Murder Carries a Torch

by Anne George

  “Nice town,” I said. “Did you see the public library in that elegant old house?”

  “The tearoom looked good.” Sister turned and pointed toward the basket on the seat beside me. “Hand me a sandwich. I’m hungry.”

  “What kind?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I hope Puke’s not in there long. It’s already getting cold in here.” She had draped the purple cape over the back of the seat. Now she pulled it around her shoulders and looked at the Ziploc bag I had given her. “There’s nothing runny in these sandwiches, is there? I don’t want to mess up this outfit.”

  “Just turkey or ham.”

  She unwrapped it and took a bite. “Turkey.”

  I leaned forward and propped my arms on the back of the front seat.

  “Did Luke tell you that Holden Crawford’s answering machine says you’ve reached Monkey Man? This whole thing is weird. You know? Can you imagine Virginia running off with a man called Monkey Man?”

  Sister chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “I can’t imagine a man called Monkey Man running off with Virginia. In fact, I can’t imagine any man running off with Virginia.”

  “I can’t either,” I said truthfully. “That’s one thing that’s worrying me about this whole affair.”

  “On the other hand, she’s just in her sixties. I guess it could have been eyes across a crowded room. Or through the window, in this case. Who knows?” Sister took another bite of sandwich. “Maybe she’s been doubling up on her estrogen.” She chewed. “I wonder if that works?”

  “Maybe something’s happened to her and Luke knows it and isn’t telling us.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Jet-lagged to hell and back, anyway.

  Luke came out of the post office, plowing through the wind and the debris that was skittering along the steps.

  “Lord!” he said, slamming the door. “It’s going to snow sure as anything.”

  “What did you find out?” Sister asked.

  “You follow the signs up to Horse Pens 40. It’s about a half a mile past the Horse Pens’s entrance. A white house on the left, right by a church. Probably the church where he preaches.”

  Luke started the car and cold air blasted us.

  “It’ll be warm in a minute,” he apologized. “Which way is Horse Pens 40?”

  “Go back to where we came into town. You’ll see the signs.” Back to where?

  “The man in the post office laughed when I asked for Holden Crawford. He said, ‘You talking about Monk?’ I said I guessed so.”

  “Well, Monk doesn’t sound so bad,” Sister said. She pointed toward the tearoom. “Why don’t we stop for lunch?”

  “I’ve got to find Virginia first.”

  I handed Sister another sandwich.

  As she was unwrapping it, she asked, “Luke, do you know how much estrogen Virginia takes?”

  “She doesn’t need it.”

  Sister and I looked at each other. Silence does have a sound.

  We stopped at a four-way stop. A pickup with two bird dogs in the back turned left and headed up Chandler Mountain ahead of us. The dogs didn’t seem to be uncomfortable. They were sitting against the cab, leaning into the curves as the truck climbed the mountain. I knew they were cold, though, and I knew the open bed of a pickup was no place for an animal. I was relieved when the driver put on his turn signal and turned into the driveway of a farmhouse.

  Chandler Mountain is a series of plateaus, some so wide you can’t tell you’re up high. The land is rich and well farmed. The area is known for its pimentos and tomatoes, which ripen well into November. Something about the thermals delays frost there for several weeks.

  Winter had come with a vengeance that day in January, though. We passed a huge tomato-packing shed. A sign that proclaimed this was a farmer’s co-op had come loose on one side and twisted in the wind. There was nothing that hinted that this had been a busy place just two months earlier.

  The plateau ended, and the road became a series of sharp curves. There was little traffic. The only car we met was going slowly and was barely on its side of the road, the bluff side with no guardrails. The driver, an old bearded man, waved at us.

  “Who the hell would want to live up here?” Luke grumbled.

  “It’s beautiful when you get to the top,” I said. “You can stand on the rocks at Horse Pens and see forever. The most beautiful sunsets you ever saw.”

  “How come they call it Horse Pens 40?”

  “The rocks form a natural corral. The Indians used to herd their horses in there, so they say. The 40 is because it’s the forty-acre parcel that Horse Pens is on.”

  We had reached another plateau and passed by the entrance to Horse Pens where a sign attached to a barb-wire fence announced that the spring festival would be April 22, 23, 24.

  “Start looking for the house,” Luke said. “The mailbox, anyway.”

  There were several small houses, all close to the road. Except for the smoke coming from chimneys, there were no signs of people. Occasionally in frostbitten gardens, a few turnip greens still showed color.

  Sister pointed. “There. There’s a church.”

  Luke slowed down.

  The house next to the church sat farther back from the road than most of its neighbors, but like the others, it was small, two rooms wide with a narrow porch. Its only distinguishing feature was that in the front yard was a large satellite dish. On the mailbox was the name CRAWFORD.

  Luke turned left into the gravel driveway between the church and house and stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Sister asked. “This has got to be the right place. Look. There’s a van with ladders and stuff on it.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.” Luke leaned his head against the steering wheel.

  “He’s just nervous,” I said to Sister. And then to Luke, “Aren’t you?”

  “What if she doesn’t want to see me?” he said, his head still down.

  “Then she’s crazy. There’s everything in Columbus. Malls, department stores. Up here,” Sister pointed to the satellite dish, “they don’t even have cable TV.”

  “But she left me, Mary Alice.”

  “And you have come to her rescue.” Sister turned and looked at me. “Isn’t that right, Mouse?”

  “I guess so. You need to talk to her, anyway, Luke.”

  What looked suspiciously like a tear dripped down the steering wheel.

  “I tell you what,” I offered. “I’ll go see if she’s here. How about that?”

  “Would you? I don’t want to see that Crawford guy.”

  “Sure.”

  I opened the car door and looked across the yard carefully. In spite of the church next door, this looked like pit bull territory. Nothing moved on the porch or darted from under the house. Nevertheless, I armed myself with an umbrella I had found on the backseat before I marched across the yard to knock on the door.

  No one answered.

  I knocked again, even calling, “Virginia?”

  Still no answer. I looked in the window of what was the living room. It was furnished with a sofa and a giant TV, one of those that’s so big the picture is blurry.

  I looked back at the car and shrugged at Luke and Mary Alice. Then I moved over and looked into the bedroom. It was neat, the bed made up with a pink chenille bedspread.

  I tapped on the window. Nothing.

  “They’re not here,” I said to Luke and Mary Alice as I got back in the car. “I swear I think I saw a snowflake, though.”

  “But his truck’s here. Maybe they’re over there.” Luke pointed toward the church.

  “Well, you go look.” I pulled my coat collar up. If that really had been a snowflake, we wouldn’t be able to stay up on Chandler Mountain long. In Warsaw it had been business as usual over Christmas despite a foot of snow on the ground and more falling all the time. In Alabama, a dusting of snow totally incapacitates us. And that’s on the flat areas.

  “He could have an office ov
er there,” Sister said.

  I looked at the church. Small, white paint peeling, it was probably one large room. This was a country church, built like the houses around it. There wouldn’t be room for ministers’ offices or choir lofts, just a row of wooden benches and perhaps a raised platform for the preacher.

  “Okay, I’ll go see.” Luke got out of the car and marched toward the church.

  “There’s nothing over there,” I said to Sister.

  “Probably not. Here.” She handed me a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “This’ll warm you up.”

  I took the coffee gratefully and felt the steam rise against my cold face.

  “He’s going in,” Sister said. “The door was unlocked.”

  There were double doors at the front of the church. As I looked up, Luke disappeared through the one on the right.

  “I hope he hurries,” I said. “We need to get off this mountain.”

  “We sure do. I’ve got a museum board meeting tonight.” She took her cell phone from her purse. “I’m going to check on Debbie.”

  “Did you give her her present?”

  “I thought I’d take it over this afternoon.”

  I sipped my coffee and looked out at the gray day. A couple more snowflakes drifted by. I closed my jet-lagged eyes. Sister’s conversation with Debbie seemed far away.

  “Debbie says they’re predicting snow showers,” Sister said.

  I jumped. A little coffee sloshed on my corduroy pants. Damn. Not a good idea going to sleep holding hot coffee.

  “We need to go. Reckon what Puke’s doing in there anyway?”

  “Praying?” I was still half asleep.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mouse. It’s too cold. Come on. Let’s go get him.”

  To this day I don’t know why I got out of the car and followed her across the churchyard, still clutching my coffee. The habit of sixty years, I suppose.

  Sister opened the church door and called, “Luke?”

  There was no answer, and she walked in. I was right behind her.

  There were windows down both sides of the church, which, as I had surmised, was one large room. So we could see, and what we could see was that there was no Luke in the place.

  “Luke?” Sister called again, walking up the aisle.

  A strange sound, a moan, made us both stop.

  “What the hell was that?” Sister whispered.

  “How the hell do I know?” I whispered back. “And don’t talk like that in church.”

  “Luke?” Sister’s voice was hesitant.

  Again the moan.

  “He’s sick,” I said. I brushed past Sister to the front pew.

  An unconscious Luke lay there on the floor, blood pouring from a deep cut on his forehead.

  I was cool. I had taught school for thirty years. I carefully placed my coffee on the bench, knelt beside Luke, and felt the pulse in his neck. I knew from my in-service training that this was what I was supposed to do. I don’t know why. He was obviously alive.

  “Get me something like a towel,” I told Sister. “And some water.”

  “Oh, my God, Mouse. Look behind you.”

  I turned. Lying on the front pew across the aisle was a woman. Though she was on her stomach, her neck was twisted so far around that bright red hair fell across her face and brushed the floor.

  “Is she dead?” Sister whispered.

  Of course she was. Nobody’s head fit their neck that way.

  “Of course she is.”

  “Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.” Sister ran down the aisle and threw the door open.

  As I said, I was cool. I don’t fall apart during emergencies. I pulled off my coat and my sweatshirt, put my coat back on, and pressed the sweatshirt against Luke’s forehead. Behind me, the dead girl’s eyes stared at the ceiling.

  It was January, I thought. Bed Bath & Beyond were having a wonderful sale. Those big towels that were like sheets. Fred would like that. And one of those George Foreman grills. Maybe they were on sale, too. This afternoon when we got home, I’d go right over to the Summit and see. No problem.

  Chapter

  Five

  I’m not sure how long I wandered the aisles of Bed Bath & Beyond before I heard the church door creak open. Probably only a few minutes.

  Mary Alice came in and sat on the back bench.

  “I called 911,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “You doing your Martha Stewart bit?”

  She knows me too well.

  “Beats throwing up.” I lifted the sweatshirt and looked at Luke’s forehead. The bleeding had almost stopped, but my sweatshirt had soaked up a lot of blood.

  “Luke?” I said. “Luke, answer me.”

  His eyes fluttered, and he moaned. I sat back on my heels and looked at the way he was lying, crumpled on his side. I’d had to turn his head to staunch the bleeding. Had he fallen and hit his head on the bench or had he been attacked? Maybe he had seen the woman’s body and fainted. He’d said he wasn’t feeling well.

  I glanced over at the dead woman. Whoever had broken her neck had laid her out on the bench as if she were sleeping. She was wearing a long, blue-flowered challis skirt and a white blouse. Her skirt had been neatly tucked around black boots whose soles were encrusted with red clay. And she had to be young from the appearance of the coppery mass of hair cascading to the floor.

  Damn. I shivered.

  I was about to return to the white sales at Bed Bath & Beyond when Mary Alice announced that the 911 people would be there in a few minutes. And did I know where the nearest hospital was?

  “Oneonta?” I guessed. “Gadsden?” I pressed my fingers against Luke’s pulse again. Was it my imagination or was it thready? “I hope not far. I think Luke’s going into shock. Bring me your cape. We’ve got to get him warm.”

  “It’ll get blood on it.”

  “Damn it, Sister!”

  She came down the aisle slowly and sideways so she wouldn’t see the woman’s body.

  “He doesn’t look good, does he?” she said, handing me the cape. “Luke? You okay?” She yelled the latter as if deafness were Luke’s problem.

  I took the cape, spread it over Luke, and added my coat.

  “He came in while the murderer was still here, didn’t he? And the murderer tried to kill him.”

  “I doubt it.” I pointed toward the woman. “I think she’s been dead awhile. Look at her hand hanging over the bench. It’s almost black. I don’t know what you call that, but it’s got a name, where the blood seeps down to the lowest part.”

  Sister turned green and dashed from the church again. Served her right.

  Luke opened his eyes and then closed them again. I rubbed his arms and hands. I needed something to elevate his legs. Hymnals, I thought. But there weren’t any in the church.

  From a distance there was the welcome sound of a siren. Then it died out. And then I heard it again. Coming up the mountain, I realized, the hairpin curves breaking the sound.

  The door opened.

  “They’re coming,” Sister announced. “I’ll flag them down.”

  The sound was steady now. They were crossing the Horse Pens plateau, beginning their descent toward the church. And then they were pulling into the driveway where I could hear Sister yelling, “This way!”

  I held Luke’s hand and waited.

  Three large men dressed in uniforms rushed through the door and then stopped so suddenly they almost fell over each other.

  “Lady, you by yourself?” one of them asked.

  “What?”

  “The snakes up?”

  “We’re not coming no farther less they are,” a second one said.

  “What are you talking about? There’s a hurt man here and a dead woman.”

  “No snakes?”

  “Of course not. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Just making sure,” the first man said. “Come on, y’all.”

  I moved aside. They glanced at the dead woman and then co
ncentrated on Luke. Blood pressure cuffs came out. Heart monitors. One of the men was talking on a cell phone, nodding, receiving information from a trauma center, I realized, where this information was being transmitted. I was impressed.

  “Here.” One of the paramedics handed me my coat and Sister’s cloak. She had followed the men into the church and was sitting on a back bench. I took the cloak back to her and put my own coat on.

  “Did you hear them asking about snakes?”

  “No.” She shivered. “It’s snowing. I swear, Patricia Anne. I can’t figure out for the life of me how you keep getting us into these predicaments.”

  “Me? Ha!” A real smart answer and the end of that conversation. We huddled on the bench in silence.

  In a few minutes we heard another siren. Two deputy sheriffs came in, spoke to the paramedics, and started working the other side of the aisle where the woman’s body was.

  “What a mess,” Sister grumbled.

  I got up and walked outside. It was, indeed, snowing. Tiny, dry flakes were being blown by the wind. Lord, we needed to get off this mountain.

  An ambulance pulled up. Two young women hopped out, nodded to me, and rushed into the church.

  “Mouse?”

  Sister was standing in the doorway.

  “The policemen want to talk to you.”

  “Why? All we did was ride up here with Luke to look for Virginia.”

  “That’s what I told them.”

  “Lady?” One of the paramedics leaned around Sister. “We’re taking your husband to the hospital in Oneonta. You want to ride in the ambulance?”

  I didn’t bother to explain that Luke wasn’t my husband.

  “Of course. How is he?”

  “We’ve got him pretty stable.”

  The two young women came out lifting Luke down the steps as if he weighed nothing. He had regained consciousness, but looked puzzled.

  “Patricia Anne?” he said when he saw me.

  “I’m going to ride in the ambulance with you, Luke.”

  “Where’s Virginia?”

  “She’ll be along later,” I lied.

  “What about the policemen?” Sister called as I followed the gurney.

  “I don’t have anything to tell them.”