Dixie Diva Blues

Trinket and the Gang Will Stop At Nothing To Clear A Diva’s Husband of Murder Charges

You’d think a midnight prowler would have sense enough to get out after being discovered by a group of middle-aged women armed with flower vases. Or at least stop what he was doing. Not this one. Despite our menacing appearance, he kept opening cabinet doors and drawers.

Our intruder wore what looked like a black Ninja outfit. It did not flatter. He was a bit chunky and not much taller than me. Nor did he move very fast as Gaynelle and I bore down on him like a freight train. Instead of screaming in fear and fleeing out the front door—which stood wide open to help facilitate his escape—he turned away from the cabinet he had opened and threw something heavy. It was a Mason jar, and it hit poor Gaynelle right smack in the middle of the forehead. She dropped to the floor like a sack of flour. I looked down at her, then up at the masked intruder. Eyes glittered at me from the tiny eyeholes, and as he seemed to be unarmed—no more Mason jars at hand—I let out a bellow and charged him.

Virginia Brown’s Novels

The Dixie Divas Mysteries

Dixie Divas

Drop Dead Divas

Dixie Diva Blues

Divas and Dead Rebels (2012)

The Blue Suede Memphis Mysteries

Hound Dog Blues

Harley Rushes In

Suspicious Mimes

General Mystery/Fiction

Dark River Road

Dedication

For my wonderful daughter, Micci. And as always, to the real Divas of Holly Springs.

Dixie Diva Blues

by

Virginia Brown

Bell Bridge Books

Copyrights

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
eISBN: 978-1-61194-072-5
ISBN: 978-1-61194-059-6

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 by Virginia Brown

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:

Pug - © Isselee | Dreamstime.com

Shoe - © Daniel Zgombic | Dreamstime.com

:Eddb:01:

CHAPTER 1

Until this year murder was something I read about, not something in which I was an active participant. That has greatly changed since my return home.

Not that I participate in heinous acts of murder, of course. No, it’s more like I’m involved in the clean-up detail afterward. So to speak. Now, I did not in any way seek out this new pastime. After all, it has its hazards. Nor do I ever see it coming before it strikes. I can be especially obtuse.

For the most part, I amble along until I take the last step off a metaphorical cliff into a murder case. In the past few months it has begun slowly: a hint of warning here, a smidge of difficulty there, then full-fledged calamity strikes. It’s not as if I am unaware that danger is out there. Usually, I am the nagging voice warning people to stop at the crosswalk; watch for cars; yes, the dog bites; just leave the corpse in the closet.

But not this time. This time, disaster blasted in from the Mississippi delta like a runaway freight train. It all started one hot afternoon when Bitty Hollandale and I sat out on the front porch of her antebellum home in Holly Springs, Mississippi.

My name is Trinket Truevine, and I live with my elderly parents about three miles outside the Holly Springs city limits in a house named Cherryhill. It is the house in which I grew up, an antebellum-style that is listed on the Historical Register because it had the misfortune of being set on fire by the Yankees a hundred and some-odd years ago. We tend to remember things like that in the South. Bitty Hollandale is my best friend/first cousin. We grew up together and are apt to finish one another’s sentences, and far too often, our minds run in the same direction—usually the wrong way.

This September, north Mississippi sizzled in the heat. It hasn’t always been like this. Once upon a time about thirty or forty years ago, the month of September was a pretty firm dividing line between summer and fall. I can remember going to the Mid-South Fair up in Memphis in late September wearing a coat, gloves, and hat. Now tank tops and shorts are the more common attire.

While I’m not going to argue cause-and-effect with global warming enthusiasts or detractors, suffice it to say that Bitty and I sat on the afore-mentioned front porch of Six Chimneys—we like to name our older homes—under ceiling fans and with cool drinks firmly in our hands that hot September afternoon. We would have been inside if not for the particularly strong stench emanating from the solution used by a pest control company. Old houses attract more than enough species of creepy crawly things and must be regularly sprayed. It was certainly bad enough to drive us out of the air conditioning and onto the porch. Fortunately, we both wore cool clothes. Bitty had on a sleeveless tangerine top and tan capris, and I wore a blue tee shirt and denim capris.

Our topic of conversation had drifted to the Hummingbird Festival held at nearby Strawberry Plains every September. I waxed enthusiastically about the coming event.

“Since the Audubon Society owns and operates the house and gardens, it gets a lot of good publicity. There are going to be tons of people there. That grand old house and those gorgeous gardens . . . and all those hummingbirds stopping by to fuel up on their way south for the winter. Beautiful!”

“Well, you just know Trina Madewell will be there all gussied up in some horrid outfit that makes her look like an overstuffed couch, and—”

“Bitty,” I broke in, “we agreed not to gossip about other people, remember?”

Bitty turned wide blue eyes on me as if she had no idea what I was talking about.

“I never agreed to anything like that, Trinket Truevine, and you know it.”

“Yes, I distinctly recall—”

She immediately interrupted by shaking her head so vigorously I thought it might detach and roll across the porch like a blonde beach ball. “No, you can only recall
suggesting
we not gossip. I did not reply. That signifies neither assent nor dissent.”

“My, my,” I said, “we’re using fifty-cent words now, are we.”

“My college education did not go completely to waste, dear.”

I smiled. “I should say not. You met your first husband at Ole Miss, and got a degree in Partying 101 as well as How to Marry the Most Eligible Jock.”

Far from being insulted, Bitty preened a little bit. “I did, didn’t I? Frank Caldwell was pursued by every girl in my sorority, but he chose me.”

I snorted. It’s a very unladylike sound, but that’s one of the many differences between Bitty and me. She sniffs daintily. I snort rudely.

“
Chose
you? Good lord, the poor guy never had a chance once you set your sights on him. Too bad he didn’t listen to his professors as much as he did you. He wouldn’t be doing fifteen to twenty-five in a Federal prison right now.”

Bitty sighed. “Frank never did believe in doing things the right way instead of going for the easiest. If he hadn’t gotten stuck with all the blame by those nasty men—who are now living in Aruba, no doubt—he might have gotten off with a warning.”

“That is very doubtful. He ran a pyramid scheme that took people’s life savings. I doubt any sane judge would have given Frank just a warning.”

“True. A pity. Still, he’s the father of my sons, so I must endure the shame.”

When she put the back of her hand against her forehead, I resisted the urge to toss what was left of my drink at her. For one thing, I’m accustomed to Bitty’s theatrics by now, and for another thing, she wears her pug like a fashion accessory. Said pug is rather elderly, has only three fangs and a tendency to flatulence, and brooks no insults to either Bitty or herself. Chen Ling—I have recently been forbidden to ever again use my favorite name for the dog since Miranda Watson bought a miniature pig and named it
Chitling
, too—is Bitty’s constant accessory. Chen Ling bites when annoyed. Chen Ling is easily annoyed.

So instead of wasting a good mimosa, I drained my glass and got up from the wicker chair where I’d been comfortably supported by fat blue pillows—they contrast nicely with the circa 1845 pink house—and announced my intention of going for a refill.

Recovering quickly from her dramatic moment, Bitty thrust her glass toward me. “Ooh, get me another too, please. And would you mind bringing Chen Ling her bottled water? It’s in the fridge right by the champagne and orange juice.”

“Is there anything else, Madame? An apéritif? A napkin for your ugly child, perhaps?”

Chen Ling growled, Bitty said something quite rude, and I was still smiling as I went into her kitchen. The kitchen has been newly remodeled, and while it’s lovely, I can vividly recall the damage done by a fire that necessitated the remodel. Thankfully, Bitty no longer attempts to cook. Not only can she again afford to have Sharita Stone come in to cook a week’s meals for her, I’m pretty sure the firemen insisted upon it at their last meeting. It saves more than just antebellum homes from total destruction; it also saves volunteer firemen from unnecessarily dealing with hysterical, half-dressed, fully-drenched women.