Divas and Dead Rebels, page 12
“Fried?” I remembered I’d used a new hair gel earlier. “Oh, it’s a new product I tried. I guess it’s not compatible with water.”
“Oh no, it’d be fine if you plan to never wash your hair again. Honestly, I wish you’d let me treat you to a day at the spa.”
As I followed her up the shallow stairs to the kitchen door I said, “There is no spa in Holly Springs. We’d have to go up to Memphis or Collierville.”
“Or Olive Branch or Southaven. They have spas.” Bitty turned the doorknob and pushed open the kitchen door, and we entered a world of heavenly fragrances. “Sharita must be here,” said Bitty. “I’d forgotten she switched days this week. I guess I didn’t see her car at the curb.”
“Neither did I. Does Sharita have a key?” I wondered aloud.
“Of course. So does Jackson Lee, the pest control company and Maria. Of course she comes so early to clean everything I’m always here anyway.”
“Who doesn’t have a key to your house?” I asked. “And probably knows your alarm code, too? Not that you ever set it.”
“Don’t be tacky, Trinket. It’s an unpleasant habit.”
“My, my,” I drawled, “it’s so vairy vairy wahm in heah . . .”
My retort was an old one; we use it whenever we don’t want to continue the topic under discussion—or to get out of conversational quicksand. It worked. We both smiled.
Chen Ling began to struggle, and Bitty set her down on the floor. The prissy pug immediately headed for the origin of the delicious smells. She knows a good thing when she smells it. We peeled off our outer layer of wet clothes in Bitty’s laundry room and changed into thick terry cloth robes fresh from the dryer before following the pug.
Sharita Stone is in her late twenties, I’d say, and already has her own business. She owns a small bakery that provides muffins and homemade jams to customers, as well as a clientele who pay her to come to their homes and prepare a week’s worth of food at a time. She also caters parties and banquets, and on occasion, Diva meetings. Bitty would starve to death if not for Sharita.
I’d weigh three hundred pounds if I could afford her. It was bad enough that my mother had been on a cooking marathon the past few days. I could almost feel my thighs growing more cellulite every time I stepped into our kitchen.
Chitling beat us to Sharita, but we weren’t too far behind. Bitty caught up the dog and pulled off her wet doggy dress, then took it to the laundry room. I got to the kitchen first. Sharita stood at the granite counter in a professional looking white apron, her curly black hair pulled on top of her head and secured with a rainbow of elastic bands.
“Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious,” I said in a shameless attempt to get a taste. When she looked at me, I waggled my eyebrows.
Sharita’s dark eyes lit up with amusement. “You’ll have to wait until it’s ready. I thought Miss Bitty might like some cold weather food now that the weather’s turned.”
“Italian,” I guessed, and she laughed.
“Some of it. And some of it’s just good plain food like Miss Sarah used to cook.”
Miss Sarah was Bitty’s mother. She’d left a legacy of recipes that might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics for all the good they’d do Bitty, but Sharita made good use of them.
“I smell pot roast,” said Bitty on her return from the laundry room, sniffing the air just like her dog would do. “Veal Parmigiana? Beef Stroganoff?”
“Very good, Miss Bitty, and if you want me to finish up here before I have to go to my next appointment, you’ll scoot out of the way and leave me be.”
We’re accustomed to Sharita’s scolds. She’s forced to do that a lot. Otherwise, we’d both be under her feet in the kitchen while she prepares meals.
“I’d forgotten you changed days,” said Bitty, stalling as she eyed the rich tomato sauce Sharita was stirring. “I didn’t see your car out front.”
“My car’s in the shop over at Brewster’s. My brother gave me a ride here, and he’ll pick me up. Don’t even try that, Miss Bitty. I see your spoon. You know I don’t allow no double-dippin’.”
“Just one teeny-weeny taste?” Bitty begged, and Sharita rolled her dark eyes. I stayed close just in case. After some more wheedling, Sharita gave in, and we managed to wrangle a taste of Parmigiana sauce before she shooed us out of the kitchen.
“She’s good,” I commented, still licking my lips as we headed for Bitty’s small parlor off the front hall. “I thought for a minute there she was going to smack your hand with that big wooden spoon.”
“So did I. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
I didn’t doubt it. Sharita has a no-nonsense way about her, although she’s usually smiling and cheerful.
“Everyone says she’s an excellent businesswoman and is doing quite well,” Bitty added as we reached the parlor. “Her catering and shop haven’t suffered much at all in this economic decline.”
“That’s because she sells delicious foods at fair prices. Just like Budgie. Turn on a lamp,” I said when I stepped into the parlor. Gray light seeped through wooden window shutters, barely illuminating the room. “It’s dark as a tomb in here.”
“That’s a ghoulish thought,” muttered Bitty. “Especially after everything that’s happened lately.” She reached across an overstuffed chair under the window and turned on the antique brass lamp on the table at one side. Then she flopped onto the snowy white chair cushions.
“You haven’t changed your slipcovers from summer yet?” I asked as I mimicked her actions by flopping onto the matching chair across the room. “It’s November.”
“I know, I know. My other slipcovers were too frayed, so I’m having new ones made, and it’s taking longer than expected. When did you become the designer police?”
“What a testy little thing you are,” I said mildly. “It’s just that I know how you are about having things done at the proper times.”
“Sorry.” Bitty folded her right arm over her face in a dramatic gesture that made me roll my eyes while she couldn’t see me. “It’s all this worry about my precious sons, and if they’ll end up arrested for a murder they didn’t commit—I tell you, Trinket, my life will just end if something happens to them, I swear it will!”
“Oh Bitty, nothing is going to happen to them, it just can’t. You know they’re not mixed up in the professor’s murder, so I doubt that anything at all comes out of Clayton being one of his many students who didn’t like him.”
Her arm dropped from over her face, and her expression was so genuinely anxious that I couldn’t tease her when she said, “You think so, Trinket, you truly do?”
“Of course, I do, honey.”
Bitty looked relieved, and I felt a twinge of concern that I wasn’t quite as sure as I pretended. Oh, I didn’t think either boy was guilty of anything like murder, but there was always the chance that they’d cover up for a friend.
So to change the subject I asked, “Where’s the ornament you usually have around your neck? You know, the furry queen of flatulence?”
“Don’t be tacky, Trinket,” Bitty reproved. “Chen Ling has digestive issues. It’s quite a worry to Dr. Coltrane.”
Just the mention of Kit’s name gave me one of those stomach flutters that often accompany heat flashes when in his presence. There should be a law against men who can cause such reactions by long distance.
“I’m sure her digestive problems have nothing at all to do with her scarfing down half a platter of cocktail weenies whenever possible,” I said. “Toothpicks and all.”
Bitty looked indignant. “She did not. I got to her before she could. Although that tacky Catherine Moore said dogs belong outside, not in nice company, she behaved very well after that, too.”
Catherine Moore . . . “How well do you know her?” I asked Bitty. “And how does she fit into the Ole Miss academic circle?”
“I imagine she fits in horizontally with all the male professors,” Bitty replied with a twitch of her brows. Botox doesn’t allow much more than twitching these days. “She’s in Admin and thinks she runs the entire school single-handed.”
“What does Admin do?”
“Administration. You know, in charge of all the pesky details that go with such a large campus. She says she coordinates everything from landscaping to library.”
“Hm. Would she really be the one to order books for the library?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket, I don’t know! All I know is that she thinks she’s the queen of Ole Miss when she really isn’t anything more than a toady. Let’s talk about something besides that wretched woman, okay?”
“Truthfully,” I said, “I’m a mite chilled.”
“I can light a fire, if you want.”
“That’s all right. This bathrobe is warm. I’m just damp from our run in the rain.”
“Well,” said Bitty, “you do look rather like a half-drowned rat.”
I don’t know why it is, but when she makes a comment like that, my hand goes automatically to my hair. It was wet and stringy. Earlier it had been brushed into a soft curve against my face; now it felt matted and sticky. I flexed my toes and then grabbed a plush chenille throw draped over the back of the matching overstuffed chair where I sat. “Thank you,” I said in reply to her comparing me to a half-drowned rat. “A pity we can’t all be impervious to the rain like you. I assume you spray all that lacquer on your hair to keep your brain dry? Can’t have it getting through all those holes in your head.”
Bitty patted her hair. I thought I heard some of it break, but she merely said, “It works, and that’s all I expect of my hair spray. If you had a style, I’d suggest you use it as well.”
“I do have a style. It’s called casual.” I fluffed up the chenille throw and covered my still-damp feet. “How do you sleep in that hair helmet, anyway? I’d be afraid it’d just pop right off one day.”
Really, I know how Bitty sleeps. She wears little pink satin caps and blinders over her eyes. She looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
“I sleep very well, thank you. At least when I get up the next morning I don’t look like rats have chewed on my hair while I slept.”
“Rats? What is this thing you have with rats? You know I don’t like rats.”
“Yes.” Bitty smiled. “I know.”
I made a face at her. “Keep that up, and I’ll change the subject to slithery snakes.” Bitty’s shudder was genuine. “Ouch. So how did you like the Oxford academic society?” she asked in an obvious effort to change the topic of conversation.
“I had no idea I’d know so many of them. I hadn’t seen Candy Lynn Stovall in a coon’s age until the night before the game. She hasn’t changed much since your college days.”
“Well, they were your college days, too, for a little while anyway. Do you ever regret not finishing school?”
I thought about it a moment. “Sometimes. I can’t say I regret meeting Perry, because then I wouldn’t have my wonderful daughter, but I’ve often wondered what I would have done or where I’d be if I’d had sense enough to get a college education.”
“You haven’t done so badly, though. I mean, you had a career in the hospitality industry for a long time.”
“Right,” I said wryly, “and look how far I’ve come. Now I sell underwear, and on occasion, rubber penises for a living.”
We both laughed, then Bitty said more seriously, “Well, I finished school but still did something foolish. As you said, though, I could never regret marrying Frank because I wouldn’t have my boys. And they are good boys, they really are. Don’t you think?”
I realized what she was really asking, so I said firmly, “They are both good boys, and neither one of them would ever do anything to make you less than proud of them. All this worry about the professor’s murder will soon be over when they find the killer, and then you can go back to worrying about whether or not Clayton will graduate and if Brandon will be a lawyer.”
Bitty looked relieved. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chair. “You’re right. I’m being silly worrying about something that will never happen. I’ll go see if Sharita can make us some coffee. Maybe Irish coffee?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but two things happened simultaneously: Chen Ling barreled into the parlor, and the doorbell rang. Ordinarily, the pug’s entrance would not have created much of a problem. But this time she happened to be pulling something along behind her.
Sharita was in hot pursuit and looked flustered when she came to a halt just inside the parlor door. “There’s something the matter with her,” she said while pointing at the dog. I thought, but didn’t say, that the only thing the matter with the dog was Bitty.
Bitty seemed perplexed at first. Before she could get off the chair, Chen Ling launched her fat little body up onto the white slipcovers next to her. I saw a flash of what looked like a faded red ribbon behind her. While Chitling snuffled and huffed, and turned in a couple of circles atop the cushions, her doting parent let out a scream.
Now, I have been privy to some awful sights in my lifetime, but I cannot think of a more startling sight than a faded tulle ribbon knotted with . . . well, poop, and hanging out of a dog’s rear end. Whenever Chitling turned, the ribboned poo swung behind her and left skid marks across Bitty’s expensive white slipcovers.
The more Bitty shrieked, the faster the pug spun around, until the bothersome extra tail whipped across the chair with a life of its own. Sharita stood just inside the doorway, transfixed by the entire thing, while I burst into rib-bruising laughter.
Since I have the rather embarrassing habit of snorting when I laugh, a sound that Bitty once described as resembling a choking goose, I imagine the noise emanating from the small parlor did sound rather like a confrontation of some sort. That would explain why Marcus Stone, who happens to be Sharita’s brother and an officer on the Holly Springs Police force, swung open the front door and thundered down the hallway with his pistol drawn.
“Halt! Police!” he barked as he confronted a hysterical Bitty and twirling pug. His sister grabbed his arm, but had started laughing so hard she couldn’t explain there was no need for gunfire. It’s a good thing Lieutenant Stone is quick on the mark, because once he realized there was no danger, he slid his pistol back into the heavy holster and put his hands on his hips. “What the hell?” he demanded of no one in particular.
At that moment, Chitling must have decided that her mommy was of no help at all in the situation, because she leaped down from the chair and darted toward the parlor door. As she went by, Marcus Stone glanced down, saw the trailing ribbon, and put his black boot right on it. With a muffled pop, the ribbon disengaged from the pug, and Chen Ling went on her merry way. I heard her little toenails click indignantly against the old wood floors in the hallway.
“Well,” I said when I was able to stop laughing, “the mystery of the disappearing bow has been solved at last.”
Bitty did not appreciate my humor. She said something quite pithy. I chose not to take offense. After all, she had quite a mess to clean up, and I had no intention whatsoever of helping. My monthly quota of dog messes that require cleaning up had been reached.
“Do you need help, Miss Bitty?” Sharita asked with a straight face.
“No, I won’t ask you to do that. I’ll get it.” Bitty glanced at the lieutenant. “I think Sharita’s almost through cooking. You can have some coffee if you don’t mind waiting a moment.”
Lieutenant Stone shook his head. “I didn’t come to give Sharita a ride home, Miz Hollandale. I came to talk to you.”
Uh oh.
Chapter 8
Bitty is the mistress of stall tactics. She should have been elected to Congress instead of her late husband. She can talk more and say less than anyone I’ve ever met. Lieutenant Stone, it turned out, was immune to this kind of thing. Maybe because he has three sisters, or maybe because he’s had to deal with Bitty before, but he cut short her circuitous conversation pretty quickly.
After the ribbon incident and clean-up, we had all gathered in Bitty’s kitchen to drink coffee. Mine was flavored with French Vanilla, Bitty’s was flavored with Bailey’s. As far as I know, Sharita and her brother drank their coffee with just sugar.
Just as Bitty started relating a story about Miranda Watson’s pet pig eating all the flower heads off bouquets for sale at the local farmer’s market, Lieutenant Stone cleared his throat.
“Miz Hollandale,” he began, and Bitty looked at him sharply over the rim of her cup. Stone’s voice had an authoritative tone to it that she obviously recognized. She set down her cup.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
Any other time she might have called him by his first name since she’d known him for a long time. But when a police officer addresses you formally, you just know that something’s up.
Marcus Stone rubbed his chin with one hand. “I’ll get right to the point. There’s a police investigation down in Oxford. I’m here to get an official statement from you about what you were doing with a laundry cart.”
My stomach dropped. I think I gulped. I hoped no one noticed.
I think Bitty’s gotten better at keeping her cool than she used to be, because she just lifted a Botoxed brow and said, “Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Now, I’ve always considered it rather dangerous to lie to law enforcement for any reason. For one thing, they almost always know when you’re lying, and for another thing, it really does work against you when you need them to believe you. But I had to admire Bitty’s chutzpa in the face of certain disaster. After all, if a policeman is asking questions, he probably already knows the answers.
Lieutenant Stone shook his head. “Now Miz Hollandale, I don’t think that’s quite true. Think about it a minute. Or we can always do this over at the precinct. Or in Oxford. If you won’t talk to me now, I’m sure the Oxford police will arrange to get you down there for a statement. You’ll get a free ride in one of their cruisers.”
Bitty and Lieutenant Stone stared at each other for a moment. He took a casual sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving hers. Sharita and I stood there like statues. The only sound in the kitchen was Chitling snuffling along the floor in search of lost crumbs. She had apparently completely recovered from her earlier trauma.
