Divas Do Tell (31 page)

Since Sandra had professed a desire to taste “real down-home Southern cooking,” Sharita had provided a ton of good Southern dishes like fried okra, purple hull peas, a mess of turnip greens, white beans and ham hock, skillet cornbread, and cornbread sticks—the latter baked in heavy cast iron pans greased with enough bacon fat to clog all our arteries for a year. Bacon grease is
de rigueur
in the South. Unless we’re on a healthy diet we use it in almost everything we cook. Maybe not all our desserts. I don’t think there’s any bacon grease in buttermilk pie, for instance. But there is definitely lard in the best cake frosting.

The doorbell rang, and I wiped my hands on a towel and went to answer it while Bitty put the finishing touches on the food Sharita had provided. Sandra Brady arrived with Gaynelle and was quickly followed by the others: Deelight, Rayna, Carolann, Sandra, and Cindy. Rose had promised to come by later when the afternoon shift showed up at the shop.

Cady Lee was bringing Dixie Lee. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Maybe good food would soak up all that animosity between Dixie Lee and Bitty.

I took their coats into the parlor while Divas went into the kitchen. We’re usually pretty informal. Bitty was just putting on the dog for Sandra’s sake. “Putting on the dog” means trying to impress someone with all your best clothes, furnishings, or manners. I have no idea where that phrase originated, but we use it fairly frequently.

Fortified with glasses of wine, we milled about chatting with each other about everything but murder. I think we’d had enough of the subject for the time being. Besides, we all knew it’d come up before the afternoon was over.

Sandra was very gracious, greeting Divas as if they’d been friends forever, just as down home as any of us. She held a glass of one of Bitty’s prized bottles of wine, not the California wine that I preferred, but some fancy French label.
Haut-Brion
is a wine just coming into its prime according to Bitty, and I happened to know it cost somewhere around a thousand dollars a bottle. Frankly, I don’t think Bitty is a wine connoisseur; she just likes to spend money on wine to impress people. I judge wine by the alcohol content. Yes, I’m pedestrian in my tastes.

Apparently, Sandra knew the label, however. “Oh, this just came to first maturity in 2010,” she said as she looked at the bottle. “It has a lovely texture like velvet on the tongue.”

Bitty looked about to burst with pride. I felt like bursting from pretentiousness.

I gulped down my glass of delicious California wine and poured another. The afternoon was apparently going to require a great deal of wine if I was to get through it.

I was very glad for my third glass of wine when Cady Lee arrived with Dixie Lee in tow. It was apparent to me that Dixie Lee was about as thrilled to be there as Bitty was to have her in attendance. Oh joy.

Thankfully, they were no sooner in the door and their coats safely in my custody when Kinzey arrived, and Bitty rang the dinner bell. Food should appease the more argumentative sides of human nature, I thought as I joined them in the dining room.

That was when I saw that Bitty had put out sterling silver name tag holders. People looked for their designated spots at the table, while I looked at Bitty and shook my head. She was determined to keep Dixie Lee as far away as possible. A good thing if one looked at it in the light of a truce. Insulting if one considered that Sandra Brady was obviously an honored guest on the right of our hostess while Dixie Lee was relegated to a chair “below the salt” so to speak.

That just means she was at the far end of the table. Salt cellars in the middle of the table once delineated positions of importance, those farthest away from the host the least important. Bitty sometimes adheres to old social customs. Unfortunately, very few of the good ones.

Kinzey brought in elegant serving dishes of food and crystal pitchers of sweet tea. It was a contradiction in styles as far as I was concerned: exquisite dinnerware alongside food better suited for country tables. Cornbread wedges and cornsticks nudged yeast rolls in the breadbasket, crystal dishes held creamy butter, an oblong dish inside a silver casserole with tiny warmers held country fried steak and milk gravy; mashed potatoes, fried okra, turnip greens, snap beans, and fried green tomatoes adorned other covered silver dishes.

Sandra gamely loaded her plate with chicken fried steak and milk gravy, a heap of mashed potatoes, fried okra, turnip greens, and a big wedge of crusty cornbread dripping with butter. I became a bit alarmed. If she OD’d on calories and grease there might be another casualty. If you aren’t used to Southern food it can have a devastating effect on your arteries. Not to mention your thighs. I think those of us who grew up with it have built up some sort of immunity. Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves so we can ignore the cardiologists’ warnings. If researchers ever come out with a vaccine against fat and calories, I’m going to surround myself with tables full of Southern plain cooking and desserts and eat to my heart’s content.

However, I restrained myself admirably. I only had one piece of chicken fried steak, still hot in the warmer, ladled milk gravy over it, piled up fried okra and fried green tomatoes for my green veggies, and added some fried corn for color. Sweet tea replaced my wine. One must pace oneself when it comes to spirits, my mother had always warned me. Ladies are never to be publicly intoxicated.

Of course, that axiom would have put an end to all Diva Days, so I loosely adhered to the rule. As did the other Divas.

Since I sat on Bitty’s left side at the head of the table, I was within striking range if she got out of hand. My size nine feet could put quite a dent in her shins, although I’d steer clear of her feet since she was wearing six-inch stilettos sharp enough to go frog-gigging.

Everyone was obviously enamored with Sandra Brady. She was charming and amusing and had us all laughing at some of her anecdotes about working in the movie business. Apparently, the thespian muse makes movie-folk just as crazy as the creative muse does artists and authors. All have their quirks.

Bitty was on her best manic behavior, too, and regaled Sandra with tales of Southern goings on and our penchant for nicknames. “It’s just difficult to take a politician or minister seriously,” she said, “when they go by Chigger or Bubba, or Possum or Coon. I’ve known a Buster, Booger, Hoss, Rawhide, Catfish, Cooter, Boo, and a Skeeter or two. Then there was Race, short for Ronald, but his last name was Champion, so that was a given. Let’s see, who else, Trinket?”

“Snake, Snort, and Snot,” I promptly replied. “The Sneed triplets.”

“Lord, I’d forgotten all about them. Those nicknames fit those boys, too.”

When she stopped laughing, Sandra asked me, “How did you get the name Trinket?” Smile lines lent her face a mature beauty. It was an infectious smile, and I smiled back.

“My parents named me Eureka May Truevine, after the old Eureka Truevine Methodist church my great-grandfather built after The War. My twin sister’s name is Emerald May Truevine, but since I was born first I got the family curse. I mean name. My older brother Jack couldn’t pronounce Eureka and somehow he shortened it to Trinket. It’s pretty well stuck over the years. I’m just grateful my nickname isn’t Puddin’ or Dimples.”

Rayna offered the information, “My mother always called me Rae-Rae. As soon as I got old enough I refused to answer to anything but Rayna. If she were here she’d still call me Rae-Rae, I’m sure.”

Deelight, whose maiden name was Grace, said, “My name is Deelight Joyann Grace, and my sister’s name is Deevine Faithann Grace. My parents were very religious.”

Gaynelle said her parents had called her Nellie, Sandra’s mother still called her Sandy, Cindy was short for Cynthia, and Carolann’s adult brother still called her Crayon, his three-year-old version of Carolann.

Bitty’s name is fairly simple, short for Elisabeth, also attributed to a brother too young to correctly pronounce it.

“There’s not much that can be done with Sandra,” said Sandra with a laugh. “Unless someone calls me Dimples or Puddin’.”

Kinzey removed our serving dishes and dinner plates and brought out the desserts. The Lane cake was the
pièce de résistance
as far as I was concerned, but there was also chess pie, buttermilk and lemon pie, and banana pudding. Some of us took a little of each, and others of us took a piece of each. I won’t say who had what and how much. It may not have been an official Diva Day, but I’m sticking with “What happens with the Divas, stays with the Divas.” It’s the least I can do.

After we were all pretty well stuffed to the gills, we trailed into the living room. Of course, the only place left for me to sit was on the horse’s rump. My lone consolation was that Bitty had to sit on the other side of the rump. That settee is really uncomfortable.

Sandra Brady had wisely chosen the upholstered chair Bitty drags in for company, and the Turkish ottoman is always our coffee table. An antique love seat stuffed with cotton instead of animal hair and a scattering of Louis XVI chairs from the dining room sat next to the plush ottomans from the parlor. Divas divided time between the living room and the kitchen. We’re pretty informal in our meetings. Bitty just wanted to impress Sandra Brady.

A small fire flickered in the fireplace, more for ambience than heat. Bitty had central air and heat put in when she first bought the house. Soft lamps and firelight provided the perfect backdrop for a cold winter afternoon. It was one of the six original fireplaces in the old house, although only five of the fireplaces were still working. The kitchen fireplace had been in the way when remodeling, so had been incorporated into the sunporch design since that was the original kitchen. Six Chimneys has such an air of old grace and comfort.

Kinzey came in with a tray of coffee cups and plates of cheese and crackers with bunches of grapes. She returned with the sterling silver coffee pot, sugar and creamer. The elegant teapot was Royal Copenhagen, as were the delicate blue and white cups and saucers. I couldn’t believe Bitty was risking the best china her mother left her, but they were beautiful antique pieces.

Perhaps our polite forebears might have met in parlors to discuss recipes, children, fashions, or gardening, but our conversation quickly drifted to the subject of murder. In a cozier setting, the familiarity seemed safer, I suppose.

“So awful about Buck Prentiss,” said Deelight Tillman in a conversational lull. “Do the police have any idea who may have killed him, or if it’s connected to Billy Joe’s murder?”

Dixie Lee’s cup made a harsh rattling sound against the saucer as her hand jerked. It caught my attention, as it did Bitty’s. Could it be that Bitty was right? Could Dixie Lee have something to do with the murders? I hoped not, and not just because Bitty would say, “I told you so,” for the next few years. It’d be a crushing blow for Cady Lee.

Sandra didn’t seem to have noticed as she replied, “Not to my knowledge. They’ve talked to all of us who were close to Buck, as well as a lot of the crew.”

“Do they have any suspects at all?” asked Cindy Nelson. “I mean, there have been three murders in Holly Springs in less than three weeks. Our crime rate has tripled for the year, and it’s only January.”

“Did they talk to Mira Waller?” Bitty asked. “I understand she and Buck were friends. Close friends.”

Sandra shrugged. “I have no idea. Mira and I aren’t that close.”

An understatement, I was sure.

“The police have interviewed all of us by now,” I said. “Anyone who even spoke to one of the victims has been questioned. I haven’t heard if they’ve talked to Johnny Payne, but I heard they interviewed Maybelle Greer.”

I thought Dixie Lee made a small sound, but maybe I was mistaken, because when I looked over at her she was sipping hot tea.

“Yes,” said Bitty, “I heard Maybelle was less than pleasant about it, too. Cady Lee, did Pearl tell you they even asked her a few questions?”

Cady Lee looked surprised. “No, no one has mentioned it.”

“I think it has something to do with the book,” said Bitty. “They’re talking to anyone who might have a grudge against the movie people or the author.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” said Cady Lee indignantly. “Pearl and her family weren’t in the book at all, were they, Dixie Lee?”

Dixie Lee shook her head. “Just barely a mention,” she said quietly.

“Besides, the Wilson family has been with us for generations and is very loyal. Even if Dixie Lee had written them into the plot, it would have been something nice. Wouldn’t it, Dixie Lee?”

Again, Dixie Lee nodded. I began to sense some constraints. It made me a little uneasy.

“I take it Pearl Wilson is a housekeeper?” Sandra asked, and Cady Lee nodded.

“Her mother was with our family for years, too. She was like a mother to us as kids.”

“Are the police still investigating Allison Cramer?” asked Carolann. “She came into the shop yesterday. After picking out a lovely bra and panty set she went into the Blue Velvet Room. I haven’t asked Rose if she bought anything, but I overheard Allison say to her sister that when the insurance money comes in she’ll be able to buy a lot of nice things. That’s an excellent motive for murder, don’t you think?”

“It most certainly is,” Gaynelle said. “I’m sure the police are aware of it.”