George, Anne (28 page)

Sometime during the night, a heavy fog had settled over Birmingham. This is a fairly common occurrence here, as the humidity from the Gulf of Mexico rushes up and bumps into the mountains. Woofer especially enjoys our walks on these days, and this morning we took our time. Fog always activates messages left by other animals through the years, and Woofer wants to stop and read them all, as well as answer them.

Fred's car, with its lights on, pulled up beside us. "Hi, sweetie, you okay today?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Fine. I'llcall you later."

Mitzi Phizer had just come out to get her paper, and waved at Fred. "Such a nice man," she said. I agreed.

I still say that everything that happened that day wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been Bo Mitchell's day off. I called the station as soon as I got home, and was informed that Bo was off, but would I like to talk to someone else? The only person I could think of was the Rambo guy. So I made the decision to wait until the next day, when I could talk to Bo. Then I sat down at the kitchen table with the morning paper. One of the stories on the front page was the questioning of Judge Haskins's wife, Moira, 37, concerning his murder. Moira (what kind of a Southern name was that?) had not been visiting her relatives as was first reported. Also being questioned was Jennifer Louise Hall, 24, who discovered the body.

I shook my head. How had a lady like Meg Bryan ever gotten mixed up with a womanizer like Bobby Haskins? Surely he had been the same when he was a young man.

The phone rang. Julia Child's voice. "Georgiana is rallying. She told me where to find the information on Heidi Williams. Her mind is very clear this morning."

"That's wonderful news," I said. "Is it down in the office? You'll need to know the alarm combination."

"I have it. I was hoping you might have the time to go get the information, though. I want to stay here at the hospital. They're letting me sit by Georgiana's bed most of the time, and she finds it comforting."

"Sure." Being polite. "Does she have a key hidden somewhere, or do I need to come by and get one?"

"In a fake rock in a flowerpot by the door."

Dear Lord. I wrote down the alarm combination and went to get cleaned up. I wanted to talk to Heidi Williams before I reported her whereabouts to Cassie or Georgiana. I was getting dressed when the phone rang again. This time it was Haley.

"Why aren't you at work?" I asked.

"I am. We're taking a break between cases. We just did a five bypass one. The Roto-Rooter man couldn't have gotten through those arteries."

That put a lovely picture in my mind.

"I just wanted to tell you I want to make Papa's birthday cake. I saw Martha Stewart do one on television last night that was a vegetable garden. All the little vegetables were made out of marzipan. The little cabbages were wonderful."

"You want to decorate a cake with marzipan vegetables?"

"It looked like fun. I'd love to. There were little carrots and eggplants and a picket fence. The dirt was chocolate. Isn't that cute? You haven't ordered one yet, have you?"

"No. I was going by Savage's this morning."

"Well, let me do it. Where can you buy marzipan?"

"Vincent's Market."

"Thanks, Mama. We'll see you tonight."

Marzipan cabbages! She was going to make marzipan cabbages and didn't know where to buy marzipan! Love had done a number on Haley.

I called Sister to see if she wanted to go with me to locate Heidi, but she wasn't home. I left word that I was going to The Family Tree and would call later. I also said I had tried to reach Bo Mitchell and it was her day off. She might want to run our theories by a guy named Rambo.

The little shops with the apartments over them were so attractive that I admired them again as I went by, thinking it would be nice to have a business of some kind. One that was open two days a week. Maybe a consignment shop. Or a very special antique shop where you could hit all the garage and estate sales, grab the best stuff, and resell it. All kinds of collectibles. Mary Alice served on the board of every charitable and art group in Birmingham, but that wasn't my cup of tea. Maybe when Frances Zata retired, she and I could get together on some project.

I pulled around to the back and parked by Geor-giana's car. The key was in the fake rock just as Trinity had said. I let myself into the apartment, which was beautiful and light even on a foggy day. It was a happy apartment, I realized, as I admired the colorful ladder-back chairs that Georgiana had painted. I found myself hoping that whatever was going on with The Family Tree, the record changing, the murders, that Georgiana Peach wasn't involved.

The panel for the downstairs alarm was just inside the door of the upstairs apartment. I took the combination from my purse and opened the panel. I certainly didn't want to make a mistake here and set off a burglar alarm.

But the alarm wasn't on. A green light shone brightly at the top of the numbers. Across the light was the word "Clear." No mistaking the message. I opened the door and walked down the steps to The Family Tree office.

If I'd had any sense at all, I'd have turned around and hauled ass when I heard the music, Vivaldi's
Spring,
coming from the office. In fact, I should have hauled ass when I saw the green light on the alarm. Truthfully, I don't know what I was thinking of, maybe that Heidi had shown back up or that Cassie was a nice person after all and 1 was mistaken. All I know is I heard the light, airy music flowing out into the two-story foyer with its palladian window, and I traipsed right into the office with a smile on my face to see who was there.

"Oh, my God!" Meg Bryan exclaimed from the love seat.

"Shit! I forgot to set the alarm." Cassie was sitting in front of the computer we had looked at the day before.

I looked around calmly. The office was, indeed, lovely. The rug—why hadn't I noticed the rug the day before? It was an emerald green with a border of peach flowers. Were they peonies? Mitzi would know. And Cassie with her hair in a French braid today. It looked terrific, elegant, as did her yellow linen jacket with the sleeves pushed up. And Meg, frail little Jes-

sica Tandy Meg, the Southern lady, seated at the coffee table, her hands, veined and mottled, fluttering toward her throat.

And then I turned to Meg and said one of the stupidest things I've ever said. "You're not dead, are you?"

Her fingers caressed the sides of her throat. "Of course I am. My ashes are in Fairhope right now, thanks to my dear sister."

I sank down in a wicker rocker, my palms pressed to my chest, where my heart was pounding. Calm, Patricia Anne. Stay calm. "Trinity is very upset because she thinks you're dead," I managed to say in a voice that didn't sound like mine.

"You hear that, Cassie?" Meg asked.

Cassie came over and sat in the other wicker chair. "I hear it. Sad, isn't it?"

Meg turned to me. "Did Trinity tell you she slept with both my husbands?"

"Of course not," I lied. "All I know is she fainted when Judge Haskins brought us your ashes."

"Dear Trinity. I'll bet she shopped for antiques on the way home so she could write the trip off."

I didn't say anything and Meg laughed. "She did, didn't she? What did I tell you, Cassie? I knew she would."

Cassie smiled, a faint smile. "Meg," she gestured toward me, "we have a problem here."

Meg smiled back. "We certainly do."

"I'm not a problem for you," I said, standing up on shaky legs. "Y'all just go on with what you're doing. I need to go run some errands."

"Sit down," Meg ordered. Her face no longer reminded me of Jessica Tandy. Maybe a warden from a women's prison movie. I sat.

"What's going on?" I asked. "I don't know what's going on here."

Meg and Cassie both laughed, as if I had told a wonderful joke.

"Spring cleaning," Cassie said. For the first time, I noticed three cardboard boxes with "Twelve Litres, Canadian Mist" printed on them.

Meg held up a delicate cup. "I'm taking a coffee break, though. Would you like some, Patricia Anne?"

I shook my head no. It had occurred to me that I needed to get out of here, and fast. I looked toward the front door. Maybe it was unlocked? I could kick the coffee table over and run like hell, hoping the overturned table would get in their way.

"Cassie," Meg asked, "do you know what Patricia Anne is thinking?"

"Of course." Cassie turned toward me. "The front door's locked, Mrs. Hollowell. Forget it."

The Vivaldi came to an end, and there was a moment's silence before Beethoven's Sixth began.

"Nice tape," Meg said, tilting her head slightly toward the music.

"Victoria's Secret," Cassie explained. "Buy twenty dollars' worth and you can get the tape for, I think, three dollars. Something like that. It's a good deal."

"Hmm." Meg sipped her coffee while I marveled that such glorious music could be so threatening.

"Georgiana said Judge Haskins killed you," I said.

"She meant it metaphorically. And truthfully."

"Would y'all like to tell me what's going on?" I asked.

"Not especially, but I guess we'll have to, don't you think, Cassie?"

"Why?" Cassie asked.

"It would be polite, Cassie. Remember the definition of good manners is not making someone uncomfortable, and I get the impression that Patricia Anne is very uncomfortable right now."

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.

"Right through that door," Meg smiled. "Leave your purse here."

There were no windows in the bathroom, as Meg well knew. There was a framed poster of Monet's Garden above the toilet, and a mirror above the sink. Could I break one and come charging out with a piece of glass? Take off my blouse, wrap it around my hand and hit the mirror hard enough to break it? Break every bone in my hand?

"Don't try anything, Patricia Anne," Meg called through the door. "I have a tiny pistol in my pocket. Loaded, I assure you, and very lethal. I can assure you of that, too."

My fear was becoming tempered with anger. I opened the door and said, "I want to know what the hell's going on. You have no right to treat me this way."

"You are so right, dear. It's abominable. And you and your sister were so nice to me at the wedding." Meg sat back down on the love seat and motioned for me to sit in the wicker rocker again. Cassie was kneeling at a bottom file, riffling through manila folders. Occasionally she would take one out and put it into a Canadian Mist box. Anyone looking in, hearing the music, would have thought it a peaceful scene, two old ladies talking while a younger one leisurely went about her work.

"It's Heidi Williams who's dead, isn't it?"

Cassie looked up from the floor. "Splat."

"Don't be crude, Cassie." Meg pleated the full skirt of her blue shirtwaist dress as if she were folding a paper fan. "Yes, I understand Heidi is going to be given a fond farewell party at the Grand Hotel next week. I'm sure it will be nice."

"But why?"

Meg leaned forward. "Because I needed to be dead. Heidi was my age, my size—"

"Wearing your clothes," Cassie added.

"Carrying my purse." Meg turned toward Cassie. "You know, I still wonder if a woman would jump carrying her purse. I think we should have left it in the restroom."

"Doesn't matter," Cassie said.

"I guess not. It was a good Aigner purse, though. I just wasn't thinking."

"Wait a minute," I said, "let me get this straight. You made Heidi Williams put on your clothes and then you pushed her out the window?"

"Well, just my jacket. Heidi always wore flowered dresses like the one I had on that day. They were enough alike."

I thought of the Laura Ashley apartment, the little dog.

"Heidi wasn't blessed in the brain department," Meg said, "and I gave her a song and dance about trying on my jacket because I was going to order her one since she had admired it so. I needed to see if the size was okay."

"She believed that?" I closed my eyes, willing the tears not to come.

"Of course. It was to be a gift for all her help."

"Heidi had turkey brains," Cassie said.

Meg giggled. "Yes, she did, didn't she?"

I remembered that day vividly, the anguish on the judge's face as he ran toward Sister and me. I turned to Meg. "The judge really thought it was you, didn't he?"

"We figured he wouldn't look too closely. Bobby was as easy to read as a book."

"That's the truth," Cassie agreed.

"The extent of his grief was a pleasant surprise, though. I thought that was sort of sweet, didn't you, Cassie?"

"I guess so."

My mind was not working right. The shock of walking right into Meg and having her calmly admit to killing Heidi Williams had knocked me for a loop. "Calm down, Patricia Anne," I kept saying to myself over the other message my brain was sending out, "You're in a hell of a situation, Patricia Anne."

"How's it going, Cassie?" Meg asked.

"I'm about through."