Murder Shoots the Bull Read online

  Sister frowned and put the paper down. “She was having trouble walking because she was about to croak. And what are you saying, that someone put her out of her misery?”

  I thought about this a moment. “I guess they did. I wouldn’t think this was a Dr. Kevorkian thing, though. Not at the Hunan Hut and not with poison that did her the way that did. Lord, it was awful. Those convulsions.”

  “Well, damn,” Sister said. “I’ll bet Arthur is upset. The first one’s rough. I think I was more upset when Will Alec died than I was when Philip and Roger died. No sadder, of course, but you sort of get used to it.” She hesitated. “Well, maybe you don’t get used to it, that’s not what I meant. You just learn the drill.” Another pause. “And there was already a place for them at Elmwood. That made a difference. When Will Alec died, I even had to buy a cemetery plot.”

  Learn the drill? “But you got a nice roomy one.”

  “Got the adjoining ones. Good thinking, too, Miss Smarty. When Philip tumped over in the shower, Elmwood was right there waiting for him. No problem.”

  I got back to the subject of Sophie Sawyer. “I don’t know if this lady will be buried here or not. She lived in Chicago for years and I guess that’s where her husband’s buried. Her two daughters will probably want to take her back up there.”

  “Really? Did their mother have any money?”

  “Lots, I think. Why?”

  “Because that’s the number one reason people get killed, except for being mad at each other. Speaking of which, what about Lisa?”

  “She’s asleep.” I rubbed my hand over my forehead where I felt a headache lurking. “I don’t have any idea what’s going on. All Lisa will say is that she doesn’t want to talk about it, and that Alan doesn’t love her any more.”

  “Another woman.”

  A definite twinge of pain over my right eye.

  “Surely not. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “Of course it is. Alan’s smack dab in the middle of bimbo territory.”

  “Would you care to elucidate?” I got up, took the aspirin from the cabinet, and poured a glass of water.

  “He’s in his thirties, successful, handsome, been married fifteen years. He’s in an office surrounded by attractive women. Bimbo territory.”

  I chewed the aspirin thoughtfully.

  Mary Alice winced. “Why don’t you swallow those things like a normal person?”

  “They get stuck.” I held the bottle out. “You want some?”

  “No thanks. You take too many of those things.”

  “On days like today I do,” I agreed. I sat back down. “Bimbo territory?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I usually don’t put much stock in Mary Alice’s theories, but this one might merit some consideration. Alan is our middle child and has always been the good, solid one. He’s never had the offbeat imagination of his brother Freddie or the mischievousness of his sister Haley. He’s dependable and kind and has always seemed contented with his lot. Surely he hadn’t fallen for some bimbo.

  “I hate the word bimbo,” I said.

  “Because you’re still a feminist.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then tell me this. What would you call a cute twenty-two-year-old blonde who was coming on to Fred?”

  “Dead meat.”

  “Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Sister said. “She’d have to be crazy.”

  “Hey, y’all. Hey, Aunt Sister.” Lisa stood in the doorway looking like something Muffin had dragged in.

  “My God, Lisa. What have you done to your hair?” Subtlety has never been one of Mary Alice’s strong suits. I cringed when I remembered this was exactly what I had said when I saw Lisa.

  But Lisa seemed too tired to take offense. She ran her hand through her hair absently. “It’s supposed to be a Spice Girl look. The boys said it looks like Old Spice.”

  “Here, honey,” I said. “Sit down. What do kids know? You want some lunch? I made some tuna fish salad. And I’ve got cream cheese, if you’d rather have that.”

  “You got any Coke?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get me some, too,” Sister said when I got up. “I had lunch at The Club and those orange rolls always make me thirsty.” Then, to Lisa as she sat down, “Debbie says you and Alan have had some kind of falling out. Is he running around?”

  Like Fred says, the woman has the nerve of a bad tooth. I held my breath expecting Lisa to collapse into tears or, worst-case scenario, though she has never seemed violent, bop Sister over the head with the sugar bowl and tell her it was none of her damned business. What I didn’t expect was Lisa’s answer.

  “Yes, ma’am. Her name is Coralee Gibbons.”

  I breathed again but not very well. My baby boy was in trouble.

  “Who is Coralee Gibbons?” I asked.

  “A woman who works in his office.”

  Sister flashed me a triumphant look and mouthed, “Bimbo territory.”

  But Lisa caught the gesture. “She’s not a bimbo, Aunt Sister. I wish she were.”

  I poured Coke and handed each of them a glass. “Tell us about her. And are you sure?”

  Lisa had begun to cry again. Sister handed her a paper napkin. Those paper napkins were coming in handy today.

  “He admits it. And she’s forty-five if she’s a day. She’s got grown children and she’s not even pretty.” Lisa looked up with tears welling in her eyes. “She wears green eyeshadow and short-sleeved suits. You know, like Janet Reno.”

  Sister looked puzzled. “I’ve never noticed Janet Reno wearing green eyeshadow.”

  “But she wears suits like hers. One night I saw her at a party and she had on white patent-leather shoes. Can you believe that?”

  “Good Lord,” Sister commiserated. “I hope she at least had on a white dress.”

  “A short-sleeved navy suit. And dark red lipstick. Janet Reno.”

  We were wandering away from the point here, to say the least.

  “Exactly what does Alan say?” I asked, sitting back down.

  “He says she’s the most intelligent woman he’s ever known.” Lisa held the paper napkin to her eyes again.

  Sister gave a little snort. “Not if she wears white patent-leather shoes after five o’clock. And with a navy short-sleeved suit. Where is this woman from?”

  Lisa shrugged an “I don’t know” shrug.

  “Listen,” I said, “does Alan say he’s in love with her? What does he say is going on?”

  “He says he’s confused.”

  “Probably those white patent-leather shoes. Does she have big feet? Not that it matters.”

  “Shut up, Sister.” I rapped my knuckles on the table, a tactic I had often used at school. “Just shut up about the damned shoes.”

  Lisa looked up in surprise; Mary Alice frowned at me, picked up her Coke, and sipped it.

  I took advantage of the momentary silence. “Have you talked to anyone about this? A marriage counselor?”

  “Alan said he didn’t want to.”

  “Men always say that.”

  I gave Sister a hard look.

  “Well, they do. You just have to go on and make the appointment and then tell them. You ask me, you haven’t got much to worry about, though. A woman named Coralee in her forties who dresses like Janet Reno and wears white patent shoes with a navy dress? No way, Lisa.”

  “You think so?” There was a hopeful look on Lisa’s face, the first I had seen.

  “Absolutely.”

  I gave up. Might as well. There wasn’t anything I could do about the situation, anyway. Alan and Lisa were going to have to work this out. I’d worry about it, of course, and hate this woman named Coralee Gibbons for rocking the boat. But it wasn’t my boat. Of course, my grandsons were passengers. I hopped up.

  “I’m going to make you a cream cheese sandwich,” I told Lisa. “That’ll go down easy.”

  “Make me one, too,” Sister said. “I need something to go
with the Coke.”

  “I thought you just had lunch.”

  “All I had was chicken salad and orange rolls.” She turned back to Lisa. “Do you know, Betty Ethridge has a friend from somewhere up north who said she couldn’t believe people from Alabama would eat chicken salad with orange rolls. Made Betty mad. She says she told her we even eat boiled possums with orange rolls. The woman probably believed her. Beats all.”

  “We do eat some strange stuff,” Lisa said.

  “Like what?”

  “Boiled peanuts.”

  “Boiled peanuts aren’t strange.”

  I was fixing the sandwiches and half listening to their conversation. Next door, Mitzi’s car pulled into the driveway.

  “Mitzi’s home,” I said. “I’m going to run the casserole over to her.”

  “Arthur’s first wife died,” Sister explained to Lisa.

  “Mr. Phizer was married before?” Lisa was as startled as we had been.

  “And the first wife was murdered. Poisoned yesterday at the Hunan Hut. We saw it all.” To emphasize what we had witnessed, Sister lolled her head to one side and shook a little.

  “Good Lord!” Lisa’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  I thought Mary Alice’s dramatics had made that clear enough.

  “The police think somebody killed her, apparently.” I handed each of them a sandwich. “It’s real sad. She was at the Hunan Hut having lunch with Arthur.”

  Sister nodded. “A pretty woman. Couldn’t walk very well what with the poison and circulatory problems.” She took a bite of her sandwich.

  “The first wife?” Lisa looked from one of us to the other. “Mrs. Phizer’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Mitzi’s okay.” I stuck the souffle back in the microwave. “Just upset.”

  “Who did it?” Lisa still hadn’t picked up her sandwich.

  “Maybe nobody, I still think it might have been the peanuts. That’s what it looked like, a bad allergic reaction.” I set the timer.

  “Let’s don’t talk about this while we’re eating. Mama always said not to talk about religion, politics, or murder while you’re eating.” Sister took another bite of her sandwich.

  “Mama never said a word about murder.” The microwave dinged and I took the casserole out.

  Mary Alice nodded that yes, she had.

  But Lisa ignored her. “Well, poison’s a pretty effective way. Probably better than a gun. You remember when President Reagan was shot? The bullet bounced off a rib. That was what saved him.”

  Mary Alice put her sandwich down. “Coralee Gibbons, you say? That’s an old-fashioned name.”

  It worked. Lisa changed subjects in a flash.

  “I know. It sounds like someone’s grandmother. She may be for all I know. God knows she’s old enough.”

  I picked up the casserole, told them I would be back in a few minutes, and walked across the yard.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked when Mitzi answered the back door.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  She didn’t look okay. She looked exhausted. I held out the casserole.

  “Thanks, Patricia Anne. I haven’t even thought about food. Come on in.”

  “I can’t. Mary Alice and Lisa are here.”

  “Alan’s Lisa?”

  “There may be a little trouble in paradise.”

  “Oh, Patricia Anne, I’m sorry.”

  “They’ll work it out.”

  “Sure they will.”

  “Is Arthur okay?”

  “I think so. He found out that Sophie wanted to be cremated. She wants her ashes sprinkled from the observation tower at Vulcan.”

  “From Vulcan? Is that legal?”

  “I don’t know. He’s trying to find out.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “I will.”

  I walked back to my own kitchen. When I came in the door, Mary Alice was telling Lisa about Cedric, the Englishman.

  “Pencil-thin mustache, pencil-thin fingers. And you know what that means.”

  Lisa was actually laughing. “Aunt Sister. You didn’t!”

  “Of course not. He even had little bitty ears.” She paused. “But he was real nice. Talked a lot about Dunkirk.”

  “What’s Dunkirk?” Lisa wanted to know.

  Seven

  If Fred had thought he was coming home for a quiet evening of supper and watching the Braves, he quickly found out he was wrong.

  “I’m taking Woofer for his walk,” I told Lisa.

  “Okay.” She looked up from the sofa where she was reading the new Vanity Fair. Muffin was stretched out beside her. “If the phone rings, I’m going to let the machine answer. It might be Alan.”

  And she ought to talk to him, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I put Woofer’s leash on him and we walked to the corner to wait for Fred. When I saw the car, I waved him down.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, as I opened the back door, shoved Woofer in, and then got in the front seat.

  “Lisa’s at our house, and I need to talk to you.”

  “What’s Lisa doing here?”

  “Drive and I’ll tell you.”

  He drove. Woofer leaned his head over the seat and slobbered happily. I reached in my pocket for a Kleenex.

  “We’d better go to the park,” Fred said. “What’s going on?”

  “She and Alan are having trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Woman trouble.”

  “Alan?” Fred looked at me in disbelief.

  “That’s what she says. Some woman in Alan’s office named Coralee Gibbons. In her forties with grown children.”

  We had stopped at a four-way stop. Fred waved the man on our left to go ahead. “You were here first, buddy.” Then to me, “Have you talked to Alan?”

  “No. Debbie tried to call him. Lisa went to Debbie’s first. But she couldn’t get him and then she had to go to court so she left word for him to call us, that Lisa was at our house.”

  “And he hasn’t called.”

  “Nope. And I tried to call the boys after I knew they’d be home from school and nobody answered.”

  Fred pulled into the five-car parking lot adjacent to the two tennis courts. This is a small neighborhood park designed mostly for senior citizens who play chess and checkers in a large gazebo fancifully called the Sunday Bandstand. The swings and slides are toddler size, guaranteeing that the seniors won’t be bothered by rambunctious older children. The tennis courts and a basketball court, demanded by the tax-paying parents of former toddlers, are over on the side behind a chain link fence.

  Surprisingly, for such lovely weather, the park was deserted except for two old gentlemen who sat on a bench, each smoking a pipe. I was suddenly reminded of a poem, “Old Friends.” I tried to remember who wrote it and the exact words, but they escaped me. Something about sitting on a bench like bookends. The poem was sad; I remembered that. The friends were waiting. Waiting while the shadows lengthened. I shivered. I had just remembered the other news I had for Fred.

  Woofer wasn’t allowed in the park, so we sat on a bench beside the basketball court. The concrete was still warm, and he stretched out at our feet with a dog-sigh of contentment.

  “What kind of shape is Lisa in?” Fred asked.

  “Not too good.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Alan, does it? I thought they were getting along just fine.”

  I agreed. I didn’t mention Sister’s theory of bimbo territory and the fact that Alan was smack in the middle of it.

  Fred reached down to rub the gray hair between Woofer’s ears. “They’re not getting a divorce are they?”

  “Oh, Lord, I hope not. I don’t know how far it’s gone. Lisa said he wouldn’t go for counseling.”

  “Well, damn.”

  The two old men got up and strolled out of the park, closing the gate behind them.

  “That’s not all.”

  Fred looked up in
alarm. “The boys?”

  “No. This isn’t about Alan and Lisa. You know that lady that died yesterday at the Hunan Hut? I told you how Arthur was stroking her hand?”

  He nodded.

  “The police say she was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned!” Fred spoke so loudly, the two men turned to see if everything was all right, decided it was, and continued walking. “What on God’s earth?”

  “Mitzi came over this morning, saying the woman was Arthur’s first wife and that somebody had murdered her.”

  “Arthur had a first wife? Our Arthur Phizer?”

  “Well, it was a teenage thing and their folks had it annulled, so I’m not sure it counts.”

  Fred didn’t say anything so I continued. “Her name was Sophie Sawyer and she was back here from Chicago because she was in bad health.”

  Fred still didn’t say anything.

  “Diabetes and circulatory problems,” I added. “And her daughter lives here.”

  “Who did it?”

  “They don’t know.”

  The two of us sat like bookends while the shadows lengthened. From the nearby fire station we could hear a radio or TV turned to the early evening news.

  “You got any more news for me?”

  The tone of the question flew all over me. Hell, I was only the messenger. A messenger who had had a godawful day.

  I jumped up so quickly that Woofer looked up in surprise.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. If you want any damned supper, you’re going to have to go to Morrison’s.”

  “Well, hell. What’s the matter with you, Patricia Anne?”

  He said it to my back. I was stomping toward the car.

  Just before we got home, I broke the silence. “Don’t say anything about Lisa’s hair.”

  “What’s wrong with her hair?”

  “It’s white and sticks straight up in little bunches.”

  “What?”

  “God’s truth.”

  We looked at each other. At first it was a tentative smile for each of us, and then it was laughter, the oh, hell, everything’s so bad it’s funny laughter. The kind of laughter that keeps people married for forty years.

  We pulled into our driveway and parked behind Lisa’s car. Fred reached over and took my hand. “Tell you what. Let’s go see if Lisa wants to go to Morrison’s. If she doesn’t, we can bring her something.”