Murder Shoots the Bull (8 page)

That morning I had three students to tutor. One-on-one is by far the best, but it isn’t always possible. So in a little room off the library, Sharon Moore, Shatawna Bishop, and Shawn Crawford and I sat, trying to get negative integers straight. It was the first month of school, but I had tutored these three the year before and was well acquainted with them. The three S’s are not my easiest group. Sharon couldn’t be less interested. She can hardly see the plus and minus signs because of all the mascara loaded on her eyelashes that she bats at poor Shawn who tries to keep his mind on math, but who is a hormonal wreck at fourteen. Shatawna I haven’t quite figured out. There is a distinct possibility that she knows all of this stuff already, is bored stiff, but will do anything to get out of the regular classroom where she is even more bored. It happens, as every teacher knows; these are the kids who’ll drive you crazy. Even so, you keep hoping you’ll reach them.

After a fairly unproductive forty minutes of eye batting from Sharon, squirming from Shawn, and yawns from Shatawna, I told them they could go back to class. I watched them crossing the library and noticed that as Shatawna passed by one of the computers, she hesitated and patted it lovingly.

Hmmm.

I caught her as she started down the hall.

Oh, yes, ma’am. Computers were her favorite things in the world.

Then if I sent a note to her teacher, could she come back and look something up for me?

Oh, yes, ma’am.

There was no mistaking the delight in her eyes which were a startling green against her African-American skin.

I went back into the library and got a computer pass, wishing that Bill Gates could have seen the expression on Shatawna’s face. The schools of Alabama had been the first recipients of his foundation to provide computers so under-privileged children could have access to the Internet. They were for educational purposes, of course, but I told myself that Shatawna’s wandering around on the Internet on my behalf would be educational.

She was back in a few minutes. “What do you want me to look up, Mrs. Hollowell?”

“A man named Milton Sawyer. He was a financier. One of Ronald Reagan’s advisors.”

“Why don’t you just look him up in
Who’s Who?
”

“Because I didn’t think of it, Miss Smart Aleck.” We grinned at each other. “You see what you can find and I will, too.”

I couldn’t remember how long Mitzi had said that Sophie had been widowed. I figured I was safe with the 1992 edition, though. I hefted it down from the shelf and looked in the index. There were two Milton Sawyers, Milton P. and Milton R., both on page 426. One look told me that Milton Price was the one I was looking for. His birth date was listed as 1928. He was still alive when this edition had been printed.

“It’s Milton Price Sawyer,” I told Shatawna who was happily clicking away. “And he was born in 1928 in Rochester, Minnesota.”

“Okay. That’s a help.”

I went back to my reading. Undergraduate degree from Yale. M.B.A. Harvard, 1953. Founding partner Sawyer and Thorpe, Investments. Served as a special advisor to President Ronald Reagan. He also, I noted, had served on the board of directors of at least a dozen companies that I recognized. Railroads, cosmetic firms, even giant entertainment entities.

“Lord, Mrs. Hollowell, there’s over five hundred entries for that man,” Shatawna announced. “What do you want to know about him?”

I wasn’t sure. “Something about his family, maybe.”

A couple of clicks and Shatawna informed me that his father had been a doctor, a professor at the Mayo Clinic. His mother, Sarah Weeks Sawyer, had been a well-known sculptor. There were two older sisters. He married Sophie Bedford Vaughn in 1954. There were three children, David (1955–1974), Susan (1957), and Arabella (1959).

“He died in 1994,” she added.

I looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t know they had a son.”

Shatawna nodded. “Nineteen in 1974. I’ll bet he was killed in Vietnam. That’s so sad.”

It was. It was terribly sad.

Several students had come in to use the computers. A couple seemed to be waiting.

“You want me to look up anything else for you, Mrs. Hollowell?”

“See if there’s anything on Bellemina Health.”

“Spell it. I’ll look in Dog Pile.”

“Dog Pile?”

“You just type it in and tell it to fetch.”

Lord. I spelled Bellemina, and after a few clicks on the mouse, Shatawna informed me Bellemina had their own web site that was updated each day. Why didn’t she print it out for me? Mrs. Quick charged for the paper but not much,
and it looked like a lot of stuff. I could just take it home and read it.

That sounded good to me. Reading about it earlier had reminded me that it might be a good Birmingham based company for the investment club to put money in. I’d study up on it and be able to make an informed suggestion.

Shatawna hit the print button and pushed her chair back. “You really ought to get you a computer, Mrs. Hollowell. They’re great.”

“Shatawna,” I asked, “what do you get if you add negative seven and negative five?”

She grinned widely. “Who cares?”

“Anyone who wants to get out of the eighth grade.”

No use. The grin didn’t fade.

I went to the school cafeteria salad bar and got a salad to go. At home, I fixed some iced tea and settled down in the den to eat and read about Bellemina Health. I don’t know what I had expected, but it was boring. Today’s big web site news was that they were opening a new facility in Jonesboro, Tennessee, which would be headed by a Dr. Cranston Jordan. Dr. Jordan’s credentials, which were very impressive, followed. The only thing that really caught my eye was that this would be the forty-second Bellemina Health facility, the fifth to be opened this year. I put down my salad and got the newspaper from the kitchen table. Bellemina was trading at fifty-two dollars a share, up four for the year. Fifty-two sounded like a lot, but what did I know? Teachers aren’t big investors in the stock market. Neither are the wives of husbands who own their own small businesses.

I put my salad plate in the dishwasher and went out to speak to Woofer. We had never gotten to take our walk this morning. He came out of his doghouse reluctantly.

“You need to be out in the sunshine,” I told him, offering
him a dog biscuit and rubbing my thumb over his gray head. “It’s warm out here. Old animals need Vitamin D.”

He took the treat and then dropped it on the ground, totally unlike him.

“What’s the matter, boy? You okay?” I knelt beside him and looked into his eyes. They seemed bleary. He lay down beside me and I felt his nose to see if it was hot. I know that’s not an accurate way to check if an animal has fever, but it’s what you do instinctively. His nose felt cool and moist.

“You okay?” I asked again. He stretched out, his head on his front legs.

“No, you’re not, are you?” I ran my hand down his back, and he shivered. I felt my stomach knot. He really was sick. I sat and pulled as much of him as I could onto my lap. Woofer is a blend of every breed of dog known to man. His head and chest are large, the rest of his body medium size. His legs are short, and he has a fan tail. We got him from the Humane Society when he was six weeks old, and he was listed as a mixture of Collie/Dachshund; the mental picture of that mating boggled my mind.

I was sitting there holding him when I heard the gate open.

“Hi, Mama.”

I turned and saw Lisa, a very pretty Lisa with short curly ash blonde hair. Delta had turned the water into wine.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I think Woofer’s sick. Come see what you think.”

She came over, knelt beside us, and ran her hand over Woofer’s head. “You sick, boy? You sick, Old Woofer?”

Woofer agreed that he was. He shivered again.

“I’m taking him to the vet,” I said, not waiting for her opinion.

“You want me to help you?”

“I’d appreciate it. I’ll sit with him on the backseat. Let
me go call and make sure they can see him now.” I moved Woofer and got up. “Your hair looks great.”

“Thanks.” Lisa ran her hand through her short curls. “Aunt Sister had a meeting she had to go to.”

“Figures.” I went in to make the call.

Our vet is sliding into retirement. He hasn’t announced his intention, but he’s spending more and more time in Destin, Florida, on the golf course or fishing. His assistant, the young woman who will probably take over his practice, is a doll. Tall, with long shiny brown hair pulled back in a pony tail and no makeup, she could have walked into any modeling agency and gotten a job. Instead, she and her helper lifted Woofer gently onto the table and she began to examine him efficiently, talking to him while she worked, a person who obviously loved her job.

Dr. Grant took Woofer’s temperature and nodded. “It’s high.” She felt down his body, palpitated his abdomen, ran her hand down his legs, and then turned his left hind leg and examined it.

“Has something bitten him?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. He’s in a fenced yard.”

She leaned closer to examine the inside of Woofer’s leg, high up on the fleshy part. “Looks like a bite,” she said. “Charlie?”

The young man who had helped lift Woofer onto the table stuck his head around the door.

“I’m going to need some help here.” Dr. Grant turned to me. “Mrs. Hollowell, would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes? We’re going to have to do a little work here.”

I hesitated.

Dr. Grant grinned. “Woofer’s fine. I don’t want you hitting the floor.”

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Come on, Mama. She’s right. You’re white as a sheet.”
Lisa led me into the waiting room where a woman was sitting with a cat carrier beside her. “He’s going to be fine.”

“But I can’t believe something bit him. He never gets out of the yard unless he’s on a leash.”

“Could have been a possum,” the woman with the cat said. “That’s what’s happened to Mandy. I’m here to get the stitches out. Mandy chased this possum up a tree and he got ahold of her.”

“But this is a medium-sized dog.”

“Same thing. Possums are mean. Got those teeth that stick out.” She held three fingers straight to her mouth to show what she meant. “Course it could have been a raccoon, but I hope not. Lots of them have been showing up with rabies.”

Lisa thrust a
People
magazine into my hand. “Here, Mama. Read about the fifty most beautiful people of the year.”

Dr. Grant called us in in a few minutes. “It’s a bite. We’re going to have to lance it and start him on antibiotics.”

“Could it have been a raccoon?” I asked.

“My guess is a possum. There are actually three breaks in the skin and they have teeth like this.” She held her three middle fingers to her mouth, apparently the universal symbol for possum. “He’ll be fine. He may be able to come home late tomorrow. Certainly by the next day.”

“It was a possum, wasn’t it?” the woman in the waiting room said as we left. “I knew it. Those things are mean when you rile them up.”

We were quiet on the drive home. Lisa hadn’t asked, but had simply opened the passenger door for me. I must still have looked pale.

“I’m going to call the boys,” she said as soon as we walked into the house. “They should be home from school by now.”

I left her in the den and went to clean up.

She was watching Oprah when I came back. She hit the mute button and said the boys were okay and sent their love. Their daddy had promised to take them to Ruby Tuesday for supper and they were pleased about that.

I sat down on the sofa. Oprah and Richard Gere were talking silently to each other. Probably about the peace and calm of Zen Buddhism. Something I could use a little of right now.

Lisa turned and looked at me. “Sam said Alan had told them that we had some problems we had to work on.”

I thought about the two children in Atlanta that I adored and how frightened they must be. Parents are children’s ultimate security, regardless of the children’s ages. Mary Alice and I were in our fifties when our mother had her first heart surgery, and our whole world had tilted.

“Maybe they could come over for the weekend,” I suggested.

Lisa nodded. “I probably shouldn’t have run off like I did.”

Her sense seemed to have returned with her hair color. But what would I have done when I was that age if Fred had informed me he was involved with someone else?

“Aunt Sister says I should have given Alan a good kick in the butt.”

“A lot your Aunt Sister knows. All her husbands were so old, a kick in the butt might have killed them.”

Lisa smiled.

“We’ll get it straightened out,” I promised.

For some reason she seemed to believe me.

I
cooked some spaghetti and opened a jar of Prego for supper. While Lisa and I were cleaning up, Fred walked out into the backyard and wandered around. Then Arthur came out into his yard, and the two of them stood at the fence talking.

“Arthur’s trying to find out if he can throw that lady, that first wife of his, off of Vulcan,” Fred said when he came in. “Her ashes, I mean. He says it’s what she requested. I told him to just go up there and do it, it wasn’t like he was littering.”

“Of course not.” Lisa swished a dishrag over the table. “I can think of a lot of places I’d rather be thrown off of, though.” She paused. “The Grand Canyon, or even Stone Mountain.”

“Ashes are scattered, not thrown,” I said.

“Same thing,” Fred said.

“Scattering sounds nicer.” I dried my hands, went into the den, and picked up my smocking. I was determined it was going to be a normal evening.

And it was until a little after nine. Lisa took
The Bridges of Madison County
which she said she’d heard was just like the movie, and she’d loved the movie, especially when Meryl Streep almost opened the truck door and went with Clint Eastwood, and disappeared into the guest room. Muffin followed her. Fred turned on the ball game and went to sleep, and I switched over to a Lifetime movie of the month. It was a good one, too. Patty Duke fighting for her grandchildren. Little Patty Duke with grandchildren. Mind boggling.

I kept hoping Alan would call, but he didn’t. I expected Mary Alice to call, but she must have gone out with pencil-thin Cedric again. Or somebody. I wondered about Woofer.

“Yew cain’t hev ’em!” Patty said, doing battle with a southern accent. Doing a pretty good job, too. I was rooting for her.

It was at this moment that I heard screaming. I hit the mute button. Definitely someone screaming my name.

“Fred,” I said, jumping up. “Something’s wrong.” By the time he was awake and I was headed toward the kitchen, someone was pounding on the back door.

“Patricia Anne!” I opened the door to a disheveled Mitzi who threw herself into my arms. “They’ve arrested Arthur!”

Fortunately, by this time Fred was there to help me. We got her to a kitchen chair where she collapsed.

“Who arrested him?” I asked. All right, so I wasn’t thinking too sharply.

“The police. They say he murdered Sophie Sawyer.” Mitzi dropped her head to the table with a bang.

“Hand me a wet paper towel,” I told Fred. “And a glass of water.”

I lifted Mitzi’s head and wiped her face. She sat like a
child while I did this. There was a red spot on her forehead where she had hit the table. She was probably going to have a bruise. I handed her the water. “Drink some, Mitzi,” I said.

Again, like a child, she followed instructions. “Thank you,” she said politely. She wiped her face with the wet paper towel and sipped the water. Fred and I sat down and waited. It was a few minutes before she continued.

“They came a few minutes ago and arrested him. Told him all that stuff he had the rights to and put handcuffs on him.” She held the paper towel to her face. “The same men who ate my coconut cake.”

“But why?” Fred asked. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they think Arthur killed her?”

“I have no idea. But we’ve got to do something to help him. Arthur can’t spend the night in jail. You know what all happens in jail. You watch TV.” Mitzi shuddered.

“I’ll call Debbie,” I said. “She doesn’t do criminal law, but she should know about getting him out on bail.”

“What’s going on?” Lisa was standing in the door with
The Bridges of Madison County
clutched to her chest.

“Damn fool policemen arrested Arthur Phizer,” Fred said.

Mitzi’s head hit the table again, but this time there was a wet paper towel between her and the wood so the thunk wasn’t as pronounced.

I dialed Debbie’s number, praying that I didn’t get her answering machine.

“Hello,” she said. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to hear her voice.

“Debbie,” I said, “Lord, I’m glad you’re there.”

“What’s wrong, Aunt Pat? Is it Mama?”

“No, honey, I didn’t mean to scare you. But Mitzi Phizer’s here and Arthur’s been arrested for murdering his first wife and we want to know what to do next. He can’t spend the night in jail.”

There was a moment of silence and then Debbie said, “Say what?”

I repeated the message while the three sitting at the table listened. They looked, I realized, like the three “See no evil” monkeys. Mitzi had her head down, her hands pressed to her ears. Lisa was rubbing her eyes, and Fred had his hands folded against his mouth.

“Mr. Phizer’s been arrested?”

“Yes. For poisoning the lady who died at the Hunan Hut the other day.”

“Joseph Batson’s mother-in-law? That was Mr. Phizer’s first wife?”

The three at the table were looking at me now.

“I’ll tell you about that later. But we’ve got to get him out of jail, Debbie. Tonight.”

“How come he murdered her?”

“He didn’t. Just tell us what to do.” I realized I was being abrupt. I added, “Please.”

“Are you sure they arrested him? Didn’t just take him in for questioning?”

“Mitzi said they read him his rights.”

“Lord.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Let me think.”

I waited while Debbie thought. Mitzi put her head back down on the table.

“Aunt Pat, I can’t think of a thing you can do tonight, If it were a DUI or something minor, I could probably go down and get him out. But not for murder. Ask Mrs. Phizer if she’s sure they said murder.”

I put my hand over the phone. “You’re absolutely sure they said murder, Mitzi?”

“Just like on TV. Read him his rights and everything.”

“Just like on TV. Read him his rights and everything,” I repeated to Debbie.

“Lord, Aunt Pat. They may not even allow him bail. They’ll have a hearing and the judge will have to decide. We might be able to get it done sometime tomorrow. The Phizers don’t have a lawyer?”

I looked over at Mitzi. “Have you and Arthur got a lawyer?”

“The man who drew up our will. I think his name’s Jake Mabrey.”

“A man named Jake Mabrey drew up their will,” I repeated to Debbie.

“I know Jake. This is out of his ballpark. Mine, too, Aunt Pat. I can recommend a couple of good criminal lawyers, though. You got something to write with?”

I got a piece of paper and a pen. “Okay.”

“Sam Levine’s good. But the best one in town is a woman named Peyton Phillips.”

I wrote the names down.

“I can try and get the bail hearing set up. But Aunt Pat, you’ve got to explain to Mrs. Phizer that if this is a cut-and-dried case, they may not set bail. And even if they do, it’ll be large.”

“Like how large?”

“We’re talking hundreds of thousands here, Aunt Pat. Maybe a million if they’ve got him for murder one.”

My face must have registered shock. The three at the table looked anxious.

I tried to act cool. “I don’t think that’s possible,” I said. Of course it wasn’t. Mitzi and Arthur were like Fred and me. They didn’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars lying around.

“He’s still going to need the best lawyer he can find. Ask Mrs. Phizer if she’d like for me to call Peyton. She may not be able to do it, but if she can, she’s the one they need and the sooner she’s involved, the better.”

“You ask her, honey. I think she’s calmed down enough.” I handed the phone to Mitzi.

“Debbie?” Mitzi said shakily.

“Not good,” I mouthed to Fred and Lisa. I motioned toward the den. They followed me in there and I told them what Debbie had said.

“Good God,” Fred said. “A million dollars? That’s ridiculous.”

From the kitchen we could hear Mitzi saying “Un-huh” occasionally.

“Old Arthur wouldn’t hurt a soul.” Fred reached for the remote and turned the TV off. “They need to be arresting some of these fools riding down the road shooting people.”

Lisa sank down on the sofa. “I park and ride the MARTA.”

Fred sat in his recliner. “We need a MARTA.”

“Un-huh,” Mitzi said in the kitchen.

I was getting a headache. I sat on the sofa, closed my eyes, and rubbed my forehead.

“That’ll give you wrinkles, Mama,” Lisa informed me.

I should worry.

Mitzi came in and sat in my usual chair. She had the greenish pallor of a person who had been sick for a long time. “They can’t do anything tonight,” she said. “Debbie’s going to call a woman she says is the best criminal lawyer in town and see what she can do.” She hesitated. “She says he’ll be fine tonight. They’ll put him in a cell by himself.”

I wondered if that were true or if Debbie had just told Mitzi that to make her feel better. I also wondered if she had told Mitzi how much the bail might be.

“Anyway, like I said, there’s nothing we can do tonight. Debbie says she’ll call me when she finds out what’s going on.”

“He’ll be fine,” Fred said.

Mitzi nodded. “I told Debbie to be sure they give him
his blood pressure medicine in the morning. I put it in his pocket, but they might have taken it away from him.”

“Where’s Arabella?” I asked. At this rate, I was going to be on blood pressure medicine myself soon.

“She went down to Brookwood Mall just before the police came. She said she needed to walk some.” Mitzi ran her hands through her hair. “I guess I’d better get home. She’ll be back soon. I’ve got to call Bridget and Barbara, too.”

Lisa stood up. “I’ll go with you, Mrs. Phizer. You got any bourbon? I make the best toddy for the body you ever tasted.”

Mitzi smiled. “I don’t think I can keep anything down, Lisa.”

“This toddy just spreads out through all your capillaries smooth as silk. You can feel it relaxing you.” Lisa took Mitzi’s hand. “Let me help.”

“I think I’ve just gotten an offer I can’t refuse.” Mitzi stood up. “I’ll call y’all when I hear from Debbie.”

“We’re right here,” Fred said.

After we heard the backdoor close, he and I looked at each other.

“I think your son has lost his mind,” Fred said. “That Lisa’s a prize.”

“She is,” I agreed, choosing to ignore the fact that Alan had suddenly become mine alone.

Mitzi’s phone call came an hour later; Lisa’s toddies had obviously done their relaxing bit. Mitzi informed us that Debbie had lined up Peyton Phillips, that there wasn’t anything that could be done until morning, that she, Mitzi, was going to bed, that Arabella and Lisa were playing gin and Lisa knew where the backdoor key was hidden. There was a definite slur in her speech.

I thanked her for calling, assured her everything would be fine, and that we would see her in the morning.

“Mitzi’s tipsy,” I told Fred as I hung up. “Lisa’s playing cards with Arabella.”

“Good. Let’s go to bed.”

Which we did.

I didn’t think I would go to sleep, but I did, falling quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep; a few hours later, I was awake just as quickly. None of the drowsy, half-dreaming I usually go through, but wide-awake alertness.

Had I heard something? I listened, but there was only the sound of Fred’s light snoring. Maybe it had been Lisa coming in that had awakened me.

I slipped on my robe and opened the bedroom door. The hall was dark, but the guest room door was partway open. It was a night of the full moon, and even though the blinds were closed, I could see a shape in the bed. So Lisa was home.

I closed her door quietly thinking I would go to the den and read. But first I needed a drink of water.

Without turning on any lights, I walked into the kitchen. The moon was so bright through the bay window that I could see the clock. Three o’clock. I poured a glass of water, but instead of going back into the den, I opened the door and stepped out onto the deck.

Birmingham is so mountainous that many of the houses, Mary Alice’s for one, have formidable decks and views. Nothing about our deck is formidable. It’s simply a large wooden platform with a couple of steps on each side, and a railing around it with a bench attached. A place to have cookouts. The gas grill is there, and pots of geraniums and begonias in the summer. The year before, we had splurged and bought a wrought iron table and chairs. An old aluminum chaise with several of its strips broken was still there, though, and I lowered myself into it gently, hoping it would hold.

It was a beautiful night, unusually mild for early Septem
ber. I looked up at the sky, trying to make out constellations. I can pick out the main ones, thanks to the local planetarium that has programs showing the Birmingham sky as it changes each season, but the moon was too bright to see many stars. The only sounds were from the distant interstate, and an occasional rustle or bird chirp. Mitzi’s house was dark which meant she was sleeping, I hoped.

Worry descended on me. Policemen didn’t come in and arrest people for murder without good reason. Not that I believed for a moment that Arthur could have killed Sophie. But they had evidence that was so strong, they believed that he had. And they must have thought he had a motive.