Murder Carries a Torch

by Anne George

  “Do you know her sister?”

  “Sure. Betsy and Terry are good folks.”

  “That’s more than you can say for that father of his,” Miss Beulah said. “Eugene Mahall is the biggest ass in St. Clair County. In a wheelchair because somebody shot him. Bunch of people claimed they did it. Bragged about it. The sheriff just gave up on it.”

  The mention of the sheriff got Mary Alice’s attention. “Virgil Stuckey?”

  “Good man. Not worth a tinker’s damn as a sheriff, though.”

  “Oh?” I could see Mary Alice bristling.

  “Too nice.” Miss Beulah struggled to get up from the chair. Albert went over to help her.

  “We’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ve got a pot of vegetable soup on. Y’all are welcome to come by and have some. The green house right on the road. Still got collards in the garden.”

  We thanked her but said we didn’t know how long we would be at the house.

  As they started out of the door, she turned and said, “I’ve got Monk’s mail. I pick it up for him when he’s out of town, so I’ve been getting it. Y’all can look at it if you want to. There might be a letter from your cousin or something. I know there’s a phone bill.”

  “Mama, you’d better give that to the sheriff,” Albert cautioned.

  “Shoot. He wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Old fool,” Sister muttered as I closed the door. “You think that son of hers really teaches at the university?”

  “Probably.” I turned around and surveyed the room. “Reckon how much nosying around we can do without getting in trouble?”

  “Betsy gave you the key, didn’t she? And I guess Virgil’s through in here. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  Actually, Miss Beulah’s mention of the telephone bill had reminded me that there might be phone messages. I went into the kitchen where a telephone was on the counter and picked up the receiver. I recognized the rhythmic beep that Bellsouth uses to signify messages. It’s the same answering service I have at home. Unfortunately, it requires a number that varies for each area as well as a number-password. The number we use is Fred’s birthday, which wouldn’t help me much here.

  “Damn,” I said. “He’s got messages, but he’s on Bellsouth.”

  Sister had followed me into the kitchen.

  “I’m sure Virgil’s already checked them.”

  I ignored the smugness. “These are new ones,” I explained. “It doesn’t beep unless there are new ones. Virgil could have saved the old ones, but they’d just be sitting there.”

  “You can’t access them?”

  “Not without the code numbers.”

  “Hmm.” Mary Alice started opening kitchen cabinets.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re supposed to be looking, aren’t we?” She took down an opened package of Oreos. “Reckon these are fresh? Remember that time you bit into one of those wafer cookies with the lard stuff in them and there was half a worm hanging out when you started to take your second bite?”

  I remembered that it was a cookie that she had given me not mentioning that it was old as the hills.

  “I’m sure those Oreos are fine,” I said, praying for a worm.

  No such luck.

  “Let’s see what they’ve got to drink,” Sister said, opening the refrigerator, her mouth full.

  “Apple juice is all. You want some?”

  I shook my head no. I had opened the drawer beside the sink that is everyone’s junk drawer. On top were a couple of matchbooks like the one on the mantel advertising the Homestead Inn in Nashville. I pocketed one of them. It had the inn’s phone number on it. Could Monk and Virginia have been there and on their way back through Pulaski when he was killed?

  No, that didn’t make sense. That way the matchbooks would have ended up in Pulaski, not on Chandler Mountain. Nevertheless, someone had been to the Homestead Inn.

  “Hello?” The front door opened and Terry Mahall stepped inside.

  “I’m Terry Mahall,” he reminded us politely. “Betsy sent me to see if I could help you.”

  “You can tell us what we’re looking for,” Mary Alice said. “We sure don’t know.”

  “Can’t help you there, Mrs.—”

  “Crane.”

  I closed the junk drawer and walked into the living room. Terry was a handsome young man, I realized. I recognized his father’s pale blue eyes.

  “I’m Patricia Anne Hollowell, Terry,” I said, “and my sister’s right. We’re not sure what we’re looking for. Something that will tell us what might have happened to our cousin.”

  I glanced out of the window. There were several more cars and pickups parked between the house and church than there had been just a few minutes earlier.

  Terry followed my glance.

  “They’re gathering,” he said.

  “They?”

  “The handlers. They’ll all be here for Monk’s funeral. Far away as West Virginia.”

  Sister had joined us. “Will they have snakes?”

  Terry shrugged. “It’s winter. I don’t know.”

  There was a knock on the door and we all jumped. Richard stuck his head inside.

  “Just checking. Sorry we’re late, but Daddy got sick a couple of times on the way up here. Had to stop at a Grub-mart for some Pepto-Bismol.”

  He turned and called, “They’re here okay, Daddy. Come on in.”

  “Dear Jesus,” Mary Alice said. “Maybe he ought to wait out in the car.”

  “Too cold.” Richard went to help his father.

  Mary Alice turned to me. “What the hell are we doing here?”

  Damned if I knew.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  An hour later, the four of us, Richard, Luke, Mary Alice, and I, were back in the living room with nothing to show for our search. Terry Mahall had left right after Richard and Luke had arrived. But before he left, he had called Betsy to ask if she knew how to get messages from Monk’s telephone. She didn’t know, but said she would try to find out. So far we hadn’t heard from her.

  Luke was lying on the sofa, Sister and I were sitting in the chairs, and Richard was standing by the fireplace looking at the pictures on the mantel. Outside, several more cars had come up, and we could hear people greeting each other. Richard had gone over earlier, introduced himself, and explained that we were looking for his mother. None of them said they had met her or knew anything about her. He had come back to report that they were decorating the church with pine boughs and little lights as if it were Christmas. And no, he answered Sister’s question, he hadn’t seen any snakes.

  “We might as well go,” he said, turning from the mantel. Tears suddenly filled his eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  None of us answered.

  Richard walked over to the sofa and stared down at Luke. “What the hell did you do to her, Daddy?”

  Luke sat up. “What do you mean, what the hell did I do to her? Fed her and put a house over her head for forty years, is what I did to her.”

  “Well, that answers that,” Richard said. “No wonder she left.”

  “Hey, y’all, this is tacky.” Mary Alice stood up. “Come on. Richard’s right. It’s time to go.”

  But Luke wasn’t to be sidetracked.

  “What the hell do you know about marriage, you ungrateful punk. You and your Miss Boobie Bungalow. Think you’re so high and mighty up there running the whole United States. Well, I’ve got some news for you, sonny boy.”

  “I’m turning off the gas,” I said, jumping up. “Y’all act the fool all you want, but close the door good when you leave.”

  They were glaring at each other when Sister and I grabbed our coats and left.

  “Tacky,” she repeated as we stepped out onto the porch. “Common as pig tracks. What do you suppose brought that on?”

  “They’re just tired and worried. They’ll be crying and hugging in a little while.”

  “I ho
pe so.”

  So did I.

  We both realized at the same time that there was no way that we could leave. The Jaguar was blocked by two pickups and a shiny black Studebaker with ANTIQUE CAR on the tag.

  “Would you look at that,” Sister said admiringly. “That’s the kind of car I had before Will Alec and I got married. Remember? I got it real cheap because it smelled so bad. I think a cat died in it or something. It was okay with the windows down, though.”

  She walked over and looked in the car. “This is great. I wonder if they want to sell it.”

  “Maybe they’ll swap with you.”

  “You ladies need something?” A man in overalls and a plaid flannel shirt had come from the church and was walking toward us.

  Sister pointed to the multiple vehicles behind us. “We’re blocked in.”

  “You sure are,” the man agreed. He took off an Atlanta Braves cap and ran his hand through thinning gray hair. “I’ll see can I find out who these trucks belong to. The Studebaker’s mine.”

  “It’s beautiful. I used to have one like it,” Mary Alice said.

  “Good for you.” He held out his hand. “Joe Baker. Monk’s brother-in-law.”

  We shook hands. He was a thin, frail-looking man in his sixties, but his grip was so strong it hurt.

  “You find everything all right in the house? My sister always kept it neat as a pin. I don’t know since she died though, and Monk’s been bringing all these women in.”

  “The house is fine,” I said.

  Joe Baker frowned as if he doubted that seriously. Then he said, “Your boy told us what you were doing, trying to locate his mama.”

  “We are.”

  “Well, could be she’s in Nashville. That’s where Monk was going Friday. I talked to him Thursday night. Said he had a painting job up there.”

  “But he was found dead in her car in Pulaski,” Sister said.

  Joe Baker shrugged. “Don’t know.” Then, “I’ll see whose trucks these are.”

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out the Heritage Inn matchbook, and handed it to Sister.

  “There were a bunch of these in the house. Maybe this is where he usually stayed when he had a job in Nashville.”

  She shook her head. “Sounds too fancy. I think we need to tell Virgil about it, though.”

  Two men accompanied Joe Baker from the church, nodded to us, and got in their pickups.

  “Sorry.” He waved.

  In a few minutes we were on the road and headed toward the crest of the mountain. When we got to the green house that Mrs. Packard had described, Mary Alice surprised me by pulling into the driveway.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I want to find out if she knew Monk was going to Nashville so I can tell Virgil.”

  “And we might as well eat some soup while we’re here.”

  Sister didn’t hesitate. “Might as well.”

  Albert Packard answered the door with a copy of Ulysses in his hand. I was sure he had grabbed it when he saw us through the window. I was still impressed, though.

  “Well, ladies. You’re just in time. Mama’s just taking the cornbread out.”

  Books were everywhere. They were in bookcases along the walls, stacked in piles on the floor as well as every other surface. The only piece of furniture that didn’t have books on it was the rocking chair I recognized from TV, the one Miss Beulah had been sitting in when they interviewed her.

  “Have you read all these?” Sister asked in amazement.

  “I’ve forgotten. Y’all come on in.”

  We followed him through a path of books toward a sofa.

  “Mama,” Albert called, “Mrs. Hollowell and Mrs. Crane are here.”

  “Okay, baby boy.”

  Baby Boy moved some books to the floor and picked up a large orange tabby. The cat hung lazily over his arm. “Y’all have a seat.”

  We did, squeezing together. Some books slid into Sister’s lap.

  “Sorry,” Baby Boy said, putting the cat down and taking the books from Sister.

  I looked around for two things, a fire extinguisher and the tin can that Miss Beulah spit her snuff in. Neither was in evidence.

  “I know this looks like a mess.” Albert swept his hand in a wave around the room. “But I’m an antiquarian.”

  “Well, none of us is getting any younger,” Sister commiserated.

  “He collects books,” I explained.

  Another book fell into her lap. “Well, that’s obvious.”

  “God’s truth.” Miss Beulah stood in the arched entrance to the dining room where more books were stacked on the table. “Can’t breathe in here for dust mites.”

  “Now, Mama.” Albert Lee smiled. “What’s happened,” he explained to us, “is that I’ve had this little store in Tuscaloosa for years dealing in rare books and first editions, and I’ve decided to close it and go on the Internet. No use paying the rent. Most of the business is done on the net, anyway.”

  I picked up the book on the top of the pile next to me. A first edition signed copy of The Great Santini by Pat Conroy. I actually felt goosebumps. I had wandered into book heaven right here on the top of Chandler Mountain. Snake handlers and rare-book dealers. What a strange combination.

  “I’ve got to find a place to store them,” Albert Lee admitted.

  “God’s truth,” Miss Beulah said again. Then, “Y’all want some vegetable soup and cornbread? I promise there’s not even a cookbook in the kitchen.”

  Mary Alice didn’t hesitate. I think she beat Miss Beulah back into the kitchen. I wasn’t quite as fast.

  Albert Lee was perceptive. “You admiring the books or did you see Mama on TV the other night?”

  “Both,” I admitted.

  He laughed. “She loves to do that. She’s even got one of those old sunbonnets and a long dress she wears when they’re having a festival at Horse Pens. Hangs Aunt Beulah’s handmade quilts out on the porch. Causes fender benders sometimes people stopping so quick to pay a fortune for them.”

  “She makes quilts?”

  “Somebody in the Dominican Republic does.”

  “Well, my goodness.”

  “Come eat some soup,” he said kindly.

  A round oak table was set with different colors of Fiesta ware on quilted placemats. In the middle was a tureen shaped like a rooster and on an orange Fiesta platter a large pone of steaming cornbread was already cut. The whole scene could have been an illustration for Southern Living.

  Albert Lee lifted the head from the chicken. “Pass me your bowls.”

  And we did. The next few minutes were spent concentrating on eating. I looked over at Miss Beulah who was delicately spooning her soup away from her as if she had just graduated from some finishing school.

  I was stereotyping her again, I realized, to my shame. Albert Lee caught my glance and smiled.

  “Did you find anything at the house?” he asked, passing the platter of cornbread around for seconds.

  “Not really.” I said. “Some matchbooks from the Homestead Inn in Nashville. But there was a guy with an old Studebaker, Monk’s brother-in-law, said that Monk had paint jobs in Nashville. This could have been where he stayed.”

  Miss Beulah took another piece of cornbread. “A man named Joe Baker?”

  “That was who.” Mary Alice took another piece of cornbread and passed the plate to me. “I used to have a car like that. Smelled awful, but I loved the way the front and the back looked the same so you couldn’t tell if it was coming or going.”

  “That Joe Baker.” Miss Beulah speared her knife into the butter so hard that it clinked against the dish. “Bad news. Probably the one who killed Monk. Susan, too. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Now, Mama,” Albert Lee admonished.

  “Well, you know it’s the truth, Bertie. Killed two of his wives. One of them was snakebit and didn’t even handle. And the other one drowned in their well. Just happened to fall over a four-foot-high rock curbing.” She slathere
d butter on her bread. “Sure ruined that water supply.”

  I passed on the cornbread and handed the plate to Albert Lee.

  “But why would he want to kill Monk and Susan?” Mary Alice asked.

  “Well,” Miss Beulah took a bite of cornbread, chewed, and swallowed. “Monk told me that Joe Baker wanted him to give him his snakes when he quit handling, said he thought he was due them. But Monk gave them to Susan, instead.”

  I looked down at the Southern Living table, at the beautiful, rare books in the next room. There was a surreal quality to this conversation. To this whole place.

  “More soup?” Albert Lee offered. Sister held out her bowl.

  “Will Joe Baker be the head honcho snake handler now?” she asked.

  “I expect so. Up here on Chandler Mountain, anyway,” Miss Beulah said.

  I remembered how strong Joe Baker’s handshake had been. How it had hurt my hand. He could twist someone’s head around, force someone’s hand into a basket of poisonous snakes. I shook my head when Albert Lee offered me more soup.

  “She’s anorexic,” Sister explained. “Doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

  I denied the accusation, but no one was listening to me. Miss Beulah was reciting Joe Baker’s criminal record, which was astounding. Several drug charges, federal racketeering (whatever that was), manslaughter (killed a woman while driving drunk). Bunch of other stuff she couldn’t remember.

  Obviously, in Joe Baker’s heyday, the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law wasn’t in effect.

  “Bad news,” she repeated. “If I was Virgil Stucky, Joe would be at the top of my list, I guarantee you.”

  Mary Alice perked up at the mention of Virgil’s name and asked Miss Beulah if she knew him very well.

  “Nicest man in the world. Needs to get him another wife and settle down.”

  Mary Alice nodded in heartfelt agreement.

  Miss Beulah pointed her spoon toward Albert Lee. “Bertie does, too. Look at that beard. Scraggling down like Spanish moss. No woman in the world would put up with that.”

  “Patsy left me because I’m gay, Mama.”

  “Gay, my foot, Albert Lee Packard. She left you because of those damn books in yonder.”

  Mother and son smiled affectionately at each other. From what she had said about Albert’s affection for Susan Crawford, I doubted that he was gay, but saw that whatever he was, his mother adored him.