Murder on a Girls' Night Out (14 page)

“Blue it is. And Wednesday you and I have a date.”

We started down the steps, Haley first. “By the way,” I said, “who is the man your aunt Sister is fixing you up with?”

“His name’s Kenneth somebody. That’s all I know. He’s a musician.”

Oh, my God. Mary Alice was madder at me than I had thought. She was fixing my precious daughter up with the leader of the Swamp Creatures! I was glad Haley couldn’t see my face. I think it would have scared her.

She wouldn’t stay for supper. She held a cold washrag against her face for a few minutes and then put on some makeup. She took a couple of Tylenol and said she would try to beat the worst of the storm home. I told her to be sure and watch the TV newscasts for tornado warnings and go to the basement if she heard the sirens. She promised she would. After living my whole life in
Alabama, I still get nervous as a cat when storm warnings go up.

When she left, I put the vacuum cleaner back in the closet and the dust rag under the sink. Enough. I stretched out on the sofa with the new
Time
, but I couldn’t get interested. I was fuming. I could not believe my sister was sending my daughter out with a cinnamon-smoking, greasy, broke Swamp Creature. And that my daughter was looking forward to buying a new dress for this creep. It had never occurred to me that Mary Alice could be so vindictive.

I got up, went into the kitchen and fixed a cup of spiced tea. It smelled like fall, like the first cold front, the Christmas that would soon be here. The rain, surprisingly, had stopped, and the last rays of the setting sun shone through a break in the clouds at the horizon. This is not a good sign during tornado weather, but it was beautiful, a golden band that made the October Glory maple in the backyard neon-bright.

I sipped the tea and did what I knew I had to. I called Mary Alice. She answered.

“Are you calling to apologize?” she asked as soon as I said hi.

“No.”

She hung up. I called back and got her answering machine. “I just wanted to tell you I can’t believe you’d hurt Haley deliberately. Even when I’ve been maddest at you, I never thought you would be cruel to my children.”

Sister picked the phone up. “What are you talking about?”

“Haley’s date you fixed her up with. She’s actually excited about it. Buying a new dress. I can’t believe you’d do that to her.”

“Do what? He’s a nice man.”

“Tell that to somebody who hasn’t seen him.”

“When did you see him?”

“What do you mean, when did I see him?”

“When did you see him?”

“We’re beginning to sound like Abbott and Costello here. You know when I saw him. At your house this afternoon.”

There was a pause. “Kenneth was here? How did I miss him?”

It was my turn to pause. I was beginning to figure out what had happened. “Did you fix Haley up with Kenny the Swamp Creature?”

“Of course not. Why would I fix Haley up with somebody who smokes cinnamon and God knows what else?” She hesitated, realizing she had dug a hole and fallen into it. “Even though he’s very nice, you understand.”

“Then who’s Kenneth?”

“Kenneth Singleton. He plays the cello in the symphony and teaches at the School of Fine Arts. His wife was killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. I’ve been trying to get him together with Debbie, but you seem to have taken care of that.”

I refused to acknowledge that barb. “I apologize,” I said.

This seemed to placate Sister. “Have you hemmed your dress?” she asked.

“I’ll do it tonight.”

“At least three inches.”

“At least.”

“And watch the weather on TV and go to the basement if you hear the sirens.”

“You, too.”

The golden streak was gone from the sky and the
wind was gusting again. I heard the garage door open. Fred was home, thank goodness. Home to canned soup and toasted cheese sandwiches and my arms on a stormy night.

T
wo separate lines of storms rolled through that night. The first came around nine o’clock, and we dutifully obeyed the TV warnings and the sirens and went to the basement with flashlights and a battery radio. The brunt of the storm was south of us, and though we had some high winds, we didn’t lose our electricity. We were in bed by ten-thirty, only to be blasted out around three in the morning. Thunder shook the house and the trees were leaning viciously. As we went down the basement steps, we heard glass shattering, and I remembered the tree limbs that were brushing against the attic window. At times like this, you just pray a broken window is all the damage you’ll have.

We lost our electricity this time. We got back to bed around four-thirty and the phone rang at six.

“Mary Alice,” Fred said, handing me the phone. I don’t think he even woke up.

“A tornado hit the Skoot, Mouse!” Sister said.

“Bad?”

“Of course it’s bad.”

Fred rolled over and looked at me inquiringly. I put my hand over the phone. “A tornado hit the Skoot ’n’ Boot.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He got up and went to the bathroom, stretching as if every muscle in his body were sore.

“The sheriff’s office called me,” Mary Alice said. “I’m going up there to see what’s what. I’ll pick you up around eight. Okay?”

“I don’t want to go. We don’t have any lights. We don’t have any coffee or
Good Morning, America
, and the attic window is broken. It’s probably raining in.”

“The sun’s shining, and I’ll bring coffee.” Mary Alice hung up.

“Will you tell me,” I asked Fred when he came back from the bathroom, “why yesterday, when I went to tell my sister I wouldn’t have anything more to do with the damn Skoot ’n’ Boot, I got so mad at her I threw things, and here I am going back up there with her?”

“Because your sister is Mary Alice.”

I pushed back the covers and felt for my slippers. “I guess so. Sometimes I swear I think I need some counseling on assertiveness.” Fred looked around at me but didn’t say anything. I found my slippers and robe. “I’m going to go check on Woofer, bless his heart. I’ll bet he was scared to death last night.”

“In that igloo under the deck? I’ll bet he didn’t even wake up.” Fred opened a dresser drawer and got out underwear and socks. “Is the Skoot ’n’ Boot gone?” He sounded hopeful.

“Sister just said it was bad.”

“I think that place is jinxed,” Fred said, heading for the shower. He stuck his head back around the door. “Even Nature’s in on it.”

I padded out to the kitchen. Woofer was busily chasing a chipmunk across the backyard. The chipmunk won easily, diving into one of the many holes they have riddled our yard with and disappearing. Woofer barked happily when I went out to give him a biscuit and pet him. The yard was full of small sticks and leaves that had been blown down by the storm. There were no large limbs, though, and all the trees were still standing.

When I got back inside, I heard Fred pulling down the attic steps to go check on the window. I couldn’t make coffee without electricity, but the ice was still frozen in the ice maker. I put some cubes in a cup and poured Coke over them. Caffeine was caffeine.

“I need some plastic,” Fred yelled.

I got the Saran Wrap from the cabinet and took it to the attic steps.

“Not that!” He looked down from on high like a figure in a Michelangelo painting. “I need real plastic!”

“This is real plastic.”

“Like the drop cloth we used when we painted the den. You know where that is?”

I certainly did, and I was beginning to not appreciate the tone of his voice.

“Bring a broom, too!”

I drank about half the cup of Coke and helped myself to a lemon wafer on the way through the kitchen. The sugar should help the caffeine along.

Plastic and broom were at the back of the utility closet. I took them to Fred. “Nails,” he said. “Hammer, dustpan, garden scissors.”

It was too early for a scavenger hunt, but what choice
did I have? It was my broken window, too. I helped myself to a couple more lemon wafers on my way through the kitchen.

“I need the mop, too,” Fred yelled.

I collected everything and returned to the attic steps, holding the items up while Fred reached down.

“Did you know God’s left-handed?” I asked.

“What?”

“In Michelangelo’s painting, God’s left-handed. See? You’re reaching down with your right hand but God’s using his left. I read that somewhere. I think. Maybe it’s Adam who’s left-handed.”

“I need a wastebasket, too.”

“We really should do some traveling, Fred, you know?”

“We’ll travel, Patricia Anne.” He disappeared back into the attic.

“Is it a big mess up there?” I called.

“Nope. We’re lucky.”

The phone rang and I went to answer it. It was Alan calling from Atlanta. Were we okay? The storm had gone through there around daylight and had weakened considerably, but he’d heard on
Good Morning, America
that there was a good deal of damage around Birmingham.

I assured him we were fine, just a broken window and no lights, and he should call Freddie and tell him. I got to speak to my two precious grandsons and told them we would see them soon.

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating cookies and drinking Coke when Fred came in. “All fixed,” he said. “I’ll put the glass in this weekend.”

“That was Alan on the phone. Just checking on us.”

“That was nice. They okay?”

“Fine.” I held out the cookie box, but Fred shook his
head. “I’ll stop by McDonald’s and get some breakfast. Some coffee, anyway.”

“We’ve got cereal. I don’t know why I’m eating these damn cookies.”

“Well, it beats throwing them.” Fred laughed like hell; I didn’t.

Mary Alice was right on time, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have any hot water thanks to Fred having taken such a long shower, which meant I had to resort to what Mama had always called a “spit bath.” Like many things from my childhood, I never questioned the origin of “spit bath.” Probably just as well. The family knew it meant a cold, wet washcloth applied quickly to vital body parts. Adequate, I guess, but certainly not refreshing. Then I couldn’t figure out what a person wore to a jinxed country-western bar “hurt bad” in a tornado which actually sounded like a perfect title for a country song. Mary Alice started blowing her horn while I was looking through the closet for an old cardigan sweater. The weatherman had been right about the cold front. The brisk north wind was chilly. I finally opened the door and yelled that I was coming. She was quiet for about a minute.

When I stepped into her car, though, after every neighbor had looked out of his door at least once, she handed me a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Here,” she said, rather ungraciously, but I was in no mood to argue. I needed coffee.

“I assume you don’t have lights yet.”

I shook my head. “Do you?”

“The generator’s on.”

“Of course.” I tend to forget little expensive luxuries like automatic generators that prevent you, God forbid, from being without electricity for two minutes.

“It’s so noisy, though, I don’t think I slept a wink after four o’clock.”

Tough. I concentrated on the coffee and looked at the damage the violent thunderstorms had done. Trees were down everywhere. Few streetlights were working, which meant traffic was a complete mess. For once, Mary Alice drove sensibly; she had no choice.

“Did they say how bad the Skoot was hit?”

“Part of the roof’s gone. That’s all I know.”

“What about the insurance?”

“Depends.”

That didn’t sound like a topic of conversation Sister wanted to pursue. In fact, she turned the radio to the Golden Oldies station she loves. Between Tony Bennett’s San Francisco and Frank Sinatra’s Chicago, the announcer assured us that our Birmingham had suffered only minor damage from last night’s storms. I assumed that meant his lights were still on and his trees were standing.

Mrs. Fly’s curb market seemed undamaged. The pumpkins were still stacked neatly. We had gone only about a mile farther when we could see where a tornado had touched down. Bent and broken trees on either side of the road showed where it had crossed over on its way to the Skoot. Fortunately, it had cut a narrow swath. A minor tornado, the radio announcer would probably have said.

We could see the damage at the Skoot before we pulled into the parking lot. The window wall where the black curtains had proclaimed S
WAMP
C
REATURES
had collapsed, and the roof had come down almost intact, giving the structure the appearance of a one-sided A-frame.

“Good Lord,” Mary Alice said. She drove in and
parked. A couple of cars on the road slowed while their occupants stared at the damage.

“Let’s get out,” she said.

“Are you crazy? What about electrical wires and stuff?”

“Watch where you step, Patricia Anne.” Mary Alice got out of the car and headed toward the collapsed part of the building. Debris was scattered across the parking lot—limbs, leaves, papers—and she leaned over to pick some up. Like me, she had worn jeans, and the sight of Mary Alice’s rear end as she leaned over in tight jeans did about as much as the coffee had to restore my good humor. I got out of the car and followed her, watching where I stepped. Snakes and downed power lines are two things that demand my instant respect.

Most of the structural damage seemed to be at the end of the building, the part where the dance floor and the stage were. We got down on our hands and knees and looked under the edge of the roof. We could see bricks and shattered tiles.

“I’m going in the front door,” Mary Alice said. “I think it’s safe over there, don’t you?”

“Hell, no, it’s not safe! This whole damn place is unsafe. It’s the unsafest place I’ve ever been in my life! In what? A week? There’s been a murder, unbelievable vandalism, dope found in the place, and now a tornado hits it. You think the rest of the roof’s not going to fall? Don’t bet on it. Not to mention getting fried by a few hot wires.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mouse.” Mary Alice rummaged through her purse. “I hope I have the keys.”

“What do you need the keys for? Just go through the hole in the wall. And aren’t you forgetting the little matter of the police having the place quarantined, or whatever they call it?”

“That was before the storm. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us going in and just seeing the damage from the inside. Aha!” Mary Alice came up with a key chain shaped like a huge four-leaf clover, which struck me as highly ironic for the Skoot, and started for the front door.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked when she realized I wasn’t behind her.

“Is your phone in the car?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll just wait out here where I can call 911.”

“Well, be that way!” She unlocked the door and walked in. I held my breath. “See?” she called. “It’s perfectly safe down at this end.” I noticed she didn’t slam the door, though.

I squatted down and tried to look under the collapsed roof again. Pieces of black curtain material stuck out in several places like a ruffle. But since the wall had fallen in, not out, with the roof just sliding down, you couldn’t see anything beyond the bricks and tiles. I got up and walked toward the front door. “You okay?” I called.

“Come on in. It’s fine.”

I stuck my head in the door. Sunshine was pouring through the hole where the roof had separated.

“See?” Sister said. “It’s not so bad.” She was standing close to the edge of the dance floor. “The kitchen’s fine, and look what I found.” She held out the glass boot that had been inlaid in the floor. “It’s not even broken. Just popped right out when the roof hit the floor, I guess. I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”

“A good sign of what?”

“That the Skoot’s going to come back stronger than ever.”

The only thing I could figure was that she was in shock. Denial, certainly. That place was the biggest mess I’d ever seen in my life. “Bulldoze it,” I said.

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Insurance will pay for every bit of this, and I think while I’m at it I’ll enlarge the dance floor. Line dancing takes up a lot of room.” She came over and handed me the boot, which weighed a ton. “Here hold this for me. We’ll put it right back in the new floor. And look at this, Mouse. See where the bar angles off? If it were straight, it would be much more efficient.” She wandered over to the bar.

“Bulldoze it,” I said again. “What do you want me to do with this boot?”

“Put it in the car. I don’t want it broken.”

“I’d feel better if you’d get out of here.”

“In a minute.”

I lugged that heavy boot to the car. It was a two-foot-tall, high-heeled cowboy boot made out of glass of different colors, and even though it was hollow, it was heavy. I dumped it on the backseat and saw that some debris had gotten into it. I reached in and pulled out wadded, wet paper. I looked around for the dumpster, but the tornado seemed to have deposited it somewhere else. Probably in the next county. Maybe Oz. I stuck the damp paper into my pocket.