Murder Carries a Torch

by Anne George

  “Show what?” I put Luke’s coffee cup in the dishwasher and held up the coffee pot. She shook her head no, that she didn’t want any more.

  “That the man doesn’t have biddy brains wanting that woman back. She puts on airs so, it’s unbelievable.”

  I sat back down at the table.

  “Virginia’s not the most likable person in the world,” I agreed. “But Luke loves her, and he’s hurting.”

  Sister licked her finger and stuck it into the crumbs on the roll plate. Then she sucked the finger thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know what good finding her will do. She probably won’t come back.”

  “Maybe not. But you told him we’d help, and he needs to know that she’s all right.”

  “Sounds like she’s better than all right.”

  I frowned at her and picked up the piece of paper on which I had written “Holden Crawford” and the name of his church, “Jesus Is Our Life and Heaven Hereafter.” Beside the name of the church, I had put a question mark since Luke hadn’t been sure that was right.

  “You know,” I said, “if the man lives near Gadsden, then we can look him up in that area. We can find him on the computer.”

  “And tell him to send Virginia home? Ha.” Sister pushed her chair back. “I need to get the velvet bag you smuggled through customs.”

  “What?” The hair on my neck tingled. “I smuggled something through customs? You said it was your pearls and you forgot to put them with your jewelry.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly my pearls. I don’t guess it’s smuggling, though, when it’s right there and they don’t pay any attention to it.”

  “You let me bring something in that could have gotten me in trouble? Arrested?”

  “Oh, I knew you’d be all right. You look honest.”

  The only thing I had to throw at her was the piece of paper that I crumpled up.

  “Well, don’t get testy. Where’s the bag? Still in your purse?”

  “No. And whatever it is, I’m not going to give it to you, Miss Smarty.”

  “Why?” She looked genuinely puzzled at my reaction.

  “Because it’s mine since I’m the one smuggled it in. Whatever’s in it is mine. What is it, anyway?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s a testicle.” Sister had put the sweatshirt back on and the frogs were dancing again.

  “What the hell do you mean, a testicle? You had me smuggle a body part into the country? My Lord, Mary Alice, where did you get a testicle?”

  “From Philip. He sent it to Debbie.” She motioned to a chair. “Sit down. It’s not a real one. You probably didn’t even break the law.”

  I sat and glared at her.

  “You’re pursing your lips,” she said.

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  “It’s real simple,” she continued. “They had some prosthetic testicles at the Warsaw medical school, but they were made out of silicone and they weren’t using them any more. At least the surgeons weren’t. But this obstetrician had a brainstorm. He’d give one to the women in labor to squeeze when they’d have a contraction. Philip said it worked wonders, cut the labor time in half.”

  “Are you serious? Philip sent Debbie a silicone testicle to squeeze when she’s in labor?”

  “He says it feels like the real thing. Has a marble or something in it.” Sister looked at me. “Don’t you wish you’d had one when you were in labor?”

  “I wish they’d had epidurals when I was in labor.”

  “Well, I wish I’d had a testicle to squeeze, preferably Will Alec’s, Roger’s, or Philip’s. There are times when a husband just isn’t likable.”

  She pushed her chair back. “I’ll just take it over to Debbie. She’ll get a kick out of it. Philip says they call them Einstein’s testicles.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t believe I was actually interested in this.

  “Proves the theory of relativity.”

  The woman had lost her mind. Our grandparents, Alice and John Tate, had three grandchildren, Luke, Mary Alice, and me. One out of three with good sense wasn’t such a good average. And what made me think I had good sense? I’d spent the morning worrying with the other two.

  Nevertheless, I went into my bedroom and got the little velvet bag from my nightstand. I squeezed it slightly and felt it give.

  “Here,” I said, handing it to Sister who was waiting by the back door. “Yuck.”

  “Thanks. And I really don’t think you’d have been arrested.”

  I slammed the door behind her.

  In November I had gotten an early Christmas present from Fred, an IBM Thinkpad. We had been gone for two weeks on our trip to Warsaw, so I had only had about a month to work with it. Just long enough to see the world that had been opened up for me.

  Now, still fuming, I sat crosslegged on the bed and turned on the computer. Under WHITE PAGES, I typed Gadsden’s regional area. Then I typed HOLDEN CRAWFORD. And there it was: HOLDEN R. CRAWFORD, R. R. 1, BOX 77, STEELE, AL. The phone number was also listed. Hot damn. So simple it was unbelievable.

  I hadn’t learned how to do the atlas on the Internet, so I went into the den and pulled down the Rand McNally. Steele. Near Gadsden. That town sounded familiar. I turned to the Alabama map, found Gadsden easily, and slightly southwest, Steele on Chandler Mountain. No wonder it had sounded familiar. The Steele exit was where we left 1–59 when we went to arts-and-crafts festivals at Horse Pens 40, an unusual rock formation on the crest of the mountain. Every spring and fall they have three-day country-mountain celebrations there with blue grass music, clogging, and sorghum sopping with biscuits as large as plates. I’d never been into the town, but it couldn’t be very large. Holden Crawford, I thought, should be easy to find.

  “Good news,” I told Luke when he shuffled into the den a couple of hours later. “I found Holden Crawford’s address and phone number.”

  “How?” He sank into Fred’s recliner. “You got any aspirin?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what you can find on a computer.” I turned Oprah on mute, went into the kitchen, and came back with two aspirins and some water. “You need something to eat. These things will give you ulcers without food.”

  Luke gulped the aspirin down. “I’ve already got one. What’s the phone number?”

  I handed him the slip of paper I’d written the address and phone number on. “You going to call her now?”

  “Might as well.” He studied the address. “Where’s Steele?”

  “Not too far from Gadsden. Right off I-59. Why don’t you go in the bedroom and call while I fix you a sandwich. Pimento cheese?”

  “Okay.” He got up, started toward the hall and paused. “What’ll I say to her?”

  “That you’re worried about her and wanted to know she was all right.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I was pouring him a glass of milk when he came back.

  “Nobody’s at home.” He sat down at the kitchen table and I put a sandwich and milk in front of him. “You sure that’s Holden’s number? The guy on the answering machine said, ‘You’ve reached Monkey Man. Leave a message.’”

  “Monkey Man? You’re sure?”

  “I swear that’s what he said.” Luke picked up his sandwich and looked at it as if he weren’t sure what it was.

  “It was the number listed in the computer white pages. Did you leave a message?”

  “I said ‘Virginia, if you’re there, come home.’”

  Not a message that would send Virginia galloping toward Columbus and Luke.

  “You didn’t say you were missing her and worried about her?”

  “Patricia Anne, I was talking to a someone named Monkey Man.” Luke sighed and bit into his sandwich. The afternoon sun glinted off of his reddish beard as he chewed. I thought that maybe I should offer him one of the razors that I shave my legs with. I buy them ten to a package since Fred acts like such a fool if I use his razor. There were some
new toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet, too. Luke would feel better with a shower and some grooming.

  He looked up and saw me watching him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking how much you look like Papa.”

  He smiled, making the resemblance even more pronounced.

  “Luke,” I said. “You really might ought to call Richard.” Really might ought? Lord, we Southerners do have a way with words.

  He shook his head. “Don’t want to worry him unless I have to.”

  “Well, I can appreciate that. But it’s been how long since Virginia left? Ten days?”

  He nodded and stuck the last bite of sandwich in his mouth.

  “Richard would want to know, I’m sure.”

  “No. That boy’s got enough on his shoulders. He’s got the government to run.”

  Hey. I watch C-SPAN. I know how many of those representatives are there on any given day. But Luke, bless his heart, was serious.

  “I’m going to find out exactly where she is and what’s going on before I bother him.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that I had written Holden Crawford’s address and phone number on. “How far is it to Steele?”

  “I can show you.” I opened the atlas and pointed to Steele. “It’s on Chandler Mountain.”

  “That’s not that close to Gadsden,” he said. “Maybe it’s not the right Holden Crawford.”

  “The computer lists it in the Gadsden area, Luke. And Holden Crawford isn’t a common name. I’ll bet it’s him.”

  He pushed his chair back. “Well, it’s not but about an hour’s drive. I guess I’d better go check it out.”

  Not but about. Two weeks of communicating with gestures and simple words in Warsaw and I’m drowning in extra words.

  “Wait, Luke,” I said. “You don’t know where you’re going and you don’t want to be wandering around up there on those dark mountainous roads. Besides, you’re tired. Keep calling, and if you still don’t get an answer, I’ll ride up there with you in the morning.”

  He looked at me doubtfully.

  “A good supper and a good night’s sleep, and you’ll feel a lot better.”

  And so would I. My body was still halfway across the Atlantic.

  “Okay. I’ll try to call again in a few minutes.”

  What had I let myself in for?

  The back door opened and Mary Alice stuck her head in.

  “I forgot my gloves.”

  “Did you take Debbie her testicle?”

  “She wasn’t at home.”

  “It’s a miracle I didn’t get arrested.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. The customs folks gave you one look and said, ‘Welcome home, Miss Honest Citizen.’” She stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.

  “Testicle?” Luke asked.

  “It’s a long story. Get Mary Alice to explain it to you.” I got up, put on my coat, and went to take Woofer for a walk. The cold air felt wonderful.

  Fred, Luke, and I had waffles and turkey bacon for supper. We ate in the den in front of the fire while Fred listened carefully to the story of the missing Virginia. Too carefully, I realized, when I heard a slight snore from his corner of the sofa. Luke, however, didn’t seem to notice that he had lost half his audience. He kept talking while I collected the plates and put a pillow under Fred’s head. He was still talking nonstop an hour and a half later, God knows about what, when I got Fred up and took him off to bed. I was beginning to understand why Virginia had skedaddled off with the soffit painter.

  “I’m going up to Steele in the morning with Luke,” I told Fred as I crawled in beside him. It was very late. At least 8:30.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have a good time.”

  The last thing I remembered that night was Muffin jumping up on the bed between us.

  Chapter

  Four

  E-MAIL

  FROM: HALEY

  TO: MAMA

  SUBJECT: ANGELS

  Of course I believe in angels, Mama.

  I love you,

  Haley

  E-MAIL

  FROM: MAMA

  TO: HALEY

  SUBJECT: BALLS

  Honey, is your Aunt Sister lying to me or did Philip give her a silicone testicle for Debbie to squeeze when she’s in labor? She said it was her pearls and put it in my purse which, fortunately, the customs people didn’t search. I could wring her neck. Pukey Lukey is here, Virginia has run off with a house painter who lives up at Steele. That’s the little town where you exit to go to Horse Pens 40. Remember? Where we bought your Log Cabin quilt. Anyway, we’re going up there today. He says he just wants to know that she’s okay. He showed up yesterday looking like the wrath of God. She’s been gone ten days. We told him to call Richard, but he says Richard is too busy running the government, a scary thought. I’ll keep you posted.

  How was the party?

  I miss you.

  Love,

  Mama

  As I turned off the computer, I heard the toilet in the hall bathroom flush. It was 8:30, Fred had gone to work and I had been up an hour, but we had been quiet so Luke could sleep. There was no hurry about going to Steele.

  I knocked on the guest room door and handed Luke a toothbrush and a razor. He was buttoning the blue plaid shirt he had worn the day before and I considered offering him one of Fred’s, but decided it would be too small for him. A week of worrying hadn’t lessened Luke’s belly.

  “There’s coffee when you’re ready,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “An egg?”

  “Just some cereal.”

  I went into the kitchen and picked Muffin up from the table. Out of the bay window, I could see the bare limbs of the trees bending in the wind. Dark gray clouds were layered across the sky. If this weren’t Birmingham, Alabama, and if I hadn’t just heard the weatherman say it was going to be partly cloudy, I would have sworn it was going to snow. I checked the thermometer on the deck. Thirty-eight degrees. No sign of Woofer. He was taking full advantage of his igloo doghouse, one of the best buys I ever made.

  “Looks like a raw day,” Luke said when he came in.

  “Looks like snow,” I agreed. “But the weatherman says it’s not going to. He says it’s going to be partly cloudy.”

  Luke looked better, probably because he had shaved.

  I held up Cheerios and corn flakes. He pointed to the Cheerios. I poured some in two bowls and cut up half a banana in each.

  “Thanks.” Luke picked up a spoon and began to eat silently, glancing occasionally out of the bay window. Somehow this worried me more than the nonstop talk of the day before.

  “I could fix us some sandwiches to take,” I offered, finishing my cereal. “Turkey? Ham?”

  He nodded, though I was sure my words hadn’t scored a hit. Wherever Luke’s thoughts were, they weren’t in my kitchen.

  I got the sandwich makings out of the refrigerator and was spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread when Luke said, “I think Virginia’s dead, Patricia Anne.”

  “Oh, Luke, of course she’s not. Don’t even think like that. We’re going to find her today.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  There was a finality in his voice that made me look up. He was staring out of the window, both hands clasped around a coffee mug.

  Did he know more than he had told us? Had sixty-three-year old Virginia run off with a house painter or had something else happened? How well did we really know Luke? We saw him at family weddings and funerals, exchanged Christmas and birthday cards.

  I slapped a slice of turkey on the bread and told myself I was crazy, still jet-lagged. This was Pukey Lukey, our cousin, for heaven’s sake. Nevertheless, I jumped when Luke pushed his chair back. He came over, put his mug in the dishwasher, and gave me a hug.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” The hug was sweet, appreciative. What on God’s earth had I been thinking?

  “I’m going to ca
ll that phone number one more time,” he said. “What kind of a person would call himself Monkey Man?”

  I shrugged. I had just seen Sister coming up the back steps. “Is she going with us?”

  “I asked her yesterday. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Fine.” Given the thoughts that were zipping through my brain all morning, it was more than fine. “I’ll fix some more sandwiches.”

  “Lord, it’s cold. Y’all ready? I swear I think it’s going to snow.” Sister swept in dressed in a dark purple cape which looked like a purple blanket with slits for the arms. Add to that purple boots. The Fruit of the Loom people would have hired her in a minute for a commercial.

  “That’s some outfit,” Luke said.

  Sister twirled. “Warsaw. I haven’t seen anything like it here.”

  I hadn’t seen anything like it in Warsaw.

  “Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” I said. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “I’ve got us a whole thermos of coffee in the car.”

  The first look of pleasure that I’d seen since Luke had gotten here lit up his face. “You’re going to let me ride in your Jaguar?”

  The woman didn’t miss a beat. “I think your car would be more comfortable.”

  An hour and a half later we pulled into a parking place at the Steele post office. We had decided on the way up the interstate that this was the only way to find Holden Crawford since all we had was a rural route address.

  Urban sprawl from Birmingham has not reached Steele. With the exception of the modern post office and a cutesy tearoom painted blue, the one downtown street was lined with buildings that had been there for a century. Unlike many small Alabama towns, though, Steele seemed to be holding its own. Most of the buildings were well maintained and, most important, occupied by businesses. The sidewalks weren’t crowded, but neither were they empty. There was even a grocery store that was not part of a large chain. Several cars were parked in front of it.

  “I’ll go ask,” Luke said.

  We watched him go up the steps; the wind whipped against him and he covered his ears with his hands.