Dixie Divas (26 page)

“The best part is, most of it’s probably true,” Bitty said, linking one arm through his and one through mine to lead us back toward the crowd, “unless you’ve been talking to a few people I shall leave nameless. Naomi Spencer is one of them, a catty little thing with breast implants and a nose fixed so often she could be kin to Michael Jackson. Have you met her, by chance? She’s out here talking to a congressman. She’s the plastic Barbie with the bleached hair and personality of a cactus. I’ll introduce you. Lovely girl.”

Part of me wanted to pinch Bitty and part of me wanted to laugh. I’m sure Dr. Coltrane felt much the same way. But who can resist her?

Once Dr. Coltrane stood with a look on his face like a deer caught in headlights while Naomi Spencer chattered about being a cheerleader at Ole Miss, Bitty took me off to a relatively quiet corner.

“So?” she demanded, sounding rather like an indignant garter snake. “How many people other than Kit Coltrane have you asked about a connection between Philip and Sanders?”

“Not a single one,” I confessed promptly. “And you?”

Bitty looked taken aback. Indignance disappeared, replaced by self-defense. “Trinket, you know you’re much better than I am at that kind of thing. I tend to rattle on, and forget what I’m supposed to ask, while you have a way of asking things without people even realizing it.”

“Compliments get you nowhere with me. You should know that by now.”

“Only because you’re too cynical to ever believe any.”

“I prefer to think of it as pragmatic. Compliments are usually offered right before someone sticks their hand in your purse or sells you down the river.”

“If you weren’t so often right about that sort of thing, I’d continue this argument, but we really should talk to some of Philip’s former companions. Not Naomi Spencer. She’s got the mental capacity of a goose. Every day she wakes up, it’s a whole new world. I think you should talk to Representative Bellew. He knew Philip well, and he’s a Democrat. You two should get along famously.”

“I never discuss politics at social gatherings,” I said, but Bitty had stopped listening.

Before I could blink twice, I was being introduced to a stocky man in his mid to late forties. Russell Bellew has one of those mega-watt smiles that never quite reach their eyes that most politicians cultivate, but you usually don’t notice anyway because they’re dazzling you with the light of their presence and their brilliant wit. That talent should be considered a viable alternative to fossil fuel sources.

“Why, Miz Truevine,” Bellew said while I wished I’d brought sunglasses, “I’m always glad to meet a constituent.”

Before Bitty could slither off, I grabbed her arm, smiled at Bellew, and said, “I’m not registered to vote yet, but Bitty is.”

Some of the wattage dimmed in his smile, but ever vigilant, he said he’d be glad to send someone around to register me with the Democratic party while I renewed my God-given right to exercise my privilege as an American to make the world a better place.

“Why, I’m sure Trinket would appreciate that,” Bitty said while she tried to detach her arm from my grip without anyone noticing, “and I’ll be glad to give you her phone number and address if you like. You know, she’s been talking about becoming a Jehovah’s Witness, and I know that you’re a deacon over there at First Baptist Church.”

Bellew got a look on his face like Bitty had just said I was a member in good standing at the Church of the Damned. If there’s anything a good Southern Baptist likes, it’s saving the soul of a misinformed Catholic or any other religion that isn’t Baptist but certainly should be.

Belatedly, I recalled there’s no way I can ever beat Bitty at this sort of thing. She’s been a practicing Southern Belle since birth. Bitty can insult people so tactfully they never know they’ve just been compared to camel spit unless someone kindly takes them aside and explains it to them. I’ve seen her do it. And I’ve also seen her put people in situations that hardened prisoners in Parchman would fear. I’d overstepped my abilities and I knew it. I released her arm immediately.

Bitty smiled at Bellew. “I was just kidding about Trinket becoming a Jehovah’s Witness, but I’m sure she’d love talking to you and hearing what all you’ve been up to down there in Jackson lately. Trinket is very civic minded.”

Feeling a blend of awe and envy, I watched her sail off toward her next victim. It’s always humbling being in the presence of a master.

My conversation with Russell Bellew resulted in little more than impatience and a strain on my courtesy level. Fortunately, after listening to intricacies of the state senate’s stand on the waste disposal bill and how the Republicans were stonewalling at every turn, a man standing nearby joined in our conversation.

“Philip Hollandale wrote that bill,” he said. “Only because one of his biggest contributors owns the land where the new landfill is supposed to go.”

My attention immediately transferred to this new source. “Hollandale seems to have had so many big contributors,” I said. “It’s my understanding that he did very little for the ordinary citizens, and everything for corporations that helped elect him. Like most politicians.”

“Most people don’t understand the immense amount of money it takes to get elected,” the Democratic representative protested, “or how much time is taken up campaigning. If it weren’t for our big contributors, we’d never get any bills written or passed between elections.”

“So Senator Hollandale was looking out for his constituents,” I said to the man whose name I didn’t know, “by promoting the new landfill?”

“Not really. Looking out for himself, mostly.”

Both men seemed to agree on that, nodding sagely, and then Bellew wandered off to talk to a woman whom I thought to be Naomi Spencer or a lookalike.

“I’m Trinket Truevine,” I said to the dissenter, and with a smile, I held out my hand.

Returning the smile, he said, “John Carr Daniels. Most of my friends call me Jack.”

“Is that a description or a warning?”

“Sometimes both.” His smile widened into a grin, and I laughed.

“You know, Senator Hollandale was my ex-brother-in-law, but I have to admit, never one of my favorite people. Not because of any particular party affiliation, but because his policies were far too often self-serving.”

Jack Daniels nodded. “I’m an Independent, and I can tell you that even if Hollandale had been a Moderate, I’d never have voted for him. Crooked as a snake’s back.”

“I’d heard from Bitty that he used to walk a fine line, but then, no one in the family could believe she’d actually gone and married a Republican anyway. Truevines have been Democrats and Methodists since the First Crusade. Are you from Holly Springs?”

“Ashland. I don’t usually talk politics at parties. A lot of people don’t often agree on much these days.”

“I certainly understand that.” I paused; then I said, “I heard the senator had taken to visiting Sherman Sanders, and wondered what on earth he’d be doing that for since Sanders isn’t likely to be a big donor.”

“Probably has something to do with that new Nissan plant going to be built in a couple of years. They’ve been looking at land around here, and down around Jackson and all points in between, as well as up in Tennessee. We’ve got the edge because our taxes are lower and we’re still close to Memphis. The railroad’s close by, truck terminals are all around.”

“What could that have to do with Sherman Sanders?”

“He owns land that backs up to Highway 7, a big chunk of it. Mostly pasture and already pretty flat there, costs less to grade it and build. I guess Hollandale thought he could talk Sanders into selling, wave a couple of carrots in front of him, but that old man’s got a lot of horse trader in him.”

“But wouldn’t Sanders make a lot of money if he sold to developers?”

Daniels shrugged. “Sure. But people like Sanders don’t care as much about the money as they do their privacy. And besides, he’s smart enough to know that Hollandale would cut himself a bigger piece of the pie than Sanders would get, kickbacks, stuff like that. If he wanted to sell, he sure didn’t need Philip Hollandale to act as go-between.”

“Was an offer ever made to Sanders?”

“Not by Nissan. They haven’t made any offers to anyone yet. Still mulling it over.”

“So Sanders wouldn’t have turned the senator down, because there’d be no solid offer to consider.”

“That sounds logical,” Daniels said, and I saw from the way he looked at me that he had a good idea where I was going with this line of thought.

I thought about Sherman Sanders and how he’d enjoyed being “courted” by Bitty to sign up with the Historic Register. Maybe he’d been playing that game with Hollandale and it’d gotten out of hand. One word led to another, a fight broke out, and the senator was killed.

But thinking that and proving it were two entirely different things.

“Well,” I said casually, “when Sanders comes back home from vacation or wherever he is, he might just surprise all of us and sell off that land, take all the money, and go live in Mexico with a pretty señorita.”

Jack Daniels laughed, and we chatted a little longer before being distracted by the hidden string quartet playing
Danny Boy
so Dr. Johnston could show off his baritone. After the applause faded, he invited everyone to join in a second round of the song, and of course, we all did.

While I’ve always fancied I have a decent voice, though more suited to country-western than Irish ballads, the big surprise was Naomi Spencer’s clear, soaring soprano.

“Well, well,” Bitty said behind me, “Barbie can sing as well as blow. Implants must increase lung capacity. No wonder Philip paid for them.”

“Do I detect a hint of malice, dear cousin?”

“Just a soup can of it.”

We both laughed at that, my having mispronounced the French word
soup-çon
in a home economics cooking class we’d shared in high school. It’s still our favorite pronunciation of it. As I’ve said before, it’s funny what middle-age women find amusing.

“How’s your chat with the foot doctor going?” I asked.

“I do believe he likes me,” Bitty said demurely. “He’s asked me to dinner next week.”

That widened my eyes. “Bitty, he’s probably not even forty!”

“Oh Trinket, you know forty is the new thirty, so fifty is the new forty. A few years’ difference is nothing these days.”

“Uh, ten or twelve years are nothing? What could you possibly have in common?”

Bitty just smiled. I rolled my eyes. “Bitty Hollandale, it’s too soon after your last divorce to go hunting down another husband, and I know you—you marry every man you sleep with just so you’ll still be a ‘good girl.’ Technically, anyway.”

“Who said I’m going to sleep with him? I enjoy the hunt much more than I do the capture most of the time. Men are much nicer, more gallant and attentive in pursuit than they are in bed. I think it’s the thrill of the chase thing. They’re born hunters, after all. Once they’re well-fed, they tend to get fat and lazy. Or look for new prey.”

In a way, her skewed logic has a kernel of truth. Of course, not all men are like that, just like not all women are manipulative. But people too often do tend to get comfortable in marriage, and forget the key elements that brought them together in the first place. That’s my observation, anyway, and since I was guilty of that to a certain extent but it wasn’t the real sticking point, I’m probably not a good spokesman. Spokeswoman? Spokesperson. Mercy. All this politically correct stuff can be very tiring and annoying.

“Well,” I said, “just so you don’t take it too far. I think his receptionist is very fond of him.”

“Melody?” Bitty looked surprised. “I’m sure you’re wrong about that. She’s the one who suggested we get better acquainted, said we have a lot of common interests since we both love antiques and old houses.”

“Oh. Maybe I’m wrong. It was just my impression, but then, everything’s a little hectic. At any rate, I still don’t think you’re ready for another relationship.”

“Trinket, you worry too much. And since I’m not allowed to discuss your relationships, or lack of them, it seems unfair we have to discuss mine when I don’t want to.”

She had me there.

“Fair enough,” I said.

Bitty held up her right hand, little finger bent, and I laughed as we did the pinky promise thing. Really, for women in our fifties, we can be so adamantly juvenile. Maybe my parents are on to something. Maybe I’m the one who needs to change perspective, take life a little less seriously most of the time, learn to enjoy the ludicrous more, worry less about things I can’t possibly change, focus on the good things and deal with the bad as they come up. It certainly seems to work for my parents, and certainly Bitty is more youthful than most people our age. In a way that’s not dependent upon a plastic surgeon, too.

Of course, Bitty is the consummate Southern belle, and that lasts until death. My sister is more a Southern belle than I am, and that’s the main difference that’s defined us since birth. I’m a woman who prefers denim to lace, plain speech to coy implications. Bitty and Emerald have perfected the fine art of flirting. I suck at it. Not that I don’t occasionally find myself trying it, just to see if I’ve gotten any better, or out of an insane urge to make a complete fool of myself, but it’s nearly always a failure. I’m the poster personality for Don’t Try This At Home.

However, I do have my compensations. Most of the time, I’m the cool head in an emergency, I tend to be organized with possessions even when my thought processes muddle up, and I still have the dress I wore to my Senior Prom. I also still have the very first vacuum cleaner I ever bought, a Sears Kenmore, of course, and it’s in excellent working condition. Bitty changes vacuum cleaners more often than she does shoes, although she has no idea how to turn one on. That’s not a criticism. It’s just a fact. She’s been fortunate to have people around her who do know how to work vacuum cleaners, and they’re hourly so they don’t mind at all.

At any rate, we agreed the evening was a success, as I had gotten a clue to what Philip may have been after with Sanders, and Bitty had fresh meat for her relationship grinder.