Murder Carries a Torch
Anne George
Murder Carries a Torch
A Southern Sisters Mystery
To Irene Hendricks and Jake Reiss,
the best friends that any writer could ever have.
Contents
Chapter One
“I’m telling you, Patricia Anne. Fred kissing the ground like…
Chapter Two
When I turned off the computer, I realized I was…
Chapter Three
Luke fell asleep on my guest room bed as soon…
Chapter Four
As I turned off the computer, I heard the toilet…
Chapter Five
I’m not sure how long I wandered the aisles of…
Chapter Six
Any news? I turned off the computer. Maybe later in…
Chapter Seven
“Do what?”
Chapter Eight
Henry Lamont is one of the special people in my…
Chapter Nine
“Mrs. Hollowell?”
Chapter Ten
Area code 206. The first thing I did when I…
Chapter Eleven
At the age of thirty-nine, Richard Nelson, Luke and Virginia’s…
Chapter Twelve
“Thomas Benson? Sure I know him. He owns the feed…
Chapter Thirteen
Betsy Mahall had given me directions to her house. Turn…
Chapter Fourteen
An hour later, the four of us, Richard, Luke, Mary…
Chapter Fifteen
Mary Alice was unusually quiet on the way home. I…
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table…
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning was what Mama always called a thin…
Chapter Eighteen
“So y’all are handlers. You told me the other day…
Chapter Nineteen
The back door slammed and Sister called, “Mouse?”
Chapter Twenty
The soup was delicious. We topped it off with some…
Chapter Twenty-One
“Damn, damn, damn,” Sister said in my ear while I…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Anne George
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter
One
“I’m telling you, Patricia Anne. Fred kissing the ground like he did was a little too much. Embarrassing.”
“He slipped.”
“Slipped, my foot. The man was on his hands and knees patting the concrete, saying, ‘Thank God.’ It’s a wonder everybody didn’t fall over him.”
I glanced around at my sister, Mary Alice, who was standing at my utility room door watching me put clothes in the washing machine. She had on a gray pants suit with a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and had already informed me that she was on her way to a luncheon.
I was one of the ones who had nearly fallen over my husband Fred at the airport, but I still felt the need to defend him.
“He hates to fly.”
“Well, I figured that out for myself about an hour out of Birmingham. Every time I spoke to him he growled. Did you hear those noises? Pure growls. And he didn’t even chew the peanuts. He trashed them.” Mary Alice chomped her teeth together. “Like that. Thank God I wasn’t sitting next to him on the Concorde. You’ve earned your place in heaven living with that man for forty years.” She paused. “Why are you spraying Windex around that shirt-sleeve cuff?”
“Because I haven’t had a chance to go to the store. This works as good as Spray ’n Wash.” I put the shirt into the machine, closed the lid, and turned on the warm cycle.
“How come you’re not jet-lagged like I am?” I asked. “I feel like there’s a weight on top of my head.”
Mary Alice moved from the doorway and I followed her into the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair.
“I have more reserves than you do. More stored-up energy. You want some coffee?”
I nodded that I did. She got two mugs, poured the coffee, and pushed the sugar toward me.
“You see,” she explained seriously, “it’s simple. I’m slightly larger than you, and that little extra fat gives me more energy. If you would eat normally, you wouldn’t be so tired.”
Little extra fat. Slightly larger. Ha. The woman is six-feet tall and weighs two hundred fifty pounds. Admits to that. No telling what she really weighs. Especially after hitting every good restaurant in Warsaw, Poland, where we had been for the last two weeks spending Christmas with my newly married daughter Haley. And, believe me, there are some good restaurants there.
“You probably lost weight in Warsaw,” she continued.
“I may have. All that walking.”
“And not eating.”
I poured milk into my coffee and watched it swirl around. No way I was going to get into this argument. Mary Alice has never believed that it’s genetics that made me a foot shorter than she is and a size six petite. She swears it’s lack of nutrition.
“I had an E-mail from Haley this morning,” I said. “She’s missing us.”
“Well, of course she is. Nobody speaks English in Warsaw. Nobody. And there’s not even so much as a WalMart. Just all those museums, old as the hills, and you have to ride those rickety streetcars to get anywhere, for heaven’s sake.”
“I thought it was a beautiful city.”
“Well, you see, that’s the difference in you and me, Mouse. I like things to move a little faster.”
“You mean like interstates?”
“And better TV. Their Wheel of Fortune was pitiful.”
I sighed and let Mary Alice ramble on. Haley was very happy, and she and her new husband, Dr. Philip Nachman, considered it the opportunity of a lifetime to be spending the first few months of their married life in richly cultured Warsaw.
“I’ll say this, though.” Mary Alice took a sip of her coffee. “Nephew seems to be making Haley happy.”
The “nephew” bit is going to take a little clarification. Mary Alice’s second husband was also Philip Nachman. Haley’s new husband is his nephew, named for his uncle. So Haley and Philip are Mary Alice’s niece and nephew (Philip by marriage). The “nephew” is to keep from confusing him with the original Philip Nachman, dead and buried at Elmwood Cemetery beside Sister’s other husbands long ago, but still alive (so she says) in her heart. Certainly in her bank account. Each of her three husbands left her richer than the preceding one.
She leaned forward. “Don’t you think so?”
“What? That Haley’s happy? Sure.”
“It’s the Nachman genes.” She stirred her coffee. “I almost asked Haley, but I decided not to.”
“Asked her what?”
“Well, my Philip, when we were making love, just before he’d,” Sister paused. “Well, he had this unusual thing he’d do.”
“What?”
“He’d stop for a second and say, ‘Lord, the saints are marching in.’” She smiled.
I thought about this disclosure for a moment. “Somehow I don’t think that’s genetic, Sister.”
“Probably not. He did go to Tulane. But every time I hear that song I get misty-eyed. I wanted to have a New Orleans band play it at his funeral, strutting down the path at Elmwood with their umbrellas, but I wasn’t sure it was kosher.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
Mary Alice looked into her coffee cup thoughtfully. “He was a lovely man, Mouse. Very much in touch with his inner child. No big alpha male hang-up like Fred has.”
“Alpha males don’t kiss the ground when they get home.”
“Ha. I knew he didn’t trip.” Mary Alice got up, p
ut her mug into the dishwasher, and turned to face me. “I might as well tell you, Mouse. I’ve made a New Year’s resolution to get married this year.”
“To Cedric?”
“Who?”
“The last man you were engaged to.”
“Of course not. I’m serious.” She leaned over the counter toward the table where I was still collapsed. “I was thinking while we were crossing the Atlantic that my ‘sell by’ date is fast approaching and I want some steady company, preferably someone who can dip me when we dance.”
“Just keep changing your ‘sell by’ date. That’s what 20/20 says they do at all the grocery stores. You’ve already backed it up two years.” On her last birthday, Mary Alice had been sixty-six, but had decided to count backward from now on. I am now three years younger than she is instead of five.
“Oh, I plan to. I still think it’s time I settled down, though.”
“Bill Adams?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s a little alpha.”
What was this “alpha” stuff?
“Fairchild Weatherby?”
Sister straightened up. “No way. Terrible things happen to his wives, like people murdering them.”
“Is age a factor here at all?”
“Of course. Forty to eighty.”
“Well, that narrows it down. I’ll be on the lookout.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I watched her get her purse and put on lipstick. “What kind of luncheon are you going to?”
“An Angel Sighting Society lunch at the club.”
“Well, have a good time.”
“I will.”
As soon as the back door closed, I went into the den, lay down on the sofa, and pulled the afghan over me. As I was sinking into deep sleep, the question flitted through my mind, an angel-sighting luncheon?
Muffin, Haley’s cat, woke me up about an hour later kneading the afghan and purring. I rubbed between her ears, and she stretched out beside me.
“Your mama sent her love,” I told her. “She’ll be home in a couple of months.”
Muffin purred louder.
“We saw our first-ever white Christmas.”
Muffin drooled.
“Your grandpapa says one is enough.” I snuggled deeper under the afghan and smiled, thinking of Fred struggling through Warsaw’s snow, swearing that we had all lost our minds, that he had seen on CNN that it was sixty-five degrees in Birmingham. He had enjoyed seeing Haley, though, enjoyed seeing how happy she was with Philip. And Fred was back at his beloved Metal Fab today, jet-lagged, but at home. And probably a little disappointed that the metal-fabricating industry had survived for two weeks without him.
I was trying to decide whether to go back to sleep or get up and put the clothes in the dryer when the phone rang.
“Did I wake you up, Aunt Pat? You sound sleepy.”
“No, hon. Muffin did that about two minutes ago. How are you feeling?”
Debbie, Mary Alice’s middle child, the outcome (as I had just learned) of the march of one of the elder Philip Nachman’s saints, is eight months pregnant. Having been there three times myself, I knew my question was dumb.
“Better than I felt with Fay and May at this stage. Remember how I had to have help getting up out of a chair?”
Debbie’s twins, Fay and May, are almost three. Not interested in marriage, but very interested in motherhood, she had opted for the UAB sperm bank. Then, last year, she had met Henry Lamont and married him with a speed that surprised us all. Now she was expecting David Anthony Lamont in a month.
“I remember.” I pushed the afghan back and sat up. Muffin jumped down disapprovingly and headed for the kitchen.
“Well, when I talked to you yesterday, I forgot to tell you that Pukey Lukey has been trying for several days to get hold of you or Mama. When he kept getting your answering machine, he called me and asked where you were.”
Luke Nelson is our cousin who lives in Columbus, Mississippi. He is a very nice man who was unfortunate enough to suffer from monumental car sickness when we were children. Mary Alice says Luke’s bouts were volcanic eruptions. His mother was our father’s only sibling, though, and he adored her. So a trip to the beach frequently meant holding towels like shields.
“He didn’t leave any messages,” I told Debbie.
“Well, you might want to call him. I asked him if there was something I could help him with, and he said no, that he needed to talk to one of you. He really sounded worried.”
“I wonder what about.”
“Don’t have any idea.”
“I’ll call him.” I paused. “By the way, Debbie, do you know anything about an angel-sighting society?”
“A what?”
“An angel-sighting society. Your mama said she was going to an angel-sighting society luncheon at the club.”
“No, that’s a new one. Did Mama sight some angels in Warsaw?”
“She mainly shopped. Fussed about everybody speaking Polish.”
“I hope our diplomatic relations are still intact.”
“She did enough shopping to assure that.”
“Good. Well, I’ve got to get to court, Aunt Pat. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to win a case when you’re eight months pregnant.”
“Give Fay and May a kiss for me, and give David a pat.” I hung up, smiling. It was still strange to me to know that much about an unborn child. And nice.
Muffin was taking a bath on the kitchen table. I looked out of the window and saw my old Woofer dog asleep in the sun in front of his igloo doghouse. I put the clothes in the dryer, fixed a peanut butter and banana sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and settled down to watch Jeopardy! All was right with the world. I even knew the answer to the Final Jeopardy question.
I’ll blame it on jet lag. I had every intention of calling Luke as soon as I quit talking to Debbie. Instead, after Jeopardy! was over, I made out a grocery list and went to the Piggly Wiggly. Usually, this time of year, I have all kinds of leftovers from Christmas and New Year’s in the freezer. This year, thanks to Warsaw, the cupboard was bare. The night before, our next-door neighbor, Mitzi Phizer, had brought us over some chicken Tetrazzini and salad. Fortunately. We were even out of Lean Cuisines. Mitzi had taken care of the animals for us while we were gone, and she brought each of them treats, too. They were so glad to see her, it hurt my feelings. Woofer actually whined when she went through the gate on her way home.
After I got home with the groceries, I still didn’t remember to call Luke. I made a meatloaf, peeled some potatoes, and took Woofer for a short walk. Birmingham is no Warsaw, climatewise, but it’s still pretty chilly on late January afternoons. A couple of blocks, and Woofer and I were both ready to call it a day. He had reestablished his territory on every tree, and I was cold.
While I was taking the clothes from the dryer, though, I remembered. I found Luke’s number on the list I keep in the end-table drawer and dialed it. No answer. No answering machine. I looked at my watch. Almost five. His wife, Virginia, was probably out somewhere and had forgotten to turn the machine on. And Luke might still be at his office.
I dialed the office number. No answer. No answering machine. Slightly strange, but nothing to worry about. I finished folding and putting up the clothes while I enjoyed the good smells of a January meatloaf wafting from the oven.
Half an hour later, I dialed both numbers again. Still no answer. I called Mary Alice to find out if Luke had left a message with her. I also wanted to know more about the angel sightings.
“Nope,” she said. “Why? Is something wrong with him?”
I told her what Debbie had said.
“He probably just wants us to do some politicking for Richard, which I’m not about to do. He has too many teeth and he always looks like he’s just blow-dried his hair.”
Richard, Luke and Virginia’s son, is a second-term member of the House of Representatives so not everybody agrees with Sister.
; “This isn’t an election year. Besides, this is January.”
“Oh, Mouse, you dummy. It’s always election year.”
“I guess you’re right. How was your luncheon?”
“Interesting. Two women sighted angels while we were in Warsaw.”
“Where did they see them?”
“One woman said she woke up and the angel was standing by her bed.”
“Writing in a book of gold?”
“What?”
“Like Abou Ben Adhem.”
“Who’s he?”
“Never mind. What about the other one?’
“She was having a root canal done.”
“How did she know it was an angel?”
“She just knew. We had a good lunch. Not chicken, thank goodness. I had enough of that in Warsaw. Broiled salmon in dill sauce.”
“That’s nice. How did you get invited?”
“Half the investment club’s in it, Mouse. All you have to do is believe in angels.”
“And you do.”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I think that would get you in. Look, if you talk to Pukey, don’t promise him a thing about politicking.”
The back door opened and Fred walked in.
“Gotta go,” I said. “And I won’t.” I hung up.
“Meatloaf.” Fred held his hand to his heart. “I could just cry.”
So much for the alpha male.
“Are you tired?”
“Beat. Everything’s in pretty good shape over at the shop, though.” He came over and hugged me. “You know what I’m going to do? Take a shower and put on that new jogging suit Haley gave me for Christmas.”
“Be still my heart. I’ll light a fire and we’ll watch Wheel of Fortune.”