Dixie Divas (29 page)

“And find out what really happened to Philip,” I said.

“That, too. Isn’t this nice? I think things are going to work out just fine. Isn’t that right, precious?”

Since I knew the last had to be directed toward Chitling, I asked, “How reliable is Serena Sawyer if she’s had all the life sucked out of her?”

“Well, just because she staggers around like a zombie doesn’t mean her eyesight’s gone. She’s got four boys, each less than a year apart. That’s enough to suck the life out of anyone.”

I felt sure that had to be true, and spared a moment of gratitude for my only daughter.

Then I said, “I hope Sanders is able to clear things up, though he may not know anything at all, or want to tell it if he does.”

“Well, he’ll just have to tell. That’s all there is to it.”

Since Bitty usually gets her way, I was sure Sanders will end up telling everything. But I cautiously said, “I hope so.”

“I’ll pick you up at ten, though I may be running a little late if Chen Ling’s tummy is upset again.”

“Pick me up for what?”

“Have you been listening at all, Trinket? Sanders has been seen. You know as much as he loves The Cedars, he’s got to be staying out there, or at least close by keeping an eye on it.”

“I’m not going back out there, Bitty.”

“It won’t take long at all.”

“Then the police can go check it out.”

“For heaven’s sake, Trinket, do you think Sergeant Maxwell cares one fig about getting The Cedars on the historical register? That’s all I want, for Sanders to sign that authorization and application, and then if he goes to jail The Cedars won’t be bulldozed for some car lot!”

I sighed. Trips to Bitty World can sound logical, but more often than not leave the visitor knee-deep in trouble. I know this. Yet I heard myself say, “All right, but if he’s not there—”

“We’ll leave immediately,” Bitty promised.

When we hung up, I laid my head down on the dining room table and thought about the years I’d spent in the hospitality industry and all the unexpected crises that could and did pop up. There were occasions when occupied rooms were given to guests before the original guests were checked out, so bellmen stumbled into intimate situations none of them appreciated. Before the advent of the key card, keys broke off in locks, were left on restaurant tables, dropped down elevator shafts, and once, became lodged in the private area of a guest’s body. Don’t ask. Drunk guests had sex in elevators and passed out for the next passengers to find. You wouldn’t believe things guests—and a few employees—have been known to do in hotel swimming pools despite the obvious presence of security cameras.

Yet all that I’d encountered in my years paled in comparison to Bitty’s latest escapades. I should have realized earlier that she’d had a lot of time to perfect her ability to make insanity seem logical. At least temporarily.

I heard my father call me about the same time the grandfather clock chimed six. Ah. The evening news. My parents may want me to fill in a few details I’d felt best to leave out when telling them about the senator’s funeral. I went in to the living room and sat down in a chair close to the TV.

Wouldn’t you know it? We rated the lead story. What I’d thought was sunlight had been strobe lights from TV cameras trained inside the chapel doors to highlight departing dignitaries and mourners. Of course, it’d caught the squabble between Bitty and Patrice, though it went by much faster than it’d seemed to then. Bitty came off as cool and calm, Patrice as a berserk harpy, which must certainly delight Bitty. While the cameras didn’t detect the presence of my foot in Patrice’s path, I knew the exact moment of impact. Patrice’s headlong rush turned into an arm-wheeling attempt to stay upright. She looked like a deranged pinwheel, and I freely admit I felt a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

After the funeral clip segued into a story about obesity in the South, Mama said, “I’m glad you tripped her. I never did care much for that girl.”

I didn’t ask how she knew. Maybe it was my smile that gave me away.

When Bitty got to Cherryhill at five after ten the next morning, I was still sitting at the kitchen table with my third cup of coffee and the remnants of a cheese and bacon omelet. Mama and Daddy were out at the barn reacquainting themselves with the cat crowd, and I was dressed, fed, but definitely not ready to go. I eyed Bitty with what I hoped was a disapproving glare.

“This is insanity,” I said. “No good will come of this,” I said. “There will be trouble,” I said.

Bitty waved away my objections and poured herself a cup of coffee. Chen Ling squatted on the kitchen floor like a grumpy Buddha. She wore a plaid sweater and jaunty cap. Bitty wore a plaid sweater and jaunty cap. I wore Lee jeans and a gray pullover sweatshirt with Ole Miss on the front. If I ever get another dog, it will surely be the worst-dressed canine in Holly Springs.

“Where are Aunt Anna and Uncle Eddie?” Bitty asked.

“You must have parked out front. They’re serving buffet at the Chez Cat café. Is that redundant?”

“Probably. But it has a certain rhythm. Are you ready?”

“No. But I can see that no amount of reasoning will persuade you to give up this crazy notion.”

“You’re quite perceptive. Isn’t that right, precious?”

“If that dog ever answers,” I said, getting up from the table and putting my plate and cup in the sink to wash off, “she’ll probably tell you her name is Chitling, not precious.”

“
Chen
Ling. You’re only trying to irritate me, but it won’t work. This is just something we have to do.”

“This is just something you want to do. The police are probably out there as we speak.”

“Then why are you so ill-tempered? As long as I can get Sanders to sign these papers, and the police have Philip’s murderer, we’ll all be happy.”

“Except Sanders,” I said, then added, “and poor Tuck. Maybe the mule.”

“I knew you were an animal lover.”

Sometimes Bitty makes my head hurt.

The police were not, of course, at The Cedars. That would be far too easy. Bitty parked her car in front of the house, I immediately handed over Chen Ling, who hadn’t liked riding in my lap anymore than I’d liked her riding there since she also seems to have a weak bladder, and we got out. It was a nice day, with a brisk wind, lots of sunshine, and bursts of spring color popping up everywhere. Except in Sanders’ yard. Ruts had dried into hard clay. Chickens must have flown the coop since there wasn’t even a feather lying around. Fields stretching on each side and behind the house sported a carpet of yellow buttercups and white dogwood.

Oddly, the house seemed to have settled in on itself like a tattered lady, sunlight picking out faded paint and flaws. The front doors were shut and probably locked. All windows closed up tightly. The porch lantern creaked back and forth as far as the tether chains allowed.

A sudden loud bang made Bitty and I both jump and squeal. We grabbed each other, with Chitling squashed in between us. A good thing, or my boobs might have put out Bitty’s eyes. I’ve been wearing a new bra that has underwires and a lift that defies gravity.

“What made that noise?” Bitty squeaked.

“It didn’t sound like a gunshot. I think it might have been a door slamming shut.”

Bitty didn’t let go of my arm, though we had separated when Chitling peed on our shoes. Her voice shook a little. “Then that means he’s here. Hiding somewhere.”

Detaching herself and clutching a soggy pug to her ample chest, Bitty took a few steps closer to the front porch. “Yoo hoo, Mr. Sanders, it’s Bitty Hollandale. Are you here? I’ve been worried about you. Mr. Sanders? Are you all right?”

The only reply was wind through the cedar trees, a sighing sound. I don’t know why, but I suddenly thought of Carl Sandburg and his lovely poetry. Or was it Longfellow? Something about the wind through the trees being a lovely melody.

Bitty took my attention from poetry to the present by turning around and saying, “I think the door’s open.”

“I’m not going in there.”

“You’ll let me go in alone?”

“Heavens, no. You have Chitling.”

“Trinket, you have a mean streak in you a mile wide. Now come inside with me. What if he’s dead?”

“I’m not falling for that again. Fool me once, shame on—”

“Get up here right now!” Bitty stomped her size five foot on the hard bare clay.

I began to understand how she’d managed to keep two wild young boys in line during their younger years, when everyone else in town leaned toward cages and rope to corral Clayton and Brandon. Bitty can look positively fierce. And when she uses that no-nonsense tone, it’s easy to see the iron inside her lace glove.

Rather meekly, I followed her up onto the front porch. It didn’t help that Bitty was right. The front door was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. A creepy feeling came over me.

“Bitty, I really don’t like this. Let’s go. Please.”

“We’ve come this far. I know he’s hiding in here. I’ve got the papers in the car, and once he’s signed them, I won’t ask you again to come out here with me.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“Well, he’ll probably be in jail soon anyway,” she said after a moment.

Despite the bright sunshine outside, the interior was dim, musty, with that closed-in smell old houses get if they’re not kept aired out and clean. Dust covered tables, floors, picture frames and statues. I couldn’t help it. My gaze strayed to the table that had held the heavy bronze statue used to bash in Philip Hollandale’s head. It was gone, of course. Taken by the police as evidence when Jackson Lee allowed us to tell them what we’d seen. So far, most of the crime details were being kept quiet, but you know how things have a way of getting out. It would soon be all over Marshall County, if it wasn’t already. Too many people knew.

We stood in the foyer and Bitty called for Sanders again. There was no answer, but I’d not expected one. Bitty seemed to think she might be able to coax him to come out, but if he’d indeed killed the senator, that was unlikely. If Sherman Sanders had any intention of surrendering himself to the police, hequote d have already done it.

“There has to be dozens of places in here to hide,” I said to Bitty when she insisted we go a little deeper into the house. “He could be anywhere. He’s not going to come out, Bitty.”

“He might.
Yoo hoo, Mr. Sanders
. . . if I leave these papers on the table here, you can just sign them and I’ll come back later. It will save your house, you know. No one can take it away from you as long as it’s on the historic register, I’ll make sure of that. It can be held in trust.”

One thing I’ll say about Bitty, she’s tenacious. And single-minded when she wants to be.

Another noise sounded, muffled this time, and Bitty turned quickly, startled. She must have relaxed her grip on Chen Ling, because the pug hit the floor at a dead run, nails clacking against wood floors and bowed legs scrabbling. Barking like a Rottweiler, the dog headed for the back of the house with Bitty calling after her.

“Chen Ling! Come back, precious! Oh, come back here!” Bitty’s size five feet trotted after the dog, whose jaunty cap had come off when she hit the floor and now lay in the dining room. I shook my head and went to pick up the cap. Then I went back into the main parlor with its ornately carved walnut mantelpiece, and stared up at the crystal candlesticks and oval-framed photos. Grim faces stared back, women in stark, high-necked gowns and hair pulled back looking weary and resolute. Men in starched white collars, vests, and long-tailed jackets had whiskers in varying lengths, and looked as grim as the women.

That annoying tickle came back. There just seemed to be something awry, and I had no idea why I felt that way. I’d been in here twice. Neither time for very long, and neither time had I wanted to be here.

Bitty’s voice came from the back of the house, and the pug’s loud barking sounded like it had gotten farther away. We’d end up being here until dark if I didn’t go help her catch that dog. How could a ten pound, bow-legged, pigeon-toed dog wearing a bib and sweater run so fast?

“I’m coming to help, Bitty,” I called, and turned away from the mantel.

A burst of light flashed in front of my eyes, I had a brief sensation of falling, and then everything went dark.

Chapter Fourteen

One reason I hate funerals is because it’s too easy for me to imagine I’m the one closed up in a wooden box, no matter how beautiful the wood and ornate handles. It’s not the thought of death that gets me; it’s the closed-in space. I think the Native Americans have the best idea, the ones who put their dead up on scaffolds to let nature take its course. It must be peaceful, with the wind and sky all around, instead of being planted in the ground like a potato.

One thing about potatoes—if you’ve ever been unlucky enough to smell a pile of rotting potatoes, it’s a smell you don’t forget.

That’s what I woke up to, a stench like rotting potatoes all around me in a darkness far too similar to the grave. The first thought that went through my mind was that I shouldn’t have laughed during Philip Hollandale’s memorial service, that I should have taken the preacher’s warning more seriously. Obviously, I must be dead and buried in a grave that smelled of rotten potatoes.

Then, of course, I realized I must not be dead. For one thing, there weren’t any flames or the stench of sulphur. And no deceased family members guarding the gates with pitchforks. Sad to say, the Truevine family has buried its share of rascals that St. Peter would never allow through heaven’s gates.

My head hurt, my mouth was dry, and the silence too heavy. I put a hand to my head, felt something wet, and tried not to cry. Truth is, I was scared. The burst of light in front of my eyes had been eerily similar to the time I’d been accidentally hit in the head with a softball. I’d had the same reaction then, too. Only I had awakened with emergency employees sticking their fingers into my eyes and asking if I was all right.