Murder Boogies With Elvis (16 page)

What it went to show wasn’t clear, but none of us questioned him. He told Tim Hawkins that he would be back as soon as he delivered the ladies to their homes. We followed him out to his once-black Chevrolet, which was older than mine, and had been, as Fred would say, rode hard.

“Don’t look down at the floor if you tend to get car-sick,” he said, opening the back door for me. “I ran over a concrete block one day and it came right through. I tried to hammer it down, but it’s too rusty. I’ve been meaning to get a carpet piece, but you might want to put your feet over the hole, so rocks won’t come up and hit you.

“The front’s okay,” he assured Dusk.

So much for age over beauty.

I moved over to the far side of the backseat away from the hole in the floorboard, but a spring that had worked its way through the upholstery looked too threatening for my good gray pants. I moved back to the other side and placed my feet over the hole, which reared up like a tumor.

In the meantime, Mr. Taylor had settled Dusk on the front seat. “Comfortable?” he asked her. If I had been a mean person, I would have reached over and snatched him bald headed, which would have been easy to do. Instead, I sank back among candy bar wrappers and
potato chip bags (Mr. Taylor favored sour cream and chives) and forced myself to relax.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Dusk reached in her purse for a Kleenex.

“Mrs. Hollowell,” Mr. Taylor said, “look on the floor on the other side and hand Dusk her makeup bag.”

Sure enough, there was a black bag that looked like a Norman Rockwell doctor’s bag on the floor. I hadn’t even noticed it. I picked it up and handed it over the seat to Dusk. It was so heavy, Estée Lauder herself could be hiding in there.

“Oh, Mr. Taylor,” Dusk said. “How did you get this out?”

“Just walked out with it before the police came. I figured they’d close everything down.”

“How did you know it was mine?”

“Recognized it from those summers when you did the Summerfest plays. You were so little, that bag was bigger than you were.”

Dusk opened the bag and looked inside. “Everything’s here,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor.”

“You’re welcome, Dusk.” Mr. Taylor cleared his throat. “Where do you live, Mrs. Hollowell?”

I told him, and he turned right onto Twentieth Street. We passed University Hospital. An ambulance was parked at the emergency room and a patient was being unloaded. Larry? I thought of Tammy Sue and felt my chest tighten. The day that Haley had been called to University Hospital when her husband, Tom, had been hit by a drunk driver was still a raw wound. Please, God, let Tammy Sue be luckier.

“Say you’re a retired schoolteacher, Mrs. Hollowell?” Mr. Taylor’s voice startled me.

“Last year,” I said. “I taught English at Robert Alexander.”

“Me, too. I taught music at North Jefferson County. I’ve been filling in down at the Alabama for years, though. They call me the Wurlitzer substitute.” He laughed slightly. “You know, like a teacher substitute.”

“I’d rather substitute at the organ than in a classroom.”

“God’s truth. I love that old organ.”

“You’re good at it, Mr. Taylor.”

Mr. Taylor beamed at Dusk’s compliment.

We went over the mountain, past Vulcan’s empty pedestal, past the entrance to the Club where Mitzi and I had had lunch a few days before, where we had run into Bernice and Day Armstrong.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed.

Mr. Taylor and Dusk both jumped.

“What?” Dusk asked, twisting around. “What’s the matter?”

“You gonna throw up?” Mr. Taylor eased the car over to the curb. “I told you not to look at the floorboard.”

“No. I’m not sick. I’m all right.” I had just suddenly remembered my purse hanging on the chair while Mitzi and I had lunch, how Bernice had sat down with us and Day had come to tell her that Dusk was sick. How Day had stood by my chair, by my open purse, leaned over to pat Mitzi’s arm. That’s where the switchblade had come from. I knew it in my bones.

“I’m all right,” I said again. I wasn’t. Pieces of the puzzle were coming together. Terrible pieces. Day in love with Griffin Mooncloth, who was married to Dusk and wanted to stay married to her, who wanted to stay married to her so badly that he was threatening to turn
her over to the federal authorities rather than lose her. Day coming up behind the line of dancing Elvises, plunging the switchblade knife into Griffin’s back and turning it, twisting it.

And there was more. Larry Ludmiller had said he had seen someone behind the line. He couldn’t identify her, but how could Day be sure if she saw him glance around. She couldn’t take any chances.

I began to shake. “I need to get home,” I said.

Fortunately it wasn’t far and Mr. Taylor didn’t waste time.

W
hen I got in my kitchen, I sat down at the table without even pulling off my jacket. I was shaking, but I couldn’t tell if I was really chilled or if it was nerves. Or maybe my fever was coming back. God forbid.

I got up, gulped down an antibiotic and an aspirin with a whole glass of water, and sat back down. Muffin jumped up on the table and rubbed against my propped arms.

“A cat on a table is totally unsanitary,” I told her, scratching behind her ears, listening to her purr. “You remember the switchblade knife that I thought one of Virgil’s family had put in my purse at Sister’s dinner party?” Muffin nodded. “Well, I was totally wrong. I know exactly when it was put in there and who did it. She had killed a man with it, and there was my open purse, just a perfect place to dump it.” I looked at Muf
fin. “Do you understand why women’s purses are such good places to hide things? Stuff gets lost in there with all the lipsticks and loose change and receipts. At the grocery store they hand you your receipt with the change on top of it, and you dump it all in your purse, and you tell yourself that someday you’ll clean it all out, but you never do, and the shelves in your closet get heavier and heavier with different-colored purses.”

Muffin lay down and closed her eyes. If she had been Mary Alice, she would have said, “What the hell are you babbling about?”

What the hell
was
I babbling about? What proof did I have that Day Armstrong was involved in Griffin Mooncloth’s murder? I could imagine Timmy Hawkins’s reaction if I called him and told him that my purse was open when Day just happened to be standing by the table for a second. And that I knew she had dropped the switchblade in it.

“What makes you think so?” he’d ask.

And I’d have to answer, “I just know.” At least I’d know better than to claim women’s intuition. Men have been known to die laughing over women’s intuition. I mean, really die. My great-aunt Sophie had a feeling one day that the hundred-year-old oak tree in their front yard was going to fall. Uncle Joe and his neighbor were standing in the yard laughing about women’s crazy intuition when the tree smashed them. Aunt Sophie had “Never Underestimate the Power of a Woman” inscribed on his tombstone and moved to the beach where she could fish every day and didn’t have to cut the grass.

Timmy Hawkins wouldn’t believe a word of that.

I put my head on the table, cradling it in my arms.
Even with my ears covered, I could still hear Muffin purring. Ice tumbled down in the ice maker in the refrigerator. Outside, Woofer decided to come out and bark at something. Afternoon sun sliced across the white kitchen floor. This was my world, safe, comfortable. In this world, vice presidents of banks didn’t cut out people’s gizzards with switchblades or hit people over the head with baseball bats. Especially if their mothers were friends of mine who gave me chairs to rock my granddaughter.

The ringing of the phone brought me straight up. If it was Mary Alice calling this soon, it meant that Larry was dead when they got him to the hospital. I reached for the phone on the counter. My hello came out not much louder than a whisper.

“Aunt Pat? Is that you?”

I was so relieved that for a moment I couldn’t answer Marilyn.

“Aunt Pat?”

I took a couple of deep breaths. “It’s me, honey.”

“Are you all right?”

No way I could go into everything that had happened. “Sinus,” I said.

“Bad?”

“I’ve been to the doctor. I’ve got some antibiotics.”

“Well, my news is going to cheer you up. Charles and I got married this morning. We just went down to the courthouse and did it.”

There was such a long pause here that Marilyn said, “Aunt Pat?” again.

“You and Charles Boudreau got married this morning?”

“We did. At the courthouse.”

“Well, congratulations, honey.” I hoped Marilyn
would think my lack of enthusiasm was due to clogged sinuses.

“Thanks, Aunt Pat. I know you’re surprised because I said I couldn’t live with him, but we’ve worked that out. And he does have excellent genes.”

“That’s nice. Excellent genes are important.” If damp dishrags could talk, they would sound like I did. But Marilyn didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not changing my name, and the children will have hyphenated names. Sullivan-Boudreau or Boudreau-Sullivan. We’ve got a few more details to work out. But the most important thing is that Charlie has bought the condo right next to mine. That way we can live together when we want to and then go home when we want to.”

I wanted to ask, “What about love?” Instead, I said that it sounded practical and asked if she had told her mother yet.

“Left word on her machine.” Marilyn giggled. “Charlie and I have business to attend to, Aunt Pat. He hasn’t signed the papers on his apartment yet. We’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Tell Charles I’m happy for you both.”

Astonished for them both was more like it. And to leave word on your mother’s answering machine that you were married? That was downright tacky.

At least I had something to think about other than Day Armstrong as a murderer and Larry Ludmiller on the verge of death. Marilyn had sounded happy. I got up and stuck a cup of water in the microwave. Some spiced tea would be good. I was warm enough to pull off my jacket, too. The shivering had stopped.

Maybe Marilyn would be happy. In cultures all over
the world there were arranged, loveless marriages that turned out very well. And Marilyn was no spring chicken like I had been when Fred and I got married. I’d been so much in love that the first time I washed a tub of our clothes together at the Laundromat, I thought I would die of happiness. I’ve never told anyone that, not even Sister. Especially not Sister.

I was taking the water out of the microwave when there was a tap on the kitchen door. I looked up and saw Bonnie Blue Butler standing there, a couple of large books propped on her hip.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door, grateful to see one of my favorite people in the world. “What are you doing off from work?”

Bonnie Blue nodded toward the books. “I’m working. These designs just came in, and I wanted Mary Alice to see them. She was supposed to meet me at her house, but she’s not there.”

“Come in.” One of the books was sliding sideways. I caught it just in time. “She’s at University Hospital. Larry Ludmiller, Virgil’s son-in-law, was hurt at the Alabama Theater. Hurt real bad.”

“What happened?” Bonnie Blue came in, and we put the books on the table.

“Somebody tried to kill him, Bonnie Blue. Hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”

“Well, do, Jesus. What would they go and do that for?”

I wanted to say, “Because he saw her kill Griffin Mooncloth.” Instead, I shrugged. “Sit down, and I’ll fix you some spiced tea.”

“Is he going to make it? That’s the husband of the cute little girl who was in the shop with you. Right?”

I nodded. “It’s her husband. And I don’t know if he’s
going to make it or not. He looked pretty awful.” I felt the shivering beginning again.

Bonnie Blue didn’t pick up on the fact that I had seen Larry Ludmiller, which suited me. I didn’t want to have to go through the events at the Alabama again.

“Marilyn just called,” I said, putting another cup in the microwave. “She and Charles Boudreau got married this morning.”

Bonnie Blue was the person Marilyn should have talked to instead of me. She clapped her hands and said, “Well, do, Jesus” again. And then, “Now isn’t that wonderful?” And I began to think that, yes, maybe it was.

“Mary Alice is going to be pleased.” I turned on the microwave and got out another envelope of tea. “Marilyn was considering the UAB fertility clinic. She really wants a baby.”

“Well, a turkey baster can do the job, but the old-fashioned way has got to be more fun.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I fixed the tea and took it to the table. “They’re going to live in condos right next to each other. Marilyn says she doesn’t think they could live together.”

“Sounds like a perfect arrangement. You have a fuss, you send him next door. Invite him to dinner when you want to. Send the kids over next door to play at Daddy’s apartment.”

“Oh, Bonnie Blue. You don’t believe that.”

“I know it.” She stirred her tea. “What do you want to bet that a wall gets knocked out in two months’ time?”

“We’ll see.”

Bonnie Blue was looking out at the yard. “Woofer okay?”

“He’s fine. That arthritis medicine has made him a happy dog. He even digs holes in the yard again. Chases chipmunks.”

“That’s great. I need to get some for Daddy.”

“Don’t tell me he’s quit chasing chipmunks.”

She and I smiled at each other. Her father, now in his eighties, is a renowned Alabama folk artist. He’s also a renowned ladies’ man.

“Not hardly. Just slowed down his catting a little.” She moved her tea to the side. “Let’s let that cool a minute. I want to show you what I’ve got picked out in these books. See what you think.”

I pulled my chair around. “What kind of books are they?”

“There’s a lady in Atlanta who designs wedding dresses for big, bold, and beautiful ladies like Mary Alice. These are some of her designs. She’ll also do the whole wedding party, but she specializes in larger sizes.”

Bonnie Blue had several pages marked. She opened one to a picture of a girl in her early twenties dressed in a white, strapless bridal gown that was probably a size four. “You have to use your imagination a little.”

I tried to imagine Sister in this dress and failed miserably.

“And then there’s this one.” Bonnie Blue turned to another page where the model was dressed in a clingy jersey number. Flat stomach. Perky breasts that would pass the pencil test.

“What do you do about underwear in this dress?” I asked.

“Don’t wear any. Get waxed.”

I cringed at the thought. I had an idea that Sister would, too.

We looked at several more pictures. Some of them actually had possibilities.

“We’ll need to get right on it,” Bonnie Blue said. “A couple of months is pushing it.” She pulled the other book over. “This is bridesmaids and mothers of the brides.” She looked at me and frowned. “I guess they could make one to fit you.”

Damned if I was going to feel guilty for being small.

Bonnie Blue glanced up at the clock. “I really need to get back to the store. Tell you what. How about I leave these books with you? You can look through them, and you’ll see Mary Alice before I will.” She drank her tea in one long gulp. “Be sure and point the jersey one out to her.”

“I will,” I said truthfully.

On the way out the door, she stopped and turned. “If Larry Ludmiller dies, it won’t have any effect on the wedding, will it?”

“I guess everybody would still be sad.”

“But they’d still have it?”

“I’m sure they would.”

“Good.” She waved and went down the steps. I swear she and Sister were cut from the same pattern.

I put on some jeans and a sweatshirt to take Woofer for a walk and then decided that I’d better wait as long as I could in case Sister called. I made a salmon loaf, stuck it in the oven, and cut up some squash to boil. There was a package of angel-hair slaw in the refrigerator. I dumped it in a bowl, drizzled John’s slaw dressing on it, and put it back in the refrigerator.

For a little while, between Marilyn’s news, the bridal gowns, and fixing supper, I had managed to keep Day Armstrong at the back of my thoughts. But as soon as I sat down in the den, she came whirling back.
I couldn’t even concentrate on the new Oprah Book Club selection. When the phone rang, I grabbed for it. Her second victim was dead, I knew it.

But it was Debbie. Had Marilyn called me? What did I think about it? Was I as shocked as she was? Marilyn had said that the last thing she would ever do was marry Charles Boudreau, and what on God’s earth were they thinking about living next door to each other? Had I ever heard of such a thing? Did I think it would work out? Did I think Marilyn had lost her mind?

I admitted that I was surprised. And then I told her what Bonnie Blue had said about the wall coming down.

“I hope so. I know I wouldn’t want Henry living next door.”

We were both quiet for a moment, thinking. Then we burst out laughing. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t move her husband out sometimes. Just next door.

Then I asked her if she had heard about Larry Ludmiller.

“That he didn’t come home last night? Yes. Mama told me Tammy Sue was beside herself with worry.”

“No. That we found him at the Alabama Theater almost dead. Your mama didn’t call you? Somebody had hit him on the head with a baseball bat.”

“Oh, my God, Aunt Pat. Where is he? Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know, Debbie. He’s at University Hospital. I’m waiting for your mama to call.”

“Oh, that’s awful. And poor Tammy Sue.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then I said, “Debbie,
I think I know who did it. Who hit him. Who killed Griffin Mooncloth, too.”