Murder Shoots the Bull by Anne George Page A

yet.”
    I picked up the phone and said hello.
    Sister informed me that she had had a terrible time finding me, that I really needed a pager.
    Right. For all the emergencies that come up while I’m at the Piggly Wiggly.
    “Listen,” I said, “I can’t talk now. We’re trying to get in touch with Alan.”
    “For what? What’s wrong?”
    “Lisa’s here. She says she’s left him. We’re trying to find out what’s going on.”
    “What does Lisa say is going on?”
    “She says she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
    “That means she does. Call me back as soon as you can. You’ve got to hear about Cedric.”
    I was suddenly exhausted. “Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to hear about Cedric. I don’t want to hear about some Englishman’s pencil thin whatever when serious things are happening like people getting poisoned.”
    “Lisa’s poisoned?”
    Lord. I hung up the phone, marched back into the living room and told Lisa that she was going home with me, that Debbie had to go to work, and that the nanny would be back in a little while with the girls.
    “Okay,” she said and stood up. I had expected some argument, but she seemed to be beyond arguing. Which suited me.
    The phone rang again.
    “If it’s your mama, tell her it’s Sophie Sawyer who got poisoned, I’m sorry I hung up on her, and I’ll talk to her later.” I gave Debbie a hug, and ushered Lisa out to the car.
    So here I was, on a beautiful late summer, early fall day, with Spike Spice for a daughter-in-law, a next-door neighbor whose husband was attracting disasters like fleas, and a loony sixty-four- (really sixty-six) year-old sister who was sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Cedric. Lord.

Six
    W hen we got home, I suggested to Lisa that she lie down on the guest-room bed for a while.
    Again there was no arguing. She asked for a couple of aspirin, took them, and disappeared down the hall. When I checked on her a few minutes later, she was already asleep, curled up like a child, her hand cupping her cheek.
    I spread a light blanket over her and saw tears at the corner of her eyes. Lisa has long, dark lashes, and their shadows made the circles under her eyes seem even deeper.
    Damn it. Alan had better have some good explanation for this.
    I closed the door, went back to the den, and called Debbie.
    No, she hadn’t gotten Alan, and she was about to leave. She had left word on his voice mail, though, that Lisa was at my house. And her mama had wanted to know who Sophie Sawyer was and she had told her Mr. Phizer’s first wife. That was what I had said. Right? Mama hadn’t believed it.
    I told her it was, and thanks. Then I went out and sat on the steps to wait for Mary Alice.
    But I was wrong. She was a no-show. I finally went in, fixed some tuna fish salad, decided that wasn’t what I wanted and ended up with a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk which I ate while I watched Jeopardy!
    Lisa slept.
    I called to see if Mitzi was okay and got an immediate pick-up on her answering machine which meant she was on the phone. Busy, probably, helping to make arrangements for Sophie’s funeral, something Mitzi would be nice enough to do even though Sophie had had first dibs on Arthur. Maybe, I thought, I ought to carry some food over. After all, it was a death in a neighboring family. Sort of.
    I looked in the freezer to see if I had something like a squash casserole that I could take over. Wishful thinking. I did have two packages of Stouffer’s spinach souffle, though. I dumped them into a small casserole dish, added a little butter, and stuck them into the microwave. In ten minutes I was headed across the yard with a neighborly offering of hot food. We do live in good times.
    But no one was home at the Phizers’. I got back to my driveway just as Mary Alice pulled in.
    “You’re late,” I said.
    “Don’t be tacky.” She unstuck herself from between the steering wheel and the seat and climbed out. “What’s in the