Drop Dead Divas (38 page)

“Oh, in that same little shop off Market Street?” I asked.

“No, they moved on the square. Two or three doors from Booker’s.”

Booker’s Hardware has been in the same place since the mid-eighteen hundreds. It still has the same wide plank floors, old wooden cabinets that hold screws, and a lot of the same kind of merchandise. It’s a great place to buy a Number 8 washtub or a butter churner, or the newest in chainsaws or drills. I had bought a cute straw hat there at the beginning of summer. It had been partially devoured by Brownie. Maybe I’d get a new hat while I waited on Bitty to get her nails done.

If I’d been brave enough, I would have worn shorts. As it was, I wore a thin cotton shirt and pair of Capri’s, and some nice sandals I’d found at Payless shoe store. I felt pretty good despite my rocky start to the day. Dinner with Kit could be very interesting. Maybe I should get my nails done, too. That would be a treat. It had been years since I’d had a manicure, and a millennium since I’d had a pedicure. Not that I could afford either. If only I was broke like Bitty was broke: a tidy nest egg, property, expensive cars, jewelry and clothes, and enough money to buy half of Wal-Mart if she chose.

Of course, she didn’t look at it quite that way. Bitty spends money freely on small things, but the large things—like new cars or houses—are only bought after she’s haggled some poor car salesman or real estate agent half to death, and they agree to anything she proposes just to get rid  of her. It works.

Bitty’s constant moaning about money was really just a tantrum of sorts, because Parrish and Patrice Hollandale got one over on her. She can forgive a lot of things, but being tricked is not something Bitty forgives easily.

At any rate, I found Bitty sitting across from her manicurist and chatting away. When she saw me, she waved me over with her free hand.

“Trinket! Come and listen to this. Tell her, DJ. Tell her what you just told me.”

DJ held grimly on to Bitty’s hand as she worked a form onto her thumb. The sharp scent of chemicals wafted toward me, and I stopped a good yard from them. Acrylic nails must be an art form that’s learned only after much practice. I’d tried to do it myself once, and my nails had ended up looking like inch-high shoes on the ends of my fingers. It took me four hours to soak the blasted things off, and I vowed never again to try something so obviously out of my league.

“Sit still, Bitty,” I said. “She’ll never get you fixed up if you keep moving like that.”

“Well, I just can’t believe it, and—have you two ever met?”

When we both shook our heads, Bitty made the introductions. “This is my cousin, Trinket Truevine, and Trinket, this is DJ. She’s been my manicurist for about two months now, I think.”

DJ smiled up at me, and I smiled back. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and from what I could see, rather tall but not as tall as me, blond, green-eyed, and obviously frazzled by Bitty moving around like a worm on hot concrete.

“It’s nice to meet you, DJ,” I said, then turned my attention back to Bitty. “I’m here to take you shopping when you’re through.”

Bitty looked very pleased. “Really? You hate to shop.”

“I know. But if I don’t take you shopping, Mama is going to send you boxes of stuff you’ll have no idea what to do with, and I’ll be the one to carry them in and out of the house. This saves me time and unnecessary work.”

“So this isn’t sympathy shopping.”

“Not for me. I have my instructions and a list. As well as a timeline. I have a dinner date this evening.”

Bitty pursed her lips. I noted the gleeful gleam in her eyes, and to forestall her saying something I would make her regret, I added, “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.”

“Lunch first, then shopping? My, my, aren’t we having a good day. Oh, I wanted DJ to tell you what she just told me. Tell her, DJ. Don’t leave anything out.”

DJ looked chagrined, but managed to flash me a smile while she patted the acrylic goo into the shape of a thumbnail. “Oh, it’s not anything. I was just telling Bitty about an incident that happened the same night Miranda Watson got hurt. It didn’t connect when I saw it, but afterward, when I heard about her being in a coma and all, I figured it has to be the same man I saw running away.”

“Man?” I echoed.

DJ nodded. “I live on the street behind Miranda. I have a rented room there, out back over the garage. Anyway, it was late, right around ten or a bit after that. I went to close my blinds, and my bedroom looks out on that side. I’d heard a lot of cats, so didn’t think much of it, but it wasn’t too much later that I heard a woman scream. Naturally, I opened my blinds again and looked out. I saw this man dressed all in dark clothes running under the streetlight. Then he came down between the houses and ran right under my window. I got a pretty good look at his face.”

“You should have gone to the police immediately!” I said.

“Oh, I called and told them what I saw. They said they’d get back to me.”

“Have they?” I asked.

DJ shook her head. “Not yet. They will, I’m sure of it.” She began to file Bitty’s thumbnail with expert motions.

I chewed on my thoughts for a couple minutes, then asked DJ, “Can you describe this guy to me?”

She paused, her thick nail file poised over Bitty’s hand, then said, “I don’t know if I should. Not until I tell the police, anyway.”

“Oh. Well . . .  you’re probably right.”

My disappointment must have been evident, because she relented a second later and said, “I suppose it won’t do any harm, though. He was medium height, I guess right around your height, and fairly slim. When he glanced up at my window I saw he was a white guy, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. No facial hair, and it looked like he had light eyes. Sort of thin eyebrows, and a squared jaw.”

“The police may have an artist draw a sketch.”

“Oh, that would be fun,” said Bitty, who doesn’t like to be left out of any conversation for very long. “I’ve always thought I’d like to have my sketch done. In chalk, maybe, or even a watercolor.”

“I’m sure you will one day,” I assured her. “It will be in every post office in the country.”

Bitty looked puzzled, while DJ laughed. I rolled my eyes and went a few stores away to buy a new straw hat at Booker’s Hardware. It must have been a slow day, since I was the only customer. I prowled the area where straw hats for farmers as well as gardeners are stacked on a high rack, and finally found one I thought wouldn’t make me look too silly. A big woman like me has to be careful so as not to look like a giant mushroom, so the brim must be wide but not too wide, and the scarf that holds it onto my head and ties under my chin cannot be a sissy color like pink. I’d look like a deranged Bo Peep if I even tried to wear a frilly hat.

A hat is a necessity in the blistering summer heat of Mississippi. If you intend to be outdoors at all, picking berries or feeding a couple hundred feral cats, then you need to protect your head. I’ve known people who sunburned their scalps because they wouldn’t wear a hat.

At any rate, by the time I’d made my purchase Bitty was done getting her one fingernail replaced, and we walked across the square to Budgie’s to get a bite to eat.

“Never go grocery shopping when you’re hungry,” I advised Bitty, whom I doubted had ever really shopped for groceries at all. She ordered over the phone and had them delivered, or Sharita bought what was needed and put it away. “Especially at a Wal-Mart Superstore. You’d need a flatbed truck to get them home.”

Bitty actually looked pleased at the thought of going to Wal-Mart to shop for the week’s groceries. “I’ve never been through the store, just to the produce part to pick up flowers. Oh, and once to the service desk.”

“I thought you always ordered your flowers from Jennie’s Florist and Gift shop.”

“Oh, I do, but there’s been a time or two when Jennie’s was closed and the Wal-Mart wasn’t.”

I blinked against the scorching sunlight bouncing  off the asphalt curb and found my way blindly to Budgie’s front door. Thankfully, the overhang shaded the sidewalk enough that the front window table was in the shadow.

“Where’s your sidekick?” I asked, suddenly missing the large growth that Bitty always has stuck to her chest.

“Getting her bath, and nails trimmed.”

I shook my head. Even in a financial crisis of monumental proportions, Bitty has her priorities. I wasn’t about to complain or point out that people who are really broke do not send their dog off to be bathed when they have two strong college boys home for the summer. Without Chitling, I anticipated a delightfully serene meal.

Since it was so hot, I opted for salad and a fruit plate. Followed by a nice bowl of blackberry cobbler with ice cream on top. Bitty had a chicken breast with vegetable medley and a sorbet for dessert. I eyed her for a moment. She pretended she didn’t notice. Then I leaned toward her over the table.

“Are you on a diet?” I whispered loudly enough for the kitchen help in the back to hear.

“Of course not. I don’t diet. I can eat anything. I’m just naturally slim. It’s my high metabolism.”

I sat back. “No, it isn’t. You’re on a diet. Why?”

She sighed. “You remember my nice black leather jumpsuit?”

“Remember it? You’re talking as if it died.”

“It has. I thought it was the water making it shrink up and sound like a leaky tire, but when I took it off, I saw half the seams were split. The other half of the seams are almost split.”

Bitty looked sad, and I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud. In truth, Bitty looks far too much like Elvira in the thing, but telling her that only incurs argument.

So I said, “I’m sorry to hear that. You can always have it made into a hat.”

I could tell she didn’t know quite how to take that consolation, so I added, “Ready to brave Wal-Mart?”

“This should be fun,” she said, and I shuddered. This should be something, but I wasn’t sure the word
fun
would do it justice.

****

About a half hour into our tour of Wal-Mart, I realized I’d created a monster. I spared a moment’s sympathy for Doctor Frankenstein, who at least had a more noble quest in mind when he tried to do what God has done perfectly well for the last million—or five thousand—years. The good doctor, however, went too far by mistake. I had created a monster on purpose.

Bitty was enthralled with the bargains she found at every foot along the aisles stretching a football field or two across what had once been cow pasture. I brought her extra carts and took the loaded carts up to the service center to await the end of our shopping excursion. I tried to be at least a little organized and had arranged the carts in order of perishable liability. Frozen foods like ice cream went to the head of the line, while things like crackers, peanuts, and tampons went to the end of the line. Whereas I found it necessary to remind Bitty that she has no or little use for the tampons, she found it obligatory to remind me to mind my own business, that she’d never seen prices this low.

“That’s because you only shop at places like Neiman-Marcus,” I replied. “You have too much stuff here. You’re going to have to sell the Franklin Benz if you keep this up.”

Bitty’s eyes were a little glazed. She had the look of an armadillo facing off against a logging truck: overmatched but determined to stick it out.

Finally, in desperation, I asked to use her cell phone. She looked surprised but not too suspicious, and I immediately called Jackson Lee.

“We have an emergency situation,” I said quietly. “Bring a checkbook and a leash. You’ll need both.”

“Where are y’all?”

“Wal-Mart Superstore.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, then he said, “I’m on my way.”

Within fifteen minutes, Jackson Lee had Bitty in hand and was doing his best to explain it was impossible to need all the things she had in six carts. I silently wished him luck, and said aloud that I had to pick up Mama’s dog at the vet, and since he was there to help Bitty, I’d just run on.

Jackson Lee spared me a nod and a wave, and I escaped while I could. I’d warned Mama about Bitty’s compulsive shopping behavior before; now she’d get the picture.

I was surprised that it wasn’t even three o’clock yet, and decided I’d stop by the Delta Inn to tell Rayna what I’d heard from DJ earlier. When I got there, she was just getting into her car. Or Rob’s car, the old Jeep she’d been using since hers was wrecked. The insurance company had paid off, but Rayna had not yet decided what kind of vehicle she wanted to buy.

“Hop in,” she said to me, and I hesitated. She’d taken off the cover, and the roll bars were all that would be between me and a zillion or so bugs.

“I’ve got to be at the vet’s in an hour. Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a tip on where to find the black truck. I’m going to check it out. This won’t take long.”

“Didn’t we make a deal with Rob?” I reminded, still uncertain about riding around in an open vehicle on such a hot day.

“Yes, and we kept our end of the bargain. It’s been two days, and he’s just given the police our collected information.”

Still, I hesitated. “Really, it hasn’t been quite twenty-four hours yet. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Rayna turned in the seat to look at me. She had her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wore flashy earrings, black sunglasses, a sleeveless blouse, and jeans rolled up to her knees in a wide cuff. I think they call those “boyfriend jeans” or something like that now. Anyway, I could see she was a woman on a mission. Her words confirmed it:

“Rob told me not to worry my pretty little head about finding the truck, that the police would take care of everything.”

Oops. Rob had made a big boo-boo. Telling a woman, especially your wife, “not to worry your pretty little head about it” is like waving a red cape at a bull.

I held up one hand. “Wait a minute. Let me get something out of my car.” When I returned, I had my purse, sunglasses, and new straw hat with me. Rayna looked a little surprised.

“You’re going to wear that hat?”

“Yep. Why?”

She grinned. “You’ll see.”

We weren’t even on Highway 4 before I realized what she meant. Even though I had tied my hat quite securely atop my head by knotting the scarf under my chin, it kept blowing the brim back so that I felt like Klem Kadiddlehopper—an old Red Skelton skit about a rube—and I had to put my hand on top of my head to keep it from sailing off into the universe.