have to walk around the back.
Holden Crawford. Monk Crawford. Lord, how had Virginia Nelson who played golf at the country club in Columbus and who had a son in the House of Representatives gotten mixed up with a snake-handling preacher?
I thought of the box at the front. Surely there weren’t any snakes in there now. It was cold in the church. Snakes hibernate. But would that matter? Drowsy snakes might be better to deal with. Unless, of course, they hated to be awakened. A riled rattlesnake would be a challenge.
And it didn’t make sense that someone had killed the girl so violently and then laid her out neatly on a church bench. They could have dumped her almost anywhere on Chandler Mountain and she would never have been found. They could have walked out on one of numerous rocky precipices and thrown the body into a sea of kudzu that would have covered her forever. Instead, there she was on a pew at the Jesus Is Our Life and Heaven Hereafter church, her long skirt tucked neatly around her boots.
I glanced at my watch. I was going to have to call Fred in a little while. There was no way I was going to make it home before he did and he would be worried. I got up and looked outside. The snow was coming downsteadily. Fine, dry flakes that looked like rain. The streets were still clear, but the grass beside the emergency room parking lot was beginning to turn white.
Lord, I was tired. I stretched but snapped to attention when Luke’s Lincoln pulled into the parking lot. Mary Alice stepped out, purple hood over her head (I hadn’t realized the cape had a hood) and hurried toward the emergency room. I opened the door for her. Might as well get the fussing over with. After all, I had left her up on the mountain to deal with the police and a dead body.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said, hugging me. “How’s Luke?”
Let the record be clear here. In sixty-one years I never remember my sister calling me sweetie. And the hug was so unexpected, that I breathed and was nearly overcome by White Diamonds perfume.
“I haven’t heard,” I said when I could breathe. “He’s in the back.”
“Well, is there a cafeteria or something around here? I’m starving.” She looked around at the waiting room and the glass cubicle where Irene was still on duty. “This isn’t a very busy emergency room, is it?”
“Maybe it will pick up after a while if the roads get slick.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. Sarcasm is lost on Sister.
“Excuse me.” She stuck her head around the door of the glass cubicle. “Could you tell us where to get something to eat?”
“Joe’s,” Irene answered.
“And here in the hospital?”
“Some vending machines down the hall.”
“Thanks. We’d better stay here. We’re waiting for the sheriff.”
“Why are you in such a good humor?” I ventured.
“I’m not.” Sister sat down and started rummaging through her purse. “You got any change?”
“The vending machines will make change.”
“Of course they will. What am I thinking of?”
I was damned if I knew. She was acting weird.
She handed me several one-dollar bills. “Get me some kind of sandwich and potato chips and a Coke.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t about to push my luck and tell her to get it herself.
I found the vending machines and got back with the food just in time to see the reason for Sister’s good mood. The emergency room door opened and a man in uniform swept in. He looked a lot like Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf with a little Willard Scott thrown in. He paused, Sister got up, and then they walked toward each other. I swear if this had been a movie they would have been playing something like “Unchained Melody” in the background.
They stopped about a foot apart and smiled.
“I got pimento cheese,” I said. “Is that all right?”
“Mouse,” Sister said. “This is Virgil Stuckey, the sheriff of St. Clair County. Sheriff, this is my sister, Patricia Anne Hollowell.”
He turned to shake my hand, realized I was
Holden Crawford. Monk Crawford. Lord, how had Virginia Nelson who played golf at the country club in Columbus and who had a son in the House of Representatives gotten mixed up with a snake-handling preacher?
I thought of the box at the front. Surely there weren’t any snakes in there now. It was cold in the church. Snakes hibernate. But would that matter? Drowsy snakes might be better to deal with. Unless, of course, they hated to be awakened. A riled rattlesnake would be a challenge.
And it didn’t make sense that someone had killed the girl so violently and then laid her out neatly on a church bench. They could have dumped her almost anywhere on Chandler Mountain and she would never have been found. They could have walked out on one of numerous rocky precipices and thrown the body into a sea of kudzu that would have covered her forever. Instead, there she was on a pew at the Jesus Is Our Life and Heaven Hereafter church, her long skirt tucked neatly around her boots.
I glanced at my watch. I was going to have to call Fred in a little while. There was no way I was going to make it home before he did and he would be worried. I got up and looked outside. The snow was coming downsteadily. Fine, dry flakes that looked like rain. The streets were still clear, but the grass beside the emergency room parking lot was beginning to turn white.
Lord, I was tired. I stretched but snapped to attention when Luke’s Lincoln pulled into the parking lot. Mary Alice stepped out, purple hood over her head (I hadn’t realized the cape had a hood) and hurried toward the emergency room. I opened the door for her. Might as well get the fussing over with. After all, I had left her up on the mountain to deal with the police and a dead body.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said, hugging me. “How’s Luke?”
Let the record be clear here. In sixty-one years I never remember my sister calling me sweetie. And the hug was so unexpected, that I breathed and was nearly overcome by White Diamonds perfume.
“I haven’t heard,” I said when I could breathe. “He’s in the back.”
“Well, is there a cafeteria or something around here? I’m starving.” She looked around at the waiting room and the glass cubicle where Irene was still on duty. “This isn’t a very busy emergency room, is it?”
“Maybe it will pick up after a while if the roads get slick.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. Sarcasm is lost on Sister.
“Excuse me.” She stuck her head around the door of the glass cubicle. “Could you tell us where to get something to eat?”
“Joe’s,” Irene answered.
“And here in the hospital?”
“Some vending machines down the hall.”
“Thanks. We’d better stay here. We’re waiting for the sheriff.”
“Why are you in such a good humor?” I ventured.
“I’m not.” Sister sat down and started rummaging through her purse. “You got any change?”
“The vending machines will make change.”
“Of course they will. What am I thinking of?”
I was damned if I knew. She was acting weird.
She handed me several one-dollar bills. “Get me some kind of sandwich and potato chips and a Coke.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t about to push my luck and tell her to get it herself.
I found the vending machines and got back with the food just in time to see the reason for Sister’s good mood. The emergency room door opened and a man in uniform swept in. He looked a lot like Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf with a little Willard Scott thrown in. He paused, Sister got up, and then they walked toward each other. I swear if this had been a movie they would have been playing something like “Unchained Melody” in the background.
They stopped about a foot apart and smiled.
“I got pimento cheese,” I said. “Is that all right?”
“Mouse,” Sister said. “This is Virgil Stuckey, the sheriff of St. Clair County. Sheriff, this is my sister, Patricia Anne Hollowell.”
He turned to shake my hand, realized I was
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