Mary Alice did most of the talking. Did a pretty good job of it, too, only wandering off the subject occasionally to describe the Mahall house and its Thomas Jefferson floors and Albert Packard’s Spanish-moss beard.

Bonnie Blue is one of the best listeners in the world, nodding, breaking in to say a friend of her daddy’s had been killed in the Daisy Belle mine explosion and didn’t we remember it?

“Seems like I remember something about it,” Sister said.

“Some of those men are still buried up there in that coal mine. Mr. R. T. Jemison, Daddy’s friend, is one of them.”

“Did the company pay his wife much?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I can find out.”

“I don’t guess it matters. It’s just that that’s supposed to be how the Mahall man got his money.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Bonnie Blue said. “That accident made them change a bunch of the laws.”

“This lady on the mountain told us that everybody believes Eugene Mahall killed his second wife, a country singer named Louellen Conway,” I added.

Bonnie Blue’e eyes rounded. “Kicking Balls?”

Mary Alice and I both must have looked confused.

“You know the song, ‘Kicking Balls.’ That was Louellen Conway’s claim to fame.”

Bonnie Blue waited for a sign of recognition, which she failed to get.

“You know. It’s supposed to be about a football game or a soccer game, but that’s not really what it’s about. It’s a woman’s song. A friend of mine gave it to me. First time I played it I was driving down 459 and got to laughing so hard I had to pull over.” Bonnie Blue giggled in remembrance. “Y’all need to hear that song. They didn’t play it much on the radio. Men disc jockeys. I’ll see if I can get you a copy.”

“I wonder if she made the record after she married Eugene Mahall,” I said. “Maybe that’s the reason she’s supposed to be part of the interstate ramp.”

“Louellen Conway? Hell, y’all, if we’re talking about the same person, she’s right here in Birmingham. One of my best customers.”

“Must not be the same person then.” Sister turned to me. “Didn’t Miss Beulah say Louellen was little and blond?”

I nodded.

“Well, this Louellen’s blond, but she’s a size twenty-four. How long’s it been since all this happened?”

“Several years.”

Bonnie Blue got up. “Tell you what. Why don’t I call her and ask her if she was ever married to—what’s his name again?”

“Eugene Mahall.”

Sister got up, too. “While you’re doing that, I’m going to be looking around. Something for an at-home evening. Maybe purple velour.”