George, Anne (10 page)

"Here."

I followed his voice to the den, where he sat in his recliner. An open beer was on the table beside him, and he looked at me over the pages of The Birmingham News. "How was the jail? And that was a rather cryptic note you left me. Which friend did you spring?"

"Trinity Buckalew, Meg Bryan's sister. She's coming in with Haley."

"Now?"

I didn't have to answer. Trinity swept in, all six feet two of her, her bright blue cape and hat startling in the darkening room. Fred leaped from his chair.

"He's so polite," I murmured to Haley.

"I'm Trinity Buckalew." Trinity advanced on Fred, hand held out. "Your wife has been kind enough to offer me your hospitality."

"That's great." Fred put the paper down and shook hands. "It's so nice meeting you."

"My father is a prince," Haley whispered to me.

"Don't say that," I whispered back. Then, "Let me take your cape and hat, Trinity. And make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?"

Trinity handed me the cape and hat. "You got any Blackjack?"

"Probably. I'll see. Water? Ice?"

"Just hand me the bottle. That'll be fine. And a glass, of course."

Another fit of coughing from Haley. "I'll get it," she gasped.

"That child needs some cough syrup," Trinity said, sitting on the sofa as Haley disappeared into the kitchen.

"I'll go check on her," I said, "and get us some snacks."

In the kitchen, Haley was standing on a little foldup stepladder and looking in the top cabinet where we keep our liquor. Since I don't drink, and Fred's fond of beer, the bottles stay there a long time. "Here's some Jack Daniel's," she said. "It's dusty. Does whiskey go bad?"

"How should I know? I doubt it. Just dust it off." I reached into the pantry for some Ritz crackers, and into the refrigerator for pepper jelly and cream cheese.

"She's wonderful, isn't she?" Haley nodded her head toward the den. "I wish we had gotten a chance to know Meg better, too."

Meg's words, "I'm a big dog," came whispering into my ear. "It's hard to believe she committed suicide," I said. "In fact, I think Trinity's right. Somebody, maybe Judge Haskins, maybe somebody else like that woman at The Club, pushed her out of the window."

"That's hard to believe, too."

"I know." I handed Haley a tray for the bottle and a linen napkin. "Here. Might as well do it right."

When I got into the den with the snacks, Trinity was telling Fred what I had just told Haley, that Meg's death was not a suicide. She added that there wasn't a suicidal bone in Meg's body, and that most likely Bobby Haskins had killed her because his great great grandfather was a bastard and Meg had the proof.

"I saw it," I said, passing the crackers around. "Bastardy papers from the State of Georgia."

"What are bastardy papers?" Haley asked.

I fully expected Trinity's lengthy explanation to cross Fred's eyes in boredom. Instead, he seemed intrigued.

"People would kill over that?" he asked.

Trinity poured a substantial shot from the bottle of Black Jack. "My friend, Georgiana Peach, who is a renowned genealogist and owns a genealogical research service, says it's more common than people realize." She held up the glass. "Cheers." Chugalug.

Fred watched with admiration. Prince of a fellow. "What do the police say about Meg's death?"

"They said they were looking into it. But they released the body to Bobby, so I'm sure that's the end of it. God only knows what he told them. But it's amazing how much influence judges have on the police."

"What kind of judge is he?"

"Probably not a very good one." Trinity poured another drink.

Fred didn't push the point. But I knew the answer. "Bankruptcy," I said. "Mary Alice found out." I eyed the glass in Trinity's hand. "Shrimp Creole in a few minutes. Soon as the rice is ready. Okay?"

"Is that an elected or appointed position?" Fred was asking as I went into the kitchen.

We ate supper in the breakfast nook. I had turned the back lights on so we could see the quince and forsythia. A few early-blooming tulips that had opened to the warm sun had closed for the night but were still bright spots of color. Woofer came out and looked at us.

"Peaceful," Trinity said.

I looked at her and saw how haggard and tired she looked. She had received the terrible news about Meg yesterday, had driven from Mobile this morning, and ended up in jail this afternoon. Haley noticed, too. She reached over and covered Trinity's large splotched hand with her small smooth one. It's times like this when I realize what a good nurse Haley must be.

"How's the ENT?" her father asked her.

And Haley blushed. "Fine."

Fred looked at me questioningly; I smiled.

Harley changed the subject. "Aunt Sister's gone to the opera in Atlanta with some old guy in his jet."

It worked. "The one she was dancing with at the wedding?" Fred asked.

"If you can call moving slightly dancing. His name is Buddy Johnson," I added. "She thinks it's like
Pretty Woman
and she's Julia Roberts and he's Richard Gere."

Fred smiled sweetly. "Good for her."

"No sarcastic remarks?"

"Of course not."

"Patricia Anne," Trinity said. "You are married to a prince. I can tell."

Haley coughed into her napkin.

We were sitting at the table enjoying an after-dinner cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Our front doorbell rings so seldom at night that Fred, Haley, and I looked at each other, startled.

"Maybe it's a package," I said. "I ordered a bathing suit from Lands' End."

And that was how I happened to be the one to go to the door, the one to look through the peephole and see Judge Bobby Haskins standing there, the one to confront him.

"Is Trinity here?" he asked without even so much as a "Good evening."

"Yes."

"Then, here." He held out a package. "Give this to her."

"Why don't you give it to her yourself?" The judge was being too snippy to suit me.

"It's Meg."

I looked at the small cardboard box tied with ordinary twine, and tried to connect it with the woman I had had lunch with the day before. "Meg?"

"Meg. Please give it to Trinity. Tell her I had nothing to do with Meg's death."

In the dim front porch light, the judge looked as if he had been crying. "Please," he repeated. I held out my hand and took the package.

"Thank-you, Mrs. Hollowell." He turned and went down the steps. I watched him get into his car and drive off.

"Your bathing suit, Mama?" Haley stood behind me. "Let's see it."

"It's Meg." I held the box up to show her. It weighed more than I would have imagined.

"What?" Haley stepped back as if the contents of the box were suddenly going to fly out. "Are you serious?"

"Judge Haskins brought them for Trinity. He said to tell her he had nothing to do with Meg's death."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

"Why don't you wait until morning to give them to her? No use upsetting her more tonight."

"You mean after you're gone. Don't be silly, Haley. You poke around inside people's insides all day. This is just ashes."

"Tell me about it."

The package felt warm in my hands, which I knew was my imagination. I carried it into the den, and saw that Fred and Trinity had just walked in there to finish their coffee.

"What you got?" Fred smiled. "The bathing suit?"

The expression on my face alerted them, I'm sure. For a moment I just stood there, and then I put the package in the middle of the coffee table and said, "Trinity, Judge Raskins left this for you. It's Meg. And he said to tell you he had nothing to do with her death."

Trinity looked at the box and then at me. Then at the box again. "Meg's ashes?"

"Yes."

What happened then was the last thing I had considered happening. Trinity Buckalew fainted. Haley, thinking Trinity was dizzy, reached to steady her and ended up on the floor underneath her.

"Lord, Mama," Haley gasped. "Look what you've done."

The next few moments were all confusion. Fred and I extricated Haley, who said she was okay and who immediately felt Trinity's pulse and looked in her eyes.

"Let's put her feet up on the sofa," she said.

"You think I should I call 911?" I asked.

"No!" Julia Child's voice, weak but forceful. "Where's the Black Jack?"

I looked at Haley and she nodded yes. I ran to the kitchen and got the bourbon. This time I didn't bother with a glass, no time for niceties. Nor was one needed. Trinity, by now propped against the sofa, turned the bottle up and took a hefty swig.

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I'm sorry," I told Haley. "I'm sorry," I told Fred.

Fred reached over and put his hand over my mouth. "Hush," he said gently. "None of this is your fault."

Which was true, of course, but something in my psyche makes me feel guilty for everything that goes wrong. I am convinced that the source of this cosmic guilt is named Mary Alice. She makes me feel it's my fault if we have a picnic planned and it rains. In the current crisis, Haley's "Look what you've done, Mama" hadn't helped.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Haley said.

"I'm sorry," Trinity said, raising the bottle again.

If the package on the table had suddenly said, "I'm sorry," I don't think I would have been surprised. Let's face it. Guilt is a universal chick thing.

Haley got a cold cloth for Trinity's head, and we helped her up onto the sofa. Fred took the whiskey bottle back to the kitchen, and I heard the cabinet door shut. Enough.

"I'm really better," Trinity said. "I just do that sometimes. Faint like that. The doctors say it's because I'm so tall. The blood doesn't make it to my head or something like that."

I looked at Haley and she nodded yes. "It's the same thing as when you stand up too quickly," she explained.

"And Bobby wouldn't come in and face me." Trinity's voice was muffled by the washrag covering her face.

"He seemed very upset. I think he'd been crying."

"It's spring. He's allergic to pollen."

"No. He was upset."

"As well he might be." Trinity folded the cloth and held it to her eyes. "I don't think I believed it until now. Meg's really gone, isn't she?" She lowered the cloth and looked at the package. "Almost." She hiccuped and sat up. "If you will excuse me, I need to use the little girls' room."

"Down the hall," I said. "Do you need some help?"

"I'm fine." She hiccuped again, stood, swayed a moment, and then headed down the hall. "I'm fine," she called back.

Fred, Haley, and I looked at each other and at the package that sat incongruously in the center of our coffee table.

"Judge Haskins really was upset," I said. "I don't think he had anything to do with Meg's death."

"He certainly wouldn't have killed her because she knew an ancestor of his was a bastard." Fred sat down in his recliner. "That's ridiculous."

"He might have killed her for what's on her computer, though. I still think we need to check that out," Haley said.

"But she didn't have the computer with her when she went to his office. She left it with your Aunt Sister and me."

"He tried to steal it, though. You just happened to see him and stop him."

"Wait a minute," Fred said. "Meg was doing research. She would have made backup disks of everything."

"True," Haley agreed. "But the hard drive would have everything right there."

Let them talk about their computers. I went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. Ten minutes later when I came back into the den, Haley and Fred were still talking about the merits of a certain computer program.

"Where's Trinity?" I asked. "She hasn't come back?"

They looked at me blankly. I raced down the hall, expecting to see all six feet two of her dead on the bathroom floor. But the bathroom was empty. A glance in the middle bedroom told me why. Trinity Buckalew was sound asleep stretched from one corner of the bed to the other.

Haley, who had followed me, handed me an afghan, and I spread it over Trinity and slipped off her shoes.

"Size thirteen," I whispered to Haley, and turned off the light.

Seven I rinity Buckalew was still asleep when I left to take Woofer for his morning walk. I had put a pair of Fred's pajamas and a new toothbrush in the guest bathroom the night before, and a peek told me she had found them. Fred had left very early, telling me to go back to sleep. We hadn't talked about his problems with Universal Satellite the previous night. In fact, Haley had stayed until after ten, and Fred had gone to sleep in his chair long before that. If he had heard anything, though, he would have found time to tell me.

The morning was sunny and still. Too still. People who live in Alabama are suspicious of warm March days when there is no breeze stirring. It means the warmth and humidity of the Gulf of Mexico are sitting right over us. A cold nudge from the north, which is inevitable in March, and tornado sirens start blasting. But that was to worry about later. The morning was absolutely beautiful with the whole neighborhood smelling of wisteria, and dogwood and cherry trees vying to see which could be brighter. Woofer, that admirable mix of every breed of dog known to man, enjoyed himself thoroughly, checking out which dog, cat, or squirrel had been by, and blazing the trail himself for the ones who would follow.