Murder on a Bad Hair Day

by Anne George

  “Down there on the left at nine o’clock.”

  “Okay.” He filled in the space.

  I handed him the last string. “I have no idea why anyone would abduct a sick person from a hospital,” I said.

  “Well”—Fred crawled around the tree with this string—“there could be several reasons. One is that the person is in danger.”

  “She was being watched.”

  “So carefully she just walked out.”

  I agreed he had a point.

  “Another reason is the kidnapper can’t afford to have the kidnappee talk to the police.”

  “True.”

  “Which would be why she was in danger.” I was getting confused here.

  “Exactly. So, if her sisters took Claire, was it because they were trying to protect her from someone else or trying to protect themselves?”

  “They were trying to protect her.” I thought of the twins, of their eerie resemblance to Claire. Their oneness had reached out to include their sister. It was the only way they could have survived the brutality of their childhood. I was suddenly sure of this. “They were protecting her,” I repeated.

  Fred stood up and looked at the tree. “There,” he said. “You want me to run to the drugstore and get a couple of more strings of lights?”

  “The tree looks fine.” Glynn, Lynn, and Claire. Sisters. The knot of worry that had taken up residence in my belly when I first saw Claire huddled on my steps, and which had increased in size when I saw the obscenities painted on her walls, relaxed slightly. “Let’s put the ornaments on,” I said.

  Ten

  Ross Perry’s death made the front page of the paper the next morning. Accompanying the story was a picture of him taken at least twenty years earlier when he had hair. The headline read BIZARRE ACCIDENT TAKES LIFE OF ART PATRON.

  I took the paper into the breakfast room to finish reading the article. For once, Sister had gotten the details right. Dr. James Butler and his wife, Yvonne, had just left their home and entered County Road 17 when they noticed a car weaving down the road toward them. The lunge down the embankment, the upside-down car, and their efforts to rescue and revive an already dead Ross were just as Mary Alice had said.

  Mr. Perry (the article continued), 54, a well-known art critic and author of two books of art criticism, served on the board of directors of the Museum of Art and was active in all phases of the Birmingham art scene. He was survived by a sister, Mrs. Delia Reynolds, of New Orleans, LA, and several nieces and nephews.

  The story segued into the sheriff’s speculation that a deer hunter was probably responsible for the death; quoted the local president of the NRA, who assured us that guns didn’t kill people, people did; and ended with the fact that the Birmingham art community had lost two of its greatest supporters in the last few days with the deaths of Ross Perry and Mercy Armistead, who had also served on the museum board and whose death was still under investigation.

  I put the paper down and poured some Cheerios into a bowl, spilling a few of them. There had to be some connection, I thought between Mercy’s murder, Ross’s death, which could very possibly have been murder, and Claire’s disappearance. I spread the spilled Cheerios apart. Claire Cheerio, Ross Cheerio, and Mercy Cheerio I placed across the top. Obviously what they had in common was that someone was after each of them, assuming Ross’s death had not been an accident. It was possible, of course, but what was he doing out on that country road headed away from Birmingham just before Mercy’s funeral? I left his Cheerio at the top. Now, what else did they have in common?

  Mercy and Claire had a grandfather and aunt in common. I pushed two Cheerios into place for Amos and Liliane Bedsole. And a mother and aunt. Betty Bedsole took her place. Cousins and sisters. Glynn and Lynn Cheerio joined the Bedsole crowd. But that left Ross Cheerio sitting over by himself. The Bedsole family was a mess and very possibly could have done each other in, but for some reason, I didn’t believe so.

  I took another handful of Cheerios. Mercy and Ross had the museum and love of art in common. Claire loved art. One Cheerio went down as a common denominator. Mercy and Claire might both have had Thurman Beatty. And then maybe not. Thurman could have thought Claire hung the moon and still admired her from a distance. A man could certainly be attracted to a woman and not act upon it. But to be on the safe side, I broke a Cheerio in half for Thurman and gave one piece to each woman. Ross Cheerio was left sitting by himself with one denominator, love of art. Not exactly a cause for murder. I thought about Bonnie Blue’s saying Ross owed her father money for some paintings. Money. Now there was a cause for murder.

  “What are you doing?” Fred asked.

  “Playing a game.” I brushed the Cheerios into my bowl. “You want some cereal?”

  “After a while. Just some coffee now.” He poured a cup and came to the table. The paper with Ross’s picture was lying face up. Fred picked it up and glanced at the story.

  “I don’t believe it was a deer hunter,” I said. “I think whoever killed Mercy killed Ross, too.”

  Fred looked at me over his bifocals and tapped the paper. “Stay out of this, Patricia Anne.”

  “I just made a statement.”

  “You let that nutty sister of yours drag you into all kinds of dangerous situations.”

  “Like a gallery opening and lunch at the Green and White.”

  “Exactly. Trouble follows that woman, Patricia Anne. Look at all those dead husbands. I can’t believe three men were crazy enough to marry that woman.”

  “My Lord, Fred. You make Mary Alice sound like a black widow. Her husbands were old as Methuselah and died happily.”

  “Listen to what I say, Patricia Anne.” He pointed a finger at me and disappeared behind the paper.

  I shot him a bird.

  “I saw that,” he claimed.

  “You did not.” I poured milk on my cereal and reached over to turn on the small TV, which was still on the table. A local newscaster was giving the same story about Ross Perry that was in the paper. I was about to turn it off when she announced that former All-American Thurman Beatty was being held for questioning in the death of his wife, the internationally known artist Mercy Armistead. They showed a picture of Thurman, dressed in a dark suit, being escorted by three policemen into city jail.

  “It looks like they picked him up right after the funeral,” I said. “Look how dressed up he is.”

  “Who?” Fred asked, putting down the paper.

  “Thurman Beatty. He’s being held for questioning in his wife’s death. Held. Sounds like they mean business.”

  “That’s ridiculous. All-American. Heisman candidate.” Fred turned the TV so he could see it, but they had already gone to commercial.

  “It’ll be in the paper if they did it yesterday,” I said, picking up the Metro section that was still lying on the table. It was—on the front page, with a picture of Thurman in his Alabama uniform. This paper needed some up-to-date pictures.

  It was a fairly lengthy article since it not only mentioned that Thurman was being held for questioning in the murder of his wife but also reviewed each of his more remarkable Alabama football games as well as individual plays and reiterated that he had been gypped of the Heisman. His professional career was also examined lengthily. But the two sentences I considered most important were hidden between the goal lines: the fact that he had retired from the NFL because of health problems and that he currently owned a farm in Shelby County, where he raised quarter horses. I knew about the heart problems, but I hadn’t known about the horses. Given the circumstances of Mercy’s death by DMSO, no wonder they were questioning him.

  Fred was reading over my shoulder. I finished before he did and handed him the paper. Nope, I thought, thinking of my Cheerio people. If Thurman killed Mercy, then why did Claire run, and what about Ross? Unless Thurman had kidnapped Claire and Ross’s death had really been an accident. I could feel the beginning of a headache between my eyes.

  I put my cereal bowl in the dis
hwasher and poured Fred another cup of coffee.

  “I’m having lunch today with Frances Zata,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

  Fred was still reading the article. “God! I’d forgotten that Tennessee game when he broke two guys’ legs!”

  I patted him on the head and left the kitchen. The smell of testosterone was getting to me.

  Frances swept into the Blue Moon looking like a million bucks in a black skirt and a black-and-white herringbone jacket. With it she wore an emerald-green turtleneck sweater, a combination I would never have thought of but which was a knockout. I had on my red suit, which was seasonal. Its days were numbered, though. You can only shave wool gabardine around the pockets and down the sleeves just so much before it begins to get shiny. I have a gadget I bought at K mart that whisks along fabric, depilling. A wonderful invention. Mary Alice says I shave my clothes more than I do my legs. Which is almost true.

  Frances never looks like her clothes have been depilled. Or need to be.

  “Morning,” she said, pulling her chair back and sliding into it gracefully.

  “I’ll bet you don’t sweat, either,” I grumbled.

  “Of course not.” She grinned. “I know why you wanted to have lunch here. I just walked through the mall and saw Mrs. Claus.”

  “I hope she saw you.”

  “I waved and yelled ‘Hey, Mary Alice!’ I love the T-shirt that lights up, but that’s the worst wig I’ve ever seen. It looks like a road kill.”

  “It looks like a poodle the taxidermist hasn’t finished.” We both laughed. “Did she wave back?”

  “She raised a finger slightly. Does that constitute a wave?”

  “Oh, God!” I laughed so hard I had to wipe my eyes with my napkin.

  “Hey, Mrs. Hollowell, Mrs. Zata.” We both looked up to see a tall skinny girl holding the menus. “I’m Susie Connors. I graduated six years ago.”

  “Susie, of course, how are you?” Frances said. “And David?”

  “He’s just started work with TVA as an engineer and I’m in graduate school. I’m working here for the holidays.”

  “That’s great,” I said. Susie Connors? I was trying to place her and Frances was already inquiring about her family! At least Susie had given her name. Most former students greet us with “You don’t know who I am, do you?” expecting us to say, “Sure we do” and being crushed when we don’t.

  “You ladies look mighty pretty today. You want the chicken salad and orange rolls?”

  “Absolutely,” Frances agreed. “And decaf coffee.”

  “Iced tea for me.”

  “You got it.” Susie started away and turned back. “It’s good seeing both of you.”

  “You, too,” we chorused.

  “Who’s David?” I asked as Susie walked off.

  “Her twin brother. You remember him, Patricia Anne. He’s the one fell off the stage during South Pacific.”

  I remembered the incident vaguely. “Was he hurt?”

  “Broke his ankle.” Frances looked at me disapprovingly.

  “There are too many of them, Frances,” I said. “I can’t keep them straight.”

  “It isn’t easy,” Frances admitted.

  “Speaking of twins, I saw Lynn and Glynn Needham yesterday. They are drop-dead gorgeous. Followed me into the ladies’ room at the Green and White to tell me, I think, that Claire’s all right.”

  “They won’t let you visit her? She’s responding to treatment okay, isn’t she?”

  I don’t know why I had assumed Frances knew all about Claire’s disappearance. I told her the whole story, including Liliane Bedsole’s trip to my house to ask for help in finding her.

  “Wow,” Frances said. “Where do you suppose she is?”

  “And Mary Alice and I were having lunch with Ross Perry at the Green and White when I saw the twins. He left there and drove right to Shelby County, where he was killed.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Damned if I know. It’s scary.” I moved my arms from the table so Susie could put down my plate of chicken salad.

  Frances took an orange roll and buttered it slowly. “They say it was a deer hunter shot Ross Perry.”

  “Maybe it was. I’ve got my doubts. I think there’s a connection between Mercy’s death, Claire’s disappearance, and Ross’s death.”

  “What kind of connection?”

  “I don’t know. Look.” I pushed my salad plate aside and took several packets of Sweet’n Low and played the Cheerio game for Frances. She watched carefully as each packet was added or rearranged. I ended up with the same three—Mercy, Ross, and Claire—at the top, the Bedsoles bunched to one side, and Thurman behind the sugar bowl. At least I didn’t have to explain the relationship between Amos and the Needham girls, since Frances had been at the court hearings. I tapped the Liliane packet. “She seemed worried to death.”

  “Ummm,” Frances said, studying the packets.

  “You see something?”

  “No. This salad’s great.”

  I pulled my plate back and began to eat. Frances plucked the Thurman packet from behind the sugar bowl. “He’s out again. I heard it on the radio coming down here. Where shall I put him?”

  “Break the packet and sprinkle each woman?”

  “I don’t think so.” Frances propped him against the orange rolls. “Something’s missing,” she said.

  “From the salad?”

  “From this equation here.” She pointed to the table dotted with Sweet’n Low packets. “There’s some big connection here that we’re missing, Patricia Anne.”

  “Maybe we don’t want to know what it is,” I said.

  “True.”

  I gathered the packets together and put them back into the bowl. We were quiet for a few minutes while we ate.

  “Maybe it’s the gallery,” Frances said.

  I grinned. “We aren’t going to be able to let this go, are we? And no, I don’t think it’s the gallery that’s the connection. That would leave Ross out. Besides, Claire was just Mercy’s assistant.”

  “Well, I hate that the police have the gallery closed. I was planning on doing some of my Christmas shopping there. I was so pleased when I saw Mercy was opening with a showing of Outsider art. Was it wonderful, Patricia Anne?”

  “It was bright,” I said, remembering the vibrancy of the paintings and quilts, how they had seemed to pulse with color.

  “That’s what’s so wonderful about Outsider art. The boldness and the self-confidence.”

  “And they’re Outsiders because they don’t fit into any particular school of art?”

  “Exactly. They’re self-taught. That doesn’t make them any less great, though, just less derivative. I’ve heard them called ‘visionary’ artists, too.” Frances buttered another roll. “Mercy Armistead was smart enough to be tapping into the wellspring here in Alabama.”

  “I wonder why there are so many of them here.”

  “Patricia Anne, if there’s one thing people in Alabama appreciate, it’s eccentricity. You know that.”

  I nodded. It was true. I thought about my sister, down the mall with her electric T-shirt, red leggings, and road kill wig. I thought about my Abe painting with his own hair glued on. I thought about Vulcan, the Iron Man, mooning half the city. God, I loved this place.

  “I’ve got an Abe painting,” I told Frances, and described it to her.

  “That’s wonderful! I’ve got a Tolliver and a Clark and a Leota Wood quilt.”

  “I love her quilts, but they cost a fortune.” A thought occurred to me. “Frances, at this rate those artists aren’t going to be Outsiders long, are they?”

  “They’ll always be Outsiders, just rich ones.”

  But I wondered if such a thing were possible.

  “Here you are!” We looked up at Mrs. Claus. “Imagine you just happening to show up here at Rosedale Mall, Frances.”

  Frances grinned. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  Mary Alice sat down
and pulled the flattened poodle from her head. “Patricia Anne, I need to ask you a favor. Will you be Mrs. Claus for a little while this afternoon so I can go check on Bubba? I told him I would come see about him after lunch.”

  Bubba is Sister’s enormous cat, totally devoid of any personality traits except sneakiness and laziness. And she adores him.

  “No, I will not be Mrs. Claus. And what’s wrong with Bubba?”

  “Projectile vomiting.” Mary Alice’s arms shot out over our chicken salad to show us the extent of Bubba’s digestive upheaval.

  “Twice,” she announced, repeating the gesture. Frances and I both jumped back. “I tried to get one of the Magic Maids to take my place, but they don’t work on Saturday. And I called you and you were gone and I called Debbie and she’s gone.”

  “He’s really sick?”

  The arms shot out across the table. “Twice.”

  “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.

  “Oh, let me,” Frances said. “I’d love to be Mrs. Claus.”

  We both turned and looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “I mean it,” she said, grinning broadly. “I think it would be great fun.”

  “The kids pee on you occasionally,” Mary Alice said, taking in Frances’s elegant outfit.

  “I’ve got a nylon wind suit in my car. I’ll just slip it on.”

  “And your chest has to light up with ‘Mrs. Claus.’”

  “I love that part!”

  Mary Alice looked at me. I just shrugged.

  “I’ll go get the wind suit,” Frances said, pushing back her chair and hurrying out.

  “What is it with her?” Mary Alice asked, watching Frances leave.

  “Beats me,” I said. “Who knows what secret yearnings lie in people’s hearts?”

  When we left the mall, Frances was lighted and delighted. Even the road kill wig looked okay on her. I saw Santa looking over appreciatively. So did Sister.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” Mary Alice said.

  “Take your time,” Mr. and Mrs. Claus both answered.

  “Wasn’t that nice of Frances?” I said as we pushed through the Christmas shoppers. “Bill certainly seemed to appreciate it.” I stepped aside quickly. One of the shoppers got kicked, I’m sure.