Divas and Dead Rebels (23 page)

“So there’s no reason Monty would kill himself?” I asked Bitty when my mind wandered back to the subject at hand.

“Like I said, none that I can think of. Why so many questions? What is Cat up to now?”

“You were right. I promised I’d help her find out who killed Sturgis and why,” I said after a moment. “She thinks his murder is linked to her son’s death.”

“No!” Now Bitty looked astonished. “But how? I mean, Monty died a year and a half ago, and Sturgis only a week and a half ago. How could they be connected?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to find out. Catherine has her theories, of course, and some evidence she’s gathered that she’s going to share with me.”

Bitty perked up. “Evidence? What kind of evidence? You mean like bloody shoes or fingerprints or something like that?”

“I rather doubt it. If she had something like that, she’d have given it to the police. I hope.” I put my empty yogurt cup in Bitty’s trash compactor and moved to the sink to dump the spoon and wash my hands. Bitty followed me.

“So when do we start?”

“
We?
Have you got a mouse in your pocket, Cochise?”

“Funny girl. You know I always go along with you.”

“Unless it’s before noon or conflicts with your hair and nail appointment.”

Bitty said, “I have my standards, of course. So. When do we start?”

I dried my hands with a paper towel and surrendered to the inevitable. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll be here at nine.”

“Ten.”

“Nine thirty, and you have the coffee on.”

“Done.” Bitty smiled. “What fun!”

“Right. Can you be trusted not to tell anyone what we’re doing?”

Bitty made the motion of zipping her lips shut, and I rolled my eyes. “Like that’s ever worked before.”

“I won’t breathe a word, Trinket. I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” I asked, and she grinned as she held up her right hand with the pinky finger stuck out. I immediately reverted to third grade and curled my little finger around hers. “Honestly, I can’t believe us sometimes. Last time we did this, I didn’t have to worry about your forty-carat diamond slicing into my hand. Now—”

“Shut up and say it,” Bitty interrupted.

We locked eyes and said simultaneously, “I swear that if I break this promise I’ll cut off my pinky and bury it by an old stump under a full moon.”

We solemnly lifted our entwined hands in the air twice, then let go at the same time. Then we both burst into laughter.

“Oh,” I said after a moment, “we forgot to spit.”

“Don’t you dare, Trinket Truevine. Maria just cleaned this morning.”

“Ah, the mysterious, mythical Maria. I’m still not sure if she exists, or you just invented her to cover up a deep-seated obsession with cleaning.”

“Spit on my clean floor, and you’ll find out,” Bitty warned. “I think she installed hidden cameras, because she always seems to know how something got so dirty.”

“Tomorrow morning,” I reminded as I headed for the front door. “Coffee ready.”

“I’ll want a full report of your night with Kit,” said Bitty as she followed.

Just before the door shut behind me I said over my shoulder, “Ain’t gonna happen!”

By the time I went home,
showered, changed into comfortable clothes that I was pretty sure Kit hadn’t seen too many times, and put on make-up again, I was running late. Since I’m a properly reared Southern girl, I know better than to show up at someone’s house without a gift for the host. Fortunately, I had a lovely bottle of wine that both Kit and I liked, and even if it didn’t go with whatever he planned to serve for dinner that night, it wouldn’t go to waste.

Daylight Savings Time had ended already, so it was dark when I left the house. Daddy’s advice to lock my car doors and not stop for any hitchhikers still rang in my ears as I pulled out of our half circle driveway and onto blacktop road. Truevine Road winds back through countryside and eventually into Holly Springs if one wants a scenic route, but 301 Highway gets me there a lot faster. After leaving our road, there aren’t any streetlights again until closer to town. That never bothers me, because I’ve traveled this road all my life and know it like the back of my hand. It didn’t take long for me to get familiar with it again once I came back home.

While our house, Cherryhill, is about three miles outside the Holly Springs city limits, our post office address is still listed as Holly Springs. It’s been that way for as long as Truevines have been in Marshall County.

Kit lives in the middle of Holly Springs. He’s still looking for a house and a few acres out of town a little ways. I think the house he’s in now suits him just fine. It’s got that masculine feel to it despite the graceful lines of architecture that hail from an era long past.

I parked in his narrow driveway, and before the engine even died he was at my door, opening it for me, ready to envelope me in a warm embrace. See how lucky I am? How could I possibly resist a man who treats me like a special lady?

Kit Coltrane is six-four, and being taller than me is a definite plus. Not only that, his arms go all the way around me, and as I’m still battling at least fifteen extra pounds that have somehow homesteaded my five-nine frame, that’s another big plus.

Nuzzling my neck, he murmured, “I have a fire going and wine breathing. Let’s go inside.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice.

It’s not that I’m suggestible. I just know a good thing when I hear it.

Later that evening—yes, much later—we sat on a really cushy rug in front of the dwindling fire and talked. Kit told me about a parcel of land he’d found that might be just right for him, and I told him about moving a corpse in a laundry cart.

He stared at me. “Not again,” he said after a moment, and I had to nod.

“Yes. Sorry. You know how Bitty is. Nothing else would do.”

Kit slapped a hand to his forehead. “I don’t understand why both of you aren’t serving life at Parchman. If anyone else had done half the things the two of you have done just in the short time I’ve known you—”

“No, really, I’m fine. Thank you for asking,” I interrupted.

Groaning, he shook his head. “You do know that you don’t have to do every nutty thing she wants, right?”

“You’ve met Bitty, haven’t you?” I countered.

Check. My queen to his bishop. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then he looked up at me with a faint smile. Firelight reflected in his dark brown eyes.

“I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t insist on taking him to the football game,” he said wryly, and I nodded.

“It was suggested.” When he shot me a startled look I said, “Kidding. But that’s some of the gossip going around. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it yet.”

“So am I. I’ll have to talk to some of the vet techs and tell them they’re falling down on their job. Gossip is the glue that holds this town together.”

“Isn’t that true in every small town?”

Kit grinned. “Probably, but I’d have to say the gossip quality in Holly Springs is hard to beat these days. Murders, midnight skulkers, mobile corpses—just those three things alone elevate Holly Springs to the top of any list.”

I pointed out that the last mobile corpse had actually occurred in Oxford, but Kit failed to make the distinction. He shook his head.

“Nope. Still qualifies since two of Holly Springs’ finest citizens were responsible.”

“Ah, I see there are rules to this gossip game. I’ll have to brush up.”

He leaned forward to press his forehead to mine. My heart leaped, and my mouth got too dry to swallow as he murmured, “Just stay safe, sugar. I worry about you.”

There’s just something so nice about being made to feel special by someone who isn’t a blood relative. It’d been a long time since I’d felt this way, and I freely admit that I relished every moment. Why not? Even fifty-something women past their prime, but not their youthfulness, need to feel special.

Still, I felt I should say, “Oh, don’t worry about me. Everything always turns out fine.”

“Right,” he said wryly and planted a kiss on my forehead before he leaned back to shake his head again. “It’s all turned out fine so far, but one of these days, you ladies may run into something or someone you can’t escape. I can’t help but worry about that.”

I smiled. “The police finally gave Bitty back her pistol, so we’ll be armed if we run into any trouble.”

Kit groaned. “Is that supposed to be comforting? And how the devil did she get it back? Never mind. I know. Jackson Lee. He must really be in love to give in to her like that.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t give me back my pistol if I had one?” I couldn’t help asking.

“You’re not Bitty. If you were—well, I doubt I’d be in this relationship.”

Somehow, I found that very reassuring. It’s not that I view Bitty as competition, necessarily, but she’s always been the “star” of the show. I rather liked feeling that I was the star in this particular show.

Just as I was thinking about how to reward Kit for saying all the right things, my cell phone rang. Now, I’d resisted modern technology for as long as I could. If my well-meaning parents—and AT&T—hadn’t made it too easy to surrender, I’d have still been cell phone free that night, and Kit would have been an extremely happy man the next morning.

But then, maybe a murderer would have gone free, and that would have been too awful to think about.

Chapter 12

“Trinket,” said a husky voice I barely recognized as Catherine Moore’s once I dug my cell phone out of my purse and answered, “he knows!
Omigod
, he’s found out that I have proof of what he did . . .”

“Catherine,” I said quickly, “where are you? Are you alone?”

She gave a half-sob, half-laugh. “Aren’t I always? I’m locked in my bathroom. I think . . . I think he’s downstairs in my office.”

“Call nine-one-one immediately,” I said. “If someone is in your house—if it’s Breck Hartford or not—call the police!”

“They’d never get here in time. I have a gun. I know what he’s looking for . . . all the evidence against him. But he’s too late. All I have left is the evidence to give to you, and he won’t understand it but you will . . .
no!”

I heard a sudden loud banging, as if a fist against a door. Catherine screamed, and a loud bang like a gunshot nearly deafened me. There was a crash, then silence.

“Catherine,” I said several times before I realized that our connection was gone. I looked up at Kit, who’d sat up and was pulling on his shoes. “I’ll call her back. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s all a big mistake.”

I dialed her number twice and got the recording both times. Kit had already laced up his tennis shoes and was holding out his hand for me to take. He pulled me up and steadied me with his hand under my elbow.

“Call the Holly Springs police while I get my car keys. Do you know where she lives?”

I nodded. “Oxford.”

“Oh,” he said, and paused. “Call the Holly Springs police anyway. They can get through to the Oxford police much faster than we can.”

I got Sergeant Maxwell on the phone, and after I identified myself I told him, “I was on the phone with a friend in Oxford when someone broke into her house. Shots were fired. Can you help?”

He took down her name and cell phone number, then warned, “Do not attempt to get more involved, Miz Truevine. Do you understand me? I don’t want a single one of you Divas messing around in any more investigations.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I replied, “I understand you. But you are going to let me know if my friend is okay, right?”

Silence. Then, finally, a grudging, “Yeah. We’ll let you know.”

He hung up, and I looked at Kit. “Well, now what do I do? I can’t just sit here and wonder what’s happening, if she killed someone, or if someone killed her—oh lord. I’m getting just as bad as Bitty, aren’t I?”

Kit put out a hand to stop me since I was pacing the floor, and he folded me into his arms. “I’ll make some coffee. We may be up a while waiting on the police to let us know about Catherine.”

“Do you think I should call Bitty and let her know?” I asked as I went with him to his kitchen. “After all, she’s known Catherine a lot longer than I have.”

“Are they good friends?”

I had to think a minute. Then I said, “Not what I’d call good friends, but they’ve known each other a while.”

“Maybe you should wait until you know something definite to tell her,” Kit said as he measured out coffee beans into a grinder. “Right now all you could say is that she’s in some kind of trouble, and you don’t know if she’s okay or not.”

“True.” I leaned on the counter as he pressed the grinder top down, and it made a loud racket. I love the smell of freshly ground coffee. It always reminds me of mornings in my parents’ kitchen when it was warm and full of happy activity. Mama always made the coffee before daylight, and the rich aroma greeted us kids when we came downstairs for our breakfasts. It’s one of those comforting memories that can help me get through all the times when life is less than wonderful.