Murder Shoots the Bull (16 page)

“Mama,” Andrew Cade said.

“She’ll be back in a minute, darling.”

Maybe it was Dickie who had shot Arthur this morning. It was possible. And it could have been Dickie who had set the Phizers’ house on fire. He might have been willing to wait for his grandmother’s death (or maybe he hadn’t), but Arthur could control Dickie’s inheritance for a long time.

“Hey, I thought you might be here.”

I looked up and saw Bo Mitchell.

“Are you the only policeman in Birmingham? I thought you were working nights.”

“Just the busiest. I’m on days for a while now. Started this week.” She sat down beside me. Andrew Cade held out his arms to her and she took him. “Hey, you sweetie. What’s your name?”

“His name’s Andrew Cade. He’s the Phizers’ grandson.”

“I figured. They say back in the emergency room that Mr. Phizer didn’t follow my advice.”

“Nope. Both cheeks. Hell, Bo. When are y’all going to do something? Somebody tries to burn him up and now shoots him. And y’all still have him arrested for murder.”

“The wheels of justice do creak along.” Bo turned the key chain so the stars would pour up through the liquid. Andrew Cade laughed.

“It was one of the Batson-Sawyer crew, Bo. You know that. Probably Dick Batson, the grandson.”

“He’s a doll,” she said. For a moment I thought she was
talking about Andrew Cade until she said, “We’re well acquainted with him.”

“Anything serious?”

“Patricia Anne, you got any idea how much money Bellemina pours into the Birmingham economy?”

“Enough to lessen the seriousness of something?”

“You got it.” She ran her hand through Andrew Cade’s blonde curls. “Baby doll, you grow up good now,” she told him.

“Where’s Joanie?”

“Gone to get a Coke up at the cafeteria. Wouldn’t use the vending machine. Thinks they’ll say, ‘Oh, no, Miss Police Lady, you’re protecting us. We’re not taking your money.’”

“And they won’t?”

“Lord, no.” Bo smiled. “That girl’s got some learning to do.”

“Have you talked to Arthur? I assume that’s why you’re here. Somebody else is back there now questioning him.”

“I left. Wasn’t doing any good. He didn’t know anything. Just walked out of his apartment and whoomp, got it in the butt.” Bo looked up. “Here comes Joanie.”

Joanie Salk was carrying a huge paper cup, a straw stuck through the plastic top.

“How much?” Bo asked.

Joanie’s face pinkened. “A dollar eighty-five.”

“Un huh.” Bo stood up and handed Andrew Cade to me. “Gotta go catch the bad guys.”

“Well, I told you which one you’d better look at.”

“We’ll do it. Say goodbye to Mrs. Hollowell, Joanie.”

“Bye, Mrs. Hollowell.”

I watched them walk toward the door, Joanie offering Bo a straw, Bo laughing.

Barbara and Bridget were back in a few minutes. Bridget took Andrew Cade from me and hugged him.

“They’re asking Mama and Daddy all sorts of things,” she said. “You’d think Mama was the one shot him.”

“He can go home in a little while, can’t he?”

“Soon as the police get through and Mama can check him out.”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Barbara said. “Now that I know Daddy’s all right.”

“Well, why don’t I take Andrew Cade home with me, Bridget,” I suggested. “You can stay with your mother and drive them home.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. I’d love to have him.”

“Well, if you’re sure, that would be great.” She reached beside the chair. “Here’s his diaper bag, and there’s a bottle and a couple of cans of formula in it. If you’ve got any apple sauce, or just mash up some English peas.”

“We’ll be fine.” It wasn’t the time to remind her I’d been there several times. Andrew Cade was her first.

“I’ll go get his car seat then and meet you out front.” Bridget and Barbara walked out together.

“This is it,” I heard Barbara say. “Enough.”

I hoped so.

A
ndrew Cade went to sleep on the way home. I carried him into the house still strapped in his car seat and put him on the floor in the den. If I went to sleep with my neck in that position, I would never be able to turn it again. But he was sleeping peacefully. I went in the bedroom to call Fred and to check my phone messages.

There was only one message, Sister saying she had found me a computer, cheap. That sounded good, though Sister and I don’t always agree on the meaning of “cheap.”

Fred answered the phone on the first ring. “Metal Fab.”

“Honey,” I said, “somebody shot Arthur Phizer.”

“Arthur? Arthur’s dead?”

“No, honey. He’s shot in the butt.” I should have told him that first.

“Well, Lord, Patricia Anne. What happened?”

I told him what I knew and that Arthur was probably on his way home. “Both cheeks,” I added.

“You think I should go over there?”

“No. He’s fine. Bridget’s there with Mitzi, and I have Andrew Cade here. His daddy’s in Atlanta.”

“Well, damn.” There was silence for a moment. I could hear the sounds of the shop in the background, men talking, the rattle of the crane. Then Fred added, “You’d think Arthur would be the last person in the world anybody would want to shoot.”

“Or burn up.”

Another silence. Then, “Both cheeks?”

I could swear I heard a snicker. Then, “Skinny as Arthur is, they had to take good aim.”

“The nurse said they stitched him up so good, he’ll still be able to wear his Speedo bikini.”

A definite snicker. “God forbid.”

“Hey, this is serious,” I reminded him.

“I know it is, hon. Call me if you hear anything. Lord. Both cheeks.”

I tried to return Mary Alice’s call, but Tiffany, the Magic Maid, answered. Sister was at a meeting.

I tiptoed back through the den. Andrew Cade was still sound asleep in his car seat. I checked the pantry; there was applesauce and a can of English peas. We were in business.

The morning was catching up with me. I fixed myself a Coke, got a bag of pretzels and the morning paper, and sat down at the kitchen table. But I couldn’t concentrate on the paper.

What I had reminded Fred of was true. This was serious business. So Arthur had been shot in the butt. Pure luck. Whoever was doing the shooting hadn’t been fooling around. Regardless of what Fred had said about their aim, they weren’t trying to scare Arthur, not with a gun. They had meant to kill him. And it had to have something to do
with Sophie, with the fact that he was the trustee of her estate. Which boiled down to the Batson-Sawyers, of course. The only problem being that there were five of them.

I shook some of the pretzels onto the newspaper. I ate a few of them and drank some of the Coke. Then I took nine of the pretzels and laid them out in a pattern. This is the old schoolteacher in me. I know what visual aids can do in helping to solve a puzzle.

At the top, I placed two sets of two. Sophie and Milton and Mitzi and Arthur. The only connection was between Sophie and Arthur. Mitzi wasn’t jealous of Sophie. Well, maybe a little bit (I remembered the drawer of silk lingerie), but would never harm her. Arthur would come out well financially if Sophie were dead, he had given her the poison-laced sweetener, and there was the note Sophie had sent her doctor saying she was asking Arthur to help her die. Didn’t look good. But there was also the fact that there had been two attempts on Arthur’s life.

I lined up five pretzels below the two pairs. Joseph, Sue, Dickie, and Zoe Batson, and Arabella Hardt. I knew in my bones, as Mama always said, that the murderer was here on this row.

There was a tap on the back door and Debbie stuck her head in. I held my finger to my lips to silence her.

“What?” she whispered, coming into the kitchen.

“Andrew Cade’s in the den asleep.”

Debbie looked in at the sleeping baby. “He’s about to break his neck.”

“He’s fine. Get you a Coke and sit down.”

“I had a doctor’s appointment, but he’s delivering a baby. So I came to take you to lunch. What’s Andrew Cade doing here?”

“I went to University Hospital to get him. Arthur Phizer’s going to be okay, but somebody shot him this morning. In the butt,” I added quickly.

“You’re kidding. Somebody shot Mr. Phizer?” Debbie pulled out a chair and sat down.

I pointed to the line of pretzels. “One of these people.”

Debbie is thoroughly acquainted with my need for visual aids. “Which one?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. It’s one of the four Batsons or Arabella.”

“Which one is which?”

This is one of my niece’s most endearing qualities, her ability to immediately mesh her imagination with mine.

I pointed to each pretzel in turn. “Joseph, Sue, Dickie, Zoe, Arabella.”

Debbie placed another pretzel in the line. “Arabella’s boyfriend. The person she’s been staying with that nobody knows anything about. He’d be very much involved, especially if their relationship is serious.”

“True.”

“Wait a minute, Aunt Pat.” Debbie got up and fixed herself a Coke. She held up the bottle. “You want some more?”

I shook my head no.

She came back to the table, took a handful of pretzels, and began to eat them. “Let’s start with the easiest ones, the ones least likely to be involved.”

“Okay. Arabella’s boyfriend. It’s possible, but unlikely. We’re just speculating that she has one.”

Debbie agreed.

“And Zoe, the granddaughter. She’s cute as she can be. She came by her grandmother’s apartment the other day to get some clothes to cremate Sophie in. We were there doing the same thing.” I smiled, remembering. “She nearly had a fit when she saw we had picked out some Ferragamo shoes and a suit she said was a classic.”

“Sounds like a good Southern girl.”

“Studying style at the university.”

I pushed that pretzel aside.

“And Joseph Batson.” That pretzel went to the side. “He’s a multimillionaire, the head of a huge, growing company. There’s no reason why he would have done it.”

“So that leaves Arabella, Sue, and Dickie.” Debbie munched pretzels thoughtfully.

“Dickie has a history of drugs, is probably still on them, and won’t be able to get his hands on his part of his grandmother’s estate. Which he wouldn’t have known at the time of her death.”

“What about Arabella and Sue?”

“I don’t want to think that either of then could have killed their mother. They both seemed to have loved her.”

“Hmmm.” Debbie reached for more pretzels. “They grew up in Chicago, right?”

I nodded. “With their brother David who was killed in an automobile wreck while he was in college. Mitzi described him as the shining star of the family.”

“I wonder where Sue and Joseph Batson met.”

“Here, I suppose. I’m sure Sophie brought her children here to visit relatives. Why?”

“Just thinking. And Arabella’s been married a couple of times?”

“Two or three.” I touched the Arabella pretzel. “She’s the one who Mitzi says is the spendthrift. She’s the reason that Sophie made Arthur the trustee of the estate, so Arabella wouldn’t run through her inheritance.”

“How could a person run through millions of dollars?”

I shrugged. It boggled my mind.

“And eventually she’s going to inherit it.”

I agreed. “But maybe Sophie thought she would have grown up by then.”

“Aunt Pat, the woman’s forty years old.”

True. But if that wasn’t the reason, why had Sophie shielded her estate behind Arthur?

“Would Peyton Phillips know anything about the family?”

Debbie shook her head no. “I doubt it. All she did was get Mr. Phizer out on bail and I think Joseph Batson volunteered to post it. I’ll call her and see.”

There was a whimper from the den. Debbie and I both jumped up. Andrew Cade was looking around, puzzled at finding himself in a strange place.

“Hey, you precious thing.” Debbie picked him up and hugged him. “It’s okay, sweet boy.” She looked at me over his blonde curls and smiled. “It’s going to be different having a baby boy. We’ve told the twins, but they don’t seem too excited.”

I smiled back. “I’ll get him a diaper,” I said, “and fix his lunch.”

“You want a dry diaper, sweetheart? And something to eat?” Debbie cooed.

It was an hour or so before we got back to the pretzels. Debbie said she didn’t have a client until three, so we made Andrew Cade a playpen of sorts by turning the dining room chairs on their sides. He sat in the enclosure beating happily on some pans with a spoon and eating Cheerios. Every now and then he would pull himself up and peer over the back of a chair at us.

“He’s going to be walking soon,” Debbie said. “How old is he? Nine months old?”

I nodded. “And he said Mama plain as anything at the hospital.” I glanced at the clock. Bridget should be by soon to pick him up.

I had fixed tomato sandwiches for lunch. The pretzel family was still in place in the middle of the table. Now Debbie reached over and removed the Sue Batson pretzel.

“It’s Dickie or Arabella,” she said.

“The money?”

“The money.”

I grinned. “You missed your calling. You should have been a cop.”

“Nope.”

“The money?”

“The money.”

Andrew Cade banged his agreement.

Debbie put one pretzel down. “Arabella.”

“I don’t want to believe that, Debbie.”

Debbie put the pretzel down. “I don’t either.”

Andrew Cade began to fuss, and Debbie picked him up. “Aunt Pat, what if Mr. Phizer really did it, really killed Mrs. Sawyer because he loved her. There could be two things going on here, you know. He killed Mrs. Sawyer and now someone’s after him.”

Once more, I saw Arthur stroking Sophie’s hand, saw him lifting her legs into the car. No. Surely not.

But Debbie was already shaking her head. “No. Mr. Phizer wouldn’t do that.”

Bridget came for Andrew Cade around two o’clock. Her daddy was pretty comfortable. They’d given him a pain pill before they sent him home. Arabella Hardt and Joseph Batson had shown up at the apartment; they’d heard about Arthur on the noon news.

“Mama should have told them to go away.” Bridget picked up a sleeping Andrew Cade from a pallet I’d made for him on the floor. “I know she’s just worn out with everything that’s happened. But you know Mama.”

“Dr. Batson paid your daddy’s bail, Bridget.”

“He could well afford to.”

I handed Bridget the diaper bag. “Andrew Cade’s been an angel.”

She nodded. “He’s the best baby in the world.” She started out of the door and turned. “It’s all about Mrs. Sawyer’s will, isn’t it? The fact that Daddy’s the trustee.”

“I’m sure it is. The police will find out.”

“I hope it’s while Daddy’s still alive.” She sounded bitter.

I hoped so, too. I waved as she went through the gate. Then I went back inside, called Fred and told him to go by Morrison’s Cafeteria and pick up supper, anything as long as he included egg custard pie. I took Woofer for a long, slow walk, and by the time I got back and took a shower, I was feeling better. By the time Fred came in with corned beef and cabbage, I was feeling much better.

After supper, I tried to call Sister again. I got her answering machine so I hung up and called Debbie. One of the two-year-olds, either Fay or May, answered the phone.

“Oh?”

“Fay? Is that you?”

“Oh?”

“May? Hey, darling, it’s Aunt Pat.”

“Oh? Pat?”

Fortunately, Debbie took the phone. I could hear the twin fussing about it. “Go see Daddy,” Debbie said. Those were nice words to hear from the newly married Debbie though Mary Alice insists that Henry really is the twin’s natural father. He contributed to the sperm bank at UAB, Debbie was impregnated there, therefore the twins must be his. Forget the odds.

“Hey, honey, it’s me,” I said.

“Hey, Aunt Pat. I was fixing to call you. I just talked to Peyton and she asked me about Mr. Phizer. Have you heard from him tonight?”

“Bridget came by to pick up Andrew Cade about two. She said he was okay. She said Arabella Hardt and Joseph Batson came by the apartment.”

“Well, I can’t believe the Batson boy did this, can you? He’s got everything in the world going for him, and he gets
mixed up on drugs and now I guess they’ve got him for attempted murder.”

“What?” The shock in my voice must have alerted her.

“You didn’t know? They arrested Dickie Batson about an hour ago for attempted murder. He’s the one who shot Mr. Phizer and Peyton says they think he’s the one who set the house on fire, too.”

I thought of the line of pretzels. Why should I be surprised?

“And killed his grandmother?”