Murder on a Bad Hair Day (13 page)

In a strange way, I did.

“Warren Newman keeps wanting me to drag my inner child out and I said, ‘Well, hell, Warren, you’d think you were talking about a Shirley Temple doll in a cedar chest.’ And he said maybe he was, and then I remembered how you lost my Shirley Temple doll and told him all about it.”

I sighed. Warren Newman is the psychiatrist Sister visits just enough to confuse us all.

“He asked if you had ever apologized about losing the Shirley Temple doll and I told him no.”

“I’m sorry I lost your Shirley Temple doll, Mary Alice.”

“I forgive you.” She turned onto Highway 280 and headed toward Harpersville. “Don’t you feel better? I do.”

A mini traffic jam greeted us at the Christmas tree farm. The owner had decided to add to his income by providing mule-drawn wagon rides to the fields where the trees were planted. We each handed over two dollars and climbed on the wagon.

“This is wonderful,” Sister said. “You should have dressed more appropriately, though, Mouse.”

My red suit and heels weren’t exactly tree-cutting, mule-riding clothes. “I was having lunch at the Blue Moon,” I reminded her. “With Frances Zata. Have you forgotten her?”

“Of course not. I’m sure she’s fine.”

The mules lurched forward. “Here we go,” everybody said.

The next hour was wonderful. Trying to spare my heels,
I tiptoed through the trees helping Mary Alice look for the perfect one.

“Here it is,” she finally said. I inspected it and saw she was right. It was a tall fir that would look perfect in her living room.

“It’s too pretty to cut,” Mary Alice said. But that didn’t stop her from calling over one of the helpers with an ax.

We rode back on the wagon and selected a couple of wreaths and swags. With the tree tied on top of the car, and the inside filled with greenery, we looked and smelled like Christmas. I tried not to think of the condition of my good navy shoes.

We passed the cutoff to Highway 17 on the way home. “There are some interesting things down that road,” I remarked, thinking of the fairy-tale pink house and the cross garden.

“Leota Wood lives down there,” Sister said.

“The quilt lady?”

Sister nodded. “I thought I might come out and do some Christmas shopping. Probably get a better price at her house.”

“Who told you she lives there?”

“Bonnie Blue. Said she lived right down from James. You want to go down there now?”

“You’ve got to get back to the mall, and I need to get home.”

“One day next week?”

“Great.” I doubted I could afford any of Leota Wood’s work, but it would be fun to look.

As we came over Double Oak Mountain, we saw clouds massing toward the northwest. The dark bank reminded me of the snow we had had a few nights before, of the footprints, and, for some reason, of Ross Perry.

“Tell me about Ross Perry,” I asked Mary Alice.

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you know about him? The only time I ever talked to him was at the Green and White.”

Mary Alice pursed her lips the way she does when she’s
thinking. “He was knowledgeable,” she said. “A good board member at the museum. Maybe gay.” She paused. “Not that that bothered me, Mouse. You know that. The older I’ve gotten, the more I appreciate gay men. They’re a lot more thoughtful.”

I agreed. “Did he live with someone?”

“Not that I know of. He had a beautiful house in Forest Park and invited the museum board and their spouses out for a supper and pool party last summer. No one else seemed to be in residence.” Mary Alice stopped at a light at the foot of the mountain. “Didn’t seem to lack for money. Had some spectacular artwork.” When the light changed and she stepped on the gas, we could hear the scratch of the Christmas tree on the roof of the car. “Damn,” she said. “No telling how much that tree’s going to cost me.”

“Were Mercy and Thurman at the party?”

“The pool party? They were the only ones who went swimming. Mercy could pass the pencil test, Mouse.”

“But she and Ross didn’t get along.”

“They sure didn’t. That night she pushed him into the pool. Tried to act like it was an accident. But she tripped him deliberately. I saw it. And so apologetic. Bouncing around in that bikini.”

“I hope he could swim.”

“Mouse, he
walked
out of there, he was so mad. And trying not to act like it. It’s a wonder he didn’t have a stroke right then.”

“Was Claire there?”

Mary Alice shook her head no. “The only person I remember being there who wasn’t a board member or a husband or wife was Liliane Bedsole. Knew good and well what Mercy had done, too, but did a great job of smoothing things over. By the time Ross got back into dry clothes, she had us all just about smashed.”

“The only job Ross had was with the paper?”

“Far as I know. He’d written a couple of books. Art books, not commercial. Not the kind you get rich on. He had money, though, probably family money.”

“He was from New Orleans? I saw in the paper that’s where his sister is.”

“Yes, but I think he came to Birmingham right out of college.”

The $64,000 question. “Did you like him?”

Mary Alice thought for a moment. “He was the kind of guy you didn’t want to turn your back on.”

“How so?”

“Damned if I know. A coldness, maybe. But I know this. If Mercy weren’t already dead, the cops would be questioning her around the clock.”

“I wonder why they disliked each other so.”

“Maybe I can find out,” Sister said. “Though if he was murdered, Mercy wasn’t the only one had it in for him.”

“There could have been a spurned lover.”

“And there could have been a stupid deer hunter.”

We were silent for a moment. The Saturday two-weeks-before-Christmas traffic was heavy along what’s known as the 280 Corridor. Housing developments, strip malls, and shopping centers have made what used to be a two-lane mountain road a traffic engineer’s nightmare. Many of the cars, like ours, had trees tied on the roof.

Mary Alice darted into the space between two cars in a lane that seemed to be moving faster. It wasn’t. We went about ten feet and stopped. “Where are all these people going?” she complained.

The woman in the lane of traffic next to us seemed to be addressing Christmas cards. Holding a list of addresses with one hand, she propped envelopes on the steering wheel and wrote. It didn’t look very comfortable or conducive to good penmanship, but I had to admire her efficient use of time. While we sat there, she addressed three.

“This is ridiculous.” Mary Alice drummed her hands on the wheel. “Don’t you think Christmas has gotten away from us, Mouse? Remember how we used to be grateful for a tangerine and some hard candy?”

“You’re thinking of the Cratchitts, Sister. We could hardly get into the living room for all the stuff.” It was true.
Mama had always made a big deal out of Christmas, and since we were the only grandchildren on both sides, we racked up with gifts.

“But I remember being grateful for a tangerine and hard candy, too. Especially the kind with the little flower on the side. Reckon they still make those?”

“I haven’t seen any in a long time.”

“What color flower was it? Pink or yellow?”

“The candy was pink with a white side and a yellow flower.”

“I think some of the flowers were pink.”

“How could you remember? You were too busy tearing into packages. Yours and part of mine, too.”

Mary Alice sniffed. “You were always scared I was going to get more than you did.”

“You usually did. You got yours and half of mine when Mama wasn’t looking.”

“Not true.”

“True.”

“You lost my Shirley Temple doll deliberately, didn’t you? Because you didn’t get one.”

“I’ve already apologized for that.”

We had moved up beside a car in which the woman driver was reading
Southern Living
. I liked the cover, which showed a cozy fireplace decorated for Christmas.

“I talked to Thurman Beatty for a minute back at the horse hospital where you left Bubba,” I said, changing the subject.

“Did he say anything about Claire?”

“He seemed startled when I mentioned that I had seen Glynn and Lynn Needham. Upset. I think that’s why he took off like he did.”

“Because you saw Glynn and Lynn? Why would that upset him?”

We moved up beside a woman who was putting on mascara. “I guess he wants to find out what they know about Claire. Where she is. At first I thought maybe the twins had taken her from the hospital and then I thought no, it was Thurman, but the twins knew about it and knew she was
okay. Now I’m thinking it was the twins again and Thurman didn’t know anything about it.” I paused. “Are you keeping up with this?”

“Sure. But there are bigger questions. Why did they take her and where is she? What do you really know about those twins, Patricia Anne?”

“Just that they are gorgeous and live in New York, and their aunt Liliane says they weren’t as harmed by their abusive childhood as Claire was.”

“Well, the way I see it,” Sister declared, “whoever took Claire from the hospital was either doing it to protect her or to get rid of her.”

“My God, Mary Alice!” I shivered.

“What? You know it’s the truth.”

“They did it to protect her.”

“From the person who killed Mercy and maybe Ross?” Mary Alice changed lanes again, needlessly. In a moment the card-addressing woman pulled up beside us.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how I even got involved in this.” I rubbed my forehead.

“Just like you got involved out at the Skoot ’n’ Boot. You do that, Patricia Anne. Take things so personally.”

I didn’t remind Sister that the Skoot ’n’ Boot, the country-western bar where I almost got killed, was her place. Nor did I remind her that I had attended the opening of the Mercy Armistead Gallery at her invitation. Instead, I rubbed my head harder and asked her if she had any aspirin.

“Sure,” she said. “Look in the side of my purse. And there’s some Coke in that can.” She pointed to a Rubbermaid drink holder on the floor. “It might even have a little fizz left in it. I think I bought it yesterday.”

It didn’t, but I had to drink it to wash the aspirin down.

Mary Alice said Bill would help her get the tree off the top of the car, so I collected my swag and wreath and headed home. The clouds had moved farther across the sky, partially blocking the late-afternoon sun. As I drove along the valley, I could see Vulcan’s rear end gleaming golden and bare in the late light. Not for the first time, I thought how startling
a sight this must be to strangers approaching the city from the south.

When I opened the kitchen door, I smelled hot dogs.

“Hey,” I called.

“Hey,” Fred and Haley answered. I looked into the den and saw them, each eating a hot dog and drinking a Grapico. Haley was sitting on the sofa, her feet propped on the coffee table; Fred was relaxed in his recliner. An empty Sneaky Pete’s sack was on the table.

“We’re watching
It’s a Wonderful Life
again,” Fred said. “Your hot dogs are in the refrigerator.”

“Did you get me a Grapico?”

“Of course.”

I put the greenery on the hearth. “Where’s your car, Haley?”

“Debbie borrowed it. Hers is broken. She dropped me off to show you the dress I bought for the Policemen’s Ball.”

“Good. Who went to Sneaky Pete’s?”

“We both did.”

“Smells wonderful.” I slipped my worse-for-wear navy heels off, got my hot dogs with everything on them, and zapped them for a few seconds in the microwave.

“What’s happening?” I asked, coming into the den with my hot dogs and Grapico.

“Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed just got married,” Haley said.

“Oh, good.” I unbuttoned the waistband of my skirt and settled onto the sofa happily. I’m no purist. I like Ted Turner’s colorizing. I also like Sneaky Pete’s hot dogs. At that moment, I was a happy woman.

“And there are Goo Goo Clusters for dessert,” Haley said.

Heaven.

T
he next morning I put a load of washing on and took Woofer for his walk through a light drizzle, more like a heavy fog than rain. It was a pleasant walk, the slight moisture refreshing and cool against my face. It made my hair frizz, a problem I had learned to ignore years before. It also must have emphasized smells, since Woofer had to stop and investigate every tree, fence post, and bush along the way. I didn’t hurry him. We were both enjoying ourselves.

When we got back, I called to see how Bubba was but got Mary Alice’s answering machine. She had ordered a set of seasonal greetings from some catalog, so what I heard was “We cannot come to the phone now, won’t you ple-ease leave a message” sung to a tinkly “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

“I’m calling to check on Bubba. I hope he is feeling better,” I sang back. “Just give me a ring when possible. I should be right here.”

“What was that about?” Fred asked, standing in the door and yawning. “And how long have you been up?”

“Ages. You’re a slugabed.”

He came over to hug me. “You’re wet.”

“I’ve already taken Woofer for his walk. It’s drizzling.”

“Coffee.” He shuffled over to the stove. Last Christmas
Freddie gave him some nice leather house shoes with lamb’s wool lining. The trouble is that they are slides, appropriately named as far as Fred is concerned. He has never gotten the hang of keeping them on, tending not to pick his feet up so he won’t step out of them. He has the same trouble with flip-flops, walking across the beach like a man in dire need of an application of Preparation H.

“Scrunch your toes,” I tell him. It does no good.

“Paper.”

I pointed. He shuffled into the den, carrying his coffee. I put the clothes into the dryer, poured myself another cup of coffee, and went to join him.

“Ross Perry made the front page again,” he said, handing me that section.

“Well, he worked for the paper. They’ve got a personal interest.” I sat down and read that the police still had no leads. James’s and Yvonne’s role in pulling him from Kelly Creek was rehashed. The only thing new was that the family said a memorial service would be announced at a later date.

“They must be burying him in New Orleans,” I said.

“What?” Fred didn’t look up from the Reviews and Comments section.

“They’re having a memorial service later for Ross Perry. Mary Alice won’t have to worry about wearing her new black suit three times the same week.”

“Good.”

“I wonder where she is this early on Sunday.”

“Absolutely,” Fred agreed.

“I broke both legs while I was walking Woofer.”

“You’re right.” He flipped the section over to the back page and continued reading.

I sighed, put my section down, and went to take a shower.

“Amazing how well you can walk,” Fred called after me.

Smart-ass.

Fifteen minutes later, showered and shampooed, I came back into the den, where Fred had graduated to the Business and Money section of the paper. He has a small magnifying glass with a light on it that he uses to read the stock results.
He bought it the same day he bought some Wal-Mart stock, so it’s his good luck charm. He wouldn’t admit that it is, but I know this man. And I wouldn’t dare tell him I use his magical magnifying glass to get ticks out of Woofer’s ears.

“How are we doing?” I asked, pointing toward the paper.

“Wal-Mart’s up.”

“I’ve been thinking maybe we should diversify. Sell our thirty shares of Wal-Mart and invest it in something safe like utilities.”

Fred clutched the paper to his heart. “Safe? My Lord, Patricia Anne, it was Sam Walton himself told me to buy Wal-Mart.”

It was true. Fred had flown from Dallas with a nice old man who said he had invested everything he had in Wal-Mart.

“Everything?” Fred asked, worried about the old man.

“Just about. I think it’s going to do okay.”

Two weeks later, Fred, who had missed the man’s name, was startled to see Sam Walton’s picture on the cover of
Time
.

“It’s a sign. A portent,” Mary Alice said when he brought the magazine in to show us. “Sell the house and business and invest the money. Make Sam proud. Make America proud.”

He bought thirty shares, which, for Fred, was a bundle.

“Utilities?” he gasped now. “Are you serious?”

“Just wondering if we want all our eggs in one basket.” I went into the kitchen. “You want some cereal?”

“We got any bagels?”

“In the freezer.”

“That’s what I want.”

“You know, Lender’s might be a good stock.”

But I had gone far enough.

“Shut up, Patricia Anne,” I heard from the den.

It was a quiet morning. I wrapped Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I addressed Christmas cards. Several times I tried to get Mary Alice but was greeted with “We cannot come to the phone now, won’t you ple-ease leave a
message.” I sang a couple of messages back, but it was too much trouble to leave one every time. Fred had disappeared into his basement workshop with the admonition that I was not to come down as he was working on my present. Since I had designed the plant stand he was working on, one to hang all my ferns on so they could be rolled outside when the winter weather was nice, I figured he just wanted to be by himself. Which suited me.

We had Patricia Anne’s Cafeteria for lunch (everything left in the refrigerator), and Fred headed back to the basement. I collected my library books, a couple of which were overdue, and headed downtown to see a collection of Eudora Welty’s photography.

The Birmingham Public Library system is an amazing network of over forty libraries. Usually I go to the nearest branch, but if I have time, or if something special is on display, I’ll go to the main library. This consists of two buildings: the new, very modern structure that houses the materials that can be checked out; and the classical old building across the street with its three-story-high lobby decorated with murals depicting mythological scenes. The latter, which was the main library for fifty years, is now the research library. The two buildings are connected by a crosswalk over the street.

I love the new building with all the airiness and light, but the old one has a special place in my heart. This was where I had my first job. My title was Readers’ Assistant, a fancy title which meant I had to go to the stacks dozens of times a day to find books for people. I also shelved books, filed catalog cards, and helped people look things up. The main perk was that I got to read the new books as soon as they came in. The main problem was permanent calluses on my feet from all the walking.

The libraries were, and are, used extensively, which seems to surprise people who are not from the South. “You are so well read to be from Alabama,” a woman told me once at a dinner party. I probably would have belted her one if Mary
Alice hadn’t elbowed me and whispered, “Common as pig tracks, Mouse.”

I found a parking place in the lot behind the new building, decided it wasn’t raining enough for my umbrella, and darted toward the back entrance. This leads down a wide corridor open to a reading room on the right and lined with glass cabinets on the left. Eudora Welty’s photography was on display in the cabinets. Several people were looking at the pictures and reading the captions, which were quotes from her books. I would look at them, I decided, on my way out.

The overdue books cost fifty cents, money well spent. I paid up and headed toward the new fiction. Current newspapers are kept in the same area, so several people were sitting in comfortable chairs reading them. The Ross Perry story had made the front page of the
Montgomery Advertiser
, too, I noticed. The newspaper was being read by a man who reminded me of Ross. Probably the way the light shone on his bald head.

So many questions, I thought.

“Lord!” I actually slapped the palm of my hand against my forehead. There were answers to a lot of my questions right here. I had been overlooking a perfect source of information. I turned and hurried toward the escalator. The research library was full of material about the Bedsoles. Ross Perry, too. All of his columns would be there. Even the record of the Needham trial. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. I almost gave a little skip as I entered the crossover.

I started with the Ross Perry columns since they didn’t take any research. They usually appeared in the Friday section of the paper known as Marquee, which lists things to do for the weekend as well as an extended calendar of events for the month, lists new movies with a critique, TV shows, concerts, readings, and art exhibits. I took the tape of the newspaper for the year before, put it into the machine, and started scanning through the columns. Many of them I had read. Some exhibits got better reviews than others, but none were totally panned.

I skipped back five years and again scanned Ross’s columns. The man could write. As an English teacher, I had to give him credit for that. As for his art criticism, I didn’t know. That particular year everybody got rave reviews. It was either a remarkable year for Birmingham art, Ross Perry needed his glasses changed, or he had just found Prozac. I rewound the tape and inserted the one from ten years before.

And hit pay dirt! In the January fifteenth Marquee, Ross Perry had reviewed the opening of a new gallery in English Village. The gallery was attractive, three of the artists were fine, but the fourth artist, newcomer Mercy Armistead, had produced paintings that were dull, lifeless, amateurish. Obviously derivative, to name their derivation would be an insult to the originals. She, Mercy, ruined the whole show with her utter lack of talent.

After that, the review got worse.

“Wow,” I said out loud. “Wow.”

I located a librarian to find out how to copy the review. So ten years later, Mercy threw a can of Coke at him and pushed him into a pool. He had it coming. When Ross wrote this, Mercy was in her early twenties, just starting out. Regardless of how bad her work was then, and it probably wasn’t bad if she had gone on to gain an international reputation, this was cruel and must have been devastating to her. I ran the tape forward but found no more reviews like this. Obviously, even ten years earlier, Ross had had it in for Mercy. I saw nothing that gave me a clue why.

I typed in the name “Bedsole, Betty,” and retrieved the tape of newspapers for 1956, the year she was Miss America. There were pictures of her getting on the train for Atlantic City, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. There were pictures of her winning the swimsuit competition (“Strutting,” Mama would have said) with rigid funnels for breasts and at least fifteen more pounds than any self-respecting Miss America would carry now. There were pictures of her winning the talent competition as Scarlett, clutching a carrot and swearing she would never go hungry again. “Not a dry eye in the house,” the reporter noted.

“Very possible,” I muttered. But I had to admit that Betty Bedsole had been beautiful, with long dark hair that she wore down for Scarlett and up for the swimsuit. Her smile was dazzling, and her eyes had the same slight slant that made Claire Moon’s so spectacular.

There were pictures of her victorious arrival back in Birmingham, the crowd at Terminal Station and the flowers again. I was glancing at this page of the paper when something caught my eye. I switched to magnification and looked closely at the young man to whom she was handing a rose. It could be Ross Perry. I held the eraser end of my pencil over his head to cover his hair. But I still wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t identified in the story. I called the young librarian over to see how I could get a copy on magnification.

“I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes,” I said.

“I am.” She smiled. I looked down and saw army boots that must have weighed a ton. Still better than three-inch heels.

“She’s the one whose daughter was murdered, isn’t she?” the librarian said, pointing to the picture.

I nodded. “Betty Bedsole.”

“Well, if you’re doing research on her, there’s a whole clipping file up in the Southern History Department. It would save you having to go through the papers.”

“Thanks.” Why hadn’t I remembered that?

The girl nodded. “I think they’re trying to get all the stuff copied, but right now, it’s still in manila folders in file cabinets.”

“That’s great. Thanks.” I put my two photocopied articles in my purse and headed up the steps.

The Southern History Department is an incredible resource for scholars. Partially funded by a wealthy Birmingham family, and ferociously guarded and added to for over forty years by a no-nonsense librarian aptly named Miss Boxx, it is a treasure trove for historians. The genealogy section alone brings people in by droves. Today, even this close to Christmas, was no exception.

I requested the Betty Bedsole clippings from the young
man at the desk. They were in my hands in about one minute.

“She would be proud of you,” I told him, pointing to a portrait of Miss Boxx in which she glared down at the people taking advantage of her life’s work. “Mess it up and you’re dead meat,” she seemed to be saying.

He smiled, genuinely pleased.

I found a place at a table and opened the folder. The clippings weren’t in any order, which didn’t matter. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, anyway.