Murder Carries a Torch (3 page)

“Have you tried to get in touch with her?” I asked him.

“I went up to Gadsden. Nobody had heard of the
church. There’s no Holden Crawford listed in the phone book.”

“There are a lot of Lutherans up there,” Sister said. “Their families all came over from Germany. A lot of Catholics, too.”

I tried to figure out if there was any point to this remark, decided there wasn’t, and took the sweet rolls out of the oven.

“What I was hoping,” Luke said as I handed each of them a plate and a napkin, “was if you two would help me.”

“Help you how?” Sister reached for a sweet roll. “Ow. Hot.” She stuck her finger in her mouth.

“Help me find Virginia.”

“How could we do that?” I poured each of us more coffee.

“Well, we know the man’s name and that he’s a painter and a preacher. And we know his church is somewhere around Gadsden. Just because nobody that I asked in town knew him doesn’t mean anything. We could check with the sheriff’s office, branch out.” He looked from me to Mary Alice who was already chewing orange roll and didn’t look up.

I sat back down and reached for an orange roll. “Have you called Richard?”

Luke shook his head. “Didn’t want to worry him.”

“But look.” Mary Alice held up her hand for silence. We waited for her to swallow. “That’s what children are for. I think, Luke, that you ought to call Richard and tell him that his mama’s run off with a preacher who’s a painter on the side and may have joined a cult. Tell him it’s the Jesus’ Open Hand church or whatever you said. Maybe the federal government has a file on them.”

Luke blanched beneath the several days’ growth of beard. “You think the federal government might have a file on this group?”

“Oh, sure. Every time you see one of those groups out waiting for the end of the world on a mountaintop, there’s an FBI man right in the middle of them.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. This was fast getting out of control. “This Holden Crawford is a minister of a small church. Right?”

Luke and Sister agreed.

“The fact that it’s a small church certainly doesn’t mean it’s a cult.”

They nodded.

I continued. “He’s attractive, in his fifties—”

“And he’s up on a ladder painting the soffits,” Sister interrupted. “What are soffits, anyway?”

“Those things under the eaves,” Luke explained. He turned to me. “What are you getting at, Patricia Anne?”

“As I was saying—” I hesitated, expecting Sister to finish my sentence, but she didn’t. “He’s attractive, younger than Virginia. Maybe she was feeling a little lonesome.”

“And there he was right outside her window reaching up to paint the soffits,” Sister added.

Luke sighed. “I know, y’all. But she’s my wife. I’ve got to know that she’s all right.”

“Well, eat an orange roll and let’s think about this for a few minutes.” I pushed the basket toward him.

Luke is a nice-looking man. The older he gets, the more I see a resemblance to my father, his uncle. Papa had a square jaw that neither Sister nor I inherited, but that Luke picked up from the Tate gene pool. Luke and Papa also had the same dark auburn hair, which had
turned white by the time they were fifty. Luke’s beard, I noticed as he leaned forward to take a roll, still had a lot of red in it. He had pulled off his jacket and was wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt that made his eyes, bloodshot as they were, look the same blue as Papa’s. And the same blue as both of my boys. Damn.

Virginia has never been one of my favorite people. She’s a “sizer-upper,” one of those women who walks through your house and doesn’t miss a thing. The kind who knows more about your medicine cabinet than you do.

But here was her husband, my papa’s look-alike, sitting at my kitchen table asking me to help him. Saying he needed to know if she was all right.

Well, damn. What choice did I have?

“Tell us what we can do,” I offered.

“Like I said, help me find her. She’s been gone ten days.”

“No problem,” Sister said.

Luke fell asleep on my guest room bed as soon as his head hit the pillow. He looked so sick, I wondered if we ought to take him to a doctor.

Sister said no. “He’s just torn up about Virginia. Just goes to show.”

She was still sitting at the kitchen table finishing up the last of the orange rolls.

“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 famil
iar. 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.