Murder Shoots the Bull (18 page)

I studied what I had written down. “I’ll be damned. Do you realize that this stock is worth thirty something dollars a share? Round it off at eight million shares and you’ve got over two hundred and forty million dollars.” I looked at Sister. “That’s a quarter of a billion dollars, isn’t it?”

“You’re the math teacher.”

“I can’t count that high.”

Mary Alice took the page back and studied it. “A blind trust wouldn’t mean diddly. If someone owned this much of a company, the other large shareholders would find out who it was. You can bet on that. The only thing it would do is keep her name out of the annual report.”

“And they would logically expect Joseph and Sue to inherit half of Sophie’s shares.”

“Joseph and Sue would expect it, too.”

I rubbed my forehead. I was getting a headache. “What if they found out what she had done? What if she told them?”

“They’d be mad as hell.”

“Mad enough to kill her?”

“Could be.” Sister tapped her nails against the table. One of them popped off and landed on the will. An acrylic drop of blood. “Damn.”

“Hello, ladies. What a surprise.”

We looked up at Peyton Phillips, blonde hair in a French braid, not a wrinkle in her emerald green linen suit.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

I kicked Mary Alice. I didn’t want this woman to think we were being nosy, which of course we were.

“Genealogy research,” I lied, covering the will with my arms.

Sister kicked me back. Her kick was harder. “How are you, Peyton?”

“Fine. Have you heard from Mr. Phizer today?”

“He’s uncomfortable but okay.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Do you think the police will drop the charges against him now?” I asked.

“I’m working on it. They think Dickie’s anger was strictly directed toward Mr. Phizer, though, not his grandmother. And they think they have enough evidence against Mr. Phizer.” She shrugged. “When they think they have a case sewed up, they quit investigating.” A bright smile. “But I’m still trying. Y’all take care now.” She gave a small wave and walked over to the counter.

“Maybe we should have told her about the will,” I said to Sister.

“Mouse, look at that woman.”

I looked at the perfect hair, the perfect suit, the perfect smile. “Hey, you paid her retainer.”

“You’re right. Let her work for it.”

We are not nice people. So what.

“Beady eyes. You could see the Batson boy had beady eyes in the newspaper pictures.” Mary Alice was eating supper with Fred and me. Fred had taken Woofer for his walk while I fixed corn salad and turkey sandwiches. The sky had become slightly overcast, but it was still warm enough to sit on the deck.

Fred was sufficiently amazed at our news about the will. I had looked at the annual report as soon as I got home and saw that Columbia Federal Bank held fifty-one percent of Bellemina Health in estates and trusts. I know so little about stock, that I hadn’t thought anything about it when I had first read it. And even if I had, estates and trusts sounded like more than one person.

“I wonder why it hasn’t been in the financial news in the paper?” Sister asked.

I put the salad on the table. “Arthur’s not the kind to make an announcement. He did well to even get the will probated with all that’s been going on.”

Mary Alice and Fred reached for the salad at the same time. Fred won.

“You know,” he said, helping his plate generously, “executors of estates get something like five percent for settling things. Arthur’s going to come out with a bunch of money.”

“Enough to warrant being shot in the butt and having his house burned?” Sister asked.

“Well, just on the Bellemina stock that’s worth two hundred fifty million, if he gets five percent it’s—” Fred looked at me.

“Twelve million, five hundred thousand.” I nearly dropped the salad that I had taken from Fred and was handing to Sister. Arthur and Mitzi with multiple millions of dollars?

“They’ll be rich as you, Mary Alice,” Fred said.

“Of course they won’t.” Sister helped herself to the corn salad. “But I’m pleased for them. Especially if Arthur doesn’t have to go to the electric chair.”

“And this money is one more reason the police would think he did it,” I said.

Fred bit into a sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I wonder when that will was written. Did y’all notice by any chance?”

Sister surprised me by saying, “I did. It was written a couple of days before Sophie died. At least the part making Arthur the executor was. It was on a separate page at the front with all sorts of legal words. But I remember thinking she changed her mind right before she died.”

“Do you remember who did it?”

“You mean which lawyer? Let me think. Somebody with a bird name.” Sister took a bite of salad, chewed, and swallowed. “Swan? Parrot?” She shook her head no. “Y’all help me. Name some bird names.”

“Robin? Wren? Heron?”

“No. I’ll think of it in a minute.”

“What I was wondering,” Fred said, “is who the executor was before Arthur. That person got knocked out of a bunch of money.”

“Probably a bank,” I said.

“Wing.”

We both looked at Sister.

“John Wing. That was his name.”

Fred grunted. “That’s not a bird name.”

I put down my fork. “I wonder if Debbie knows him. It probably was a bank like I said, but if it were an individual, they might be mad enough to kill Sophie.”

“I’ll call her and see if she can find out.” Sister reached for the salad bowl again. “I told you, Mouse. It’s money folks get killed for.”

“And you’re the only one in our family who has any.”

“I love you too,” she said.

“M
y butt hurts like hell.” Arthur waddled in and sat on his inner tube, wincing. “I’m running a little fever and they’ve got me on antibiotics.”

“He’s fine,” Mitzi assured us.

“Like hell.”

It was Friday night and Fred and I had gone over to see Arthur. Mitzi was right about the flowers. The place was full of them.

“There were more than this,” Mitzi said when I admired them. “We’ve shared them with the neighbors on both sides of us.”

Fred gets jolly when confronted with sick friends. “Looking good, buddy,” he said to Arthur. For a second I thought he was going to give him the manly punch on the arm.

So did Arthur; he cringed, and the inner tube squealed. “I look like hell and feel like hell. That damn Dickie Batson.”

“He’ll pay for it, darling,” Mitzi soothed him.

“Hope they cut his balls off.”

The flowers obviously hadn’t helped.

We stayed only a few minutes. I had hoped to ask Arthur who had been the executor of Sophie’s will before she had appointed him. I also wanted to know if he had read it and realized how rich he was going to be. Instead, we wished him well and left, each of us carrying a pot of lilies which Mitzi had shut up in the bathroom because they smelled so strong.

“He looks rough,” Fred said. “I can’t believe everything that’s happened to that old fellow.”

“I can’t believe how rich he’s going to be. Do you think he even realizes it?”

A car pulled up as we were walking toward the street. Peyton Phillips stepped out dressed in a blue sequined dress slit up the front. The top was cut so low, there wasn’t much of Peyton left to the imagination. And there was a lot of Peyton. Saline, I’d bet my bottom dollar. But, dammit, it looked good.

“Hello, you two,” she said. “How’s Mr. Phizer?”

“Fine.” Fred was doing a good job of peering over the lilies.

“He’s running a fever,” I informed her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, I’m on my way to the Mall Ball and I thought I’d stop by and say hello. Does he feel like company?”

The Mall Ball is an annual fund-raising event sponsored by the Civiettes, a group of young women who do a lot of, as the name says, civic and charity work.

“He’ll be pleased to see you,” Fred said.

I glared at him as Peyton gave a little wave and went up the walk. “Well, he will,” he said.

“Much as that woman’s getting paid, she ought to find
out what really happened to Sophie and get Arthur out of trouble.”

“The police are working on it, honey.”

“Bo Mitchell and Joanie Salk? Sergeant Pepper? Ha.”

“They do it all on computers nowadays, anyway. They caught Dickie Batson, didn’t they?”

“Tripped over him probably. And his parents swear he didn’t do it.”

“Doesn’t seem to be much doubt about it. The smoking gun.”

I grinned at him. “What have you been reading?”

We drove down Valley Avenue. The spotlights were doing their number on Vulcan’s behind which reminded me of Arthur’s problem.

“You know,” I mused, looking up at the statue, “there’s something real obvious we’re missing here.”

“Not on Vulcan.”

“No, there’s nothing that’s not obvious about Vulcan. I mean about the relationship between Sophie and Arthur. Why would she come back after almost fifty years and make him the trustee of her estate? That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“She trusted him.”

“And she didn’t trust any of her family?”

“Well, she had good reason not to trust somebody. That’s for sure.”

“And that good reason ought to be obvious.”

“The police will find out, honey.”

Ha.

The next morning, Fred had to go in to work a while on a special steel order.

“Want to get in the shower with me?” he invited, rubbing the three or four hairs on his chest.

Jane declined Tarzan’s offer and sent him on his way with a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Soon after he left, a truck pulled into the Phizers’ driveway. Several workmen piled out. And then a second truck. Something was actually going to be done over there. And on a Saturday.

I pulled on some jeans and a tee shirt, collected Woofer, and waved at the workmen as I went by. They were sitting on the back of the second truck drinking coffee from McDonald’s cups. They waved back.

When we got back from our walk, they were gone. I didn’t see them again for three days. There was a message to call Sister, though. Which I did. Henry had made a chicken potpie the night before and Debbie had called to see if we wanted the leftovers for lunch. One does not turn down Henry Lamont’s food, not even the leftovers. I told her I’d be there at noon.

“Bring a salad,” she said.

I called Mitzi. Arthur was feeling better; he didn’t have any fever this morning. I was missing Haley, and considered calling her, but it was early evening in Warsaw and she and Philip were probably out.

“I miss your mama,” I told Muffin who was sitting on the kitchen table taking a bath. “Don’t you?”

She quit licking her paw for a moment and looked at me. I took that for a yes.

I needed to stay busy, do something mindless. So I cleaned out the refrigerator.

“You smell like ammonia,” Mary Alice greeted me when I presented myself for lunch and handed her the Piggly Wiggly salad.

“I wore rubber gloves.” I sniffed my hands and arms. “I’ve been cleaning out the refrigerator.”

“Well, come put some lemon hand cream on. Debbie’s here.”

“I saw her car. Are the twins here?”

“No. They’re with Richardena. Debbie brought the potpie.” Richardena is the children’s nanny, one of the best things to ever come Debbie’s way. Mary Alice had been leery of Richardena because she had shot her abusive, womanizing husband.

“She just fixed him so he won’t run around anymore,” Debbie explained.

The jury, the majority of which had been women, not only found Richardena innocent, they congratulated her. And Richardena, the kindest and gentlest of women, is now the twins’ much-beloved nanny.

Debbie was sitting at the kitchen counter scratching Bubba Cat under the chin. Bubba, who sleeps on a heating pad on the counter, summer and winter, had his head lifted in bliss. One hind leg was twitching. Our animals do lead good lives.

“Hey, Aunt Pat,” she said. “Guess what. Henry and I are celebrating our sixth-month anniversary tomorrow.

“And no one thought it would last.” I took the cream that Sister handed me and rubbed it on my hands and arms. It did smell good.

“Debbie’s got some news for you,” Sister said, taking the potpie from the microwave. “She knows John Wing; she called him.”

“Who?” I was still thinking about Henry and Debbie.

“The man who changed Sophie Sawyer’s will. The one who made Arthur the trustee of the estate. You’re not going to believe who the first executor was.”

“Who?”

“Peyton Phillips,” Debbie said.

“Arthur’s lawyer?”

Debbie quit petting the cat, got up, and washed her hands. “I didn’t know she did anything but criminal work. Surprised me. Not that she couldn’t do it if she wanted to.”
Debbie reached for a paper towel. “And from what Mama says, it certainly would have been lucrative.”

“Multimillionaire lucrative,” I agreed. Peyton Phillips. I’ll be damned. “We saw her last night when we went to see Arthur. She was on her way to the Mall Ball, all dressed up.”

“I figure she’s the one who killed Sophie. Just think how mad it must have made her to lose out on all that money.” Sister reached up and got three plates from the cabinet. “Y’all come help yourselves.”

“I doubt it, Mama,” Debbie said, helping herself to potpie and salad. “What I’d like to know is why Mrs. Sawyer changed the will.”

“She saw Arthur Phizer again and realized she’d always loved him.” Sister held up her hand. “Wait a minute.” She got a couple of bottles of salad dressing from the refrigerator. “The ranch is fat-free. It’s pretty good.”

We sat at the kitchen table; Bubba turned so he could watch us.

“Just think,” Debbie said, “out of all the lawyers in Birmingham, I recommended Peyton Phillips to represent Arthur. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me that he had replaced her as executor of Mrs. Sawyer’s estate.”

“She charged a fortune, too,” Sister said.

“I guess it’s not unethical, but it looks like she would have mentioned it. I wouldn’t think she’d feel very kindly toward him.”

Sister waved her fork. “This is what happened. Peyton finds out that Sophie has changed her will. She’s furious. She goes to confront her. They argue. Peyton poisons her.”

“Sophie was having lunch with Arthur at the Hunan Hut,” I reminded Sister.

“And she’s got nothing to gain from it, Mama,” Debbie added. “If she kills Mrs. Sawyer, the will with Mr. Phizer as the executor goes on the records. As long as Mrs. Sawyer
is alive, there’s a chance that she might change her mind and give it back to Peyton.”

I tasted the chicken potpie. Henry had done it again. “Lord, this is good.” I chewed thoughtfully.

There was something we were missing here. Given the whole Sawyer-Batson clan, there were probably a whole lot of things we were missing. But something was nagging at me, just as it had the night before. Some piece of the puzzle.

“What do you know about Peyton, Debbie?” I asked.

“Mainly her reputation as a good criminal lawyer. She got her law degree at the university a few years before I did, but I’ve met her at social gatherings. The Birmingham women lawyers have a group that meets for lunch or dinner once a month. It used to be fairly small but not anymore.”

“Married? Children?”

“I think she might have been married for a while when she was in her early twenties. No children.”

I realized what had been bothering me in this whole scenario.

“Debbie, you were wondering why Sophie Sawyer removed Peyton as her executor. Why would she ever have made her the executor to start with?”

Sister handed Bubba a piece of chicken which he sniffed at. “Because her girls don’t get along with each other and she hated Joseph Batson.”

“But Sophie lived in Chicago. And we’re not talking penny ante stuff here. Wouldn’t it have been logical to have a bank or an officer of a bank handle it up there? It doesn’t make sense that she would come to Birmingham and choose a young lawyer she didn’t know to be the executor of her estate. You don’t just pick a name out of the yellow pages for something like that.”

Debbie nodded her head. “You’re right, Aunt Pat.”

“Good thinking, Mouse.”

I am a sixty-one-year-old woman who still falls apart
when my sister says something nice about me. I wonder if it’s too late for counseling.

Sister waved her fork again. “This is the way it is. Peyton Phillips and Arabella Hardt are lesbian lovers and Peyton blackmailed Sophie into making her the trustee, said she would tell about their relationship.”

Debbie grinned. “Mama, you couldn’t blackmail anybody with that. Not nowadays.”

“I guess not. But it’s an interesting thought. Anybody want some more potpie?”

We all did. Fortunately, Henry had made a lot.

“I’ll tell you what, Mama,” Debbie said. “I’ll see what I can find out about Peyton’s background, see if there’s any connection to the Sawyers.”

I started in on my second helping of potpie. Sister’s lesbian remark had gotten me thinking. I didn’t care what the relationship might be, but was it possible that the friend that Arabella was staying with was Peyton Phillips? I tried to remember the day at the courthouse when Peyton had come to get Arthur out on bail. She had introduced herself to me. I remembered that. And Arabella had asked her if she wanted some candy and Peyton had answered with a put-down remark. But had they seemed to know each other? I couldn’t remember. Well, if Arabella were at Peyton’s, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.

I settled down and enjoyed my lunch. Not even Bubba’s meowing for more chicken bothered me.

As it turned out, Fred worked all day. I was watching the six o’clock news when the kitchen door opened, he got a beer from the refrigerator, and came into the den.

“Rough day?” I asked.

“Trouble getting the stuff from the lab.” He sat in his recliner and took a long swig of beer. “What’s been happening here?”

“We found out that Peyton Phillips, Arthur’s lawyer that we saw last night, used to be the executor of Sophie Sawyer’s will. Up until a couple of weeks ago in fact.”

“Boy, she missed out on a lot of money, didn’t she.”

“Maybe enough to kill for.”

“Not that cute girl.”

Oh, the power of saline.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“A little bit.”

“There’s all kinds of sandwich stuff in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

The phone rang and I answered it.