Divas and Dead Rebels (34 page)

It was a sobering reminder. I nodded. “One thing we haven’t yet considered is that there may be two killers.”

Gaynelle looked at me closely. “Two? Why do you say that?”

“It makes more sense if there are two. One to establish an alibi for the time of the murder, and the other to establish an alibi for the time it would take to move the body.”

Bitty frowned. Or as close as she could come to it with so much Botox. “I don’t follow. How could a killer establish an alibi for the very time she commits murder?”

“We’ve been looking at this as if the killer had to have enough time to strangle the professor and then move his body. What if he didn’t? What if the killer murdered him, and then had someone else move the body?”

“An accessory after the fact,” Rayna murmured thoughtfully. “That might work. It might just be what happened. No one has mentioned an accomplice. We’ve all been so focused on Hartford.”

“And Emily,” chirped Bitty. “Don’t forget Emily.”

Rayna rolled her eyes. “How could I when you keep mentioning her? Don’t worry about Emily. You need to worry about keeping Trinket safe. Can she stay with you for a while?”

Just as I opened my mouth to object, Bitty said, “Always. I’ll do anything to keep her safe. She’s the sunshine beneath my wings.”

I might still have found a reason to explain why I needed to stay in my own home for safety instead of with Mrs. Malaprop, but then Rayna said, “If someone’s out to hurt Trinket, they might do harm to her parents as well. You’re right here in town and have an alarm system that Trinket won’t forget to set. What do you think, Trinket?” she turned toward me to ask, and by then I knew I was doomed.

“I’m thrilled,” I croaked, and even managed to smile. “Really.”

Chapter 17

“Are you sure you want to risk being in jail or the hospital this close to the Thanksgiving holiday?” Mama asked me when I carried my overnight bag downstairs. “Emerald and Jon will be here next week.”

I pondered for a moment, and Mama put her hands on her hips.

“Eureka May Truevine,” she said in her stern tone that had once had the effect of reducing me to a quivering lump of jelly, “if I didn’t know better, I would think you’d gone as crazy as Bitty. Now, we all know she’s prone to getting herself into messes, but she usually manages to get out without too much damage. You weren’t born under the same lucky star. You’re more likely to end up in a hedgerow somewhere while Bitty goes off on a Mediterranean cruise.”

Daddy came into the kitchen just in time to hear the last part of her sentence, and he said, “Anna, I thought you weren’t going to tell her about our Mediterranean cruise yet.”

A cold chill shot from my head down to my toes. I began to shiver. “Cruise?” I repeated somewhat numbly. “You’re taking a Mediterranean cruise?”

“Honestly, Eddie,” said Mama, “you made Trinket turn white as a sheet. Here, honey. Sit down for a minute.”

Mama helped me into the wooden kitchen chair since my knees seemed to forget how to lock into position to keep me upright. I plopped onto the smooth seat polished by years of Truevine rear ends.

“You’ll be fine,” Mama assured me when I whimpered.

I wasn’t as sure as she was about that.

“Cruise?” I whined. “Mediterranean? With pirates roaming the waters and Greece nearly bankrupt? Unless your crew is made up of Navy Seals, you’ll end up being held hostage on some foreign shore.”

“Don’t be silly, Trinket,” said my mother calmly. “It’s probably less dangerous for us to go on a cruise to Somalia than it is for you to stay with Bitty right now.”

She had a point. Somali pirates may be a pesky problem, but Bitty and I under the same roof too frequently ended in disaster. Nevertheless, I wasn’t quite ready to give up.

“Just when are you planning this cruise, and why wasn’t I informed?”

“You’ve been rather busy lately avoiding arrest and being murdered,” my sweet mother replied tartly. “This must stop, Trinket. Your father and I would like to get a good night’s sleep without waiting for police to ring the doorbell, or a murderer to show up and kill us all in our sleep.”

I looked over at Daddy. He stared down at the wood floors and fidgeted like a ten-year-old schoolboy. I sighed.

“Okay. I understand. I won’t say anything more about your cruise into infinity, and you will just smile and nod when I go stay with Bitty.”

“That’s nice, sugar,” my duplicitous mother said with a kind smile. “Just be sure you’re alive and not in jail next week when Emerald and Jon get here.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will. Now. I’m putting together the Lane Cake today since it needs to sit a week to let the bourbon mix with all the other flavors. Is there anything else special you want for our Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Valium pie would be nice. If not that, a strong wine will suffice.”

Mama just rolled her eyes, but Daddy looked concerned. “You aren’t drinking too much, are you, punkin?”

“Not yet. Give me a little more time. I have to save something fun for my golden years.” I stood up and picked up my overnight bag. “If anyone calls here for me, tell them I’ve moved to Siberia.”

“Does that include Bitty?” Mama asked as I headed for the door.

“Especially Bitty,” I said without turning around. “I’ll be back in a few days or as soon as Bitty decides I’m safe, whichever comes first.”

As the back door closed behind me, I heard Daddy say, “She used to be the smart one.”

Rather glumly, I reflected on the actions that had rendered me stupid as I drove into Holly Springs. Since moving back home, I had allowed Bitty to talk me into doing things I normally would never have done. Now I’d joined the ranks of the dumb and dumber. How depressing.

“What’s the matter with you?”
Bitty asked after we’d poured ourselves a glass of wine and retired to her cozy little parlor. Chen Ling regarded me with an expression that I took to be annoyance with my presence. Or it could have been the outfit she wore, a pink silk robe that matched her doting caretaker’s. She even had a matching nightcap.

“Chitling looks like a pink nightmare,” I said, paraphrasing a line from the movie
A Christmas Story
. “A deranged Easter bunny.”

Of course, Bitty picked up on it immediately. We’re like that. We’ve watched lots of movies in our lifetimes. Bitty stuck out her tongue at me.

“I’m not Aunt Clara. And
Chen Ling
is a girl, so pink is appropriate.”

“I bow to your superior fashion wisdom, Lady Gaga.”

Bitty sniffed. “For heaven’s sake, I just like some of Lady Gaga’s shoes.”

“Well, she is a couture maven, I suppose.”

“And you’d know this—how?”

I said something suitably rude, and we smiled at each other. Some of my earlier tension eased. Maybe my IQ had dropped a few points lately, but no one understood me as well as Bitty. Which was a frightening thing to consider.

It was warm and cozy in the parlor, with a fire lit in the small fireplace and gray shadows creeping into the corners. “Your new slipcovers came in,” I observed as I took off my shoes and propped my feet on the ottoman. “They’re pretty.”

“I think so, too. It took forever for them to be done, but they’re worth the wait. I never can be sure if I’ll like them until I see them on the furniture.”

“Is this chenille?” I asked in surprise as my bare feet slid across the material. “It feels good.”

“It’s soft. And I thought the sage green would be restful for the winter.”

“The muted pattern is very restful,” I agreed. “I like a nice floral that doesn’t jump out at you. And these new chenille fabrics don’t pull like the older ones do.”

“Now that we’ve danced all around the subject,” Bitty said dryly, “tell me who you really think is threatening you.”

I made a face. “Well, it’s not Emily Sturgis. It was a man’s voice.”

“Breck Hartford?”

“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with him or his voice. I only met him that once. I don’t know if I’d even recognize the voice if I heard it again. When I do talk to Hartford again, I may be able to connect him to the voice I overheard at Proud Larry’s the night of the professor’s murder. Whoever it was knew that the professor was dead, I’m convinced of that.”

“Do you think he was serious or just trying to frighten you?”

“If I had to risk my life on it, I’d go with serious. This isn’t something I’d want to be wrong about.”

“I feel the same way. I think I should hire a bodyguard for you.”

Her comment took me by surprise. “A bodyguard? As in a former wrestler or NFL player?”

Bitty nodded. “I have just the one in mind.”

“If you say Jerry Lawler, I’m going home.”

“He’s too busy. No, I was thinking about our cousin Jobert.”

For a moment I thought I’d pass out. “
Jobert?
But you hate Jobert!”

“Yes, but as mean as he is, I’m sure he could keep you safe.”

“No. Not just no, but H-E-double-toothpicks
NO
. He’s not just mean, he’s sneaky and deceitful. And when was he ever a wrestler?”

“
H-E-double-toothpicks?
Really, Trinket. You’re regressing to the third grade.” When I stuck my tongue out at her, she said, “See? Maybe you need something stronger than wine. I just don’t know how I’m going to keep you safe if you’re uncooperative.”

“Great. An inebriated third grader guarded by a gigantic Neanderthal is your idea of keeping me safe. I feel so much better.”

“Well,” she began rather crossly, “I suppose you have a better idea?”

“Yes. We set your alarm and check all the windows, including your basement. Then we eat dinner and watch a little TV before bedtime.”

“And that will keep you safe from some homicidal maniac?”

“No. It will keep me from checking into a motel for the night.”

“Oh.” Bitty thought about that for a moment. “Sharita left dinners in the freezer that we can heat when you’re ready.”

I accepted the olive branch of truce. “That sounds good. Is this a new wine?”

Bitty started talking about her extensive wine cellar and the new bottles she’d just gotten in, using words like “gusto, woodsy, piquant, bold,” and I pretended to listen with interest. It’s like when she talks about antiques. I’m interested up to a point, but my interest wanes after about sixty seconds, unless I’m either looking at a beautiful piece of furniture or sniffing a “full-bodied Bordeaux” before I get to sip it.

Finally, Bitty must have noticed my eyes beginning to glaze over because she said we should go ahead and check the basement now.

Snapped out of my daze, I asked, “Why?”

“It’s getting dark outside, and I don’t like to go down there too late. Besides, we may need another bottle of wine from the cellar.”

“I hope you’re not planning a night of alcoholic debauchery,” I commented as I got up to follow her and the prancing pug across the hallway toward the kitchen. “If the wine in your cooler isn’t enough for our night, we may need reinforcements to help.”

Bitty passed up the new wine cooler installed under a granite countertop to open the door to the basement. A whoosh of chilly air washed over us as we descended the stairs. Not long ago Bitty had redecorated the basement into what I deemed a Sopranos mob-style, with black leather furniture, an electronic dart board, and a foosball table. A TV bigger than her sports car hung on one wall.

Headed toward her wine cellar in the far corner, Bitty said over her shoulder, “I saw something on cable TV that I’ve been thinking about doing down here. What do you think of a home theater?”

“I can honestly say I’ve never thought about a home theater at all. Why do you want one?”

“We can play our favorite movies, and when the boys come home for the holidays they can gather down here with their friends to watch movies.”

“They do that anyway. Haven’t you heard about the economic recession?”

“What does that mean?” Bitty turned and looked at me, and I was pretty sure she had forgotten her recent bout with financial depression. I sighed.

“It just seems a waste to spend so much money when you already have a big TV and place for the boys to watch it.” I looked around the basement. A nice Berber carpet covered the floor, windows were locked, and the back door had two deadbolts on it, no doubt courtesy of Jackson Lee’s insistence. “I hope that’s unbreakable glass in the windows,” I said as Bitty opened the door to the wine cellar.

“It is,” she said, her voice emanating from inside the temperature controlled area lined with racks of wine. “I think it’s got some kind of wire in it or something. Jackson Lee said it’s smash-proof.”

While Bitty toured California and France’s bottled offerings, I prowled the room to be sure all was well. There was no sign of anything wrong, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Bitty had agreed so easily to turn on the house alarms. For some reason, I was a little jumpy. I don’t like being threatened. Especially by someone I don’t know. It’s a nasty feeling.