Murder Shoots the Bull by Anne George

shrugged. “I can’t imagine what’s going on. I don’t know whether I should call Alan or not. He really needs to know where she is.” I looked at my watch. “She must have barreled over here.”
    “You want me to call him? I don’t care if he thinks I’m butting in.”
    “Would you?” I handed the job over to Debbie without a moment’s hesitation. Fred’s mother, the only woman in the world who could put the fear of God into Mary Alice, had taught me the hard way to stay out of my children’s marital problems. “You have the number?”
    She pointed to a bulletin board and handed me a bottle of Tums.
    I took a couple and chewed them gratefully. “Find out what’s going on if you can. Just ask him.”
    “I will.”
    I rubbed my forehead. “This is turning out to be the day from hell. Mitzi Phizer’s just been over to the house telling me about Arthur’s first wife getting murdered.”
    “My Lord, Aunt Pat. Whose first wife?”
    “Arthur Phizer next door’s, Debbie. It seems that he was married when he was a teenager to a woman named Sophie Vaughn. The police think she was poisoned yesterday. In fact, your mama and I were there when she died. Right outside the Hunan Hut.”
    “What, Aunt Pat? I’m confused.”
    “So am I. I’ll explain it later. Where are the twins?”
    “At the park with Richardena.”
    “Every mother should have a Richardena.”
    “I’m blessed.”
    I picked up two of the glasses and started back into the living room when I realized Debbie probably shouldn’t even be at home.
    “You working at home this morning?” I asked.
    “I have to be in court in an hour.”
    “Well, don’t let this hold you up. I’ll try to find out what’s going on.”
    Lisa was scrunched down even farther in the corner of the sofa.
    “Here’s your tea,” I said. “Sit up and drink some of it. It’ll make you feel better.”
    “Alan doesn’t love me any more,” she sniffled.
    “Of course he does.”
    “No, he doesn’t.”
    I was in no mood to stand there holding cold glasses.
    “Well, be that as it may, here’s your tea.” I put Lisa’s glass on the coffee table and sat down. I glanced at my watch. Not quite 10:30. If I hadn’t retired from teaching last year, I would be in my AP Modern British Lit class. September. We’d be doing Yeats, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun, and the smell of frying chickenwould be permeating the building. I wouldn’t have met Sophie Sawyer at the Hunan Hut or found out about her murder this morning. I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering what was going on with my son and his wife. I’d be insulated in a classroom. Just me and twenty sweet, well-behaved teenagers, all of whom had been cleared by the metal detector at the front door.
    I swear I felt tears in my eyes.
    Lisa sat up and reached for her glass. It was my first close look at her white spikey hair which I realized immediately was the result of peroxide, not trauma.
    “My God! What have you done to your hair?”
    It just popped out, and I could have bitten my tongue. But Lisa didn’t seem to take offense.
    She patted the spikes. “This beautician in Atlanta did it. I’m supposed to look like one of the Spice Girls. I don’t know which one.”
    I didn’t either. I’d seen the Spice Girls on Regis and Kathie Lee and didn’t remember a Spike Spice.
    “Alan hates it. I told him, I said, Tough titty, Alan. It’s my hair and my head.”
    “And what did Alan say?”
    “He said my brains are scrambled.” Lisa put the tea back on the table without drinking any. For a moment she stayed hunched over.
    “He may be right,” she added.
    “Of course he’s not,” I assured her, trying to be a good mother-in-law.
    The phone rang and Debbie answered it in the kitchen. I hoped it was Alan calling back, but in a moment she stuck her head into the living room and told me her mama wanted to speak to me.
    “Did you get him?” I whispered as I went past her.
    “Not