Divas and Dead Rebels (4 page)

“I’ll ask her,” said Brandon, and he reached for his cell phone to call Heather. As he walked toward the open door into the hallway, one of his friends showed up.

“Hey, everything okay?” the young man asked. His eyes got a little wider when he saw the campus police standing in the middle of the room. “Uh oh, nobody’s dead, I hope.”

I thought Bitty was going to have a rigor right there. Her eyes bugged out, and her mouth dropped open, and I had to say something quick or there’s no telling what she may have blurted out. So instead of giving an answer that made some sense, I came out with: “The only thing dead in here is the Latin language.”

As jokes went, it flew right over the heads of everyone there except the young police officer. He’s the only one who got it.

“Latin has been a dead language for a lot longer than
my
college days,” he said, and I smiled gratefully. Everyone else just stared at me as if I had been speaking in . . . well, Latin. Truthfully, pig-Latin is the only foreign language I can remember.

The boys’ friend only looked confused, shook his head, and disappeared down the hallway. I wondered what on earth they were teaching students these days.

I didn’t finish college, though I had attended Ole Miss for a semester before I met my future husband and decided that sit-ins for causes like Greenpeace and Save the Whales was a lot more important than a degree. How foolish the young can be at times. I don’t have the husband anymore, but I do have our wonderful daughter, who’s married and living in Atlanta with her engineer husband. She’s smart enough to have gone back to school for another degree, even though it’s only at night right now.

Bitty had finished her college education at Ole Miss with a degree in Liberal Arts. I’m not sure what that was supposed to prepare her for, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because she married a popular football jock with a penchant for making money. Unfortunately, Frank Caldwell wasn’t picky about minor things like the law and got himself into trouble with a pyramid scheme that cheated quite a few people. He’s still doing fifteen to twenty-five in a Federal prison, while Bitty divorced him, gained full custody of their twin sons, and went on to marry again. Three more times. She’s either an eternal optimist or a horrible judge of proper husband material. I lean toward the first assessment.

Her current male companion, however, makes up for all the former mistakes. He’s an excellent attorney with offices in several towns and absolutely adores Bitty. I’m quite sure that feeling is returned, although Bitty is being extremely cautious this time around. Her last divorce was a doozy. People still talk about it, especially since her senator ex-husband ended up murdered, and she was briefly a prime suspect in his death. That can traumatize some people.

Fortunately for her, Bitty is not “some people.” Instead of being traumatized, she ignored reality while I and the rest of the Dixie Divas were left to try to sort out things. Which we did rather clumsily. Now we have a local reputation for getting involved in murders. Well, I think what’s
really
being said is that we’ve intruded in so many police investigations we’re lucky we’re not in prison. Bitty has always led a charmed life. With all that in mind, Bitty is somewhat justified in thinking that we can get away with disturbing a murder scene. I, however, have a more pessimistic view of the situation.

So there we were, standing in the dorm room where we’d found—and moved—the body of her son’s ancient history professor, talking to police about the theft of missing blankets. Try as I might, I can never quite match Bitty’s insouciance in the face of deception.

Apparently having recovered from her moment of fright, Bitty said cheerfully, “I declare, all this fuss about some missing bed linens is enough to make my head hurt. It’s really nothing, officers, and I’ll replace their things before I leave Oxford. I’m not about to let a little thing like this ruin my visit, and especially the big game. We’re favored to beat Mississippi State by six points.”

The older officer flipped his book closed and nodded. “I hear ya on that score.”

If there’s one thing men understand, it’s football. The game inspires a dedication bordering on obsession with far too many of them. Bitty knows this. All Southern women know this, whether young or old, married or single. Football ranks right up there with beer, guns, fast cars and Jesus. Not necessarily in that order. The Top Five of Southern males rarely varies. It doesn’t really matter which brand of beer, caliber of gun, race car driver or religious preference, pigskin loyalty is unwavering.

Those of us who attended, or have family who attended, Ole Miss are just as fervently loyal as anyone else in the country is to their alma mater. Ole Miss and Mississippi State are long-time rivals. While they aren’t that far apart geographically, fans are about as far apart as you can get when it comes to their home team. This football game was about old rivalries as well as a ranking in the SEC.

It wasn’t until Bitty had walked the officers across the small room to the door and held it for them while they exited with a farewell recommendation to keep the doors locked that I drew in a deep breath. I think I’d been holding it too long. I felt definitely lightheaded.

Bitty shut the dorm room door, flipped the lock, then turned and leaned back against it. “Good God, I thought we were sunk for sure,” she said, and I didn’t know what to say in response.

Did she mean to tell Brandon and Clayton what we’d done? I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. But then, neither had been the idea of shoving a dead man into the back of a moving van, and I’d helped do that, so maybe my judgment was impaired.

“Boys,” Bitty said as she pushed away from the door and crossed to her sons, “did you leave a . . . mess . . . in your room before you left for class? Either of you?”

“Well,” said Clayton, “I admit it was pretty messy when we left, but we meant to get back in time to clean it before you got here.”

“Clay has cleaning duty this week,” Brandon said promptly. “I did our laundry.”

“Is that why the laundry cart was in your room?” I asked.

Brandon looked puzzled. “Laundry cart? Oh, you mean that Motel Six thing that some of the guys brought back? No, ma’am, it was out in the hallway when we left this morning. Why would someone bring it in here?”

“It’s not the laundry cart that worries me,” Bitty said tartly, and both boys looked at her in surprise. “What do you know about the man in Clayton’s closet?”

They both looked stunned, but it was Brandon who said, “What? Someone was snooping in here? Why didn’t you tell the police? That was probably who stole our—”

Bitty held up a hand. “
I
took your blankets and clothes, and I’ll tell you why in a few minutes. Right now I want your sworn word that neither one of you knew anything about the man in your closet.”

“No, ma’am!” they both said in unison.

Clayton added, “Why would we let some guy mess around in our closet, anyway? It sounds stupid.”

The expressions on their faces were genuine, I thought, and I’d spent a lot of the summer in their company and felt pretty sure I could tell if they were lying. Not that I’m an expert on liars, because quite a few people have managed to fool me, I can tell you that. It’s embarrassing how many, in fact.

“Bitty,” I said, “I’d like to speak to you privately, please.”

“In a minute, Trinket.”

“No, we need to talk
now
. Before you say anything else.”

She looked around the rather small dorm room. “I don’t know where you think we can go to talk privately, unless you mean the closet or the dorm bathroom.”

“Neither one is clean enough. I’d rather stand neck-deep in a Louisiana swamp. No offense, boys.”

“None taken, Aunt Trinket,” said Brandon.

“It’s not
that
bad,” Clayton defended himself. “I cleaned up a day or so ago.”

We all just looked at him, and he shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. “Okay, I forgot. But I meant to clean. I’ve been studying for exams, though, so that should count for something.”

“Not much,” said his brother, and Clayton smacked at him with a spiral notebook. That started one of their frequent tussles and provided a perfect distraction.

“Just step outside in the hall,” I said to Bitty. “This won’t take but a moment.”

Once in the hallway, I looked at her and said, “Don’t involve your boys. The less they know, the safer they are, and the better it is for all concerned.”

Bitty thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I’ll just pretend nothing happened.”

I stopped her before she went back into their room. “Uh, Bitty—you’ve already told them we found a man in their closet. We better think of some way to fix that.”

“True. Hm. Oh, I know—we can say that it must have been a practical joke. That should explain it.”

“Somehow, I think your boys will find flaws in that explanation.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket, just let me handle it. I’ll think of something.”

Bitty tends to forget her boys aren’t ten years old any longer, so I had no great expectations for her concocting a viable explanation.

She must just love to astound me.

“Listen,” she said when she got their immediate attention by snapping her fingers at them as they wrestled on one of the stripped beds, “Trinket just reminded me that I had your clothes and bedding picked up to be cleaned, and that’s probably what the man was doing in your closet. I’d forgotten all about those arrangements, so your things will be returned as soon as the dry cleaners finish with them.”

“Why didn’t the laundry guy say something then?” asked Brandon skeptically. His face was a bit flushed and his blond hair tousled from wrestling. “It seems to me that if some guy had a woman asking him why he was in our closets, he’d have said so.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Bitty replied. “But he must have been startled, because he didn’t say a thing about it. He just left without the rest of your things. I’ll be sure to talk to the laundry about it. Now, Trinket and I are going back to the hotel and rest before we go eat supper. We’ll meet you later at Proud Larry’s if you two want to drop by for a drink and music tonight.”

The last was said more as a question than a statement, and Clayton replied, “I’ve got other plans earlier, but I’ll be by there later.”

Brandon said, “Heather and I will come by after we finish helping her sorority mom get stuff together for the Sigma Kappa tailgate party tomorrow.”

“Good. It’s going to be fun, just like always. Now, don’t you boys get into any trouble while I’m here, or I’ll be angry at you, you hear?”

“I hear, Mama,” they chorused, then looked at each other and shrugged. It was Clayton who said, “Did you talk to Professor Sturgis about my grade in his class?”

“I did, and he’s a dreadful, dreadful man to try and reason with, I swear. But don’t be too upset, sugar, because things will work out. They always do.”

I guess Bitty’s boys are so used to her whimsical impracticality that they accepted it without more questions. That can be a good thing sometimes.

Once Bitty and I were downstairs and outside the dormitory again, I said, “You’re going to have to take all their things to a laundry to be cleaned, you know.”

“I know. There are plenty in Oxford.”

“There’s Washboard Coin Laundry on University,” I said, “but I don’t know if that’s the smartest place to go. Someone might remember if you drag in a lot of clothes and linens. You don’t want anything to connect us to the blanket around the professor.”

“Well, there’s Starbrite or Oxford Fluff and Fold. Starbrite has a couple different locations. We’ll take their stuff to the one farthest away.”

“It’s a shame that we’ve become criminals,” I observed. “We’re even beginning to think like criminals. We’re covering our tracks. Now we just have to figure out some alibis.”

“Why? We weren’t there when the professor was murdered, so we shouldn’t be suspects at all.”

“That’s just it, Bitty. We have no idea when or even where he was murdered. All we can say for certain is that he was alive for his scheduled parent meeting this morning. Not to mention, for his rather loud . . . debate . . . with you over Clayton’s failing grade in his ancient history class.”

Bitty sniffed disdainfully. “Wretched man. He wouldn’t even consider makeup tests or extra work, even though Clayton had a doctor’s excuse for his absences those days. He was a very unreasonable man. No wonder someone killed him. Bless his heart.”

Those last three words are usually used to lessen mean things said about someone else. It’s considered sort of an amulet to ward off the same fate, I suppose. A modern version of garlic and St. John’s Wort in a much tidier—and less fragrant—package.

A brisk wind picked up some red and orange fallen leaves and sent them flying in a spiral across the campus lawn. November isn’t known as a very cold month in this part of the South. There have been times of freezing temperatures, but more often lately we just have cold nights and mild days. Really cold weather doesn’t arrive until January or later.

“We’re taking the bus back to The Inn,” I said when Bitty took out her cell phone to call a taxi. “It’s cheaper and probably much quicker than waiting for a taxi during home game traffic.”