Divas and Dead Rebels (15 page)

“Is there somewhere we can go and talk without having to stand up?” Gaynelle asked. “Not that I’m tired, but I feel rather conspicuous lurking here just inside the door like an old dragon.”

Brandon grinned. “Miz Bishop, you fit right in with the rest of us. Come on with me, and I’ll show y’all where Heather and I like to sit sometimes.”

We ended up sitting on a curved concrete bench situated in a quiet spot near the Lyceum. The Corinthian-columned building rises majestically on a small hill at the apex of a circle roadway. It’s the symbol of Ole Miss. Built between 1846 and 1848, the Greek Revival style structure first housed classrooms and a lecture hall, and during the Civil War served as a hospital. Now it houses the offices of the Chancellor, Vice Chancellors, and the university’s Provost.

Warm sunshine lit the grounds; it was one of those lovely autumn days that never seem to last long enough. The air held a hint of crispness, and somewhere someone had a fire going. The fragrance of burning logs drifted on soft currents of air. I tilted my head back to look up at patches of rich blue sky. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, but for the moment no storms marred the day.

Brandon sat on the grass, his long legs crossed at the ankles, and leaned back with his weight on hands pressed into the still-green lawn. With blue eyes slitted against the bright light, he drawled, “Sturgis managed to get himself killed at a time nobody would notice for a while, y’know?”

“What do you mean by that statement?” asked Gaynelle.

Shrugging, Brandon said, “Well, everybody who wasn’t in class was busy getting ready for the home game and tailgate parties. Nobody would notice him missing unless they went looking for him.”

“The professor didn’t usually participate in the festivities?” Gaynelle pressed.

Brandon shook his head. “Sturgis has a reputation for being a big jerk.”

“How did you hear that?” Gaynelle asked him next. “Did he have any well-known enemies? And are you personally acquainted with him?”

Clayton spoke up. “I am. I’ve got him for ancient history class. Bran’s right. He’s a jerk. And that’s one of the nicest things he’s been called. Especially by me.”

Bitty gazed at her sons for a moment, and I saw that she was troubled. So was I, although I wasn’t sure it was for the same reason.

“You aren’t in the habit of telling everyone how you felt about Sturgis, are you?” I asked Clayton. “In light of what’s happened, that could be, uh, detrimental.”

I swear, when Clayton looked at me with his blue eyes opened wide, it was almost like looking at Bitty in one of her clueless moments. Apparently, not only do apples not fall far from the tree, they occasionally bonk some people on their heads when they do.

“What do you mean?” asked Bitty’s clone. I mean son.

“I mean that if you tell people you didn’t like him, the police may show up asking you where you were when he was killed.”

“Oh. I never thought of that. So what do I do if I already told people I’m glad he’s dead?”

I smiled gently at him, and in the kindest voice I could manage asked, “Did you share that opinion of the professor with anyone in a uniform, honey?”

“Uniform?”

“You know, firemen wear them, soldiers wear them—and policemen wear them.”

Sitting next to him, Brandon rolled his eyes and jabbed Clayton in the side with a sharp elbow. “She’s asking if you already incriminated yourself with the cops, dude. You might as well fess up. Or I’ll do it for you.”

A tingle of alarm went through me, and a swift glance at Gaynelle saw that she was also thinking along the same lines. Bitty sat quite still. If not for the rise and fall of the pug she wore on her chest, I wouldn’t have known she was breathing a little fast.

Clayton scowled and ran his hand through his hair, fingers spreading the thick blond and brown mass so that it looked rumpled. For a moment he seemed almost twelve again, a boy instead of a young man of twenty-one.

“They just kept asking me all these questions, y’know?” he began. “I mean this one cop, he acted like he thought I had a feud going on with the professor. But the other cop was kinda cool, y’know? I didn’t mind talking to him as much.”

Brandon groaned. “You fell for the oldest trick around, dude. Good cop-bad cop.”

Clayton smacked his brother on the arm with a balled-up fist. “Did not. It wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah, you know it was,” Brandon said, and ducked another fist by rolling away on the grass. He grinned widely. “Admit it, dude. You got played.”

Of course, Clayton admitted nothing. Male pride is fiercest when bruised. He started to lunge toward his brother but was brought up short by Gaynelle saying in her sharp schoolteacher tone, “Stop that this minute! We have more important matters to deal with than that sort of nonsense.”

Brandon and Clayton immediately sat up straight and looked at her. They know when to stop playing around and hush up, I’ll say that for them.

“What exactly did you say to the policemen?” Gaynelle asked Brandon. “I’m interested in what questions they asked of you, as well.”

Running a hand through his thick blond hair in a gesture very close to that of his twin, Brandon shrugged slightly and said, “They asked the usual stuff, you know, where I was between ten and two, who I was with that could verify my actions, and if I had any personal opinions about the professor.”

“What’d you say?” I couldn’t help breaking in to ask.

“Just that I didn’t know him, but had heard he was a jerk.”

“And you?” I looked at Clayton and asked. “Exactly what did you say?”

Clayton hesitated, then looked a little sheepish. “I guess it wasn’t too smart, but I said what I thought. I told them Professor Sturgis might be smart enough, but he couldn’t teach worth a damn, and that he had personal favorites in the class that got away with a lot while other students didn’t. And I said I didn’t like him and felt like we were all better off with him gone.”

Brandon rolled his eyes and made a disgusted sound. “Why didn’t you just tell ’em that you killed him, you dumba—uh, idiot.”

“No,” Gaynelle said when Clayton started to punch Brandon on the arm again, “I think you did exactly the right thing, Clayton. It’s always best to tell the truth. It usually comes out anyway.”

Bitty, who had been unusually still and quiet for the past few minutes, stood up. “I need to call Jackson Lee.”

“There’s no need in being precipitate,” said Gaynelle quickly. “Clayton isn’t a suspect, and any attention drawn to him unnecessarily would be unwise.”

Bitty sat back down. Chen Ling gazed out of her baby sling and yawned. Clayton looked around at us with a somewhat mystified expression.

“Hey, what’s going on here? Would anybody really think I had anything to do with the professor’s murder? Maybe I said a few stupid things to the cops, but I was in classes most of the morning he was killed.”

“Except for between eleven and two,” said Brandon. “Remember? Sturgis cut the class and so did a bunch of you guys. Y’all went off-campus for a while.”

“Yeah, but I was with Beau and Rand. They can vouch for me. Why would I need an alibi anyway?” He looked over at his mother. “Mama, what’s going on?”

Bitty adjusted Chen Ling in her soft chenille and velvet cradle before she looked up and said, “Murder is a rather ugly crime that touches everyone who knows the victim. If I need to, I’ll get you a lawyer, but both you boys must be careful what you say and who you say it to, you hear? Clayton?”

“Yes ma’am, but I haven’t done anything,” protested Clayton. “Why do you think I might need a lawyer?”

Bitty drew in a deep breath. “I’m your mother. I panic easily. I imagine every student on this campus who had any connection to the professor is asked the same kind of questions by the police. You have to be cautious who you confide in, or even who you let confide in you, all right?”

Shaking his head slightly, Clayton said, “All right, Mama, but I think you’re making too much of me being in the professor’s class. There’s probably a couple hundred other students in his classes, too.”

“And maybe they don’t have anyone telling them to watch what they say, either,” said Bitty. “You boys do. Now. We came down here to pay our respects and to make sure you two don’t let all this unpleasant business distract you from your studies. Do you need anything before we leave?”

“No, ma’am,” they both said at the same time. Gaynelle and I discreetly walked a couple yards away so Bitty could talk to her sons privately.

“She did well,” I said to Gaynelle, who nodded agreement. “I’m shocked. Bitty can definitely say what must be said without melodrama when she chooses.”

“Bitty loves those boys to death. I certainly hope neither of them ever gives her any heartache.”

I looked curiously at Gaynelle. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, I met their father several times, you know. A charming, devilishly good-looking young man, and he could talk the bark off a tree if he chose. Bitty adored him. He hurt her deeply when he decided that conducting business honestly was far too much trouble and too slow a method to making a fortune. Of course, she never knew about it until he was arrested. Not only was she humiliated, but she had to protect her sons. I know she’d be heartbroken if one of them was ever involved in crime like their father.”

I thought of the past summer and the twins’ visit to their father at the Federal prison where he’s doing his time. Supposedly he’s a model prisoner. But Gaynelle’s assessment of him was right on the mark, too.

“Well,” I said, “genetics don’t count for everything. Bitty’s instilled honesty in them as well as making them earn their way when they were kids. Both of them had part-time jobs as teenagers and always had chores to do at home. When they’re home in the summers, they still do chores. Maybe they’re a little spoiled in some ways, but I think they’re both good boys.”

Gaynelle nodded. “So do I. But there are people who will choose to remember that their father isn’t honest, you know.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” I paused before adding, “Bitty’s right, too. We need to do all we can to protect her boys.”

I changed the course of our conversation when I saw Bitty start toward us across the lawn. She looked okay, not terribly worried as she had earlier, and I felt a little better.

“Are they coming with us?” I asked, indicating Brandon and Clayton with a nod of my head in their direction.

“No, they have classes to attend.” Bitty adjusted the gnome she wore like an extra appendage, and something about the dog caught my attention.

For a moment I puzzled as to what was wrong, then I realized, “Chitling has lost her bow.”

Bitty looked down. “Oh my—she had it on just a few minutes ago. What’d you do with your bow, precious?”

Precious
looked decidedly grumpy about being questioned. Bitty investigated the baby sling, feeling gently around the fat little dog, but to no avail. The big crystal was still there, but her tulle bow had been lost somewhere.

“It’s all right,” I said, “y’all still look a lot alike.”

Instead of being insulted as most women would be at being compared to a squash –faced pug with wrinkles no amount of Botox could help, Bitty just nodded agreement. “I hope so. It definitely costs me enough money to have our clothes match.”

Gaynelle put up a hand. “Don’t even mention a figure. If I didn’t know you to be one of the most generous people in Mississippi, I’d feel it necessary to scold you for wasting so much money when there are starving children in the Appalachians.”

“There are?” Bitty looked startled. “Oh my. I should put them on my list, then. I’ll bring it up at our next Ladies Social Welfare Meeting.”

Bitty belongs to any number of charitable foundations, as well as the Holly Springs Garden Club and Daughters of the Confederacy. If she could wrangle it, I’m sure she’d belong to the Daughters of the American Revolution as well, but she hasn’t yet decided if she wants to acknowledge the fact that some of our ancestors were Yankees. It isn’t necessarily a sticking point, but Bitty is somewhat reluctant. Go figure.

While I’ve met my share of northerners who consider the South to be a backward, ignorant area rife with barefoot residents whose brains are slower than their drawls, I’ve also been fortunate enough to meet the nicest people in my travels, whether it was in the northeast or the northwest. It seems those who band together in clubs of some sort often nurture prejudices
en masse
against their fellow citizens. Rather like Congress.

I’m just glad the Dixie Divas are eclectic in our likes and dislikes. As a social club, we harbor resentment against no one because of their origins or chosen preferences. If we did, every meeting would end in a brawl, I’m sure. We like to keep our brawls low in number, but memorable in content.

On the way back to Holly Springs the rain started. By the time we reached Bitty’s house, it had turned into a monsoon. When we’d stopped to let Gaynelle out at her curb, the wind had caught the door somehow and blown rain in on us, and Bitty, Chen Ling and I were uncomfortably damp. To add to our misery, the temperature had dropped to a chilly 54 degrees.

“You know that once we get out of this warm car we’re going to end up soaked to the bone,” Bitty observed as we sat in her Mercedes and stared at the curtain of rain obscuring her garage. Unfortunately, it’s not an attached garage. That meant a mad dash toward the door, whether we parked at the front of the house or at the back. “It’s twenty-eight steps from the front curb up to the porch, and only twenty-two from the driveway to the sunroom. What do you want to do?”