Divas and Dead Rebels (45 page)

“Mom!”

Bitty and I both turned toward the cry as a tall young man leaped from the car and left its engine still running and lights illuminating the night. He rushed over and knelt beside Victoria.

“Mom!” he cried again, a heart-rending sound. He looked up at us. “What did you do to her?”

Bitty had sat up by then and hugged her purse to her chest. “Kept her from killing us, that’s what we did. Do you have a cell phone?”

He looked dazed. “A cell phone?”

“Yes. We need to call an ambulance.”

The young man I assumed to be Bret Hartford fumbled in his jacket pocket for a phone and held it out. Bitty took it and punched in three numbers. Then she looked up at me. Her tone was conversational, as if she was sitting at Budgie’s eating pie.

“I have another hole in my purse. Dammit. This is a Versace, too. That makes two purses ruined this month. Maybe I need to get a smaller pistol.”

Even though she sounded calm and collected, her hands were shaking so badly the phone kept bouncing off her ear. I reached down and took it from her.

“I’ll talk to them. And forget the smaller pistol. What you have works just fine.”

Rayna and Gaynelle came up, and Rayna knelt beside Victoria and began CPR. I didn’t think it would help, but I was glad she was trying.

The 911 operator answered, and I stepped away to give her the information. As I did, I saw blue lights flashing, heard the bloop of a siren, and three police cruisers arrived in a cloud of dust and noise. I said, “Never mind,” to the 911 operator and hung up.

“That was quick,” said Bitty.

Officers erupted from cars and swarmed over the scene, barking orders and taking command of the situation. Rayna relinquished her efforts on Victoria to a uniformed officer and stood up, looking a little dazed. I wasn’t sure if Victoria was dead or alive. Her son hovered close by, his face a mixture of horror and disbelief. I knew how he felt.

I was so relieved to still be alive I plopped down on the ground next to Bitty. “You shot her,” I said, and Bitty nodded. Her eyes looked huge in the blue lights.

“I did. I had to. I didn’t want to, though. It’s a huge responsibility, isn’t it? She made it look so easy, though. The way she shot Breck . . .”

Bret Hartford overheard and turned to look at us. “My mom shot my dad?” He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t do that. She loved him. She was just trying to keep us all together . . . everything got out of control so fast. No one knew—it was an accident, that’s all it was. Everyone should have just left it alone! Why didn’t you just leave it alone?”

His voice grew loud, his hands curled into fists, and his face contorted with anger and disbelief. For a moment I thought he was going to attack us, and I hoped Bitty’s Versace was still loaded. A deterrent might be needed. Then it hit me—his was the voice I’d heard the night Professor Sturgis was killed. And Bret was probably my threatening phone call. Apparently Victoria had sucked him into her madness.

Then officers pulled him away and took him aside. I heard Bret’s voice rise even higher, then it collapsed into sobs. When I looked over at Victoria, I saw that no one was working on her. She must have died
. Oh no
. I had mixed emotions.

“I killed her,” Bitty said flatly. “I didn’t aim for anything vital, I just wanted her to stop trying to shoot me. But she moved just as I pulled the trigger, and it was too late.”

“Honey, you did what you had to do,” said Rayna, and Bitty looked up at her.

“I just don’t understand why she took it so far. I mean—all these people died, but all she had to do was explain that Trisha Atwood’s death was accidental. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Murder never does,” Gaynelle said. “People who think it’s the only solution to a problem have something intrinsically wrong with them.”

“Ladies,” said an officer, “come with me, please.”

Now would begin the interviews and interrogations. It was becoming a familiar routine, which didn’t say a whole lot about our extracurricular activities. We would be interviewed by police separately, and I expected Bitty not to be charged with anything. After all, it was self-defense. In Mississippi, if you have reasonable cause to fear for your life, a shooting is ruled defensible as long as the shooter is not the aggressor.

“How did you get here so quickly?” I asked the officer who escorted me to one of the cars. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk to the nine-one-one operator.”

“Officer Farrell recognized Miz Hollandale back at the stop sign. When he called it in, we knew there was a problem and told him to stand down until back-up arrived.”

“Rodney Farrell?” I asked in surprise. “But how did—what do you mean you knew there was a problem?”

“We’ve been watching Victoria Hartford. She slipped away from surveillance earlier. Sit here in the back, ma’am, until we get the scene secured.”

“Wait—what about Breck Hartford? She shot him a while ago, and—”

“Yes, ma’am, we know. He’s been airlifted to the trauma center in Memphis.”

“At least he’s still alive. That’s good to know.”

Relieved, I leaned back against the seat. Back seats in police cars are extremely uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. I felt as if I were the luckiest person in the world. After this, I didn’t think anything would ever bother me again.

Chapter 22

“You know Mother is worried about this new direction your life has taken,” my sister said. Her disembodied voice drifted to me through clouds of steam and relaxation. We were at Bitty’s favorite spa for the day. Nothing was going to disturb me too much, not even my sister’s disapproval. I didn’t bother opening my eyes to reply.

“And I worry about her and Daddy going off on a Mediterranean cruise.”

“That’s hardly the same thing. They’re unlikely to be confronted with dangerous people who are armed.”

“Tell that to the passengers of the
Achille Lauro
.”

“Oh honestly, Trinket, you cannot compare what happened aboard a cruise ship in the eighties to modern cruises. Besides, I think it’s sweet they’re getting to travel a lot.”

“Then you can come tend to two hundred cats and a neurotic dog while they’re jet-setting around the globe. You might like it. It’s probably easier than handling a dozen children.”

I pulled my thick terrycloth towel up a bit from where it had slid down on my slick skin. The towel wrapped around my head cushioned it as I leaned against the wall. I could almost feel the tension oozing out my pores along with the “impurities” the perky little spa-therapist had promised. Bitty had opted for the full body polish, and then recommended I get the cellulite package as well as steam therapy and a massage. Since she was paying, I ignored the implication that cellulite had taken over my thighs and just went along with the program. Not only was it easier, but I needed pampering. Bitty had insisted we surrender to indulgence and bought an entire package for herself, me, Rayna, Gaynelle, and even Emerald since she had arrived two days before. The spa was almost as delighted as the rest of us at Bitty’s generosity.

Except for my sister’s irritating pursuit of information and condemnation, all was well in my world. Emerald had always been a bit on the worrisome side, finding disaster in every corner and tragedy in every outing. I thought that strange since this was the same woman who blithely ignored her offspring climbing bookshelves and teasing rabid dogs, but I suppose everyone has their flaws.

Later, as I was lying on a table with cream smeared on my face and cucumber slices on my closed eyes, I heard Gaynelle explain to Emerald just how we had come to be mixed up in so many murder cases. If I hadn’t been involved in them, I would have thought she was lying or exaggerating. It did sound rather far-fetched when listened to as an objective party.

Soft music played in the room, and aroma therapy fragrances filled the air. Despite Gaynelle’s recount of terrifying details, I dozed off. When I woke, my masseuse smiled at me.

“Feeling better?” she asked. I had opted for a sweet-faced girl who looked about twelve to do my massage. Having some strange man pound on my naked body wasn’t that appealing to me. Cellulite treatment notwithstanding, I’m not that comfortable about my physical appearance.

Kit never complained, but I figured his standards were compromised by the fact he spends a great deal of his time with one hand up a cow’s butt.

“Tip-top,” I answered the masseuse. “I’ve been waxed, polished and buffed. I feel like a luxury car about now.”

“Just get an oil change and new plugs, and then my job here is done,” she said with a laugh. “Ready for your massage?”

I sighed with contentment. “I was born ready.”

Much later, on the ride home in Bitty’s Franklin Benz, we savored our manicures, pedicures and pampered bodies.

“Bitty,” I said, “I now understand your addiction. I could get used to this.”

“See? I told you. It makes up for a lot. Armando and Rafael make house calls, by the way.”

Since I was sitting up front with Bitty, and the others sat in the rear seat, I turned my head to look at them. “So do any of you have either Armando or Rafael on speed dial yet?”

Gaynelle said primly, “No, but I did get Rafael’s cell phone number.”

I laughed. “You’re a constant surprise, Gaynelle. It looks like walking on the edge helps you.”

“I don’t know about that. This last time I lost a good three years off my life.”

“So tell me,” Emerald began, “how on earth did you get so involved with a female serial killer?”

I’d repeated the story so many times I was sick of it, but Bitty summarized it up quite nicely: “She hid the professor’s body in my boys’ dorm room. I took offense.”

“And?” Emerald asked when Bitty didn’t add anything else. “That’s it? Surely there’s more to the story than I read or was told. Mother doesn’t go into details about it. She said it makes her head hurt to think of all the trouble you two get into these days.”

I felt like a sixth grader being scolded.

“Well, it’s not like we go out looking for trouble,” I said defensively. “It finds us. Most of the time. Some of the time. It certainly found us this last time, anyway. It is always a big shock finding a corpse in a closet, let me tell you.”

My sister, as I have said before, is small, blonde and pretty. I always feel like I’m an Amazon standing next to her. When I was a kid I always wondered if I’d been adopted, but I have since realized that my mother was never a glutton for punishment. She’s done well with the hand she was dealt.

Emerald shook her head, then patted her hair with freshly manicured nails. “I can only imagine. Heavens, Trinket, it just worries me to death when I hear some of the stuff you’ve done lately. If one of my kids did anything like that, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Just send them here,” I said, getting irritated at her maternal tone. “We can use the help.”

Rayna decided to interrupt, which was probably a good thing. Emerald and I had been in close quarters with her kazillion kids for forty-eight hours, and whatever patience I ever claimed to possess had evaporated after the first thirty seconds listening to metal music and screeches. One of the older boys likes to tease the ten-year-old girl. She likes to make sounds like steam escaping a tea kettle. It begins to wear after about five seconds.

“Did I tell you what Rob said?” Rayna asked. “After he got over being so upset about everything, he said we might as well get paid for risking our lives.”

“What does that mean?” I asked when she didn’t elaborate. “We put together a high wire act?”

“No,” said Gaynelle, “we take up lion taming.”

“Or shark surfing,” Bitty suggested. I looked at her quizzically. She shrugged a shoulder. “What? It’s a real sport. Right? Where you surf with sharks?”

“I think the sharks are optional,” I said gently.

“
Any
way,” Rayna said more loudly, “Rob said we could help with his insurance investigation if we promised not to carry guns or get arrested. The guy he hired didn’t work out.”

“Really? He didn’t like it?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

“He wasn’t good at it?” asked Bitty.

“No, he was pretty good.”

“Is he dead?” Gaynelle inquired.

Rayna shook her head. “No, he’s out of intensive care now and will be fine. He doesn’t want to come back, though, and Rob doesn’t have time to do everything.”

“Sounds like the perfect job opportunity,” I remarked.

“You have
got
to be kidding,” said my sister. “You’re all nuts.”

“Welcome to my world, little sister.”

Thanksgiving dinner was
on the table, and I anticipated a pleasant turkey-induced semi-coma. The dining room table seats twelve easily with the two matching leaves, and if necessary, a couple more can be squeezed in. Emerald and Jon’s six children staked their claim on one side where Daddy had put a small bench for the two younger children, and Bitty, her boys, I, and Emerald and Jon sat on the other side. Mama and Daddy took their usual places at the head and foot of the table. It was a veritable feast.