Divas and Dead Rebels (25 page)

Kit got up from his chair and said, “I’ll check with them and see if they’ve found out anything yet.”

He’d gotten about three feet when there was a commotion at the front door. I wasn’t that surprised to hear a familiar voice demand to know what had happened to his “sweet little lady.”

Jackson Lee Brunetti is a tall, dark, and handsome attorney in Holly Springs, and he’s absolutely crazy about my cousin. They make a funny-looking couple, he so tall and dark and Bitty so petite and blonde, but they get along famously. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who thinks everything Bitty does is either cute, sweet, or perfectly legal. If he has to admit it may be illegal, he defends Bitty anyway.

I’m used to seeing Jackson Lee in jeans, a work shirt, and cowboy boots since he owns a nice-size ranch in the area, or dressed in expensive Italian suits for court. The Jackson Lee who appeared in Bitty’s entrance hall wore a pajama shirt, sweat pants, and untied Gucci sports shoes. No socks. He looked wild-eyed until he spied Bitty in the living room.

“Sugar bun!”

Bitty quickly pulled off the blue cap and patted her hair into place. “Come on in, honey. I look just awful and shouldn’t let you in at all, you know. Why are you here?”

“My secretary called. She heard from her cousin that the police had been called to your address for a possible break-in.”

“And you just rushed out in the middle of the night to save me, you sweet thing?”

I swear, if Jackson Lee had a tail, he’d have been wagging it, he was so obviously happy to see her unharmed.

“Darlin’, you know I’d walk across hot coals for you,” he said, giving her a big hug that lifted her from the floor. “So what happened?” he asked when he set her down.

“Oh, it was just Trinket and Kit breaking in, not a real burglar.”

“Lord, you didn’t shoot at them, did you?”

Bitty put her still-gloved hands on her hips. “You know I didn’t. You made me lock up my gun in the safe. By the time I could have gotten it, real burglars would have had everything out in the street. It’s silly to have a gun and not be able to get to it.”

Jackson Lee looked relieved. “Just think, though, sugar, that if you’d had your gun on your nightstand tonight, you might have shot poor Trinket.”

Poor Trinket
sat up at that bit of information and thanked her lucky stars that Jackson Lee had enough influence over Bitty to keep her unarmed. Most of the time.

I said that aloud and Bitty turned to look at me in surprise. “But I thought you felt better when I take along my pistol.”

“Since I’m rarely consulted before the fact, I try to make the best of it once I find out you’re wagging along a cannon in your purse.”

Bitty looked bewildered. “But I have a permit, I practice at the shooting range—or in the back cow lot of Jackson Lee’s pasture—and I’ve never shot anyone by accident. Why are you so against it?”

“For one thing, I’ve lost twenty percent hearing in my right ear from being too close when you decided to shoot at someone, and for another thing—you’ve never shot anyone, period. Even when you’re aiming at them.”

“Honestly, Trinket, sometimes you’re very annoying.” She turned to look up at Jackson Lee again. “Sugar, we really need to find out about our friend Catherine who lives down in Oxford. Think you could get that information for us?”

While asking, Bitty smoothed the lapels of Jackson Lee’s pajama top and flicked away imaginary lint from his sleeve. I could see him melt into a gooey puddle of “I’ll do whatever you want, baby” right before our eyes. Trust Bitty to find the quickest and most effective way of finding out what was happening to Catherine.

Jackson Lee was given the details, Catherine’s full name, her phone number and address, and disappeared for a short time with the two policemen who had answered the earlier 911 call. When he came back, I saw from his face that the news was not good. So I tensed, and without realizing what I was doing, I reached for Kit’s hand.

I was really glad he held on to me, because otherwise I would have fallen on the floor in shock when Jackson Lee said, “There’s no sign of trouble at your friend’s house. By that, I mean that officers were unable to find any sign of her at all.”

“But she said she was locked in her bathroom,” I protested. “And I heard someone beating on the door before we got disconnected—and a gunshot. I’m sure I heard a gunshot.”

“There were no signs of the bathroom door being forcibly opened, no bullet holes anywhere, no sign of trouble. Are you sure you heard her correctly, Trinket?”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite sure. Kit was with me—did you overhear anything?”

I looked toward Kit, and he slowly shook his head. “I heard only your part of the conversation. From that I was able to determine Catherine was in some kind of trouble, though. Your responses were indicative of her believing an intruder had broken into her house.”

“See?” I said, turning back to Jackson Lee. “There must be some sign of her being in trouble, or someone breaking in, or . . . or maybe her getting away. Did they check to see if her car was there?”

“Her car is gone, there’s no sign of a B&E—breaking and entering—and she made no call for help. Except, of course, to you. Why would she call you instead of dial nine-one-one?”

“She said they’d never get there in time, and . . . I think she wanted to tell me something but ran out of time. I heard the gunshot, Jackson Lee. I’m not imagining things.”

“I believe you, Trinket. You’re usually pretty level-headed.” When he paused, I expected someone to say, “except when with Bitty,” but of course, no one did. Not with her right there listening.

“So,” said Bitty, “what do we do now?”

“First thing in the morning,” I replied, “we go down there to see if we can find her.”

Jackson Lee put up a hand. “I don’t want to sound arbitrary, Trinket, but do you really think you and Bitty can find her before the police do? They’ve put out a BOLO on her vehicle and personal description, purely as a courtesy since there was no sign of foul play in her home, and it’s much more likely that they’ll find her than it is for you two to go looking.”

“Why on earth would they tie a bolo on her car?” Bitty asked rather crossly. She doesn’t like being told she can’t do something, even if she doesn’t particularly want to do it. She and I both are contrary that way. I’m sure our Truevine ancestry has something to do with it, since our forefathers came from Wales, an entire country full of people too stubborn to surrender to the English eons ago. Throw in a generous dash of Irish, and it’s easy to see how my family endured a devastating civil war and burning of our home. It didn’t crush us, only sharpened our innate defiance.

None of which has a thing to do with Catherine Moore’s disappearance, except to explain how it is Bitty and I can both be stubborn enough to cut off our noses to spite our faces. As the cliché goes.

“
BOLO
, Bitty,” I said, “not a necktie, as you well know. It’s police jargon for Be On the Look-Out for. Right, Jackson Lee?”

He nodded, still looking down anxiously at Bitty. “So you’ll stay right here in Holly Springs, sweet-ums?” he asked. “Won’t you? Let the police do their job. You know I’ll tell you the minute I hear anything.”

Bitty went pure belle on him. She smiled big enough to flash her dimples, which I was amazed to see Botox hadn’t erased yet, and purred, “Why, you sweet ole thing you, I just love the way you fuss over me. You know I wouldn’t ever want to cause you a smidgen of worry.” She reached up to pat him on the cheek with her still-gloved hand, and while I couldn’t quite see from my vantage point, I was sure she fluttered her lashes at him, too, as she added, “Don’t you fret about it for a minute, sugar. Trinket and I have no intention of doing anything risky.”

It really helps that I know how to interpret Belle-speak, and knew exactly what Bitty had in mind.

If Bitty ever runs for a political office, I’m sure she’ll get every male vote in our area. She can double-talk and dance around better than any of those jokers in Congress.

I wisely kept my mouth shut. I’m no belle, and if I said anything, I’d give us away in a heartbeat. While we didn’t have any intention of doing anything risky, we had every intention of going to look for Catherine Moore ourselves.

Chapter 13

“Why are there so many cars out this early in the morning?” Bitty asked in a tone that said plainly she was not happy to be among them. “People should be at home in bed instead of out roaming around at obscene hours.”

“Some people work for a living, Princess Pooka,” I said, using my favorite title of the moment for her.

“Did you just call me something nasty?”

“No. Well, not really.”

“What does
not really
mean?”

“Don’t you remember what a pooka is?” I asked. “Jack used to call you that all the time when we were kids.”

My older brother Jack had been fascinated with Welsh and Irish legends and used to tease us with strange names of mythological creatures. It was not his most endearing trait. I
never
liked being called Bloody Bones.

“No,” Bitty was saying crossly as she maneuvered her Mercedes onto Highway 7. “Don’t tell me this is going to be another Bubba Gump moment.”

“Bubba was my favorite character in that movie,” I said. “Don’t diss him.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake—so what’s a pooka?”

“A fairy spirit that’s usually in animal form. Mischievous but not mean. It fits you.”

Bitty thought for a moment, then she exclaimed, “
Harvey
! That old movie with Jimmy Stewart, right?”

“Right,” I said, pleased that she’d remembered. I started to quote the line from that movie, “‘Oh, you can’t miss him, Mrs. Chumley,’” and Bitty finished the quote with me, “‘he’s a pooka!’”

We both laughed then. “A six foot tall invisible rabbit,” said Bitty, “suits you better than me. Except for the invisible part.”

“Yes, there’s certainly nothing invisible about you today,” I said. “Your sweater is rather—vibrant.” That was an understatement. It was bright green and pink, with a matching silk scarf tied casually around her neck. I wore Lee jeans and a gray hoodie.

Bitty beamed. “Thank you, Trinket. It’s new.”

Now that she was in a better mood, I decided to run my idea past her. It had come to me right before I got out of bed, and I mulled it over the entire time I was brushing my teeth and dressing. By the time I’d met Bitty for coffee and Kibble—the latter for Chen Ling—I was second guessing myself. I needed another perspective. So I’d waited until we were actually on our way to drag out my thoughts.

“You know,” I began, “that when we get there the police are liable to have either roped off her house so we can’t go in, or decided she’s just gone off by herself and isn’t in any danger. So I have a suggestion.”

Bitty glanced at me when I paused. “Well, don’t be shy, Sherlock. Share your brilliance.”

“That was a dramatic pause,” I informed her. “Keep your eyes on the road. If Deputy Dawg catches you running another stop sign, you’re in trouble.”

Bitty mumbled something under her breath, and I ignored her as I continued. “We don’t know for certain if Catherine is missing because she’s in hiding, or is missing because whoever broke into her house last night took her. Her car is gone. So that must mean that she either took it herself, or the intruder took it. She could be in the trunk for all we know.”

“So if we find her car, we may find her, right?”

I smiled. “You’re getting very good at this deductive stuff, Bitty. Do you know what she drives?”

“No, but I know someone who does know.”

“Someone we can trust not to blab about us being down here?”

“Good heavens, Trinket, you can’t have everything, you know. We either take the risk of asking Cady Lee, who is a friend of Cat’s, what kind of car she drives, or we wander around aimlessly searching. Which do you prefer?”

“Option C.”

“Which is . . .?”

“We call Rayna and get her to track down what make of car and the license plate number.”

“Ah. Very good. I like Option C. Oh, precious, did Mummy smush you? I’m so sorry. Here. Let me just—”

“Bitty! You drive! I’ll tend to Chitling.”

Chitling had decided to abandon her booster seat for some unknown puggy reason. It’s high enough that she can see out the windshield while Bitty aims the car wherever it is she’s going. Chitling is not always happy to stay in her seat. I don’t know why. It has crushed velvet and a super-soft chenille lining—in pink—that keeps her furry behind quite comfy. But this morning Chitling was not happy. No, she had a most disgusted expression on her little pug face, and her beady little eyes kept a close watch on my hands as I attempted to adjust her. It occurred to me that she was probably grumpy because she was wearing a green and gold sweater with a turtle neck that made her look like a mutant bullfrog. I’d be grumpy too if I had to wear something like that.

“Honestly, Bitty,” I couldn’t help muttering, “do you have to dress her up in all this stuff? I don’t know if I’m grabbing clothes or critter.”