by Anne George
"Gone? Where?" Sister had a mouthful of chicken salad.
"How should I know? To swear out a warrant for Judge Haskins?"
Sister chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe." She pushed the plate of sandwiches toward me. "Here."
"It's really none of our business, you know." I reached over Bubba Cat and got a sandwich half.
"But I can't believe she was that impolite. She could at least have said good-bye. Here I am fixing her a perfectly good peanut butter and banana sandwich and she's taking off." Sister picked up the plate of sandwiches. "Come on. Let's go watch One Life To Live. I swear, I can't believe Nicki has come back after all these years, can you? Vicki was doing so good for so long. Sane as you or me. Never should have left Clint, if you ask me."
"She's probably not thinking right because of her grief."
"No. It's Vicki all right. The whole other evil personality."
"I meant Trinity. Trinity's not thinking right."
"True. I'd hate to be in Judge Haskins's shoes."
I thought about the little man pushing his glasses up his thin nose, the little man who looked like a weasel. And I thought of the large woman sweeping the blue cape off like a giant exotic bird. Molting, but still formidable.
"Me too," I agreed. "Let's stay out of it."
Famous last words.
Other famous last words: "I've got a date tonight with Buddy Johnson, that nice older man I was dancing with at the wedding."
"Father Time? Can he see to drive at night?"
"Don't be tacky, Patricia Anne. As a matter of fact, his chauffeur is taking us to the airport. We're flying on Buddy's jet to Atlanta to the opera." Mary Alice
giggled. "Sounds like Pretty Woman, doesn't it?" "Minus a couple of vital elements. Richard Gere,
for one." Mary Alice giggled again. "I think Buddy looks a
lot like Richard Gere."
Maybe he had fifty years ago. "Be sure to practice
safe sex." I expected Sister to throw a sandwich at
me. But I'll be damned if she didn't smile. I could
hear the glub glub all the way from St. Petersburg of
Bill Adams going down the toilet.
When I left Sister's house, I stopped by the Winn-Dixie for some shrimp. Fred loves shrimp Creole, and I thought it might cheer him up. On the sidewalk in front of the store were hundreds of flats of blooming annuals, marigolds, petunias, impatiens. And I couldn't resist. I did what I do every year, assumed the beautiful spring weather would hold, that there would be no more frost, and left the store with shrimp and a flat of impatiens.
Trinity Buckalew had not called or shown up back at Sister's by the time I left there to go home. "I just hope we don't hear about her on the six o'clock news," I said, getting into my car.
"I won't. I'll be on my way to Atlanta." Sister pointed in a vague easterly direction.
"What opera are you seeing?" I had made the mistake of asking.
"Lord, Mouse. Opera's opera."
I was worried about Trinity, though. It had occurred to me that she could have overheard us talking in the kitchen about Judge Haskins claiming Meg's body. We had kept our voices down, but she could have been coming to get some more Coke or something and heard us.
I called Mary Alice as soon as I got home.
"No," she said, "haven't heard a word."
"Well, if you do, call me. I'm fixing to plant some impatiens, but I'll take the phone out with me."
' 'Okay. I guess we could call Roebuck Chapel and see if she's shown up out there."
"Good idea," I said. "Let me know."
I was hanging up the phone when I heard Sister screeching, "Mouse!"
"What?"
' 'Do you think I should wear a long dress tonight? Atlanta's so much more cosmopolitan than Birmingham. Maybe I should wear long."
I thought about Sister's question for a moment. Considered how cosmopolitan Atlanta is. "Short," I decreed.
The flat of impatiens was beautiful, a mixture of red, pink, and salmon colors. I put on my jeans, got a piece of cardboard to kneel on, and sallied forth to celebrate the annual planting of the flowers. So it would be repeated again two weeks later after a freeze, and maybe two weeks after that. So what? Today the sun was warm and tomorrow was the first official day of spring.
Everybody in our neighborhood has chain-link fences. We put them in forty years ago to keep our baby boomers from toddling into the streets. Paid a lot for them. A chain-link fence was as much a status symbol as a carport. And as lasting. Now word has drifted down from those same baby boomers who were kept safe by those same fences that chain-link is tacky. We should worry. The things have been there so long you can hardly see them. They support healthy crops of honeysuckle and wisteria. They are the background for flowering shrubs such as camellias
and spirea. And they still keep toddlers and animals in. Tacky? In this neighborhood, we believe good chain-links make good neighbors. Besides, in a few years, they'll be antiques. Worth a fortune.
Our particular fence is bordered by legustrum and holly. A little pruning on Washington's birthday and that's it. Every year the same daffodils, narcissus, and tulips come up. Every year the magnolia and pear tree bloom. And every year I put out a few annuals.
Woofer came and sat beside me.
"These are pretty, aren't they?" I pointed to the impatiens.
Woofer agreed that they were.
"And we're not going to have another frost, are we?"
Of course not. Woofer stretched out, his head between his paws, and watched me dig a hole with my trowel. When we adopted him from the Humane Society, the card on his cage read "Mixed." Usually they'll say "Mixed German Shepherd and Lab," or "poodle and dachshund," trying to be a little specific so you'll know what to expect. With Woofer, they hadn't even hazarded a guess, but he is a beautiful dog. Turning gray, I noticed, across his head. Old Woofer.
I needed the peaceful work. The last few days had been traumatic. The wedding, Meg's death, Fred's business problems, Trinity Buckalew, and Judge Has-kins. I took a red impatien, tapped the plastic container, and turned it upside down to slide the flower out.
"There." I eased the root system into the hole and then covered it. "How about that, Woofer? Instant garden." He agreed that it looked nice.
The phone's ringing startled both of us. I pulled off my glove and answered.
"They haven't seen Trinity at Roebuck Chapel," Sister said. "And I've decided to wear long."
"Okay." I waved to Haley, who had come out of the back door. She looked bright and cheerful in jeans and a pink shirt, not tired like she does sometimes after a day in the operating room.
"Maybe she decided to go home. She might have, you know." Mary Alice's voice sounded hopeful.
"Maybe," I agreed. But I knew better. We'd be hearing from Trinity Buckalew again. "Which dress did you decide on?"
"The black velvet. It won't be spring until tomorrow and I think I can get away with it, don't you? It's the one split way up the leg."
"For heaven's sake, Mary Alice. You know you're not supposed to wear velvet after Mardi Gras. Mama and Grandmama would turn over in their graves."
"I guess you're right."
"I know I am." I thought for a moment. "How about the red crepe?"
"It makes me look fat."
I wasn't about to jump into that.
"I could wear that flowery jacket with it, though. You know the one I mean? The one with the Japanese flowers?"
"Sure. That would look great."
Haley had knelt down and was scratching Woofer behind his ears. "Where's Aunt Sister going?" she asked when I turned off the phone.
I explained about Buddy Johnson's jet and the trip to Atlanta to the opera.
"He's not that ancient guy she was moving around the dance floor with at the reception?"-
"The same. Aunt Sister says he looks like Richard Gere, though, and this is just like Pretty Woman."
Haley laughed. "Good for Aunt Sister."
> "I told her to practice safe sex."
I expected Haley to laugh again. Instead, she said, "Good idea." I looked over at her. Her cheeks were turning pink.
"Are you blushing?"
Haley pressed the backs of her hands against her cheeks and grinned. "Woofer needs a bath," she said.
"You are blushing! Good Lord!"
"Philip's a nice man, Mama."
"I'm glad to hear he's a nice man."
"I mean a very nice man."
"I know what you mean."
Mother and daughter, we looked at each other over the tray of flowers. So much unsaid. So much that would never be said. Be happy. I am. Be careful. I will. I don't want you hurt. I know. Be happy. I love you. Words standing in the air between us.
"I'll go get another trowel and help you," Haley said.
"Well, Woofer," I said, watching her cross the yard. "What do you think about that?"
Woofer said it was about time.
Haley came back with a trowel, a beer, and a sheepish look on her face.
"Here," I said, handing her some flowers. "Have you heard Meg Bryan died?"
She looked shocked. "Henry's cousin who was at the wedding?"
I nodded. "Your Aunt Sister and I took her to lunch at the Tutwiler yesterday and she went over to the courthouse and either jumped or was pushed out of the ninth floor window. Maybe the tenth."
"What? She did what? That nice little lady's dead? How terrible!"
"There's more." I told Haley everything I knew from the veal medallions with orange sauce and the meeting with Judge Haskins to the peanut butter and banana sandwich and Trinity Buckalew's disappearance.
"Wait a minute," Haley said several times, making me repeat some details. Finally, "That's incredible. Where is she now?"
"Meg or Trinity?"
"Both, I guess."
"Meg is at Roebuck Chapel. Trinity is God knows where. Out after Judge Haskins, I assume, since she says he's Meg's murderer."
"Because Meg had the papers saying the judge's great great grandfather was a bastard." Haley shook her head in disbelief.
I took another flower from the tray and tapped it. "Meg told me that professional genealogy is a dog-eat-dog world, but she was a big dog. And Trinity said Meg's death didn't surprise her, that genealogy is a hazardous business. And at the wedding, there was a woman who jumped all over Meg for something she had found in her family tree. Called her a bitch."
"That's wild." Haley reached for another impatien. We were both quiet for several minutes. Then, "Where's Meg's computer?" she asked.
"At Sister's. So is the other briefcase. Why?"
Haley brushed her hands off and took a swallow of beer. "Well, you said Judge Haskins was working on some genealogy, too. Seems to me the first family you would look up would be your own. So I can't think this great great grandfather could have been much of a surprise."
"But he had kept it a secret. Apparently, Meg had threatened to expose it."
"Did he seem angry in the restaurant?"
I tried to remember. "No. Surprised she was there. Pleased he'd found something she'd missed. Said he would show her if she'd let him see one of her files."
"What was it he'd found? Do you remember?"
"Something about a Mobile family that Meg was researching. I can't remember their name."
"Hmmm." Haley reached for the last of the flowers. "You really don't think she committed suicide, do you, Mama?"
"My first thought was that, yes, she had. But her sister says absolutely not. And Meg certainly didn't act at lunch like she was at all depressed."
"But it's still a possibility."
I stood up and rubbed my knees. "She was so afraid of heights, she wouldn't get close to the wall up at The Club. I think someone pushed her out of the window."
Haley handed me the empty tray and trowels. "If someone did, I'll bet the reason is in that computer."
"Could be."
"Let's go get it."
"Haley!"
"Well, Mama, this is intriguing."
"What's in that computer is none of our business. Besides, neither of us knows a thing about genealogy."
"Philip does. He's done some research on his family. He knows computers, too."
I walked to the garbage can and threw the plastic trays m. Even busy doctors were finding time to look
up their family histories? Was there a whole ground-swell here I had missed out on?
Haley followed me. "He showed me the Nachman pedigree chart. It's interesting."
I put the lid back on the garbage. ' 'Pedigree chart, huh?"
"That's what it's called."
"Any horse thieves or bastards?"
"Nope. But Aunt Sister was on it. And Debbie and the twins."
"Aunt Sister on a pedigree chart? She'll be thrilled to hear it." I thought for a moment. "And who did they put down as the twins' father?"
"Left it blank." Haley grinned. "Sort of put things in perspective."
We were going up the back steps when the cordless phone that I had forgotten and left in the yard rang. Haley ran back to get it.
"For you," she said, handing it to me with her hand over the speaker. "Sounds strange."
"Hello," I said.
Julia Child's voice. "Is this the Patricia Anne Hol-lowell who is the sister of Mary Alice Crane?"
"Yes. Hello, Trinity."
"Mrs. Hollowell, I'm sorry to bother you, but I find myself in need of help."
"What can I do for you?"
"You can come get me out of jail. I tried to call your sister, but all I got was her answering machine."
"You're in jail?" I saw Haley stop on the top step and turn around.
"Yes. I'm in the Birmingham jail. I understand this is not the same jail where Martin Luther King wrote his famous letter, but a newer edifice. Are you familiar with its location?"
"I'll find it. What are you doing in jail?"
"They've charged me with breaking and entering. They have been kind enough not to lock me up, though, as yet. I explained to them about my claustrophobia, and they have been most understanding."
"Breaking and entering?"
"At Bobby Haskins's house, of course. It seems he has some kind of security system that alerts the police. I told them he should be the one arrested, and I am happy to say they seem to have taken me seriously and are trying to find Bobby. In the meantime, I can be released, I understand. There is a small matter of bail or something like that, but we can discuss that when you get here."
"Bail?"
By this time, Haley was standing by my side. "Who is it?"
"Trinity Buckalew," I mouthed. "I'll be right down," I said into the phone.
"Thank-you. I'll be here."
I hung up and turned to Haley. "Breaking and entering at Judge Haskins's. She wants us to come down and get her out."
"What fun!" Love was doing wonderful things for Haley, I decided. We left a note for Fred on the kitchen table explaining that we had gone to spring a friend from the Birmingham jail.
Six
The woman who committed suicide and the woman in jail are Henry's cousins. Right?" Haley asked on the way to town. We were in her car, since she had been parked behind me.
"His mother's first cousins, I understand. Sounds like an interesting family."
Haley stopped for a light. "You know, I've been thinking. We don't know anything about our family history, do we?"
"Would you like to? I can get you back as far as your great great grandparents on my side. Nothing spectacular. Not even landowners. Clerks and bookkeepers. Just plain nice people. Now, the Hollowells may be more interesting. Your papa said at the wedding that he would like to know more about them."
"Philip says it's good to find out about your family. In fact, he says it's something everybody needs to know. About inherited genes and stuff."
"Uh huh," I said. "Gotta watch those genes."
My knowledge of the Birmingham jail is, thank God, limited to mour
nful songs about letters and valleys so low which Haley sang until I told her to hush.
... 75 ...
And then, of course, there's Martin Luther King's famous letter, which Trinity Buckalew had mentioned. TV shows had prepared me for the busyness of suspects being brought in, of phones ringing, of Cagney and Lacey answering calls, rushing out. TV had prepared me for the seedy characters, the dirty floors, the screams, the hangings against the bars.
What I was totally unprepared for was the pleasant white room that could have been an insurance company or a bank. Several uniformed policemen sat at desks and either talked quietly into phones or read.
"Is this the right place?" Haley whispered.
"Must not be."
A pretty young woman in a uniform came over and asked if she could help us. We explained that we were looking for a lady named Trinity Buckalew who was being held for breaking and entering, and that we were obviously in the wrong place.
"No, you're not. She's down the hall, first door on the right. You can go on back."
"Just walk on back?"
The woman smiled. "Of course."
Haley and I looked at each other.
"Right through there," the woman repeated, pointing to the hall on her left.
"This isn't at all what I expected," Haley looked around the room. "Where are all the criminals?"
The policewoman leaned forward and whispered, "Out on the streets." Then, grinning at our startled expressions, she said, "Y'all go on back." She turned and went to her desk.
"God!" Haley murmured. "Is she serious?"
"Probably."
"Jesus!"
"Quit taking the Lord's name in vain, Haley."
"I'm not, Mama. I'm praying."
We entered the hall, which was lined with small, neat offices. In the second one on the right, Trinity Buckalew was playing cards with a middle-aged man whose graying hair and beard looked as if they had never been touched by scissors or soap. His clothes were tatters, and the knapsack propped against the wall wasn't in much better shape.
"Gin!" he exclaimed.
"Shit!" Trinity slammed down her cards, looked up and saw us. "Well, good. Here's the rescue squad. Marty Holmes, this is Patricia Anne Hollowell and—"
"My daughter Haley."
Marty stood up politely. "Nice to meet you ladies."
"Freddie's a narc," Trinity explained. "He hangs around under interstate bridges and places like that. He's been showing me how to cheat at cards."