The phone went dead. I looked frantically in my end table drawer for my address book. I can never remember Sister’s car phone number. No book. I ran into the kitchen and looked in the junk drawer. No book. I thought maybe I should call Nashville 911. Could I do that? Could I call our 911 and have them transfer me? Oh, hell. I was rushing down the hall toward the bedroom when the phone rang. Please God, let it be Virginia. Let her say she was joking. Some sorry-ass joke, but I’d forgive her. Yes I would. Please God.

It was Sister.

“I just found out something about Eugene Mahall,” she said.

“Virginia’s in a Holiday Inn Express in Nashville with a man she just killed,” I gasped. “She says he’s lying on the floor and she killed him.”

“What?”

“God’s truth.”

“A Holiday Inn Express? With all of those elegant hotels in Nashville?”

I hung up on her and realized immediately that I didn’t know how to call her back. Not that it mattered. The woman didn’t have walking-around sense. Nevertheless, I was relieved when the phone rang again.

I snatched it up. “Listen, Miss Snotty. I remember when you were happy with Bob’s Tourist Court. Spent quite a few nights there, if my memory serves me correctly.”

“Aunt Pat?”

“Oh, Debbie. Thank God.”

“What’s the matter?”

I went through Virginia’s story again, and this time I got a sensible response.

“I’ll call and talk to the manager of the motel, Aunt Pat. You keep trying to get Richard and Luke. I’m sure nothing bad has really happened.” Then, “Wait a minute, Aunt Pat.”

I waited.

“Sorry. I had to switch Brother to the other side. Now let me write this down. What’s the man’s name?”

“Spencer Gordon. I think he may be from Seattle.”

“And it’s a Holiday Inn Express.”

“Nice places to stay. Fred and I stay in them all the time. AARP discounts.”

“I’ll call you back in a little while. And what was that about Bob’s Tourist Court?”

“Ask your mother.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and willed my blood pressure to go down. Relax, feet. Relax, hands. Relax, shoulders. I was on the beach at Destin and the sun was setting. A blue heron was wading into a tidal pool. It was not my fault that my sister didn’t have biddy brains. It was not my fault that Virginia’s ass was in a sling for killing a man in a Holiday Inn Express. I was calm and collected. My daughter was at this very moment having an audience with the pope. His blessings were flowing over me vicariously.

The phone rang and I jumped like I had been shot. Damn.

It was Fred. He had a hankering for corned beef and cabbage. Should he stop by Morrison’s on the way home?