Divas and Dead Rebels (3 page)

As usual, however, Fate smiled on Bitty. I have no idea why. Not only were no cars passing, but there were no pedestrians nearby to ask why two mature women—one of whom wore six-inch stilettos—were bobsledding a laundry cart down a sidewalk.

Fortunately, the professor did not come fully untucked from his burrito-blanket swaddling. Save for one shoe, he remained firmly encased in blue plaid. We wasted no time in getting up and rewrapping him and sticking him back in the cart. Our desperation released an enormous rush of adrenalin, because we didn’t have nearly as much trouble as we’d had in the privacy of the boys’ dorm room. I can completely understand how people are able to lift cars off loved ones when it would normally be impossible.

By the time we rounded another corner and the dormitory was well behind us, we were both too winded to talk. I sagged against the cart gasping for air, and Bitty brought it to a halt. Since she was trying to breathe too, she just pointed. I turned and looked.

There, parked against a curb in the parking lot of a concrete and red brick building with former Mississippi senator Trent Lott’s name on it, stood an empty moving truck. The sliding overhead door was open about three feet, and a pile of moving blankets were stacked neatly at one corner. It seemed to be the perfect answer to our problem. All we had to do was figure out how to get our load the rest of the way down the hill, into the lot, then up and over the high back and onto the truck’s floor. Those trucks sit pretty far off the ground.

Wordlessly, we headed for the moving truck. If only we could get there before it left, and if we could be nonchalant in loading up the professor as if he were a pricey rug, we might be able to pull this off.

By the time we got to the big yellow truck, I was wheezing for air and certain that someone would call the campus police to report two suspicious characters. Three, if they counted the corpse in the cart.

“What now, O Great Leader?” I asked when I could speak, and Bitty launched the next phase of her plan guaranteed to get us ten to twenty-five in Parchman Prison.

“Do you think you can lift the door a little bit more so we can shove him in there where no one will see him?”

“I can lift the door okay. It’s the professor that I can’t lift.”

“Don’t be silly. We got him in here, we can get him in there. Now hurry up before someone comes out and sees us.”

I looked around. What were the odds no one was watching us? I figured about ninety-ten. Not in our favor. Classes may be in session, but not all students had the same classes at the same times. Foot traffic was erratic. Traffic was steady. Maybe we could blend in. After all, it was home game weekend, and lots of people were loading and unloading stuff. I looked at Bitty.

“If we’re lucky,” I said, “only a half-dozen people are watching us right now. Act like this is normal.”

“Act like what’s normal? Shoving a dead man into the back of a truck? I’m not so sure there’s anything at all normal about that.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic. I sighed and grabbed the blanket-wrapped body by the shoulders. As I heaved, Bitty grabbed the bottom end, and we both just lifted and heaved-ho at the same time.

It wasn’t as difficult as I’d first thought. Since the professor was as rigid as a two by four, we were able to use gravity and physics to leverage his body up until he slipped right on into the opening. Bitty tucked the blanket ends around his feet. I grabbed the strap and closed the door. Then we stood there gazing at each other in mild surprise for a moment when no one came out and asked what we were doing, or tried to arrest us.

“What now, Mrs. Dillinger?” I asked as it sunk in that no one was watching.

Bitty gave me another blank look. “Who?”

“Dillinger. You know, John Dillinger, the infamous criminal back in the thirties. Johnny Depp just played him in a movie a year or so ago.”

“Well good heavens, Trinket. I’m not as old as you are. How would I know who John Dillinger was?”

Bitty likes to pretend that there are a few years difference in our ages, but there are really only a couple months between us. So I rolled my eyes.

“It’s not like
I’m
old enough to have been his girlfriend, but I paid attention in high school, so I learned something other than which spoon to use for dessert,” I retorted.

“You and I obviously did not take the same classes,” said Bitty, unperturbed by my retort, “and one uses the dessert spoon provided, of course. It depends upon what kind of dessert is served.”

“
Excuuuse
me, Miss Manners.”

Bitty smiled. “Why, of course you’re excused, dear. Now come along. Grab hold of the cart and help me pilot this thing on over to my car. I should never have listened to you and left my car at the hotel. Now we have to do all this walking around, and my feet will be killing me by suppertime.”

“That’s what you get for wearing nine-inch heels. Remember, I suggested you wear something more practical.”

“One must be well-dressed when meeting with professors, even such ill-tempered boors as Professor Sturgis.”

“Whatever happened to that old adage about not speaking ill of the dead?” I asked aloud.

Bitty waved a dismissive hand. “That was only meant for people who deserved it, I’m sure. Sturgis did not strike me as a very . . . considerate individual.”

I ignored that and said, “Let’s just take this stuff back to the boys’ dorm room. No point in trundling it all around town now.”

“Oh no, we have to make sure there’s no trace evidence left on any of their blankets or clothes. Don’t you watch
CSI? Criminal Minds? Cops
?” Bitty came to a sudden stop, and the laundry cart wobbled on its little wheels. “Trinket, I have a better idea than both of us pushing this cart all the way to the hotel.”

“No,” I said without waiting to hear her idea. I just knew it would not be an idea that would benefit me. “I’m not doing it.”

Bitty smiled kindly. “That’s fine. Of course, it would probably save us a lot of walking, but why do that? We’ll just carry on like this.”

“Good,” I said. We went another yard or two, and I sighed. “Okay, what’s your idea?”

“You stay here with the cart, I’ll get a taxi and go get my car, then I’ll meet you in an alley where we can transfer the boys’ things to my trunk.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Once you leave here you’re liable to forget I exist. We stay together. That way I know we’ll either escape together or hang together.”

“A grim thought. Are you sure? Think of your poor feet.”

“My poor feet aren’t in ten-inch heels.”

“Well then, think of
my
poor feet.”

“You’re used to heels. You even wear them to bed. No, Cinderella, no coach and six white horses for you while I stay with the mice.”

“Honestly, I think you’re getting dementia in your old age. I’ll be visiting you down at Whitfield before long, I just know it.”

“Visiting me? You mean sharing a padded room with me.”

Bitty shot me a dark look but just said, “No, let’s go this way. We can cut through The Grove and get there much faster.”

I stopped and looked at her. “Didn’t you notice all those people working to put out the boundaries when we passed earlier? You know, the guys with cans of spray paint? Are you sure you want to push this cart past so many potential witnesses?”

“Why not? It’s a laundry cart, not a stolen car.”

As usual, Bitty missed the finer points of my concerns, so we ended up doing it exactly as she wanted. By the time we passed, the go-ahead had been given for people to stake out their spot in The Grove. So we rolled the laundry cart past a huge crowd, up and down sidewalks, all the way over to the parking lot of the Campus Inn and right up to Bitty’s car, unloaded the blankets and clothes into her trunk, then returned the cart to the dormitory laundry room. By that time we were worn out and dragging badly. It was quite a hike.

“I’m not cut out for this,” Bitty said in between huge gulps for air. “It’s too much work. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay well was right.”

“I think that saying has an entirely different meaning. However,” I said as my breathing slowed and my heart rate approached something close to a normal speed, “it can certainly apply to this situation. You do realize we’ve committed a crime, right?”

Bitty flapped one hand in dismissal of my observation. “Nonsense. We didn’t do anything other than divert attention to the actual victim instead of creating problems for innocent people.”

“Tell that to the driver of the truck. He’s liable to be arrested.”

“That’s ridiculous. All the driver has to do is tell them he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Right. That would stand up in court for less than a nanosecond.

“Well, we can only hope the judge sees it your way,” I said after a couple more minutes went by, and we had reached the second floor dormitory room of her boys. “If he doesn’t, maybe our prison cells will be next to each other.”

“Honestly, Trinket, you worry too much about things that never happen. Try not to be so obsessive, okay?”

Before I could form a proper response, the dorm room door opened, and Brandon said, “You’re not going to believe this, but someone came in and stole all our clothes and bed linens!”

“Really,” said Bitty calmly. “Well, don’t worry about it. We can go shopping to get you some more.”

Clayton appeared next to his brother as we entered the room. It was a mess. I felt a twinge of concern. Then my concern changed into horror when Clayton said, “I already called the campus police. They’ll be here any minute to investigate.”

I looked at Bitty, and she looked back at me. Uh oh.

Chapter 2

There have been a few times in my adult life when I nearly wet myself. Only twice can I recall passing the “nearly” mark and sliding into “soggy.” This was almost one of those times. I barely made it to the dorm bathroom in time. Students are not the neatest people. It was like stepping into a primeval swamp. If some prehistoric creature had risen out of the showers, I would not have been the least surprised. Nevertheless, it did not deter me from my mission.

When I returned, two campus policemen were standing in the middle of the dorm room taking down information. Bitty was listing missing items on her fingers. Light from the windows made her huge diamond rings sparkle as she named off L.L. Bean bedding and Ralph Lauren towels. I held my breath waiting for lightning to strike her. It should. She had more gall than anyone I knew to stand there lying to law enforcement like she did it every day.

“But I have no intention of filing a claim or anything,” Bitty said while the young officer wrote on his small notepad. “I’ll replace all those items myself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’ll note that as well.”

The other officer was older and not quite as deferential. He studied Bitty, then the dorm room, and looked over a few items left behind by the bedding thieves. Laptops. CD and DVD players. Thirty-inch flat screen TV with an X-Box or Wii or whatever that was hooked up to it. He had the look of a man who recognized when something didn’t fit.

“All that was taken was bedding and some clothes?” he asked abruptly, cutting off the young policeman who had started to speak.

“Why yes, as I was telling this
polite
young man,” Bitty said, “it looks like all that’s been stolen are garments and luxury bedding.”

Her unuttered reproof against his rudeness was not wasted on the officer. He put one hand on his hip, far too close to the buttoned-down holster of his gun, in my opinion. I took two steps back, just in case.

“Ma’am,” he began, “there’s something fishy about—”

“My name is Mrs. Hollandale,” Bitty interrupted with one of those feline smiles that can portray bitchiness even better than words. I don’t know why she does that at the worst possible moments. All I can figure is that she has a death wish. Or at the least, an incarceration wish.

The police officer gave her a look but said in a civil tone, “Mrs. Hollandale, is it normal for your sons to leave their dorm room unlocked when they go to class?”

Bitty batted her baby blues at him. “Gracious, I’m sure it isn’t, but they can answer that much better than I can. Boys, please answer the officer’s questions.”

Brandon and Clayton, who are used to their mama’s quirks by now, just nodded. It was Brandon who said, “We always lock up. And I thought the same thing, sir. Why take just stuff like blankets and sheets and towels instead of our laptops or the TV? We’ve got all these expensive games lying around . . . it just seems weird.”

The officer agreed. “Is there anyone who may be pulling a practical joke on you?”

Clayton grinned. “That’s always possible. I never thought of that—do you think Heather might know something, bro?”

The last he addressed to his brother, since Brandon was seeing a rather nice young lady named Heather Lightner. I had once suspected her of murder, but I was completely wrong about that. Among other things. I don’t usually mind admitting I’m wrong. Unlike a certain person who shall remain nameless—Bitty Hollandale. Okay, so I have issues with her stubborn inability to admit when she’s wrong most of the time.