by Anne George
Berry reached for his jacket, which was across a dining room chair. “And I’ve got to call it a night. I don’t want to wake Jason if he’s asleep.”
“You’re still staying over there?” Frances asked. She realized the question sounded rude and apologized. “That didn’t come out the way I meant.”
Berry shrugged into his jacket. “It’s real uncomfortable, but I’m not sure what I ought to do. Jason is so upset about Emily and Millicent’s deaths that I feel like I’m intruding on his grief. On the other hand, if I’m not there, he’s by himself. And I’ve been able to help some by seeing that he eats and by taking some of the phone calls. Somebody needs to be there with him.”
“He doesn’t have any family?” I asked.
“A son in the navy. He’s coming next month on leave.”
“It’s so sad,” Frances said. “Being alone.”
“Yes, it is.” Berry leaned over and kissed Mary Alice on the forehead. “Thanks for a great evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned to Fred and held out his hand. “Fred, nice meeting you.”
“Yes,” Fred agreed. I gave him a sharp look. He had fallen into his king-of-the-mountain mode.
Mary Alice walked Berry to the door and they stood there for a moment whispering.
“The two of you seem to be hitting it off fine,” I told her when she came back into the room.
“He still counting dimples?” Fred asked.
Sister surprised me. She smiled and said that, as a matter of fact, he was, and that it was amazing how many he had discovered. Then she picked up her wine glass, told us good night, disappeared into her room, and shut the door.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked Fred.
“I’m hungry. I’m going to go find the doggy bag. Any takers?”
“I want some,” Haley said.
Frances sat on the sofa examining her fingernails carefully.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I said.
“Just thinking about Jason Marley over there by himself in that beautiful pink house. That’s not a bachelor’s house, Patricia Anne. That’s a Hansel and Gretel house.” I had no idea what a Hansel and Gretel house was, but I knew where this was headed.
“You can check on him tomorrow,” I said. “See if he needs comforting.”
“I’m sure he does,” Frances smiled.
Before we went to bed, I knocked on Sister’s door. Her departure had been too sudden, too agreeable.
“You okay?” I asked. She was lying on the bed wearing the peignoir that had nearly blinded Fairchild and reading Beach Music.
“Sure. I had a good time tonight.”
“You did a great job at the reading. I was proud of you.”
She patted the bed and I sat down beside her. “Tell me about the turtles.”
I did, describing the eggs and the way the turtle cried and groaned. The way Haley had said, “Push!” “Maybe we can all go back tomorrow night,” I added.
Sister shook her head no. “Berry and I are going to The Slipper dancing. He’s a great dancer, Mouse.”
“He can dip you?”
“You got it.”
“Fairchild wanted to make sure you were coming to the funeral tomorrow. Fred asked what he could do for him and he said bring Mary Alice.”
“That’s sweet.”
Was Sister half crocked? God forbid that she was falling in love.
“Fairchild also told us that Eddie Stamps is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”
That got her attention. “Really? I haven’t noticed anything.”
“He says Laura’s done a good job of covering up for Eddie. Fairchild is convinced the police think he killed Millicent and Emily. Fairchild, that is, not Eddie.”
“Fairchild wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Sister yawned and then smiled.
Lord, let her be half crocked!
“Sister’s being too nice,” I complained to Fred as I crawled into bed a half hour later. “She’s acting like somebody’s hit her over the head with a two-by-four. Last time she acted like this was when she fell for that ancient guy that nearly croaked in her hot tub.”
“How’s he doing?” Fred asked. “I haven’t heard about him in a while.”
“His daughter gave him a big birthday party at the Birmingham Country Club a couple of weeks ago. The pictures were in the paper, and he looked pretty good for ninety-something. Plaid jacket.”
“So the skin grafts must have worked.”
“Dummy.” I leaned over and gave Fred a very satisfactory kiss in spite of the fact that he now tasted like Scope and Crest masking recent garlic butter that had been added to the earlier onions from Porky Pete’s.
“I think she’s really falling for Berry West,” I added. “I think he’s real nice. You were short with him, though.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He just looked like he was taking over.”
“A macho thing.”
“Hush,” Fred said, “or I’ll throw you to the screech owls.”
So I hushed.
The small town of De Funiak Springs is about forty miles from Destin. It’s a beautiful old Chatauqua town built around a large lake, supposedly one of only two perfectly circular lakes in the world. Victorian and ranch houses exist harmoniously side by side beneath live oaks older by far than the oldest of the homes. A few palm trees, planted by the city or a garden club, struggle to survive in the city park.
It’s a good town with good people and sidewalks and a library with large windows on the lake. It’s where Fred and I were when we heard Kennedy had been shot. We were sitting at the soda fountain at the drugstore eating grilled cheese sandwiches. We sat there until Walter Cronkite wiped his eyes and said Kennedy had been pronounced dead. The pharmacist said, “God rest his soul.”
We have not been back to the drugstore since, but it’s still there. We passed it on the way to Millicent’s funeral.
The thunderstorm of the night before had proved to be the forerunner of a low pressure system that had moved in over the coast. Rain had fallen most of the night, and now a fine mist was enveloping us in fog. We were driving on a dark, dismal day to the funeral of a friend who had been murdered; we were both lost in our own thoughts.
I closed my eyes and saw once more the photographs of Millicent and Emily at the picnic. They had looked so happy. What on God’s earth had happened to bring them to such violent deaths? Greed? Was Blue Bay Ranch and its potential millions the motive? Or something as simple as an insurance policy? Or jealousy?
“There’s a crowd here,” Fred said as we neared the chapel. Cars were parked on both sides of the road.
“Everybody loved Millicent,” I said. And then I realized not everybody. Somebody had definitely not loved Millicent.
Mary Alice and Fred had both insisted on driving so we had ended up taking both cars, Sister and Haley in one, Fred and I in the other.
“This is dumb,” Haley muttered to me while they were arguing.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Tell them.”
So as Fred pulled in behind a pickup with a Confederate flag decal on the rear window, the Jaguar pulled in behind us.
“We beat Mary Alice here,” Fred gloated.
Inside the chapel was as dark as the day. As we stood at the door looking for seats, Berry appeared. “We’ve got you places up front.”
“Up front” turned out to be the second row. In front of us were Fairchild and several people we didn’t know, Millicent’s brother and sister, I assumed, and their families. Beside us were Jason Marley, Laura and Eddie Stamps, and a pale woman who looked so much like Emily Peacock that she had to be her daughter Barbara. The Berliners sat behind us; Tammy leaned forward and patted my shoulder. Mary Alice leaned forward and patted Fairchild’s shoulder. He looked back, saw who it was, and covered her hand with his.
“Quit that!” I hissed in Sister’s ear.
“Quit what?” But Miss Innocent removed her hand.
The setting, I realized, was eerily lik
e the movie Sister and I had seen a few days earlier. The gray, closed casket, covered with spring flowers, loomed large before us. I looked around, half expecting the villain with slicked-back hair and a bow tie to come sneaking in. Jack Berliner, holding Sophie’s hand, was the only one who wore a bow tie. But as the services began, it occurred to me that if Millicent’s death was not the act of a serial killer, which seemed highly improbable to me, then the killer was someone who knew her; someone who was sitting here in this chapel. I shivered.
“You cold?” Fred whispered. I shook my head no. Before me, Fairchild bent his handsome white head in prayer. Is it you, Fairchild? Rich Fairchild, the nude swimmer, already flirting with other women? Did Millicent make a cuckold of you? Was it more than you could take?
Or Eddie? Is it you? Are you raging at the world as your mind clouds? Or Laura? Are you so hungry for financial security? Or Jason? You had the most to gain, Jason Marley. Did you kill Millicent and then Emily to get their property? Who are you, Jason? What kind of person are you? What are you capable of?
Behind us someone was crying quietly; I knew it was Sophie. Millicent, I thought, you made a difference; you’re going to be missed.
The funeral was short, a Bible verse, the minister’s philosophy that there was no such thing as death, a few nice words about Millicent, and another prayer. Then we were invited to the cemetery for the conclusion of the service. There we stood under umbrellas for another prayer, and then it was over.
“Bummer,” Haley said as we sloshed back to the cars. The drizzle had become a heavy rain again.
“Y’all wait up,” Jason Marley called. When he caught up to us, I saw he looked sick. He was pale, and the flesh around his eyes looked bruised. Add to that the fact that his toupee seemed to be shrinking in the rain, and you had a sight that, as Sister declared later, would twang your heart strings.
“Come by the house,” he said. “I’ve had a light lunch brought in. And drinks. There’ll just be a few of us; Millicent’s sister and brother need to get home out of this weather. But Fairchild’s coming, and we’ll sit around and have a few drinks and talk.” He held out his hand to Fred. “I’m Jason Marley.”
“Fred Hollowell. Hell of a place to meet, isn’t it?”
Jason didn’t answer, just looked around as if he were suddenly puzzled to find himself in a cemetery.
“Ladies?” Fred asked. We all nodded. “We’ll be there,” Fred said.
“Good.” Jason headed off through the gravestones to his car.
“Where’s Berry?” Haley asked Sister.
“Bringing Fairchild home. There are still a few things Fairchild has to tend to, and Berry said he didn’t mind waiting. The Stampses went on. They left right after the church service.”
“I wonder if Eddie is okay,” I said.
Fred unlocked the car door. “Laura’s looking rough.”
“She needs some Retin-A something awful,” Sister said.
“Or that new one, doesn’t make you peel,” Haley agreed.
Sister touched her palms lightly to her cheek. “When you get middle-aged like we are, Haley, you can’t let yourself go.”
Middle-aged? This woman was sloughing years like a snake does skin. Haley, bless her heart, kept a straight face. Fred was doing his shaking number again, though. He climbed into our car, wet, muddy.
“I declare,” Sister said, surveying the graveyard, “funerals have just got to be the most depressing things in the world.”
“God’s truth,” came from our car. For once even Fred agreed with her.
Chapter 15
I’ve been to meals after funerals that were very comforting, feeding not only the body but the emptiness that lies in all of us after a death. Old friends eat, visit, and share stories, reminding each other that the dead live on within us. The lunch at Jason Marley’s was not one of those comforting events. One reason was that many of the people didn’t know each other; the other was the shadow of violence. Neighbors from Gulf Towers and, I assumed, some of the staff of Blue Bay Ranch crowded around the bar, ignoring the lovely lunch that some caterer had provided. Not me. I took the opportunity to help myself to a couple of small turkey sandwiches, some crab claws, boiled shrimp, and veggie sticks.
“Keeping up your middle-aged strength, I see,” Fred said, passing by with a beer in his hand and snitching one of my crab claws.
I ignored him and found a seat that had a view of the bay. The rain had become mist again, and I saw Eddie Stamps walk down the pier and enter his boathouse. Then a black-clad figure appeared on the Stampses’ pier. Sophie, I realized. She walked to the boathouse but didn’t go in. Instead, she leaned against the pier and looked over the water. Several seagulls, expecting to be fed, circled and landed near her, but she paid them no attention, just stared into the distance. I had been that age when our Granny Alice died, and I could still remember how my sorrow had been mixed with fear. Death was real. People left and didn’t come back. Ever. I was considering going to see about her when I saw her father step onto the pier. She turned and ran toward him and his outstretched arms, ran by him and disappeared from my view. What in the world was that about, I wondered?
“Where’s Frances, Patricia Anne?” It was Jason Marley asking the question.
I explained that she hadn’t gone to the funeral because she really didn’t know Millicent or Fairchild and said she would feel out of place.
“She shouldn’t feel that way. Call her and tell her to come on over.”
To the Hansel and Gretel house? I wondered how many seconds it would take her to get there.
I took my empty plate into the kitchen where a skinny woman with greenish-blond hair was rinsing out glasses. When she looked up, I recognized Lolita of the Blue Bay sales staff.
“I’m Patricia Anne Hollowell,” I said. “My sister and I met you the other day.”
She smiled. “I know. The pot-of-gold lady.”
“Sorry about that. Is there a phone in here?”
She pointed down the counter with the dishcloth she was holding.
“Come on over,” I told Frances when she answered. “We’re at Jason’s and he’s asking for you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Cross my heart.”
“Give me five minutes.”
The answer I had expected. I hung up and turned back to Lolita. “How’d you get KP duty?”
She shrugged. “I don’t feel much like partying. Might as well make myself useful.”
“I’ll help you,” I offered. “What can I do?”
“You could take these glasses out.”
I took a tray of clean glasses out to the bar. Fred was talking to a couple of men I didn’t know, and Sister and Haley were standing at the bay window with Jack and Tammy Berliner. “Lot of guzzling going on out there,” I said when I came back to the kitchen with dirty glasses.
Lolita startled me by suddenly burying her face in the pink-and-white-checked dishcloth and sobbing.
“Here,” I said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Are you sick? Can I get you something? Some water? Aspirin?”
“Oh, God,” she said. She leaned her green head on the table and cried. “They were both such wonderful women.”
I assumed she was talking about Millicent and Emily. I pulled out a chair and sat down.
“More ice,” Jason Marley said, coming into the kitchen with an empty ice bucket. He scooped ice from the ice maker, wiped the bucket with a paper towel, and left, oblivious of the fact that one of the women at his kitchen table was sobbing with her face buried in a dishtowel. I looked at Lolita’s hair. Definitely green. A Chia pet head.
“Tylenol?” I offered.
Lolita shook her head no.
“Did you know you can’t give Tylenol to cats?”
“I don’t have a cat,” Lolita mumbled.
“I don’t either, but my sister does. She has a huge, lazy cat named Bubba that sleeps on a heating pad on her kitchen counter. Terrible fire hazard.�
��
Lolita lifted her head, but the dishtowel was still pressed against her eyes.
“Probably shouldn’t give them aspirin, either.” I was rambling.
Lolita blew her nose loudly into the dishtowel, which I would personally see went straight to the washing machine, and looked up. Eye makeup was coming off in rivulets, not a pretty sight.
“Blue Bay is the best job I’ve ever had,” she said. “The lots are selling like hotcakes; all we have to do is show them.” She quit talking but I could tell she wasn’t through.
“But?” I encouraged.
“But I think I may have been responsible for Millicent’s death.” Back to the dishtowel. “And she was so good to me.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How were you responsible for her death?”
“I was late getting to work.” The words were muffled, but understandable. “Millicent and Emily gave me a birthday party the night before at The Redneck and I overslept. I didn’t get to the office until 9:30, an hour after I was supposed to open up.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Millicent had been there. That man, I know it was the serial killer, caught her by herself, probably saw her unlocking the door. You can see it from 98, you know.”
“Wait a minute, Lolita. You’re telling me you’re blaming yourself for Millicent’s death because you weren’t at the office? That’s pretty farfetched. And even if there were some truth to it, how does Emily’s death fit in? Hers was a murder, too, you know. And it makes sense that they’re connected some way.”
Lolita looked up. “I’ve thought about that. Emily came up as the man was abducting Millicent and saw him. He knew she would eventually realize what she had seen. So he had to come back for her.”
“And he waited for her over at her condo, killed her, and tried to make it look like suicide? Unh uh, Lolita. I don’t know much about serial killers, thank God, but I don’t think one would go to that much trouble. I think they want people to know they’ve struck again.”
“Well, maybe not. But Millicent was at the office the morning she was killed, and I think she was forced to leave.”
