by Anne George
“Not many people are.”
“None that I know of,” Sister said.
“Sophie called Arthur the night David was killed. Arthur cried like a baby. Said he’d never heard such pain.”
“So you’d known about Sophie all along?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. They stayed in touch. I’ve known that Arthur’s always loved a seventeen-year-old Sophie, Patricia Anne. But he’s loved me at every age.”
“I’ll put this back where I got it,” Sister said, reaching for the picture.
Damned if I didn’t have to go in the bathroom and get some toilet paper to mop my eyes.
“I don’t see a hang-up bag here. We should have brought one.” Mitzi was back at the closet.
“Maybe there’s one in the other bedroom. I’ll go look,” I said. “If there’s not, we can just use a plastic bag from the kitchen.”
I crossed the great room and entered Arabella’s bedroom. It was a duplicate of her mother’s except everything was in place; this room hadn’t been trashed like the other bedroom had. The bed was covered by a turquoise and white checked bedspread and the drawers were closed. There were no family pictures, no books or magazines lying about, nothing personal.
Mary Alice had followed me. “It’s neat in here. And where’s her stuff?”
In the closet, a couple of skirts, blouses, and pants were lined up neatly. I opened the chest of drawers and saw the same order, several pairs of panties, bras, camisoles stacked neatly. I walked into the bathroom and opened the drawers. No cosmetics, lotions, creams.
“Nothing in the nightstand,” Sister reported.
I walked back into the bedroom. “Mitzi,” I called, “Come here.”
“What?” She stuck her head in the door.
“Look at this room. I don’t believe Arabella’s been staying here.”
“Well, she hasn’t for the last couple of days.”
“No, I mean at all. This room hasn’t been lived in. There’s not even anything in the bathroom drawers.”
“There sure isn’t.” Sister walked out of the bathroom. “And she’s a redhead. She’d need a lot of stuff for her skin.” She held up a shirt she had taken from the closet. “Did y’all know Land’s End has started carrying larger sizes?”
“Is that a large size?” I asked. “Arabella’s probably a size six.”
“No. But it’s from Land’s End. I got a couple of their bathing suits.”
“Arabella brought a bunch of stuff to our house,” Mitzi said. “Maybe everything she had here in Birmingham.”
“Well, there’s not even a lipstick here,” Sister said.
“I don’t get it.” Mitzi walked into the bathroom. “She was supposed to be living here and taking care of her mother. But you’re right, Mary Alice. The towels in here haven’t even been touched.”
“I don’t think the clothes have either,” I said. “It’s like they were just put there for show.”
Mitzi came back into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and ran her hand over the turquoise and white bedspread. “But why would she lie about it? She said this was where she was staying, remember? She came to our house because she said she couldn’t bear to come back here.”
“Well,” Sister said, “there are a few clothes here in the dresser. I guess she could have stayed some nights. The bar of soap in the shower has never been wet, though. Did y’all notice that?”
I hadn’t. Mary Alice had been more observant than I had.
“And nothing smells like Shalimar,” Mitzi added.
Now that I had noticed.
“She hadn’t been in our house five minutes until everything smelled like Shalimar.”
“I wonder where she was last night,” I said.
“With a friend, she said.” Mitzi sniffed. “Definitely no Shalimar in here.”
“Where is she now?”
“Same friend, I guess. Somebody on Southside. Arthur has the phone number.”
“You don’t know who the friend is?”
Mitzi shook her head. “No. But she visited her grandparents here when she was growing up and got to know a lot of people.”
“She’s a good-looking girl,” Sister said. “I’ll bet her visits made quite a splash.”
“She had a beautiful mother.”
For the first time there was bitterness in Mitzi’s voice. She realized it and said, “I’m sorry, y’all. But I never thought Sophie would be a problem for Arthur and me. I mean, Lord, it was almost fifty years ago. And here he is, arrested for her murder, someone tries to burn our house down, for God only knows what reason, and on top of that, he’s responsible for seeing that she’s cremated and her estate is settled. Damn.” She stood up. “Did you see a bag in that closet?”
“No. I’ll see if there’s a garbage bag.” I went into the kitchen and looked in the small pantry. Mitzi and Mary Alice followed me.
“Here’s one,” I said. I slit a hole in the top of the bag and Mitzi slid the hanger through it and pulled the plastic down over the suit. Trying to keep the outfit from wrinkling I guess. God knows why. Shoes and underwear went into a Piggly Wiggly sack.
“I suppose that’s it.” Mitzi walked back into the great room and laid the suit over a chair. I thought she was going to close the draperies, but instead, she slid the glass doors open and stepped onto the balcony. Sunlight angled across it.
“Look at that view.”
We looked. It was the same view Mary Alice has from her house on the top of Red Mountain, except she looks down on this building.
“Maybe we should sell our house and buy something like this apartment.” Mitzi was leaning too far over the railing to suit me.
“Hmmm.”
To my relief, she turned and sat on one of the ice cream chairs. I pulled out the other one and sat down, too. Mary Alice sat in the chaise, though it would have been interesting to see her in one of the chairs.
“You wouldn’t have a place for your flowers.” I didn’t mention the fact that penthouses were sky high in more ways than one.
“That’s true.” She drummed her fingers against the table. “And I wouldn’t have you for a neighbor.”
“That’s for sure.”
The three of us were quiet for a few minutes, watching the late afternoon traffic increase.
Mitzi sighed. “They think the poison was in the artificial sweetener Sophie put in her tea at the restaurant.”
“Which doesn’t mean Arthur gave it to her,” I said. “Some crazy could have left a packet on the table.”
“But there’s more. A lot more. Sophie left a note saying that she had asked Arthur to help her die.”
“What?”
“That’s what it said.” Mitzi went on sounding as if she were quoting, “‘To whom it may concern: I, Sophie V. Sawyer, have requested that my beloved friend Arthur Phizer assist in my suicide when the time comes. He understands that it is my wish to die while I am still relatively pain-free and of sound mind. He is not to be held responsible in any way since this is my choice. I trust that my family will understand. I love them with all my heart.’”
“I can’t believe that! Where did they find it?”
“Sophie mailed it to her doctor. He got it the day after she died and called the police.”
“But Mitzi,” Sister said, “strychnine at the Hunan Hut isn’t a logical assisted suicide.”
“Which Arthur says she never asked him to do, anyway. Help her die. Maybe she had planned on asking him if she became terminally ill. I don’t know.” She stood up. “We’ve got to go before the traffic gets any heavier.”
We followed her through the apartment, full of questions.
“What do her daughters think about what’s happened?” Sister asked.
“They believe Arthur. They’ve seen the note, and they probably think their mother did ask him to help her die, but they don’t believe he did it.”
“But the police do.”
“Obviously.”
Just as we reached t
he door, we heard a key in the lock and it opened. We jumped back, startled. A petite redheaded young woman stood there, apparently as startled as we were.
Mitzi recovered her composure first. “May we help you?” she asked.
“I’m Zoe Batson,” the girl said. “This is my grandmother’s apartment.”
“I’m Mitzi Phizer, Zoe, and these are my friends Mrs. Hollowell and Mrs. Crane.”
Zoe could have been her aunt Arabella’s child. She had the same dark red hair (fuschia, Fred would have called it), the same fair skin. And she was beautiful.
“Oh, Mrs. Phizer, of course.” She rewarded all of us with a bright smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She didn’t question our presence in the apartment, but I felt compelled to explain the sacks in our hands. Clothes for her grandmother’s funeral. (Okay, so funeral wasn’t the right word, but what was?) Her aunt Arabella had sent us.
“That’s what I’m here for, too,” she said. “Mama sent me to get Grandmama some clothes.”
“You want to see what we picked out?” Mitzi asked.
“Sure.”
“We got her gray suit.” We walked back to the sofa and Mitzi pulled the bag up so she could see.
Zoe fingered the material slowly. “Wool and silk.” She took the bag off. “Look at those lapels. What would you say? 1965?”
The three of us who had been wearing suits in 1965 had no idea.
“I know it’s old,” Mary Alice said.
“It’s so beautiful. A classic.” Zoe picked the suit up and held it against her. “Let’s get something else. My whole class will have a fit over this when they see it.”
“Your class?” I asked.
“I’m a style major at the university. Fashion. Design,” she added when the three of us looked blank.
Zoe herself was wearing ragged jeans and a blue denim shirt. So much for style.
She put the suit down and looked into the sack. “Not Ferragamo shoes, y’all. No way.” She pulled out the gray pumps. “And a size five. Umm. My size.”
“Tell you what, Zoe,” Mitzi said. “Why don’t you just go on and pick something out? I’m sure it will be fine with Arabella.”
Zoe nodded. “She and Mama should have gotten together on this, not put you to this trouble.” She picked up the suit again. “I was thinking a nightgown and peignoir might be nice.”
“They’re all silk,” Mary Alice said.
Zoe looked pained.
“You know, I really like that child,” Sister said. We were waiting for the elevator. “So pleasant and sensible. Makes you have hope for the future.”
“And they said the South wouldn’t rise again.” I punched the button again. Someone on the fourth floor was holding the door open.
“I hope she’s still as pleasant when she finds out about her grandmother’s will,” Mitzi said. And while we were waiting for the elevator, she dropped another little bombshell, the fact that Sophie hadn’t made Arthur an ordinary executor. He was to serve in a trustee capacity.
“What?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s in charge of her estate. He’ll run it just like Sophie did. It means her heirs, which includes the two Batson children, won’t be able to get their hands on the estate all at once. It’ll continue just as Sophie had it set up with them getting what amounts to a very generous allowance and dividends. Arthur says he knows she did it because of Arabella, that Sophie knew she didn’t have any money sense and was trying to protect her.” Mitzi shrugged. “The police caught on to that right away, too. If Arthur were dishonest, he could help himself to the money.”
“Which is how much?” It was none of my business, but, damn, I felt like I’d been hit over the head here.
“A lot. Maybe as much as twenty or thirty million.”
“Good Lord!” I couldn’t imagine that many zeros.
Sister whistled.
The elevator door opened and we stepped in. By the time we reached the lobby, it had dawned on me that Arthur’s being the trustee of Sophie’s estate might well be why Mitzi and Arthur had nearly been cremated before Sophie.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mitzi said. “Arabella wasn’t here where she said she was, and she can’t get all of her inheritance at one time as long as Arthur is the trustee.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, the police questioned her. They said she had an airtight alibi. Personally, I don’t even think they should have questioned her.”
Well, somebody had tried to do the Phizers in.
By this time we had reached Mitzi’s car. I crawled in the back seat and we all buckled up. But Mitzi hesitated before she started the car, the key in the ignition.
“You know who the police really think started the fire? Arthur.”
We both looked at her, startled. “What?” we asked at the same time.
“God’s truth. They think he did it so it would look like somebody was trying to get rid of him. So he could claim it was the same person who did Sophie in.”
“That’s crazy, Mitzi,” Sister said.
“Tell me about it.” She started the car and waited a moment until she could ease into the traffic which is always heavy around the medical center.
We drove over the mountain, past Vulcan’s bare behind mooning us in the late afternoon sun, and into our neighborhood which looked deceptively peaceful.
Mary Alice announced that she couldn’t stay for supper, that her writing class was having a spring equinox party.
“You mean a fall equinox party.”
“Nope. Spring. It’s too cold to have it in March. Who wants to go skinny dipping and howl at the moon when it’s forty degrees?”
I hoped she was kidding, but knowing my sister, I wasn’t at all sure.
“Y’all have a good time,” Mitzi said.
“Planning on it.” She backed her Jaguar out and hauled.
The smell of pot roast greeted Mitzi and me when we opened the back door. Bless that Lisa. She was sitting in the den reading and informed us that we had dozens of messages, that she had written them down. Actually there were five of them, four for Mitzi (Arthur had called twice) and one for me.
“Mr. Phizer said to call as soon as you got in,” Lisa said.
“Go ahead,” I told Mitzi. A glance at my message told me there was nothing urgent, just Joy McWain of the investment club.
“I’ll call from the bedroom,” Mitzi said.
“Is she okay?” Lisa asked after Mitzi left.
“A hell of a lot better than I would be.” I sat down, pulled off my shoes, and told her about the apartment as well as what Mitzi had told me about Arthur.
Like me, Lisa was startled. “And Mrs. Sawyer mailed the note to her doctor?”
I nodded. “Saying Arthur was going to help her commit suicide, and that he shouldn’t be held responsible.”
“And she thought that would get him off? Sophie Sawyer didn’t know much about Alabama law, did she?”
“Or any other state’s law. You can’t just go around saying ‘So-and-so’s going to kill me, but it’s all right, I asked him to.’ And she wasn’t even terminally ill.”
Lisa shook her head. “And she made him a trustee of her estate, not a regular executor? Lord, the woman practically reserved him a cell in Kilby prison.”
“The last thing she would have wanted to do, I’m sure.” I leaned back in my chair. “That roast smells wonderful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I figured you’d be tired when you got in.”
“I am.” I closed my eyes and said my mantra. Immediately, I felt myself relaxing. Years ago, Sister dragged me to a Transcendental Meditation class. We were to carry fruit and flowers which Sister forgot, so I had to give her one of my bananas and a zinnia. We were chanted over and then taken into separate rooms where we were given our mantras. We were also told never to tell anyone our mantra.
Sister told me hers on the way home; mine is still a secret. And wo
rks. She claims they gave her a bad mantra because all she had was the one banana I gave her that was so old fruit flies followed her into the room.
So I was slipping into a relaxation mode when Mitzi came back into the den and said the insurance company had an apartment on Valley Avenue where she and Arthur could stay while their house was being fixed, and Arthur wanted her to meet him over there.
“Come back here for supper,” Lisa said.
“We will. We may want to spend the night again.”
“Of course. You know you’re welcome here for as long as you want,” I said. I sat up and stretched. “I need to go take Woofer for his walk.”
“I’ve already taken him,” Lisa said.
“Then I’ll just go check on him.”
I walked out with Mitzi. The pot roast smelled great, Woofer was fine, and I should have been very grateful. But the time was fast approaching for Lisa to head back to Atlanta and, as Sister so delicately put it, kick butt.
As I went back in, I remembered the e-mail from Haley that I hadn’t read.
Nothing new. She was very happy. Let her know if Muffin was getting along okay. And make it several packages of those Combat roach bait things. Mail them as soon as possible. Lord. The roaches of Warsaw had met their match.
Fifteen
Arthur and Mitzi came back for supper. The apartment, they said, was fine. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to stay there very long. The contractor had promised to start on their house the next day.
Fred and I glanced at each other. We remembered what it had been like adding on the breakfast room and the bay window. Maybe Mitzi and Arthur would have better luck, though. Lord knows, they were due some.
I had filled Fred in on what Mitzi had told me about Arthur’s problems.
“Damn,” he said. “Doesn’t sound good.”
But in spite of our worry, we had a pleasant evening, deliberately avoiding the subject of Sophie Sawyer. Lisa’s supper was delicious, and after we ate, Fred and Arthur watched the Braves and Mitzi, Lisa, and I played gin.
I had forgotten to return Joy McWain’s call, but she called me again around nine. My name had been suggested as the financial partner of the investment club (and I knew good and well who had suggested it) and would I be willing to have my name brought up for consideration at the next meeting.