Divas and Dead Rebels (31 page)

“Older, younger?”

“I don’t know . . . younger, I think.”

“What makes you think he’s young?”

“Hm, the way he moved, maybe. Quick. Agile. He leaped from the upper deck to the ground and took off through the woods. I guess an older person could do that, but it seemed to me like he was more athletic. If that makes any sense.”

The policeman, also fairly young, with a buzz cut and glasses, nodded. “It does. If we have any more questions, can we reach you at this address and these phone numbers?”

“Yes. Of course.” I’d given them the usual information at the beginning of our interview, my home and work numbers as well as my cell number and home address.

The other officer was still talking to Bitty, and I went out the back way to get a breath of fresh air. To my faint surprise, I was shaking. My hands trembled, my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a lead weight, and my knees were all quivery. If I let my mind wander, it went straight to how I’d last seen Catherine Moore, and that made me feel worse, so I did my best to think of other things. Anything else would do, yet I pondered the few things I knew about her.

Her son Monty had died nearly two years before, and since that time she’d been obsessed with proving his death was murder instead of suicide. She had been convinced that Breck Hartford was connected to Monty’s death. And she had identified the intruder in her home as Hartford while talking to me. She drank too much, she smoked incessantly, and she worked in the Administration offices at Ole Miss, where Sturgis and Hartford were faculty members. But what else did I know? Not much. Nothing about her private life except for what I heard from Bitty. Did she have a current boyfriend? Lover? How long had she been divorced, and had it been amicable? Was Monty’s father in the picture at all? Was Catherine independently wealthy, or had her money come from another source? Her job at the university didn’t pay enough for her to afford Jimmy Choo purses and a second home, that’s for sure.

There were a lot of variables to be considered, and I was sure the police would put their heads together and figure it out. It was time we stepped back and let them do their job. I, for one, was getting weary of being assaulted.

Another official vehicle arrived, and two plainclothes men got out. A uniformed officer was stringing yellow crime scene tape around the house and across the driveway, and enclosed Catherine’s Lexus in the loop. The new arrivals paused to chat briefly with the uniformed officer, and then all three looked my way. I tried not to notice.

When Bitty came outside with Chitling clutched tightly in her arms, the detectives approached us. We were once more separated and questioned. Notes would be compared with the police officers, I was pretty certain.

When it was finally over, we walked to her car without speaking. A uniformed officer lifted the crime scene tape that hemmed in the Benz so we could leave. It wasn’t until we were headed back out the driveway that we looked at each other.

“That was awful,” said Bitty. “You know, I can’t say Cat was my best friend or anything, but no one should have to die like that.”

I agreed, and we drove in silence back to Holly Springs. Even Chitling was subdued for a change. Bitty parked her car outside the garage and close to the back door, and we went inside. It was quiet, but the fragrance of recently prepared food still spiced the kitchen air.

“I smell lasagna,” I said, and Bitty nodded.

“I got one out of the freezer last night, heated it up, then didn’t feel like eating it.” We both headed for the refrigerator-freezer cleverly disguised by wood doors to blend in with the cabinetry.

“I don’t know why you bother to hide your fridge,” I commented as we took out a glass pan filled with lasagna just ready to be reheated and eaten. “We still find it with alarming regularity.”

“I know. But it’s always such a nice surprise. Do you think we need more cheese on top?”

“Definitely,” I replied, and after distributing more ricotta over the already cheesy delicacy, we microwaved it. I did the honors since Bitty has to stand on her toes to punch the over-the-stove microwave’s buttons.

While we waited, we poured ourselves a nice California merlot. I leaned back against the granite kitchen counter, swirled my wine and studied Bitty. Her hair was a mess, an unusual occurrence for her since she kept it sprayed as stiff as steel wire most of the time, and her eyes still held a hint of horror at what we’d found earlier. She also still wore her red Ferragamo flats that made her much shorter than I was used to seeing her, and she seemed suddenly vulnerable. It made me want to protect her, but I had learned the harsh lesson that it wasn’t always possible to protect others.

I took a nice sip of my wine before I said, “I think we both know the killer,” and Bitty looked at me over the rim of her wine glass.

“So you think the same person who killed Professor Sturgis killed Catherine?”

“Absolutely. It has to be the same person. Who else would want to silence a possible witness?”

“But if she really
knew
the killer, wouldn’t she have gone to the police? They’d pay attention to a credible witness.”

“Her son’s death was ruled a suicide, and she’s been insistent that it was murder all this time. Maybe they’d think she was just being hysterical.”

“Yes, police do tend to jump to that conclusion far too often. A pity. After all, she was pretty messed up by losing her only child, just as anyone would be. Not that I’d nominate her for sainthood or anything. Cat could still outdrink most men and had a wit and the vulgar tongue of a brick mason. Bless her heart.”

“Brick masons are vulgar?” I wondered aloud, and Bitty gulped a healthy taste of her wine before shrugging.

“Just those of my acquaintance.”

“You lead a secret life that I cannot imagine, you know. Garden club meetings, massages, brick masons, charity functions, target shooting, massages, ice cream socials, community committee affairs, massages—”

“You’ve been to one of my ice cream socials,” Bitty defended herself, and I nodded agreement.

“Yep. It was lovely. Did I mention your massages?”

Bitty said something pithy, and I laughed just as the microwave announced our supper was hot at last. I was tempted to ask if Jackson Lee knew about her masseuse, but since I figured he wouldn’t care if he did, I just focused on the lasagna.

We ate at her kitchen table in front of the white-shuttered window. Bitty poured more merlot into our glasses, and I buttered another generous slice of crusty French bread. It wasn’t until we’d finished eating and cleaned up our supper dishes to retreat to the cozy parlor with glasses of wine that we talked about Catherine’s death again.

Bitty sat opposite me in the overstuffed, formerly slipcovered chair. She’d kicked off her shoes and sat with her feet tucked under her, Chitling ensconced in her usual place on her lap.

“Did you get your slipcovers cleaned?” I asked over the rim of my wine glass. “I notice you don’t have anything on the furniture now.”

Rather glumly, Bitty shook her head. “They can’t get the purple dye out of the linen. I had to order new ones for summer. My winter slipcovers should be ready soon, so I have to be careful until they get here.”

“So says the brave woman sitting with a glass of merlot in her hand,” I replied with a laugh. Bitty stuck out her tongue, and I made a mental note not to be the one to have the first spill. The parlor furniture is white under the slipcovers.

I carefully placed my wine glass on the nesting table next to the chair and said, “I can’t get Catherine out of my mind. I keep seeing her there in the closet . . . I wonder if it would have made any difference if we’d gotten there earlier.”

“I doubt it. I think I heard the coroner say she’d been dead at least twelve hours.”

“So if I’d known where she was last night, I might have been able to save her.”

Bitty leaned forward. “Trinket, none of us knew where she was, and even if we had, I doubt the police could have gotten there in time to save her. She was probably killed within minutes after you talked to her.”

To my surprise, my hand shook slightly as I reached for my wine. “It’s so horrible to think about what she must have been thinking, how helpless she felt . . .”

“Not Cat. She never felt helpless. I’m willing to bet she gave just as good as she got, and that some guy is out there looking like the bottom of a farmer’s boot.”

I paused in sipping my wine. “Bitty, that’s true! If it was Breck Hartford who killed her, then he should have scratches on him.”

Bitty’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think we should go down there to check him out?”

“Good lord, no! The police will do that for us. I’m sure they’ve already thought of that.”

“But why would they? I mean, unless they found out that Catherine has always suspected Breck of being responsible for her son’s death, they wouldn’t know to talk to him, would they? We do, though.”

“Bitty, I told them what she said about Breck being downstairs. I wouldn’t go down there to talk to Breck Hartford anyway. Especially if he’s the killer. I’m tired of getting smacked around. My head hurts, I’ve got a crick in my neck, and my eyeballs are going to be permanently crossed if I get hit one more time. So no, I have no intentions whatsoever of going back to Oxford any time soon.”

“You’re just going to let him get away with killing her? And her son?”

“I’m not convinced anyone killed her son.” I pondered that a moment, and added, “Although Catherine’s murder does give more weight to her suspicion that Monty was killed rather than committed suicide.”

“See? We could solve two murders at once.”

“Are you insane? I’m content with letting the police handle it. Sergeant Maxwell seemed really serious about charging us with interference if we got in the way again.”

“Honestly, Trinket, I’d think you’d want to see justice done.”

“I do. Oh, I do. I just don’t want to get in between the police and the killer. That leads to uncomfortable and frightening scenarios, and I hate those, I really do.”

I thought for a moment that Bitty intended to argue some more, but then she shook her head slightly and sipped her wine without responding. That was a relief. The idea of going back to Oxford and facing a man who might very well be a murderer was less than appealing to me. I was tired, my neck still ached, and I had to be at work early the next morning. Arguing with Bitty took more energy than I had at the moment, and I was only too glad that she changed the topic of conversation to plans for the annual Holly Springs Pilgrimage coming up in April.

“That’s so far away,” I protested when she asked had I decided yet if I wanted to wear a hoop skirt and pantalets. “Let’s get past Thanksgiving first.”

“That reminds me, Rose called a few days ago and asked if I was interested in getting involved in the Wish Tree Carolann’s putting up in the shop after Thanksgiving.”

“It’s a worthy cause. Carolann thought of it. Every ribbon represents a donation made by someone. Blue will be for five hundred dollars or more, red for one hundred dollars or more, and yellow for fifty dollars or more. Green will be for any donation made that’s under fifty dollars.”

Bitty smiled. “I get a gold ribbon.”

My eyes probably bugged out of my head. “Bitty! You donated a thousand dollars to the Wish Tree?”

“Don’t tell anyone. And don’t act so shocked. Not only am I not the only one to donate, I’m not the first to get a gold ribbon. Jackson Lee pledged quite a bit more than I did. Carolann said we could choose one of the three main charities we want to receive our donations, or split it between all three.”

See what I mean about Bitty? She can be annoyingly self-absorbed, then turn around and do the most endearing things. Whatever else might be said of her, she has a very generous nature.

When I left Bitty’s to go home, I smiled most of the way, thinking about her soft heart and how completely selfless she can be at the most surprising moments. It gave me a warm feeling, which came in handy since the night had gotten pretty cold. My breath frosted in front of my face once I parked my car just outside the garage and started for the house. Maybe I’d make a space for it inside the garage when the weather got worse. Scraping ice and frost off my windshield is not one of my favorite things to do.

Just as I got to the front porch my cell phone rang. Naturally, it was somewhere in my purse, probably at the bottom under Kleenex, Chapstick, pens, a hairbrush, and loose change that always seemed to be floating around. By the time I found it, it had stopped ringing. The light blinked out before I could see the caller’s name, and I said something I’d heard Bitty say a time or two. It made me feel much better.

Daddy had left the front porch light on for me, and I stuck my key in the lock to open the door. As it creaked on hinges that obviously needed a shot or two of WD-40, my cell phone rang again. Yet another reason I’d resisted buying one, I told myself, irritated that I couldn’t seem to manage two tasks at the same time. Naturally, I dropped my purse and keys and barely caught the phone before it hit the porch floor. Rather irritated, I’m sure my tone was sharp when I answered without looking at the Caller ID.

“Hello!”

There was a brief pause, then a muffled voice said, “Stop snooping around, or you’ll end up just as dead as your friend.”