Dixie Divas (17 page)

A crafty look came over Bitty’s face, and I swear she looked like one of those cartoon villains. All she needed was a long curling mustache she could tug and say, “I’ve got you now!”

Instead she said, “I sent them out to be cleaned. You can wear something of mine, if you like.”

“You’re seven inches shorter than I am. Even this caftan hits me at the knees. Where did you send my clothes, Elisabeth Ann Truevine?”

“Don’t worry. They have a two hour special. Of course, if I call and tell them not to hurry, delivery will be delayed until this evening.”

“You’re a horrible little person.”

Bitty smiled. I sat back down. The rain had finally stopped, but eaves still dripped.

“You do know that the police are investigating Sanders’ disappearance, too, don’t you?” I asked without much hope it’d faze her.

“If you’d read the article, you’d know that they already searched his home but found no evidence of foul play, and because of his advanced age, have asked people to be on the watch for him in case he’s had a stroke or forgotten where he lives.”

“They found
nothing?
How convenient for you.”

“Isn’t it?” She stood up. “It won’t take long, Trinket. Especially with both of us looking through his paperwork.”

A sense of fatality settled over me. I began to understand how prisoners on Death Row at Parchman must feel as the time of their execution draws closer. Actually, it brings with it a sense of peace, knowing that doom also brings an end to uncertainty. At least, that’s my interpretation of how it must feel. If asked, the prisoners may well provide contradictions.

“All right,” I said, “but you have to pay for my lawyer.”

“That goes without saying. I keep the Brunettis on a continual retainer.”

When the doorbell signaled the arrival of my clean clothes, I went immediately to the front door in case Bitty wanted to negotiate other terms. To my not-so-great surprise, Officer Marcus Stone and several other officers I didn’t know greeted me.

“Is Mrs. Hollandale here?” Officer Stone inquired.

I think I said something like Yes, but because my heart beat so fast and my knees shook so hard, and I found it hard to hear anything over the buzzing in my head, I’m not sure of that.

At any rate, Officer Stone and the other gentlemen presented a signed search warrant and asked us to please step outside to the porch while they performed their duties. Bitty, who had been upstairs troweling on her make-up, came down just in time to hear the last.

“On what grounds, may I ask?” she demanded somewhat haughtily, not an endearing tone to take with policemen sent to search your house, in my opinion.

“We received a tip this morning that Senator Hollandale may be imprisoned here,” the officer said more politely than he probably felt. “Step outside, please, Mrs. Hollandale.”

Bitty puffed up like a toad, said something like “Search away, the sonuvabitch isn’t here,” then stomped out to the front porch. The sun had come out at last, thankfully warming the air.

Clad in my short black caftan with bright pink flowers, and a pair of white socks and no underwear, I huddled in a wicker chair and hoped no one came along to see me. The caftan was cotton and fairly thick, but with the light behind me, I’m sure I showed everything there was to see. It’s not a nice feeling.

Leaning around the door frame, Bitty called inside, “If one thing gets broken, Marcus Stone, I’m telling your mama!” then sat down in a chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “If this just doesn’t beat all,” she fumed. “Why on earth would I want to be around Philip Hollandale longer than three minutes? I couldn’t stand the man when I was married to him, I sure don’t want to be around him now. Dead
or
alive.”

As an officer stood guard at the door and didn’t wear a hearing aid, I motioned to Bitty to be quiet. She looked at me, her lips pressed into a taut line.

“You’re making wrinkles,” I said, and instantly her muscles relaxed and her face settled back into a fairly normal expression.

“Thanks. I wouldn’t want all Doctor Pearson’s nice work to be ruined. He gave me Botox injections around my mouth, and it got rid of every one of those horrid wrinkles. You should try it, Trinket. It gets rid of squint lines between your eyebrows, too.”

Since most of my squint lines had formed in the past week, I doubted Dr. Pearson would be of any benefit to me unless I kept him on retainer.

It wasn’t long before a crowd began to gather out front, gawking at the police cars and all the officers standing on the porch and looking around in the yard. Bitty, ever the consummate hostess, called inside to Sharita to bring out a pitcher of iced tea and some of those cookies she’d baked that morning. After a brief discussion with the officer at the door, during which Bitty said she’d tell his auntie how rude he was being, Sharita was allowed to bring out a tray with sweet tea and shortbread cookies.

Soon, quite an ensemble sat in wicker chairs on the front porch. Mrs. Tyree, an elderly black lady who has lived in the house next door for the past thirty years, sat in a wicker rocking chair sipping sweet tea and eating a shortbread cookie. Allison Kent, who lives across the street and is about our age but married into Holly Springs life, pulled up a chair and talked about her grandchild who attends Marshall Academy. Richard Simmons—not the adorably prissy person who bounces around so energetically on TV—came to sit on the porch with us, too. Mr. Simmons used to work for the tax assessor’s office and knows just about everything there is to know about people in Holly Springs.

My attire, or lack of it, was briefly explained, and we chatted amiably about the weather and the upcoming pilgrimage. Naturally, that led to talk of the history of the area. One of the pilgrimage highlights was the fairly recent Ida B. Wells Museum dedicated to the young black woman who had helped pioneer civil rights. The old white house sits right where Highway 4 ends by Rust College, the first Negro college in North Mississippi

Tiny little Mrs. Tyree was proud of the fact that she was one of the hostesses and tour guides for the museum. “I have it all just about memorized,” she said: “At the age of sixteen, Ida B. Wells nursed her parents and siblings through a yellow fever outbreak. Her parents died, so she then took care of her five surviving siblings by working in the country as a teacher. But it was a day on the train in May of 1884 that set Ida Wells on the path to her writing career and work as a crusader for justice and democracy.

“Ms. Wells was the Rosa Parks of the nineteenth century,” Mrs. Tyree continued, rocking back and forth, “and the first Negro female to make history by refusing to give up the seat she’d paid for and be moved to the back.”

“I didn’t realize all of that,” Bitty said when Mrs. Tyree’s spiel ended. “What sorrows she had to endure.”

“And what triumphs those sorrows led her to,” Mrs. Tyree observed with a wise nod.

“Maybe that’s what you’re going through, Bitty,” Allison Kent said. “A time of sorrow that will lead to personal triumph.”

The truthful but vague explanation that the police were searching for any clues to the senator’s disappearance had been given and accepted by those present. Since he certainly wasn’t in the house any longer, and the only thing worrisome was a possibility of evidence indicating he had recently spent time in her coat closet as a frozen corpse, Bitty had channeled her anger into gracious hospitality. I, on the other hand, always expect the worst. That way, when it happens, I can deal with it much more easily. It’s when the worst fails to happen that I find myself surprised and a bit off-balance.

“You know, Allison,” Bitty said thoughtfully, “you may be right. All this turmoil will pass and I’ll just rise above it, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of disaster.”

As I’ve said, Bitty tends to be melodramatic, especially when she’s center-stage. She’d spread her arms out wide, in the manner of a rising phoenix, I suppose, when Officer Stone came out of the house onto the porch.

“Mrs. Hollandale, please stand up,” he said, and I knew at once from the tone of his voice that something dreadful was about to happen. I reached blindly for Bitty, but still caught up in her vision of rising from ashes, she stood up to face him.

“Elisabeth Hollandale, you have the right to remain silent,” Stone said as he caught her wrist and tucked her out-stretched arm behind her. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

It was that last sentence that sunk in for Bitty, and she drew herself up straight and looked him right in the eye. “I can afford whatever has to be paid, Marcus Stone, so don’t you dare put handcuffs on me without telling me what in the blazes you think you’re doing.”

Stone, a rather formidable young man, seemed a bit taken aback. Then he gathered himself and said politely if nervously, “I’m arresting you, Mrs. Hollandale.”

“Well for the love of all that’s holy, I can see that! Why?”

“For the murder of Philip Hollandale.”

Bitty paused for only half a second, and then said firmly, “It’s my understanding that murder usually requires a dead body.”

“Yes, ma’am. And we have one.”

I half-rose from my chair, but to Bitty’s credit, she didn’t blink an eye. “And how does that affect me?”

“Senator Hollandale’s body was just found in your wine cellar.”

Chapter Nine

I’d like to report that I then woke up in my own bed in the upstairs master bedroom that used to belong to my parents, but unfortunately, the nightmare only grew worse. In front of God and every neighbor a quarter-mile in all directions, the police then arrested
me
. Even Sharita was taken in for questioning, though as the sister of Marcus Stone and not having spent the night, she wasn’t required to wear handcuffs or ride in a police car.

So there I was, wearing a flowing caftan and white sports socks, my hands cuffed behind me and my hair sticking out like a wire brush, sitting in the rather cool confines of the Holly Springs police department at the apex of Market and Spring Streets, waiting to be questioned. I shivered so badly that a woman working there brought me a thin blanket and tucked it all around me.

“Is that more comfortable?” she asked with a smile. She wore a blue shirt and dark pants that looked very much like a police uniform. Or that of a crossing guard. She probably had on underwear, too. I didn’t, and the lack made me very uncomfortable.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “They’ll be through with you soon.”

That’s what I was afraid of. Never having ridden in a police car before, nor been escorted to jail by men in uniform, however polite they may be, visions of hard time danced in front of my eyes. Instead of Camp Cupcake, I’d be sentenced to life in Parchman. I’d participated in the cover-up of a crime. I’d violated the sanctity of a corpse by hiding it in a cemetery, though a good lawyer could probably come up with a winning argument on that point.
Lord.
It’d cost me the rest of my savings to pay for a good lawyer. I’d either have to end up on the streets or living off my parents, neither of which I found appealing. Nor could I ask or expect Bitty to provide me with legal representation, since I had been a willing accomplice.

Just about the time I’d worked myself up into a state of unexpurgated guilt, the door to the room where I sat in my caftan and sock-clad feet opened. A rather hearty man of near six feet in height entered. He wore a tan cowboy hat, muddy boots, a plaid flannel shirt, and Levi’s. His belt buckle was big, round, and bright. He took off his hat, swiped a hand through his brown hair, and affably greeted the lady who’d brought me a blanket.

“Afternoon, Miss Claudia.”

“Afternoon to you, Jackson Lee,” she replied. “You been out in the fields today?”

“One of my prized heifers got cut up by barb wire. That new vet came out, stitched her right up. Seems like he’s going to work out pretty good around here.”

He glanced at me then back at the woman he’d called Miss Claudia. “Reckon we got us a little problem here.”

“Seems like,” Miss Claudia agreed, and I wasn’t at all certain I liked some farmer making remarks about me when he knew nothing of the situation. I sat up a little straighter and lifted my chin to indicate that I was above rude speculation, an effect no doubt diluted by the fact I wore only a caftan, socks, and a blanket with MARSHALL COUNTY JAIL printed on it.

Then I looked away and wondered where they’d taken Bitty. I hadn’t seen her since she’d gone one way and I the other, riding in separate police cars the three blocks to the police station. I hadn’t been given my one phone call yet, and dreaded calling my parents. They may seem to be in their second childhood, but the shock of having their daughter arrested for desecration of a corpse might be enough to cause a heart attack or stroke. Or both.

The farmer came to stand right in front of me. He smelled like mud and cow manure. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

“Miz Truevine?” he asked, and I looked up at him, rather startled he knew me.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jackson Lee Brunetti.” When I just stared at him blankly he smiled and added, “Your attorney.”

“Oh. But I didn’t call—”

“Miz Bitty called. She might be here a little bit longer, but as soon as you answer a few questions, I’ll give you a ride back to her house. I’d have been here sooner, but I got stuck way out in the back pasture and it took me a while to get to my truck. Sorry about that.”

I tried to remember if I knew this man, but whether from stress or senility, nothing came to me. I knew of the Brunetti family, of course. Most of them are lawyers. I just didn’t remember this particular Brunetti.

Since there didn’t seem to be anything else to say, and I’m not one to ignore a life preserver flung my way, I nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Within what seemed like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, I’d had my police interview, answered the few questions allowed by my attorney, and was in the muddy red truck cab next to Jackson Lee Brunetti. I decided the cow manure smell wasn’t that bad at all.