by Anne George
“‘Take It Away, Horace.’ And it will be read by its author, Mary Alice Crane of Birmingham, Alabama.” Peggy Wright held up her hand dramatically and Sister swept onto the stage and to the podium. Peggy hung around for a moment or so as if there were some “absolutely best” she had forgotten to add, but a look from Sister sent her scurrying from the stage.
“I didn’t know Mary Alice was calling her story ‘Take It Away, Horace,’” Frances said while everyone was clapping. Whether the applause was for Peggy’s retreat or for Sister’s story being selected wasn’t clear. Probably both.
“She looks good, doesn’t she?” I whispered. And she did. The spotlight revealed a presence, a six-foot-tall, pink-haired woman in her sixties with 250 pounds packed into a green silk dress with supernovas exploding on it. If she was nervous, it didn’t show. She opened her manuscript, looked at the audience that immediately quit its rustling, put on her reading glasses and gave the best damn reading I’ve ever heard. The audience laughed so hard at poor Horace with his job from hell that she had to pause several times. But she handled that easily, sensing the right time to continue. When she finished, she and the wheelchair repo man got a standing ovation.
“She’s great!” Haley said, applauding enthusiastically.
“Great!” Frances concurred.
And she was, so good there were tears in my eyes that I realized were for the underlying sadness of the story. What a terribly thin line between comedy and tragedy. And Sister had walked that line with a perfect touch of black comedy. Damn, I was proud of her.
When everyone had settled down, Peggy Wright came back onstage and introduced Major Bissell. “Our own Lieutenant Major Bissell of the Florida Marine Patrol.” The crowd, warmed by Mary Alice’s performance, gave Major Bissell a good round of applause.
He looked pale, but if we hadn’t known he’d spent an hour or so in the bathroom, we probably wouldn’t have noticed. He had chosen to wear his uniform, and with his round face and thinning hair, the spotlight made him look eerily like a child in a man’s body, a looming child-man. He read slowly and in a sibilant monotone, probably because of nervousness, but it suited the material perfectly. For Major Bissell’s story was told from the point of view of a serial killer who drives the beach road at night, looking into the houses and condos, choosing potential victims, watching them for days, circling ever closer until he can stand it no more and strikes. There were many of us in the audience who realized his story was based on fact and that the killer had never been caught.
The story ended with the killer approaching a young woman who is struggling in the rain to put her groceries in her car. He has been stalking her for days, and says, simply, “Can I help you, m’am?”
The story was a good one. It didn’t receive the standing ovation that Sister’s had, probably because it made the listeners uncomfortable. Major Bissell’s serial killer was too sane, too normal; he had a wife and children that he loved and who loved him. I think Frances spoke for us all when she said, “Wow, that gave me the creeps.”
We gathered up our picnic stuff and worked our way down to the stage where Mary Alice and Major Bissell were accepting congratulations. Berry West was standing by Mary Alice, beaming.
“Wasn’t she something?” he asked. We agreed that she was. Sister grabbed Haley by the arm, pulled her aside, and whispered to her. Haley nodded. Sister whispered some more. Haley nodded again.
“What was that about?” I asked her as we walked over to Major Bissell.
Haley grinned. “She’s going out to dinner with Berry. She wants me to drive her Jaguar home.”
“That’s what all that whispering was about?”
“She was giving me instructions.”
“Not to let me drive her car?”
“That, plus something about staying clear of mailboxes. She wanted to know if I’d ever hit one. She thinks it may be genetic.”
“I wish she were going back with us. For all we know, Berry West could have been the one to make that phone call.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Patricia Anne,” Frances said. “I happen to know that his wife was president of the Atlanta Junior League.”
“Well, excuse me!” I hated to admit that this piece of news made me feel better.
“Hey, ladies,” Major Bissell greeted us.
“Your story scared me,” Haley said.
“Good. It was supposed to.” He grinned. “You know it’s based on an actual case, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said. “They figure he’s killed at least five women in the Florida Panhandle, don’t they?”
Major Bissell nodded. “The last one last August. In one of those condos right on 98, not ten feet from the highway.”
“How do you know it was him?” Frances asked.
“We know.” He turned to Haley. “You want to go get something to eat? I’m starving.”
Haley shook her head. “Thanks, but I have to drive Aunt Sister’s car back to Destin, and I’m hoping some turtles come in tonight. I don’t want to miss it if they do.”
Major Bissell looked disappointed, but as we turned to leave, Lisa Andrews came up, took his arm, and asked if he were feeling better.
“Get lost, Haley,” Frances murmured.
The lightning in the Gulf was not the usual jagged streaks, but a sudden glow of a cloud here and there. Like giant lightning bugs, I thought. The storms were still so far away, we heard no thunder as we walked toward the cars.
Frances and I helped Haley find Sister’s Jaguar and immediately ran into a problem; we couldn’t open the damn thing. Haley tried every key on the ring.
“Maybe Aunt Sister hasn’t left yet,” Haley said.
And then from the darkness behind us, a man’s voice said, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The three of us froze. None of us had heard him approaching.
A large hand reached over and took the keys from Haley’s grasp. “You push this button on the keychain,” the man said. We heard the click as the door unlocked, and then the keys were in Haley’s hands again and the man was gone.
“Holy shit!” Frances said when we could breathe again.
“Some damn practical joker,” Haley said.
Nevertheless, we all piled into Sister’s car and Haley drove us to Frances’s car. Then I insisted that we follow Haley home. To her credit, she didn’t argue.
“I’ll bet that man thought he was funny as hell,” Frances said.
“Probably,” I agreed. We were driving along Old Highway 98 where the condos sit right on the road. Just like the serial killer in Major Bissell’s story, we could see right into many of the apartments where televisions flickered or families were eating supper. In one of the apartments, a woman was casually stepping out of a bathing suit. I wanted to yell at them all to close their blinds. And then I got angry at the man who had spooked us so, and because there really was a reason that these people, vacationing, happy, should be more careful.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. The traffic was light for a June night, but this part of the beach is usually quiet, family-oriented. Teenagers flock to The Miracle Strip in Panama City, and the older, nightclub group head the other way to Fort Walton. Folks along the Destin beaches rent a movie and order in a pizza. On Friday nights the Elks Club has a steak dinner for eight bucks that draws a crowd. But the men have been playing golf all day or fishing, and the women and children have been at the beach too long. It makes for early evenings. Even the restaurants, and there are some very nice ones, are usually empty by nine. There was no room here for violence, I thought. And yet, it happened.
“Millicent Weatherby left to go to the grocery store the morning she was killed. Right?” Frances asked.
“Fairchild said she went to get some tomato juice. Why?”
“What if the serial killer had been stalking her?”
For a second I could see Millicent standing by her car and a man coming up and saying, “Can I help you, ma’am?” The man had Major Bissell’s face. I shivered
.
“Unh-uh,” I said. “Her death and Emily’s are connected some way.”
“The killer saw them together all the time. He was after them both.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think a serial killer would have tried to make Emily’s death look like suicide.”
“Well, it’s possible.” We were entering the city limits and Frances slowed to thirty.
“Anything’s possible,” I agreed. “What do I know?”
Chapter 13
My sweet Fred’s car was in the parking lot at the condo. I felt a pleasant little blip of anticipation when I saw it, a very nice thing after forty years of marriage. The few days away from each other had been good for us.
“Papa’s here,” Haley said, getting out of the Jaguar. “The world is a safer place now.”
“Yes, it is, Miss Smart Aleck.” She and I grinned at each other. As much as she complains about Fred being over protective, I know it’s part of her security, too.
“How did the Jaguar drive?” Frances asked.
“Fine.” Haley reached over and got the picnic basket. “I might have enjoyed it if Aunt Sister hadn’t made me so nervous. I swear if there had been a mailbox between here and Sunnyside I probably would have hit it.” I knew the feeling.
We collected all the picnic paraphernalia and went upstairs. I opened the door of the apartment and called Fred’s name. I had expected to be greeted with a hug, but there wasn’t an answer. I walked onto the balcony and saw that he and Fairchild were sitting on the stile.
“Hey, honey!” I yelled.
Fred looked up, waved, and motioned for me to come down.
“He’s on the stile,” I told Frances and Haley as I sailed by the kitchen. “He’ll probably want some supper, so don’t put the picnic stuff up yet.”
Fred was waiting for me, and his hug smelled like a chili hot dog with lots of onions. “You stopped at Porky Pete’s,” I said into his shoulder.
“I was starving.”
“How many did you have?”
“Just two.”
“Are we going to be up all night?”
“If you want to.”
Lord, this man felt good. I stood there for a moment just savoring it.
“Fred’s been telling me about his business deal,” Fairchild said, and the two of us moved apart guiltily, remembering Fairchild’s loss. “Sounds good.”
“Yes, it does,” I agreed. Fred and I sat on the bench across from Fairchild.
“I was telling him we’d probably be spending more time down here,” Fred said, reaching for my hand.
“Well, if you’re thinking about moving, get your driver’s license now. Best advice Millicent ever gave me.”
The three of us were silent for a moment. Fairchild took a puff of his cigar and coughed. Smoke drifted up slowly toward the light and joined the humidity in forming a halo.
“She was a wonderful lady, Fairchild,” Fred said. “She’ll be missed.”
Fairchild nodded and puffed on his cigar. “The police think I killed her,” he said matter-of-factly. “Her and Emily Peacock, too. Tried to make it look like Emily did it and committed suicide.” He puffed. “But that would have been stupid. What reason would Emily have had to kill Millicent?”
Fred squeezed my hand. “They can’t believe that, Fairchild.”
“Sure they do. They always suspect the husband first, you know that. And I’m a rich man now. The insurance and property. Even the condo here.” He gestured back over his head.
“But Fairchild, you’re not the only one who gained financially by Millicent’s death. Everybody in the Blue Bay Ranch Corporation came out way ahead. What about the Stampses and Jason Marley? Not only did they come out ahead on Millicent’s death, but on Emily’s, too.”
He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and then straightened the glasses back on his nose. “The police have questioned them, but not like they have me. I spent the whole damn afternoon at the sheriff’s department trying to explain about a stupid argument Millicent and I had at Albert’s Fish Market the other day. And I do mean stupid. I wanted to order a fried seafood platter, you know one of those for two people? And Millicent said absolutely not, that my cholesterol was off the charts already. Anyway, I got ticked off and said something like, ‘By God, I’ll eat what I want to.’ You know how that goes. And she said something like, ‘Okay, Fairchild, kill yourself if you want to, but you’re not going to kill me.’ She wasn’t angry, didn’t even raise her voice. Just ordered a salad. Anyway, the sheriff claims I was heard threatening to kill Millicent.” Fairchild rubbed his eyes again. “Can you believe that? It’s almost funny.”
“They’re grabbing at straws, Fairchild,” I said.
“What about these other people?” Fred asked. “Eddie and Laura Stamps and—”
“Jason Marley,” I supplied.
“Jason’s a wreck. Not only is he torn up about both women’s deaths, but he’s blaming himself for not following up on where Emily was when he didn’t hear from her. He just assumed everything was okay.”
“What about Eddie?” I questioned. I wondered if Laura had told Fairchild about the threatening phone call. Probably, I decided. And I didn’t think now was the time for Fred to hear about it.
Fairchild hesitated for a moment, long enough to blow another puff of smoke toward the light. Then he leaned forward and pushed the cigar into a receptacle filled with sand. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed anything, Patricia Anne, but Eddie has been diagnosed as being in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”
I was shocked. “I haven’t noticed a thing.”
“I’ll bet when you first saw them, Laura thought of some way to remind Eddie of your name.”
I thought for a moment. “She said, ‘Patricia Anne, Mary Alice, what’s the matter’ or something like that. It didn’t seem strange the way she did it.”
“She’s gotten good at helping him like that, protecting him. She’s told the police, of course, about his condition and has absolutely refused to let them question him without her being there. He understands that Millicent and Emily are dead and he’s extremely upset about it. He’s not that far gone.”
“Damn,” Fred said. My thoughts exactly.
Fairchild stood up and stretched slightly. “Well, I’ll let you two lovebirds have the stile to yourselves. I’ve got to go in and make some phone calls.”
“Is there anything we can do for you tomorrow?” Fred asked.
“Just be there.” He started down the stile steps. “And bring Mary Alice.”
Old coot.
I pinched Fred on the inside of his thigh. “You’d better not have another woman already lined up.”
“Watch where you’re pinching or it wouldn’t do me any good if I did.”
“You mean like this?”
He grabbed my hand and giggled. “Quit that!”
I didn’t feel like playing, anyway. The news about Eddie’s illness had shaken me. I stopped my hand’s forward motion, moved away slightly and inquired about Woofer.
“He’s fine,” Fred said, confused at the sudden cessation of the game.
“Mitzi’s walking him every day?”
“When the two of them aren’t sitting in her air-conditioned den watching soaps. Mitzi says he’s especially fond of ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’.”
“I swear, just like a male. And me not gone even a week.”
A young couple came over the stile, spoke to us, and walked down the beach toward the water. When I turned from watching them, Fred was looking straight at me. “Tell me everything that’s happened this week.”
“It’s been strange. Part of it has actually been fun, like tonight’s reading. But finding the bodies!”
“I know, honey.” He put his arm around me and I snuggled against him. God was in his heaven; all was right with the world.
I was trying to decide where to start my version of the week’s events when he added, “This is the kind of thing that always happens whe
n you’re around Mary Alice. I swear, honey, you know I’m fond of her, but think how often I have to get you out of scrapes she’s gotten you into.”
For a moment I felt that I couldn’t breathe, as if I had suddenly been immersed in an icy lake. Fred sensed my stiffening. “That’s not exactly what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that Mary Alice leaps before she looks. You know that, and she pulls you with her a lot of times.”
“And you have to come rescue me.”
Fred shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Sometimes.”
“What does that have to do with what’s happened this week?”
“Well, finding the bodies and all.”
I stood and looked down at him. There were all sorts of things I wanted to say to him but, give me credit, I kept my mouth shut, just turned and walked away.
“What’s the matter, honey?” the jackass called. But I didn’t turn around to answer.
“Where’s Papa?” Haley asked as I walked into the apartment.
“Digging a hole and pulling the dirt in on top of himself.”
“What did he do?”
“Pushed the overprotecting button too hard.”
“Mama, just ignore it like you tell me to do.”
“Better yet,” Frances put in her two cents’ worth, “just enjoy it.”
“Enjoy someone treating you like you’re a child? Blaming everything that happens on your sister?”
“Of course.” Frances was sitting on the sofa flipping through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. “Long as he doesn’t blame everything on you. That’s what usually happens to me.” An article caught her attention. “Lord have mercy. Did y’all know sex is going to be different in the next millennium?”
“How?” Haley asked.
“Don’t know. Haven’t read it yet.”
I walked to the balcony and looked down at Fred sitting on the stile by himself. Haley came up behind me.
“He looks sad, Mama.”
“Hush. He said he has to get me out of scrapes.”
“He looks very sad.”
“Then you go let him rescue you.”
“There’s someone at the door,” Frances called. “I’ll get it.”
