Drop Dead Divas, page 21
Bitty made a hissing sound like a snake, and for an instant, I was afraid she was going to do something really stupid and lunge toward Sukey Spencer. But then Gaynelle took a quick step forward and brought the end of her folded pink parasol right down on Sukey’s gun so that it flew from her hands. Apparently her action also activated not only the latch of the parasol so that it popped open with a snap, it caught the trigger on the gun somehow. Or maybe Sukey had it cocked. I don’t know. All I know is that it went off with an eardrum-splitting BANG!
All sound temporarily ceased, while around me things seemed to happen in slow motion.
Somehow the pink parasol went airborne like a polka dot butterfly, and just beyond its unmanned flight the minister and NHRA both jumped a few feet into the air. NHRA landed on his feet a good yard closer to where we stood, but the poor minister toppled backward into the open grave. I saw the Bible fly into the air and his legs go up, feet pointing skyward for a brief moment before he disappeared into the dark, earthy space between the coffin and the Astro-turf. For a moment no one else moved.
Then Gaynelle's open parasol landed atop the funeral tent, the curved handle caught on a rope, and it swung upside down from the tent-edge to rock to and fro. That seemed to jar people into action. Two men leaned over to peer into the grave, while two men ran toward the gun lying on the ground; I could tell they were shouting by the way the veins bulged in their necks, but fortunately, my hearing was still blissfully gone. I could imagine what they were saying, and I didn’t much blame them. That didn’t mean I wanted to hear it, though.
By the time my hearing returned with a snap, crackle, and pop, most of the loud shouting was over. Just an occasional sharp word rose above the small crowd gathered in the cemetery. Apparently there was a disagreement about how best to rescue the minister flailing about in the grave, and another quarrel erupted between the two men hovering over Sukey's pistol. Neither one of them seemed inclined to actually pick it up. Their objections wavered between disturbing any fingerprints or keeping it away from the crazy lady. Since she was moving closer to the gun, I leaned toward the latter option.
Fortunately, several uniformed men got to Sukey before she got to her gun again, and one of them grabbed her by the upper arm and held her tight.
“Now, Miz Sukey, you don’t wanna do that,” he said calmly.
She argued with him, but it didn’t matter since he just kept shaking his head and telling her he’d warned her before about shooting at people. He gestured to one of the motorcycle cops with him, and the man picked up the gun, broke it open and removed all the bullets, then snapped the cylinder shut. The sheriff took the pistol and Sukey Spencer, and headed back across the cemetery toward Ripley Street. I could hear her still arguing with him as he put her into his patrol car. He just nodded his head and patted her on the back before he shut the door.
It was a bit deflating. I’d expected something straight out of Law & Order, maybe, with rights being read, handcuffs used, and so on. Apparently the Ashland police have other methods for maintaining peace, because there aren’t too many murders that happen in the area.
When I looked back at Bitty, I saw that she was positively furious. Her blue eyes glittered so bright it was hard looking at her, and I put up a hand as if to shield myself.
“Whoa! If looks could kill—” I stopped talking right there. It seemed best.
Gaynelle retrieved her wayward parasol, manhandled it until it was neatly folded again, and came up and took Bitty by the arm. “Come on, dear. I brought some emergency beverage. It’s in the car.”
“Did you hear that?” Bitty complained angrily. “Philip left that twit something in his will! I can’t believe it! How dare he—”
Gaynelle gave her arm a little shake. “Bitty. Calm down. People are watching and listening.” So Bitty shut up as Gaynelle escorted her to the car to be refreshed.
Rayna and I stood there in the searing sun without speaking for a moment. Then we looked at each other and shrugged. Whatever else happened this summer, it couldn’t possibly beat the bizarre antics at this funeral.
CHAPTER 15
As I’d feared, we attended the wake. It was held at the Champion home, a nice little Craftsman bungalow-style house in Ashland. Next door sits an antebellum home of the type most popular in the 19th century. Across the street is a third-story Victorian era home, complete with a pineapple fountain in the front yard. The house had been painted a nice shade of pink.
Cars lined the street on both sides, and Bitty ended up parking at the end of the street where it dead-ends in green and brown furrowed fields. We sat for a few minutes in her car. I occupied the time trying to think of an excuse good enough to get us all back to Holly Springs without invading a wake I was sure we hadn’t been invited to attend.
Bitty occupied that same two and a half minutes dabbing pressed powder on her nose and re-applying mascara to her lashes.
“Are there going to be photographers at the wake?” I asked a bit shrewishly. “If I’d known, I would have worn my best pearls.”
“You lost those things thirty years ago,” Bitty said without pausing in the sweep of the mascara wand up her lashes. “I remember that only because you said at the time that without them you would never be able to look like Laura Petrie.”
For the unfamiliar, in the 1960s TV program The Dick Van Dyke Show, Laura Petrie was married to Rob Petrie. Her real name is Mary Tyler Moore, and no matter how hard I tried, the pearls would not have been enough; I would have had to lose fifty pounds and have cosmetic surgery to ever come close to looking like her.
“Mercy, Trinket,” said Gaynelle, assessing me from the back seat, “pearls would not help at all. Why did you think they would?”
I was getting pretty irritated by the trivia that seems to compose my life. “Because every TV housewife wore pearls, even when they wore slacks and sweaters, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be in suburbia, that’s why.”
“Yet you married Perry.” Bitty snapped her compact closed. “Whatever made you think he would settle down in a house in the suburbs?”
“Probably the same thing that made you think Frank Caldwell would ever be an honest businessman,” I retorted. “Idiocy.”
Instead of being insulted, Bitty just nodded. “Can’t argue with the truth. Are we ready, ladies?”
“Ready to go home,” I said. “We can’t just walk in where there’s grieving family, Bitty. We don’t even know these people!”
“Of course we do. Or I do. You don’t think I’d go if I thought I wasn’t going to be welcome, do you?”
Yes. I certainly did. Bitty assumes she’s welcome everywhere. Maybe she usually is welcome, but this was a wake, not a fund raiser. I tried to think of a way to say that, and ended up trailing behind as Bitty and the others started up the blacktop road. It occurred to me that if Rayna and Gaynelle weren’t that worried, I was probably wrong in thinking we would be out of place. I just wasn’t used to barging in without being expressly invited, I told myself.
“Now listen,” Rayna suggested as we walked up the tree-lined street toward the Champion house, “we need to find out what we can. The best way is to just keep our ears open and our mouths shut, unless the perfect question comes to mind. Bitty, why don’t you and I stay together?”
I was rather grateful that Rayna would have Bitty under her wing. That left me free to hide in the bathroom until the madness of our scheme became clear to the rest of our happy little group. It would eventually, I was sure. After all, entering the home of a grieving family just to find out possible information about their loved one seemed—well, just plain wrong. It helped that our motive was to find his murderer, but somehow the police or relatives rarely saw it that way.
Despite my certainty that people would immediately gawk at us and demand to know why we were there to pay our respects to the bereaved, Bitty was greeted warmly by the deceased’s father. He grasped both her hands in his and leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek.
“It’s nice of you to come, Miz Hollandale,” he said while he still held her hands tight in his big paws. “Especially after the mess at the funeral. We’re honored. I mean, you bein’ a senator’s wife and all.”
“Ex-wife,” a female voice said from behind me, and I wasn’t a bit surprised to see the Madewell sisters when I turned to look. Trina Madewell didn’t even flinch when I lifted my eyebrow at her. Instead she stuck her square chin up into the air, and her tone was harsh. “She dated Race one time, then never returned his calls after that, so don’t go thinking she had any big love for him.”
Mr. Champion turned his head to look at Trina. “Don’t matter none, missy. She’s here now, and we’re honored to have her in our house.”
Since the elder Champion still held fast to Bitty’s hands, even though I saw her try to pull away, I figured he must be the only family member to feel that way. That notion was cemented by a woman’s appearance at his elbow, and the expression on her face was guarded.
“Husband,” she said in more of a question than comment, “I’ve been waitin’ on you to come help in the kitchen.”
“Somebody’s got to be out here to greet folks nice enough to show up for our boy’s funeral,” he replied. “Meet Miz Hollandale. The Miss’ippi state senator’s wife.”
Before Trina Madewell could speak up again, I said quickly, “I’m her cousin, Trinket Truevine. We are so very sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Champion. I never met him, but I understand your son was a famous race car driver.”
Finally the elder Champion let go of one of Bitty’s hands to gesture to the wall in an adjoining room. Even from the front room it was easy to see that trophies lined wood shelves; they gleamed dully in the light that came through multi-paned windows.
“Three hunnerd and forty-two trophies and ribbons he won doing his racing. Got most of ’em in the first few years. That was before he got hurt a couple years ago. If it hadn’t been for Cliff Wages, he’d of won the national championship that year.”
He turned his head to look back at Bitty. “It was your husband that promised to see justice done for that, and I reckon he would’a done it if not for goin’ and gettin’ hisself killed. ’Course, now that Race is gone . . . well, I guess it don’t matter much anymore.”
Since Bitty had been uncharacteristically silent, I glanced at her face to see if she was paying attention. Her eyes were open; a good sign, I thought. But her brows were tucked down in a slight frown despite the Botox.
“I think I remember hearing Philip talk about that,” she said. “Something about a deliberate sabotage on Race’s car.”
As she spoke, she pulled firmly away from Champion’s grip; her hands were a bit red from how hard he’d held them. When he reached for her again, she deftly avoided his grasp by turning to put her hand on Rayna's arm.
“Don’t you remember, Rayna? There was a big fuss about it for a while, but no one could ever prove Cliff Wages messed with that alternative thing.”
“Alternator,” Champion corrected. “Buck Sewell saw Wages messin’ around the car and hollered at him to get out of the garage. They checked ever’thing out, but he’d been so sly they never saw what he’d done ’til after the wreck. It was Wages that runned over my boy, even though ever’one was hollerin’ at him and wavin’ flags and all after the danged car quit on the track. Sent him to the hospital and kept him out the rest of the year gettin’ over it.” He shook his head. “Race wasn’t the same after that. Wages got plumb away with it, too. Police wouldn’t press charges or nuthin’. ’Course, he took off like a scalded cat after that race, and last I heard, he’s out in California or Mexico.”
By that time, several others had joined our little group standing in the middle of the plain living room. Some of the men nodded their heads like they knew what was said was true. Then the conversation switched to engine sizes and horsepower, so I looked around for the bathroom. Maybe I could hide until this was over. Especially if they had any good magazines.
Gaynelle nudged me and whispered in my ear, “See what you can find out about Cliff Wages.”
I whispered back, “Okay” without any intention whatsoever of questioning the mourners. As soon as Gaynelle moved on, I went off in search of the bathroom.
After our greeting and acceptance by the family, no one seemed to care if we were there or not. The bathroom was right off the hallway to the kitchen. It was very clean and neat, a little old-fashioned with a flowery shower curtain and what were obviously the “good” towels put out for guests. Unfortunately, the only magazines were about hot rods. Still, I spent as much time as possible in there, washing my hands, looking out the window at the brick house next door, and thinking how easy it was to get mixed up in uncomfortable situations when I hung around with Bitty. She attracts weird people and circumstances. I seem to always get caught in the fall-out, which must say something about me, too. But Bitty’s a Leo; she gets away with it. My horoscope usually has dire warnings about getting involved in risky situations.
While I stared out the window at the neighbor’s brick wall, I thought about the man who’d sabotaged Race’s hot rod. If he was guilty of doing a mean thing like that, was he also capable of murder? It was a distinct possibility. Maybe Race’s murder had nothing at all to do with Naomi or jealous women, but with a rival hot rod driver. But if that was true, why had Naomi been killed? It was always possible that her murder wasn’t tied to Race’s, but also highly unlikely.
Truthfully, I still suspected the Madewell sisters of something, if not murder. It was just too much of a coincidence that we had no sooner left their property than a mystery truck ran us off the road. Police had yet to find the truck. It could be anywhere.
Rayna had driven Rob’s old Jeep up and down back roads, hills, abandoned properties, and as close as she could get without trespassing on the Madewell property. No luck; there had not been one sign of the black truck with a shattered windshield and Bitty’s bullets. There were dozens of abandoned barns in Benton and Marshall Counties; the truck could be sitting right in Holly Springs, and unless we knew where to look, we’d never find it.
So many irritating clues, so little progress. All any of the Divas had been able to discover so far were bits and pieces of interesting information that still didn’t form a pattern. That I could see, anyway. Naomi being in the late senator’s will was definitely an intriguing fact that should be important. But how? I just couldn’t see the Hollandale women paying someone to knock her off, regardless of how much she might have gotten. Besides, they would have paid well to get rid of Bitty first.
While Bitty wouldn’t put it past Trina Madewell to have killed both Race and Naomi, I wasn’t quite so sure. Trina was certainly an angry person and she’d been engaged to Race. She had motive and opportunity. The police had interviewed her several times, I knew from Jackson Lee. But they’d interviewed us more than once, too, and I knew none of us had killed either one of them. Or was pretty sure. Recent experience convinced me that it’s not always possible to identify someone capable of murder. People can hide things about themselves pretty well.
After the second person rattled the glass doorknob, I decided my time hiding in the bathroom was at an end and I would have to join the mourners. As I made my way out the door and past the rather irritated looking gentleman in the hallway, I chirped Bitty-style, “Thank you for being so patient with me. It must be the beer.”
The man looked startled, then nodded agreement and a comment that “beer is only rented anyway” as he went into the bathroom and shut the door. I hoped he remembered to put the seat back down. Most men never do. It had been an on-going battle with my ex about that, until he’d pointed out quite reasonably that if men should remember to put the toilet seat back down, women should remember to look before sitting.
The long hallway started in the living room and ended in the kitchen, with doors opening to other rooms. I chose the kitchen instead of the den, where evidence of Race’s hot rod career lined all the walls. Of course, it would have been rude not to eat, and since I’ve never been one to refuse a plate of southern pit barbecue, I heaped a pile of chopped pork onto an open hamburger bun, garnished it with a generous dollop of coleslaw and a hefty squeeze of dark red vinegary-sweet barbecue sauce, and ate two of them along with a scoop of baked beans and a handful of potato chips. Maybe invading a wake wasn’t as bad an idea as I’d first thought. I could eat and pretend to mingle at the same time.
All kinds of pies, cakes, and other desserts lined the clean kitchen counters. Other dishes crowded table tops. Certainly, the generosity of neighbors and churches was well-represented. Not to mention the generosity of friends who had brought six-packs on ice.
It’s a strange thing about wakes. Even though a loved one is being honored for passing from this life, the things people say about the deceased is often as funny as it may be sad. Maybe it makes family feel better to know so many people have fond memories of the dearly departed, or maybe, it’s just that laughter—even through tears—helps lighten even the heaviest heart. It’s an unspoken rule that people should try and find just the right balance for an amusing story about the deceased, and not go off into some other direction.
Of course, in the case of murder, some rules just fly right out of the windows.
Race’s brother obviously had trouble with the rules. He came in late, then drank beer and glowered at people from a corner of the den instead of mingling. Most people wisely stayed away from him.
Not Bitty.
She stopped right in front of him, put both hands on her hips, and said, “I want to know what you meant at the cemetery about me having a reason to kill Race. You know better than that, Ronny Champion.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything back. He took a swig of his beer and looked away from her. Then he sucked in a deep breath. “Aw’right, I’ll say it: You had more reason than anybody I know to kill Naomi, and from what Race told me, you’re probably the one who was stalking him.”
