“I’ll just call our representative’s office here. They’ll have a directory of all the congressmen.”

And they did. Sister wrote down Richard’s number and dialed it. Apparently his secretary answered and asked if she wanted Richard’s voice mail when Sister identified herself.

When Richard got back to his office he was greeted with a message that went like this:

Richard, this is your cousin, Mary Alice Crane from Birmingham. Right after Christmas your mama ran off with a man named Holden Crawford who’s a snake-handling preacher up on Chandler Mountain and whose body has been found in your mother’s car in Pulaski, Tennessee. And your daddy’s in the Blount County Medical Center with a bad concussion, though they think he’ll be all right if his brain doesn’t swell. He probably just fell and hit his head on a bench when he saw the woman’s body in the church. We don’t know where your mama is, but you might want to give us a call.

“Okay,” Sister said, putting the phone down. “That ought to do it.”

Chapter Seven

Chapter
Seven

“Do what?”

Eight-and-a-half-months pregnant, Debbie Lamont was standing in the doorway, filling the doorway. I’ve never understood this glow that pregnant women are supposed to have. I know I never had it. Maybe they’re talking about those few hormonal days when you feel flushed, the days between the green of nausea and the gray of weariness. Debbie was definitely at the gray stage.

“Come sit down, sweetheart,” her mother said. “You wouldn’t believe all that’s happened.”

Debbie gave her mother a kiss, blew me one, and eased herself down sideways on the sofa.

“Morning, Aunt Pat. Henry made Uncle Fred that beef-tip-and-rice casserole he likes so much. I took it by your house and saw Mrs. Phizer walking Woofer. She said you were here.”

“Thank you, darling. And thank Henry. Fred will think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

“I put it in the refrigerator.” Debbie looked over at her mother. “What ought to do it?”

“What?”

“You said ‘That ought to do it.’”

“It’s a long story. Your Aunt Pat will tell you. You want some coffee?”

“Decaf?”

“Sure.” Sister started toward the kitchen. “Tell her what’s happened, Mouse.”

So for the third time that morning I had to relate the saga of Luke, Virginia, and Holden Crawford. The late Holden Crawford. Debbie was by far the best audience I had had.

She clutched her chest. “Oh, my Lord, Aunt Pat. That’s awful. Poor Virginia. Poor Luke.”

“Well, it’s not all awful.” Sister handed Debbie her coffee. “Tell her about the sheriff, Mouse.”

“His name is Virgil Stuckey. He liked your mother’s purple boots.”

“He looks like Cary Grant, Debbie.”

I am a kind person. I wasn’t about to mention the fact that he was a dead ringer for Willard Scott and General Schwarzkopf.