Murder on a Bad Hair Day (21 page)

“We’ve got a rush order for some valves for Chatham Steel, and when we finish, we’ve got to get the chemistry run on them. So don’t count on me for supper. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

He would. But he thrived on these emergencies. Adrenaline was crackling across the phone line.

I put on my jeans and turned the Christmas tree on. It was almost three o’clock and I realized I hadn’t had any lunch. I fixed a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk and went into the den to watch Oprah.

Oprah is like Mary Worth. She’s getting younger, slimmer, and sharper-looking all the time. Today she was talking about help for abusive parents, which reminded me of the Needhams. Could they, at some point, have been helped? Probably. At least the children could have been removed earlier.

I finished my sandwich and wiped peanut butter from my cast. Damn. It was even going to affect my eating.

“I had no control,” the man on television was saying. I crumpled up my napkin, thinking for the millionth time how lucky Mary Alice and I were. Occasionally Daddy would swat us on the behind when an “attitude adjustment” was called for. Mama would make us stand in the corner, the equivalent of today’s “time-out.”

Last night’s lack of sleep, the morning’s work, and the
trauma of the doctor’s visit were catching up to me. I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes. I awoke an hour later to feel someone against my feet. I came up with a start.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sister asked.

“I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Not yet. I see you went to the doctor.”

I held up my hand for her inspection.

“Hurt much?” she asked.

“Off and on. I used it too much this morning washing windows.”

“That’ll do it. There’s nothing like washing windows with a broken hand.”

“How would you know?”

“I can imagine.” Mary Alice propped her feet on the coffee table. “Did you tell the police you had solved Mercy’s murder?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Bo Mitchell took it very seriously.”

“She took the bier on the barge seriously?”

“She did after she read the poem. She even took the book with her.”

“Well, I guess stranger things have happened. But Ross Perry figuring out that weird way to kill Mercy? And spraying Claire’s walls to make it look like she was framing him? To tell you the truth, Patricia Anne, I don’t think he was that clever.”

I shrugged. “He was.”

“Maybe so.”

“Are you and Bill working at the mall tonight?”

“We sort of lost our job. Bill’s scratching made the parents nervous.”

I laughed. “Did they make you give up your electric shirt?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m going to miss that shirt.” Mary Alice grinned. “That’s where I’m going now. Out to Rosedale to take our costumes back and pick up some presents they ordered for me at McRae’s.”

“You want to eat supper at Morrison’s? Fred’s working tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

“Then just give me a few minutes. How about feeding Woofer for me? You can even walk him around the block if you want to.”

“I don’t want to. It’s too cold. By the way, did you know they’re predicting snow flurries again tomorrow?”

“A white Christmas!” I squealed. “Can we stop by the grocery?”

“Of course.”

Things get set in motion by the most innocent things. There we were, two old ladies having supper at a mall cafeteria on a cold winter night. Vegetable plates. Macaroni and cheese, turnip greens, black-eyed peas, and corn bread. Egg custard pie. A walk to the mall office to return the outfits. A stop at McRae’s to pick up Mary Alice’s purchases. Some browsing through the Christmas sweaters. One that Sister wanted me to buy, a Victorian couple sitting by a fire. It was Fred and me, she said. But I demurred. Too expensive.

We stopped and checked out the new Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus.

“Too skinny,” Mary Alice declared.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said weakly as a fat twelve-year-old kid sat on his lap, double-dog-dared by a group of friends who laughed on the sidelines.

We bought a cup of cappuccino and sat by the fountain watching the crowd.

“Don’t burn yourself,” Sister cautioned me, noticing how awkwardly I held the cup in my left hand.

It was a night like thousands of nights Mary Alice and I have shared except I remember the details clearly. I remember someone had thrown a Susan B. Anthony dollar in the shallow, clear wishing pool, probably thinking it was a quarter. I pointed it out to Sister.

It wasn’t late when we came out into the well-lighted parking lot. Maybe seven-thirty or eight. Mary Alice tossed the
packages onto the backseat and we headed for the interstate. I looked to see if any clouds were rolling in, but there was too much light.

“I’m going to call and see if Fred’s home yet,” I said. “I should have gotten him some supper.”

“Fred needs a Lean Cuisine. He’s getting a pot.”

“He is not.” I plugged the phone into the lighter and dialed my number. My own voice answered with “You have reached the Hollowell residence. We are unable to come to the phone—” I hung up. “God, I sound stupid.”

“You need to get some of those seasonal messages.”

I didn’t answer that.

We were on the elevated part of the interstate that overlooks the old bottling plant that for one night was the Mercy Armistead Gallery. In the distance, the Sonat Building’s wreath and Christmas stocking shone, and on Red Mountain, Vulcan held up his torch. Traffic was not heavy.

“Look,” Mary Alice said. “Somebody’s at the gallery. The lights are on. I’m going to go get you that picture quilt of Leota Wood’s that you admired so.”

“Do you remember how much that thing cost?”

“I want you to have it. You worry about money too much, Patricia Anne.”

“I’ve never had much of it to worry about.”

“True.” Mary Alice swung down the exit ramp.

“What if it’s the police down there?” I asked.

“Well, my Lord. We’re not doing anything criminal. My guess is it’s Thurman getting the stuff sorted to send back to the artists or maybe trying to decide what to do with the place. It won’t hurt to see. We might even get a bargain on the quilt.”

“I hope so,” I said.

All of the lights were on in the gallery, but there were no other cars parked in front.

“He probably went in the back door,” Mary Alice said.

I was beginning to think this was not such a good idea. “Let’s come back tomorrow,” I said.

“Don’t be silly.” Mary Alice got out of the car and went to the front door. “Come on,” she said, opening it and walking into the building. I followed her reluctantly.

The walls that had been so bright with folk art the night of the opening were now just pale gray walls. Only a few paintings remained.

“Almost everything’s gone,” I said.

“I hear somebody in the back. I’ll bet they’re packing it up right now.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

But Mary Alice was already on her way toward the door that probably led to a storage room and the back door.

“Hello,” she called, knocking on the door and opening it at the same time.

“Mrs. Crane!” Claire Moon stood in the middle of the room, which was empty except for some cans of paint and paint thinner stacked on shelves against a wall. The smell of mineral spirits was almost overpowering. “What are you doing here?”

“Patricia Anne and I saw your lights on and hoped we could buy that quilt of Leota Wood’s, the one about the sixties.”

“Hello, Claire,” I said.

She nodded. “Mrs. Hollowell. I’m sorry, ladies, but almost everything’s been sent back.”

“We’ll check with her, then. Sorry to have bothered you, Claire.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t realize the front door was open and you startled me. I’ll just follow you and lock it.”

“You do that,” Mary Alice said. “It’s not a good idea you working here by yourself at night anyway.”

“I’m just finishing up.”

“Okay. Good night, Claire. We’ll see you later.”

“Good night, Mrs. Crane. Mrs. Hollowell.”

“Can you believe that?” I said as we got into the car. “She didn’t even notice my hand was broken.”

“Snake in the woodpile,” Mary Alice said, starting the car.

“What?”

“I said a snake in the woodpile. Don’t be so dense, Mouse. She’s up to something. Did you see how she jumped when we walked in? And where’s all the art?”

“You scared her, and they’ve returned it.”

Mary Alice drove past a couple of buildings, pulled in beside one of them, parked, and cut the lights.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “I want to give Fred his supper.”

“You are such a wimp. I want to see what’s going on.” She got out and disappeared behind the building into an alley.

“Wait for me,” I said, scrambling behind her.

She was waiting at the corner. “Listen,” I hissed, “this is dangerous, creeping around in the dark like this. I’ve already got a broken hand. Damned if I want to add a hip to it.”

“Don’t you want to know what she’s up to?”

“Not really.”

“Wimp.” Mary Alice started walking down the alley. The gravel crunched under her feet so loudly I was sure it could be heard at the gallery.

I grabbed her by her coat sleeve. “If you don’t go up there, I’ll tell you what I did with your Shirley Temple doll.”

She stopped. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m not lying.”

“Yes you are. Look, either go back to the car or come and see what’s going on. I’m just going to peek in the window.”

I sighed. “Then let’s walk on the grass. We sound like a herd of elephants.”

There was no car behind the gallery as we had expected there would be, but all the lights were still on.

“Maybe she’s left,” Sister whispered. “She could have gone down the alley in the opposite direction.”

“And left all the lights on?”

“She could have gone to get something and be planning to come back.”

I shivered. “I’m freezing and I think we’ve lost our minds.”

“I’m going to look in the window.” Sister got down low and scooted over to the building. Her aqua aerobics classes were beginning to pay off, I noticed. I could hear her knees pop, though, as she stood up to look in the window. She had to stand on tiptoe, so there was no use my trying it. If she could barely see in at six feet, my five-one wouldn’t be any help.

She moved to the next window and the next. She disappeared around the building and I was beginning to get worried when she scooted back across the pavement to me.

“There’s no one in there,” she said.

“Then why are you crawling like that?”

“Damned if I know. Claire must have left out of the back door like I said.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think she had time.”

“There’s nobody in there.”

“Then let’s go home.”

“The back door’s unlocked.”

“You tried it?”

“Of course. Let’s go see what Claire was up to.”

“This isn’t a game, Mary Alice. A woman was murdered in there.”

“True. But you know who did it and he’s long gone. Right now, I think Claire Moon is stealing all the stuff from the gallery.”

“Surely not!”

“Want to bet? Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

That’s when I should have put my foot down and said, “Absolutely not. We’re going home.” Instead, there I was, following Sister just like I had for sixty years. Like I didn’t have a grain of common sense.

We went up to the back door and Mary Alice opened it, quietly. “See?” she whispered. “No one here.”

“What are we looking for?” I whispered back.

“Don’t know. Just keep your eyes peeled.”

We stepped into the room that smelled so strongly of min
eral spirits. My heart was pounding so loudly, I was sure Mary Alice could hear it. I looked around wondering what in the world I was looking for.

“Let’s see which pictures are still left out in the gallery,” Mary Alice said. She opened the door, stepped through, and I followed her.

“Ladies, ladies,” Claire Moon said beside us. “Have you ever noticed that Southern women have this failing? They just can’t let well enough alone.”

At least I think that’s what she said. Most of my attention was riveted on the small pistol she held in her right hand. In her left hand was a five-gallon can of gasoline.

“W
e startled you again, didn’t we?” Mary Alice said. “But it’s just us. You can put the gun up.”

“I don’t think so. Let’s walk into the back room, shall we?”

“Is that a real gun?” I asked.

“You don’t want to find out, Mrs. Hollowell.”

“Are we going to?” Mary Alice asked. “Find out?”

“Not if you do what I say. Now, go into the back room. The fumes are getting to me in here.”

We went through the door with Claire right behind us.

“So much for your detective ability,” Mary Alice murmured to me.

“What?” Claire was so close, the gasoline can bumped against my hip.

“My sister thought Ross Perry killed Mercy.”

“Ross Perry was a bastard. Lying through his teeth about Fred’s paintings.” Claire put the can down. It clanged emptily on the floor. “I swear, I’d give anything if you hadn’t shown up here tonight. It messes everything up.”

“Messes what up?” Mary Alice asked. “And can we turn around?”

“Sure. Just not too fast.”

We turned around to face Claire. Tiny, delicate, beautiful,
she looked as threatening as a doll. Except for the gun in her hand.

“Claire,” I said. “What’s going on? What do you mean about Ross Perry lying through his teeth about your husband’s paintings?”

“He told me they were beautiful. He said, ‘Claire, come to bed with me. I’ll write wonderful things about these paintings. Look at these paintings, Claire. They should be in museums.’” She shrugged. “Then he told Mercy they were clever cartoons. Cartoons. She told me what he said.” Claire nudged the empty gasoline can with her foot.

Mary Alice looked down. “You’re going to set the place on fire?” She hesitated. “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

Claire smiled.

“But why?”

“It was Mercy’s.”

Mary Alice looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

“Did you kill Mercy, Claire?” I asked.

“She killed herself. She stood in front of the mirror right there”—Claire pointed toward the bathroom door—“and sprayed curling mousse on her hair and scrunched it.” Claire’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “Mercy had red curly hair like my mother. My mother scrunched hers the same way. It looked like fire sometimes.”

“But you put the DMSO and the digitalis in the bottle.”

“Thurman and James said it would work. I heard them talking about it.” Claire looked down at the pistol in her hand. “I wish you hadn’t come back.”

“So do we,” Mary Alice said.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about you.”

“We could just go home,” I suggested.

“I don’t think so. I’ll ask Liliane. She’ll know.”

Mary Alice looked at me again with her eyebrows raised.

“You spray painted your house, Claire?” I asked.

“I guess so.”

“The little painting of the Lady of the Lake was very clever.”

“What little painting?”

“The picture in the guest bedroom of the three women floating to Camelot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Claire seemed to sway a little. “I’m going to open the back door,” she said. “These fumes are making me sick.”

She backed toward the door, still pointing the gun at us. “Mercy should have shown Fred’s work. It’s so beautiful. I told her Ross Perry was wrong. But what did she know? She had hair that looked like fire. That crackled. She hit me, over and over.”

“Mercy hit you?” I asked.

Claire looked confused. “Somebody did.”

“Give me the gun, Claire,” Mary Alice said. “You don’t want to hurt us.”

“I wish you hadn’t come back. I don’t know what to do.”

“Just give me the gun. It’ll be all right.”

Claire looked down at the pistol and then at Sister. She began to raise her arm to hand over the gun. I’ll always believe that was what she was doing. But at that moment, the back door flew open and hit her. The sound of the gun firing and Liliane’s “Claire!” were simultaneous.

The explosion and shout seemed to linger in the air for a moment and then fall to the floor and shatter. I remember thinking of Roman candles, the loud swoosh, the arc, and then silence.

The four of us stood there, suspended for a moment in disbelief. I looked at Mary Alice.

“Damn,” she said, a look of surprise on her face. And then her eyes closed and she fell. I didn’t even have time to cushion her fall.

“Oh, God!” I screamed. I threw myself down beside her and cradled her head. She had fallen forward and slightly sideways. As I lifted her head, I could see blood already pooling on the floor.

“Call 911! For God’s sake, call 911.”

I heard the door slam and realized I was alone with Sister. “You’re all right,” I said, rocking her back and forth and sobbing. “You’re all right. I’m going to get help.”

I eased her back to the floor. There had to be a phone somewhere.

And that was when the room erupted in flame. There was no warning smoldering of smoke. Just sudden, all-encompassing fire. And I did all I could do. I opened the door, picked up my unconscious sister, and carried her out into the December night.

The 911 call came from a woman, they said. Later, when I had time to think about it, I hoped it was Liliane or Claire. When the Rescue Squad and police cars pulled into the parking lot, I was running to Mary Alice’s car to call them. I didn’t question the fact that they had appeared. I was just grateful.

“It’s my sister!” I shouted, waving and pointing. By this time, the scream of the fire truck’s siren had joined the rest of the noise. “She’s been shot!”

I rushed to the back of the building, screaming, “Here! Here!” The heat of the fire burned my face.

“In the back, Jimmy! In the back!” someone shouted.

I knelt beside Sister and patted her cheek. “You’re all right,” I said. “You’re all right.”

A hand pulled me away. “Move, lady!”

Dark figures surrounded Sister. I turned my face from the heat and looked into the overgrown lot across the alley. Several pairs of eyes shone brightly in the tangles of dead weeds and sawbriars. Cats? Rabbits? Throw me in the briar patch. “Throw me in the briar patch,” Mama read. And Sister and I laughed.

“I’m Leslie Morris”—a young woman in uniform touched my arm—“and we need some information. The lady’s your sister?”

I nodded.

“First we need her name, age, and any medical problems she might have.”

“She’s not dead?”

“No, she’s not dead.”

The earth tilted. The woman steadied me. “Let’s go sit in the car,” she said.

“I’m all right.” I caught my breath. “Her name is Mary Alice Crane and she’s sixty-five years old.”

“Medical problems?”

“She’s too fat.”

“No diseases that you know of? Any family history of disease?”

“She gave me whooping cough and measles.”

“I’ll be right back.” The woman, whose name I had forgotten, disappeared into the crowd around Mary Alice. Her place was taken by a young man who wanted to know what had happened. I explained to him about Claire and the gun and the gasoline.

“How did you get Mrs. Crane out of the building?” he asked.

“Carried her.”

He looked at me. “You carried her?”

“Well, it was sort of between a carry and a drag.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

But I grabbed him by the sleeve. “She’s shot in the head, isn’t she?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

I wandered over and sat on the grass at the edge of the alley. Another fire truck came roaring up. I couldn’t imagine why. The old wooden building was engulfed in flames.

“Mrs. Hollowell?” A young man sat down beside me. “I’m Raymond Estes. I understand you carried your sister from the building?”

“Is she going to die?” I asked.

“Not if we can help it. Do you mind if I take your blood pressure and listen to your heart?”

I took off my coat.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

“It’s going to snow tomorrow,” I said.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“I’ve never seen a white Christmas. Have you?”

“No, ma’am. Take a deep breath now.” I felt the biting cold of the stethoscope against my back.

“Raymond!” a man yelled. “We’re taking her in.”

“I’m going with her!” I tried to get up and realized I couldn’t. It was as if I were paralyzed.

“Come here, Jimmy,” Raymond called back. Together they helped me to my feet.

“Can you walk okay?” Raymond asked. “We’ll help you.”

I took a tentative step. “It’s like all my muscles have frozen,” I said.

“It’s your body’s reaction to the adrenaline surge. We’re going to take you in, too.”

“I want to go in the ambulance with my sister.”

“Sure.”

So for the second time in as many weeks, I was in an ambulance hurtling across Birmingham to Memorial Hospital. But this time I sat beside Mary Alice, whose head was swathed in bandages and whose neck was braced.

I reached over and touched the chicken pox scar on her cheek, still faintly visible after sixty years. “Chicken pox,” Mama said. “Can you believe it? She came down with chicken pox the day you were born!”

Mary Alice opened her eyes, startling me. “Mouse, Claire Moon shot me, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“That really pisses me off.”

“It pisses me off, too.”

She closed her eyes again. I propped my head against the gurney and felt the ambulance, like time, rushing across the landscape.

They admitted both of us—me, overnight for monitoring my heart and blood pressure (they were both fine); and Mary Alice in intensive care. The bullet had entered her head just above her right temple and exited over her ear.

“She lucked out like you wouldn’t believe,” Haley told us when she came from the operating room. “She’s lost a
lot of blood, but the bullet didn’t even enter the skull, just skirted along it, chipping off some bone fragments.”

The family, gathered in my room, was totally quiet for a minute. Then Debbie, who was sitting by my bed, took my hand and began to cry. “See,” she said. “We’ve always said Mama was thick-skulled.” The rest of us joined her in laughing and crying.

Before they left, Debbie said, “Okay, everybody. Aunt Pat gets to say just one time, ‘She ain’t heavy, she’s my sister.’”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “The woman weighs a ton.”

A day or so before Christmas, Bo Mitchell stopped by the house to update me on Claire Moon and Liliane Bedsole and to return
Victorian Poetry
. Frances Zata and I were sitting at the kitchen table drinking spiced tea and Bo joined us.

The two women had been caught in Nashville delivering a van load of folk art to a gallery. Liliane was out on bail and probably faced no more than a suspended sentence and a fine. We already knew that. Bo had come to tell us that Claire had been admitted to the state psychiatric hospital.

“I hope they keep up with her,” I said.

Bo chose to ignore this.

“I’m glad she’s getting help,” Frances said.

“She’s already been in a mental hospital in California for three months,” I said.

“Being treated for depression,” Frances said. “I’d be willing to bet you, though, that Claire’s main problem is multiple personality disorder. Childhood abuse is the primary cause of it.”

“Could be,” I agreed. “The twins came by here the other day to see if I was okay and they talk about her as ‘Good Claire’ and ‘Bad Claire.’ Did you know that?”

“I think that’s what the doctor believes,” Bo said. “She has whole periods of time she doesn’t remember, times when things happened like the picture being painted and Ross Perry being shot. Both of which she did, incidentally. Turns
out after her husband was shot, she bought several guns and took lessons at a rifle range.”

“She must have loved Fred Moon a lot,” Frances said. “I wonder if his work is any good?”

Bo Mitchell shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

“Well, who got her out of the hospital?” I wanted to know.

“She got herself out. Bad Claire clicked in, stronger than the medicine. We found the guy she hitched a ride with. She went to the gallery and got Mercy’s van.”

“But it was Good Claire who showed up on my doorstep.”

“Yes.”

We drank our tea and watched the birds coming to the special Christmas suet ball I had hung for them on the deck.

“You know,” Frances said. “That picture Claire painted on the bedroom wall? What if it isn’t Claire and the twins? What if it’s three Claires?”

“Drink your tea and don’t even think such a thing,” I said. “One more thing, though, Bo. Who do you think our Peeping Tom was?”