Murder Shoots the Bull

by Anne George

  But Lisa wasn’t there. A note, propped on the kitchen table, said, Gone to dinner with Aunt Sister. Love, Lisa.

  I picked up the phone to see if there were any messages. There weren’t.

  “Try Alan’s house again,” Fred said.

  I dialed and, surprisingly, Alan answered.

  “Son?” I said. It came out as a question.

  “Hey, Mama.”

  “Your papa wants to talk to you.” I handed a startled Fred the phone and walked into the den.

  “What’s going on, Son?” I heard him ask.

  I turned on the TV. The local news was on. A picture of a much younger Sophie Sawyer filled the screen. Murdered. Prominent family. I reached over and snapped it off.

  In the kitchen “Un huh” seemed to be all that Fred was saying.

  I went down the hall pulling off my clothes. I turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it and stepped in, letting the water pound against me.

  In a few minutes, Fred joined me.

  “What did he say?” I asked, moving over to make room.

  “Damn, this water’s hot.” Fred moved to the corner of the shower stall. “He says it’s his fault. He says he’s been involved with this other woman.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Damn.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Turn around.” I soaped a washrag and washed his back, kissing various and sundry spots. Then he scrubbed my back, also doing some kissing. But that was as far as it went. By the time Wheel of Fortune came on, we were in front of the TV in our robes eating the tuna fish salad I had made for lunch. Better than Morrison’s.

  Fred was asleep in his chair when Mary Alice and Lisa came rushing in.

  “There are two police cars over at the Phizers’,” Sister exclaimed.

  “Two,” Lisa repeated.

  “Reckon what they’re doing?” Sister disappeared into the dining room with Lisa trailing right behind.

  “What’s going on?” Fred came awake.

  “Don’t know. They say there are two police cars over at the Phizers’.” I got up and followed them.

  “Don’t turn on the lights,” Sister cautioned. She and Lisa had each claimed a side of the draperies for peeking. “Look there, Lisa. Another car.”

  “Three of them?” I peeked through the middle of the draperies. Sure enough, two cars were parked on the street. The one Sister was talking about pulled into the driveway.

  Sister sneezed. “Damn, Mouse. These draperies are full of dust. When did you have them cleaned last?”

  “Not long ago.” Actually I couldn’t remember it had been so long.

  “They’re getting out of the car,” Lisa said.

  We watched two policemen walk up to the Phizers’ door and go in.

  “Damn, something’s really going on.” Sister sneezed again. “They don’t send three patrol cars out for nothing.”

  “Maybe they’re fixing to arrest Mr. Phizer for murdering his first wife.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lisa.” It popped out sharper than I meant it to.

  But Lisa was too caught up in her imagination to take offense. “Or maybe it’s Mrs. Phizer they’re arresting.”

  “What’s happening?” Fred was standing in the doorway.

  “There are three police cars at the Phizers’,” Sister said. “Come look. But don’t get too close to the drapes. They’re loaded with dust mites.”

  He came and peered over my head.

  “The third one just came up,” Lisa announced happily. “I think they’re going to arrest one of the Phizers for poisoning that lady.”

  “Hmm.” Fred took the scene in, nodded, and then said what every married man would say, given these circumstances. “Patricia Anne, why don’t you go call Mitzi and find out what’s going on?”

  “Right now while the police are there?”

  “Something could be wrong with one of them. They might need some help.”

  I felt guilty that I hadn’t thought of that.

  Lisa clutched the drapery. “Maybe Mrs. Phizer killed Mr. Phizer. Or vice versa.”

  “The rescue squad’s not there. If one of them had had an accident or a heart attack or killed each other the rescue squad would be there.” Mary Alice sneezed again. “Damn.”

  “I’ll go call,” I said. I went into the kitchen and dialed Mitzi’s number. The line was busy. I waited a couple of minutes and tried again. No luck.

  “It’s busy,” I told the three in the dining room.

  “The last group’s leaving,” Fred announced. “They sure didn’t stay long.” The two women, I noticed, had pulled dining room chairs over and settled down for some serious snooping. Fred, while not going quite that far, had his eye glued to the opening in the drapery.

  “I’m going to go over and see what’s wrong,” I said. “Mitzi won’t think I’m butting in.”

  Might as well have been talking to the wall for all the attention I got.

  “There comes the second group leaving, too,” Sister said. “What do you think the tall one has in his hand, Fred? A gun?”

  “It’s a cell phone.”

  Un huh. And this was the man I’ve heard make snide remarks about the telescope in Sister’s sunroom. The sunroom that just happens to overlook all of Birmingham. As does Sister.

  I let myself out of the kitchen door. Woofer, asleep in his igloo, didn’t know anything was going on, bless his heart. The other dogs in the neighborhood knew, though. As did the other neighbors. Several front porch lights were on, and the Tripps, across the street, were standing on their steps, probably wondering whether or not they should be doing something to help.

  I was caught in the headlights of the patrol car as the policemen pulled into the driveway to turn around. Okay. So all the neighbors now knew I had an old pink seersucker robe that had been washed to the point of transparency. Behind me, someone (I suspected it was Sister, though it may have been Fred) rapped on the dining room window. Spotlighted, I resisted the urge to lift my middle finger in a salute. Instead, I clutched the robe around me and ran up Mitzi’s steps, wishing I’d taken the time to throw on some jeans and a shirt.

  The door was opened by a nice-looking young policeman who said, “Hi, come on in.” Beyond him, I could see Mitzi, Arthur, and another uniformed man sitting on the sofa. By the looks of the cups and plates on the coffee table, they were having a party.

  “I just want to see Mrs. Phizer a minute,” I said. No way I was going to join a party in this bathrobe. Not even an unusual party such as this one.

  Mitzi heard me. “Come in, Patricia Anne,” she called.

  “You come out here.” I stepped away from the lighted door.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, joining me on the porch.

  “What do you mean what’s going on? There were three police cars here. We didn’t know what had happened. I tried to call you, but your line was busy.”

  “I think one of the policemen was making a phone call.” She pointed toward her porch swing. “You want to sit down a minute?”

  “I want to know why three police cars were here.” We sat down and the swing creaked. “I was scared something had happened.” I pointed vaguely down the block, toward the Tripps on their steps, toward the lights, toward my dining room window. “We all were.”

  “Well, my goodness. I didn’t think of that.” Mitzi stood up and called to the Tripps. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”

  They waved, turned, and went inside. Porch lights down the street were turned off. Even most of the dogs quit barking. I suspected that in my dining room the chairs were being put back under the table.

  “Isn’t this the nicest place in the world to live?” Mitzi asked.

  Well, of course it is if you’re as sweet as Mitzi Phizer and assume the neighbors are just concerned for your well-being.

  She sat back down, and the two of us began to swing slightly. These porch swings on a warm September night are one of the things that make this the nicest place
in the world to live.

  “The first policemen came to ask Fred some questions about Sophie,” she said. “They were real nice.” She pointed toward the door. “They’re the ones that are still here.”

  “What about all the others?”

  “They just sort of showed up. I guess they had things to check out with each other. Fortunately, I’d just made a coconut cake. They all seemed to be hungry.”

  “I love your coconut cake.”

  “They did, too. I was going to take it down to Sophie’s daughter’s house tomorrow, but there’s not much left.” She smiled. “You remember how our mamas used to say that hoboes left marks on houses during the Depression so the ones coming along later would know where they could get food?”

  “Sure. Now they use cell phones.”

  We creaked back and forth, our feet barely touching the floor.

  “Is Arthur okay?”

  “I guess so. He knew there would be some questions.”

  “How about Sophie’s daughters?”

  “Arabella, the one who was staying with her mother, is down at her sister’s. Arthur says they get along like cats and dogs, but I guess she couldn’t stay in the apartment.” Mitzi shivered. “I know I wouldn’t want to.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I hope Arthur doesn’t have too much trouble with those two. He’s the executor of Sophie’s estate.”

  I yawned. The slow movement back and forth was soothing.

  “I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea when she asked him,” Mitzi continued. “But Arthur said she was sick and worried, and it seemed like a burden off of her.” Mitzi put her foot down and stopped the swing; my side angled out. “Tomorrow he’s got to tell the girls their mama wanted to be cremated.”

  “They didn’t know?”

  “He says not. He says Sophie decided when she got back to Birmingham.”

  “What about scattering the ashes from Vulcan? Can they do it?”

  “Arthur hasn’t found out yet.”

  For the first time there was an edge to Mitzi’s voice. Which I could certainly understand. I wouldn’t have much patience with Fred if he were up on Vulcan scattering his first wife’s ashes. And being the executor of her estate. Though it was just the kind of thing Fred would do if he had had a first wife other than me and she had asked him to. It made me mad just thinking of it.

  The two young policemen came out, thanked Mitzi for the cake, and headed toward their car. Arthur came out, too.

  “Hey, Patricia Anne.”

  “Hey, Arthur. I was worried about you. All the police cars.”

  “Thanks. We’re fine.”

  He didn’t look fine. The man I was looking at looked worn and tired, a good ten years older than the man I had seen the day before at lunch.

  Mitzi and I both stood up. The swing bumped gently against the back of our knees.

  “Well, I’ve got to get home. Y’all take care.” I wanted to say something about Sophie Sawyer’s death, tell Arthur I was sorry for his loss. The loss of his friend? His ex-wife?

  I ended up saying nothing about Sophie, but if they needed us to call. Anytime.

  Well, how was I to know how quickly they would take us up on the offer?

  On the way back to my house, I was again caught in the glare of headlights, this time a pizza delivery van pulling into my own driveway.

  “I think you have the wrong address,” I said.

  But of course he didn’t. When I went to bed, Mary Alice, Lisa, and Fred were sitting at the kitchen table scarfing down an extra large, loaded with everything pizza. You’d think they hadn’t had a bite of supper.

  “Coconut cake?” Sister had a mouthful of pizza. “They were there for the cake?”

  “All but the first group,” I explained.

  “I hate coconut,” Sister said. “Gets bigger and bigger the more you chew it.”

  “Neither of my boys likes it, either,” Lisa added. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

  I expected some tears or at least a stop in chewing when Lisa said this. Instead she reached for another piece of pizza.

  “Don’t you want some, Mama?” she asked.

  “Here, honey, have a piece.” Fred pushed the box toward me.

  “Don’t be silly, Fred.” Sister pulled the box back to the center of the table. “How can you be married to someone who’s anorexic for forty years and not know it?”

  That was when I went to bed.

  About three o’clock, though, I was awakened by a nightmare. Somehow I had gotten my head stuck in a wooden box. The rest of my body had slid right through the box, but my head wouldn’t make it. Some Jungian psychologist would love to have a dream like that to analyze.

  I got up, tiptoed down the hall past the guest room, got some milk, and lay down on the den sofa. I was reading the Vanity Fair that Lisa had left on the coffee table when Fred came in.

  “Maalox,” he muttered on his way to the kitchen. In a moment he was back, wanting to know why I was up.

  I told him about the dream, how scary it was, and asked if he thought it meant anything.

  He pursed his lips as if he were really thinking. “It means you’re getting the big head about something and your subconscious is saying you shouldn’t.”

  Somehow I didn’t think this would have been the Jungian psychologist’s answer. Not if he wanted to keep his practice going.

  Fred sat at the end of the sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table. I was about to say something smart aleck when I saw his feet. Fred’s feet are so vulnerable looking. Pitiful, really. Pale, pale white. One little toe that he broke years ago sticking out at an angle.

  “Pizza,” he said, rubbing his belly. “How come things you love don’t love you back?”

  “I love you back. I love your feet.”

  “I’m glad.” He rubbed my leg. “Do you think I ought to go to Atlanta and talk to Alan?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the kids I’m worried about.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” He gave my leg a pat and stood up. “You coming back to bed?”

  “I’m going to read a while.” I caught his pajama bottom as he walked by. “Have you ever looked at another woman? Lusted in your heart?”

  He grabbed his pajamas and slapped at my hand.

  “The heart’s not the problem.”

  It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear.

  “But I never did anything about it.”

  I knew that.

  “You never let me out of your sight long enough.”

  I swatted at his rear end with the Vanity Fair, and he went back to bed. I woke up several hours later with the light still on and the magazine still in my hand. In the kitchen, someone was making coffee. I could hear the first loud swooshes of the percolator.

  Eight

  “Sorry, Mama,” Lisa said as I stuck my head into the kitchen. “I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you up. What are you doing on the sofa?”

  “I had a bad dream and couldn’t go back to sleep. What time is it?”

  “About seven-thirty. Pop hasn’t left yet.”

  Lisa was looking much better this morning. More rested. And maybe I was getting used to the tufts of white hair. They didn’t seem as startling.

  “There’s orange juice in the freezer,” I told her and went to brush my teeth and see if Fred was going to Atlanta today.

  “Been thinking about it,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “But I think I’ll call him and go over on the weekend. If I went today, he’d think he had to leave work.”

  Well, big deal. Men and their work. We were talking about a marriage here. Our grandchildren’s security.

  “Besides, I haven’t figured out what to say to him anyway.”

  I’ll bet he hadn’t. Fred adores his two sons, and they love him, but their conversations center around work and sports. A whole weekend can be spent on a Daytona 500 with tidbits left over for the holidays.

  “Just let him talk, tell you what’s going on.” I went int
o the bathroom, but not before I saw a pained expression on Fred’s face. He would do his fatherly duty, but he really didn’t want to know what was wrong in his son’s life. He wanted to believe that Alan’s life was perfect. He’s not that way about Haley. Not only does he want to know what’s going wrong, he wants to fix it. He’s the same way with me. Some kind of macho thing I haven’t totally figured out. Mary Alice calls it the Me Tarzan syndrome. The fact that Jane is perfectly capable of solving her own problems has somehow missed Tarzan. He hasn’t a clue that he’s being patronizing.

  The window in our bathroom is high, so high that all anyone on the outside can see is our heads. Consequently, we leave the blinds open most of the time. Every morning the sun announces that Windex is needed here. Dust mites, dirty windows. I felt a couple of twinges of guilt. Twinges, not jolts. I’d get around to the cleaning when it got painful enough.

  “I’m gone,” Fred called.

  “Get a lunch out of the freezer.”

  Something interesting was going on over at the Phizers’. A taxi had pulled up and a redheaded woman was getting out. The taxi driver hopped out, took a fairly sizable suitcase from the trunk, and carried it to the front porch for her. Arthur opened the front door, stepped out and hugged her, picked up the suitcase, and they disappeared inside. The taxi driver was halfway back to his cab when the woman rushed out of the house. She retrieved what looked like a purse from the back seat and then waved as the cab driver drove away. Arthur came out on the porch again, and they walked into the house, his arm around her waist.

  I ran to see if I could catch Fred before he left. He was in the kitchen looking in the freezer.

  “I think the redheaded woman you saw Arthur with just went in their house. I’ll bet she’s one of Sophie Sawyer’s daughters. Did she look like she was in her late thirties?”

  “I guess so. She was pretty.” Fred came up with a package of macaroni and cheese. “Her hair was sort of a fuchsia red.”

  “Maybe she’s another one of Mr. Phizer’s wives.” Lisa was sitting at the kitchen table pouring Frosted Flakes into a bowl.