Murder in Mayberry. Jack Branson
them Russell stopped by on Saturday and, after he left, Miz Ann told him that the only time Russell stopped by was when he wanted money, and she wasn’t going to give him any more.
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Miz Ann would have given her family anything she had. All they had to do was ask.” I nodded but inwardly wondered if Ann would have given Jack or me anything we’d asked for.
David Branson, Ann’s brother-in-law, approached, and he was a welcome relief. Always even-tempered and down-to-earth, he had stories about Ann—and I was hungry to hear them.
“Anybody who’s jealous of Ann’s money needs to know that she and Carroll earned every bit of it,” said David. “Nobody gave them anything. They didn’t have two pennies to rub together when they got married, but Ann had class before she had money.
“They lived down near the old home place when they got married, and I used to go over to their house when I was a kid. Ann always fixed things up nice, set the table nice and all. She’d almost always have a warm syrup pie, and she’d cut me a big slice. I can still taste it.”
“Syrup pie?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said David. “Just what it sounds like. Maple syrup poured over a pie crust and baked.”
Hard as I tried to hide my feelings about such a pie, David knew it didn’t sound appetizing to someone who hadn’t grown up in rural Kentucky.
“I tell you,” David shook his head. “When you’re poor and you’re craving something sweet, there’s nothing like a warm syrup pie.”
David was quiet for a moment before summing up his feelings about his sister-in-law. “Ann was a lady, through and through. That’s what I’ll always remember about her.”
As someone else sought David’s attention, I searched the room for Jack. He was more comfortable in this crowd than I was. This was his family, and he was catching up with relatives he rarely saw.
“Jack, can I talk to you for a minute?” It was Russell. The two cousins found chairs in the back of the room.
“Jack, do you think they’ll catch whoever did this?” asked Russell.
“Yes,” Jack was emphatic. But with his mind still on the gun he’d so quickly found in Ann’s house, he added, “But I think we’re in for a long, involved investigation. This is a small town with limited murder investigation experience and limited resources.”
As the crowd began to dissipate, Jack and I were finally able to talk. I’d tried to let him spend time with his friends and family, but now I realized how much I’d missed him. Squeezing his hand was reassuring.
“I’m going to call a private detective,” Jack said as we were leaving the funeral home. “I’ve got to know we’re doing all we can.
“The PI I’m thinking of is a former Bureau agent. He was the FBI’s polygrapher, and we worked together on a couple of cases. He’s tough but fair. He retired a few years ago and started his own PI business.
“He’s one of the best. And that’s what it’s going to take. We’re up against more than a tough murder case. I don’t want Anna Mae’s murder to end up as a case number and a box of evidence on a back shelf in the MPD records room.”
Friday evening, as Jack and I were getting ready for bed, I was developing those aches, pains and a scratchy throat that can only be described as an “all-over sick feeling.”
“I think I’m coming down with something,” I told Jack.
“It’s probably the stress,” Jack assured me. But when the alarm buzzed on Saturday morning, January 18, I was immediately aware that I had a full-blown cold.
I struggled out of bed, overcome with grief, exhaustion, a sore throat and a head cold. Chills ran up and down my fevered body. Then I remembered that I’d be outdoors at the graveside service. My satin-lined leather coat was perfect for the coldest Georgia day, but it would feel like tissue paper in the aftermath of the Kentucky snowstorm.
I swallowed and gagged as my swollen throat rejected even saliva. I staggered the twenty steps to the bathroom and put my head down to rest from the exertion. Gathering courage to face the mirror, I raised my head to see puffy cheeks and nostrils that looked as if someone had smeared red lipstick on them while I slept. I coughed and my chest fought a vise-like grip just to draw another breath. At that moment, I understood how Job felt when physical ailments were added to his already grief-stricken spirit.
In the kitchen, Jack, Iva Ray and I moved as if we were walking underwater. With the same eerie resistance you feel when you move your limbs while at the bottom of a pool, we reached for milk and toast and juice. We heard each other’s voices with the echoed distortion of scuba divers communicating under the water’s surface. This was a day we wanted behind us, but that closure would come only after hours of small talk and endless lines of mourners.
Pumped full of extra-strength cold medicine, I dressed in my floor-length black velvet skirt and matching top, sprinkled with bright pink roses. Everyone should wear their brightest florals in honor of Ann, I thought.
Ann savored life, and her clothing conveyed her extravagant intensity. Once, when she and Iva Ray took a cruise and their luggage was delayed, Ann pulled an elegant nightgown from her overnight bag—a nightgown that probably cost more than my wedding dress—dressed it up with heels and diamonds, and dined at the captain’s table with no one the wiser.
And Earl said she wouldn’t have worn the old pants and sweater to church.
As I was fastening my pearls, Jack’s hands reached over mine and he connected the clasp.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered close to my ear.
“I’d completely forgotten,” I answered.
We drove to the funeral home with Iva Ray. Armed with a lace handkerchief for show and a wad of tissues for survival, I tried not to talk and spread germs in the car.
“Tom and Connie invited everyone to their house after the funeral,” Iva Ray told us. Jack and I glanced at each other, and quickly affirmed that neither of us was up to this gathering at his cousin’s house.
“I think we’ll skip that,” Jack told his mother. “Mary’s not feeling well, and it’s her birthday.”
Iva Ray put her hand on her mouth. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. We just didn’t remember when we scheduled the funeral.”
“We delayed it too long, anyway,” I reassured her, trying not to project my voice and its accompanying germs. “I forgot it was my birthday, too.”
We were barely inside the funeral home when a family member I hardly knew approached me. “If there’s anything—anything at all—that I can do to help you all…I worry so much about Iva Ray. She’s so frail.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something you can do,” I responded. “Next time you’re making soup or vegetables, take a little dish over to Iva Ray. I’m afraid she eats mostly junk food.”
The family member nodded, then asked: “What’s going to happen to Ann’s personal belongings? I know that will be a real job, cleaning all that out.”
“I believe that’s taken care of,” I replied.
“Well,” she said. “I told my kids that when I die, I didn’t want anyone going through my underwear drawer! I’ll be glad to take that job off the immediate family. You all have so much more to worry about.”
I took a breath and answered. “Ann designated who was to receive every personal item. But thanks for offering to help.”
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