Murder Boogies With Elvis (11 page)

Which, of course, was true. Given the high pollen count, plus the humidity and the change in temperatures, half the population of Birmingham snuffles through the spring. And to us, it’s not sinusitis. It’s the sinus. Haley’s husband, Philip, is an ear, nose, and throat doctor, one reason that Fred happily blessed the marriage. Free treatment for the sinus. Imagine.

But free treatment was a few weeks away, so it was our GP who, after a quick strep test, which was negative, informed me that I had the sinus.

“I won’t be contagious long, will I?”

“You’re probably not contagious now.” She handed me some sample packets of medicine and a prescription. “This will take care of it.”

“Now all I have to worry about is being accused of murder,” I told Mitzi on the way home.

“Tell me the whole story again,” Mitzi said.

Which I did, starting with Dusk Armstrong and ending with the dinner party the night before with Virgil’s family.

“One of them had to put the knife in your purse, didn’t they?”

“It stands to reason. It was sitting there on the game table.” I thought for a minute. “My guess is Larry Ludmiller. He was the one standing next to the Mooncloth guy in the line.”

Mitzi stopped at a light. “But what would his motive have been?”

I shrugged. “I guess it’s up to the police to find out.”

“But it’s interesting, isn’t it, that the Russian guy had an appointment with Debbie. Out of all the lawyers in Birmingham, why Debbie?”

“He got her name out of the phone book?”

“What are the odds against that, Patricia Anne?”

“Pretty far-fetched.”

“So let’s say somebody recommended her. Who would it have been?”

“All of Virgil’s family would be familiar with her name and the fact that she’s a lawyer.” I thought for a moment. “With the exception of Larry’s sister. She probably wouldn’t know.” I sighed. “I hate to think of someone in Virgil’s family being mixed up in this.”

“I’m sure Mary Alice does, too.”

I agreed. “Virgil seems like the nicest man in the world, but she’s only known him a couple of months. I’m sure she’s beginning to realize that there’s a lot about him that she doesn’t know.”

“And vice versa.”

We looked at each other and grinned. I wondered how many of the wedding plans Sister had told Virgil.

Mitzi turned into her driveway. “Why don’t you go get on your nightgown and crawl in bed? I’ll walk Woofer for you.”

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I took two of the doctor’s pills as instructed, fixed myself a cup of hot tea, and put on my nightgown and robe. I had just settled on the sofa when the phone rang.

“Aunt Pat?” It was Marilyn’s voice. “Is everything all right?”

“I have the sinus. I’ve just gotten back from the doctor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“But if you mean is your mother speaking to me, yes.”

“Good. When are Haley and Philip getting home?”

“The first of April.”

“I’m going to come back to meet them.”

“They’ll be jet-lagged.”

“I just want to see them.”

“Okay, honey, I think it’s a great idea.”

“Get to feeling better, Aunt Pat, and thanks for putting up with me.”

“I will, honey. And you’re welcome anytime. You know that.”

“I know. Bye, Aunt Pat.”

I hung up the phone thinking about my three children and Sister’s three, all of whom were in their mid-to late thirties. With the exception of my Alan, they had all put off marriage and having children until recently. When I was Marilyn’s age, I had had a son in college and two teenagers right behind him.

I pulled the afghan over me and rubbed Muffin between the ears, remembering how old I had felt. On my fortieth birthday I had known there would be no more children. And here were my nieces and daughter just starting their families. Which way was better?

“I’m keeping you,” I whispered to Muffin.

And then I slept.

F
red woke me up when he came in around five-thirty. I told him I had the sinus, and he felt my head to see if I had any fever. I told him that Mary Alice was bringing supper. I didn’t tell him that someone had dumped a switchblade in my purse. There was no use worrying him and, besides, for some strange reason I felt guilty about it. How many wives greet their husbands when they get home from work with, “Guess what, honey? A bloody switchblade knife showed up in my purse today.”

Muffin deserted me, following Fred down the hall. I turned over on my side and drifted, neither awake nor asleep, but caught in that in-between state where dreams seem real and reality seems like a dream.

I heard Mary Alice come in the back door and I smelled salmon croquettes, but I was at her house. I
was sitting on her sunporch and Charles Boudreau sat across from me telling me that he had impeccable genes.

“Don’t tell me, tell Marilyn,” I said.

“Tell Marilyn what?” Sister asked.

I opened my eyes, and she was standing over me.

“I was talking to Charles Boudreau,” I said.

“You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“I have the sinus. Mitzi took me to the doctor.”

She sat down at the foot of the sofa. “I found out something.”

I was still drifting. “What?”

“Something about that Mooncloth guy.”

“What about him?”

“He was an illegal alien. The time had run out on his cultural-exchange visa, and he hadn’t left.”

I turned over, opened both eyes, and looked at Sister. “How’d you find this out?”

“Virgil. He said the Birmingham police called the New York City Ballet to see if they could get in touch with his family, and the folks up there said the immigration people had been there looking for him.”

“Well, couldn’t he just have gone to the State Department and told them he wanted to defect?”

Sister looked at me as if I had lost my senses. “Not if he was a spy.”

“Who said he was a spy?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, somebody must have.”

I rubbed my forehead. Sister asked if I wanted some more aspirin. I nodded that I did.

She was back in a minute with two aspirins and a glass of water. I propped up against the pillows and took them from her.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.

I had no idea. I swallowed the aspirin and shook my head. Sister sat on the end of the sofa, folded her hands, and said, “It means that a Russian killed him. They knew he was going to defect and spill all of their secrets, and they couldn’t have that happen.”

Sister had a faraway look in her eyes.

I said, “You’re writing a new story, aren’t you?”

“I’m getting an idea for one.”

“Well, in your story, was it a Russian agent who stashed the switchblade in my purse?”

“Could have been.”

“Was this Russian agent’s name Larry, Buddy, or Tammy Sue? They were the only ones who had access to my purse, Sister.”

“I think her name was Olivia.” Sister looked at me and grinned.

“What did Virgil say about the knife?”

The grin disappeared. “He said he didn’t like it.”

I hadn’t liked it much myself.

“You told Fred?” Sister asked.

I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance yet.” Which was a lie.

“Told me what?” Fred was standing in the doorway.

Sister didn’t miss a beat. “That a Russian agent dropped the switchblade that he used to kill that Mooncloth guy into Mouse’s purse.”

Fred looked puzzled. Then his face brightened. “Are you working on one of your stories?”

Sister nodded.

“Sounds like a good one. Is that salmon croquettes I smell?”

Sister nodded again. “With dill sauce.”

He couldn’t say later that he hadn’t been told. And the evening was peaceful. Fred and Sister ate the croquettes and I ate yogurt. The guy on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
won $500,000 and could pay off his student loans, and Griffin Mooncloth’s name wasn’t mentioned again. All in all, a nice evening, even with the sinus.

Of course, the next morning all hell broke loose.

I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking orange juice and looking at the newspaper when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. I had been up only a few minutes, had on my old pink chenille robe, and still felt miserable. Probably that Charles Boudreau again or a UPS package. I put Muffin down from my lap and went to the door.

When I looked through the peephole I saw two well-dressed, middle-aged men. Mormon missionaries? Jehovah’s Witnesses? I opened the door, leaving the chain on.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Hollowell?” The older of the two men said. He looked to be in his early forties, but he had a lot of white hair. The other man reminded me of Ron Howard, still little Opie to me, with a bald head and a fringe of red hair.

“Yes?”

White Hair held out a wallet with a badge in it. “Mrs. Hollowell, I’m Detective Hawkins, and this is Detective Blankenship. Would you open the door, please?”

“I’m not feeling well this morning. How can I help you?”

“Oh, hell, Mrs. Hollowell,” White Hair said. “Excuse the language, Mrs. Hollowell, but I was scared it was you. I told Jasper here, I said, ‘Jasper, I’ll bet you anything it’s my favorite English teacher from Robert Anderson High.’ It’s me, Tim Hawkins, Mrs. Hollowell. Second row on the left. Long black hair. Wrote my research paper on Matthew Arnold. ‘Dover Beach.’ ‘Ah, love, let us be true / To one another.’”

Jasper Blankenship snickered. Tim Hawkins gave him the look that probably turned Lot’s wife into stone.

The pieces began to fall into place. The white hair had thrown me. “Timmy? My goodness.” I took the chain off the door. “Of course you can come in. Just don’t look at me or the house. I’ve got the sinus.”

The two men stepped into the living room.

“Y’all want some coffee?” I asked.

Timmy ducked his head. “No, ma’am. Mrs. Hollowell, I hate like hell to tell you this, excuse the language, but we’ve come to arrest you.”

Detective Blankenship pulled some handcuffs from his pocket. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney—”

“Oh, shut up, Jasper. She doesn’t need that crap.” Timmy turned to me. “Mrs. Hollowell, we’ve got to take you in.”

“For what, Timmy? Are you serious?”

“Suspicion of murder, Mrs. Hollowell. Seems they found a murder weapon in your handbag.”

“I found it myself. It just showed up there.”

“I know. It’s just something we’ve got to do. They want to ask you some questions.”

I looked down at my pink chenille robe. “Do I have time to get dressed?” I was feeling remarkably calm.

“Of course you do.” Tim Hawkins gave his partner a look that dared him to stop me.

“And may I call my niece? She’s my lawyer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, y’all have a seat. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Make yourselves at home.”

The machine picked up at both Debbie’s office and at her home. I left messages at both places that I was being arrested. I took a quick shower and put on my navy blue suit and heels. I might be under arrest, I might feel like hell, but I was going to be a neat criminal. I started to put on eyeliner but realized that my hands were shaking so much that I might blind myself. I guess I wasn’t as calm as I thought.

Timmy and Detective Blankenship were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.

“I like your bay windows,” Timmy said.

I looked out and saw Woofer marking his tree. “I need to call my neighbor,” I said. “She’ll be worried about me.”

Mitzi’s machine answered. I left word that I had gone to the police station. I didn’t add that I was under arrest. I considered calling Fred, but surely I would be home in a little while.

“You ready?” Jasper Blankenship stood up. There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

Timmy pointed to the table. “Rinse out your cup and saucer.”

We went out and Timmy held open the front door of a Buick LeSabre for me. There was nothing to identify it as a police car, unlike Bo Mitchell’s car that has “City of Birmingham” on the side. Jasper got in the
back, and while Timmy was walking around the car, he reminded me that he had read me my rights.

I agreed that he had.

“Just wanted it clear.”

“Exactly why am I under arrest, Timmy?” I asked when he got in the car. “And why couldn’t you question me at home?”

“You were at the scene of the crime, Mrs. Hollowell, and the murder weapon was in your purse. So you’re considered a murder suspect. Procedure says we have to hold you. And what they’ll do at the station is give you a voice-stress analyzer test.”

“A polygraph?”

“Not exactly.” Timmy waited until a pickup had passed and then pulled out into the street. “Works sort of the same way, though. When they ask you a question that shakes you up, it’ll show up on the machine.”

“Timmy,” I said. “I didn’t know this Mooncloth man from Adam’s house cat. We were sitting in the front row at the Alabama, and he fell over into the orchestra pit.”

“I believe you, Mrs. Hollowell. What we’re most interested in is the switchblade and how it ended up in your purse.”

I considered this. “Have they had time to do a DNA test? Are they sure it’s the murder weapon?”

Timmy shook his head. “The DNA won’t be back for a few days, but the guy had B negative blood, which is fairly rare, and that’s what’s on the knife. And it fit the entry wound. Perfectly. It’s the weapon, all right.”

I was just grasping at straws. I had known it was the murder weapon when I pulled it from my purse and fainted.

“How long does it take? This voice-stress analyzer test.” I asked. “And will the two of you be asking the questions?”

Timmy ran his hand through his white hair. Imagine. One of my students with white hair. “Depends. And no ma’am. There’s a technician who does it. We’ll talk to you afterward, though.”

“Well, if it depends on how much I know, it won’t take long.”

Jasper leaned across the seat. “You probably know more than you think you do.”

I could learn to dislike this Ron Howard look-alike. I turned and looked out of the window.

It was so eerie riding down the familiar streets knowing I was under arrest as a murder suspect. Knowing that the two men in the car with me were detectives with the Birmingham Police Department, men who were going to ask me questions about the murder of a man I had never met in my life. A Russian dancer. Weird. It would make more sense if they were arresting me for the murder of a fisherman on the Warrior River. At least I had known a few of them. Then a terrible thought occurred to me.

“Will I be able to post bail?” I asked Timmy. “My daughter’s been in Warsaw, Poland, since last August, and she’s coming home in a few days, and there are all sorts of things we need to do for her. She’s four months pregnant.”

“Can’t see any reason why not. I expect all they’ll do is question you and let you go home, anyway.” Timmy said. He nodded his head toward Jasper. “His wife’s four months pregnant, too.”

Jasper leaned forward again. “We’re having a girl. Going to name her Emily Claire.”

“That’s a beautiful name. Ours is Joanna. I don’t think they’ve decided on a middle name yet. Is your wife showing?”

“Looks like she swallowed an eggplant.”

“That’s exciting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. I had begun to like him a little. But not for long. As we pulled up to the downtown police station, he informed me that he was going to have to put the handcuffs on. Policy.

I looked at Timmy. He seemed embarrassed, but he nodded his head.

“Bunch of bullshit. Excuse the language, Mrs. Hollowell, but we’ve got to do it.”

I held out my hands.

“We have to do them in the back,” Jasper said. “It’s too easy to get your hands out in front. Folks used to get loose that way all the time.”

The click of the handcuffs around my wrists scared me. Until now, the whole thing had been unreal. I had a fever, I had a headache, one of my former students was arresting me for the murder of a man I had never seen in my life until he fell over dead in the orchestra pit at the Alabama. But the handcuffs holding my arms behind my back were real. And uncomfortable. Why on God’s earth would I want to escape? I hadn’t done anything.

I had been in the Birmingham Police Headquarters only once in my life, and that had been to pick up Henry Lamont’s cousin, Trinity Buckalew, who had been charged with a misdemeanor. When we arrived, she had been playing cards with a man she had introduced as a narc who hung out under interstates, and she had been winning. I remembered the place as light and airy. Today, walking down the same hall between
Tim Hawkins and Jasper Blankenship, it was much more grim. I was also very conscious of how uncomfortable it is to have your hands handcuffed behind you. It does something to your center of gravity and forces you to walk carefully.