Murder Shoots the Bull (5 page)

This child will never be standing with an outstretched hand saying “You like me! You like me!” on Oscar night. Sally Field is perfectly safe.

My performance wasn’t any better.

“Oh?” I said, just as brightly. “Who?”

“Lisa. She just came in from Atlanta.”

“Lisa? Why how wonderful.”

I walked past Debbie into the living room where my daughter-in-law was sitting on the sofa. Sitting isn’t the right word. More like crouched into the corner.

“Well, this is a surprise, honey. How are you?”

Stupid question. She looked like hell. Her eyes were almost swollen shut from crying, and her hair, usually a smooth, shiny reddish brown, was white and standing up in spikes.

I’d heard of this, someone’s hair turning white overnight because of a trauma. It had happened to the father in
Twin Peaks
, still one of my favorite TV shows. But this was my first time to witness it.

“I’m fine,” she said, reaching over to the coffee table for another Kleenex and blowing her nose. “I’ve left Alan.”

“I’ll get us some tea,” Debbie said in her fake cheerful voice.

“You have any Tums?” I asked.

“Always.” Debbie disappeared into the kitchen, and I turned to look at Lisa.

“Is Alan okay?”

“I reckon.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” Then the polite Southern child. “No, ma’am.”

I sat in a chair facing the sofa. “What about the boys? How are they?”

“They’re fine. They’re in school.”

“What about when they get out of school?”

“They’ve got keys.” A reach for another Kleenex.

Un huh. I digested this news for a moment. Charlie and Sam were borderline, as far as I was concerned, for being left totally unsupervisd.

“I left them a note,” Lisa volunteered.

Great. The kids would come home from school and find a note saying their mother had left their father. And them.

“What about Alan? Does he know you’ve left?”

Lisa sighed and burrowed deeper into the sofa corner. “He will when he gets home. Whenever that is.”

“But you don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Excuse me a minute, Lisa.” I got up and went into the kitchen where Debbie was pouring tea into three glasses.

“Did she say anything?” she asked.

“Just that she left the boys a note saying she’d gone and that Alan would find out whenever he got home.”

“Whenever?” Debbie raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “I can’t imagine what’s going on. I don’t know whether I should call Alan or not. He really needs to know where she is.” I looked at my watch. “She must have barreled over here.”

“You want me to call him? I don’t care if he thinks I’m butting in.”

“Would you?” I handed the job over to Debbie without a moment’s hesitation. Fred’s mother, the only woman in the world who could put the fear of God into Mary Alice, had taught me the hard way to stay out of my children’s marital problems. “You have the number?”

She pointed to a bulletin board and handed me a bottle of Tums.

I took a couple and chewed them gratefully. “Find out what’s going on if you can. Just ask him.”

“I will.”

I rubbed my forehead. “This is turning out to be the day from hell. Mitzi Phizer’s just been over to the house telling me about Arthur’s first wife getting murdered.”

“My Lord, Aunt Pat. Whose first wife?”

“Arthur Phizer next door’s, Debbie. It seems that he was married when he was a teenager to a woman named Sophie Vaughn. The police think she was poisoned yesterday. In fact, your mama and I were there when she died. Right outside the Hunan Hut.”

“What, Aunt Pat? I’m confused.”

“So am I. I’ll explain it later. Where are the twins?”

“At the park with Richardena.”

“Every mother should have a Richardena.”

“I’m blessed.”

I picked up two of the glasses and started back into the living room when I realized Debbie probably shouldn’t even be at home.

“You working at home this morning?” I asked.

“I have to be in court in an hour.”

“Well, don’t let this hold you up. I’ll try to find out what’s going on.”

Lisa was scrunched down even farther in the corner of the sofa.

“Here’s your tea,” I said. “Sit up and drink some of it. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Alan doesn’t love me any more,” she sniffled.

“Of course he does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

I was in no mood to stand there holding cold glasses.

“Well, be that as it may, here’s your tea.” I put Lisa’s glass on the coffee table and sat down. I glanced at my watch. Not quite 10:30. If I hadn’t retired from teaching last year, I would be in my AP Modern British Lit class. September. We’d be doing Yeats, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun, and the smell of frying chicken
would be permeating the building. I wouldn’t have met Sophie Sawyer at the Hunan Hut or found out about her murder this morning. I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering what was going on with my son and his wife. I’d be insulated in a classroom. Just me and twenty sweet, well-behaved teenagers, all of whom had been cleared by the metal detector at the front door.

I swear I felt tears in my eyes.

Lisa sat up and reached for her glass. It was my first close look at her white spikey hair which I realized immediately was the result of peroxide, not trauma.

“My God! What have you done to your hair?”

It just popped out, and I could have bitten my tongue. But Lisa didn’t seem to take offense.

She patted the spikes. “This beautician in Atlanta did it. I’m supposed to look like one of the Spice Girls. I don’t know which one.”

I didn’t either. I’d seen the Spice Girls on Regis and Kathie Lee and didn’t remember a Spike Spice.

“Alan hates it. I told him, I said, Tough titty, Alan. It’s my hair and my head.”

“And what did Alan say?”

“He said my brains are scrambled.” Lisa put the tea back on the table without drinking any. For a moment she stayed hunched over.

“He may be right,” she added.

“Of course he’s not,” I assured her, trying to be a good mother-in-law.

The phone rang and Debbie answered it in the kitchen. I hoped it was Alan calling back, but in a moment she stuck her head into the living room and told me her mama wanted to speak to me.

“Did you get him?” I whispered as I went past her.

“Not yet.”

I picked up the phone and said hello.

Sister informed me that she had had a terrible time finding me, that I really needed a pager.

Right. For all the emergencies that come up while I’m at the Piggly Wiggly.

“Listen,” I said, “I can’t talk now. We’re trying to get in touch with Alan.”

“For what? What’s wrong?”

“Lisa’s here. She says she’s left him. We’re trying to find out what’s going on.”

“What does Lisa say is going on?”

“She says she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“That means she does. Call me back as soon as you can. You’ve got to hear about Cedric.”

I was suddenly exhausted. “Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to hear about Cedric. I don’t want to hear about some Englishman’s pencil thin whatever when serious things are happening like people getting poisoned.”

“Lisa’s poisoned?”

Lord. I hung up the phone, marched back into the living room and told Lisa that she was going home with me, that Debbie had to go to work, and that the nanny would be back in a little while with the girls.

“Okay,” she said and stood up. I had expected some argument, but she seemed to be beyond arguing. Which suited me.

The phone rang again.

“If it’s your mama, tell her it’s Sophie Sawyer who got poisoned, I’m sorry I hung up on her, and I’ll talk to her later.” I gave Debbie a hug, and ushered Lisa out to the car.

So here I was, on a beautiful late summer, early fall day, with Spike Spice for a daughter-in-law, a next-door neighbor whose husband was attracting disasters like fleas, and a loony sixty-four- (really sixty-six) year-old sister who was sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Cedric. Lord.

W
hen we got home, I suggested to Lisa that she lie down on the guest-room bed for a while.

Again there was no arguing. She asked for a couple of aspirin, took them, and disappeared down the hall. When I checked on her a few minutes later, she was already asleep, curled up like a child, her hand cupping her cheek.

I spread a light blanket over her and saw tears at the corner of her eyes. Lisa has long, dark lashes, and their shadows made the circles under her eyes seem even deeper.

Damn it. Alan had better have some good explanation for this.

I closed the door, went back to the den, and called Debbie.

No, she hadn’t gotten Alan, and she was about to leave. She had left word on his voice mail, though, that Lisa was at my house. And her mama had wanted to know who So
phie Sawyer was and she had told her Mr. Phizer’s first wife. That was what I had said. Right? Mama hadn’t believed it.

I told her it was, and thanks. Then I went out and sat on the steps to wait for Mary Alice.

But I was wrong. She was a no-show. I finally went in, fixed some tuna fish salad, decided that wasn’t what I wanted and ended up with a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk which I ate while I watched
Jeopardy!

Lisa slept.

I called to see if Mitzi was okay and got an immediate pick-up on her answering machine which meant she was on the phone. Busy, probably, helping to make arrangements for Sophie’s funeral, something Mitzi would be nice enough to do even though Sophie had had first dibs on Arthur. Maybe, I thought, I ought to carry some food over. After all, it was a death in a neighboring family. Sort of.

I looked in the freezer to see if I had something like a squash casserole that I could take over. Wishful thinking. I did have two packages of Stouffer’s spinach souffle, though. I dumped them into a small casserole dish, added a little butter, and stuck them into the microwave. In ten minutes I was headed across the yard with a neighborly offering of hot food. We do live in good times.

But no one was home at the Phizers’. I got back to my driveway just as Mary Alice pulled in.

“You’re late,” I said.

“Don’t be tacky.” She unstuck herself from between the steering wheel and the seat and climbed out. “What’s in the casserole?”

“Spinach souffle.”

“Stouffer’s?”

“I added some butter.”

“Remember how gritty spinach used to be? Mama would
wash it over and over and it would still be gritty. The only thing that saved it was the sliced hard-boiled egg on top. Lord, I hated spinach. You could pick it up and look under it and there was green grit.”

“There was not. Mama washed it better than that.”

“There was, too. Green grit. Made funny noises on your teeth and we thought we had to eat it because it made Popeye strong. He always ate the canned, though.”

“The canned’s bitter.”

“Put a little sugar in it. In fact, Henry says the secret to all good cooking is a little sugar.”

“Really?” I was in awe of Mary Alice’s new son-in-law’s culinary skills. Sugar. How about that.

The spinach conversation had gotten us to the back door.

“Okay,” Mary Alice said, holding it open for me, “Who’s dead and who’s getting divorced? I think Debbie was a little confused.”

I set the casserole on the stove. “Nobody’s getting divorced. The dead person is the same lady we saw yesterday with Arthur Phizer. She was murdered.”

“That’s what Debbie said, but I can’t believe it. What happened?” Sister sat down at the kitchen table and pulled off her shoes. “Lord,” she said, reaching down and squeezing her foot. “These shoes are at least a size and a half too small. Cuts off the circulation. But it was the only pair they had in this style.”

“Somebody poisoned her is what happened. Mitzi came over this morning and said she and Arthur were up all night. It seems this lady who was killed was Arthur’s first wife and he’s very upset.” I thought about this for a minute. “Not that he wouldn’t have been upset anyway having a woman die on the front seat of his car. I know it would upset me.”

Sister looked up from the foot massaging. “Debbie told
me that, too. I didn’t know Arthur had been married before.”

“It was a teenage thing. Their folks had it annulled. But he’s still shaken up, of course. It’s in the paper. Poison.”

“Yuck.”

I handed Sister the newspaper which was still on the table and she read the notice.

“That doctor said it was her heart, Mouse. The one in the white tennis shorts.”

A heart in white tennis shorts? Fighting Sister’s grammar is a losing battle. So all I said was, “Well, maybe her heart was bad, too. Mitzi said she had diabetes and a lot of circulatory problems. Maybe that’s why she was having trouble walking yesterday.” I sat down across from Sister. “Mitzi said that now she wouldn’t have to suffer.”

Sister frowned and put the paper down. “She was having trouble walking because she was about to croak. And what are you saying, that someone put her out of her misery?”

I thought about this a moment. “I guess they did. I wouldn’t think this was a Dr. Kevorkian thing, though. Not at the Hunan Hut and not with poison that did her the way that did. Lord, it was awful. Those convulsions.”

“Well, damn,” Sister said. “I’ll bet Arthur is upset. The first one’s rough. I think I was more upset when Will Alec died than I was when Philip and Roger died. No sadder, of course, but you sort of get used to it.” She hesitated. “Well, maybe you don’t get used to it, that’s not what I meant. You just learn the drill.” Another pause. “And there was already a place for them at Elmwood. That made a difference. When Will Alec died, I even had to buy a cemetery plot.”

Learn the drill? “But you got a nice roomy one.”

“Got the adjoining ones. Good thinking, too, Miss Smarty. When Philip tumped over in the shower, Elmwood was right there waiting for him. No problem.”

I got back to the subject of Sophie Sawyer. “I don’t know if this lady will be buried here or not. She lived in Chicago for years and I guess that’s where her husband’s buried. Her two daughters will probably want to take her back up there.”

“Really? Did their mother have any money?”

“Lots, I think. Why?”

“Because that’s the number one reason people get killed, except for being mad at each other. Speaking of which, what about Lisa?”

“She’s asleep.” I rubbed my hand over my forehead where I felt a headache lurking. “I don’t have any idea what’s going on. All Lisa will say is that she doesn’t want to talk about it, and that Alan doesn’t love her any more.”

“Another woman.”

A definite twinge of pain over my right eye.

“Surely not. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Of course it is. Alan’s smack dab in the middle of bimbo territory.”

“Would you care to elucidate?” I got up, took the aspirin from the cabinet, and poured a glass of water.

“He’s in his thirties, successful, handsome, been married fifteen years. He’s in an office surrounded by attractive women. Bimbo territory.”

I chewed the aspirin thoughtfully.

Mary Alice winced. “Why don’t you swallow those things like a normal person?”

“They get stuck.” I held the bottle out. “You want some?”

“No thanks. You take too many of those things.”

“On days like today I do,” I agreed. I sat back down. “Bimbo territory?”

“Absolutely.”

I usually don’t put much stock in Mary Alice’s theories, but this one might merit some consideration. Alan is our
middle child and has always been the good, solid one. He’s never had the offbeat imagination of his brother Freddie or the mischievousness of his sister Haley. He’s dependable and kind and has always seemed contented with his lot. Surely he hadn’t fallen for some bimbo.

“I hate the word bimbo,” I said.

“Because you’re still a feminist.”

“Possibly.”

“Then tell me this. What would you call a cute twenty-two-year-old blonde who was coming on to Fred?”

“Dead meat.”

“Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Sister said. “She’d have to be crazy.”

“Hey, y’all. Hey, Aunt Sister.” Lisa stood in the doorway looking like something Muffin had dragged in.

“My God, Lisa. What have you done to your hair?” Subtlety has never been one of Mary Alice’s strong suits. I cringed when I remembered this was exactly what I had said when I saw Lisa.

But Lisa seemed too tired to take offense. She ran her hand through her hair absently. “It’s supposed to be a Spice Girl look. The boys said it looks like Old Spice.”

“Here, honey,” I said. “Sit down. What do kids know? You want some lunch? I made some tuna fish salad. And I’ve got cream cheese, if you’d rather have that.”

“You got any Coke?”

“Sure.”

“Get me some, too,” Sister said when I got up. “I had lunch at The Club and those orange rolls always make me thirsty.” Then, to Lisa as she sat down, “Debbie says you and Alan have had some kind of falling out. Is he running around?”

Like Fred says, the woman has the nerve of a bad tooth. I held my breath expecting Lisa to collapse into tears or, worst-case scenario, though she has never seemed violent,
bop Sister over the head with the sugar bowl and tell her it was none of her damned business. What I didn’t expect was Lisa’s answer.

“Yes, ma’am. Her name is Coralee Gibbons.”

I breathed again but not very well. My baby boy was in trouble.

“Who is Coralee Gibbons?” I asked.

“A woman who works in his office.”

Sister flashed me a triumphant look and mouthed, “Bimbo territory.”

But Lisa caught the gesture. “She’s not a bimbo, Aunt Sister. I wish she were.”

I poured Coke and handed each of them a glass. “Tell us about her. And are you sure?”

Lisa had begun to cry again. Sister handed her a paper napkin. Those paper napkins were coming in handy today.

“He admits it. And she’s forty-five if she’s a day. She’s got grown children and she’s not even pretty.” Lisa looked up with tears welling in her eyes. “She wears green eyeshadow and short-sleeved suits. You know, like Janet Reno.”

Sister looked puzzled. “I’ve never noticed Janet Reno wearing green eyeshadow.”

“But she wears suits like hers. One night I saw her at a party and she had on white patent-leather shoes. Can you believe that?”

“Good Lord,” Sister commiserated. “I hope she at least had on a white dress.”

“A short-sleeved navy suit. And dark red lipstick. Janet Reno.”

We were wandering away from the point here, to say the least.

“Exactly what does Alan say?” I asked, sitting back down.

“He says she’s the most intelligent woman he’s ever known.” Lisa held the paper napkin to her eyes again.

Sister gave a little snort. “Not if she wears white patent-leather shoes after five o’clock. And with a navy short-sleeved suit. Where is this woman from?”

Lisa shrugged an “I don’t know” shrug.

“Listen,” I said, “does Alan say he’s in love with her? What does he say is going on?”

“He says he’s confused.”

“Probably those white patent-leather shoes. Does she have big feet? Not that it matters.”

“Shut up, Sister.” I rapped my knuckles on the table, a tactic I had often used at school. “Just shut up about the damned shoes.”

Lisa looked up in surprise; Mary Alice frowned at me, picked up her Coke, and sipped it.

I took advantage of the momentary silence. “Have you talked to anyone about this? A marriage counselor?”

“Alan said he didn’t want to.”

“Men always say that.”

I gave Sister a hard look.

“Well, they do. You just have to go on and make the appointment and then tell them. You ask me, you haven’t got much to worry about, though. A woman named Coralee in her forties who dresses like Janet Reno and wears white patent shoes with a navy dress? No way, Lisa.”

“You think so?” There was a hopeful look on Lisa’s face, the first I had seen.

“Absolutely.”

I gave up. Might as well. There wasn’t anything I could do about the situation, anyway. Alan and Lisa were going to have to work this out. I’d worry about it, of course, and hate this woman named Coralee Gibbons for rocking the boat. But it wasn’t my boat. Of course, my grandsons were passengers. I hopped up.

“I’m going to make you a cream cheese sandwich,” I told Lisa. “That’ll go down easy.”

“Make me one, too,” Sister said. “I need something to go with the Coke.”

“I thought you just had lunch.”

“All I had was chicken salad and orange rolls.” She turned back to Lisa. “Do you know, Betty Ethridge has a friend from somewhere up north who said she couldn’t believe people from Alabama would eat chicken salad with orange rolls. Made Betty mad. She says she told her we even eat boiled possums with orange rolls. The woman probably believed her. Beats all.”