Murder on a Bad Hair Day (4 page)

The thought had occurred to me that Claire was distraught over Mercy’s death. She had glowed the night before when she was talking about working at the gallery, and when Mercy was making her catty remarks about the Outsider artists, I was the one who had snapped back, not Claire. She had been nothing but admiring of Mercy and of Mercy’s work. But how had Claire ended up on my back steps? Where was her car? Her shoes? And what about that “no place else to go” bit? She had an apartment somewhere, and a husband, presumably, since she wasn’t Claire Needham anymore, but Claire Moon.

When I am upset, I lose my appetite. I tried to eat, but the cereal tasted like paper. I put the bowl down, went to the bookcase, and got out the yearbooks that Claire was in. It was startling to see her as a pale teenager with dark blond hair parted in the middle and hanging limply beside her face. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her the night before. Only her eyes seemed the same, dark, with a slight oriental slant to them. A pretty girl, but one who would have faded into
the crowd. Beside her picture, where honors and activities were listed, was “Art Club.” That was all. Though she had been in my Advanced Placement English classes, she had not participated in debate or the literary magazine or the drama club, things that usually go hand in hand.

She had lived with foster parents. I remembered that. But had she gone to college? I had no idea, and I could have kicked myself. So many students. So many lives. I closed the books and wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, if these students had learned anything in my classes that was helping them in their lives. Had Frost made wrong choices easier to live with? Or Crane shown the true face of bravery? Had Agee taught them to deal with loss?

“For God’s sake, Mouse.”

Mary Alice’s voice scared me so, I jumped straight up and the books went flying, landing on the floor with a thump.

“Damn it, Sister!” I hissed. “I’ll bet that woke Claire up.”

“I’ll go see.” She disappeared from the doorway but was back in a moment. “Nope.”

I was picking up the books and willing my heart to slow down. “Where did you come from?”

“Home. Where do you think?”

“I mean, how did you get here so quickly?”

“I’m not dressed.” Mary Alice opened her raincoat to show a short pink nightgown and a lot of Mary Alice. “Good thing I came, too. You were getting ready to have one of your existential snits, weren’t you?”

“You wouldn’t know an existential snit if one hit you on the head. And have you got on underpants?”

“Of course, Patricia Anne. You think I want Mama to roll over in her grave? Speaking of which, you really should lock your back door.”

“What?” Trying to follow Mary Alice’s thought processes is not easy.

“Anyone could come in.”

I agreed that they could, indeed.

“Anyway,” Mary Alice said, plumping herself onto the
bed, “I got the scoop on Mercy’s death to tell you, and I wanted to check on Claire.”

“You’re so kind, Mrs. Claus.” But I sat down to listen.

“Bonnie Blue told me and James told her and Thurman told him, so this is straight. Okay?”

I nodded.

“The last people left the gallery about eleven o’clock, and Thurman said he was going to follow Mercy home, not that that’s a bad neighborhood or anything, but he didn’t want her locking up and driving across town by herself. So he helped her straighten up some and went to his car thinking she was coming right out behind him. Only she didn’t.”

“Where was Claire?”

“James Butler took her home earlier. Mercy stayed to talk to some customers.”

“I wonder if she knows Mercy’s dead.”

Sister shrugged. “Do you want to hear this?”

I did.

“Well, when Mercy didn’t come right out, he thought she’d gotten a phone call or gone to the bathroom. Finally he went to check on her and she was lying on the floor by the door clutching her chest.”

“On the floor by the door.”

Mary Alice clutched her ample chest to demonstrate. “A heart attack. He called 911 and Bonnie Blue says they used the paddles and everything, but it was too late.”

“And no history of heart problems.”

“None,” Mary Alice said. We were silent for a moment, both of us, I’m sure, picturing the seemingly healthy red-haired woman we had seen the night before circulating around her gallery, full of life.

“So, what about Claire?” Mary Alice asked.

“What do you mean, what about Claire? You saw her when you came through the den.”

“I thought maybe you found out why she showed up on your doorstep.”

I shook my head. “She seems to be resting quietly,” I
said. “I’m not going to bother her. Whatever her problem is, it’ll come out in due time.”

“Hmm,” Sister said. “Maybe she has fever.”

“Maybe she does,” I said, “but you’re not going in there poking at her to see. She needs the sleep.”

“Well, you must admit it’s strange that you haven’t seen her in years and she shows up like this.”

“She saw me last night. I was on her mind.”

“Maybe her husband abuses her,” Mary Alice said.

I shivered, remembering how frail Claire had felt when I helped her into the house. “God, I hope not. She’s had too much of that in her lifetime.”

“Any at all is too much,” Mary Alice said.

For once I agreed with my sister completely. “I’ll find out when she wakes up,” I said. “She may just be in a state of shock at Mercy’s death.”

“Let me know. We don’t have to be at the mall until two o’clock, but I’ve made an appointment with Delta at Delta Hairlines for eleven.”

“You haven’t. You’re not having your hair dyed black!”

“I told Delta I wanted her opinion.”

“Ask for a second one.”

“You ought to go with me, Patricia Anne. Get something done to yours.”

I ran my hand through my curly gray hair. “Forget it.”

Mary Alice got up from the bed and slipped her feet into white huaraches.

“Are those winter white?” I asked.

“They were the first ones I found, Miss Smart-ass!”

I followed her down the hall and into the den. We stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping Claire, who was again lying on her back.

“You think she’s okay?” Mary Alice whispered.

Claire’s eyes opened suddenly, widely, and she stared at us.

“The police,” she said. “Oh, God. We have to call the police. Right now.”

C
laire sat straight up and covered her face with both hands.

“Ohhh,” she moaned, rocking back and forth.

“Claire,” I said, “Claire.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and put my arm around her, trying to soothe her. “You’ve just had a bad dream.”

“Nooo.” It was a loud breath. “Call the police.”

“But why, Claire?”

Mary Alice, who had jumped a foot when Claire opened her eyes, reached for the phone on the end table. I slapped at her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“She said call the police.”

I glared at Mary Alice. “Will you wait just a minute? I’m sure Claire was just having a nightmare. Weren’t you, Claire?”

Claire pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her face in the afghan.

“I wish I could bend like that,” Sister whispered.

“Shut up,” I mouthed.

“Someone tried to kill me last night.” Claire’s words were muffled.

“What?” Mary Alice and I both asked.

Claire lifted her head. “Tried to kill me. Last night. Somebody.”

“Who?”

Claire shrugged and put her face back into the afghan.

“See?” Mary Alice said. “That’s why she wanted the police.”

“Claire, are you sure?” I asked.

“In my apartment. When I came in. They had a knife. I ran and I ran and I’m so scared.” She whimpered like a hurt animal.

Mary Alice reached for the phone; I didn’t stop her. I sat beside the terrified Claire, patted her, assured her everything would be all right. The girl’s shoulders were rigid with fear. Tears came to my eyes when one of her hands came up slowly to cover mine.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Sister said. She sat down in Fred’s recliner and we looked at each other. Sisters for sixty years, we didn’t need words for our conversation.

“What is going on here?” she asked with a motion of her head.

“I have no idea,” I shrugged silently.

Mary Alice looked at Claire, who was still slumped over but was holding my hand.

“I’m worried,” Sister said by pressing a finger to her lips.

“Me, too,” I nodded.

“Claire,” Mary Alice said, leaning forward. “Do you want a Valium?”

Claire nodded yes.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. “She may be in shock.”

“She needs something to calm her down.”

“You got a Valium?”

“No, but you do. There’s some in your medicine cabinet left from the Skoot ’n’ Boot when you got shook up.”

“Shook up? You call a fractured skull and God knows what else ‘shook up’? And what were you doing in my medicine cabinet?”

“Looking for aspirin, of course.”

“You know I keep the aspirin in the kitchen cabinet.”

“Aspirin should be in the bathroom.” Mary Alice pushed herself out of the recliner. “I’ll get you a Valium, Claire.”

Time was I would have stuck out my foot when Sister walked by. The urge was still there, but knowing Mary Alice, she would fall on
me
and break
my
hip. I refrained.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” I told Claire. “You want coffee or Coke?”

She nodded, so the decision was mine. I went into the kitchen and put a lot of ice into a glass. The coffee was decaf, but the Coke had caffeine. Maybe it would offset the Valium’s effects some.

While I was pouring the Coke, Mary Alice came into the kitchen. “What is this?” she asked, holding out her palm with a pink tablet in it. “Valiums have holes in the middle. Have you been mixing up your medicines again?”

“It’s generic. And I never mix up my medicines.”

“You do, too. You remember that time I took what was supposed to be penicillin and it was muscle relaxant that made me sick as a dog because you had it in the wrong bottle. Remember?”

“Mary Alice,” I said, “didn’t that teach you a lesson about taking other people’s medicine?”

“It taught me I can’t trust you to keep them in the right bottle.”

I got a napkin for the glass. “That’s Valium, but I don’t think it’s such a smart idea giving her one.”

“It’ll make her feel better.”

“I think she needs to go to the doctor.” But I followed Sister back to the den, where Claire was still hunched over like a question mark.

“Here, Claire.” Mary Alice handed her the pink tablet and I gave her the Coke. Except for that first glance upward, it was the first time Sister had seen Claire’s dirty, mascara-streaked face. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “Mouse, go get us a warm washrag.” She picked up part of the afghan that was sliding from the sofa and straightened it. “Wouldn’t
that feel good, Claire? Your face and hands wiped with a warm washrag? Go get us one, Mouse.”

“You know where they are,” I said. I couldn’t resist it. Mary Alice turned and looked at me, and I headed for the linen closet. I wasn’t gone a minute, but when I got back, Sister was quizzing Claire about her attacker. Was it a man or a woman? What kind of knife was it? What did they say? Claire’s answers were little head shakes.

“For heaven’s sake, Sister,” I said. “The police will ask all those questions.”

And they did. In about two minutes, the doorbell rang. For a moment I thought it was Bonnie Blue. The woman standing there was as large as Bonnie Blue, and her skin was as dark. But I realized my mistake immediately. This woman was much younger, maybe thirty, and dressed in a police uniform.

“Mrs. Crane?” she said. “I’m Bo Mitchell. You have a problem?”

Bo Mitchell had the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Fred and I had poured thousands of dollars into our children’s mouths trying to achieve this effect and had missed by a mile.

I explained that I was Mrs. Hollowell and that Mrs. Crane was my sister and that a friend of ours had been threatened or attacked the night before, I wasn’t sure which, and was right here on my den sofa.

“May I come in?” Bo Mitchell asked.

“Of course.” I realized I had been babbling like I do when I’m nervous. At least I wasn’t rhyming like I do sometimes. “Right through here.”

Claire was sitting up straight with her feet on the floor. She looked exactly like one of those big-eyed, dark-haired children with the sad expressions that you see painted on velvet. Sister had wiped the mascara and dirt from her face, and the pallor of her skin was startling.

“This is Officer Mitchell.” I introduced Mary Alice and Claire.

“I thought you policemen always went in twos,” Mary Alice said.

“Like Noah’s Ark?” Bo Mitchell smiled her fantastic smile. “Not always. Depends.”

“Can I get you some coffee or Coke?” I asked. Fred says if the Devil himself walked in, I would offer him refreshments. He’s probably right.

“No, thank you.” Officer Mitchell sat on the sofa beside Claire. “I assume the problem is yours, Ms. Moon?”

Claire nodded. “Somebody tried to kill me last night.” Her voice was faint but steady. “They were in my apartment with a knife.”

“Are you okay? Not hurt anywhere?”

“No. I would have been dead, though, if I’d put the night latch on.”

“How’s that?”

“If I’d had to stop to undo it. I heard the knife hit the door.”

Mary Alice and I looked at each other. Officer Mitchell wrote something on a clipboard. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get some basic information, Ms. Moon. Your address?”

“Seventeen twenty-nine Valley Trace.”

“Husband?”

“He’s dead. He was killed.”

“Here?”

“In California. On the freeway.”

I closed my eyes. I knew, from watching Haley suffer, the grief Claire had gone through.

“Your age?”

“Thirty.”

“Occupation?”

“I work at an art gallery.” Claire turned and faced Bo Mitchell. “Please, I’m so tired.”

“I know you are and I’m sorry. This is just routine stuff we have to have, though, before we get to the problem.”

Claire nodded and sighed.

“This art gallery,” Officer Mitchell said, “I’ll need its name.”

“The Mercy Armistead Gallery.”

Bo Mitchell looked up from her clipboard. “That’s the one where the lady died last night?”

“Who died?” Claire’s head came up.

“Mercy Armistead.”

Claire looked at Mary Alice and me. “Mercy’s dead?”

We nodded. “Claire,” I began.

“Mercy’s dead?” Her voice rose to a wail. “Oh, God. They got to Mercy.” Claire stood up, her arms before her face as if warding off blows. And just as quickly as she stood, she fell. The policewoman, in a remarkably agile move, caught Claire and eased her down, saving her from hitting the floor. Sister and I rushed to help.

“Prop her feet up,” Officer Mitchell said. Mary Alice grabbed pillows from the sofa and placed them under Claire’s feet. I knelt beside Mary Alice and rubbed Claire’s hands, which felt like ice. Her eyes were half open but the pupils weren’t visible. I touched her carotid artery to see if I could feel a pulse. I could. A faint one.

Bo Mitchell reached for the phone. “Need some help here,” was all I heard her say. I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

The paramedics came first, accompanied by a fire truck and all of my neighbors, who had probably been watching since the police car pulled up. I didn’t mind this; it wasn’t idle curiosity. We are a neighborhood of older residents who have been acquaintances and friends for much of our lives. After they were assured that all was well with Fred and me, that a visiting young woman had become ill, they left. It’s good to have people like that around.

Bo Mitchell led the paramedics into the den, where Mary Alice was kneeling beside a still-unconscious Claire.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I’m getting out of the way!” I heard Sister say.

“Can we help you up, lady?” one of the men asked.

“No. I’m fine.” Sister backed away on her knees to Fred’s recliner, turned, clutched the chair arms, and pulled herself up. For a moment, it could have been the chair down or Sister up. The gods smiled on Sister. She came to the door
where I stood and rubbed her knees and straightened her raincoat. I had forgotten until then that she wasn’t dressed.

We tried to stay out of the way and still see what was going on. Blood pressure and heart monitors were brought out.

“You need to tell them you gave her a Valium,” I whispered.

“She decided not to take it,” Mary Alice whispered back.

“Well, thank goodness for that. You could have killed her.”

Mary Alice looked at the busy scene before us and at the still figure in the center. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

Mary Alice held up the pink tablet. “To take the Valium.”

One of the paramedics, with “Rogers” embroidered on his shirt pocket, came over to me. “This your daughter, ma’am?”

“She’s a friend.”

“Well, we’re going to call an ambulance. Her blood pressure is jumping up and down like a yo-yo and her heartbeat’s erratic. She’s beginning to come around, and we can stabilize her pretty good, but she needs checking out.”

“Could a shock have caused this?”

“You mean like an emotional shock?” The young man scratched his head. “I suppose so, but in a healthy person, the body usually sends out stress signals and then calms down. You know what I mean?”

I nodded that I did.

“This lady’s signals are stuck.”

I loved his simplistic explanation. Why bother with such terms as
adrenaline
and
arrhythmia
. This lady’s stress signals were stuck.

“Who’s her doctor?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Anybody you can call?”

I realized there wasn’t.

“Where do you want the ambulance to take her?”

I didn’t know what to say. Fred and I have insured our
selves to the hilt for medical emergencies. Had Claire? Probably not, at thirty and working as an assistant in an art gallery. I felt terrible about it, but I couldn’t take on the medical bills of someone I hardly knew.

“Morgan?” the man asked, reading my thoughts, I was sure. Morgan is a charity hospital, an adequate hospital, but charity, nonetheless.

“Take her to Memorial,” Mary Alice said, coming up beside me. “I’ll be responsible.”

It’s times like this I forgive her for everything.

The ambulance arrived with much flashing of lights and wailing of sirens. The neighbors came out on their porches to watch Claire be lifted in.

“You can ride with her if you want,” the young attendant told me.

Claire had wakened some, and though she hadn’t spoken, she clutched my hand all the way to the ambulance.

“I’ll lock up for you,” Mary Alice said. “Let me go home and get dressed and I’ll come to the hospital.”