Dixie Divas (16 page)

Once back at Bitty’s house, she turned off the alarm system she rarely used, and had me check the upstairs while she checked the downstairs. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for other than burglars or a body, but finding neither, I went back downstairs to find Bitty sitting at the kitchen table.

“Are you all right?” I asked, and she nodded.

“Just waiting on you to go with me to the cellar. If Philip is down there, I don’t want to go alone.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to me, and frankly, I couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for going into the cellar. They always smell musty no matter how many windows or air circulators or dehumidifiers they may have, and make me think of being buried alive. Rather macabre, I know, but when I was a child a Vincent Price horror movie about being buried alive had made a lasting impression. To this day, I don’t care to sleep in a completely dark room. Perry had preferred pitch black surroundings at night—unless he felt like doing the horizontal tango, at which time he wanted every light in the room so bright we could have been in an operating room. Two more reasons we’re entirely unsuited for one another. What sane woman wants all her flaws lit up like an appendectomy patient on the surgery table?

Anyway, Bitty and I did our osmosis thing again, where we tried to meld into one another to present a bigger target as we crept down the cellar steps. When Bitty turned on the overhead light switch, I blinked.

“You’ve done some redecoration.”

“I know. It’s the family room.”

“For what family, The Sopranos?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket, the boys chose the decorations. I just paid for it.”

That explained it. A massive pool table commands the middle of the room, but there’s a giant TV, an electronic dart board, some poker tables, a refrigerator, and a wet bar strategically placed against dark paneling. A black leather couch and matching chairs are in the middle. All thate s missing are layers of cigar smoke and a few men dressed in black suits, white ties, and shoulder holsters.

“What’s that door over there?” I asked while we still stood on the stairs and peered around the ‘family room.’

“The wine cellar. It’s temperature controlled. Not very big, though. I keep it locked.”

“And that door?”

“To the back yard.”

We stared at it for a moment, both knowing it should be checked but neither of us in a great hurry to do it. After a moment, I gathered my courage—which I can do with a thimble—and said firmly, “We’ll check it together.”

Thankfully, there was no sign of intruders or forced entry. We congratulated ourselves on being so composed and Bitty’s foresight in installing iron bars over the cellar windows, and then we went back upstairs.

I took a shower in the guest room bath that had one of those stalls with water jets spraying from five different directions, washed my hair with a shampoo that smelled like an exotic fruit, and slathered on conditioner. If I don’t use conditioner, my hair feels like straw. It’s very coarse.

Afterward, wrapped in three different towels big enough to use as sheets, I examined my face in the mirror for signs of depravity. People who hide corpses should have bulging eyes, rat-like teeth, and a nose like a weasel. So far, my depredations hadn’t made it to my face. I just looked very tired and fifty-one years old. Not an attractive combination, although I suppose with a little rest and a life free of crime, I might be presentable enough. My auburn hair has darkened with the years and has a few streaks of gray I do my best to pretend aren’t there, and while my green eyes aren’t the vivid hue of a Hollywood starlet’s, they’re fairly bright. My brows are thin and arch naturally, and my lashes and brows are light brown. My nose is short and straight, my round chin has a dimple I’ve always hated, and my complexion is fair with a few freckles I’ve done my best to eradicate all my life. Freckles, like cockroaches, are indestructible, it seems.

Bitty had laid a shapeless caftan on the bed for my nightwear. Once I’d towel-dried my shoulder-length hair, brushed my teeth with a toothbrush Bitty thoughtfully provided, and rubbed some kind of face cream into my skin that probably cost more than I’d made in a week, I got into the caftan and then the bed. It was antique, of course, with a half-canopy and mosquito netting that was pulled back at the sides in a graceful swoop. A quilt I was certain had been crafted in another century smelled clean and fresh, and pale light came through tall windows covered by sheers and damask drapes.

I fell asleep almost immediately, a surprise since I’ve always thought criminals must lie awake at night plotting more crimes or worrying about imminent apprehension.

When I awoke the next morning, rain pattered on the windows and dripped from eaves, and the smell of coffee drifted up the stairs. I lay there for a few minutes. In the past, Bitty got up at the crack of noon, but lately she’s been an early riser. Joining the Historical Society has been very good for her, on one hand; on the other hand, it’s led to murder, although indirectly. Which led me to mull over the improbability of Hollandale visiting Sanders by coincidence.

While Bitty frequently suspected the senator’s motives, it was quite likely she was very correct this time. Philip Hollandale was not the kind of man to visit constituents unless there was an advantage to be had. Sherman Sanders doesn’t seem like a large donor, though stranger things have been known to happen.

So what reason would take Hollandale out to Sanders for a visit other than some scheme to delay or prevent The Cedars being put on the historical register? Perhaps the first thing that should be investigated were connections between the senator and Sanders, then possible deals in which he was involved that might affect Bitty. It sounded far-fetched in one way to think Philip Hollandale would go to such lengths for petty vengeance, but it’s been my experience that in the case of lost love and divorce, petty is the norm and vengeance figures in somewhere. Money, of course, is the biggest and most frequent factor.

My clothes from the day before were gone, so I found a pair of white socks in a chest of drawers to cover my feet, and went downstairs, caftan billowing around me. Bitty was nowhere to be seen, but a pleasant young woman with light brown skin, black hair styled in attractive curls around her face, and a big smile stood in the kitchen.

“You must be Trinket,” she said, and poured coffee into a big mug and put it in front of me along with a blueberry muffin dripping in butter. I just looked at it with my heart beating fast.

“Are those freshly baked muffins?” I asked hopefully.

“Took them out of the oven only ten minutes ago. Kept them warm in a biscuit keeper.”

“You must be Sharita,” I deduced, remembering the chicken and dumplings.

She laughed. “Was it the muffins that gave me away?”

I’d already bitten into the muffin and had closed my eyes with utter ecstasy. After a moment of pure bliss, I opened my eyes and nodded. “And the chicken and dumplings.”

Sharita laughed again, her milk chocolate dark eyes lit with amusement as she went on with her tasks. Flour, sugar, eggs and milk were being used in a most business-like way atop the Corian counter.

“I heard about old man Sanders’ mule eating those dumplings,” she said. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime sight,” I said. “So do you come in every day? Bitty never mentioned she has someone help her in the kitchen, though Lord knows she’d either starve to death or have to eat out all the time if she didn’t.”

“I come in once a week and prepare all her meals,” Sharita said as she worked a flour sifter, one of those aluminum ones with the pull handle. “Sometimes Bitty has parties or special events, but most of the time it’s just a weekly menu that I put up in the freezer for her.”

“You ought to sell these muffins,” I said as I finished the last bite. “They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.”

Sharita grinned. “I do. I own a catering company and small diner, and we also make up gift baskets of baked goods, jams, jellies, and apple butter we’ll deliver for a small extra fee. Of course, I charge a little more if I go to clients’ homes to cook, but those who want me to do that can certainly afford it.”

“Like Bitty,” I said, and Sharita nodded. Thinking of my parents and how much they’d like a basket of muffins and jellies, I asked, “Do you have a business card?”

After getting to a stopping place with the sifter, Sharita reached in her smock pocket and took out a business card. Though obviously printed on a home computer, it was as business-like and attractive as Sharita. It read
Sharita Stone Professional Catering
and had the address of her diner, business number, and a cell phone number, all in a burgundy color against cream stock.

“Don’t be trying to steal her,” Bitty said, coming in the back door with a newspaper under one arm and a big coffee mug in her hand. “I’ve got Sharita this time every week. Put your name on the waiting list.”

“Unfortunately, you don’t have to worry about that. Though I am going by her diner to pick up a gift basket for Mama and Daddy to take on the Delta Queen with them.”

Bitty poured herself another cup of coffee. “I’d forgotten they were going on that trip. So much has happened—” She stopped abruptly with a glance at Sharita, and then beckoned me to go with her back to the screened porch just off the kitchen. “It’s nice out there this time of morning, Trinket. Come get some fresh air. You look like you need it.”

“Is that a passive-aggressive way of telling me I look like hell?”

“When did you learn all those kinds of terms? You’ve been paying too much attention to the wrong things. I think you need to meet a man, get some new interests in your life.”

By this time we were out on the screened porch and far enough away from Sharita that she couldn’t overhear us, and Bitty motioned for me to sit down in a wicker chair with fat pink cushions that looked remarkably similar to the ones on the front porch.

“Apparently,” I said in a low tone, “getting new interests in my life involve grave-robbing and desecration of a corpse.”

“Don’t go overboard. You have such a tendency to do that. It’s just that Sharita’s brother is that nice young police officer who came to question us yesterday, and I’d just as soon not get either of them involved right now.”

Before I could point out that the officer would inevitably be involved quite soon, she thrust the morning paper at me. The local headline read:
“Senator Missing, Foul Play Suspected”
and right below that an article detailing a search of The Cedars for the missing Sherman Sanders.

“No mention of Philip’s body being found,” I said.

“So I noticed. Of course, it was midnight last night before we even knew he was missing. Along with my carpet.”

“What is it with you and that rug?”

“It broke up my marriage. Not like you may think.” Bitty sipped at her coffee and tucked her feet under her in the chair. She wore a thick cotton robe that still managed to look stylish on her, and matching blue house slippers with a band of fur and glitter marching across the instep. “I wanted the carpet, Philip refused to buy it, so I used my own money. Philip was furious. So he bought his legal assistant a boob job then tried them out just to be sure they worked. Of course, he made sure I knew all about it. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot his ass with my forty-five. Instead, I filed for divorce on grounds of infidelity. He nearly went through the roof. Worried more about how it’d look to his constituents than how I felt about everything. Not that it was his first time to stray. Usually, he bought me something expensive to make up for it. That time, I had to pay for it myself. So, I have the carpet to remind me not to be an idiot again.”

It actually made sense to me.

However, what I said was, “You have a
gun
?”

Bitty sighed. “Yes, Trinket. A forty-five. I keep it locked up in a gun safe. I’ve always hoped that by the time I remembered where I put the key and got it unlocked and had the damn thing loaded, Philip would either have had time to get away or I’d be out of the mood to shoot him. Now that someone else has saved me that necessity, I may just get it out and keep it handy for other annoyances.”

Since her tone of voice already sounded a bit hostile, I decided to forego any further discussion of the wisdom of her owning a lethal weapon, and went right on to the next topic.

“At any rate, we need to call Rayna and all present a united front, whatever else we do.”

“You’re still set on telling everything to the police, aren’t you.”

“Bitty, I just don’t see that we can do anything else. I’m so afraid they’ll view it badly if they learn you saw him out at Sanders’ and didn’t report it. Once his body is found, you know it’s going to be such a mess. And of course, we’ll all have to be truthful when questioned. It’s bound to come out.”

“I suppose so. It’d be so helpful if Sherman Sanders would show up. I really need him to sign those papers so we can get his house on our tour. And of course, apply for the historical register.”

There was a short silence during which I pondered Bitty’s remarkable ability to focus on non-essential issues while her ex-husband’s frozen corpse hop-scotched around town, then she gave a decided nod of her head.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what we’ll do.”

“Go to the police?”

“Later. First, we’ll go out to The Cedars and go through Sanders’ desk to see if he signed the paperwork I sent him last year. He could have, you know. I think he just likes all the attention he gets by making me come back all the time. Not to mention bribes. Last month, I took him out a nice gift basket of muffins and jellies Sharita made up, and before that, it was a tin of pralines. It wasn’t until Budgie reminded me that he always orders chicken and dumplings when he eats at the café that I hit on the idea of getting Sharita to make those for him.”

I stood up. “If you go out to The Cedars, it won’t be with me along. I’m going home.”

Bitty looked up at me in faint surprise. “You’d let me go alone?”

“I prefer you don’t go at all. However, if you have some kind of suicidal proclivity, I can’t stop you. Just tell me where you put my clothes, and I’ll leave you to your insanity.”