Murder Carries a Torch (4 page)

As I turned off the computer, I heard the toilet in the hall bathroom flush. It was 8:30, Fred had gone to work and I had been up an hour, but we had been quiet so Luke could sleep. There was no hurry about going to Steele.

I knocked on the guest room door and handed Luke a toothbrush and a razor. He was buttoning the blue plaid shirt he had worn the day before and I considered offering him one of Fred’s, but decided it would be too small for him. A week of worrying hadn’t lessened Luke’s belly.

“There’s coffee when you’re ready,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“An egg?”

“Just some cereal.”

I went into the kitchen and picked Muffin up from the table. Out of the bay window, I could see the bare limbs of the trees bending in the wind. Dark gray clouds were layered across the sky. If this weren’t Birmingham,
Alabama, and if I hadn’t just heard the weatherman say it was going to be partly cloudy, I would have sworn it was going to snow. I checked the thermometer on the deck. Thirty-eight degrees. No sign of Woofer. He was taking full advantage of his igloo doghouse, one of the best buys I ever made.

“Looks like a raw day,” Luke said when he came in.

“Looks like snow,” I agreed. “But the weatherman says it’s not going to. He says it’s going to be partly cloudy.”

Luke looked better, probably because he had shaved.

I held up Cheerios and corn flakes. He pointed to the Cheerios. I poured some in two bowls and cut up half a banana in each.

“Thanks.” Luke picked up a spoon and began to eat silently, glancing occasionally out of the bay window. Somehow this worried me more than the nonstop talk of the day before.

“I could fix us some sandwiches to take,” I offered, finishing my cereal. “Turkey? Ham?”

He nodded, though I was sure my words hadn’t scored a hit. Wherever Luke’s thoughts were, they weren’t in my kitchen.

I got the sandwich makings out of the refrigerator and was spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread when Luke said, “I think Virginia’s dead, Patricia Anne.”

“Oh, Luke, of course she’s not. Don’t even think like that. We’re going to find her today.”

“No, we’re not.”

There was a finality in his voice that made me look up. He was staring out of the window, both hands clasped around a coffee mug.

Did he know more than he had told us? Had sixty-
three-year old Virginia run off with a house painter or had something else happened? How well did we really know Luke? We saw him at family weddings and funerals, exchanged Christmas and birthday cards.

I slapped a slice of turkey on the bread and told myself I was crazy, still jet-lagged. This was Pukey Lukey, our cousin, for heaven’s sake. Nevertheless, I jumped when Luke pushed his chair back. He came over, put his mug in the dishwasher, and gave me a hug.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The hug was sweet, appreciative. What on God’s earth had I been thinking?

“I’m going to call that phone number one more time,” he said. “What kind of a person would call himself Monkey Man?”

I shrugged. I had just seen Sister coming up the back steps. “Is she going with us?”

“I asked her yesterday. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Fine.” Given the thoughts that were zipping through my brain all morning, it was more than fine. “I’ll fix some more sandwiches.”

“Lord, it’s cold. Y’all ready? I swear I think it’s going to snow.” Sister swept in dressed in a dark purple cape which looked like a purple blanket with slits for the arms. Add to that purple boots. The Fruit of the Loom people would have hired her in a minute for a commercial.

“That’s some outfit,” Luke said.

Sister twirled. “Warsaw. I haven’t seen anything like it here.”

I hadn’t seen anything like it in Warsaw.

“Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” I said. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”

“I’ve got us a whole thermos of coffee in the car.”

The first look of pleasure that I’d seen since Luke had gotten here lit up his face. “You’re going to let me ride in your Jaguar?”

The woman didn’t miss a beat. “I think your car would be more comfortable.”

An hour and a half later we pulled into a parking place at the Steele post office. We had decided on the way up the interstate that this was the only way to find Holden Crawford since all we had was a rural route address.

Urban sprawl from Birmingham has not reached Steele. With the exception of the modern post office and a cutesy tearoom painted blue, the one downtown street was lined with buildings that had been there for a century. Unlike many small Alabama towns, though, Steele seemed to be holding its own. Most of the buildings were well maintained and, most important, occupied by businesses. The sidewalks weren’t crowded, but neither were they empty. There was even a grocery store that was not part of a large chain. Several cars were parked in front of it.

“I’ll go ask,” Luke said.

We watched him go up the steps; the wind whipped against him and he covered his ears with his hands.

“Nice town,” I said. “Did you see the public library in that elegant old house?”

“The tearoom looked good.” Sister turned and pointed toward the basket on the seat beside me. “Hand me a sandwich. I’m hungry.”

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter. I hope Puke’s not in there long. It’s already getting cold in here.” She had draped the purple
cape over the back of the seat. Now she pulled it around her shoulders and looked at the Ziploc bag I had given her. “There’s nothing runny in these sandwiches, is there? I don’t want to mess up this outfit.”

“Just turkey or ham.”

She unwrapped it and took a bite. “Turkey.”

I leaned forward and propped my arms on the back of the front seat.

“Did Luke tell you that Holden Crawford’s answering machine says you’ve reached Monkey Man? This whole thing is weird. You know? Can you imagine Virginia running off with a man called Monkey Man?”

Sister chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “I can’t imagine a man called Monkey Man running off with Virginia. In fact, I can’t imagine any man running off with Virginia.”

“I can’t either,” I said truthfully. “That’s one thing that’s worrying me about this whole affair.”

“On the other hand, she’s just in her sixties. I guess it could have been eyes across a crowded room. Or through the window, in this case. Who knows?” Sister took another bite of sandwich. “Maybe she’s been doubling up on her estrogen.” She chewed. “I wonder if that works?”

“Maybe something’s happened to her and Luke knows it and isn’t telling us.”

“You’re crazy.”

Jet-lagged to hell and back, anyway.

Luke came out of the post office, plowing through the wind and the debris that was skittering along the steps.

“Lord!” he said, slamming the door. “It’s going to snow sure as anything.”

“What did you find out?” Sister asked.

“You follow the signs up to Horse Pens 40. It’s about a half a mile past the Horse Pens’s entrance. A white house on the left, right by a church. Probably the church where he preaches.”

Luke started the car and cold air blasted us.

“It’ll be warm in a minute,” he apologized. “Which way is Horse Pens 40?”

“Go back to where we came into town. You’ll see the signs.” Back to where?

“The man in the post office laughed when I asked for Holden Crawford. He said, ‘You talking about Monk?’ I said I guessed so.”

“Well, Monk doesn’t sound so bad,” Sister said. She pointed toward the tearoom. “Why don’t we stop for lunch?”

“I’ve got to find Virginia first.”

I handed Sister another sandwich.

As she was unwrapping it, she asked, “Luke, do you know how much estrogen Virginia takes?”

“She doesn’t need it.”

Sister and I looked at each other. Silence does have a sound.

We stopped at a four-way stop. A pickup with two bird dogs in the back turned left and headed up Chandler Mountain ahead of us. The dogs didn’t seem to be uncomfortable. They were sitting against the cab, leaning into the curves as the truck climbed the mountain. I knew they were cold, though, and I knew the open bed of a pickup was no place for an animal. I was relieved when the driver put on his turn signal and turned into the driveway of a farmhouse.

Chandler Mountain is a series of plateaus, some so wide you can’t tell you’re up high. The land is rich and
well farmed. The area is known for its pimentos and tomatoes, which ripen well into November. Something about the thermals delays frost there for several weeks.

Winter had come with a vengeance that day in January, though. We passed a huge tomato-packing shed. A sign that proclaimed this was a farmer’s co-op had come loose on one side and twisted in the wind. There was nothing that hinted that this had been a busy place just two months earlier.

The plateau ended, and the road became a series of sharp curves. There was little traffic. The only car we met was going slowly and was barely on its side of the road, the bluff side with no guardrails. The driver, an old bearded man, waved at us.

“Who the hell would want to live up here?” Luke grumbled.

“It’s beautiful when you get to the top,” I said. “You can stand on the rocks at Horse Pens and see forever. The most beautiful sunsets you ever saw.”

“How come they call it Horse Pens 40?”

“The rocks form a natural corral. The Indians used to herd their horses in there, so they say. The 40 is because it’s the forty-acre parcel that Horse Pens is on.”

We had reached another plateau and passed by the entrance to Horse Pens where a sign attached to a barb-wire fence announced that the spring festival would be April 22, 23, 24.

“Start looking for the house,” Luke said. “The mailbox, anyway.”

There were several small houses, all close to the road. Except for the smoke coming from chimneys, there were no signs of people. Occasionally in frostbitten gardens, a few turnip greens still showed color.

Sister pointed. “There. There’s a church.”

Luke slowed down.

The house next to the church sat farther back from the road than most of its neighbors, but like the others, it was small, two rooms wide with a narrow porch. Its only distinguishing feature was that in the front yard was a large satellite dish. On the mailbox was the name
CRAWFORD
.

Luke turned left into the gravel driveway between the church and house and stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Sister asked. “This has got to be the right place. Look. There’s a van with ladders and stuff on it.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.” Luke leaned his head against the steering wheel.

“He’s just nervous,” I said to Sister. And then to Luke, “Aren’t you?”

“What if she doesn’t want to see me?” he said, his head still down.

“Then she’s crazy. There’s everything in Columbus. Malls, department stores. Up here,” Sister pointed to the satellite dish, “they don’t even have cable TV.”

“But she left me, Mary Alice.”

“And you have come to her rescue.” Sister turned and looked at me. “Isn’t that right, Mouse?”

“I guess so. You need to talk to her, anyway, Luke.”

What looked suspiciously like a tear dripped down the steering wheel.

“I tell you what,” I offered. “I’ll go see if she’s here. How about that?”

“Would you? I don’t want to see that Crawford guy.”

“Sure.”

I opened the car door and looked across the yard care
fully. In spite of the church next door, this looked like pit bull territory. Nothing moved on the porch or darted from under the house. Nevertheless, I armed myself with an umbrella I had found on the backseat before I marched across the yard to knock on the door.