Murder Makes Waves

  Anne George

  Murder Makes Waves

  A Southern Sisters Mystery

  For Jean and Joe

  with thanks for The Little Mermaid,

  King Tut, and The Top of the World.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  “She looks good, doesn’t she, Patricia Anne, in spite of…

  Chapter 2

  “And this Universal Metals wants to buy Papa out?” It…

  Chapter 3

  Frances and Haley both jumped at the chance to go…

  Chapter 4

  Haley and I were sharing the bedroom with twin beds.

  Chapter 5

  For a moment, there was utter confusion. I think Frances…

  Chapter 6

  After Haley and I were in bed, we heard the…

  Chapter 7

  When the door closed, I turned and looked at Fairchild.

  Chapter 8

  That night we watched the movies while we pigged out…

  Chapter 9

  Traffic was heavy between Emerald Waters and Gulf Towers; it…

  Chapter 10

  I awoke the next morning to the sounds of Haley…

  Chapter 11

  “Papa’s coming to protect us,” Haley said when I told…

  Chapter 12

  “You see, we were looking at some pictures of Emily…

  Chapter 13

  My sweet Fred’s car was in the parking lot at…

  Chapter 14

  The dark shape became one again with the water. Behind…

  Chapter 15

  I’ve been to meals after funerals that were very comforting,…

  Chapter 16

  The sun came out during the afternoon and the trek…

  Chapter 17

  Ten minutes later, there I was with bright red hair…

  Chapter 18

  After such a busy day, we welcomed a quiet evening.

  Chapter 19

  By the next morning, things had calmed down considerably. In…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Anne George

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “She looks good, doesn’t she, Patricia Anne, in spite of being dead,” my sister, Mary Alice, whispered.

  “Shhh,” I answered. But Sister is not easily shushed.

  “Don’t you hate it when they give dead people those fakey smiles? You know. Stuffing their cheeks like Marlon Brando. Couldn’t say a word if they had to.”

  The lady in front of us turned around. “Shhh.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. And to Mary Alice, “Shhh” again, accompanied this time by a small nudge with my elbow.

  The gray casket was blanketed in a simple arrangement of spring flowers and greenery. It loomed large in the small stone chapel. There was no music to comfort the mourners, though the stillness was broken by an occasional muffled sob. In the front row, the widower, his young face frozen, sat holding the hands of his two little girls.

  And then a stir as Father Patrick O’Reilly entered through a side door and took his place at the altar, directly above the casket. In the dim light, for no sun shone through the windows this day, his white robe seemed blue. He held out his arms in supplication.

  “My friends, our sympathy is extended to the family of Sarah Lane Goodall. She was a very special presence on this earth and she will be missed. We welcome you to this service in her memory. May we pray.”

  Every head in the chapel was bowed. The little girls on the front row leaned closer to their father.

  “Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, You willingly gave Yourself up to death so that all people might be saved and pass from death into a new life.”

  Beside me, Mary Alice began to sniffle.

  “Listen to our prayers, look with love on Your people who mourn for their dead sister. Lord Jesus, You alone are holy and compassionate: forgive our sister her sins.”

  “She didn’t do anything that bad!” Mary Alice whispered loudly.

  “Shut up!” I whispered back.

  “Do not let our sister be parted from You, but by Your glorious power give her light, joy, and peace in heaven where You live forever and ever. Amen.”

  Mary Alice sobbed loudly into a Kleenex. “It was just that one time and her husband wasn’t paying her any attention. Ignoring her.”

  The woman in front of us turned around again. I thought she was going to tell Sister to hush again. Instead she said, “I’m glad the priest got there in time to hear her confession. Maybe she’ll still make it into heaven.”

  “I wonder how much repenting it takes,” Mary Alice said.

  “Shhh,” came from all directions.

  Mary Alice looked over her shoulder. “Well, it’s something some people need to know.”

  “Y’all shut up,” I said to the two. “You’re disturbing everybody in the theater.” I handed the popcorn to Mary Alice. “Here.”

  On the screen, ghosts pushed their way between the mourners. For a moment I was confused, then I remembered they were characters who had died during the earlier part of the movie. Sort of like Our Town, I realized, minus the umbrellas.

  The camera panned on the guilty man as he sneaked into the back of the church. His shifty eyes, slicked back hair, and bow tie were a dead giveaway.

  “Looka there, Patricia Anne.” Mary Alice poked me in the arm. “You’d think he’d be ashamed to show his face.”

  “He’ll get his comeuppance,” the woman in front assured us.

  “Shhh,” the people around us again demanded.

  I’d had enough distractions. I spotted an aisle seat several rows back and moved while Father O’Reilly was intoning, “Hail! Holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.”

  Unfortunately, Mary Alice realized the seat beside her was empty. “Mouse?” she whispered my nickname loudly.

  “Mouse!” the woman in front squealed.

  “Mouse!” There was a lot of shuffling for belongings then a general exodus for the doors. In the commotion, I almost missed seeing the ghosts usher the villain from the chapel for his comeuppance, which, as far as I could tell, consisted of him being ushered to hell by some black goblins. A religiously eclectic movie, to say the least.

  “Now that was some movie,” Mary Alice said when the lights came on in the nearly empty theater, and she had come up the aisle to meet me. “I swear, though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much talking—then all that coming and going. Somebody ought to complain to the manager.”

  “Let’s go get some frozen yogurt,” I suggested quickly. The theater manager’s office was probably already filled with disgruntled patrons complaining about rodents.

  “Okay. Chocolate and vanilla swirl, though. Last time you talked me into getting apricot that tasted like figs. Yuck. I can’t even imagine how they got apricot yogurt to taste like figs.”

  “They were tropical apricots,” I said. “Maybe they are supposed to taste like figs.” I followed Mary Alice through the lobby and down the street, drafting like a race car. My sister is six feet tall and admits to weighing 250. I’m almost five-one and weigh 105. At some point in the sixty years we have been sisters, I latched on to the theory of aerodynamics, which simplifies my keeping up with her.

  “Shouldn’t make any difference. They’re always doing apricots that way, though. Like they can’t quite get them right. Remember that lipstick I bought a couple of weeks ago called Apricot Splendour? Turned out pink as a boiled shrimp in spite of the fancy way they put the u in splendor. You want it? It’s too light for me.”

  “Sure. Pass it along.”

  Mary Alice opened the door
of Yogurt, Please, and cool air rushed out to greet us. It was the first week of June, but in Alabama, that’s summer. The thermometer in front of the bank across the street read eighty-nine.

  “Get us a table,” she said. “I’ll get the yogurt.”

  “This is my treat. You got the movie.”

  “Don’t be silly. Will Alec will pay for this one.”

  We grinned at each other. Will Alec Sullivan was her first husband, the one with, I believe, all the Coca Cola stock. Sister has been married three times and widowed three times. All three husbands were rich, twenty-eight years older than she was, and adored her.

  “Let him pay,” I agreed.

  I found a table at the back of the shop and sat down with the sense of unreality one has coming from a movie in the afternoon. I glanced at my watch. Three o’clock. My husband, Fred, wouldn’t be home until six. I’d have plenty of time to stop by the Piggly Wiggly and pick up something. Maybe a barbecued chicken and a salad.

  I was making a mental grocery list when Sister handed me my yogurt and pulled out the chair across from me.

  “Week after next is my sixty-fourth birthday,” she said. “I thought I ought to tell you.”

  I dipped my spoon into the yogurt. “Okay.”

  “Everybody thinks I’m going to be sixty-six.”

  “Including the Bureau of Statistics.” I tasted the creamy confection. “Ummm.”

  “That means that next month instead of being sixty-one, you’ll be fifty-nine. Won’t that be nice?”

  “No. It means I’ll have to go back to teaching. I couldn’t retire until I was sixty.” I turned the plastic spoon upside down and licked it. “What’s this about? You’ll be sixty-six and I’ll be sixty-one. So what?”

  “So I’ve decided not to be sixty-six.”

  “Okay. Let me know when we get to be twins.”

  The ice cream chair squealed as Mary Alice sat down. “Don’t be a smartass. I’ve decided I’m not going to be eighty years old when the twins start college.”

  I stirred the chocolate around in my yogurt and did some quick arithmetic. The twins, Fay and May, are Mary Alice’s two-year-old granddaughters. “You won’t be,” I said happily. “You’ll be eighty-two.” I moved my legs quickly. Sister has always been a kicker.

  “I have decided I’ll be seventy. Or sixty-nine. That’s a normal age for grandparents of college kids.” She examined her plastic spoon. “You know, I’ve never figured out why they make these spoons so deep. You always have to stick your tongue way down in them or wait until the yogurt melts and sip it like soup. You’re going to have the same problem, you know.”

  Since I’ve been Mary Alice’s sister for so long, the jump in topic to the plastic spoon didn’t confuse me at all. The problem she was talking about was that, with the exception of my son Alan, our kids were taking their own sweet time having kids of their own.

  So I repeated the obvious lie. “Age is all in your mind.”

  “Get real.” Sister stirred her yogurt thoughtfully.

  I decided to change the subject. “Remember when we didn’t know what yogurt was? Never even heard of it?”

  “Granddaddy used to eat clabber with sugar and cinnamon on it. Same thing.”

  “Yogurt sounds better than clabber.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Yogurt’s an ugly name.”

  So much for that conversation. I glanced over at Sister and the light dawned.

  “It’s a man. You’ve met a younger man.”

  Sister smiled sheepishly.

  “Who is he and how much younger?” I had to speak loudly because a group of teenagers, stylishly dressed in tatters, had come into the shop and were yelling out orders.

  “His name is Berry West.”

  “Barry?”

  “Berry. Like straw. And he’s about sixty.”

  Sixty? I grinned.

  “What?” Mary Alice said. “What are you grinning about?”

  “I thought you were going to say forty-something. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m used to older men.”

  “That’s the truth. How old is your boyfriend Buddy Johnson? Ninety? Has he recovered from your hot tub yet?”

  “He’s fine.”

  A young man in a Yogurt, Please maroon shirt with a yellow collar approached our table. “Hey, Mrs. Hollowell. How are you?”

  Fortunately, the name Terry Bates was embroidered on his pocket, as well as the information that he was a Yogurt, Please assistant manager. Multiply 150 students each year by thirty years, and a teacher is grateful for anything that jogs the memory.

  “Hey, Terry,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Hollowell. It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too, Terry.” It was true. A younger Terry Bates was emerging from the mist of memory. Back row, second from the left. Quiet.

  He put three dollars on the table. “This one’s on me.”

  “Why, how nice, Terry. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hollowell.”

  I watched him walk away, through the group of teenagers, back behind the counter. I love you, Terry. I love every one of you. Why did I quit teaching?

  Mary Alice put the three bills in her purse. “You quit because you knew ‘Beowulf’ by heart.”

  Had I asked the question aloud? And had I really given that as my reason?

  Then Sister said, “He’s in real estate.”

  “Who is?”

  “Berry West, Mouse. He’s in real estate development. You made me tell you his name, so don’t you want to know about him?”

  “Absolutely. Where did you meet him?”

  “At a party at the museum. How come you and Fred never come to those parties?”

  “We’re not invited.”

  “Really? Well, anyway, this was a wine tasting party and you’re allergic to alcohol so you didn’t miss anything. But something just told me to wear my black dress without a back. You know how those little voices just come to me sometimes? This one said, ‘Mary Alice, wear your black dress without a back.’”

  I pushed my empty cup away. “Was it male or female?”

  “Was what male or female?”

  “The voice.”

  Mary Alice scowled at me. “Do you want to hear this or not? It’s really very romantic.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “Well, there I was at the museum in my black, backless dress talking to Gertrude Stacy and I heard this man’s voice say, ‘You have the loveliest back I’ve ever seen,’ and I turned around and saw this handsome man—I mean an Adonis, Mouse—walking away, and I thought he might have been talking to someone else though Gertrude said no, it was me he was talking to. So in a few minutes, I’m getting one of those little quiches you can buy frozen at Sam’s, and I hear, ‘You have four dimples in your back.’ And it was him. Berry. We’re going out to dinner tonight.”

  “Four dimples in your back?”

  Mary Alice beamed. “Isn’t that romantic?”

  Fortunately, no answer was expected.

  “He’s bound to know I’m older than he is, though.” Sister put her empty cup in mine and crumpled up her napkin.

  “So what?” I said. “You’re an interesting woman to talk to and you look great. I love the color of your hair.” This was a new role for me, building up Sister’s confidence. Berry must be an unusual man.

  “It’s Marigold. You really ought to try it. Get rid of that gray.”

  “You’re right. I should get rid of my gray.” I’d gone too far. Sister flipped her yogurt spoon at me. Luckily, it was empty.

  The crowd of teenagers left as loudly as they had arrived, torn shirts and jeans flapping.

  “How come this Berry guy’s available?” I asked in the sudden quiet.

  “Pure luck. His wife died last year.”

  I looked at Sister to see if she was serious. She was.

  “What?” she asked when I frowned. “What?”

  “It wasn’t very lucky for his wif
e.”

  “It might have been. You don’t know.”

  There was no way to answer that. I pushed my chair back and announced that I had to go home.

  “To fix Fred’s supper?”

  “Why not?”

  Mary Alice followed me from the shop and across the street to the parking lot. “You two need a break from each other.”

  “Nope.” I unlocked the door of my ’87 Cutlass Cierra. Heat rolled out to meet me. “We’re just catching on to this marriage thing.”

  “Dear Lord!”

  “Call me in the morning. And thanks for the movie.”

  Sister nodded and headed toward her car, a new black Jaguar; I headed home happily to Fred.

  Birmingham is a lovely city, never more lovely than in June when it becomes what people envision when the word South is mentioned. If spring is a riot of colors, early summer is a riot of smells. Gardenia bushes are so laden with blooms their branches brush the ground; magnolias are everywhere. Mix in the tea olive bushes and the honeysuckle vines on every fence and you have a heady mixture, one that makes a porch and a swing a thing of joy after dark.

  Fred and I live in a neighborhood where most of the houses were built in the 1920s and 1930s, many of them with stucco exteriors. It’s a quiet neighborhood with sidewalks and big trees, convenient to everything. It was, and still is, a good place to raise a family.

  I left the Piggly Wiggly with a barbecued chicken and with some peaches, the first of the year, and headed down the shady streets. To my right, atop Red Mountain, the statue of Vulcan, the largest iron statue in the world, gleamed in the summer sun. Actually, Vulcan was mooning me, since he faces downtown Birmingham and I was in the valley behind him. His big iron rear end is such a familiar sight, that I usually don’t notice it. Today, though, there were scaffolds hanging from the statue. Surely, I thought, they weren’t going to actually extend the old boy’s apron around to cover his prodigious backside as they had been talking about doing for years. Surely they were just patching some rusty places. I tried to remember if a petition had been tacked on the bulletin board recently at the local Quik-Mart to be signed by people offended by the big bare butt. That happens fairly frequently. But I didn’t remember having seen one.