Murder Makes Waves (13 page)

“Jason Marley had the same motive,” I said. “He’s Mr. Blue Bay Ranch now and can do anything he wants with the property.”

“Oh, Patricia Anne, don’t be ridiculous!” Frances got up from the floor and stretched stiffly. “That man lives in a pink house!”

So much for all the psych courses Frances had taken.

After lunch, Frances settled down to watch her favorite soaps, and Mary Alice and I went next door to talk to Fairchild.

“Go away!” he yelled through the door when we knocked. “Leave me alone, damm it!”

“It’s me, Fairchild,” Sister called. “Me and Patricia Anne. Are you okay?”

An eye appeared at the peephole. “Are you by yourselves?”

“Of course we are.”

We heard the scrape of the chain in the security latch, and the door opened. “Come in quick,” a disheveled Fairchild said.

We practically jumped inside, and Fairchild shut the door and locked it.

“What’s the matter?” Sister asked. “What’s going on?”

“That damn woman sheriff is driving me nuts.” He led us into the living room. “She’s been here twice today, asking the same questions.”

I tried to soothe him. “She’s just doing her job, Fairchild.”

“Bull! Is wanting to know how often Millicent and I had sex doing her job? Wanting to know when the last time was?” He plunked down in his recliner. Sister sat on the sofa across from him and leaned forward with interest.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her it was none of her damn business.”

“What else did she ask you?” My sister knows no shame.

“Stuff about money. They’re hung up on the insurance policy Millicent left me. I told that woman, I said, ‘Lady, you’re going to have to look a hell of a lot farther than here to find a killer.’ And I said, ‘Don’t think for a minute that Emily Peacock did it, either. She loved Millicent like a sister.’”

“What did she say to that?” I asked.

“That she would be back later.” Fairchild sighed, crossed his arms, and scowled out at the Gulf. “There wasn’t nearly this much fuss when Margaret died.”

“That’s the way it goes, Fairchild,” Mary Alice said. “My third husband, Roger Crane? He died on an airplane halfway across the Atlantic. Fortunately, we were coming this way. But they put us off in Nova Scotia or somewhere and took Roger to the hospital and him already dead and blue.
And then I had to figure out how to get him to Birmingham. And I thought to myself, now why didn’t they just let us stay on the plane to Atlanta? It would have been so much simpler. And all the insurance companies wanting to know how come the death certificate had latitude and longitude on it for place of death.”

I reached over and picked up a photograph album from the coffee table. It opened to a picture of Millicent, Laura, and Emily Peacock sitting at one of the concrete picnic tables the state of Florida has placed in its state parks. All three women were smiling at the photographer, and beyond them the Gulf was a blue line. Emily was caught by the camera as she lifted what looked like a forkful of potato salad.

Fairchild nodded toward the album. “That sheriff woman was looking at that.”

“Tell me about Emily,” I said, studying the picture. “I’ve never known her as well as I have Millicent.”

“Kind. Into environmental stuff like Millicent was. In fact, I think that’s how they got to be such good friends, out saving turtles and stuff. Giving folks hell for picking sea oats. They even went to Tallahassee and lobbied to get a law passed about the sea oats.”

Mary Alice reached over, took the album from me, and looked at the picture. “How much was Emily involved in the development of Blue Bay?”

Fairchild smiled. “She and Millicent kept Jason Marley from doing a lot of stuff over there. Stuff they thought might harm the environment. That man found out he better not cut down a butterfly bush or dump anything in the bayou.” Fairchild smiled again. “Funny thing is he got to thinking their way. He was telling me a few nights ago that he saw a porpoise coming up into Sellers Magee Bayou. He sounded real pleased.”

Mary Alice handed the album back to me. “That’s a nice picture, isn’t it, Mouse?” She pointed to it. “Especially of Emily.”

“I need to get some copies of these made for her daughter Barbara,” Fairchild said. “She got in from Atlanta a little while ago.”

“Is that where Emily will be buried?” I asked.

“Barbara said her mother had requested no funeral. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes sprinkled in the bay. So that’s what they’re going to do.” Fairchild paused. “The Stampses are pretty shook up, especially Eddie. The same folks from the sheriff’s department keep bothering them, too. Asking them if Millicent and Laura had had an argument, trying to get Laura involved. I swear it’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“They’ll figure it out, Fairchild,” Mary Alice assured him.

He put the backs of his hands to his eyes to wipe away tears. “It won’t bring Margaret and Emily back.”

“Millicent,” Sister mouthed to me.

I looked at the picture again, at the three smiling friends enjoying a picnic on the beach. And then I studied the picture, studied the rest of the pictures while Sister comforted Fairchild with stories of her husbands’ deaths.

I broke into the middle of Philip Nachman’s demise in the shower, which flooded the bathroom, to say we had to go. Right now. Mary Alice looked at me, surprised, but, give the woman credit, she didn’t argue with me. “We’ll check with you later, Fairchild,” she said, and after we were in the hall, “What’s the matter?”

“Emily Peacock didn’t commit suicide.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“But I
know
she didn’t.” I waited for Sister to ask how I knew.

“How do you know?”

“Emily shot herself in the right temple, didn’t she? Remember how she was slumped over on her left side?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“And the gun had slid from her right hand. Now,” I made Sister wait a moment, “think about that picture. She’s eating potato salad, right?”

“I think it was slaw.”

“I think it was potato salad, but whichever, she’s eating it with her left hand. The fork’s in her left hand.”

“Maybe she already had something in her right hand, like a cracker.”

“Nope. That’s why I looked at some more pictures. Emily was left-handed.”

Sister thought about this a moment and a slow grin began to light up her face. “Mouse,” she said, “that’s pretty good.”

A compliment from Sister!

When we went into the apartment, Frances was sitting on the sofa with the afghan over her head again.

“Woe,” she moaned through green-and-blue crocheted squares. “Oh woe.”

“What the hell is she talking about?” Sister asked me. “Whoa like a mule or woe is me?”

“Woe is me,” Frances wailed.

“Is David all right?” She hadn’t heard from him since he left for London with his new wife. I snatched the afghan from her.

That put the spark back in her. “Of course he is. Doesn’t have time to call his mother because he’s getting his brains screwed out by that hussy, but other than that, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Frances snatched the afghan back. “The murderer just
called. He said, ‘Millicent Weatherby, Emily Peacock, Laura Stamps, Mary Alice Crane.’ And then he laughed.”

Mary Alice and I both sat down. Frances disappeared under the afghan, forcing me to snatch it away again.

“What are you talking about?” Mary Alice asked. “That’s all he said? Just the names?”

“And then he laughed. Like this.” Frances gave a very credible creepy laugh. “It was a warning. No doubt about it. You’re after Laura Stamps, Mary Alice.”

“Did you say anything?” I asked.

“I just said ‘what?’ and he said the names again and then laughed. God! You should have heard him!” Frances shivered and reached for the afghan.

A banging on the door made us all jump.

“Don’t open it!” Frances said, covering her head.

“It’s Laura,” I said, looking through the peephole and opening the door.

“Phone call!” she gasped, almost ricocheting off the walls in her hurry to get into the apartment. “God! I’m next.”

“Told you,” came from under the afghan.

Laura plunked down into a wicker rocker and leaned over, her head between her knees. “Woozy,” she said.

I brought her a glass of water and glanced over at Sister who seemed to be taking this remarkably well.

“He laughed like this. Heh, heh, heh,” Frances said.

Laura looked up. “He called here, too?”

“I’m fourth on the list,” Mary Alice said.

“Tell them about his laugh, Laura,” Frances mumbled.

Laura took a sip of her water; the glass was shaking. “It was awful. And, believe you me, I’m taking it seriously. I’m getting the hell out of Dodge as soon as I can, and I suggest you do the same, Mary Alice.”

“I’m reading tonight,” Sister said, remarkably unconcerned, “and Millicent’s funeral is tomorrow. Maybe then.”

“What did the voice sound like?” I asked.

“Like a robot,” Frances said. “You remember the tall robot in
Star Wars
? Him.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Exactly what did he say, Laura?”

“He said, ‘Millicent Weatherby, Emily Peacock, Laura Stamps, Mary Alice Crane.’ And then he laughed that god-awful laugh.”

“Could it have been a tape?”

Frances stuck her head out from the afghan. “I asked him ‘what’ and he said it again.”

“So did I,” Laura said.

Sister got up. “He could have planned on that. Anybody want anything from the kitchen?” None of us did.

“Come walk to my apartment with me, Patricia Anne,” Laura said. “And then I’m going to lock myself in. I’m going to call the police, too.”

“Sure,” I agreed. And I did. When I came back, Sister was coming out of the kitchen with a ham sandwich.

“Want one?” she asked.

I shook my head no. “How come you’re not more worried about the phone call?”

“Well, Lord, Mouse. I’m fourth on the list and Laura’s still fine.”

“Y
ou see, we were looking at some pictures of Emily Peacock and realized immediately that she was left-handed and that whoever killed her hadn’t known that. They put the gun in her right hand, shot her in the right temple.” Mary Alice stuck her finger to her temple. “Bang.” It was a couple of hours later and she was explaining what “we” had discovered to Major Bissell. He and Haley had come in from a leisurely lunch at The Crab Trap and had been confronted with our news.

“I think Lisa Andrews from the sheriff’s department already knows this, Mrs. Crane. In fact, I understand suicide was ruled out pretty early.” Major Bissell ran his hand through his thinning blonde hair. “It was sharp of you to notice it, though.”

Mary Alice’s eyes narrowed and I stepped between her and Major Bissell quickly and inquired about lunch, which
he declared had been great—good food, good company. He and Haley smiled at each other, a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile. I glanced at my watch. How long had they been gone?

“Lisa Andrews told Major about the phone call, too, Aunt Sister. Called him at The Crab Trap.”

“And we’ll look into it, ma’am. Keep our eyes open. Since the only thing you have in common with the two victims is ownership of your apartment here, though, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

“Thank God!” Sister smiled sweetly. Laura had called an hour ago to inform us that the sheriff’s department considered the call a prank. Some prank! The old folks at Gulf Towers were really on one today!

“We’re looking forward to your reading tonight,” I said quickly.

“I’ve never read in front of an audience before,” he admitted. “I’ll probably be pretty nervous.”

“Do you want me to read it for you?” Mary Alice asked.

Bless his heart, he thought she was being nice. In fact, that’s what he said. “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Crane. If you see I’m not going to get through it, just shove me aside and take over.”

“I’d be happy to.”

Major Bissell took Haley’s hands, held them for a moment and said he would see her later.

“Tonight,” she promised.

“Have mercy,” Mary Alice muttered. She turned and headed for the balcony. “Patronizing punk,” she said to me as I joined her.

“I think he meant well,” I said in Major’s defense.

“He was patronizing, Patricia Anne. Policemen tend to be that way, or haven’t you noticed? Policemen and the teenag
ers who carry out groceries at the Southern Super Market. They may be the worst. One of them called me ‘Sweetheart’ the other day. Can you believe that? ‘Do you want me to put these eggs in front, sweetheart?’ That’s what he said, exactly. I considered hitting him over the head with my purse. It might have killed him, and he’d have dropped the eggs, but I don’t think any jury would have convicted me. Do you?”

“Justifiable homicide,” I agreed. I waved to Frances on the beach. “I hope she has on enough sunscreen.”

“Sharp. He thought it was sharp of us to figure out Emily hadn’t shot herself.”

“Well, it was.”

“I’m not about to tell him Eddie and probably Jason Marley are the murderers. See how long it takes him to figure that out.”

“Hmmm.” Laura had been dropped from her list of suspects, I noticed.

Haley came out to the balcony. “He’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

“Hmmm.” It was Sister’s turn.

“I got the stats for y’all. Thirty-three years old, Mama. Never been married. Graduate of Florida State. Born in Fort Walton. His father’s a charter boat captain, owns The Lucky Marie berthed at Kelly’s Wharf. His mother’s a church secretary.”

“You got everything but his sperm count, didn’t you?” Sister said. “I hope he’s doing better there than he is in the hair department.”

Give Haley credit: she laughed. “What’s the matter with you, Aunt Sister?”

“She thinks he was patronizing,” I explained. “And one of the baggers at Southern Super Market called her ‘Sweetheart’ the other day.”

“I can talk for myself,” Mary Alice said. “He was patronizing.”

“He’s nice, though.” Haley waved at Frances. “I hope she’s got on a lot of sunscreen. That sun’s hot today.”

“I thought you looked a little flushed when you came in,” I said.

“I think it’s time for me to go to the beach.” And with that, Haley left.

“Look what you did,” Mary Alice said.

The reading was to be held in a small amphitheater at Sunnyside. It’s a beautiful place, a very miniature Hollywood Bowl with a stage large enough for a small orchestra, backed and partially covered by a shell that really is in the shape of a shell and that, for some reason, has always reminded me of a giant night-light. There are no seats except a few benches in front of the stage, but most of the audience bring blankets or beach towels and sit on the grassy embankment. The beach towels are more comfortable.

So late that afternoon, I left a key for Fred at the security gate and we headed for Sunnyside equipped with a cooler full of drinks, sandwiches, and snacks. Cultural events at the Sunnyside amphitheater are always accompanied by the frequent squish of a pop top being opened. Which makes them more fun.

Mary Alice, the star of the event, had left earlier. She needed, she said, to test the acoustics. I had volunteered to go with her. I was taking the phone threat more seriously than she was. She had turned me down, though, saying she needed the time alone to “center” herself for her reading. We had to tell her a dozen times that she looked fine in her green-and-white silk dress.

She twirled for our inspection. “I didn’t find a black one I liked. You don’t think these white flowers look like supernovas, do you?”

Did she seriously think we were going to say yes?

It was by far the warmest, most seasonable evening that we had encountered on this trip. The temperature was in the mid-eighties long after the sun had set, and the humidity covered everything like a blanket. The breeze that blew in from the Gulf was heavy, and it was no surprise to see lightning far out on the horizon. Almost any night during the summer, enough heat and wind currents collide over the Gulf to create thunderstorms. These storms usually don’t affect the beaches, but they can be spectacular to watch.

So the night of Sister’s reading, we weren’t worried about rain despite the distant lightning. We climbed partway up the embankment and spread beach towels on the grass.

“Lord, it’s hot!” Haley took a can of Coke and held it against her wrist. “I’ll bet Major’s sweating.”

“What about Mary Alice?” Frances examined the contents of the drink cooler. “She was nervous as a cat.”

“She doesn’t sweat,” Haley said. “She exercises self-control.”

“What?” Frances came up with a Grapico. “I love these things. Yoo Hoos, too. We should have gotten some Yoo Hoos, Patricia Anne.” She followed Haley’s example of holding the drink can against her wrist. “So self-control can keep you from sweating?”

“That’s what Aunt Sister says.”

I opened the package of sandwiches and passed it to Haley. “Don’t believe a word of it. Those flowers on your Aunt Sister’s dress are going to get a good soaking tonight.”

“I heard that.” We looked up at green silk emblazoned with exploding stars or peonies. Take your pick. Sister leaned over and looked into the picnic basket. “What did you bring?”

“Pimento cheese sandwiches, tuna fish, cream cheese, chips.”

Sister shook her head no.

“Some grapes? An apple?”

“You got any Tums?”

I handed her a roll from my purse. “You’re not centered yet?”

She took several and popped them into her mouth. “There are a lot of people here,” she said, looking around. “I didn’t think there’d be this many.”

“You’ll do fine,” I assured her.

“I’m just worried about Major Bissell,” she said. “He’s been in the bathroom ever since he got here.”

Haley stopped unwrapping a pimento cheese sandwich. “Are you serious? Do you think I ought to go check on him?”

“Several people already have. That woman deputy, what’s her name? You know, the one who looks like a blue tube?”

“Lisa Andrews?” I asked.

“The one without a waist who’s investigating Emily’s death. She’s in there with him now.”

“Maybe they’re discussing police business,” Frances said. She ignored Sister’s look and calmly bit into a cream cheese sandwich.

There was a squawk over the speaker, which made everybody jump. “Sorry!” a voice said. In a moment, the sounds of James Galway’s flute wafted through the small amphitheater. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, to look up at the darkening sky where Jupiter was now visible. When we resumed our picnicking and conversations, we were subdued, caught in the spell of the music.

“I’ve got to go,” Mary Alice said. “There’s going to be
about fifteen minutes of music to settle everybody down. Then I’m reading first. Good thing.”

Haley said, “Maybe Lisa brought him some Immodium.”

I said, “Don’t sweat. Remember, you have to wear that dress to the funeral tomorrow.”

Frances said, “Break a leg.”

We ate our picnic while James Galway serenaded us and a slight breeze from the Gulf began to stir the halos that humidity had formed around the lights.

“I could get used to this,” Haley said as she stretched out on a beach towel with a bunch of grapes in her hand.

“Except for all the dead bodies, it’s just about perfect,” Frances agreed.

And then the music ended and a tall, thin young woman came out onstage and introduced herself as Peggy Wright, the director of the Sunnyside Writers’ Conference. This conference, so she told us, had been absolutely the best, with absolutely the best writers, absolutely the best weather, absolutely the best instructors, the best facilities, the best—

“No wonder Major Bissell’s hiding in the bathroom,” Frances murmured.

“Don’t you call that something?” Haley asked. “What she’s doing?”

“You call it a poor introduction,” Frances said.

“No, I mean isn’t there a literary term for listing things like that?”

“Are you talking about ‘cataloging’?” I asked, as the woman got to the “very best stories.”

“Sounds right.”

“‘Take It Away, Horace.’ And it will be read by its author, Mary Alice Crane of Birmingham, Alabama.” Peggy Wright held up her hand dramatically and Sister swept onto the stage and to the podium. Peggy hung around for a mo
ment or so as if there were some “absolutely best” she had forgotten to add, but a look from Sister sent her scurrying from the stage.

“I didn’t know Mary Alice was calling her story ‘Take It Away, Horace,’” Frances said while everyone was clapping. Whether the applause was for Peggy’s retreat or for Sister’s story being selected wasn’t clear. Probably both.

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” I whispered. And she did. The spotlight revealed a presence, a six-foot-tall, pink-haired woman in her sixties with 250 pounds packed into a green silk dress with supernovas exploding on it. If she was nervous, it didn’t show. She opened her manuscript, looked at the audience that immediately quit its rustling, put on her reading glasses and gave the best damn reading I’ve ever heard. The audience laughed so hard at poor Horace with his job from hell that she had to pause several times. But she handled that easily, sensing the right time to continue. When she finished, she and the wheelchair repo man got a standing ovation.

“She’s great!” Haley said, applauding enthusiastically.

“Great!” Frances concurred.

And she was, so good there were tears in my eyes that I realized were for the underlying sadness of the story. What a terribly thin line between comedy and tragedy. And Sister had walked that line with a perfect touch of black comedy. Damn, I was proud of her.

When everyone had settled down, Peggy Wright came back onstage and introduced Major Bissell. “Our own Lieutenant Major Bissell of the Florida Marine Patrol.” The crowd, warmed by Mary Alice’s performance, gave Major Bissell a good round of applause.

He looked pale, but if we hadn’t known he’d spent an hour or so in the bathroom, we probably wouldn’t have
noticed. He had chosen to wear his uniform, and with his round face and thinning hair, the spotlight made him look eerily like a child in a man’s body, a looming child-man. He read slowly and in a sibilant monotone, probably because of nervousness, but it suited the material perfectly. For Major Bissell’s story was told from the point of view of a serial killer who drives the beach road at night, looking into the houses and condos, choosing potential victims, watching them for days, circling ever closer until he can stand it no more and strikes. There were many of us in the audience who realized his story was based on fact and that the killer had never been caught.

The story ended with the killer approaching a young woman who is struggling in the rain to put her groceries in her car. He has been stalking her for days, and says, simply, “Can I help you, m’am?”

The story was a good one. It didn’t receive the standing ovation that Sister’s had, probably because it made the listeners uncomfortable. Major Bissell’s serial killer was too sane, too normal; he had a wife and children that he loved and who loved him. I think Frances spoke for us all when she said, “Wow, that gave me the creeps.”