Divas and Dead Rebels (6 page)

Candy Lynn was a little intoxicated, so I asked Emily, just to be certain, “Your husband is a professor here at Ole Miss?”

Emily nodded. She looked much more sober than her companions. “Why yes, he is. Do you know him?”

“Oh, I know of him,” I said with a vague wave of my hand. “I think one of my nephews was or is in his class.”

Emily smiled. “I’d be interested in knowing what your nephew thinks of him. I have heard some diverse opinions on his classroom . . . shall we say . . . skills.”

“Really? Why, I’ve never asked him how he feels about the professor, but I’ve never heard him complain, either.”

That was the truth, as closely adhered to without stepping over the line as possible. I’m not as good as Bitty at doing the “belle,” so didn’t even attempt it. She can bat her eyelashes and switch to belle mode in a heartbeat, saying the most outrageous things in the sweetest voice, smiling all the time so that the person she’s talking to or about has no clue they’ve just been terribly insulted until they stop and think about it later.

Emily Sturgis looked to be in her forties, about five-six, I’d say, slender with a nice figure, and much prettier than I would have thought the professor could manage. Of course, I only saw him twice, and the first time he was furious, so his face was beet red, and the second time he was dead, so his face was plum purple. On neither occasion did he strike me as a particularly handsome man.

Mrs. Sturgis laughed. “That’s very tactful of you, Miz—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Truevine, and you may call me Trinket.”

“Trinket. I just love Southern whimsy. Such colorful names.” Emily smiled at me, but I caught a hint of condescension in her tone.

“Thank you, we love it too, obviously, or we wouldn’t do it.” I smiled back at her and again considered batting my eyelashes before I thought better of it. I’d probably look like I was having some kind of fit. “Where are you and your husband from, originally?”

“Spencer is from the shore in New Jersey, but
I’m
from New York.”

“Really? I lived in the Catskills for a while. It was lovely. Are you from around there?”

It was true; I had lived in the Catskills one summer when my husband found a job as a waiter at one of the upscale lodges, and I worked there in reservations and at the front desk. But since we were playing a game of socialite tag, I left that part out.

Emily said, “No, I’m from the Hamptons. Wainscott.”

“Wainscott? That’s in Suffolk County, isn’t it? It’s been so long since I visited Long Island I just don’t remember the area very well.”

Emily nodded politely. I figured she wasn’t that impressed with my knowledge of New York’s high-dollar real estate. I’d pretty much said all I knew about the ritzy shores where the wealthy played and the rest of us got paid to work for them.

“Mississippi is certainly different from the Hamptons,” I remarked for lack of any intelligent comment to ease the sudden awkwardness between us.

Emily Sturgis arched a brow. “Yes. It certainly
is
different.”

Her tone left me in no doubt that the comparison wasn’t very flattering to my home state. I couldn’t help saying, “We have a more relaxed way of life down here, more time for the little courtesies so often lacking in certain areas of the country. Don’t you think?”

Even though I smiled and didn’t attempt a fluttering of eyelashes à la Belle-mode, Emily still got my meaning. She murmured an innocuous reply, then pretended to answer a question from one of her companions, and we drifted apart. It was a big relief. Only opening my mouth to change feet can get tiresome. And embarrassing.

I sucked in a deep breath and looked across the table to find Bitty watching me with a faint smile. She lifted her whiskey tumbler in a silent salute that let me know she’d heard at least part of our exchange and approved. She would. Bitty is the mistress of catty comments. I saluted her back, realized my glass was empty, and went to find a waiter.

The place was packed. Somehow I got detoured and found myself at the restrooms instead of the bar. No, it had nothing to do with how much I’d had to drink, but everything to do with the press of people crammed into one small area. Since I was that close to the restrooms I decided to take advantage of the situation to make a pit stop.

When I came out, I had to push my way between people to locate the bar. As I sucked in my stomach to make more room between myself and the other patrons, I heard a man say in a low, angry tone, “He’s dead, I tell you. I don’t care if he hasn’t been found yet. Now you just keep your end of the bargain and—”

That was all I heard before the press of people squeezed me forward, and I popped out at the end of what seemed to be a long tunnel of laughing, talking, partiers. I tried to turn around to see who had been speaking, and who they’d been talking to, but I found myself carried along on a wave of people surging toward the bar. Or maybe the band. I wasn’t really sure. I just know that by the time I got near our table I was breathless, and I was pretty sure that someone had felt me up along the way. I didn’t know whether to be indignant or flattered. It’s not like I’m a young, firm coed anymore, so I decided to feel a little sorry for the person who had expected ambrosia and got pudding instead. It must have been a dreadful shock.

When I reached our table, Bitty was up dancing with one of her sons. He turned slightly, and I was pretty sure it was Brandon. As he and Clayton are identical twins, I still have trouble telling them apart sometimes. It’s not like my twin and me, who are fraternal instead of identical. Emerald is petite and blonde like our mother, and I inherited the Truevine height and coloring. In other words, I am Bigfoot to Emerald’s Princess Leia. It’s the luck of the genetic draw. I’m pretty content with the way things turned out; I’ve noticed a tendency in some men to be overprotective of small, delicate females, and I would go crazy at being smothered with constant attention. I like my space.

Since there was very little space where we were, I tapped Bitty on the shoulder and asked her to come outside with me for a minute. She was in the middle of a dance-step that involved being swung about by her son, and I had caught her as she was whirling past.

“What?” she yelled at me as she spun toward the wall, then came back toward me like a Tilt-a-Whirl at the annual fair. My first instinct was to duck, but Brandon caught her in time and spun her toward another wall. I decided to wait out her dance and talk to her when she was too exhausted to move. It’d be safer for her, me, and the other patrons.

That moment came fairly quickly. Not even Jack Daniels can keep Bitty going indefinitely. Of course, she’s not one to admit defeat even when her blonde hair straggled into her face, and her complexion had turned red as an autumn apple. Instead, she hung over the table gasping for breath as she reached for her empty tumbler.

“Oh . . . dear,” she managed to say with a little difficulty, “I’m . . . empty.”

“I’ll get you another one, Mama,” Brandon said, polite young man that he is. And so good to his mother. He took bartending classes just so he could keep up with her social affairs since she likes to show off her sons to other ladies in the garden club and on the many committees she attends. Not to mention, it comes in very handy with the Divas.

While Brandon went toward the crowded bar I said quickly in Bitty’s ear, “I have to talk to you!”

Still dragging in air to fill her depleted lungs, she nodded. “O-kay. Talk.”

“Not in here. Somewhere private.”

Bitty leaned forward to rest with her palms on the table, but blinked at me. “What is it . . . with you—and the privacy thing?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, and took her by the arm to drag her toward the door. It took me a couple minutes to find the door since it seemed to have been covered up by people, but I finally succeeded and got her outside with me.

We stood for a moment in the street outside Proud Larry’s while Bitty caught her breath. Then she said, “What on earth are you doing? I was having a good time in there.”

“And you can go right back in as soon as I tell you what I just overheard.”

She put her hands on her hips. “What did you hear that’s so important you have to drag me away from all the fun?”

“I think I just bumped into the professor’s murderer,” I said in a tone just loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough for anyone else. When Bitty’s eyes got bigger, I said, “I heard him telling someone that he’s dead but just hasn’t been found yet.”

“Oh my gawd—are you sure that’s what he said? He said Professor Sturgis is dead and hasn’t been found?”

“Well . . . he didn’t say the professor’s name, but I’m sure that’s who he meant. It has to be. Who else could he have meant?”

Bitty glared at me. “He could have meant his dog, or cat, or even boyfriend for all we know! It could be anything. It’s not like you to be so nervous, Trinket.”

“Excuse me? What do you mean it’s not like me? It’s
just
like me to be nervous when we’ve done something stupid! I’m always nervous! I hate waiting for the other shoe to fall, and when it does—”

Since I had started waving my arms around and had gotten pretty loud, I noticed a few people glancing our way. I put my arms down at my sides and finished primly, “—when it does fall, it never falls on you. I’m always the one who gets hit in the head with it.”

After a brief moment of silence between us, Bitty said calmly, “Do you feel better now that you’ve gotten all that out?”

I thought about it a second, then nodded. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Good. Okay, let’s start over. I agree that I think it’s possible whoever you heard may be referring to—” She glanced around before saying in a low tone, “Professor Sturgis.”

When I started to speak she lifted one hand palm out and shook her head. “Let me finish, Trinket.”

I shut my mouth, folded my arms across my chest, and nodded at her to continue.

“However, it’s just as possible,” Bitty said, “that it’s about something else entirely, and you’re all worried for nothing. There’s no way we’ll know for sure until . . . until it’s out in the open, know what I mean?”

I nodded silently as a couple passed us on their way up the street. We stepped back into the shadows of the building a little, and Bitty shook her head. “We just can’t go around all crazy as usual. No one else but us and the murderer seem to know the truth, and unless we want to get all involved again, we need to pretend nothing has happened.”

Really, she was making sense. I was very proud of her. And extremely cautious.

“You’re right,” I said at last. “I guess I just panicked. I’m too old for this kind of thing. Actually, I don’t think this kind of thing is good at any age. I’m having to buy more hair dye than usual lately, and I know all this stress is making me prematurely gray.”

Bitty looked up at my hair. “Well, it’s definitely a most interesting shade of—what is that color? Never mind. I wish you’d use my hairdresser.”

“Thank you for reassuring me,” I said sarcastically, and she sighed.

“Cheap hair color from Walmart isn’t nearly as good as a trained professional, you must admit, Trinket.”

“Professional—do you suppose that’s who I overheard? A professional hitman?”

“I thought we weren’t going to worry about that any longer?”

“In your dreams. You know me. Do you really think I’ll be able to put this out of my mind for longer than ten or fifteen seconds?”

Bitty looped her arm through mine and turned me toward Proud Larry’s front door. “I know just the thing to get you to relax and have fun without all the worry, honey. Come on with me. I’ll fix you right up.”

I should have known anything Bitty concocts—or has a bartender concoct—is quite likely to be lethal. Fortunately, this just put me into a kind of coma while I was still standing up and talking to people. I understand I was pretty entertaining.

I remember very little of it. Thank heavens.

By nine o’clock Saturday
morning The Grove, which the day before had been empty save for spray-painted lines, was full of tents and people. Red, blue, and white tents sprouted from the ground like dozens of silk mushrooms. Girls in designer dresses and young men in designer duds roamed from tent to tent like army ants, devouring delicacies and leaving laughter and high spirits in their wake.

While cars are no longer allowed to park in The Grove for tailgating as they did in my day, it’s still a huge crowd that gathers to celebrate the coming game. Saturdays when there’s a home game are akin to the Sabbath in Oxford. Everything is slanted toward the approaching rituals. Since food cannot be cooked in The Grove as no fires are permitted, some people have their tailgate party catered, and others just bring old favorites. Tables are set up under the tents, tablecloths are spread, flowers bedeck tables and loop in lovely garlands, and platters of epicurean delights that would please even the Greek gods are presented for consumption. Pimento cheese sandwiches stacked three high may fill a solid silver tray, while next to it fresh fruit spills out of a crystal bowl. Crunchy okra sits next to watermelon slices; bowls of chips have several kinds of dip; pasta salads in all different colors dot tables, and of course, hoagies, barbecue, and other sandwiches may fill up plastic trays with the Ole Miss motif printed on the surface. Baked goods are decorated in the blue and red colors of the university, and some are baked in the shape of a giant M.