Murder Shoots the Bull (12 page)

I got up and put the bacon into the microwave to defrost. Sausage, scrambled eggs, grits, and buttered biscuits were what I wanted, what we had eaten happily for years until someone figured out that cholesterol has a habit of taking up permanent residence in our arteries. One more thing to feel guilty about. I had ruined my children’s blood vessels by feeding them well.

“Did your mother ever cook turnip greens with fatback?” I asked Lisa.

“Sure. Only she called it streak of lean. Best turnip greens in the world.” She turned a page of the newspaper. “No telling what my arteries look like.”

Well, this morning we were going to have scrambled eggs with the turkey bacon, “irregardless” as Mama used to say. We all needed some comfort food. Hell, I might even fry the eggs, sunnyside up and risk salmonella. Live dangerously. Sop the yellows on drop biscuits.

I was reaching for the flour when the phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping it hadn’t wakened Mitzi and Arthur. It was time for Fred to get up, anyway.

“I’ll pick you up at a quarter till ten,” Sister said. “And I think I may be engaged.”

“Why are you picking me up, and to whom are you engaged?’

“For the investment club. Today’s the day, isn’t it?”

I glanced at the bulletin board beside the refrigerator.

“Yes. Who are you marrying?”

“I didn’t say I was marrying anybody. Lord, Mouse. I just said I was engaged.” There was a pause. “I think.” Another pause. “Anyway, I just put him on the plane to London, so it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Cedric?”

“Of course. Did you think it was the blind guy or one of the guys from Bangladesh? I’m on my way home from the airport now. Have you decided which stocks to recommend?”

“Bellemina Health, for one. Maybe Rubbermaid. And I need to talk to you. You wouldn’t believe what all’s been happening over here.”

“Fred must have gotten his prescription for Viagra refilled.”

“Fred doesn’t need Viagra.” I looked up and saw Fred standing in the doorway. “Gotta go,” I said and hung up.

“Mary Alice?” he asked.

I nodded.

He sat down at the table across from a grinning Lisa.

“Morning, Pop,” she said, handing him the sports section of the paper.

“Good morning, Lisa.”

I made the drop biscuits to the sound of silence broken only by the occasional rustle of newspapers. Sister would have loved it.

Arthur came in as we were finishing eating. Mitzi, he said, was still asleep. He ate a biscuit, turning down the offer of an egg, and then he, Fred, and Lisa went next door to see what the damage looked like in the daylight.

“I can’t believe they’ve put crime tape up,” he said as they went out the door. “What do they think? That somebody tried to burn us down?”

The answer was so obvious, that none of us voiced it.

I straightened up the kitchen and sat down in the den to look at the paper. There was a small paragraph in the Metro section that said insurance executive Arthur Phizer, 64, had been arrested for the murder of socialite Sophie Sawyer, 64, the mother-in-law of Dr. Joseph Batson, CEO of Bellemina Health. Phizer had been released on a $500,000 bond.

Socialite? That seemed like such an old-fashioned word. And what kind of socializing had Sophie done in Birmingham, anyway? She’d been gone for forty years and was sick when she came back. And no mention of husband or children. Just the fact that she had a rich son-in-law.

The phone rang, and I grabbed it. It was Debbie wanting to know if the Phizers were pleased with Peyton, that it had been a miracle that Peyton had taken the case as busy as she was. She had tried to call them, but their phone was out of order. Maybe I ought to report it.

I told her about the fire, the smoke alarms that didn’t go off, the police tape.

“Lord, Aunt Pat.” She sounded as out of breath as I was. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Phizer okay?”

“Shaken up by everything that’s happened.”

“Has anybody called Peyton?”

“Not that I know of. Why would they need a lawyer for a fire?”

“If the police suspect arson, she needs to know. I’ll call her. Okay?”

“Sure. By the way, your mother’s engaged again.”

“Cedric?”

“Yep. She just put him on a plane to London.”

Debbie giggled. “That woman. Let’s not order the invitations yet.”

“I don’t even know Cedric’s last name.”

“I doubt Mama does.”

We hung up laughing.

“Y
ou go on, Mama. I’ll be here when Mrs. Phizer wakes up.”

I was dressed and waiting for Mary Alice, Fred had gone on to work, and Arthur had gone to talk to the insurance people. He had had no trouble getting his things from next door. The place was swarming with policemen, he said, and please tell Mitzi that the five-legged table was okay, maybe a little water damage, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

When he left, he was dressed in a gray suit and looked nice. But no one at the insurance company was going to doubt that there had been a fire at his house. He reeked of smoke.

“I’ll even go next door with her,” Lisa offered. “Everything they own will have to be sent to the cleaners.”

“I wonder about the upholstered furniture. A lot of it will have to be replaced because of smoke.”

The back door opened and Mary Alice stuck her head in. “What in the world is going on over at the Phizers’?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way to the meeting.”

“Morning, Aunt Sister,” Lisa said. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thanks, honey. But I’m not going to rush into anything.”

I swear she was serious.

I found my purse and told Lisa we would be at the Homewood Library if she needed us.

“Why would she need us?” Sister asked as I closed the back door. “Has she heard from Alan?”

“Not that I know of. He’s still climbing Fool’s Hill.”

“Of all our children, I thought he would be the last one to do that.”

“Me too,” I agreed.

“You want to clue me in on that?” Sister pointed next door to the police cars and the crime tape. “Are Mitzi and Arthur okay?”

“Not exactly.”

We got in the car, and in the fifteen minutes it took us to get to the Homewood Library, I had just hit the high points of everything that had happened. Sister’s side of the conversation consisted of a few “Say what’s?” and “Have mercies!”

“There’s a lot more,” I said as she pulled into a parking space.

“Well, wait until after the meeting. I don’t want to miss anything.”

I should worry. There’s not much that Sister misses.

The Homewood library is a wonderful example of what can be done with an older building. Originally a church, it has been turned into a perfect library. The sanctuary with its vaulted ceiling and large stained glass window is now the main part of the library housing the reference depart
ment and the adult books. The children’s department was once the church offices and the chapel, and the room that served as a church parlor and a place for wedding receptions and church suppers is now a medium-sized auditorium. But one of the best features is the Sunday school rooms downstairs. They are perfect for meetings and are used by the whole community.

“Don’t you dare recommend condom stocks,” I warned Mary Alice as we walked down the hall toward the noise of women talking.

“Why not? Shirley Gibbs, my broker, says they’re better than ever since Viagra. I still think she should have come. It’s dumb not to have some expert guidance.”

“Well, let’s see what the group is like.”

The group looked as if the Sunday school class that had met there for years had never moved out. About a dozen women ranging in age from mid-forties to, I swear, a hundred sat around drinking tea and talking. One of them sported a yellow crocheted hat.

“No condoms,” I muttered to Sister. “I mean it.”

“Patricia Anne and Mary Alice.” Connie Harris, Mitzi’s friend, rose and came to greet us. The youngest woman in the group, a pretty blonde who was giving middle age a run for its money came with her and was introduced as Joy McWain.

“We’re just so glad you’re joining us,” Joy enthused. “Isn’t this exciting? I told Connie I don’t know when I’ve been so excited about anything. Can I get y’all some tea?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Well, y’all just find a place to sit down. I’ll bring it to you.” I swear the word perky had been invented for this woman.

“Unsweetened,” Sister said.

Two lines appeared between perky Joy’s eyes. “I think it’s all sweet.”

“That’s fine,” I said, pinching the back of Sister’s arm slightly.

“Y’all come over here and sit down,” Connie said. “And tell me how Mitzi is. I didn’t figure she would be here this morning. I just can’t believe Arthur was arrested for murder.”

“Her house burned down last night.” Sister settled into the chair next to the elderly woman in the crocheted hat. “Hey, how are you?” she said to her.

“Tolerable,” the woman answered.

Connie clutched her chest and sank down by Sister. “Mitzi’s house burned down? Oh, my Lord!”

“Just the back part,” I said. Somehow it didn’t sound consoling.

“Is she all right?” Connie was still clutching her chest.

“She’s at my house and was still asleep when I left,” I explained. “I hope she’s okay.”

“But what happened?”

“Someone tried to kill them,” Sister informed her.

“What?” Connie clutched tighter.

“Here you are, ladies.” Joy McWain handed us two large red plastic cups that were already sweating and a couple of paper napkins. “You all right, Mrs. Harris?”

Connie nodded.

“Someone tried to kill me once,” Crocheted Hat said.

Perky Joy smiled. “Now, Miss Bessie, you know better than that.”

“Got the scar to prove it. Here, missy, I’ll show you.” The woman started to unbutton her blouse.

“That’s okay, Miss Bessie,” Joy said. “We believe you.”

“What happened?” Sister asked. “Did they shoot you or what?”

“Stuck me in the gut with a knife. Right down on Twentieth Street and me just going in the dentist’s office for a
root canal.” She sniffed. “Said, ‘Hand me your purse, old woman.’ I said, ‘Like hell I will,’ and he pulls out this knife.”

Sister was intrigued. “What did you do?”

“Shot him. I’d have been all right if he hadn’t fallen frontward. Looks like he’d have gone backwards.”

“Wow,” Sister said.

Connie Harris fanned herself with a paper napkin while Crocheted Hat informed us that she hoped we’d invest in condoms, and did we know which company made the best ones? Was it true some were fruit flavored?

“My God,” Connie muttered, fanning harder.

Any reply Sister would have made, and I’m sure there would have been one, was cut off by Joy McWain clapping her hands for attention.

“Welcome, everybody. Let’s go around and introduce ourselves,” she said. “Mr. Alcorn Jones, the president of First Financial Trust, is going to come help us get started today, but he’s going to be a few minutes late.” She pointed to the woman sitting next to the refreshment table who said her name was Mary Beatty and she was a happy wife, the mother of five, the grandmother of twelve, and a good old Southern Baptist.

Sister leaned around Connie and whispered. “Are we supposed to say all that?”

I whispered back, “Just say you’re rich and just got engaged.”

“What about you? You don’t have anything to say.”

Too bad Connie was in the way. “I’ll say I’m your sister.”

After everybody had introduced herself (Sister had just given her name as had Crocheted Hat, Bessie McCoy), Joy said we should give our club a name.

The titles suggested ranged from Serendipity to Stocky Ladies. Joy wrote all the suggestions down on a chalkboard. Connie Harris, who had recovered some, came up with the
name Pennies from Heaven, which a lot of the women liked. Bessie McCoy suggested Homewood Heifers. (“We’re hoping for a bull market, but we’re heifers, and we’re meeting at the Homewood Library.”)

Sister said she liked that name, but she and Bessie were a minority of two. The majority finally voted on The Birmingham Ladies’ Investment Club, the recommendation of Mary Beatty, the happily married mother of many.

“Stinks,” Bessie McCoy said, scratching her head through her crocheted hat.

While we were having this discussion, a man in a dark suit had come into the room and had sat down in a chair near the door. In his sixties, he had a George Hamilton tan that made the white fringe of hair around his bald head look like a halo. He was either courting melanoma on a regular basis or stopping by Rich’s cosmetic counter for self-tanning lotions every other day. My bet was on the latter.

Name decided on, though some of the women grumbled that it lacked originality, Joy introduced Alcorn Jones whose smile was as white as his hair. I made myself a mental note to try tanning lotion again. I had tried it years ago and ended up a streaked orange. And itching.

Sister, I noticed, who was wearing her
H.M.S. Pinafore
outfit today, had snapped to attention at Alcorn Jones’s appearance. I wondered how far across the Atlantic Cedric was by now. The point of no return? Fare thee well, Cedric.

“Good morning, ladies.” Alcorn Jones’s voice was deep and warm. “And thank you, Joy, for inviting me to the organizational meeting of the Birmingham Ladies’ Investment Club. You are embarking on a financial voyage that will be both educational and lucrative.”

The word lucrative got our attention, as did his next words, “Now, I’m going to help you get organized.” He paused. “You’re going to need to take notes.”

There was a scrambling in purses for pens and something to write on. This man meant business.

“First of all,” he said, “organize yourselves as a partnership. It’s easier, and that way each person is responsible for keeping up with her own taxable income.”

I wrote “Partnership, each own tax” in my little spiral notebook.

“You’re going to need at least four officers, a senior partner, a junior partner, a recording partner, and a financial partner, the person who will actually buy and sell the stocks.”

I scribbled this down, as did every other woman in the room. I glanced over at Sister. Every other woman but Mary Alice was taking notes. She was sitting there calmly taking the silver foil off of a Hershey’s Kiss.

“Connie,” I whispered, “switch places with me.”

Still writing, Connie moved into my chair so I could sit next to Sister.

“How come you’re not writing this down?” I asked.

“Because you are. Both of us don’t need to.”

I could feel my blood pressure rushing up like the red line in a thermometer. Some day, maybe some day soon, this woman was going to cause me to have a stroke.

“Each member should be responsible for following at least one stock,” Alcorn Jones said.

I wrote down “Each—one stock.” “Start writing,” I hissed at Sister. “Right this minute.”

Miss Chocolate Breath leaned over and whispered in my ear, “All he’s doing is repeating word for word what’s in the Beardstown Ladies’ book on investment clubs. Shirley Gibbs gave me a copy of it to study.”

I gave her a hard look. “You don’t study.”

“Okay, but you just listen. Now he’s going to tell us about the initial investment and the monthly contribution.”

Which he did. I wrote it down anyway. In fact, I took notes for almost half an hour.

“And a final word of advice,” Alcorn Jones said, “I recommend that your portfolios be well balanced. You should have stocks in at least five fields, technology—including communications such as computers—health, pharmaceuticals, proven retailers, and entertainment such as Disney.”

“Write that down,” Sister told me. “I don’t remember that being in the book.”

“The Southern Baptists are boycotting Disney,” Mary Beatty informed him.

“Hey!” Bessie McCoy spoke so loudly, we all jumped. “This club’s about making money, not morals.”

Alcorn Jones smiled easily at both women. “These are the things you ladies will have to work out.”

“Well, there are some things I won’t compromise on,” Mary Beatty said. “I’m laying that on the table right now.”

I figured Bessie McCoy had something in her purse to lay on the table that might change Mary’s mind.

The bank president glanced at his Rolex and declared that he was late for a meeting, and to feel free to call on him at any time, that his bank would handle our stock at a discount rate. With that, he disappeared through the door so quickly, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a puff of smoke.

“Hey.” Sister turned to Connie and me. “This club’s going to be fun.”

“It’s almost lunchtime,” perky Joy said. “How about the same time, next week. It’ll give us time to think about what Mr. Jones said, and we’ll make some definite decisions then. Okay?”

Okay.

“I think you ought to be the financial partner, Mouse. You should have told them you tutor in math.”

“Wash your mouth out with soap.” The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with me. I was fighting to keep my eyes open as we drove through Homewood.

“I’m hungry. Here,” Sister handed me the phone. “Call and see how many people are at your house and we’ll stop and get lunch for everybody.”

I dialed sleepily, and Debbie answered the phone.