Murder Runs in the Family

by Anne George

  "A narc?"

  "A narcotics agent. You know."

  "I know what a narc is," I said.

  Marty grinned, showing where teeth used to be. Trinity stood up and reached for her cape and hat, which were on the desk. "Well, let's go," she said.

  "What about bail?" I asked. "You can't just walk out, can you?"

  "They finally got Bobby and he told them I was his ex-sister-in-law and not to press charges. My car's impounded, though, and I can't get it until tomorrow. The garage is closed." Trinity swung her cape around her shoulders.

  "Love that cape, babe," Marty said. "And the hat is to die for."

  "Under the interstate, it probably would be."

  "Too true. Not the best element."

  Trinity walked over and hugged Marty. "You take care," she said. "Come see me in Fairhope."

  "You take care, too, babe."

  "Dear God!" I whispered to Haley.

  "You praying, Mama?"

  "Something like that."

  "Bye, Mrs. Buckalew," the nice young policewoman called as we walked back through the office.

  "Bye!"

  Several of the policemen looked up and waved.

  "Such nice people," Trinity assured us. Then she turned to Haley. "How tall are you, young lady?"

  "Five one. Why?"

  "Just wondered."

  Haley looked at me questioningly; I shrugged.

  We exited into a warm late afternoon, Haley had found a parking place right around the corner, and on the way to the car I asked Trinity if she had planned to stay at a hotel and if she would like us to drop her off.

  "When I am in Birmingham, I always stay with my friend Georgiana Peach. She is a genealogist and a dear friend of Meg's, too. Unfortunately, she is out of town, which is why I have had to rely on your very gracious help. So any hotel you recommend will be fine."

  "You have a friend named Georgiana Peach?" Haley motioned Trinity toward the car and unlocked the door.

  "A lovely Southern name, isn't it? She was named for an aunt who turned a little funny. Died a couple of years ago and left Georgiana a generous estate. Totally unexpected, I understand. Stock certifictes in the attic, money in books. That kind of thing."

  "I've got a family name," Haley said, "totally unencumbered with things like estates." As she opened the door, a problem presented itself. There was no way Trinity Buckalew could fold herself up enough to get in the back.

  "I'll get in," I said, wondering for the thousandth time why Haley had bought this compact car.

  "Stay with me tonight, Mrs. Buckalew." Haley gave me a push into the car. "I've got a sofa sleeper."

  "How sweet." Trinity slid into the bucket seat. Her head touched the ceiling. "That would be very nice."

  I straightened up and perched on the backseat. "Don't be silly. We've got two extra bedrooms and I've got Shrimp Creole already fixed for supper."

  What else could I do? Sometimes being a Southern lady is such a pain.

  "We liked your sister very much," Haley said, opening the other door and getting in. ' 'I was so sorry to hear of her death."

  "Thank-you, dear. My friend, Georgiana Peach, will be upset, too. I understand she's attending a genealogical conference in Charleston."

  "Are you a genealogist, too?" Haley floored the accelerator and pulled out in front of a Mac truck. I shrieked. "Put on your seat belt, Mama," she said.

  "I'm an antique dealer. Meg was the only genealogist in the family. Her business was more profitable than mine, I must admit, though I love antiques." Trinity had removed her blue felt hat and was pushing it back into shape. "Meg and I still live in the family home in Fairhope, and our sister Jo lives close by. Our sister Amy lives down the bay, and Beth—"

  "Oh, no!"

  "For heaven sakes, Haley. Watch where you're go-

  ing," I said. "Beth lives in Hawaii with her husband and children."

  "She loves it there," Trinity agreed.

  Haley sighed with relief and entered the interstate heading south toward Vulcan.

  "Bobby Haskins lives up there," Trinity said. "By that naked iron man."

  "There are some pretty houses up there," Haley said. "Aunt Sister's is up there."

  "I know. Does she have an alarm system?"

  "Yes, she does," I answered.

  "Well, they work. You can tell her." Trinity was silent for a few minutes, looking out over downtown. "I was going to leave Bobby a note on his refrigerator. Tell him he needn't think he was going to get away with murder. You know?"

  Haley nodded that she knew. Bless her.

  ' 'In fact, I put the note under a magnet, a little red tulip it was, and was about to leave when all those policemen rushed in."

  "How did you get in the house?" I asked.

  Trinity snorted. "Bobby has no imagination. That's why they made him a judge, probably. There's an extreme deficit of imagination among the judiciary, you know." She snorted again. "The key was in one of those fake rocks right by the steps."

  Haley turned and looked at me. That's where my key is hidden, the one she's been after me to get another hiding place for. "How long have Meg and the judge been divorced?" I asked, changing the subject.

  Trinity thought for a moment. ''About forty years."

  "Is there a Mrs. Haskins now?"

  "There usually is. But if there is one currently, she wasn't at home." Trinity picked lint from her hat.

  "Meg was the one who got him interested in genealogy, though."

  "Did Meg remarry?" Haley asked.

  "She married Gregory Bryan, a prince of a man whom she treated abominably."

  I hated to ask what Meg had done that was so abominable. So I asked whether they were divorced.

  "Gregory is deceased. At least we think so. He went fishing one night out on Mobile Bay and never came back." Trinity sighed. "He looked like Ronald Coleman with a little mustache." She sighed again. "It was five years before I let Meg give him a fond farewell party. I kept thinking he'd come walking up the pier with that little mustache and a string of fish."

  Haley wasn't as polite as I was. "What did Meg do to him?" she asked.

  "Always chasing around in cemeteries and libraries. She was gone so much, Gregory forgot sometimes which one of us sisters he was married to." Trinity closed her eyes and smiled. "A prince of a man. Yes, indeed."

  Haley cut her eyes around at me again and grinned. She and I were thinking the same thing. If the other March sisters were anything like Trinity and Meg, Prince Gregory hadn't stood a chance.

  "My husband, Ed Buckalew, was more the Jimmy Cagney type. The Yankee Doodle type, not the mean one. Loved to dance. He's gone, too. Just sat down under a pecan tree one day and died. Said he wasn't going to pick up another pecan. And he didn't."

  Haley was suddenly seized with a suspicious coughing fit. Fortunately, our exit ramp was right ahead.

  Fred's white Oldsmobile was in the driveway when we pulled up to the house. Haley hopped out of her

  car and helped Trinity and me unfold. "It must have been like this in the womb," I grumbled. I limped up the front steps, opened the door, and called Fred.

  "Here."

  I followed his voice to the den, where he sat in his recliner. An open beer was on the table beside him, and he looked at me over the pages of The Birmingham News. "How was the jail? And that was a rather cryptic note you left me. Which friend did you spring?"

  "Trinity Buckalew, Meg Bryan's sister. She's coming in with Haley."

  "Now?"

  I didn't have to answer. Trinity swept in, all six feet two of her, her bright blue cape and hat startling in the darkening room. Fred leaped from his chair.

  "He's so polite," I murmured to Haley.

  "I'm Trinity Buckalew." Trinity advanced on Fred, hand held out. "Your wife has been kind enough to offer me your hospitality."

  "That's great." Fred put the paper down and shook hands. "It's so nice meeting you."

  "My father is a prince," Haley whispered to m
e.

  "Don't say that," I whispered back. Then, "Let me take your cape and hat, Trinity. And make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?"

  Trinity handed me the cape and hat. "You got any Blackjack?"

  "Probably. I'll see. Water? Ice?"

  "Just hand me the bottle. That'll be fine. And a glass, of course."

  Another fit of coughing from Haley. "I'll get it," she gasped.

  "That child needs some cough syrup," Trinity said,

  sitting on the sofa as Haley disappeared into the kitchen.

  "I'll go check on her," I said, "and get us some snacks."

  In the kitchen, Haley was standing on a little foldup stepladder and looking in the top cabinet where we keep our liquor. Since I don't drink, and Fred's fond of beer, the bottles stay there a long time. "Here's some Jack Daniel's," she said. "It's dusty. Does whiskey go bad?"

  "How should I know? I doubt it. Just dust it off." I reached into the pantry for some Ritz crackers, and into the refrigerator for pepper jelly and cream cheese.

  "She's wonderful, isn't she?" Haley nodded her head toward the den. "I wish we had gotten a chance to know Meg better, too."

  Meg's words, "I'm a big dog," came whispering into my ear. "It's hard to believe she committed suicide," I said. "In fact, I think Trinity's right. Somebody, maybe Judge Haskins, maybe somebody else like that woman at The Club, pushed her out of the window."

  "That's hard to believe, too."

  "I know." I handed Haley a tray for the bottle and a linen napkin. "Here. Might as well do it right."

  When I got into the den with the snacks, Trinity was telling Fred what I had just told Haley, that Meg's death was not a suicide. She added that there wasn't a suicidal bone in Meg's body, and that most likely Bobby Haskins had killed her because his great great grandfather was a bastard and Meg had the proof.

  "I saw it," I said, passing the crackers around. "Bastardy papers from the State of Georgia."

  "What are bastardy papers?" Haley asked.

  I fully expected Trinity's lengthy explanation to

  cross Fred's eyes in boredom. Instead, he seemed intrigued.

  "People would kill over that?" he asked.

  Trinity poured a substantial shot from the bottle of Black Jack. "My friend, Georgiana Peach, who is a renowned genealogist and owns a genealogical research service, says it's more common than people realize." She held up the glass. "Cheers." Chugalug.

  Fred watched with admiration. Prince of a fellow. "What do the police say about Meg's death?"

  "They said they were looking into it. But they released the body to Bobby, so I'm sure that's the end of it. God only knows what he told them. But it's amazing how much influence judges have on the police."

  "What kind of judge is he?"

  "Probably not a very good one." Trinity poured another drink.

  Fred didn't push the point. But I knew the answer. "Bankruptcy," I said. "Mary Alice found out." I eyed the glass in Trinity's hand. "Shrimp Creole in a few minutes. Soon as the rice is ready. Okay?"

  "Is that an elected or appointed position?" Fred was asking as I went into the kitchen.

  We ate supper in the breakfast nook. I had turned the back lights on so we could see the quince and forsythia. A few early-blooming tulips that had opened to the warm sun had closed for the night but were still bright spots of color. Woofer came out and looked at us.

  "Peaceful," Trinity said.

  I looked at her and saw how haggard and tired she looked. She had received the terrible news about Meg yesterday, had driven from Mobile this morning, and ended up in jail this afternoon. Haley noticed, too. She

  reached over and covered Trinity's large splotched hand with her small smooth one. It's times like this when I realize what a good nurse Haley must be.

  "How's the ENT?" her father asked her.

  And Haley blushed. "Fine."

  Fred looked at me questioningly; I smiled.

  Harley changed the subject. "Aunt Sister's gone to the opera in Atlanta with some old guy in his jet."

  It worked. "The one she was dancing with at the wedding?" Fred asked.

  "If you can call moving slightly dancing. His name is Buddy Johnson," I added. "She thinks it's like Pretty Woman and she's Julia Roberts and he's Richard Gere."

  Fred smiled sweetly. "Good for her."

  "No sarcastic remarks?"

  "Of course not."

  "Patricia Anne," Trinity said. "You are married to a prince. I can tell."

  Haley coughed into her napkin.

  We were sitting at the table enjoying an after-dinner cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Our front doorbell rings so seldom at night that Fred, Haley, and I looked at each other, startled.

  "Maybe it's a package," I said. "I ordered a bathing suit from Lands' End."

  And that was how I happened to be the one to go to the door, the one to look through the peephole and see Judge Bobby Haskins standing there, the one to confront him.

  "Is Trinity here?" he asked without even so much as a "Good evening."

  "Yes."

  "Then, here." He held out a package. "Give this to her."

  "Why don't you give it to her yourself?" The judge was being too snippy to suit me.

  "It's Meg."

  I looked at the small cardboard box tied with ordinary twine, and tried to connect it with the woman I had had lunch with the day before. "Meg?"

  "Meg. Please give it to Trinity. Tell her I had nothing to do with Meg's death."

  In the dim front porch light, the judge looked as if he had been crying. "Please," he repeated. I held out my hand and took the package.

  "Thank-you, Mrs. Hollowell." He turned and went down the steps. I watched him get into his car and drive off.

  "Your bathing suit, Mama?" Haley stood behind me. "Let's see it."

  "It's Meg." I held the box up to show her. It weighed more than I would have imagined.

  "What?" Haley stepped back as if the contents of the box were suddenly going to fly out. "Are you serious?"

  "Judge Haskins brought them for Trinity. He said to tell her he had nothing to do with Meg's death."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah. Wow."

  "Why don't you wait until morning to give them to her? No use upsetting her more tonight."

  "You mean after you're gone. Don't be silly, Haley. You poke around inside people's insides all day. This is just ashes."

  "Tell me about it."

  The package felt warm in my hands, which I knew was my imagination. I carried it into the den, and saw that Fred and Trinity had just walked in there to finish their coffee.

  "What you got?" Fred smiled. "The bathing suit?"

  The expression on my face alerted them, I'm sure. For a moment I just stood there, and then I put the package in the middle of the coffee table and said, "Trinity, Judge Raskins left this for you. It's Meg. And he said to tell you he had nothing to do with her death."

  Trinity looked at the box and then at me. Then at the box again. "Meg's ashes?"

  "Yes."

  What happened then was the last thing I had considered happening. Trinity Buckalew fainted. Haley, thinking Trinity was dizzy, reached to steady her and ended up on the floor underneath her.

  "Lord, Mama," Haley gasped. "Look what you've done."

  The next few moments were all confusion. Fred and I extricated Haley, who said she was okay and who immediately felt Trinity's pulse and looked in her eyes.

  "Let's put her feet up on the sofa," she said.

  "You think I should I call 911?" I asked.

  "No!" Julia Child's voice, weak but forceful. "Where's the Black Jack?"

  I looked at Haley and she nodded yes. I ran to the kitchen and got the bourbon. This time I didn't bother with a glass, no time for niceties. Nor was one needed. Trinity, by now propped against the sofa, turned the bottle up and took a hefty swig.

  "I'm sorry," I told her. "I'm sorry," I told Haley. "I'm sorry," I told Fred.

  Fr
ed reached over and put his hand over my mouth. "Hush," he said gently. "None of this is your fault."

  Which was true, of course, but something in my

  psyche makes me feel guilty for everything that goes wrong. I am convinced that the source of this cosmic guilt is named Mary Alice. She makes me feel it's my fault if we have a picnic planned and it rains. In the current crisis, Haley's "Look what you've done, Mama" hadn't helped.

  "I'm sorry, Mama," Haley said.

  "I'm sorry," Trinity said, raising the bottle again.

  If the package on the table had suddenly said, "I'm sorry," I don't think I would have been surprised. Let's face it. Guilt is a universal chick thing.

  Haley got a cold cloth for Trinity's head, and we helped her up onto the sofa. Fred took the whiskey bottle back to the kitchen, and I heard the cabinet door shut. Enough.

  "I'm really better," Trinity said. "I just do that sometimes. Faint like that. The doctors say it's because I'm so tall. The blood doesn't make it to my head or something like that."

  I looked at Haley and she nodded yes. "It's the same thing as when you stand up too quickly," she explained.

  "And Bobby wouldn't come in and face me." Trinity's voice was muffled by the washrag covering her face.

  "He seemed very upset. I think he'd been crying."

  "It's spring. He's allergic to pollen."

  "No. He was upset."

  "As well he might be." Trinity folded the cloth and held it to her eyes. "I don't think I believed it until now. Meg's really gone, isn't she?" She lowered the cloth and looked at the package. "Almost." She hiccuped and sat up. ' 'If you will excuse me, I need to use the little girls' room."

  "Down the hall," I said. "Do you need some help?"

  "I'm fine." She hiccuped again, stood, swayed a moment, and then headed down the hall. "I'm fine," she called back.

  Fred, Haley, and I looked at each other and at the package that sat incongruously in the center of our coffee table.

  "Judge Haskins really was upset," I said. "I don't think he had anything to do with Meg's death."

  "He certainly wouldn't have killed her because she knew an ancestor of his was a bastard." Fred sat down in his recliner. "That's ridiculous."

  "He might have killed her for what's on her computer, though. I still think we need to check that out," Haley said.