Drop Dead Divas (4 page)

At any rate, Divas are doggedly loyal to one another, most recently proven by their belief in Bitty when her ex-husband’s body was found in her coat closet. Divas rallied to her cause without question, albeit with the assurance that she had nothing to do with his demise. The aftermath caused quite a few moments of disquiet, to say the least, but nothing that wasn’t taken in stride by the members. I’m proud to say I’ve been officially inducted into the membership of the Dixie Divas. While there is no uniform or gold pin to wear, there is great pride in being among those chosen.

After Bitty called Cady Lee, we sat back and waited for her phone to ring. Within ten minutes, three Divas had called, and the call waiting had beeped in so often Bitty said it sounded like she was in a Roadrunner cartoon. All we needed was Wile E. Coyote.

****

Within an hour, Wile E. Coyote showed up in the form of Deputy Rodney Farrell, a rather nervous young man with a bristle of reddish hair, freckles, and the efficiency of a Barney Fife. If you are unfamiliar with the bumbling Deputy Barney Fife, watch a few
Andy Griffith Show
reruns, and you’ll catch my drift.

“Miz Hollandale?” he said in a questioning tone, although he knew very well who she was since he’d sat on her horsehair-stuffed settee and drank tea and ate cake for a good half-hour a few months before. He shuffled his feet on the porch doormat a couple times and cleared his throat when Bitty nodded pleasantly and agreed that she was Miz Hollandale. “I’m here to . . .  uh . . .  ask you a few questions. If you don’t mind.”

“Do I have unpaid parking tickets?” Bitty asked as she opened the front door wider and he paused on the threshold. “Or are you selling tickets to a police benefit?”

Despite her encouraging tone and gesture to enter, the deputy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and stammered a negative. “No, ma’am. Not any of that.”

Now I was intrigued. I’d already formed a pretty good guess as to why he was here, so I wasn’t surprised when he finally got out in a single rushed sentence that he had come to ask her a few questions about her relationship with Naomi Spencer.

At that, Bitty’s innate southern hospitality took on an edge. She drew herself up into a posture of offended female. As she was just about eye-level with the deputy, even in her bare feet, her glare made him shrink back against the door frame.

Poor man. He hadn’t even made it fully into the house yet, and Bitty had him cornered. This was not going to be pretty.

“
Relationship
with Naomi Spencer? Young man, you must be out of your mind. I have no relationship whatsoever with that woman. Why would you even ask me such a foolish question?”

Now sweating profusely, and since Bitty’s house was much cooler than it was outside, I was certain it wasn’t from the heat, Deputy Farrell cleared his throat. He held his hat in his hands, and his fingers gave the brim a brisk work-out. “Well, several witnesses report that you and Miss Spencer have a long-standing feud, and since Miss Spencer has suggested the police question you about her fiancé’s murder last night, Lieutenant Stone—”

“Question
me?”
Bitty’s outrage made her seem even taller than her five-feet, two inches. “Is that plastic Barbie doll claiming
I
murdered him? This is outrageous. I’m calling my lawyer.
And
the chief of police!”

“No, no,” Farrell hurried to say as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, “no one is accusing you of murder. No one official, I mean. Miss Spencer is so upset by her fiancé being killed that she said you may know something about it. We have to check out all leads, Miz Hollandale, you know we do. It seems pretty clear who killed him since—well, since he was found in a compromising position, but we’re bound by law to exclude all possibilities.”

Bitty paused and considered the deputy for a moment. Then she smiled. That made
me
nervous. But I knew immediately what she was up to when she took Deputy Farrell by the arm to lead him into her living room and the uncomfortable horsehair-stuffed settee.

“Of course you are only doing your official duty, Deputy, I understand that,” she said in a calm, reassuring tone. “It’s just the shock of hearing that the poor young man is dead. Such a pity. Here, have a seat while Trinket fetches us some sweet tea. You take lemon in yours, don’t you? Yes, I thought I remembered you did. Trinket, dear, do you mind—”

“Bitty,” I began in a warning tone, but she flashed me a sugary smile that didn’t match her narrowed eyes and insisted that a cool glass of tea would refresh the officer while she gave him her statement.

I gave up, went into the kitchen and fixed a silver tray with glasses, a pitcher of sweet tea, a crystal bowl of lemon wedges already cut up in the refrigerator, long-handled silver spoons, and linen napkins. When I set the tray atop the Turkish hassock that served as a table as well as ottoman, Bitty’s glance took in the three glasses. Since she didn’t voice a protest, I took my glass and sat down in an antique Louis XVI chair opposite them but close enough to hear every word. This should be theater at its best.

CHAPTER 3

“So, Deputy,” Bitty said when Rodney Farrell had downed a glass of sweet tea and stopped looking quite so nervous, “feel free to ask me any questions you like. I am an open book.”

While her smile was encouraging, I knew she was just sucking him into her web. Bitty was on a Fact Finding Mission. It’s a mission she rarely fails.

Since Marcus Stone, Sharita’s brother and a sterling member of the Holly Springs police force, had sent Deputy Farrell to question Bitty, he obviously remembered the last time
he
had been sent to question her. I’m quite certain he had no desire to repeat the experience, but I had to wonder why he would throw such a lamb to the lioness. Stone must know Farrell would be putty in her hands.

Truth was, I was just as nosy as Bitty. I wanted to know all the gory details, too, and if anyone could get them out of the hapless deputy, it would be Bitty.

“Thank you, Miz Hollandale,” said the unsuspecting Farrell, and flipped open a small notebook. Sweat stains dampened the blank page when he ran his hand across it to smooth the rumpled paper, but he didn’t seem to notice. He had a mechanical pencil in his other hand and stuck the tip to his tongue as if to wet the lead. I watched in growing fascination.

“Now,” he said, and cocked his head toward her, “where were you around three this morning?”

“At home in bed, like any sensible person would be,” she replied promptly. “I suppose since Naomi Spencer has been arrested, you have proof of her involvement in his death. How tragic. Such a lovely couple.”

“Yes. Yes, it is sad.” Farrell cleared his throat. “Is there anyone who can confirm your presence in bed between two and three this morning?”

“Really, young man, you must recall I am a widow now,” Bitty said in a rather reproachful tone.

I don’t know how I kept from rolling my eyes. No matter how often I remind her that, because she and Philip Hollandale had been divorced for over a year when he was murdered, she does not qualify as a widow, Bitty has developed the lamentable habit of referring to herself that way.

Farrell colored to the roots of his reddish hair. It made his freckles stand out on his face like sprinkles of mud. Mama used to call my freckles angel kisses when I whined about them, and maybe Rodney’s mother did the same. Mothers are like that.

“Oh . . . yes, ma’am, I didn’t mean . . . well, I only meant . . .” Farrell bogged down, and I began to feel sorry for him since we shared the same freckle affliction, though mine are mostly faded now, so I stepped in to help.

“Bitty, didn’t you tell me you had to call the vet, last night because Chitling threw up on your bed? What time was that?”

“Oh,” Bitty said, “Yes, I did. Dr. Coltrane took the call. He was a bit grumpy about it, too, which I think is very annoying since he should be used to that sort of thing, and after all, he chose to be a doctor and is therefore obligated to take emergency calls, but there you have it. Yes, I called him about . . . oh, I think it was right around two this morning since I was watching some unreasonable man on one of those political cable shows go on and on about—”

“Around two this morning, you said?” Farrell interrupted, jotting down notes in his little book.

Bitty nodded. “Yes. He can confirm that I called him, and if necessary, phone records could prove it, too, I suppose. Do you think all that is really needed, however? I mean, you’ve already arrested Miss Spencer, so I assume you must have proof she killed Race. Didn’t you say she stabbed him?”

“Stabbed him?” Farrell looked vaguely startled. “No, he was shot.”

“Oh, I misunderstood,” Bitty lied without a blink. “Maybe because I have always thought of her as the kind of person who would stab a man who cheated on her. I suppose the other woman got away without being hurt. Have you found her yet?”

“No, we’re still looking for her.”

“I see. Ask the management at Motel Six—you did say it was Motel Six where this happened?”

“No, Madewell Courts.”

“Yes, of course.” Bitty affected a sigh. “So much tragedy lately, and I just cannot keep details straight. Well, Naomi should really have had better sense than to sneak up on him like that, especially with a shotgun. Wait. That’s not right. You said it was a . . .?”

“It was a thirty-eight snub nose revolver. Two slugs. He might have survived if not for the second shot.”

“Poor dear. I suppose her aim was off. More tea?”

Farrell frowned a little, but since Bitty was already pouring more sweet tea from the glass pitcher and adding a lemon wedge to the rim of his glass, he nodded. Ice cubes clinked softly when she gave him his tea and smiled.

“Well, I can assure you, Officer Farrell, that
I
had no interest whatsoever in Race Champion. He’s not at all the kind of man with whom I care to associate. For one thing, he’s only a trainer at Gold’s Gym—or is it that new gym?”

“And he’s twenty years younger than Bitty,” I offered helpfully.

She gave me a quelling glance for my effort, then continued, “Yes, he may be a rather well-known drag racer locally, but I would have no interest in a man whose main ambition in life seems to be discovering just how much beer he can drink without throwing up. Besides, he always seemed quite content with an entire string of women on his arm. I hardly think him the kind of man to truly settle down to one woman.”

“And he’s twenty years younger than Bitty,” I reminded.

Bitty glared at me. “He was thirty-one.”

“Yep. Twenty years younger. Way too young for you. He’d never be interested.”

“I’ll have you know men much younger than that have asked me out, Trinket Truevine. It’s not like I’m an old crone.”

“No, you’re just twenty years older than he was.”

Bitty doesn’t like being reminded of her age. I have no idea what imp of mischief prompted me to bring it out at that particular moment. It just seemed necessary to establish distance between her and the dead man.

Unfortunately, Bitty managed to destroy my effort.

She put her hand on one hip and said, “For your information, Race Champion asked me to go with him to one of his races last year! He said he would see to it that I got a seat on the front row and free beer while I watched him win the cup. Of course, I took my own wine, but he was quite,
quite
taken with me!”

I sighed. So much for establishing distance between Bitty and the dead man.

Deputy Farrell began writing feverishly in his little book, and I could almost see the wheels spinning in his brain. Maybe Marcus Stone had sent the right man to interview Bitty, after all.

Wile E. Coyote had neatly managed to ferret out incriminating information.

****

“Well, really, Trinket, how was I to know what you were trying to do?”

Bitty lay back on the chaise longue in her sunroom with a cool, damp cloth on her forehead and a pug on her lap. The ceiling fan whirred cool air down on us, and outside the screened-in windows crickets chirped and frogs burped. Dusk was settling around Six Chimneys and Holly Springs. It is usually a peaceful time that I like to hold close around me like a favorite garment.

Not this evening.

Six Chimneys was built in 1845 and has probably seen more human foibles than many other old houses. It was owned by the same family for generations, and until a few decades ago held that distinction. Then the last of the family died out and the younger generation wanted nothing to do with an old house that needed more than a few modern conveniences and upkeep. Enter Bitty, who outbid rivals and took the house under her loving wing and restored it to beauty and dignity. Now the house presides like a grand old belle on Walthal Street and in the annual Holly Springs Pilgrimage every April.

During the pilgrimage, tourists come from all over to view the antebellum homes that graciously open to welcome visitors. Men and boys dress up in ancient Confederate uniforms or costumes, and women and girls wear hoop skirts, corsets, and pantalettes.

Even Cherryhill, my ancestral home, is on the tour, although it had the misfortune to suffer a fire during the War Between the States. Since the fire’s cause was a patrol of Yankees, Cherryhill instantly qualified as an attraction on the pilgrimage. There are few things die-hard Southerners appreciate more than rising from any destruction caused by Yankees. At any rate, Cherryhill was rebuilt upon the original footings of the first house right after the war, then completely renovated in 1898. There are still char marks on some of the foundation stones that are pointed out to tourists every year.

None of this, however, was foremost in our minds or conversation.

“It’s all right, Bitty,” I comforted my cousin. “I’m sure the deputy would have found all that out elsewhere sooner or later.”

“Probably. People do love to gossip.”

I did not point out that we were among those people who love to gossip. It didn’t seem prudent.

“Why didn’t you tell me you went out with Naomi’s fiancé?” I asked instead, and Bitty immediately lifted up a corner of the wet bath rag draped over her eyes to look at me.