Murder on a Girls' Night Out (17 page)

F
red is neither a partygoer nor a party-giver. I get him to Sister’s parties on New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July, and the whole family comes to our house for Thanksgiving. Sometimes we ask old friends in for supper. But lately we’ve been doing less of that. I don’t know why. I used to complain that we didn’t socialize enough, but I think I’m becoming more like Fred as we get older. It’s just so comfortable to eat supper while we watch
Wheel of Fortune
.

“All those people,” he complains when we come home from Sister’s parties. “I can’t remember their names.”

I know the feeling.

He was in a good humor, though, as we turned into the Hannahs’ driveway, in spite of the fact that the sheriff still hadn’t called and that this was most certainly a
big party. “I really like that dress,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Sure you aren’t cold? I’ve got a couple of jackets in the trunk.”

“I’m fine. But thanks.” When push came to shove, I’d gone with L’Air du Temps and the threat of pneumonia instead of health and the smell of mothballs. As for the jackets, I’d have to be in the last stages of hypothermia to put on one of Fred’s old nylon windbreakers over my new red dress. I thought about the grease stains on them. Maybe I’d just have to die.

We pulled up behind a Mercedes whose female passenger was alighting in a flurry of sequins, high heels and furs. Her escort wore a tux.

“Hey,” Fred said, pointing at the man. “Hey.”

We’ve been married so long, body language accounts for the majority of our communication.

“Formal wear was optional, Fred. You opted not to.”

I don’t know what his answer would have been. A rap on the window made both of us jump. A smiling young man was standing there.

“Good evening,” he said when Fred let the window down. “I’m Douglas and I’ll park your car for you. Just pull up to the steps.”

The Mercedes was already being whisked away by a Douglas look-alike. We pulled up as instructed.

“Your name, sir?” Douglas asked. He wrote the name on a numbered card and handed Fred a duplicate.

“Where are you parking them?” Fred wanted to know.

“In the field by the stable, sir.”

“Don’t you have a lot of mud out there?”

I saw Douglas cast a quick glance at Fred’s 1989 Honda, which was already the worse for wear. “The
field’s dry, sir. Y’all have a good time, now.” He got in the car and drove off.

“It’s got to be a loblolly out there,” Fred grumbled. “Mud up to the bumpers.”

“It won’t hurt the car,” I assured him.

“Bet that Mercedes gets stuck.” Fred brightened at the thought.

Dick and Sara Hannah were standing at the door greeting their guests. I thought then, and I still think now, that they were shining that night, that the aura surrounding them wasn’t a trick of the lighting. Blond and petite, Sara wore a dark green velveteen sheath that ended well above her knees and brought out the green of her eyes. I thought the dress was demure with its high neck and long sleeves. Later, when I saw the back, or rather what little there was of the back, I realized “demure” was hardly the right adjective. Dick, like Fred, had opted for a dark suit.

“Mrs. Hollowell,” Dick said. “We’re so happy you came.” I was impressed that he remembered my name. Granted, he was a politician, but he had met me only a couple of times.

I introduced Fred, and Dick introduced Sara. I knew she had been working for days to clean up the storm damage and getting everything ready for the party. But there was no sign of tiredness, not even a slight shadow under her eyes. Sara Hannah glowed this night.

“Mrs. Crane is already here,” she said. “And I believe your daughter—Haley?”

How did these people do this? I couldn’t remember the names of the people in my Great Books group. I wondered if there was some trick they knew. Some association thing. Like thinking about a crane at a hollow well.

“They’re out at the tent, I believe. Right out the side
door. There’s a bar out there as well as in the library. Be sure and make yourself at home.”

We thanked her and moved into the hall as some more people came to the front door.

“Mr. Hill, welcome,” we heard Dick say.

“How do they do that?” Fred asked. “I’d go to parties more, Patricia Anne, if I could do that.”

“God knows,” I said. “And no, you wouldn’t. You’re just an old recluse.”

He patted me on the butt. “Not so old.”

A blue-and-white tent was set up in the side yard and was huge. Barnum and Bailey would have been able to get along fine with this tent. A wooden walkway with a railing led to it from the steps. Inside there was a wooden floor and dozens of white tables and chairs, many already occupied. Each table was topped with a navy-and-white-striped cloth and a bouquet of daisies. On a small stage to one side of the tent, Jimmy Gerald’s band, which had been playing for Birmingham functions since V-J Day in 1945, was gamely charging through “In the Mood.” Several couples were already dancing.

“Oh, my,” I said. “This is so Gatsby-ish.”

“So what?”

“Like
The Great Gatsby
. You know. I’ll bet if we looked out, we’d see the light on the pier.”

“They got a pond this close to the house?”

“I’ll rent the movie,” I said. “Let’s find Sister and Haley.”

“There’s Mary Alice.” Fred nodded toward the dance floor. “Dear God. Look at that, Patricia Anne. She looks like a butterfly that got too close to Chernobyl.”

She did. She had on a caftan that seemed to be made out of several layers of soft, flowing silk, each a different color. Lavender blended into rose, into blue, into green as the orchestra finished the song, more or less together,
and Bill, yes, dipped her. I should have known.

“He’s stronger than I thought,” Fred said.

“Shut up.” I speared him with my elbow. Mary Alice had spotted us and was motioning toward a table on the other side of the tent. The silky material of the caftan was caught at her wrists with rhinestone cuffs, which gave her wings. A fortune, I thought. She had spent a fortune on that outfit. “You tell Mary Alice she looks good.”

“She does. She just reminds me of the butterfly house at Callaway Gardens.”

“Tell Haley she looks pretty, too.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

We wound our way toward the table Mary Alice and Bill had headed for. I saw, to my relief, that Kenneth Singleton was a very nice-looking man. He and Haley had their heads close together and were laughing at something. He hopped up immediately as we approached. Mary Alice made the introductions and Fred and Kenneth shook hands.

“You look beautiful tonight, Baby,” Fred told Haley. Then he turned to Sister. “And I like that outfit, Mary Alice.”

She laughed. “You’re such a nice liar, Fred.”

We sat down and Kenneth offered to go get us drinks.

“Where’s the bar?” I asked.

“On your left as you came in.”

“We were looking at the dance floor,” Fred explained.

I stood and looked over the tables to see if I could spot Bonnie Blue. Kenneth jumped up politely.

“Sit down,” Sister said. I don’t know which one of us she meant, but Kenneth sat down immediately. I said I would be right back and headed across the tent to the bar. Behind me, Sister was explaining to Kenneth that
it might look like I couldn’t wait for a drink but it wasn’t that at all.

“Maybe she’s got a bladder infection,” I heard Bill say. “My wife—”

I knew I was going to have to get Haley and Kenneth away from that table.

The bar was doing a booming business. No wonder we hadn’t seen it when we came in; the crowd was three-deep around it. I could hear Bonnie Blue, though. “Black Jack and water, white wine, vodka tonic!” She sang the orders out.

“Orange juice!” I yelled.

She located me and grinned. “Orange juice coming up. Hey,” she said to the people standing between us, “let this lady up. Can’t you see she’s diabetic and about to have an insulin reaction?” The crowd parted quickly for me. “Here, honey,” she said, handing me the juice. “You’ll feel better in a minute. Just try not to spit it out like Julia Roberts did in
Steel Magnolias
.”

The crowd moved away from us immediately. “You seen Doris?” I asked.

“No. I had to get to the party. But I don’t think she’s here yet. Least she’s not out here in the tent. Most of the good food’s inside, though. She could be there. But you know, Patricia Anne, I don’t think she knows a thing. She said Ed just jumped her and she thought he was trying to rape her.”

“You asked her?”

“Well, when I talked to her on the phone. Sort of.”

“Point her out to me when you get a chance,” I said.

I got Fred a beer and headed back to the table. Mary Alice and Bill were on the dance floor again, dancing this time to “Moonlight Cocktail.” Doing a pretty good job, too. At the table, Kenneth and Fred were deep in a discussion of whether or not utility stocks were a good
investment. Haley’s eyes looked slightly glazed.

“Let’s dance,” I told Fred.

He looked at the dance floor. “There’s no room.”

“All the more fun.”

He got up reluctantly, promising Kenneth that he would return in short order to finish their discussion.

“Nice, sensible man,” he said as we headed to the dance floor. “I think Haley likes him.”

“Good,” I said. “Let’s go get some supper.”

“Thought you wanted to dance.”

“There’s no room on the dance floor.”

He looked a little puzzled, but he followed me out of the tent.

Supper was set up not only in the dining room but also in the den. Desserts were arranged on an adjacent glassed-in porch. We got plates and were trying to decide where to start when Katie McCorkle came out of the kitchen with another casserole. She was dressed in a simple black dress and pearls. Her hair was pulled back into a becoming French braid.

“Good,” I said. “You’re feeling better.”

She put the casserole down and shook hands with Fred after I had introduced them. “Yes, thank God. That’s the only thing that gets you through a migraine, knowing that every moment you’re getting closer to the end of it.”

I pointed to the loaded tables. “Surely you didn’t do this.”

“Some of it. And Sara did some, too. Most of it came from a caterer in Birmingham, though.”

“Tell us where to start.”

“With the shrimp. And try the remoulade sauce.”

We started down one table.

“Just come on around me,” said a beautiful red-
headed woman who was also filling her plate. “It all looks so good, I can’t decide.”

“Looks to me like you’re doing a pretty good job,” said Katie, who had emerged from the kitchen again.

The woman looked at the abundance of food she already had on her plate and giggled. “Guess you’re right, Katie.”

“Doris,” Katie said, “these nice folks are Patricia Anne and Fred Hollowell. And this is Doris Chapman.” Katie turned back to Doris. “Mrs. Hollowell’s sister bought the Skoot.”

Doris’s eyes, which were round, seemed to get rounder. “Oh, my. There’s been a lot of trouble up there, hasn’t there?”

“Lots,” I said. I was trying to relate this drop-dead-gorgeous woman with the Doris whom Henry and Bonnie Blue had described, the nondescript, plain waitress.

Doris reached over and took a hefty helping of the casserole Katie had brought out. She obviously wasn’t into calorie-counting. Nor did she need to be. She was wearing a lavender knit column dress that ended just above her ankles. A generous slit to mid-thigh facilitated walking. Not that one would do a lot of walking in that dress. The dress bumped, rolled and wiggled just the right amount in all the right places. I kicked at Fred as she leaned way over to spear a pickle. Like I said, most of our communication is nonverbal.

“Not guilty,” he whispered. But I knew he was. I’ve got that man’s thoughts pegged.

“Ed and then the tornado.” Doris paused. “Does the potato salad have mustard in it, Katie?”

“This one does; that one doesn’t.” Katie picked up a bowl of fruit that was about half empty and disappeared into the kitchen. Doris pushed the casserole over on her plate and put a spoonful of nonmustard potato salad by
it. I studied her. Was it possible there were two Doris Chapmans here tonight? The red hair could have come from a squeeze bottle like mine. But the rest of her? Unless it had been darker in the Skoot ’n’ Boot than Henry and Bonnie Blue had realized.

I tested the waters. “You seen Bonnie Blue?”

“No. She’s out in the tent.” Doris selected a piece of ham. “I’m starving. I’m going to go surprise her soon as I eat. She had to come to the party early, so she left my coat with the McCorkles.” Doris laughed. “They didn’t know who I was. I’ll bet she won’t, either.”

So something
was
different. “Why not?”

Doris held her loaded plate away from her and turned slowly, pointing. “Hair red, nose job, chin, forehead heightened, face-lift, boobs, hips, tummy tuck, liposuction on my thighs and the fat put into my butt.” She turned so we could see a nicely rounded derriere that was made out of fat thighs.