Divas Do Tell (25 page)

“It can,” said Bitty, “but it didn’t happen this time, I’m pretty sure. I’ve been in Tasha’s position, remember, and as much as I may have wanted to kill Philip and even his girlfriends, I didn’t. I did pitch a hissy fit every time I found out about him fooling around, though. And he always bought me something expensive to make up for it. It never really made up for it, but I did manage to acquire quite a few nice things.”

“And your point is?” I asked.

Bitty heaved a big sigh. “My point is that if Tasha was going to kill either one of them, she wouldn’t have thrown a big fit so she’d be the first person police suspect. She’d have quietly killed her and either skipped town again or played the part of the unsuspecting wife.”

“Bitty has a valid point,” Rayna said after a moment of reflection, and I agreed.

“As surprising as that is, yes, she does. Not that these movie people are always rational, I’ve noticed. They’re artists. They thrive on doing the unusual. Bitty would have been a perfect movie star for that reason alone.” I smiled at my cousin so she wouldn’t say something tacky. A smile doesn’t always work.

“If I had been able to work alone in that scene, I’m sure I would have been discovered, but my co-star fell into a bucket,” said Bitty rather testily.

Before I could remind her that she’d precipitated my descent into a washtub Rayna said, “I’ve heard about that. People said it was the funniest thing they’d seen in a long time.”

Bitty paled. “People? What people?”

“Oh, just . . . people,” Rayna replied with an airy wave of her hand. “I don’t remember who it was that told me. Look, this is what I’ve found out so far about Mira Waller. You’re right to think she’s been holding out information. Now we know why she tries to act so sophisticated. She was born in a trailer in the boonies outside Hickory Flat.”

“I thought Hickory Flat was the boonies,” said Bitty sulkily.

“You’ve said the same thing about Memphis,” I reminded her. “You’ve been a snob ever since your first trip to Europe.”

“Good heavens, Trinket. That was after I graduated college. I’ve been several more times since then. A trip to Europe is necessary for the broadening of one’s education, you know.”

“Yes dear, we know. You love to remind us. Maybe you and Mira have more in common than you like to think.”

When Bitty narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, Rayna hastily said, “Mira still has family here in the area. I think we should go talk to them.”

The promise of digging up dirt on Mira Waller was all that saved me from Bitty’s verbal assault. It was rather tacky of me to put her in the same class as Mira, but there are times my dear cousin’s fits of snobbery irritate me beyond the ability to keep my mouth shut.

Intrigued, Bitty leaned forward to look at the computer screen. “Is that the Wallers?”

“No,” said Rayna, “that’s the promo for the next Johnny Depp movie being made. Good lord, Bitty. I think you need glasses.”

Bitty looked astonished, then horrified. “I’m much too young to need glasses.”

Since I had found myself squinting at the print in books and holding them out to arm’s length on occasion, I had a bit of sympathy for her. I also had
a pair of what my mama calls “cheaters” in my purse. They’re the eye glasses of varying strengths that can be bought at most drug stores or places like Walmart. At the moment I was at 175 and figured when I got to 325, I had better give in and go to an optometrist. Apparently Bitty hadn’t come to the same realization.

I just patted her on the shoulder. “It’s all right, dear. That day comes to all of us.”

“Maybe to you, but not to me. You’re much older than I am, Trinket.”

“Two months hardly qualifies as ‘much’ older,” I responded calmly. “Once we hit fifty, it’s all downhill from there, old girl. You might as well face it: vision goes bad and skin sags.”

Bitty gave me a shocked look. “As long as there are still plastic surgeons I see no need to look like a wrung out dishrag.” She stood up, apparently forgetting she’d wedged her pug between her and the chair arm. Chen Ling nearly fell out of the soft chenille sling onto her little pink puggy head. Bitty had wrapped her in pink velvet, complete with a little hat that slid over the poor dog’s face as she tried to rearrange her in the sling. Since the sling was pink it’d been difficult to tell pug from chenille, but the big bug eyes gave her away. I expected pug-retaliation at any moment. Chen Ling is not one to suffer indignity for long.

Rayna and I watched with fascination as Bitty managed to upright the dog without getting bitten or dislodging the stupid little velvet hat. I almost felt sorry for Chitling. Not that she needs sympathy. She’s quite capable of fending for herself. Even with only three front fangs she’s able to make her displeasure known fairly quickly. I heard a couple of jaw-snaps before it was all done. Apparently Bitty has gotten faster, or the dog has gotten slower. No injuries occurred.

“There,” said Bitty a little breathlessly once she had pug and sling comfortable, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for our trip to Petticoat Junction.”

I rolled my eyes. “In your case, Hooterville is more appropriate.” That made her smile.

Rayna folded up the printed sheet of paper with the names and addresses of the Waller family members and offered to drive. “That way if there’s mud my SUV can get through it safely enough,” she added when it looked as if Bitty might disagree.

I understood Rayna’s intention. Sometimes Bitty not only gets lost, she refuses to admit she’s lost, and then there are the times she decides to take her passengers where they don’t want to go, too. Besides, I’d end up sitting in the back seat with my knees up under my chin if we took Bitty’s little sports car.

Once we were all inside, me up front with Rayna and Bitty in the back with her pouting pug, we headed out Highway 4 toward Ashland. It’s only fifteen miles from Holly Springs and is the county seat for Benton County. It also has one of the only two stop lights in the county. I like Ashland despite the fact it’d been the scene of a few uncomfortable moments for the Divas. It’s a sleepy little town where everyone knows who you are and if you belong or not. Jackson Lee has an office on the court house square, and even though many of the businesses have closed in the past years it retains an air of quiet hospitality. The old court house is like an elegant lady past her prime but still beautiful. We went right past it and on out old Ripley Road.

Barren cotton fields stretched on both sides of the road, surrounding occasional houses, a few leftover stalks sticking up like sewing pins from the ragged furrows. It wouldn’t be long before farmers tilled the fields and planted more cotton. For now, the fields were brown and seemed to stretch to the horizon. A few windbreaks of tall pines lined the edges. We turned onto a gravel road between some fields, and the SUV bumped over ruts and potholes as we slowly wound along the narrow track.

Every time we hit a rut I bounced a little, and from the grumpy sounds in the back seat, so did Bitty and her pug. Rayna held tightly to the steering wheel.

“Good lord,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “They must live on the backside of beyond. I can’t remember why we thought it was a good idea to come talk to them.”

“Frankly, neither can I,” said Bitty from the back. “They’re probably not going to tell us anything we don’t already know anyway. We already know Mira is a liar.”

Trust Bitty to put it so baldly and concisely.

“Don’t be so tactful,” I said over my shoulder. “Say what you really think.”

Bitty just laughed. At least, I think it was a laugh. It could have been a gurgle. We were bouncing around so much it was difficult to tell.

Just when I thought my insides were going to be my outsides, a house came into view at the end of the road. It was plain, a ranch style house with a nice garden at one side, several cars parked in front, and an old Trans Am up on cinder blocks next to the garden gate. A long porch ran across the front of the house, sagging at one end. The yard was tidy except for the cars, and a few children played on a swing set toward the back of the yard. Pine trees crowded the house.

Rayna parked and turned off the car, and a man came out onto the porch and leaned against a support post to watch us as we got out. Bitty, as usual, was hobbling in stilettos that seemed even more ridiculous than usual in the gravel ruts. The fat pug she carried couldn’t help her keep her balance, but she struggled on. Rayna and I were dressed more sensibly.

“Mr. Atwater?” Rayna inquired pleasantly, stepping forward to greet the man on the porch. “My name is Rayna Blue, and I’d like to ask you about your niece Mira Waller, if you have a few moments.”

Atwater was tall, lanky, burned darker by the sun, his face crinkled in the way of most farmers; he wore faded blue overalls, a long-sleeved checked shirt, and a straw hat. His boots had seen better days. He shifted position against the post to take a better look at us.

“Ain’t my niece,” he said after a moment. “She was my wife’s. Letty’s gone now. Hadn’t seen or heard from Mira since she was about seven. She don’t bother to remember we’re kin. I’m good with that.”

“So you haven’t spoken with her since she’s been back in Holly Springs? Maybe visited her on the movie set?”

He shook his head and looked a bit amused by Rayna’s questions. “That girl don’t want nothin’ to do with any of us, no reminders of where she come from. Letty was from Hickory Flat and grew up there with a passel of kinfolk. When Sukey, Mira’s mama, took off with that fancy man down to Jackson, no one hardly noticed.”

“That fancy man was Mira’s father?”

Atwater shook his head. “Not that I heard. Her real daddy moved on not long after she was born is what I heard. Name was . . . um . . . Jones or something like that. Maybe Johns.”

“Jones?” Bitty squeaked, and gave me a wide-eyed look. We were both thinking the same thing—Susana Jones and Billy Joe Cramer’s daughter would be too old to be Mira, but what about
her
child? What if Mira was Susana and Billy Joe’s grandchild?

Once back in the car, Rayna said practically, “We don’t even know if Susana had a girl. It could have been a boy, you know.”

“But
Jones
,” said Bitty with excitement in her voice. “That’s too big a coincidence to ignore. So maybe Mira’s
father
was Susana and Billy Joe’s baby. Movie stars always change their names.”

“This whole thing requires a lot of suspension of disbelief,” I pointed out. “First, we have to assume that Billy Joe’s illegitimate son had a baby who went to Hollywood and became a movie star, then she got a role in a movie being made in Holly Springs, and then decided to kill Billy Joe—her grandfather. I mean, what are the odds?”

“Astronomical,” Rayna said as she aimed the car back down the track between the fields. “Billy Joe and Susana’s child could be anywhere by now.”

“True.” I thought about it a moment. “Mira is the right age. And she does come from this area. As does her mother. Sukey might be a nickname for Susana. Does anyone know what her family called her?”

“Maybe we can find that out from her kin left down in Hickory Flat.”

“Oh lord,” said Bitty. “Are we going to go traipsing all around the countryside? I think I’ve seen enough of the wilderness today.”

Rayna and I rolled our eyes in synchronized exasperation.

I said, “If you’d wear proper shoes and leave your ninety-pound albatross at home maybe you’d feel more like traipsing somewhere.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m not into nature.”

I didn’t bother pointing out to her that she’d hardly been on a nature tour. Staying in a comfortable SUV with power everything wasn’t quite the same as hiking up a mountain trail.

“You know,” said Rayna, “It could be possible that Bitty’s right about Mira Waller being behind Abby’s death. I still don’t think Dixie Lee had anything to do with Billy Joe’s death, but it’s beginning to look like our little home-grown Hollywood starlet might have some explaining to do.”

“Lucy,” Bitty and I chorused in our best Cuban accent, “you got some ‘splainin’ to do!”

When Rayna looked at me I shrugged. “Sorry. As you may recall, Bitty and I spent much of our formative years grounded for minor infractions. We watched a lot of TV.
I Love Lucy
was one of our favorite old shows.”

“You know,” said Rayna, nodding thoughtfully, “that explains a lot about you two. It really does.”

It wasn’t very comforting to admit that she was right. I could only hope that wherever we went next Bitty had the good sense to leave the dog in the car and go barefoot. She looked totally absurd in those blasted expensive shoes when Rayna and I were wearing pants and flats. Not that Bitty has ever cared about being over-dressed. Since she’d started dating Jackson Lee she’d begun to spray her hair into submission as if a few errant curls might make him recoil in horror, and she was usually dressed to the nines, whatever that means, just in case we might meet up with him. In other words—she had reverted to being fourteen.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her at her worst in recent months. Everyone had seen both of us at our worst in recent months, whether in person, in the newspapers, or on TV. It was pretty embarrassing. I was so glad it was behind me, and I didn’t have to cringe every time I saw a newspaper or turned on the TV.