by Nancy Bell
Biggie smiled and motioned for me to open the iron gate that led to the yard. I held it open for Biggie and followed her up the front walk, which was shaded by magnolia trees covered with basketball-sized blooms. The front porch was lined with gardenia bushes covered with white flowers and, in front of them, petunias made a solid pink border. Hanging baskets in every color swung between the porch columns.
“My stars, Alice, this place is a regular Garden of Eden.” Biggie took a deep breath. “What kind of gardenias are these? I’ve never smelled such a heavenly scent.”
“Scarlet O’Hara,” Alice said. “They are right fine, aren’t they. I ordered them out of a catalog.” She broke off a blossom and handed it to Biggie.
“I’d love to have a few cuttings from these.” Biggie sniffed the flower.
“Anybody comes by here and wants a cutting, they’ve got it,” Alice said. “Hell, what’s a garden for if it ain’t to share? Ya’ll come on in the house.” She held the screen door open. “The dern mosquitoes are too bad this year for porch settin’.”
If the outside was bright and colorful, the inside was just the opposite. The walls were covered with dark grayish wallpaper, the paneling was brown and, here and there, old-timey studio portraits of Alice’s ancestors frowned down on us. A round dark table with a fringed cloth stood in front of a straight stairway that parted the hall in two. Alice led us down the hall at the right of the stair.
“We’ll have our drinks in Papa’s study,” Alice said. “It’s the coolest room in the house. Since I’m outside most of the time, I never could see the sense in putting in air-conditioning.” She pushed open the door to an even darker room and set the pitcher on a table in front of the fireplace. “Y’all set down anywhere,” she said. “I’ll just go get the drinks.”
I took a seat on a straight chair and Biggie sat in one of the big leather chairs that flanked the table, and when she did I laughed out loud. Did I mention that Biggie’s no bigger than a minute? Well, when she flopped down in that chair, she dern near disappeared. Her feet stuck out straight in front of her. “J.R., stop that laughing and help me up,” she said. Just as she had situated herself in the straight chair and I had curled myself up in the leather one, Alice came back followed by Emily Faye, who was carrying a tray with a big pitcher of the punch, two empty glasses, and one glass filled with milk. Alice took the milk off the tray and handed it to me. “This is the only thing I had suitable for a kid,” she said. “That and Adam’s ale. Set the tray on the table and sit yourself, Em.”
Emily did as she was told, perching on a stool in front of the hearth and looking like she’d prefer to be anywhere else but here. She wouldn’t look at me and I wondered if she knew I’d seen her riding around in that Suburban.
I took a sip. “It’s good.” And the milk was, ice cold and really creamy.
“I get it from a dairy outside of town,” Alice said. “Fifteen percent butterfat.” She poured their drinks, ignoring Emily. “Cheers,” she said, lifting her glass and almost draining it. She let out a huge sigh and patted her stomach. “What do you think of our town so far, not counting the murder, of course.”
“Not counting the murder, it’s charming,” Biggie said. “Unfortunately, you can never discount murder.”
“Right you are.” Alice looked serious. “Murder in a town this small reflects on us all. I just hope that outlander of a sheriff has sense enough to clear it up soon.”
“Who do you think did it?” Biggie took the bull by the horns.
“Umm.” Alice took another slug of punch and leaned over to refill her glass. “Could have been a transient, I guess. That courtyard opens to the alley out back.”
Biggie watched as Alice drank down half her glass again, then plowed ahead. “You don’t think it might have been someone, uh, closer to her? Like maybe a lover’s quarrel?”
“Brian wouldn’t do that!” Emily Faye’s voice had panic in it, and she looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
Alice sat up straight and glared at Emily. “Shut up, girl. What do you know about anything?” She looked hard at Biggie. “Brian? It’s a possibility, I reckon. Tell the truth, I don’t know much about the boy since he went off to college. Watched him grow up, of course. Too much of a mama’s boy to suit me, if you know what I mean. I like a kid with a little spunk. Of course, you can’t blame the kid, I guess, what with that sorry Quinton Quincy up and leaving like he did.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Alice shook the ice cubes in her glass. “His daddy. He left a long time ago, before Brian was born. What had happened, Mary Ann had a hard pregnancy, felt tired all the time, doncha know. Finally, it got so bad she couldn’t even get out of bed in the morning. Well, her mama came over to the house to visit one morning and found her that way and, right away, took her to the doctor—old Dr. Buford. He’s dead now. Dr. Buford ran some tests and made a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. He gave her some pills and said go on home and rest, that it could go into remission, or she could just get sicker and sicker.”
“How sad,” Biggie said.
“Yeah, it was sad all right. But that’s not all. The sad part was when Quinton just up and left town. Told Mary Ann he couldn’t deal with a sick wife and a new baby. Mary Ann moved in with her mama and daddy and lived with them right up until the day they died.”
“She sure doesn’t look sick, now.” Biggie held her glass out for more punch.
“Naw. It was a damn miracle.” Alice poured. “After Quinton left, Mary Ann got up out of the bed. She hasn’t had a bit of trouble since. We all think old Dr. Buford must of made a mistake about the multiple sclerosis.”
“Quincy,” Biggie said. “Did his family found the town?”
“Not all by themselves.” Alice shifted in her chair and reached for the pitcher of rum punch. “Lucas Fitzgerald’s folks were early settlers, too—and my old man’s family, the LaRues. They owned the first bank in town. I’m not actually from here. I met Mansfield LaRue when he came to Nashville on business. I was a student at Ward-Belmont College. Can you believe that? Yep. I was a well-finished young lady when Manse met me—at least that’s what they all thought.” She cackled with laughter. “My daddy made a fortune in scrap metal during the war. He was a junk man! Oh, I was a wild one when Manse married me. Manse didn’t care though. He loved me until the day he fell over dead down at the bank. It was an aneurysm, the doctor said. His poor old brain just exploded. He never even knew what hit him.”
“Whatever happened to Quinton?”
“Last anybody heard, he was out in California somewhere. Got himself a whole new family, so they say. Brian was a pretty angry kid growing up, as he had every right to be. Once I had to stop him from beating his little dog with a stick. But then he went off to school and seemed to be doing better. When he started going out with Annabeth, he turned into a regular pussycat.”
Emily made a noise that sounded like a snort.
“You shut your mouth, girl,” Alice snapped. “You’ll never get a man, and you know it, least of all a cute kid like Brian.”
Emily stuck out her tongue at her mama, just like a little kid would do.
“Do you think his anger could have come back? Brian’s, I mean. Enough for him to kill?”
“Hmm. I suppose it’s possible. He did say he had a snootful when they got home from that dance.”
“Uh-uh,” I said.
Biggie looked at me. “What?”
“Brian didn’t do it.”
“How do you know so much, sonny?” Alice sniggered.
“Because. I just know he couldn’t have hurt her. You should have seen how sad he was afterward.”
“J.R.,” Biggie said. “You’ve been around more evil in your life than any little boy ought to be. I blame myself for that. Still, you’ve seen how the most unlikely persons can turn out to be killers.”
“Yes’m, I guess so.” But in my heart, I knew Brian didn’t do it, and I knew Emily felt the same way because she lo
oked at me and smiled when I said that.
Biggie turned back to Alice. “How about Mary Ann? How did she feel about Brian going out with Annabeth?”
“Okay, I guess. Never said anything against her. Of course, Mary Ann’s got no guts at all. Comes from living all her life with her parents and never having to think for herself. She was the sissy type, if you know what I mean. I remember once when we were young marrieds, I got her to go fishing with me. First and last time. I had to bait her hook because she wouldn’t touch the worms. And take a fish off a hook? Forget it.”
“But Brian would be marrying beneath himself, wouldn’t he?”
“Well, that’s a fact. Come to think of it, maybe Mary Ann did have some resentment toward the girl. Still, I can’t see her driving a knife into somebody’s chest. Nope, she wouldn’t have the stomach for it. Forget Mary Ann.”
“And Lucas?”
“Well, like I said, Lucas’s family’s been here forever. He granddaddy was the first county judge we had. You can see his picture hanging in the county courtroom. I can remember his daddy, old Judge Quincy. Of course, he was old when I came here. Everybody says he was a fine man. Served in the legislature under both Fergusons, Jim and “Ma”. When the judge came back from Austin, he did most of the lawyer work for the whole town. He wasn’t never a judge. That’s just a title of respect folks bestowed on him. They say a more honest man never drew a breath. Lucas, he went to law school because his daddy wanted it, but if you ask me, he’d have preferred to be a college professor, or some such thing. His real love is history, and most especially, the history of this here little town. If you ask me, he’s gone overboard about it. Wants to catalog every damn thing that’s ever happened around here.”
“Do you think he could be capable of murder?” Biggie looked hard at Alice.
“Lucas? Hell, no. He’s too feeble. Wouldn’t have the strength to drive the knife home. The man’s eighty-three for God’s sake! Besides, why?”
“Suppose he didn’t want the Quincy family blood to be corrupted by Baugh blood,” Biggie suggested.
“That’s reaching,” Alice said. “Still … Lucas is a nut when it comes to this town. Keeps his mind too much in the past. Hmm, I’ll have to think about that.”
“And Hen Lester?” Biggie asked.
“Aw, hell! That woman’s dull as ditch water. You want to know anything about her, you’ll have to ask her yourself. Still and all, she never liked the girl. Never missed a chance to bad-mouth her. I put it down to puredee snobbery, but there might have been some other reason she didn’t like the kid.”
“What can you tell me about Annabeth’s family?” Biggie set her empty glass on the table.
Alice’s face froze. “Not a damn thing. More punch?”
Biggie shook her head. “I had the impression that the Baughs had been in this county for a long time.”
“County folks and town folks don’t mix,” Alice said. “Can we change the subject?”
“Strange,” Biggie said. “This being a small county, and all. Over in Kemp County, everybody knows everybody else. Do you know how Mary Ann happened to hire Annabeth?”
“Nope. Haven’t the foggiest.”
Alice looked down at her glass, then drained it. She was kind of wobbly when she stood up and led us out of the room. “Hate to rush y’all off, but the sun’s down, and I go to bed with the chickens. Take these glasses out to the kitchen, Em.” She weaved her way down the hall and all but pushed us out the front door. “Bye, now. I’ll see you in the morning at the hotel.”
Before a cat could lick his fanny, the door had slammed behind us and we were standing out on the sidewalk in front of the house.
9
When we got back to the hotel, the moon was rising over the store buildings across the street. Brian and two of his friends were sitting in rocking chairs out front. I took a seat on a cement bench.
“Hey, J.R.” Brian looked glum.
“Hey.”
“Hey, dude,” said one of the guys, who had one brown curl falling over his forehead. “I’m Jason and this here’s Matt. We’re, like, tryin’ to cheer old Brian up, but he ain’t havin’ any. Tell him he ought to go get a beer with us.”
The kid named Matt, who had a real cool earring, said, “Tell him there’s plenty of women out there. All he’s gotta do is give um a chance. I bet you get all the women you want, huh, kid?”
“I do okay,” I said, trying to be cool.
They thought that was very funny, and I turned red.
“Come on, man.” Jason gave Brian a shake. “Ain’t nobody here but a bunch of old folks. We’ll even take the kid with us.”
“Okay,” Brian said. “You guys are going to hang around until I do. But J.R. can’t go.”
“Yes I can,” I said. “I’ll go tell Biggie …”
“No,” Brian said. “Where we’re going’s no place for a kid. See you later, J.R.”
With that, they all got up and ambled off down the sidewalk. I hoped the beer would make him feel better. I didn’t care what the others thought; I knew Brian couldn’t hurt a flea. Alice must have been making it up when she said he mistreated his dog.
Inside, things were pretty quiet. Lucas Fitzgerald was sitting in an easy chair beside a potted palm in the lobby reading a book and smoking a cigar. A glass of brandy sat on a little table beside the chair. Mary Ann and Lew Masters were sitting on one of the couches watching 60 Minutes on television, which surprised me a good bit because I never knew they had a TV in that lobby. It had been hidden behind an antique Chinese screen. Biggie sat down and started watching it with them.
Personally, I think 60 Minutes is probably the most boring show on TV, so I strolled into the kitchen to look for Willie Mae and Rosebud. I found Willie Mae rolling out a batch of cinnamon rolls. She sprinkled the dough with cinnamon and sugar, then put little dabs of butter on top. After that, she rolled the dough into a big cigar shape and, with a knife, sliced off big, fat cinnamon rolls, which she placed on a pan. When they were all laid out in rows, she put them under a clean, white dishtowel to rise. Rosebud was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.
“Boy! Those sure smell good,” I said. I sure was glad Willie Mae had agreed to stay here and cook for Miss Mary Ann as long as we were here. Nobody makes cinnamon rolls like Willie Mae.
“They for breakfast. Where you been off to?” Willie Mae asked, plopping herself down at the table with a sigh.
“Helping Biggie investigate,” I said. “Willie Mae, what happens when the wrong person gets accused of a crime?”
Willie Mae got up and poured me a glass of milk, and set a little plate of cookies beside it. “You have to ask Rosebud that. I don’t have no truck with the law.”
“Been there many times,” Rosebud said. “And it ain’t a happy place.”
“Humph,” Willie Mae said.
“How come you askin’, boy?” Rosebud pulled a cigar out of his pocket and sniffed it.
“They’re trying to say Brian killed Annabeth, and I know he wouldn’t do that. That old Alice LaRue is trying to say he might have done it because she saw him beating his dog once when he was little. Does that make any sense to you, Rosebud?”
“Puts me in mind of my cousin, Daniel P. Trahan,” Rosebud said, pulling out his big Zippo lighter.
“You ain’t lightin’ that cigar in this kitchen,” Willie Mae said.
Rosebud grinned. “Come on, son. We’ll go out in the courtyard and I’ll tell you about Daniel P. while I smoke my cigar in peace.”
I finished my milk and stuck two cookies in my pocket. “Ain’t—I mean isn’t it still roped off?”
“Nope. The sheriff took the tape down this afternoon. Said he’d gathered all the evidence he needed.”
Rosebud headed down the hall to the French doors that led to the courtyard. I followed. We found a seat on a bench and Rosebud lit his cigar, taking a deep draw. He blew out three perfect smoke rings.
“What happened to Daniel P
.?” I asked.
“Wellsir, it went this way.” Rosebud leaned back and crossed his legs, looking up at the moon. “Daniel P. wasn’t really my cousin, doncha know. My Auntie Blanche found him amongst the cypress knees down in Big Mamou when he wasn’t no bigger than a possum. He was wrapped up in a old dirty blanket and settin’ in a washtub.”
“His mama had just left him there?”
“Yeah.” Rosebud blew another smoke ring. “Wellsir, Auntie Blanche, she taken him home and took good care of the little feller. In time, she came to love him like he was her own. Thing was, as he grew older, old Daniel P. kept on asking ‘Who my momma? Who my momma?’ All the time he kept askin’ that same question. Auntie Blanche, she say, ‘Who feed you all the crawfish pie you can hold? Who stitch up the fine clothes you wear? Who nurse you back to health when you sick with the gallopin’ croup? Nobody but me, that’s who.’ But Daniel P., he just keep askin’ ‘Who my momma?’ and then ‘Where my momma?’”
“What was wrong with him? Seems like he’d of been grateful.”
“Don’t it? Well, things went on like that until Daniel P. was about six. ‘Long about that time, he found a little old stray hound dog somebody had dumped out beside the road. He brought it home, and when Auntie Blanche said he could keep him, Daniel P. washed him and fed him ’til that dog was fat and fine. Old Barney, that was his name, turned out to be the best coon dog in the parish. Ooo-wee, that boy was proud. Go in the kitchen and bring me out a glass of sweet milk.”
I ran in the kitchen and, when I came back with the milk, Rosebud took a big swig, then continued. “Wellsir, one morning, bright and early, Daniel P. got out of bed, taken up his gun and went out the back door, hollering for Barney. He hollered and he whistled, but old Barney, he never came. Daniel P. never saw that dog again.”
“Poor Daniel P.,” I said. “Did he get him another dog?”
“Nope. Never wanted another dog. It was after that that Daniel P. took to robbing birds’ nests and smashing the eggs and runnin’ after Auntie Blanche’s hens ’til the poor things would fall over from exhaustion. Once, he tied two of her kittens’ tails together with baling wire and throw’d um over the clothesline. The poor little things dern near clawed each other to death.”