by Anne George
Mitzi shook her head. “Biddy brains.”
“The pictures won’t do you any good, Peyton,” Sue said. “I’m going to the police with them. They’ve caused enough damage. Joseph told me about the blackmail. He told me everything.”
“Fine. Then I’ll have to tell the police how your darling sister killed your mother.”
“You’re lying.”
“A little strychnine in some sugar substitute. Voila.”
“But it was Arthur’s sweetener,” Mitzi said.
“And intended for him.” A sigh. “We all make mistakes. His was being generous with his sugar.” Peyton smiled. “Ask Arabella if she didn’t slip several packets of sweetener into his pocket the day before Sophie died. The day when she and Arthur had lunch together.” She turned to Mitzi. “Your husbands’s got more lives than a cat.”
Sue looked sick, as if she might faint any minute. “Our mother’s death was an accident?”
“Sue.” Arabella sank down on the sofa, crying. “You know I would never hurt Mama.”
Sue recoiled. “Just Arthur. Oh, Arabella.”
Arabella cried harder. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Well,” Peyton said, “you couldn’t have him the trustee of all that money now, could you, Arabella? But I suppose that’ll be between you and the police. Too bad Sophie wanted sweet tea. And too bad, Sue, about Dickie. But I guess he takes after his father.”
Peyton gave a wave and turned to leave. As she took her first step, Sister’s foot shot out, and Peyton fell over it, hitting her head on the coffee table. She lay sprawled on the carpet, not moving.
There was shocked silence in the room.
“Is she dead?” Sister gasped, when Peyton didn’t move. “Don’t let her be dead.”
A moan assured us.
“No, but she’s bleeding all over the white carpet,” I said.
“I’ll get a towel.” Mitzi ran into the bathroom.
Guess who called 911.
“Well, do, Jesus.”
“I know. By the time the paramedics and police got there, Peyton was ready to sing like a bird. Could have been because of the scarf Sue Batson was tightening around her neck. None of us stopped her. We all knew it was just a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.” I smiled at the remembrance of plump Sue sitting on Peyton screaming, “You tell the truth about my son, you scumbag!” So much for riling up a mother.
Bo Mitchell, Joanie Salk, and I were sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee the next morning.
“I’m sorry I missed all those going-ons,” Bo added. “I’ve seen that Peyton Phillips sashaying around down at the station. Big Gucci purse.”
Joanie poured Coffee-mate into her cup. “Is that the kind with the G’s on it? I saw some of them at Kmart.”
“Right.” Bo took the Coffee-mate from Joanie. “And then what, Patricia Anne?’
I told them the rest of the story. A real Paul Harvey I am.
“Turned out it was all Peyton. Joseph Batson wasn’t involved, and I’m so glad. Peyton blackmailed him with the pictures to get on his board of directors. He didn’t want Sue hurt by them, and he wasn’t sure that Arabella couldn’t still be charged with vehicular homicide.”
“And his mother-in-law thought he was having an affair with Peyton?”
“Well, she never completely trusted him. After all, she knew he was the one who supplied the drugs the night of the car accident.”
Bo sipped her coffee. “I know Peyton tried to kill Mr. Phizer because she thought Mrs. Sawyer would make her the executor again. But one thing I don’t understand. How come she tried to have him killed twice more?”
I pushed the sweetrolls her way. “First of all, she simply hated him for being appointed executor. And she may have thought he would figure it out, remember how he got the sweetener and put two and two together. She was perfectly safe; Mitzi says he’s got room temperature I.Q., but Peyton didn’t know that.”
“I’ll bet she did a jig when Debbie called her to see if she would take Arthur’s case.”
“It made it simpler for her, that’s for sure.”
Joanie reached over and got one of the sweetrolls. “Well, I want to know how Peyton Phillips got the poison to Mr. Phizer.”
“Simple since she’s a criminal lawyer.”
“Diabolical, you ask me.” Bo handed Joanie a napkin. “Wipe the icing off your chin.”
“She found out Arabella was meeting Arthur for lunch at Shakey’s. One of her clients is a waitress there. She gave her a couple of packets of sweetener and told her to refill his tea and hand him the packets. The woman has already admitted it. She didn’t know it was strychnine, of course.”
“And Mr. Phizer took the sweetener?”
Bo Peep grinned. “Joanie, I’ll show you Mr. Phizer cutting the grass someday. Finish your story, Patricia Anne.”
“He used regular sugar, but he stuck the sweetener in his jacket pocket because he says it was the kind Sophie used.”
“Where was Arabella?”
“She says she must have been in the rest room, that she doesn’t remember anything about it.”
“You believe her?”
“I want to. I guess y’all are going to have to figure that out. Mary Alice and I keep having to do all your work.”
“And feed us sweet rolls to boot.” Bo reached for another one. “How would you get strychnine in a packet of sweetener, anyway? And wouldn’t it be heavier?”
“A hypodermic needle, probably,” Joanie said. “And it wouldn’t be much heavier. Not enough to notice.”
Bo frowned. “I’ll bet she thought the Hunan Hut had awful tea.”
“You probably wouldn’t notice if you’d been eating that peanut stuff.”
“And one of Peyton’s clients shot Mr. Phizer?” Joanie asked.
“A very inept one, thank God. The same one who removed the smoke alarm batteries and set the fire. They’ve located him, too. I don’t know who called with the information about Dickie’s car. Another client, I’m sure. One of the perks of being a criminal lawyer, apparently.” I got up and poured us some more coffee. “I hope the Phizers stay next door. Arthur says he’s going to invest most of the money back in Bellemina Health. He feels bad about so much of Sophie’s estate going to Joseph’s competitor. It’s too bad those folks didn’t talk more.”
Bo motioned toward the Phizers’ house where carpenters were working like ants. “Looks like they’re planning on coming back.”
“You know,” I said, “it’s really romantic when you think about it. First loves reunited. Sophie’s trust in Arthur. Her being poisoned and dying in his arms. Like a Greek tragedy.”
“Joanie,” Bo said. “Don’t you eat any more of Patricia Anne’s sweet rolls.”
Twenty-two
Which brings us to why Mary Alice hit Alcorn Jones over the head and landed us in jail, something I still haven’t told Haley, even though I now have a computer, not the cheap one Sister found me, but a nice one, and we’re e-mailing like crazy. Her roach problem is better and she’s made us reservations at the Warsaw Holiday Inn for two weeks at Christmas. They even have CNN.
It was several weeks before Mitzi got to attend one of the investment club meetings. She had a lot to do, seeing about the repairs on the house and the new glassed in back porch they were building on.
“Arthur’s healed,” she said. “But if he mooned anybody, it would look like a smiley face.”
We were driving by Vulcan at the time which, I suppose, made her think of it.
“Get a picture,” Mary Alice recommended.
Mitzi giggled. “I already have.”
“What’s the latest on Joseph Batson and Arabella?” I asked.
“Lord, what a mess. Sophie, bless her heart, trusted Peyton completely for years. It was Joseph she didn’t trust. Big mistake.”
“But she removed Peyton as her executor when she thought she was having an affair with Joseph.”
; Mitzi shrugged. “I don’t think it would ever have occurred to her that Peyton might be blackmailing Joseph.”
“With the pictures.” Mary Alice turned onto Oxmoor Road. “How did Peyton get those pictures anyway?”
“Sophie showed them to her one day. Peyton didn’t actually have copies, but Joseph and Arabella didn’t know that.”
“Why would Sophie do that?” Mary Alice slammed on her brakes and shot a bird at a man who suddenly pulled out from a parking space in an ancient yellow Cadillac. “Watch where you’re going, fool!”
“I have an idea that she wanted Peyton to understand why Arabella was so emotionally fragile, why she needed someone to look after her,” Mitzi said after she caught her breath. “And Joseph and Arabella were protecting Sophie because she was sick. Neither of them realized how far Peyton would go, of course.”
“Is Arabella okay?” I asked. “Did she ever say why she was lying about where she was staying?”
“She didn’t want her mother to know the extent of her drinking problem. Or us either. I think it’s a relief for her that the truth is finally out, and she’s getting some help. Sue’s being a Rock of Gibraltar for both Arabella and Joseph now that she knows all that happened.”
“You don’t think she suspected?” I asked.
“Probably. But that was part of the problem. She was left out.”
“Debbie says that neither Joseph nor Arabella will have to face charges.”
“They won’t because of the statute of limitations. Just as well. They’ve all suffered enough.”
“Well, thank God I know all about my family,” Mary Alice said. “What gets families in trouble is when they don’t tell each other everything.”
I swear she was serious.
Mitzi leaned forward. “Changing the subject, y’all. Tell me about Alcorn Jones. Do you recommend him, Mary Alice?”
Sister was flustered. “For what?”
“As a financial advisor. He’s called us several times and says he’s your advisor. We’re going to need some help.”
“Al Jones said he was my financial advisor?”
“Isn’t he?”
“No. A woman named Shirley Gibbs handles most of my finances.”
“Well, he’s recommending that we invest in a real estate development that his bank is backing.”
“I thought Arthur was putting most of the money back in Bellemina Health,” I said.
“He is. Bellemina’s going to be fine. It’s just a shame Sophie never got to know Joseph better.” Mitzi paused, thinking. “And we’re setting Hank up in his own advertising company so he and Bridget won’t have to move to Atlanta. But there’s so much money left.”
What a worry.
“I’ll look into it,” Sister promised.
And she did. It took her about two minutes to find out that almost every woman in the investment club had received an offer from Alcorn to handle their private finances.
“Peddling some real estate.” Miss Bessie pushed a red crocheted hat up from her forehead. “Damn. This thing’s ten sizes too big.” She turned for us to see. “You think it looks tacky?”
We both shook our heads no.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I told him I was buying Wendy’s, thank you, sir. I like their stuffed pitas, especially the chicken with the ranch dressing. Can’t eat real estate.”
“Did he tell you he was my financial advisor?” Mary Alice asked.
“Said that’s how come you’re so rich.”
“Damn.” Sister turned to me. “Mouse, I think you and I’d better go have a talk with Mr. Alcorn Jones.”
Don’t ask why I was included in the “talk.” But I was dumb enough to go and end up in the Birmingham jail.
“Has Al been investing any of your money on the side?” I asked her on our way downtown.
“A little,” Mary Alice admitted.
“Lost it all?”
“A little. A drugstore chain he recommended filed for Chapter 11 two days after I bought the stock.”
But as Sister explained to Debbie later (Alcorn didn’t press charges; I didn’t expect him to), it wasn’t the money, or even the fact that he was telling everyone he was her financial advisor. What really got to her was the fact that he wasn’t a gentleman.
“I told him politely, didn’t I, Mouse, that I expected my money back, plus any that he might have lost for the investment club ladies, and that we didn’t want to have any more dealings with him.”
“What did he say?” Debbie wanted to know. We were walking to her car from the jail.
“He said all right.”
Debbie looked at me.
I nodded. “He did. He said all right.”
“And you hit him over the head, Mama?”
“She broke some spokes in my kitten umbrella,” I added.
“But why?”
“Well,” Sister admitted, “after I gave him my ultimatum and turned around to leave, he pinched me on the behind.”
Debbie stopped walking. “And you hit him for that? It wasn’t a very nice thing for him to do, but, Mama, don’t you think you overreacted?”
“It was a whole handful, not just a pinch. And he whispered, ‘Remember Ruffner Mountain, Mary Alice.’”
Debbie was totally puzzled. “Remember Ruffner Mountain? Why? What’s that about?”
“Not much,” Sister said, beginning to giggle. And then the giggle exploded.
People driving down Sixth Avenue that afternoon were rewarded with the sight of one bewildered looking young pregnant woman watching two older women laughing so hard they were having to hold each other up.
“I’m starving,” Sister said finally, gasping for breath. “Let’s go to Chick-Fil-A, girls. And then we’ve got an umbrella to buy.”
“Kittens looking through stained glass,” I insisted. “They’d better still have one. It’s already snowing in Warsaw.”
And they did.
About the Author
ANNE GEORGE was the Agatha Award-winning author of eight Southern Sisters mysteries: Murder on a Girls’ Night Out, Murder on a Bad Hair Day, Murder Runs in the Family, Murder Makes Waves, Murder Gets a Life, Murder Shoots the Bull, Murder Carries a Torch, and her final book, Murder Boogies With Elvis. Her popular and hilariously funny novels reflected much of her own experiences. Like Patricia Anne, Anne George was a happily married former schoolteacher living in Birmingham, Alabama, who grew up with a delightful cutup cousin who provided plenty of inspiration for the outrageous Mary Alice. A former Alabama State Poet, cofounder of Druid Press, and a regular contributor to literary and poetry publications, Ms. George was also the author of a literary novel, This One and Magic Life, which Publishers Weekly described as “silky and lyrical.” She had been nominated for several awards, including the Pulitzer for a book of verse entitled Some of It Is True. Anne George passed away in March 2001.
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Southern Sisters Mysteries by
Anne George
from Avon Books
MURDER ON A GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT
MURDER ON A BAD HAIR DAY
MURDER RUNS IN THE FAMILY
MURDER MAKES WAVES
MURDER GETS A LIFE
MURDER SHOOTS THE BULL
MURDER CARRIES A TORCH
MURDER BOOGIES WITH ELVIS
And
THIS ONE AND MAGIC LIFE
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MURDER SHOOTS THE BULL. Copyright © 1999 by Anne George. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reprodu
ced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Sony Reader January 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-184982-4
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