Drop Dead Divas (26 page)

At any rate, Sukey Spencer didn’t look at all the kind of person to flout etiquette rules, either. While she was rather gaudy in her sequins, satin, and chiffon, I cannot say she looked slovenly. Just the opposite, in fact. Her blond hair had been teased and curled into submission, her navy blue stockings matched her navy blue dress and shoes, and even the huge purse she carried was a dark navy blue. It looked like a diaper bag, with pockets and wide straps, and seemed to weigh her down a bit as she struggled over a rut in the ground.

“I wonder if she could get a microwave into that purse?” I must have said aloud, because Rayna dug her elbow into my ribs and shook her head. I looked around and realized a kind of hush had fallen over the crowd, even though moments before everyone had been talking almost normally.

The black hearse had stopped several yards away, and the doors opened. It was easy to tell the funeral home people from the pall bearers; they all wore dark suits and had stoic faces. The pall bearers were dressed in what was probably their best clothes, but hardly looked like suits. Two wore casual jackets; most wore shirt sleeves and ties. One of them wore a NHRA jersey and blue jeans. Probably a family member. They were all stout young men, with the oldest no more than forty, maybe. The pall bearer wearing the National Hot Rod Association jersey looked grim. He had a buzz cut that showed pink scalp, and big ears like jug handles.

A tall, cadaverous looking man stood beneath the tent, a Bible in his hands. He held his head up, gazing out at the crowd as people trickled into place and a cleared path was made for the pall bearers and casket. The brittle sound of metal on metal cut sharply into the silence as the casket was pulled from the hearse and the men each grabbed hold of the long handles on the two sides. They carried it to the waiting metal frame behind the bright green fake grass and settled it into place. The man with the Bible moved to stand right in front of Race’s casket. Apparently, he was the minister.

He launched into an obviously rehearsed eulogy, listing the virtues of the deceased as a wonderful son, brother, and friend beloved by all who met him. While he listed all the accomplishments of Race’s life, I let my gaze wander. Sukey Spencer stood as rigid as a pole, her eyes fastened on the pallbearers still gathered around the coffin with their heads bent. Not far from her, Trina and Trisha Madewell sobbed softly into their black lace handkerchiefs. Really, I had no place being at this funeral. I felt awkward, and made up my mind to slip away just as soon as I could do so without being noticed.

Finally, the minister asked if anyone else wished to say something. No one spoke. It looked like the funeral was over when the minister bowed his head for the final prayer. A nice service, and blessedly brief, I thought to myself when the minister ended his prayer.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until the pallbearers stepped back and I let it out. The cinnamon scent of Big Red chewing gum wafted away on the hot breeze. In stressful situations my throat gets dry. I chew gum to grease my jaws. Or at least, that’s how Daddy puts it when he sees me smacking away on a tasteless wad of gum.

“Greasing those jaws, girl?” he’ll say, and that’s when I realize I’m probably making too much noise.

Since Daddy wasn’t there to make sure I stayed quiet, I decided to tuck the gum up into my cheek until I’d made the ritual progression through the tent to speak to the family seated beneath its green shade. While I worked it up there with the tip of my tongue, my peripheral vision caught a flurry of motion off to the side. Naturally, I turned to look.

Sukey Spencer had a big old gun pointed right at the NHRA pallbearer’s head. It didn’t waver even though it was a really big gun and she didn’t look strong enough to hold it up that way for too long. Sunlight gleamed along the length of the wicked-looking barrel. She said something to him I couldn’t hear from where I stood, and he slowly turned around to look at her.

By that time, several mourners had moved hastily out of the way so that NHRA stood there virtually alone, only a couple yards from the minister and the coffin. The rest of us stood there as if nailed to the dirt, watching the scene play out like it was on-stage.

“
Ohmygod
,” I heard Gaynelle say in a shocked whisper, “that’s Race’s brother! Why would Sukey want to shoot
him
?”

Sukey started yelling at Race’s brother, using the gun to emphasize her points as she jabbed it toward him. People had scattered, but he stood still, just looking at her with a face scrubbed clean of any kind of emotion. She could have been giving him a grocery list for all it seemed like at the moment.

As if drawn by an invisible rope, the four of us moved closer so we could hear what she was saying. If Bitty hadn’t been behind me pushing, I probably would have stayed right where I was, but she somehow managed to herd the three of us toward the danger zone despite our reluctance. Since we were behind and to the left, I felt pretty sure we were out of Sukey’s sight and range. Of course, that was subject to change at any moment.

Still, when we got close enough to hear, I wasn’t that surprised to hear Sukey talking about her daughter. Frankly, I would have been more surprised if she hadn’t been talking about Naomi.

“She was too young . . . and beautiful . . . she didn’t have to die,” Sukey was saying to him, and the young man just kept still and silent, although his eyes were watchful. “It was you, wasn’t it? I know it was. You told Artie that you knew she’d killed your brother and you’d get her if it was the last thing you ever did!”

Safely tucked out of sight behind the three of us, Bitty stood on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear, “Artie is Sukey’s older brother.”

Sukey started poking the pistol toward the NHRA guy a bit erratically. I thought she looked about to completely lose it and braced myself for the sound of a gunshot. She took a step closer to him, wobbled a bit on the uneven ground, then halted.

“I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell everyone here just what you did to my baby!” she shouted.

Finally he spoke, his voice low and his words terse: “No. I never did nothin’ to Naomi.”

“You’re the only one who had a reason!” Sukey screamed at him “Almost every other person ’round here loved her!”

Somehow I knew what would happen next, and I straightened to my full height and squared my shoulders to shield Bitty from sight.

“Not
her
,” NHRA said, and jabbed a finger in our direction. “Not Miz Hollandale. She hated Naomi and you know it.”

All of a sudden being a human shield got really risky. Sukey Spencer swung her eyes—and gun—toward us as we stood there in a little knot of Divas. She looked really wild. Saliva had gathered at the corners of her mouth so that spit flew when she spoke.

“You’re lyin’! I don’t see her. She ain’t here.”

To forestall the inevitable, Gaynelle took three bold steps toward Sukey. Using her schoolteacher tone, she said sharply, “Sukey Lee Spencer, you know good and well that what you are doing is wrong. Stop it this instant.”

Sukey’s eyes widened slightly. “Miz Bishop,” she started to say, then stopped as she apparently caught sight of Bitty standing behind me and Rayna. Anger replaced the look of surprise on her face and the gun barrel lifted. Hot air shimmered in a haze freighted with apprehension. My heart beat so hard and loud it could have been heard all the way back to Holly Springs. It occurred to me that this crazy woman’s gun could blow a hole the size of a baseball through any one of us.

“You!”
she shouted. “Miz High-and-Mighty Bitty Hollandale! Was it you that killed my baby? Did you? Just because of the money? Is that it? Why should you care now if the senator left my girl all that money! You got what you could off him, why begrudge her a little bit?”

An indignant Bitty popped around from behind me before I could stop her. “What do you
mean
, Philip left her money? Are you crazy? He wouldn’t do that!”

Sukey acted offended. “Well, why shouldn’t he? She spent damn near two years puttin’ up with all his wishy-washy crap. She should’a got something for her trouble!”

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 19
th
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.”