case.
“It’s in storage,” the man said. “We are waiting for further instructions.”
Old ladies: three. MacPhersons: nothing.
Spurred on by the ominous SBI agent and the cleverness of our opponents, I thought furiously for a while. Where would they go? How would they get there? Did they have a car? Maybe they bought one. How many car dealerships are there in Danville? Wait. If they didn’t have a car, how did they get to a dealership? Are there taxis in Danville? I grabbed for the phone book. It was going to be a long afternoon. I could tell that this was going to be tedious. If I had wanted to go around asking prying questions of total strangers, I would have become a social worker.
With all eighteen pounds of silver-striped Beauregard purring contentedly on her lap, Anna Douglas squinted at her sketch pad and looked again at the swirl of colors in the seascape in front of her. She really did have a lovely view from the patio of her room at the Comfort Inn. The motel was set parallel between the island’s main road and the ocean, so that every room offered a sea view. Anna, Jenny, and Julia Hotchkiss had adjoining ground-floor rooms with kitchenettes and sliding glass doors leading to small concrete patios. They were lounging in the salt air, with Anna sketching, Jenny dozing, and Julia working her way through a box of saltwater taffy.
Anna thought the island was most satisfactory. The few little shops on the island were all within walking distance of the motel, and the nearest restaurant had proved satisfactory. The latest issue of
Meanwhile, Anna had busied herself by locating a licensed practical nurse to look after the two invalids and finding out the particulars of community life: distance to hospital, location of local churches, and so on. She took long walks around the island, noting landmarks and FOR SALE signs. Most of the island’s population seemed to be elderly, which pleased her immensely.
It was by no means certain that the group would decide to stay there once they were reunited, but Anna hoped that she could persuade them to do so. Anna never liked to feel that she was without a home. When she was a young girl, during the Great Depression, her parents had lost their home, and the memory of that banishment had remained in her mind all these years, like a shadow on an X ray. She thought she hadn’t minded so much losing the Danville mansion because the others kept assuring her that there was plenty of money to purchase another house. But now that she had been a transient for a while, the old feelings of sleeplessness and nagging anxiety had crept back. She wished that Flora would hurry up and get there so that they could get settled.
Anna looked down at her sketch pad. In the middle of the placid ocean, she had drawn the dorsal fin of a shark.
There’s an old country song that says, “It’s a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville.” It certainly is, especially if you have to do it by telephone, calling every car dealership in between. Having just done that, I believe I’d rather try it next time in the runaway freight train.
After many hours of absolutely cloying charm (which does not come naturally to me, despite my Southern upbringing) I managed to find a car dealer in Lynchburg who clearly remembered selling a Chrysler to a gaggle of old ladies who arrived by taxi and paid cash for their purchase. He didn’t know where they were headed, though, and I didn’t think that I could persuade the police to put out an all-points bulletin for a nonstolen car. Especially since I had no real evidence that the new owners were the old ladies from the Home for Confederate Women. According to the dealer, the car had been purchased by a woman calling herself Mrs. James Ewell Brown. Very funny. I guess they left off the general’s last name because that would have been too obvious. If they had added
It was nearly seven o’clock. Midnight in Scotland. I decided to call Cameron and give him a report on the situation thus far.
“I thought it would be you,” he said. “Even before I heard that four-syllable hello of yours. Nobody else would call at this hour.”
“Blame the time zone,” I told him. “I’ve been working all afternoon and couldn’t spare a moment earlier.”
“How are things in the colonies? I trust your parents are well?”
“I trust so, too,” I said. “I haven’t had time to contend with them yet. I’m not looking forward to it, either, mind you. But Bill’s problems had to come first.”
“And have you solved all the troubles of Clan MacPherson? Cleared your brother’s name, and all that?”
“Not yet I haven’t.” I told him all about Bill’s ill-fated house sale and the ensuing chaos when both the residents and the purchase money went missing, leaving Bill looking like a swindler with both an irate buyer and the assistant state director of art and antiquities after his hide. “The old ladies are still missing, and so is the money. If only I could find them, I could sort all this out. I managed to track them to Lynchburg. They took a taxi there and bought a white Chrysler from a local car dealer. Where they went after that is anybody’s guess.”
“North Carolina, I expect,” said Cameron. “And then South Carolina.”
“What?”
“You said it was anybody’s guess,” he replied smugly.
“Don’t confuse me,” I warned him. “There isn’t much time left. Already SBI agents are calling here asking for Bill in ominous tones.”
“Well, then you’d better get busy, dear.”
“Doing what?”
“Begin by returning a call from your cousin Geoffrey. He rang up earlier this evening for you. I told him you were in America.”
“Geoffrey! I certainly don’t have time to bother with him right now.”
“Nevertheless, you ought to call him. Because he told me that he met a group of old ladies who knew Bill, and that in his opinion they were behaving oddly.”
“Where is he?” I whispered. Geoffrey has the most maddening habit of being in the right place at the right time.
“Geoffrey? He’s in Atlanta. Shall I give you the number he left?”
“Yes, please,” I said evenly. “I’m going to hang up now and call him. And I only wish it were midnight in Atlanta.” Not that the lateness of the hour would inconvenience my cousin. Midnight is the shank of his evening. I dialed his number with shaking fingers, because there was an excellent chance that he was out at dinner or partying. (Geoffrey’s last quiet evening at home was believed to have taken place in 1983 during a flu epidemic.) Sure enough, the phone rang about ten times and nobody picked it up. I figured I had about five hours to kill before Geoffrey tottered in from his revelries, so I hung up, and cast about for something else to keep me occupied.
I went over and inspected the bookcase. Bill didn’t keep any books or magazines worth reading in his office, and Edith’s crossword puzzle books didn’t interest me either. I was about to go up to Bill’s apartment to watch television, not a pleasant prospect, because he has a tiny black-and-white set with no vertical hold. Surely there must be something else I could do, I thought. Short of dusting the office.
Suddenly I noticed the manila folder that A. P. Hill had left with me: the autopsy report on her murder case. I settled back in Bill’s chair and began to sift through the report. It began, as they often do, with “the body of a well- nourished female.” I suppose that’s a holdover from earlier decades when well-nourished bodies were less commonplace. I wondered, though, if some of my yogurt-happy jogger friends would merit some other opening remark.
Misti Hale had been twenty-four years old at the time of her death. The report went on to describe the lividity
