Murder Carries a Torch Read online

  Virgil finally put his coffee cup down, though, got out his notebook, and got down to business.

  Yes, Virginia said, she had met Spencer Gordon on the Internet, had frequently gone into a chat room with him. Luke got up, stepped over Bubba and disappeared down the hall. We heard the bathroom door slam.

  Virginia ignored the interruption. Spencer was a nice man. They had ballroom dancing in common.

  “I didn’t know you danced, Mama,” Richard said.

  Virginia pursed her new lips and looked at her son. “Your father doesn’t. I do. When I tango, Richard, I can lift my leg over my partner’s shoulder.”

  The congressman looked startled.

  Virginia turned to us. “That impressed Spencer. His wife doesn’t tango. Or do much else, apparently.”

  Virgil wrote something in his notebook, just one word, probably “tango,” and told Virginia to go ahead with her story which turned out to be fairly logical.

  There was going to be a Seniors’ Swing Convention in Nashville. Spencer had invited her to meet him there and she had agreed since it was just a hop, skip, and a jump from Columbus, you know.

  Virginia reached over, got an olive from the coffee table, and chewed it thoughtfully while we waited. We heard the toilet flush down the hall.

  “But then,” Virginia said, wiping her fingers on a napkin, “I got to thinking what did I know about this man? He could be an ax murderer for all I knew. And I was about to back out when Holden Crawford showed up to paint the house.”

  “What did he have to do with it?” Richard wanted to know.

  “I invited him in for lunch one day and just happened to tell him about the convention and how I’d love to go. And he said, ‘I’ll take you and check the guy out for you. You can tell him I’m your brother.’ So that’s what we did.”

  “You did what, Mama?” Richard’s voice was so loud that Bubba got up and stalked back into the kitchen. “You didn’t know him any more than you did the guy in Nashville.”

  “Of course I did, Richard. He was a nice man.”

  “He was a snake handler, Mama.”

  “Well, yes he was, Son. But he was still a nice man, and I didn’t know about the snakes until I saw it on CNN. That’s what started Spencer’s problems, too. He was taken aback by the fact that my brother was a snake handler who had been murdered. He said he was seeing zippers across his eyes. I should have known something was wrong.”

  “Will Alec had migraines,” Sister said. “His always started with zigzag lights, too. Like zippers. I’m surprised that Gordon guy didn’t have some of that new medicine to stop them.”

  “He should have.” Virginia reached for another olive. The floor above us creaked. Luke had gone upstairs.

  Virgil looked as if he were taken aback and seeing zippers, too, but he took a deep breath and asked Virginia to tell him about the couple of days she had spent on Chandler Mountain.

  “Boring. Holden didn’t even have cable. But he said he had some business he had to take care of before we went to Nashville. And, no, sheriff, I don’t have any idea what it was. A couple of guys came by. One was his brother-in-law.” Virginia frowned. “Holden didn’t like him. They were having a fuss about something. And his daughter-in-law, Susan, came by with the grandchildren. Cute as they could be. Susan was, too.” Virginia sighed. “I can’t believe she’s dead, too. Holden really loved her and those children.”

  “You said a couple of guys?” Virgil asked.

  “A young man Holden said had a crush on Susan. He just came to the door and they talked a minute.”

  “Did he have a beard?” I asked. I was thinking of Albert Lee Packard. To Virginia he would be a young man.

  “I don’t remember one.”

  Then it wasn’t Albert Lee with his memorable Spanish moss.

  “What kind of car was this man driving?” Virgil wanted to know.

  “I didn’t see it.”

  Richard stood up. “I think I’d better go see about Daddy. He nearly got himself killed, you know, Mama, looking for you.”

  “Should have learned to dance.”

  Richard stomped out, and Virgil closed his notebook which, best as I could tell, had maybe a dozen words written in it.

  “Mrs. Nelson, I think we’d better continue this tomorrow in my office. Okay?”

  “I’ll bring her,” Sister volunteered immediately. “What time?”

  “I’ll take her,” I said. “I’ve got to take Betsy Mahall’s key back to her anyway.”

  “We’ll all go,” Sister said.

  Virgil ran the palm of his hand across his mouth, a gesture that I would learn to recognize meant, “I give up.”

  “About two,” he said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out Susan Crawford’s cameo. “And, Patricia Anne, if you’re going to see Betsy, give her this. We’ve checked it out.”

  “I’d be happy to. It’ll make her feel better.”

  “Oh, I reconize that,” Virginia said. “Holden’s daughter-in-law was wearing that when we went to the grocery in Oneonta and I think one of the babies must have broken the chain. I found it in the car on the way to Tennessee. Holden was supposed to give it back to her.”

  But neither of them had lived to see the other again.

  “It belongs to her daughter now.” I slipped the cameo into my purse.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  The next morning was what Mama always called a thin morning. The sun wasn’t quite breaking through, but you could see its shape behind the clouds. A dry cold front had come through during the night, and the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees.

  I called Betsy Mahall, told her that Virginia had shown up in Nashville at a Seniors’ Swing Convention, but that Virgil Stuckey wanted to question her about the couple of days she had been on Chandler Mountain. Would it be all right if I returned the key this afternoon? I didn’t mention the cameo; I had decided that I would wait and surprise her with that.

  “About what time, Mrs. Hollowell?” She sounded listless, tired.

  “A little after two?” I hesitated and then added, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Maybe I should just tell her I had the cameo.

  Then, “Mrs. Hollowell, do you think we could meet up at Monk’s house? I had planned to go up there this afternoon and start looking around, seeing what should be saved for Jamie and Ethan and what should be sold.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll have to do the same thing at Susan’s, but I’m going to have to wait a while on that.”

  “Did you go to Monk’s funeral?” I asked.

  “No. Terry did. I had to keep the children. He said it was very subdued, actually.”

  Betsy sounded as if she were about to cry.

  “Are the children okay?” I asked.

  “Fine. I guess I’ll bring them this afternoon. Monk’s house is babyproofed. They stayed there with him a lot.”

  I wondered if babyproofing meant keeping the snakes under the bed in a box, but I just said I would see her a little after two and hung up.

  I called Mary Alice and told her that I was going up to Chandler Mountain so I’d go in my car.

  “Go with me and Virginia,” she said. “I’ll take you up there.”

  “No, I’ll go in my car. That way I won’t be in a hurry.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sister said. I heard her put the phone down and close the door.

  “You don’t understand,” she said when she came back. “I think the collagen’s seeped up into Virginia’s brain or the mahagony dye has seeped down. Or both. The woman’s certifiable, Mouse.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “Right now she’s teaching Tiffany how to tango.”

  I giggled.

  “Not funny. You got any of that Ritalin stuff left from when you taught school? I think she needs some.”

  “You think they gave it to the teachers to hand out like candy?”

  “From what I read
in the papers.”

  “No, I don’t have any Ritalin. But it does sound like she might have some problems. Get Richard to take her to a doctor.”

  “He and Luke won’t come downstairs. They hear the tango music.” Sister paused. “The whole damn neighborhood hears the music.”

  “Then I know I’m going in my car. ’Bye, Sister.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  I could practically hear the wheels in her brain turning.

  “I swear I’ll forgive you for losing my Shirley Temple doll.”

  I knew she was lying. We’ll go to our graves with her holding that against me. “Fifty-six curls, Patricia Anne,” she’s been saying for fifty-five years. “Fifty-six perfect little corkscrew curls, and those precious little red leather shoes with one button, and you lost her.”

  The fact that she had even mentioned the subject of forgiving me for Shirley Temple, a crime I didn’t even remember committing, told me how desperate she was, though.

  “Make Richard take her,” I said.

  “But Virgil is expecting me.”

  “Virgil has a pot belly. You can’t say anything about Fred’s anymore.”

  Silence. Then, “I know, but it’s okay.”

  Of course I ended up going with them. Maybe I just lost my mind and thought there was a slight chance that Sister really might forgive me for the Shirley Temple doll. Maybe I was still under the influence of jet lag. Or maybe, God forbid, I’d never figured out how to keep Sister from bossing me around. I think I know which “maybe” it was.

  So we headed back up I-59, three old ladies on a thin day in January in a Jaguar. I was getting familiar with the territory. On a billboard just past Trussville was an advertisement for Schaeffer Eye Center, a pair of glasses with lights running around the frames. It reminded me of the billboard in The Great Gatsby, the all-seeing eye.

  Virginia kept reaching over to change the radio station to dance music. It would instantly revert to WBHM and classical music.

  “Something’s wrong with this radio,” Virginia said.

  “Got good taste,” Mary Alice said, her hand hiding the controls on the steering wheel.

  “Huh.” Virginia gave up on the radio, pulled off her shoes, and propped her feet on the dashboard. Her fingers played a piano tune on the knees of her black slacks. I tried to figure out the tune and finally decided it was either “Jingle Bells” or “Chopsticks.”

  “Have you heard from the Gordon guy?” I asked.

  Virginia didn’t miss a note. “Gone home to Seattle. He’s fine.”

  The tune changed. Virginia’s thumbs slid across the tops of her knees. A tango?

  “I don’t think he was competition material anyway. Too double-jointed.”

  “Shame,” Mary Alice said.

  Virginia looked at her suspiciously, decided that Sister really was commiserating with her and agreed that yes, it was a shame. Especially in the jitterbug. You couldn’t have those knees suddenly popping out at a funny angle.

  “How old was this man?” Mary Alice asked.

  “Late sixties, I guess. Maybe seventy.”

  “Sure you weren’t mistaking a wobble for a double-joint?”

  “Huh. Think I don’t know a wobble from a double-joint?” Virginia resumed her piano playing. By the time we got to Ashville where the sheriff’s substation was, I think she was playing “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted as Mary Alice pulled into a parking place marked VISITOR.

  “Nothing to be nervous about.” I said. “Sheriff Stuckey’s a nice man, and I’ll be back to get y’all in about an hour.”

  I got the reaction I was expecting. Sister hit the curb.

  “Hell, Mary Alice,” Virginia grumbled. “Why don’t you just run into the building?” She had been leaning over putting on her shoes and had smacked her head against the dashboard. She pulled the visor down and examined her forehead in the mirror. “I may have a bruise.”

  “No, you won’t. And we’ll be back in about an hour. More like an hour and a half since we’ve got to go up that mountain.”

  “You’re not coming in? I thought you were coming in with me.”

  “Patricia Anne knocks down mailboxes.”

  “She does?” Virginia looked back at me. “Why?”

  “I hit one mailbox when I was fifteen and learning to drive,” I said.

  “Pure luck. She aims for them all. And she keeps thinking she’s going to trick me into letting her drive my Jag.”

  “Well, my goodness.” Virginia collected her purse and opened the door. “Won’t you at least come in for a minute?”

  “I’ll come speak to Virgil a minute. Invite him to supper.” Sister carefully removed the keys and told me I could get in the front seat.

  “Luke’s a terrible driver, too,” I heard Virginia telling Sister as they walked away. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

  When we got to Monk Crawford’s house there was no sign of Betsy’s car.

  “You’ve got the key. We could go in,” Sister suggested, pulling into the graveled area between the house and church.

  “I don’t think we should do that.”

  “Why not? We were in there going through everything the other day.”

  Fortunately I didn’t have to answer. Betsy Mahall walked out onto the porch and waved at us. “Y’all come on in.

  “Terry brought me,” she explained as we joined her. “He had to go to Oneonta on business. He’ll be back after a while.”

  “Where are the children?” I asked as we went into the house.

  “They’re up at Miss Beulah’s. Y’all want some coffee? I’ve got some made.”

  “Aren’t you scared some books will fall on them?” Sister asked.

  Betsy smiled. “You’ve seen Albert Lee’s loot.”

  “His treasure.” I reached in my coat pocket and handed Betsy the house key. “Here, before I forget it. And thank you.”

  She slipped it into her pants pocket. “You’re welcome. Is your cousin all right?”

  “Luke or Virginia?” Sister asked.

  “Both.”

  “They’re okay. Virgil Stuckey’s talking to Virginia right this minute. Not that I think he’ll get anything out of her.”

  “Well, y’all pull off your coats and sit down. I’m not doing a thing in the world but running around in circles here.”

  She went into the kitchen while we pulled off our coats and sat down. The space heater in the fireplace had been lighted long enough to make the room cozy.

  “I’m tempted to just call the Salvation Army and tell them to come clean the house out,” Betsy called. “But then I get to thinking that what’s here belonged to Jamie and Ethan’s grandparents and I know I ought to keep some of it. Things like their grandmother’s cedar chest, and Monk’s tools. Ethan might love to have them when he grows up.”

  She came back into the living room with a tray with three cups of coffee on it, sugar, and cream. She placed the tray on the table in front of us, pulled one of the chairs over, and sat down.

  “I’m so tired,” she admitted, reaching for one of the cups.

  “Do you have help at your house?”

  Trust Sister not to beat around the bush.

  “No. I told my father-in-law last night that we may have to at least get a maid service to come in once a week. He’s strange, though, about people coming into the house. Almost paranoid.” Betsy sipped her coffee. “I guess because he’s disabled. He won’t even get anybody to help him, you know, like bathing and stuff. Terry has to do it.”

  Sister and I glanced at each other while Betsy continued. Why would a person who could walk do this to his family?

  “And I know he could drive a car. They make them for all kinds of handicapped people. But he won’t even try. Terry takes him to the bank every day. And wherever else he wants to go.”

  “Well, how did you manage when you were working?” I asked.

  “I just
walked out the door, closed it, and was gone for eight hours.” Betsy put her cup down. Her hand was shaking, I noticed. “I can’t do that with Jamie and Ethan to take care of.”

  Suddenly she smiled. “But you wouldn’t believe how thrilled Terry is to have them there. The children. He doesn’t even want to leave them to go to work.”

  “What about your father-in-law?” I asked. “Is it all right with him?”

  “He’s worse than Terry. Rides them around on his wheelchair.” Betsy shrugged. “So we’ll be all right. I’ve just got to adjust to being a mother and count my blessings.”

  “Speaking of which.” I reached in my purse and pulled out the Ziploc bag with the cameo in it. “I think you’ll be happy this showed up.”

  Betsy held out her hand and took the bag. Her eyes widened.

  “The cameo,” she whispered.

  She undid the bag, took the cameo out, and held it to her cheek in a touching gesture.

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hollowell. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, Betsy. I’m just so glad it was found.”

  “Where was it? The church?” She held the cameo out and looked at it. “I looked over every inch of the church.”

  “It was in Virginia’s car,” I said reluctantly.

  “The car they found Monk’s body in?” Her hands closed around the cameo, clutched it.

  “Between the seats.”

  The “Oh” from Betsy was more a breath than a word. The blood drained from her face; she jumped up and rushed down the hall to the bathroom.

  Mary Alice turned around to me. “She’s upset,” she explained as if I had totally missed the obvious.

  “Well, of course she is, Sister. She didn’t let me finish. She probably thinks that the cameo being in Monk’s car means that the same person killed Susan and Monk both. One of the snake handlers like that Joe Baker.”

  “It’s still possible. The murderer could have found the cameo, put it in his pocket, and dropped it when he put the basket of snakes in Virginia’s car.”