by Anne George
It was pleasant in the kitchen. Outside, the January wind had picked up, but we were warm and well fed. Albert Lee got up and cut pieces of pecan pie for us for dessert and poured coffee. I ate and listened idly to the conversation, most of it about Chandler Mountain, the crops grown there late into the fall because of the thermals, the hard-core poverty of the Appalachians, the mountain people trying to hold on to their isolation and losing the battle.
“But you left the mountain,” I said to Albert Lee.
“Yes, but it’s never left me. And here I am, back.”
“But on the Internet.”
He shrugged and grinned. “There’s a world out there.”
“And he’s going back to it, too,” Miss Beulah said. “The day I found out I was pregnant with him was the day I started saving my pennies so he could go to college.”
“What did your husband do?” I asked.
“Coal miner.” Miss Beulah pushed her coffee cup away. “Died when he was thirty-five in the Daisy Belle mine. Methane explosion. Seventeen men gone just like that.” Miss Beulah snapped her finger.
“That was my daddy,” Albert Lee said. “There’ve been a couple of husbands since.”
Miss Beulah nodded. “One of them nice but sickly, didn’t last long. One of them sorry, wanting the money the company gave me for Jake’s death. I kicked his sorry ass out so quick it’s probably still spinning.”
I wondered how much money she would have received from a coal company forty years ago. Probably not much, but I had an idea that it explained Albert Lee’s education.
Mary Alice leaned back and stretched. “How much did you get?”
“Sister!”
But Miss Beulah didn’t take offense. “Not as much as I would have if he’d lived. Eugene Mahall down in Steele, Susan Crawford’s sister Betsy is married to his son, was hurt in the same accident and he’s been living high off the hog from the coal company ever since. Bought a bunch of land, raises cotton, built a fine house.”
“Invested it wisely, Mama,” Albert Lee said.
Miss Beulah pursed her lips. “So they say. Ask me, he’s been blackmailing the company all these years. Probably the folks who shot him. He knew something about the explosion the company’s been willing to shut him up about.”
“That could have been to start with,” Albert Lee agreed. “They could have given him more than they did us. But he took that money and made his own bundle with it, Mama.”
“How?” Sister asked. “That’s where we picked up the key to Monk’s house. That’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen. The Mahall house, that is.”
“Lending money. Charging a fortune in interest.” Albert Lee got up and started collecting dirty dishes. “Anybody want any more coffee?”
Nobody did.
“What do they call that? Usury?” Sister asked.
“They call it illegal. He was running a damn mini-Mafia for years. That’s how he got shot. Mama knows that.” Albert Lee put the dishes into the sink and began to rinse them. “He got away with it, though, and then turned legal. The son of a bitch owns a bank now. He and his son. Lock, stock, and barrel, and the coal company their biggest account.”
“You’re kidding,” I exclaimed. I thought of Betsy Mahall working at the telephone company, of my worry about their being able to afford in-vitro procedures. Was nothing on this damn mountain what it seemed?
“I told you I bet they have Thomas Jefferson floors in that house,” Sister said.
“Probably,” Miss Beulah agreed as if Thomas Jefferson floors were common knowledge. “I think that house is why his wife Louellen married the old coot.”
“Terry’s mother?” I asked.
“No. Terry’s mother got taken with pneumonia a long time ago. Louellen was about twenty-five years younger. A country singer. Said she was on the Grand Ole Opry, but nobody had ever heard of her. Leastways up here on the mountain, we hadn’t. Heard of Conway Twitty, but no Louellen Conway.”
Albert Lee sat back down and crossed his arms.
“What’s the matter with you?” his mother asked.
“Nothing, Mama. Just waiting to hear the rest of the story.”
Miss Beulah gave him a hard look but continued. “Anyway, the girl was cute as she could be, little and blond like Barbara Mandrell, but I think she found out real soon that she’d made a bad bargain.”
“I think she was clinically depressed,” Albert Lee said.
“Well, of course she was, Bertie. Who wouldn’t be, having to live with Eugene Mahall?”
“Did he lose the use of his legs in the explosion?” I asked.
“Sure did. We thought he’d lost more, but then Terry was born, and Terry’s mama was a saint, so there wasn’t a handyman in the woodpile, I guarantee you.”
There was a challenge to Miss Beulah’s voice so we all nodded that we were sure that Terry Mahall was indeed a legitimate Mahall.
“Anyway, that Louellen hadn’t been there six months until she started trying to commit suicide. Jumped out of a second-story window two times, but just scratched herself up in some legustrum. The third time they say she crawled up on the roof and broke her arm when she jumped.”
“Why didn’t she just leave him?” Mary Alice asked.
“Well, she did, finally. Just disappeared. Old Eugene Mahall said she went back to Nashville, but everybody thinks she’s part of the Welcome to Alabama rest-stop ramp they were building up I-59.”
“Lord have mercy,” Mary Alice murmured.
The yellow cat strolled into the kitchen and jumped up on Albert’s lap.
“Or maybe the Chandler Mountain booger got her,” he said, scratching the purring cat’s head.
Chapter
Fifteen
Mary Alice was unusually quiet on the way home. I don’t know what she was thinking about, probably Virgil, but I was thinking about Betsy Mahall and what she had said about being scared. I had tried to make myself believe she was scared about losing the cameo, but what if she were frightened of her father-in-law? Of bringing her sister’s two tiny children into that house to live with a man who was at the least disagreeable (I had witnessed that myself) and who, according to the Packards, was a thief, blackmailer, and possibly a murderer.
And what were she and Terry doing living there anyway? Was she running that large house and taking care of a grouchy, disabled father-in-law as well as holding down a job at the telephone company?
“What are you thinking about?” Sister asked.
“Betsy Mahall. I think she’s got her hands full. What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that Virginia’s no more dead than a Betsy bug. You know what I think happened?”
I didn’t ask, but she told me anyway.
“I think Holden Crawford took her to Nashville to that Homestead Inn place and left her. She had arranged to meet someone there.”
“Then what was he doing with her car in Pulaski? And somebody saw her with him in Pulaski, remember? Getting gas.”
“That could have been on their way up there. On the way back, after he’d left Virginia, somebody killed him.”
I thought about this for a minute. It was possible, but certainly a circuitous route for Virginia to get to Nashville. Why would she have come to Chandler Mountain when she could have driven straight up there from Mississippi?
“Or maybe,” Sister continued, “he put her on a plane in Nashville.”
“Planes fly out of a lot closer places. Birmingham, Chattanooga.”
“There was some special reason he needed to go to Nashville.”
My head was beginning to ache. I still wasn’t over my jet lag totally.
“You want to go with me to Debbie’s to see Brother and the twins?”
“Tell her I’ll be over tomorrow.”
“Maybe Henry’s cooked something good for supper.”
Lord. It had only been an hour since we had had soup, cornbread, and pecan pie. The woman amazes me. What would it be like to have suc
h an appetite, not just for food, but for life? Not to worry about details like I did? Who made me the worrywart in this family?
“You were born worrying. It’s your burden to bear. I remember when Mama told us we should appreciate our food because the starving children in India didn’t have any, you worried to death about them. Wouldn’t eat.”
I hadn’t even realized I had asked the question aloud until Sister answered.
“I still worry about them,” I admitted. “What’s your burden?”
Sister thought for a moment, her eyebrows squeezed together into a crease. “I guess being a woman, particularly a Southern woman.”
I looked at her in amazement. Surely she wasn’t serious. What kind of a burden brought three rich husbands, three wonderful kids, a secure place in the world, and the nerve of a bad tooth?
“You see, we’re brought up to be too sweet, too subservient to men, to society in general.”
“When on God’s earth have you ever been subservient to anybody? Or sweet, for that matter? On the Concorde coming back from Paris, you rearranged where half a dozen people were sitting so you could be near Peter Jennings.”
“Who slept the whole way home. And I was sweet and didn’t wake him up. He’s got a lot of gray, I noticed. Do you think he uses Grecian Formula? Or that five-minute stuff? They could put that on him right before he goes on the air. If he sweated he might be in trouble, though.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Don’t be tacky.”
We pulled into my driveway just as it began to mist. It was well above freezing so ice was no danger, but Woofer would miss his walk again. I told my burdened Southern Sister goodbye and went over to the igloo to check him out.
“Come inside a while,” I told him.
He grudgingly agreed. He followed me into the house, I gave him a couple of dog biscuits, and he stretched out on his rug to nibble at them. Muffin eyed us from the center of the kitchen table. I took her down, gave her a couple of Pounce treats, and went to check my messages.
My only E-mail message was from someone advertising SEX SEX SEX on the Internet. I get quite a few of these ads, having wandered one day onto a Website called Amazon Lovers or something like that when I was trying to order a book. I think I am now on some kind of international list of large lesbians.
I deleted the SEX SEX SEX, which zipped me back to Haley’s last message about the pope. I reread it and realized she was probably in Rome by then. I couldn’t have been happier for her. This time last year she had been a widow, lonely, still grieving for what might have been with her husband, Tom, whose life had been severed by a drunk driver. Tom on his way home from work with flowers and a Valentine for Haley.
I touched the computer screen. “Be happy, darling.”
There were three phone messages. One was a siding company, the second one wanted to sell us insurance, and the third one surprised me so I had to sit down.
“Patricia Anne?” It was a woman’s voice and she was whispering, but I recognized her before she said, “This is Virginia. Please call me at 615-555-9678. I need some help. Bad.”
In spite of the sinister sound of the message, I was so relieved to hear Virginia’s voice, I said, “Yes!” Woofer and Muffin both jumped.
I looked at my watch. Mary Alice was at Debbie’s, but maybe Richard and Luke had declared a truce and come back while we were eating with the Packards.
I dialed Sister’s number. No Richard, or if he was there he wasn’t answering. I dialed Debbie’s. One of the twins answered. Teeny (we’re still trying to figure out why the twins call Mary Alice this) wasn’t there, Aunt Pat, but did I want to speak to Brother? He was asleep, but she would wake him up.
“Fay?”
“May, Aunt Pat.”
“I’d like to speak to your mama, darling.”
“She’s asleep. I’ll wake her up.”
“No, don’t do that, May. Let her sleep.”
“Okay. Bye.” May hung up.
I played Virginia’s message again and wrote the number down. After listening to it the second time, I realized that it was just as well that I hadn’t been able to reach Luke. Virginia had specifically asked for me to call her.
Which I did. She answered “Hello” in a whisper.
“Virginia?” I whispered back.
“Patricia Anne? Oh, Patricia Anne.”
“Where are you?”
“In a Holiday Inn Express in Nashville.”
“Why are you in Nashville and why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know.” A normal voice. “My ass is in a sling, Patricia Anne.”
“You mean with Luke? No way. He’s going to be so relieved to hear you’re okay that it’s not going to matter what you’ve done. He’s been worried to death, Virginia. Richard, too. He’s here trying to find you.”
“My baby’s there?”
“We just got back from Chandler Mountain looking for you.”
“Y’all stay away from Chandler Mountain, Patricia Anne. I saw what happened to Monk Crawford on CNN. God.” Virginia’s voice dropped to a whisper again. “I saw more than I should have.”
I shivered. “You saw who killed him?”
“Of course not. But I saw my own car right there on CNN with Monk in it dead. Snakebit.” Virginia began to cry. “He was a nice man, Patricia Anne.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“Good painter, too. The soffits never looked so good.”
Enough.
“How did you want me to help you, Virginia?”
“I’m going to be charged with murder, Patricia Anne.”
“You’re not going to be charged with murder, Virginia.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe because you didn’t kill anybody?”
“But I did. He’s lying right here on the floor.”
I caught my breath. “Who are you talking about, Virginia?”
“Spencer Gordon. I killed him.”
“Virginia,” I said calmly. “Hang up and call 911.”
“Told you my ass was in a sling.”
The phone went dead. I looked frantically in my end table drawer for my address book. I can never remember Sister’s car phone number. No book. I ran into the kitchen and looked in the junk drawer. No book. I thought maybe I should call Nashville 911. Could I do that? Could I call our 911 and have them transfer me? Oh, hell. I was rushing down the hall toward the bedroom when the phone rang. Please God, let it be Virginia. Let her say she was joking. Some sorry-ass joke, but I’d forgive her. Yes I would. Please God.
It was Sister.
“I just found out something about Eugene Mahall,” she said.
“Virginia’s in a Holiday Inn Express in Nashville with a man she just killed,” I gasped. “She says he’s lying on the floor and she killed him.”
“What?”
“God’s truth.”
“A Holiday Inn Express? With all of those elegant hotels in Nashville?”
I hung up on her and realized immediately that I didn’t know how to call her back. Not that it mattered. The woman didn’t have walking-around sense. Nevertheless, I was relieved when the phone rang again.
I snatched it up. “Listen, Miss Snotty. I remember when you were happy with Bob’s Tourist Court. Spent quite a few nights there, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“Aunt Pat?”
“Oh, Debbie. Thank God.”
“What’s the matter?”
I went through Virginia’s story again, and this time I got a sensible response.
“I’ll call and talk to the manager of the motel, Aunt Pat. You keep trying to get Richard and Luke. I’m sure nothing bad has really happened.” Then, “Wait a minute, Aunt Pat.”
I waited.
“Sorry. I had to switch Brother to the other side. Now let me write this down. What’s the man’s name?”
“Spencer Gordon. I think he may be from Seattle.”
“And it’s a Holiday Inn Express.”
&nbs
p; “Nice places to stay. Fred and I stay in them all the time. AARP discounts.”
“I’ll call you back in a little while. And what was that about Bob’s Tourist Court?”
“Ask your mother.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and willed my blood pressure to go down. Relax, feet. Relax, hands. Relax, shoulders. I was on the beach at Destin and the sun was setting. A blue heron was wading into a tidal pool. It was not my fault that my sister didn’t have biddy brains. It was not my fault that Virginia’s ass was in a sling for killing a man in a Holiday Inn Express. I was calm and collected. My daughter was at this very moment having an audience with the pope. His blessings were flowing over me vicariously.
The phone rang and I jumped like I had been shot. Damn.
It was Fred. He had a hankering for corned beef and cabbage. Should he stop by Morrison’s on the way home?
If he had a hankering for corned beef and cabbage, he’d better. And get some egg custard pie.
“Wait a minute,” I said before he hung up. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Want to uncork some vintage Viagra tonight?”
Why not? I was feeling much better when I dialed Mary Alice’s number again. And this time, Luke answered.
I asked to speak to Richard, but Luke immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Something about Virginia?”
“No, Luke. The President’s trying to get in touch with him.”
There was a sharp intake of breath, an excited mumbling, and Richard was on the phone in a second. “The President wants me? Did he say what for?”
He sounded so thrilled, I felt guilty bursting his bubble.
“It’s your mama, Richard. I didn’t want to tell your daddy on the phone. She’s okay, but she’s in a Holiday Inn Express in Nashville and says she’s killed a man.”
“The President called to tell me that? That was thoughtful, wasn’t it?”
I hoped for a moment that this was an act he was putting on for his father, but the tone of his voice was too excited.
“Very thoughtful,” I agreed. “He also suggested that you might want to see about her. Debbie’s calling the manager at the motel to find out what’s going on. But I think you ought to take over from here.”
