Sister said.

  “God’s truth.” The woman giggled.

  Sister carried the will to a table and we sat down in heavy wooden chairs that were surprisingly comfortable, the kind that have indentations for your behind. Arthur needed these chairs. The only problem was that I’m so short, I could have used his doughnut.

  “What are we looking for?” Sister asked, opening the thick binder.

  “I’m not sure. I’d like to know how much Bellemina Health stock she had and who she left it to.”

  Sister looked at the first page and then pushed the binder my way. “Help yourself. There are enough whereofs and heretofores here to choke a horse.”

  I saw what she meant.

  “I don’t know what good it’s going to do anyway. Suppose we find out she left her stock to Arabella? Or to both the girls? So what? It’s none of our business, Mouse.”

  I looked up in surprise. “You’re actually saying something isn’t your business? You? The Mouth of the South?”

  “Well, this is giving me the creeps. It’s like looking in someone’s underwear drawer.”

  “You should know. I never know whether my scarves are in my dresser or around your neck.”

  “Scarves don’t count. You need a box for them in your closet anyway so they won’t get wrinkled.”

  I unlatched the binder and handed her part of the will. “Look for Bellemina.”

  “Nothing but wherefores,” she grumbled. But she started reading.

  So did I. The section I was reading consisted of real estate which was to be sold and divided equally between Sue and Arabella. A house in Chicago, an apartment in New York, a farm in Kentucky, a townhouse in London. It was amazing. There were also several bequests to people I didn’t know, plus a million dollars each for Dickie and Zoe for their education.

  “This woman makes you look one step from the poorhouse,” I told Sister.

  “One giant step.”

  In a few minutes, she poked me. “Here it is. Bellemina. She left it all to the University of Alabama Health Foundation.”

  “You’re kidding. How much did she have?”

  “Over eight million shares.”

  I’m sure my mouth flew open. “You’re lying.”

  “It’s right here.” She handed me the page and I read that the eight million, two hundred fifty thousand, one hundred forty-eight shares of Common Stock of Bellemina Health held in trust at Columbia Federal Bank of Chicago was to be devised to the Board of Trustees of the University of Alabama Health Foundation.

  “My Lord! Let me write this down,” I said. “I think it’s over fifty percent of the company. It had to have been listed on the annual report. Probably under some blind trust.”

  “You mean visually impaired trust?”

  “Shut up.”

  I was fumbling in my purse for a pen and something to write on. “You said she had the hot hate
s for Joseph Batson. Well, this proves it.” I found the pen and an envelope and wrote down the numbers. “She lets him work for years to build the company and then gives it away to his competition.”

  I studied what I had written down. “I’ll be damned. Do you realize that this stock is worth thirty something dollars a share? Round it off at eight million shares and you’ve got over two hundred and forty million dollars.” I looked at Sister. “That’s a quarter of a billion dollars, isn’t it?”

  “You’re the math teacher.”

  “I can’t count that high.”

  Mary Alice took the page back and studied it. “A blind trust wouldn’t mean diddly. If someone owned this much of a company, the other large shareholders would find out who it was. You can bet on that. The only thing it would do is keep her name out of the annual report.”

  “And they would logically expect Joseph and Sue to inherit half of Sophie’s shares.”

  “Joseph and Sue would expect it, too.”

  I rubbed my forehead. I was getting a headache. “What if they found out what she had done? What if she told them?”

  “They’d be mad as hell.”

  “Mad enough to kill her?”

  “Could be.” Sister tapped her nails against the table. One of them popped off and landed on the will. An acrylic drop of blood. “Damn.”

  “Hello, ladies. What a surprise.”

  We looked up at Peyton Phillips, blonde hair in a French braid, not a wrinkle in her emerald green linen suit.

  “What brings you here?” she asked.

  I kicked Mary Alice. I didn’t want this woman to think we were being nosy, which of course we were.

  “Genealogy research,” I lied, covering the will with my arms.

  Sister kicked me back. Her kick was harder. “How are you, Peyton?”

  “Fine. Have you heard from Mr. Phizer today?”

  “He’s uncomfortable but okay.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Do you think the police will drop the charges against him now?” I asked.

  “I’m working on it. They think Dickie’s anger was strictly directed toward Mr. Phizer, though, not his grandmother. And they think they have enough evidence against Mr. Phizer.” She shrugged. “When they think they have a case sewed up, they quit investigating.” A bright smile. “But I’m still trying. Y’all take care now.” She gave a small wave and walked over to the counter.