Divas and Dead Rebels (11 page)

“So what you’re wanting from us,” began Deelight Tillman, “is an idea on what to do next?”

“Right,” said Rayna with a nod. “Should Bitty and Trinket go down and inform the Oxford police how and where they found the professor—which, of course, entails giving them the reason they moved him—or should they just wait to see what happens?”

The consensus was almost unanimous: Wait to see what happened next.

“After all,” said Deelight, “it’s not as if anyone knows he’s already dead. It’s best just to let it play out. I’m sure someone will find him soon, and then the police can change their investigation to homicide instead of a kidnapping.”

“Keep in mind,” Gaynelle said, “that while the police are investigating the wrong kind of crime, a dangerous murderer is getting away.”

We all looked at each other in silence. Gaynelle had a point. By delaying, maybe we would give a killer enough time to make a complete getaway.

It was Bitty who said, “Nonsense. The murderer won’t get any farther than if the professor had been found an hour after the murder. It’s not time that matters so much in something like this, as it is who had the motive, means and opportunity. Maybe the killer is feeling safer by the hour, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get away. Police have a way of finding out things, and besides—I’m pretty sure I know who killed him.”

For a moment no one said anything. I’m sure we were all equally stunned by her calm announcement. Finally I dredged up the courage to ask, “So who killed Sturgis?”

Bitty said calmly, “His wife, of course. It’s always the wife.”

Gaynelle said flatly, “That kind of blanket statement is unproven by facts. I doubt it can be applied to every murder case, Bitty.”

“Nine times out of ten, then.”

“Bitty,” I said gently, “don’t you remember when you were a suspect in your husband’s death?”

“Of course, I do, Trinket. I’m the one out of ten who happened to be innocent. And he was my ex-husband anyway.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. Gaynelle cleared her throat, and Rayna drained her glass of wine. Several Divas followed Rayna’s lead.

“Do you really think so, Bitty?” asked Cady Lee Forsythe. “I met Emily Sturgis once at an alumni fund raiser. She seemed like a mousy little thing.”

I thought of the professor’s wife a bit differently. She hadn’t seemed at all mousy to me. But what did I know? After all, I’d only seen her in a crowded bar.

“I don’t know about mousy, but she’s definitely got the motive and opportunity,” Bitty replied as she inspected her manicured nails with a frown. “I’m not sure about this color. What do you think, Divas?”

“What’s her motive?” asked Rayna, frowning at Bitty, who stopped inspecting her nails to reply.

“For one thing, he’s a horrid little man with a big ego and small brain. For another thing, he must be doing something wrong, or he wouldn’t have been murdered. Nice people just don’t usually get murdered for no apparent reason. Do they?”

I figured most of us must consider Bitty’s last question to be rhetoric since no one answered. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of a fussy ormolu clock on the fireplace’s carved mantel and the rather wheezy snorts from a fat pug.

Deelight Tillman finally broke the silence. “And the opportunity?” she asked. “Do you think his wife killed him right after his meeting with you?”

Bitty blinked at her. “Why would I think that?”

“Well . . . because you and Trinket found him dead only a few hours after your meeting with him that morning. So somewhere in there is when he had to be . . . you know. Murdered.”

“How odd. Well, I suppose Emily could have done it during that time,” said Bitty with a thoughtful nod of her head. “I mean, it’s quite possible, don’t you think?”

“Anything is possible,” said Gaynelle firmly, “but not everything is probable.”

“I hate it when you talk in riddles,” Bitty said crossly.

“She
means
,” I said, “that Emily Sturgis may have had the time, but it’s not likely that she’s the murderer.”

Bitty looked faintly astonished. “Why on earth would you say that, Gaynelle? I had no idea you knew Emily that well.”

“I don’t know her that well, but I do know that she’s a small woman and not at all capable of overpowering a man in order to strangle him with a coat hanger.”

“Sturgis isn’t—wasn’t—that big a man. Heavens,
I
could have taken him if I’d tried.”

“Bitty!” three Divas chorused simultaneously.

I rolled my eyes and muttered into my empty tea glass, “I swear, she’s bound and determined to end up in prison one day.”

While Bitty frowned at me, Gaynelle said practically, “I’m quite sure the police forensics team will investigate all possibilities. Really, it’s out of your hands now, so the best thing to be done is nothing. Do we all agree on that?”

Of course we all agreed, even Bitty, who suddenly seemed to find conversation with her pug more fascinating than the discussion of murder.

That should have been my first clue.

Chapter 6

It’s always amazed me how often I can be so wrong, yet still manage to escape serious harm. I’m not necessarily referring to physical harm, although that’s always a big consideration. Psychological trauma can be infinitely more frightening. I think it’s the whole “waiting for the other shoe to drop” aspect that most scares me—the fear of what’s to come, the unknown factor of . . . well, Bitty and what she might say or do.

Bitty hasn’t always been wrong in what she says or does, but her timing is quite frequently amiss. I say this only because it’s true.

A prime example of this? Bitty’s insistence upon returning to the scene of the crime. Or more accurately, to the scene of
our
crime.

Two days after our emergency Diva meeting, Professor Sturgis was found in the back of the moving truck. By then he was in really poor condition, according to the county coroner’s office. I figured they knew what they were talking about. He hadn’t looked so good when I’d last seen him, either.

“We have to go down there immediately, Trinket,” Bitty called to say early that morning. I held my cell phone out from my ear and rolled my eyes. Cell phones can be a nuisance. I’m not always in a position to speak freely.

“Hold on, Bitty,” I said, and looked over at my mother who was busily creating a pan of lasagna larger than our oven could hold. “Mama, do you still need me? I’ll be back in a minute.”

Mama looked at me with her brows lifted, and I knew what was coming: “You tell Bitty that whatever it is she’s got in her mind to do—
don’t.
It’s too near the holidays to have to spend time in jail.”

“I’ll tell her,” I promised, and as I left the kitchen, I dutifully repeated Mama’s warning. “Don’t do it, Bitty. Mama says it’s too near the holidays to go to jail.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket. You didn’t tell her what I said, did you?”

“Since I don’t know sign language, and you didn’t hear me divulge your risky plans, you have to know I didn’t. Are you crazy? Never mind. That was a rhetorical question. I know you’re crazy. Haven’t you ever heard of playing it safe?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. We need to get down to Oxford this morning so the boys don’t end up as suspects.”

I put my hand over my eyes. I don’t know why. Blocking out Bitty is impossible even when she’s five miles away.

“How can they end up as suspects?” I asked her. “There’s absolutely nothing to tie them to the professor other than Clayton being one of his many, many students.”

“One of his students who was flunking.”

“Nobody murders someone because of bad grades, Bitty. I mean, it just isn’t done.”

“Just because it’s not usually done doesn’t mean it isn’t
ever
done, Trinket.”

She had me there. I uncovered my eyes and looked down at the floor. Brownie sat there staring at me suspiciously. Sometimes I think he understands everything that’s said, and at other times I’m convinced he hasn’t a clue.

“She’s crazy, you know,” I said to him, and his tail thumped once against the floorboards. That encouraged me and I continued, “She convinces herself that danger lurks just behind the next door and gets me all involved, and it usually turns out that we only make it worse.”

Brownie cocked his head to one side and perked up his ears. I’m sure he knew exactly what I meant.

“Who are you talking to now, Trinket?” Bitty demanded. “I can hear what you’re saying about me, you know.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know. I was talking to Brownie. He keeps secrets pretty well most of the time. Although it’s not exactly a secret that you’re crazy.”

Bitty huffed into the phone, and I smiled. If she was going to drag me off into some foolish enterprise, the very least she could do was let me annoy her.

“I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up,” she said after a moment, and I sighed.

“Okay. I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things, but I guess I’d better go with you to keep you from doing something stupid.”

“You mean, from doing something like moving a corpse?”

Sometimes Bitty doesn’t play fair at all.

“Yes,” I said a bit irritably. “Something like that.”

“I’ve got goosebumps of anticipation. Be ready. Oh, and wear something nice.”

She hung up before I could ask her why I had to wear nice clothes. It’s not that I don’t have anything nice. I do. Unfortunately, my nice clothes are not only out of fashion by now, but two sizes too small. I’ve lost weight, but not enough to take me back twenty years. Or twenty pounds. So I ended up wearing a nice pair of slacks and a sweater set suitable for my part-time job working at Silk Promises. It would have to do.

Of course, Bitty disagreed.

She eyed me when I came out of the house and got into her black Mercedes. She calls it the Franklin Benz, since her third husband’s divorce settlement purchased it, and his name was Franklin.

“Is that what you consider nice, Trinket?” she asked after scanning me from head to toe.

“Yes. It is. I don’t want to hear what you consider nice. This will have to do. My jewels are being cleaned, and my furs are in cold storage. In Russia. Besides, you’re wearing a gussied-up pug. Anything I wear is only anti-climactic.”

“I don’t
wear
Chen Ling. She is my companion, not an accessory.”

“Really.” I returned the inspection, my gaze lingering deliberately long on Chen Ling’s diamond dog collar. “So you say. And yet . . . her outfit matches yours.”

That was true. Along with the diamonds, Chen Ling wore a deep purple velvet dog dress, with a small tulle bow anchored with what looked like a huge crystal bead on the front. She sat in smug comfort in a cashmere-lined basket seat-belted to the middle of the leather front seat. I was left enough room on the passenger side if I didn’t want to use my arms. Bitty wore a deep purple velvet outfit, matching stilettos, I was sure, and her diamond bracelet caught the sunlight in tiny refractions so that it looked like she was plugged in to electricity. I felt definitely dowdy next to these two sparkling creatures.

“You’re blinding me,” I said, and slammed shut the passenger side door. “Did you bring enough batteries for those floodlights you’re wearing?”

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“Don’t be a snob. These are nice navy slacks, and the sweater set is Sag Harbor. I look very nice.”

Bitty started the Benz. “Well, thank heavens you’re pretty, or you’d never get away with that outfit where we’re going.”

My head began to buzz. I wasn’t sure if my reaction was because she’d actually given me a back-handed compliment, or because the phrase “where we’re going” held a sudden connotation of danger.

“Where are we going?”

“Why, didn’t I tell you? To Oxford.’

“I know
that
, Bitty. Where in Oxford? I thought we were going to see the boys?”

“Well, that too, of course, but first we’re going to the professor’s house. Alumni, staff, and friends are invited to a sort of wake for Sturgis.”

The buzzing in my head got so loud I looked around for a bee hive. Nope. All in my head. That was scary enough. Just the thought of me, Bitty and Chitling at a wake for Professor Sturgis was enough to catapult me over the edge right into panic.

I grabbed hold of the car’s expensive dashboard and braced my feet against the floorboards as if I were being dragged. It was my metaphorical protest since Bitty had the Benz rolling fairly fast down our driveway.

“No,” I said. “I’m not going. Let me out here. I’ll walk back up to the house.”

“Don’t be silly, Trinket. We need to show proper respect for the dead. You don’t want people to talk about us, do you?”

“Bitty, I’m quite certain people talk about us no matter what we do now, so that’s not exactly a great concern of mine. Showing proper respect for the dead should include not rolling him around in a laundry cart, as well as popping up at his house later as if we knew nothing about his death.”