Drop Dead Divas, page 9
“This is—was—his cabin, then?”
“No. This is my cabin. I had it built right before Philip and I married. It was where he and I could ‘get away from it all’ when we wanted to be alone. It was supposed to be our hideaway, and no one else was to know about it. This is where we spent our . . . our wedding night.”
I remembered what Mama had said about Bitty grieving over Philip. If she loved him, this must be terribly painful for her. Although I was sitting on the porch floor with my legs hung over the side, I reached up to put a hand on her foot. It was the only part of her I could reach to offer comfort.
“And now those lovely memories have been ruined for you.”
“Lovely? Hardly. The man was drunk as a sailor on leave and about as romantic. I had to hold his head while he puked in a bucket. And after I’d gone to so much trouble, too, with candles, and champagne, fresh flowers and silk sheets—good god! I hope those aren’t my silk sheets on that bed!”
Ah. Bitty must be feeling better.
It was a good thing, since about the time we heard Rayna's SUV coming back up the goat track road, distant sirens could be heard as well. Ashland police were certainly on the ball.
Ashland, Mississippi is the only town in Benton County that has a traffic light. It’s not a large town. It has a lovely old court house with a clock that doesn’t work, a small library, a grocery store, a dollar store, a motel/Laundromat built sometime back in the 1940s, and various other small businesses scattered here and there. Since this is the South, and we believe strongly in salvation, there are several churches in town, of course.
Brunetti and Brunetti has an office located on the court square there, too. That turned out to be a really good thing.
Across a vacant lot from the grocery and dollar stores sits the Ashland police station. It is a gray concrete block building. The new court house is on the other side of the police station a short distance and has all the modern amenities.
While we didn’t have to travel with the police in handcuffs, our immediate presence at the police station as possible witnesses—which I translated to mean suspects—was greatly desired. On our way back down the steep hill from the cabin, the coroner’s van pulled over to the side of the narrow road to let us pass. That was when the enormity of it all had really hit me.
Not only had we found a body, but it was the body of a young woman who used to date Bitty’s husband, and with whom Bitty had publicly quarreled just the week before. Those were the unpleasant facts.
Déjà vu all over again.
As there were nine Divas in all and the station was rather small, we were parceled out to several officers for our interviews. It was disconcerting to be separated and seated in a very uncomfortable chair directly across from a uniformed officer and a tape recorder. I don’t know which cop got the short straw and Bitty, but my interviewer must have had a terrible headache. He was decidedly grumpy.
“Let’s hear it,” he said, leaning back in his chair to glower at me from under eyebrows that resembled large black centipedes. “Wait a minute. The damn thing isn’t working.”
That was in reference to the tape recorder, I think. He punched a button and that must have fixed it, because he leaned back again and stuck his thumbs into his armpits. I just stared at him. Wasn’t he supposed to ask questions?
“Name!” he shouted, and that made me jump a little.
“Whose name?” I asked somewhat frantically.
I’m not normally obtuse. In fact, I can usually grasp a situation fairly quickly. If not frightened out of my wits by having just seen the dead body of a murder victim I knew, I might have already picked up on the fact he wanted my name.
The officer heaved a great sigh that sounded disgusted and rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. I heard him mutter, “Why do I always get the crazies?” but I pretended he was talking about someone else.
“My name,” I said with what dignity I could muster, “is Trinket Truevine, and I’m from Holly Springs. We, my friends and I, went for a Sunday drive out to my cousin’s cabin, where we found . . . Naomi Spencer. She was dead.”
The officer scribbled something on a notepad. Apparently a tape recording wouldn’t be enough to try and hang me. I assumed that was what he intended to do. And really, I couldn’t blame him. Much. After all, Ashland is only fifteen miles from Holly Springs. They get The South Reporter, too, and would know all about the death of Race Champion and Naomi’s arrest. And if the police read Miranda’s gossip column, they’d know all about the Dixie Divas as well.
“Why were you going to the cabin?” he asked without looking at me.
“It’s a nice day, and we decided to have a get-together.”
“In a remote cabin?”
This time he looked up at me. His brows crowded his eyes like fuzzy caterpillars. This camouflage didn’t fool me. I knew he was watching me carefully.
“Sometimes we just like to get out of town for a while.”
“Right.” He sat back in his chair and studied me until I began to feel like a bug under a microscope. Since my roots needed a touch-up and I’d just pulled my hair back with a barrette, I probably looked somewhat like a bug. Not that it mattered. I’ve learned that the police don’t care who you are or what you look like if you’re suspected of being involved in a crime.
“How well did you know the victim?” he asked next.
“Not well at all. I’ve met her a few times here and there, of course, but we were not friends of any kind.”
“Would you say you were enemies?”
“Of course not!”
“What was your relationship?”
“Acquaintances. None of us know her well.”
He squinted at me. “She must have known you well enough to join your day out at the cabin.”
“No, we had no idea she would be there. It was a complete surprise. In every sense of the word, I might add.”
“Who found the body?”
“My cousin, Elisabeth Hollandale.”
“Were you with her at the time?”
“I was just outside the cabin with the others.”
“Name the others.”
I reeled off the list of names as best I could. By now my palms were sweaty, my all-day deodorant had expired, and my knees had gotten shaky. It was obvious he was doing the math: Bitty plus Naomi equals trouble. Bitty plus friends plus Naomi equals a lot of trouble.
“You’re part of this club, the Ditsy Divas, right?” he asked out of the blue, and I got a little indignant.
“It’s the Dixie Divas!”
“Hunh,” he grunted, which I took to mean he apologized for his mistake, so I said he was excused.
At that he sat back in his chair and stared at me for a long, long moment. I began to fidget. Really, he could be quite unnerving. Not just because he was gruff, but because he wore a badge. Not to mention a gun. It was the gun that could be most unnerving. I did my best to look not only innocent, but harmless.
But he only asked me where I worked, if my address was current, did I have a cell phone where I could be reached, and then stood up.
“We may have more questions later. If we do, we’ll be in touch.”
“So I can leave?” I said hopefully.
He stepped to the open door and motioned me through it, rather impatiently I thought. “Please,” was all he said, and I was relieved.
It could have been worse. Much worse. That was why I’d argued for telling the truth. Not the complete truth, mind you, but the simple facts. We’d discussed it on the ride down that rutted road, and called Rayna and Gaynelle to be sure we were all on the same page. We were to tell the truth. With a caveat: No one need know all the details about a secret meeting to make plans on investigating if Trina Madewell had a hand in the murder of Naomi’s fiancé. That would only complicate matters.
So imagine my surprise when I was finally returned to what must have been the holding area for deranged witnesses to find Cady Lee chatting up a complete stranger and telling all the details of our excursion. The complete stranger wore a tan blouse that said Ashland Police on an arm badge, but she looked quite nice and sympathetic to what Cady Lee was telling her.
“Yes, I read that article,” she was saying as she smiled at Cady Lee, and I knew then we were all dead ducks.
“Well, it was just awful,” Cady Lee said with a mournful shake of her head, and I felt like pushing her out of the chair and onto the floor. “It wasn’t at all like Miranda made it out to be. Bitty’s dog jumped in the middle of the tea tray, and food went just everywhere—have you ever tried to get pimento cheese out of white linen? It never comes completely out, you know.”
“So that is when you all decided to have a secret meeting at the cabin?” the officer prodded tactfully.
“Oh no, not right then. That came later, after the article came out. Bitty was just fit to be tied, you know. I thought for sure she would shoot either Trina or Miranda, but—”
“But Bitty would never do anything like that,” I put in from the doorway, and both of them turned to look at me. The police woman frowned, but Cady Lee looked a bit relieved.
“Trinket, tell this lady just how it came about that we decided to meet secretly. I can’t recall.”
As I got close enough, I smelled the strong odor of Gaynelle's emergency “coffee” on Cady Lee’s breath. Ah. That explained it somewhat. Cady Lee had ridden back down the hill with Gaynelle while Sandra Dobson rode with Bitty, Cindy and me. Since Sandra is a registered nurse and we thought Bitty just might come unglued, it seemed the best thing to do at the time. So much for best-laid plans. At the best of times Cady Lee has a big mouth. With it well-lubricated by Jack Daniel's she had probably told this woman everything and anything she asked. Time for damage control.
“Oh Cady Lee, you know how Bitty loves to keep us all guessing what she’s up to most of the time. Going out to her cabin was just a surprise for all of us.”
And how! I added silently.
“Are you through interviewing us, officer?” I asked sweetly in the hopes that she would say yes.
Cady Lee turned a rather surprised gaze toward the woman, as if just figuring out she’d been talking to an officer of the law. She must really be bombed. Stress and whiskey don’t always combine well.
Before the officer could respond, a familiar drawling voice behind me ended my suspense. “Hey there, Lucy, you through talking to my best clients?”
Jackson Lee. Thank god! While I had no idea how he’d gotten here so quickly, I had no doubt that we were now in good hands.
“You representing all these ladies, Jackson Lee?” the officer named Lucy asked with a wry smile.
“You know I have lots of clients, especially the pretty ones,” came his easy reply.
Jackson Lee Brunetti is one of the most charming southern lawyers anyone could ever meet. Bitty has always said he can charm the bark off trees when he sets his mind to it, and after having seen him in action a time or two, I became a believer. He’s one of those big men who can look elegant in an Italian suit, and just as good in a flannel shirt, Levi’s, and cowboy boots covered in cow manure. In fact, the latter was just how I’d met him a few months ago. He hadn’t impressed me at first, but that changed quickly.
So I gave a sigh of relief when he slid one arm around my shoulders, helped Cady Lee to her feet with the other, and headed us toward the hallway.
“We’ll be glad to answer any more questions you may have once I’ve conferred with my clients,” he said to Officer Lucy on the way out, and I wasn’t at all surprised when he got all nine of us “sprung” within five minutes.
We gathered in the gravel parking lot outside the white concrete block building for a few minutes while Jackson Lee gave us instructions on what not to say and who not to say it to. Then he looked at Bitty and back at me. I tried to avoid what was probably coming my way by turning to squint across the street. An old dog ambled across the road toward our group or the garbage cans, I wasn’t sure which.
“Trinket, you know how much I trust you,” he began charmingly, and I started to back away as if I hadn’t heard. He forestalled that option by quickly looping his arm through mine and drawing me closer to Bitty. “I think it’s best if you go on home with Miss Bitty to make sure she’s all right.”
I knew exactly what he meant. The last time Bitty had been accused of murder I’d been given the unenviable position as her guard dog. Not to keep her safe from harm by some skulking criminal, but to keep her safe from her own mouth. You may have noted that Bitty has a tendency to say . . . unusual . . . things. It’s even worse when she’s under pressure.
“Jackson Lee,” I said after taking a deep breath, “I am not a miracle worker.”
“Sure you are, honey,” he said, giving me an encouraging squeeze on my arm. “I have faith in you.”
Great. Just great.
As I opened my mouth to tell him that his faith in me was misplaced, church bells began to ring loudly. Apparently Sunday morning services were over, which meant church-goers would be leaving church, getting in their cars, and quite a few of them would pass by the police building on their way home to Sunday dinner. Did I really want to be seen arguing with a lawyer while in the company of possible “felons” like myself?
It seemed my fellow felons felt the same. A rush toward the cars ensued, and I was right along with them. Since my car was still in front of Bitty’s house, I got into the Franklin Benz with her, Cindy, and Cady Lee. When we passed Jackson Lee, where he still stood in the parking lot, I waved at him.
I was feeling like I’d just escaped a bullet when Bitty said, “Ashland police must be idiots. They actually asked me if I killed Naomi. Not that I wouldn’t if I’d the chance, of course. I just didn’t know where she’d gone after she made bail. Do you think Billy Don paid her bail? I know he’s her brother, but I still think those two were a bit too close, if you know what I mean.”
I knew what she meant. So would anyone else with half a brain cell left.
“Bitty, do you ever stop to think that the things you say might be misunderstood by some people?”
She looked at me, startled. “Did you understand what I just said? I thought so. If you understood me, Trinket, so can anyone else. Why do you think I said it?”
“Because you have a death wish. Stop sign.”
“Really, you say the damnedest things sometimes. Then you go and accuse me of not being—”
“Stop sign!”
“—clear enough when I speak. I’ll have you know that I took elocution classes—”
“Bitty!” I shrieked, “stop sign!” A blast of noise from an air horn cut through the air much too close to our car.
“—at Ole Miss—omigod!” Bitty wrenched the wheel of the Benz hard to the left and stomped the brakes, but the heavy car kept hurtling through the stop sign, across the two-lane highway and into the gravel parking lot of an antique and junk store. Dust rose in a cloud, and a passing log truck laid hard on its air horn as it barreled down the highway. A millisecond faster and it would have clipped the rear of our car.
It being a Sunday, no cars were in the parking lot. We’d come to a halt only a couple inches from the edge of a front porch filled with old dressers, bed frames, and cast iron stoves. I sat quietly while Bitty held on to the steering wheel and breathed hard through her nose. In the back seat, someone whimpered, but nothing was said.
I may have mentioned that Bitty has amazing powers of recovery when she chooses. She gave a brief shake of her head, cleared her throat, and said, “I’ll have to remember to start carrying emergency coffee with me when I leave home.”
We wheeled out of the empty parking lot, back up onto Highway 5, and tooled past the abandoned nursing home and the health clinic, on down to the junction of Highway 4. As we headed west and picked up speed, I knew that whether I’d actually promised Jackson Lee or not, someone would have to stay with Bitty to keep her from talking herself right into jail.
Maybe I could talk Mama into it.
CHAPTER 8
Normally, my mother is one of the most cooperative, sweetest individuals you would ever want to meet. Occasionally, however, she reveals that beneath her sugary exterior beats the heart of a mule.
“I said no, and I meant no, Trinket.”
As usual, Mama did not raise her voice. She sounded perfectly reasonable and calm, while I felt the wings of panic beating against my ears.
“But Mama, Bitty always listens to you. She respects you. She regards me as a co-conspirator and thus foists impossible schemes on me.”
Mama bent a stern gaze toward me. “That is because you are usually quite agreeable to her impossible schemes. It has always been this way. I thought by now you would have learned better, but it seems Bitty is still able to coax you into overriding your natural common sense.”
While at the same time I appreciated my mother thinking—or saying—that I have some natural common sense, I cringed at the implied rebuke that I’d still not learned any better than to go along with my dear cousin’s nutty antics. So I resorted to wheedling.
“If you’ll share Bitty-duty with me, I won’t say one word in complaint when you and Daddy take your next trip.”
Wheedling works no better now than it did when I was fifteen.
“Thank you, dear, but your father and I aren’t planning any trips in the near future.”
Foiled again.
I flopped down in a chair at our kitchen table and slumped over my cereal. Snap, Crackle and Pop had gone silent. My coffee was probably cold, too. What had seemed such an excellent argument while lying in bed the night before had fallen flat. I was consigned to fulltime Bitty-duty.
Now, I love my cousin dearly. She is wonderful and witty and fun, and all good things—in small doses. Enforced Bitty-time, however, can be hard on my ears. And my nerves. Not that Six Chimneys isn’t a lovely antebellum home with all the modern amenities, and within walking distance of Rayna's if I feel energetic enough. It is. I always enjoy visiting. Boarding there, however, is less enjoyable.
