Murder Carries a Torch

by Anne George

  “Well, nobody brought it to me when they brought me her purse. And I looked all over her house for it.”

  Tears welled again.

  “She wouldn’t have been without it, Mrs. Hollowell. And it belongs to Jamie now.”

  What could I say? “I didn’t see it, Betsy. I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. I was just hoping that you might remember. It’s an unusual, beautiful cameo. If you’d seen it, then I’d know that it disappeared somewhere between the church and the morgue and I could start tracing. I’m so worried that it’s gone.”

  “You said when you called that you were scared.”

  She dipped the plastic spoon into the soup again and stirred.

  “I’m just scared the cameo is lost, that someone has taken it.”

  An old schoolteacher knows a liar when she sees one. And Betsy was lying. The plastic spoon shook; she let go of it.

  “You’re sure?” I was leaving the door open if she wanted to tell me what was really worrying her.

  “Yes.”

  I reached across the table and took her hand, which was clenched into a fist.

  “The cameo will show up.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Area code 206. The first thing I did when I got home was look in the telephone directory. Seattle? Virginia had gone to Seattle? Surely not. It must be the telephone number for a different Virginia. Not that Seattle wouldn’t be a lovely city to visit, but it was a long way from Columbus, Mississippi.

  Did she have relatives out there that I hadn’t heard of? Friends?

  Well, there was one way to find out.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number. It was answered by a recorded male voice informing me that I had reached the Gordon residence, that they were unable to answer the phone, and that if I would leave my name and number, they would return my call.

  I hung up. Obviously a wrong number. I thumbtacked it to the kitchen bulletin board, though. Luke and Richard could pursue it if they wanted to.

  Which reminded me. I dialed Sister’s number to see if she had heard from either of them.

  Tiffany answered. Ms. Crane had gone shopping. At the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, she thought, and no, ma’am, Mr. Nelson hadn’t called. A Sheriff Stuckey had, though, two times.

  “Did he sound like it was an emergency?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I think he just wanted to know if she got the flowers he sent her. I told him they were here but she hadn’t seen them yet. I told him they’re beautiful and I knew she would appreciate them.”

  “What kind are they?”

  “All different kinds. Lilies and tulips and daisies and stuff. Mostly purple. They’re beautiful.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “The card says, ‘My heart leapt up, Virgil.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Leapt?”

  “Like leaped, Mrs. Hollowell. That’s the way poets say leaped. Leapt.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, tell Mary Alice to call me when she gets in. And have you heard from Debbie and the baby this afternoon?”

  “Henry called and said they aren’t coming home until tomorrow. The baby has a little jaundice and they’re putting him under lights. Everything’s going to be fine, though.” She paused. “I heard the stress ball worked great.”

  “Like a charm.”

  I told her goodbye, hung up, and called Debbie. Everything really was okay. Brother just had a touch of jaundice. Nothing to worry about.

  “Brother?”

  Debbie giggled. “Well, Henry brought the twins over this morning, and that’s what they called him. Isn’t it cute?”

  It was. A good Southern name. Brother Lamont. So much for David Anthony. The child would be Brother for the rest of his life.

  I turned on the Weather Channel. It looked like it might rain at any minute, but the radar showed that the rain had just crossed the Mississippi-Alabama border. I threw on some sweats and a jacket and got Woofer’s leash. If I didn’t take him for a walk then, we wouldn’t get one in that day.

  He was curled up in his igloo, but he came out eagerly when I rattled the leash. Back in the fall, he had been bitten by a possum and had been very sick. Something good had come of it, though. When I took him back for his checkup, the vet had noticed how stiff he was and had prescribed some new arthritis medicine they’ve developed for dogs. Woofer can hike his leg halfway up a telephone pole now to mark his territory.

  “Good old boy,” I said, putting the leash on. “Good old Woofer.”

  I didn’t even have to coax him to the gate.

  A few drops of rain had begun to fall as we returned, and the temperature had dropped ten or fifteen degrees. There had been no mention of wintry precipitation in the weather forecast, but the drops felt icy. It was hard to realize that just a few hours earlier Betsy and I could have sat in the sun at the Olde Holland Bakery and not been uncomfortable.

  I took Woofer’s leash off, gave him a couple of dog biscuits, and hurried toward the house. Just as I reached the back porch, Mary Alice opened the gate.

  “Hey,” she called. “Wait ’til you see what I bought.” She held up several Big, Bold, and Beautiful plastic garment bags.

  I held the kitchen door open for her.

  “Whew,” she said, going into the den and draping the bags over a chair. “I’m worn out. I’ve been shopping all day.”

  “I thought you were going to prepare the twins for their new brother.”

  “Well, I was. But he’s not coming home until tomorrow so there’s no hurry. They’re putting him under those bake lights.”

  “So I heard.”

  “They had to do the same thing for Debbie. Remember? It must be a Nachman gene.”

  “Must be. You want a Coke?”

  “Lord, yes.” She was taking the plastic from a purple pants suit as I went into the kitchen.

  “Have you talked to Tiffany?” I called over the crunch of the ice falling into the glasses. “Did you know you have some flowers?”

  “Really?” She came into the kitchen holding the purple suit over her arm. “Who from?”

  “Guess. He said his heart leapt up.”

  Joy leapt into her face. “Virgil?”

  “Yep. His heart leapt.” I put the Cokes on the kitchen table and reached in the cabinet for a package of oatmeal cookies, which I also placed on the table.

  “Tiffany says he’s called a couple of times, too.”

  “I declare.”

  Suddenly she frowned.

  “He didn’t say anything was wrong, did he?”

  “Tiffany said he just wanted to know if you got the flowers.”

  “Well, bless his heart.” She held up the suit. “You like this?”

  “It’s beautiful. No telling what Virgil’s heart will do.”

  Sister giggled, laid the suit over a kitchen chair, and sat down at the table.

  “Have you heard from Richard or Luke?” I asked her.

  “Not yet. I told Richard that if they let Luke out, they could come to my house.”

  “Well, I may have a lead on where Virginia is.”

  Sister stuck a whole cookie in her mouth. “Ditny Wull?”

  I took the card from the bulletin board and handed it to her.

  “This is a Seattle number. I called it and got a machine saying the Gordon residence.”

  Sister studied the card while she chewed, swallowed, and took a drink of Coke. “Where did you get this?”

  “Betsy Mahall. The girl we saw yesterday at the church on Chandler Mountain? The dead girl’s sister? I told you I was having lunch with her today.”

  “I’d forgotten. What did she have to say?”

  “She told me how her sister got started snake handling and that she was sure Virginia was all right, that Monk Crawford was a kind man.”

  “Well, a dead one, anyway. Where did she get this card?”

&
nbsp; “She said it was by her sister’s phone, and she thought it might be our Virginia.”

  I took a cookie from the package.

  “She wanted to know if we noticed whether or not her sister was wearing a cameo, a big one on a long gold chain. I said I didn’t see one. Did you?”

  “You mean in the church? I didn’t look. Why?”

  “It’s missing and she says her sister always wore it, that it was her grandmother’s and she wants her sister’s little girl to have it.” I bit into the cookie. “She’s going to raise the two children.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Mouse.”

  I stuck out my tongue.

  “Lord, don’t do that. Mama’s turning over in her grave.”

  I closed my mouth and swallowed before I said, “Betsy thinks someone at the church killed the Crawford guy and her sister. She says Monk Crawford had been the undisputed leader of that whole bunch for years, but had lost his faith and wouldn’t handle serpents anymore. And women take a secondary role so they wouldn’t have wanted her sister to take his place.”

  “I’m sure Virgil will solve it,” she said smugly. Oh, the faith of the smitten.

  “Well, I hope he talks to Betsy. I think she knows more than she told me. On the phone she said she was scared, but at the restaurant she acted like she was just worried because the cameo was gone.”

  “What would she be scared of? She’s not one of the handlers.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe it has something to do with the children.” I sipped my Coke and thought about the possibilities. “If Monk Crawford owned that house then maybe he owned the church, too. Or the land it’s on, anyway. And the children will inherit it. And someone might not want them to.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Sister said.

  I had to admit that she was right.

  After I had admired Sister’s clothes and heard the latest about our friend Bonnie Blue Butler, manager of the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe (she had met a man over Christmas, a downright hunk), I copied down the phone number that Betsy had given me that might be Virginia’s, told her goodbye, took a carton of Brunswick stew from the freezer for supper, and collapsed on the sofa under an afghan. The next thing I knew, Fred woke me up by turning a lamp on.

  “What time is it?” I asked, confused.

  “A little after six and it’s sleeting. There are already wrecks everywhere. That’s why I’m late. There’s a six-car pileup down at Wildwood Shopping Center.”

  He put a cold hand against my arm. I flinched.

  “Told you it was cold.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You want to warm me up?”

  I raised the afghan; he pulled off his shoes and slid in beside me.

  “Lord, you are cold.”

  “Um.”

  We lay there listening to the click of sleet on the skylights, to the hum of the furnace.

  “Good day?” I murmured.

  “Um.”

  When we woke up, it was nine o’clock and the phone was ringing. Fred reached backward and picked it up from the end table.

  “What?” More of a bark than a question.

  He handed me the phone and sat up. “It’s your sister.”

  “Hey,” I said, watching Fred get up and shuffle toward the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” Mary Alice asked. “Y’all having a fight?”

  “No. We were asleep on the sofa. Jet lag may have taken a permanent toll.”

  “Well, turn on Channel 6. Virgil’s going to be on it in a few minutes talking about the murders. He says he’s going to be on CNN, too, but he doesn’t know when. When I find out, I’m going to call Haley and tell her to watch him.”

  I was still groggy. “CNN?”

  “I guess because it’s so exotic killing someone with snakes.”

  “Well, don’t tell her we found the body in the church. I didn’t. I don’t want to worry her.”

  “I’ll just tell her to watch for Virgil.”

  “Haley will be thrilled that Alabama made the international news again.”

  Sister missed the sarcasm totally.

  “I’m sure she will. Y’all turn on Channel 6 now.”

  Fred came back through the den and headed for the bathroom.

  “Are Richard and Luke at your house?” I asked Sister.

  “Richard is. They’re going to keep Luke another day or two in the hospital. Richard is such a nice young man, Mouse. Oh, and incidentally, he called that number in Seattle and talked to the people. They don’t know who in the world Virginia is. Mrs. Gordon said she’s got a daughter who lives in Biloxi, though. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “Thanks to CNN.”

  “Turn on Channel 6. The news is coming on right now.”

  I reached for the remote.

  The first story was the weatherman apologizing for missing the forecast. Cold air had moved in earlier than expected overriding warm Gulf air. Some wintry precipitation. No accumulation. No big deal. I glanced up at the skylights. They were frozen solid. I would have to get the candles out.

  The next story was the murders. Side-by-side pictures of Monk and Susan Crawford were flashed on the screen. A shot of Virginia’s car on a dirt road near Pulaski came on while the reporter explained that Holden Crawford, a snake-handling preacher from Chandler Mountain, had died from multiple snakebites just one day after the body of his daughter-in-law Susan had been found in the church where they practiced their religious rituals. Foul play was suspected.

  No kidding.

  “Come here, Fred,” I yelled. “I want you to see this.”

  “I’m here,” he said. I hadn’t heard him come back in.

  “They’re fixing to show Virgil Stuckey, the guy who has a crush on Sister.”

  And they did. Sheriff Virgil Stuckey of St. Clair County was introduced. He was standing by the car, too, and the reporter asked if it was true that Holden Crawford had been bitten over a hundred times by snakes. Then she stuck her mike in his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We can’t release any of the details yet.”

  “But Holden Crawford was a well-known snake handler, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And his daughter-in-law was, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Stuckey.”

  The report then segued to Chandler Mountain and an ancient woman introduced as Aunt Beulah Packard who said it was the Chandler Mountain booger got them both, that Lord Jesus, you ought to hear that thing howling at night. Howling for blood, you asked her.

  She picked up a tin can by her chair and the camera moved a second before the Channel 6 audience was treated to her spitting snuff into the can.

  “What on God’s earth?” Fred asked.

  I couldn’t remember how much I had told him. Apparently not much. He sat at the kitchen table saying, “What? What?” while I told him the whole story and scrambled us some eggs. The Brunswick stew I put back in the freezer. I know you’re not supposed to refreeze food, but if I nuked it long enough, it should kill the bacteria. And it was too late for spicy food.

  “Don’t you get messed up in this, Patricia Anne. These sound like strange people.”

  I handed him some buttered toast. “Betsy Mahall, Susan Crawford’s sister, isn’t strange. She and her husband, Terry, are going to raise Susan’s children.”

  “Well, it’s good the children have somebody.”

  I nodded. “Somebody who really wants them.”

  The lights went out just as we were finishing our eggs. And I hadn’t checked since I got home to see if we had an E-mail from Haley. Given our track record with electricity, it could be days before I could use the computer.

  “She’ll be home in two months,” Fred said, reading my thoughts.

  This time we lucked out. The lights were back on the next morning, had been off only four hours. Ice still coated our skylight and deck, though, and a fine mist was falling, al
most like a fog, coating the tops of pine trees. I slid across the deck with Woofer’s breakfast, a good way to break a hip, but I had to see if he was all right.

  Which, of course, he was. Snug and happy in his igloo, money well spent.

  I was watching Virgil Stuckey on TV, a repeat of the story of the night before, when Fred came into the den, dressed for work.

  “The roads are too icy for you to go out,” I exclaimed when I saw him. “Wait a while. It’s supposed to get above freezing during the morning.”

  “I called Mark. He’s got a four-wheel drive. He’s going to pick me up.”

  Mark Taylor was a young man who worked for Fred. A very nice young man whose hobby happened to be stock-car racing, a fact which didn’t comfort me on an icy morning.

  “It’ll be fine.” He pointed to the TV and Virgil Stuckey. “That guy looks just like Willard Scott.”

  A few minutes later, I watched nervously as he slid across the deck. The sound of Mark’s car motor roaring in our driveway was not comforting.

  “You call me when you get there and don’t you let Mark drive fast.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Yeah. I closed the door, picked Muffin up, and went into the boys’ old bedroom where I had set up the computer.

  “Maybe we’ve got a message from your Mama,” I told the cat.

  We did.

  E-MAIL

  FROM: HALEY

  TO: MAMA AND PAPA

  SUBJECT: DAVID ANTHONY

  David Anthony is so precious. I wish I were there. The picture is great, but I want to hold him. He doesn’t look much like Fay and May, does he? All that dark hair. All they had was a little fuzz. And of course he’s a lot larger than they were, those beautiful tiny girls. Philip says he looks like Uncle Philip, his grandaddy. We’ve been trying to figure out if we have children what kin they will be to David Anthony since both of us are Debbie’s first cousins. Confusing, isn’t it? And nice.

  I love you,

  Haley

  PS. Tell Aunt Sister I just saw Virgil Stuckey on CNN. He reminds me of somebody I know, but I can’t put my finger on exactly who. Snake handlers? Lord!

  PPS. How’s Luke?

  E-MAIL