Murder Runs in the Family

by Anne George

  The paragraph was haunting. There was something about seeing Meg's death reduced to a few words that bothered me. Deeply.

  "There wasn't a suicidal bone in her body." Trinity's words.

  "I'm having a hard time believing Meg Bryan would commit suicide that way." Fred's words.

  "It wasn't a ladylike way to do it." Mary Alice's words chimed in with the others in my head.

  I read the paragraph again. A healthy sixty-four-year-old woman, actively involved in work she found challenging and was successful at, a woman who had no history of depression, who had eaten a good lunch with friends and seemed fine, had suddenly decided to jump from a tenth-floor window. A woman, incidentally, who was fearful of heights.

  This we were supposed to believe?

  Obviously, the authorities did. Judge Haskins had seen to that.

  "Stay out of this, Patricia Anne." I could hear Fred saying the words. Fred, who was on his way to Atlanta. Bless his heart. With so much of himself tied up in his business.

  I sighed, reached for the phone, and called the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe. I needed a sharp listener to run all this by. Someone who didn't know Trinity or Judge Haskins, or even Georgiana Peach.

  "Big, Bold, and Beautiful," Bonnie Blue answered cheerily.

  "Have lunch with me," I said.

  "Hey, Patricia Anne. I was just thinking about you. How come you're not tutoring today?"

  "Spring break." Since my retirement, I had been tutoring at a local junior high school in, of all things, math. And after all those years of grading English papers, math was a delight. "Can you have lunch?"

  "Sure. The Green and White?"

  "The ferns get in your food and tickle your neck."

  "All right, Miss Picky. You choose. I can't be gone but an hour, though."

  "How about I go by the Piggly Wiggly deli, and we take it to the park?''

  "Sounds good. Don't get the potato salad with mustard."

  "Okay. One o'clock?"

  "Fine."

  When I hung up, I felt better. Bonnie Blue Butler always has this effect on me.

  I changed the sheets on the guestroom bed, and put a tub of washing on. I ate the last of the sweetrolls and cleaned the kitchen, even mopping the floor. By the time I vacuumed the den, took a shower, fought for a parking place at the Piggly Wiggly during lunch hour, and got to the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, I was ten minutes late. Bonnie Blue was standing in front, waiting.

  "I'm sorry," I apologized.

  i>ne looked into the car. "You didn't get the mustard kind, did you?"

  We found a concrete table and bench that were empty. I had brought a red-and-white plastic tablecloth, and I spread it out while Bonnie Blue checked the contents of the grocery sack.

  "Umm. Polski Wyrob pickles. I love those things. Umm. Baked beans."

  "I got each of us a chicken breast, too," I said.

  "And diet Coke. Thanks, Patricia Anne."

  We helped our plates and dived in. After all the sweetrolls, I was surprised to find how hungry I was.

  "This is good," Bonnie Blue said, taking a big bite of chicken. "A good idea."

  I agreed that it was. Because it was spring break and such a warm day, the park was full of children running and playing. I ate and watched them idly.

  "Potato salad," Bonnie Blue said. I handed her the carton.

  "I need to run something by you," I said when our plates were empty and we were putting the lids back on the cartons.

  "What? You want another cookie?"

  "No. You know I trust your judgment, don't you?"

  "Oh, Lord, Patricia Anne. What have you done now?"

  "Nothing. Not a thing. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

  ' 'Okay. But don't do what I tell you to do and make me feel guilty."

  "I promise. Now listen, because it's pretty complicated. You remember that nice cousin of Henry's that sat in as the mother of the groom? Meg Bryan?"

  Bonnie Blue nodded. "Sure. The one who does family histories."

  ' 'Did family histories, Bonnie Blue. Past tense. The woman jumped out of the courthouse last Monday and committed suicide. Or at least that's what the authorities are saying."

  "Say what?"

  I had Bonnie Blue's total attention. I told her about the lunch, the veal medallions with orange sauce, Judge Haskins, the library and the sirens, the park, the body. I told her about the computer and Trinity and Georgiana Peach and the narcotics agent who lived under the interstate.

  But, most important, I told her I didn't think that Meg Bryan had killed herself.

  Bonnie Blue listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When I finally wound down, she tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her upper lip and looked over at the children playing.

  "You haven't talked to the police?" she finally asked.

  "No. Judge Haskins did. And Trinity Buckalew, of course. She told them she was sure the judge killed Meg."

  "Well, what if you went to them and said you thought she was murdered?"

  I thought about this a moment. "They wouldn't do anything. To them, the case is closed."

  "Then I got myself a scrumptious lunch for telling you what you already knew, didn't I?"

  "I guess so."

  Bonnie Blue narrowed her eyes. "Stay out of this, Patricia Anne."

  "I will. I promise. It's really none of my business."

  "You got that right. Just remember it." Bonnie Blue checked her watch. "I got to go."

  We shook the crumbs from the tablecloth and threw the trash into a receptacle. A slight breeze had risen from the south. Too warm.

  "Gonna storm," Bonnie Blue said.

  Eight

  And

  it did. The Weather Channel radar showed a dark green front interspersed with flashing red and yellow advancing inexorably toward Birmingham from the west. Fred was coming from the east, and their arrivals were simultaneous. He opened the kitchen door just as a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky.

  "Lord!" He jumped into the kitchen. "Are tornado warnings up?"

  "Severe thunderstorms. And hello to you, too." I was standing at the stove stirring a vegetable taco filling that Fred is especially fond of.

  He came over and kissed the back of my neck. "Hi, sweetie. That smells good."

  I turned and hugged him. He was home; now it could storm. "How did your day go?" I asked.

  "Well," he pulled off his coat and reached into the refrigerator for a beer, ' 'I found out what the problem is, and it's nothing we've done here at Metal Fab. Universal Satellite is doing some restructuring, including some early retirements. The two buyers who gave us most of our orders got caught in the sweep."

  He sat down at the table and looked out at the storm. "Gone with the wind."

  I put the taco mix on the back burner and sat down at the table across from him.

  "One of them was fifty-six," he said. "I doubt the other one was much older. Both knowledgeable. Easy to deal with." He shook his head. "It's terrible what some companies will do. They'll get away with it, too."

  "You think the men got a decent retirement? Or any retirement? Surely they had to give them something."

  "Nothing like the salaries they were getting. They got shafted, Patricia Anne." He drank from his beer. "And you know what?"

  "What?"

  "They put two women in their places." He stared at the beer can as if there might be some explanation there. "Not even women. Girls. Just out of college. Calling themselves metallurgists!"

  "How awful," I murmured.

  Fred glanced at me with his eyes narrowed; I looked back innocently,

  "One of them called me 'Pop,' " he admitted mournfully.

  A crash of thunder and a sudden fit of coughing hid my laugh. Twenty years ago when I was at the height of my personal feminist revolution, I would have been incensed at the chauvinist across the table. I've mellowed, though. To start with, Fred really does respect women, and not just in traditional roles. He's very
happy with our family doctor, who is a lovely woman (So he calls her a "girl." He's getting there!), as well as our "girl" dentist. He even voted for a "skirt" for governor last time, calling her that only

  once, to my knowledge. So when he opens doors for me or moves to the outside when we're walking down the sidewalk, I just say "Thank-you." And I'm glad he taught our sons to do the same things.

  "They seemed okay," he continued, "just have a lot to learn. I asked them if they'd like to go get a drink after work and we went to a damn coffee bar. You ever hear of such a thing? A coffee bar? I swear I got a cup of coffee that could have walked in on its own legs. Juan Valdez wouldn't have claimed it. And in about ten minutes, they both had to go. One had to pick up her kid, and the other was going to the gym for a workout." Fred looked out at the driving rain. "Just as well. I beat the storm home."

  "Did they sound encouraging?"

  "Who knows. Guess I'll find out in a week or so."

  The lights flickered and came back on. "I better get the candles," I said.

  Fred drained his beer. "I just hope Malcolm and Carl are okay."

  "Malcolm and Carl?"

  "The guys that had to take early retirement."

  I got up and headed for the den closet to find the candles. "Call them tomorrow. Find out."

  "Hell, I'll call them tonight. I'm sure I've got their cards here." Fred followed me into the den and switched the TV to The Weather Channel radar. "Looks bad," he said. "Is that portable fluorescent light in the closet?"

  "Here it is." I handed him the light as well as several candles. Chances were they would soon be needed. It doesn't take much of a storm to knock the power out in Birmingham.

  There's a simple explanation. This is a city of trees, pine, oak, maple, cherry laurel. This is a city of people

  who treasure those trees, each and every one of them. Consequently, this is a city whose populace is always at outs with the Alabama Power Company. In a scene enacted dozens of times each day, a Power Company truck wheels into a driveway. Men jump out to cut tree limbs that are hanging over power lines.

  We residents rush out! "For God's sake. Are you crazy? There's a bluebird nest in that tree!" Or squirrel, possum, jaybird.

  "Where?" The men walk around the tree, looking up into the limbs.

  "Up yonder in the next to the highest limb past the second fork. See?"

  The Power Company men see. They are kind men. They agree to come back in six weeks. Probably they will be back in three because the neighborhood lights are out. "Damn Power Company!" we complain.

  But so far, so good. The lights flickered several times, but stayed on while we ate supper. I told Fred about Georgiana Peach and that Trinity had left for home. I also told him about the fond farewell party, which I thought was a great idea.

  "Funerals are too sad," I said.

  Fred crunched into his third taco. "They're supposed to be."

  "They don't have to be," I insisted.

  "Of course they do. They're funerals."

  I thought about how little sense this made, but chose not to point it out. Sometimes, and he would die if he knew this, Fred reminds me of Mary Alice.

  By the time we went to bed, the storm had passed and a light, steady rain was falling on the skylights. Good spring rain.

  * * *

  The next morning, when I took Woofer for his walk, it was considerably cooler, and an occasional dark puffy cloud would skim the sun for a moment. The sidewalk was covered with cherry and pear blossoms. The dogwoods, however, had benefited from the storm. They seemed to have opened more, becoming whiter overnight.

  "It's a good morning," I said to Woofer who agreed. It was such a nice morning, we took a longer walk than usual. By the time we got home, both Woofer and I knew we had been exercising. He went straight to his water bowl and I went for the coffee pot. The message light was flashing on the telephone and I checked it. It was Mary Alice saying to call her immediately. I took a long hot shower and curled up on the den sofa before I called her.

  "It's me," I said when she answered.

  "This is just boggling my mind, Mouse. Scary as hell. When I heard about it I said to myself 'Whoa, wait up here. What's going on?' Didn't you? Say 'Whoa, wait up here. What's going on?' "

  I ran my fingers through my wet hair. "What are you talking about?"

  "Judge Raskins's murder, Mouse. What else would I be talking about?"

  For a moment I was speechless. I clutched the phone to my ear while Sister said, "Mouse? You okay? Mouse?"

  I finally stammered, "Judge Haskins was murdered?"

  "You didn't know? It was all over the TV this morning." Sister sounded delighted at my ignorance. "I'm coming right over." She hung up before I had a chance to ask her any details.

  I reached for the still unopened morning paper, re-

  moved the rubber band from it, and stared at a picture of Judge Haskins that had been made at least twenty years earlier. The headline read judge robert haskins victim of violence. The accompanying story that had obviously been written just in time to make it into the paper gave very few details. The judge had been found shot to death in his home late last night. A friend had made the discovery and called the police. The rest of the article detailed the judge's career, using the word "prominent" at least four times.

  "He was naked," Mary Alice told me a few minutes later. "He was in the living room without a stitch on. And the person who found him is named Jenny Louise."

  We were sitting at the table in the bay window with the newspaper picture of Judge Haskins staring at us.

  "Jenny Louise what?" I asked.

  "That's her stage name. Louise. She's a stripper at Gigi's Go Go. He was shot in the forehead. Right here." Sister pointed to the middle of her forehead. "One shot."

  I looked at her in amazement. "Where did you get all this? All it says in the paper is that he was a victim of violence and was found by a friend."

  "Buddy told me."

  "Buddy Johnson? Father Time? The jet man? How did he know?"

  "This is a small town, Patricia Anne. Buddy has connections. He called me this morning and said, 'Mary Alice, you were talking about Bobby Haskins the other night and I know you'd enjoy hearing some details.' Just like that."

  "He already knows what a fun person you are, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, he does, Miss Smarty

  Pants. Now, do you want to hear the rest?"

  I had to admit that I did.

  "Well, it seems that Judge Haskins and his wife had been separated for about a year mainly because little Bobby was dinging Jenny Louise."

  "Dinging her?"

  "Buddy Johnson is a gentleman, Mouse. It's as good a word as any."

  "I'll try and remember that."

  Mary Alice frowned at me. I smiled.

  "So," she continued, "when Jenny Louise got in last night, I guess after work, there was the judge, lying in the living room, naked as a jaybird. She said at first she thought he was waiting for her, and then she noticed the hole in his head." Sister looked thoughtfully into her coffee cup. ' 'I guess a little rigor mortis could have set in. You know?"

  I said that, indeed, I knew. "Did Buddy tell you all this?"

  "Not about the rigor mortis, Mouse."

  "He's a gentleman."

  "Well, he is. But on the way over here, you know what I was thinking?"

  "What?"

  "That I'm glad Trinity is in Fairhope. With her barging in the house and claiming Judge Haskins killed her sister, she'd be a prime suspect."

  "I thought of that, too."

  "We probably ought to call her and tell her about the judge. I'm sure she'd want to know."

  I got up and went into the den. "I've got the number here somewhere." I looked into the drawer of the end table. "Here it is." I handed the phone and number to Mary Alice. "You tell her. Just tell her he's

  dead, though. Don't get into his dinging Jenny Louise."

  Sister gave me a hard look and dia
led the number.

  "Trinity?" she said in a moment. "Oh? Jo? You sound just like Trinity. This is Mary Alice Crane in Birmingham. May I speak to Trinity, please?"

  I watched the expression on Sister's face change as she listened intently.

  "She's not?" Pause. "No. I'm sure we misunderstood." Long pause. "I'm sure she's all right." Fingernail chewed. "No. Don't worry." Pause again. "Yes, I'll call you if I see her. And you tell her to call me if she comes in today. Thanks."

  Mary Alice hung up and looked at me. "She didn't go home yesterday."

  I had already figured that out, and my stomach was tightening up. "You left her at the garage, didn't you?"

  "No. I waited until they brought her car. She was headed for the interstate going up Twentieth last time I saw her."

  We were both quiet for a moment, thinking. Then I said, "This doesn't mean she had anything to do with the judge's death."

  "Of course it doesn't." Mary Alice was studying the arm of her navy turtleneck T-shirt. ' T need some Scotch tape. Bubba Cat's shedding like crazy."

  I opened the kitchen junk drawer and handed her a roll of tape. "The police will be looking for her, though, for questioning."

  "Maybe she got lost." Mary Alice pulled off a piece of tape and stuck it to her shirt. "She struck me as being a little dingy."

  "Bad choice of adjective."

  "Well, you know what I mean. Wanting me to help

  her find her way around and then disappearing the way she did. Wanting to know how tall everybody is."

  "Maybe all her sisters are short and this is her way of adapting to the existential stress."

  Mary Alice looked up from her chest. "Lord! And me without a shovel right here in the middle of the pasture."

  "Trinity wanting to know how tall people are is just an idiosyncrasy, Sister. We all have them."

  "I don't." Sister pulled a piece of tape from the roll.

  I let that one pass. "Well, there's no way she can be lost. You can't get lost on 1-65."

  "Sure you can. Remember that man last year who was going to the dentist in Pell City and got on the interstate going north instead of south and ended up in Cincinnati or somewhere? The dentist treated him for free when they found him. I thought that was nice." She held up the tape for me to see. "I think Bubba may need some hormones. What do you think?"