Dixie Diva Blues (28 page)

When she looked at me without adding more, I prompted, “And? You said?”

“I said that I believe he’s innocent because he
is
innocent, and you and I found proof of that.”

“Uh . . . you said what?”

“For heaven’s sake, Trinket, pay attention. I told the man that you and I had found definite proof to absolve Rob of any wrong-doing, and that as soon as the police follow up on it the case will be solved. What did you expect me to say?”

“I suppose
nothing
would be asking too much. Who asked you that question?”

“I don’t know who he was, just some guy wanting free coffee and gravy biscuits, I guess. Why?”

“Why? Because he could be a reporter. Or a killer. Or from the IRS. You don’t just give out personal information to strangers, Bitty.”

“It wasn’t personal information. It was in regard to stuff everybody reads in the papers. Too many people think Rob might be guilty. I’m just defending him.”

There was no getting through. I briefly closed my eyes and counted to three. That was as far as I could remember at the moment. Bitty poked me with her finger and I opened my eyes to look at her.

“You’re certainly acting strange this morning. What on earth are you doing up and out so early, anyway?”

“I have a job now, remember?”

“Oh, no, I’d forgotten. How lovely. When do you start?”

Just as I opened my mouth to reply, the courthouse clock began to chime the hour. “Now,” I said, and waved a quick goodbye to her as I turned toward the corner to cross the square. Carolann’s shop is diagonal from Budgie’s café, a nice little sprint if one is running late.

I arrived at the front door just as the clock struck the last tone, out of breath and a bit damp from my exertions despite the cooler morning air. When I peered into the front window, I saw a light on in the back.

Carolann saw me standing at the front door and came to unlock it, greeting me with a hug. “I’m so glad we’re going to be working together!”

“Let’s hope you still feel that way a month from now,” I said wryly. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in the work force. A year is a long time in today’s market.”

Carolann patted me on the arm. “You’re smart, Trinket. You’ll catch on quickly, and even if you don’t, it’s okay. I like a laid-back work atmosphere. It makes happier employees, and that makes happier customers.”

“A most sensible attitude. Where do I start, and what do I do?”

The next half hour was taken up with familiarizing myself with stock, entering SKU numbers and working the hand-held little gun that tallies up what’s sold into the computer. It’s not difficult if the computer works correctly. There are times, apparently, that it rebels. Then Carolann has a system to expedite sales until it can be rebooted or repaired, or whatever it needs.

“I’m ready for new technology or old-style cash and go,” she said with a laugh. “I like to keep up with the trends. Have you seen the latest Vera Wang?”

By the time Rose came in at nine to open her side of the shop, I was pretty well up to date on the latest offerings from the undergarment industry. I had a feeling my first pay check would be going towards lace and silk instead of more practical things, since I was already drooling over luxurious panties and bras. For the last decade, my style has leaned more toward Hanes plain white cotton instead of the ultra-feminine, ultra-sensual. Maybe it was time for a change.

Rose Allgood is a relative newcomer to Holly Springs. Her arrival signaled a new era of merchandise in the shop, since she recently purchased an old toy factory in which she plans to manufacture things like sex toys—ugh—and political buttons, Crackerjack’s kind of toys, and other small plastic items that I had no idea existed. I think plastic forks and spoons are among the products she plans to produce. Those, at least, are a mundane product, unlike things she has in the Blue Room. Some of the town’s leading citizens are a bit appalled, while others cheer the arrival of more industry that equals more jobs.

When she saw me arranging a display of soaps and toiletries, Rose came over to talk to me. She’s rather tall, one of those willowy blonde women who look good in whatever they choose to wear, and I admired her sleek, fitted dress.

“That’s a beautiful dress, Rose. Did you buy it up in Memphis?”

“No, at the Dress Barn. She has some lovely things there. I love her back room.”

“I can’t afford her back room,” I said. Then I added, “Or her front room, for that matter. Although I do have a dress I got there this past winter. It’s green velvet, and fits me like a dream. Usually, my clothes fit like a nightmare, so this is a vast improvement, believe me.”

Rose laughed. “Oh Trinket, you’re always too modest. I’ll bet you’re beautiful in the dress.”

“This dress could make Rumpelstiltskin beautiful. It’s amazing what designers can do with clever detailing and gorgeous material.”

“Well-trained designers can certainly hide a person’s flaws. When I studied in Paris, I was amazed at all the little tricks that make a huge difference.”

I gaped at her. “You studied in Paris? No wonder you always look like you’ve stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.”

“Parisian women are born knowing how to dress, I believe. Most of the time they just add the perfect accessory and that changes a plain black dress worn to work in an office, for example, into an exquisite garment for evening wear. Different shoes, brighter lipstick, upswept hair, a scarf and jewelry, and
voila!
Ready for a night at the opera.”

“I’ve always dreamed of spending time in the south of France. Wine, cheese, a loaf of bread, all that gorgeous countryside, a chateau or two, and I’d be in heaven.”

“You’ll have to go with me the next time I travel. You would definitely love some of the places I visit.”

“Glastonbury,” Carolann said, joining into our conversation. “That’s my favorite place. It’s in England.”

Rose smiled with amusement. “That is exactly what I would have guessed you’d like, Carolann. All those quaint little shops with candles, books, astrologers, New Age music and so on must be your idea of paradise.”

Carolann beamed. “Exactly! I love it there. They have a festival in the summer with bands. People come from everywhere, big crowds, and it reminds me of Woodstock. I mean the town in New York, not the music fest back in the sixties. I was too young for that, darn it. Anyway, I love sitting on the grass of the Tor, climbing up to the top, hanging wishes from the trees above the Chalice Well . . . Glastonbury is lovely!”

“Hanging wishes?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, people tie ribbons on tree branches to signify a wish. The wishes flutter in the breeze, and there are usually so many it looks like the trees have sprouted multi-colored ribbons. Oh! I wonder why we couldn’t do that kind of thing here? You know, put up a tree and make sort of a place where people can come to make wishes. We could sell little strips of ribbon, and all the money collected would go toward a charity. We could choose a different charity for each season—what do you think?”

Rose and I agreed that it sounded like a good idea, and one that might go over well with customers. Since Rose has a degree in Marketing, along with a basketful of other talents, she said she’d draw up plans for advertising. With the holiday season fast-approaching, it would be an excellent way to draw attention to the shop as well as receive charity donations.

“And make sure you talk to Bitty,” I told her. “She has a long list of regional, local, international, and national charities that she donates to every year.”

Rose lifted her brows. “Really? No one has ever mentioned that Bitty has a philanthropic side to her.”

“That’s because not many people know. She likes to keep it quiet.”

“Yeah,” Carolann said wryly, “Bitty keeps the nice things she does hush-hush, and advertises the crazy stunts she pulls. Go figure.”

“What can I say?” I said with a shrug. “She is a mystery unto herself.”

And that was putting it mildly.

My first day went quickly. Between opening at nine and closing at seven, we did a nice little business. More than I would have thought in such a small town. Holly Springs itself may not be a large place, but the outlying areas encompass quite a nice size population. Communities like Potts Camp, Red Banks, Byhalia, and Victoria lie within a twenty mile radius of the town. There are a lot of small farms and subdivisions in the area, as well as the larger cooperatives and privately owned spreads. Collectively, there are close to ten thousand people in the Holly Springs area.

Out of those ten thousand, I was pretty sure at least sixty percent have heard of Bitty Hollandale. Mainly because of her former husband, perhaps, but hers is a name that is fairly familiar in Marshall County. Ergo, as her cousin and confederate in recent public exploits, my name and face are familiar to more people than I know, too. It was a little surprising how many of Carolann’s customers knew me immediately, while I had no clue as to their identity.

After the last customer had gone and the front door was locked, we tallied up the day’s receipts and tidied up in preparation for the next day.

“
Wheee-ooo
,” Carolann said with a whistle, “we did very well today! Thanks to you, Trinket.”

I paused in running the vacuum cleaner over the carpeted floor. “Why are you thanking me? All I did was help with sales.”

“Ah, but you are the big draw bringing in new customers.” She gave me a cheeky grin. “Everyone wants to see the famous Trinket Truevine, slayer of dragons and maybe a princess or two.”

“What?”

Rose came up behind me. “Didn’t you know? You’re famous. Or more to the point, infamous. People have a morbid curiosity about someone who might or might not be a murderer, but is the closest thing to scandal we have right now.”

“Me?”

“Well, you and Bitty,” said Carolann. “But she’s not working here and you are. I had no idea you’d be such a novelty, but apparently a lot of people want to get a peek at you.”

“If I’d known that, I would have worn my best prison garb,” I said. “Or at least something with horizontal stripes.”

“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” Carolann said cheerfully. “Since you had a full day today, just come in at eight-thirty and you can work a half day tomorrow.”

“Great. That’ll give me enough time tomorrow afternoon to shop at Prisoners R’Us.”

“You have such a wacky sense of humor, Trinket! I love that about you,” said Carolann. “You’re so different from Emerald, that sometimes I forget you two are twins.”

“That’s okay. We don’t remember it often, either.”

It wasn’t until I had gotten in my car and rolled down the windows to let the heat that had built up escape that I let myself dwell on the ramifications of being infamous. It might not be so bad. Annoying people may decide to steer clear of me since I had a criminal background now. Of course, that may be a drawback if I ever decided to go to work for the government. I was probably pretty much unemployable now by anyone except old friends or prison cafeterias.

I decided to console myself with KFC. When any kind of tragedy or disquieting event occurs, fast food is about the only thing that soothes my anxiety. The only non-alcoholic thing, I should clarify. Fried chicken has mysterious properties of healing for me. Especially when accompanied by biscuits, gravy, and slaw.

The first thing I did when I got home was let Brownie out to go to the bathroom. I was delighted that he hadn’t left me any surprises anywhere, since he usually throws a sort of canine tantrum when my parents leave him behind. Brownie has a tendency to run away if I don’t keep an eye on him, so I decided to check the humane traps my father had set for the elusive kitten. He’d baited them with boiled chicken and cans of tuna, and it didn’t surprise me at all to find that the first two held familiar adult felines. Neither of the cats were particularly pleased to see me, and I heeded Daddy’s advice to stand clear once I opened the trap doors. Fortunately, they paid me about as much attention as they paid the empty tuna cans as they shot out of the wire cages like furry missiles.

The third trap I checked was empty, and the fourth—my father had cleverly put it inside a garbage can turned on its side—held what looked like a fuzzy pink football. When I pulled the trap out of the overturned can, however, I saw that the inmate was a very irritated possum.

Now, I don’t know if most people are familiar with possums, but they are strange-looking nocturnal creatures. As mammals, they give birth to their young, then carry them around in a pouch or clinging to their tail like so many little flags. This possum was baby-free, thank heavens. It showed its displeasure with me by baring sharp teeth and hissing. Close-up, I saw that what I had first thought of as pink was really just a possum that hadn’t yet grown a winter coat. It still had a pink nose, beady eyes, and very, very wicked-looking fangs. Every time I tried to open the trap door it sprang at me, which had to be difficult since there wasn’t a lot of space inside that trap. My brain knew that the rodent—yes, I know it’s really a marsupial—couldn’t reach me, but my hands refused to get that message. Each time I went to pull the trap door up, it sprang, I squealed, and we were at a stalemate. So I decided a distraction might be in order.