Divas and Dead Rebels (46 page)

Mama’s best dishes held two turkeys, cornbread dressing, sweet potato biscuits, fried okra, field peas with snaps, mashed potatoes and gravy, and cranberry sauce. I swear the table groaned when the second turkey platter was set in the middle. Ambrosia salad, one of Mama’s specialties, sat next to green bean casserole. A Royal Albert bowl held fried corn, and cathead biscuits were piled atop a large plate. An array of desserts guaranteed to give me a sugar high that would last a week waited on the kitchen table. Mama had outdone herself. Not only did we have chess pie, but she’d baked a Lane cake and even a Hummingbird cake. There was lemon meringue pie, Karo pecan pie, and buttermilk pie, too.

I fully expected Emerald’s kids to be swinging from light fixtures and sliding down the staircase banister. It was the kind of thing we’d done as kids. Everything was so familiar and comforting. Family rituals remained the same, just the ages of the players changed.

After Daddy said grace, there was an immediate rush to fill our plates. Someone got me in the back of my hand with a fork when I reached for the turkey platter. I knew better than to let that deter me. Hesitation could mean an empty plate. I still have scars on the back of my hand from a brief skirmish with my brother Jack over the last pork chop.

For several minutes there were only the sounds of Mama’s best silverware against china and “Please pass me’s” as we did major damage to the banquet before us. Once some of our initial greed had been sated, small talk began.

It went smoothly for the first five minutes. Then my sweet, big-mouth sister said, “I can’t believe you two are going to work as insurance investigators for Rob Rainey. I’d be scared I’d get shot if I was spying on someone.”

Silence fell. Bitty and I looked at each other, then back at my sister. “Nothing has been decided yet, Emerald,” I said. “Rob just suggested it because he’s irritated with all of us for going off on our own.”

“Well,” said my mama, “that was very foolish of you. I would have thought either Rayna or Gaynelle would have better sense than to do such a thing. You know if you take that job, you’re going to have trouble. People get upset when you try to catch them in a lie or defrauding the insurance company.”

“I already have a job,” I replied. “It’s getting to be our busy season for Christmas shopping. I doubt very seriously that Rob was serious anyway. He was just upset.”

“Oh no, Trinket,” said my clueless cousin. “He was quite serious. He said he’d even train us. I think it sounds exciting.”

“I think it sounds dangerous,” said Mama.

“I think it sounds stupid,” said Emerald.

“I think it sounds like
fun
,” said Annie, Emerald’s ten-year-old daughter. “Do it, Auntie Tinkle. You can be a crime fighter like the Avengers or Catwoman, or—”

“Or you can be dead like Al Capone,” interrupted a deep voice. I turned to see Jackson Lee in the doorway from the kitchen. He’d been invited, but had dinner with his sons first, so was showing up for coffee and dessert.

Bitty immediately went into belle-mode. “Oh sugar, I’m so glad you’re here. And none of this talk about being dead, for heaven’s sake. It’s Thanksgiving. We’re supposed to enjoy it.”

“Al Capone?” I repeated. “We’re not criminals, Jackson Lee. We would be on the hunt for criminals.”

“You’d be dead,” he retorted. “This last time was much too close. It drives me crazy when you all act like you’re invincible.”

“Well,” said Bitty, “I know it was much too close for comfort, that’s true. If Bret hadn’t shown up . . . I wonder if he really would have helped his mother kill us and get rid of our bodies?”

“He seemed rather shocked by his mother’s actions,” I commented. “Of course, he’d helped cover up the first death, then helped move Professor Sturgis, so he’s in it up to his ears anyway. And poor Catherine . . . her sister seemed very nice, and I’m glad she was able to arrange for a memorial service. Catherine will be buried next to her son.”

“You know,” said Bitty, “I told you the wife did it. I just had the wrong wife.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever you say, Swami.”

Jackson Lee had pulled up a kitchen chair to sit near Bitty, and he said, “The police connected Bret to Sturgis’s murder by tracing a red plaid blanket that had been in the laundry cart to him. Victoria had bought it using Breck’s Visa card.”

“She was so careful,” I said, “but never thought about the paper trail they left for the police—and Rayna—to trace. It condemned not just her, but her husband and son.”

“Breck Hartford has hired a high-powered attorney down in Oxford to try and get them both off. He kept information about Trisha’s death from the police so was charged with being an accessory after the fact,” Bitty explained to Emerald. “My goodness, he spread himself around pretty good, so I think he deserves to go to jail for being such a—” She paused when Mama cleared her throat and tilted her head at the kids listening avidly. “—stupid man,” Bitty finished.

“Who wants seconds?” I asked, and held out my plate for Daddy to put a couple slices of turkey on it. “Extra dressing, please. No giblet gravy.”

Later, as the night closed in, and we were all happily stuffed to the gills, Kit came by to share coffee and conversation. I was quite content. The only thing that could have made it better was if my daughter had been able to come, but she promised she’d try her best to show up for Christmas.

It was a cool, crisp night, and I snuggled against Kit with my head leaning back on his chest as we stood on the back deck to watch the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the cherry orchard.

“When are you going to give up getting involved in murders?” he asked against my ear, and I shivered at his warm breath.

“Oh, soon.”

“How quick is soon?”

I tried a belle-response: “Why you sweet thing, are you worried about me?”

“Every day,” he whispered in my ear.

This time I smiled. It was rather nice having a man worry about me. Even if I didn’t take the job with Rob, I had no doubt that Divas would somehow become tangled in another murder. It was just a matter of time.

Bitty and Jackson Lee joined us on the deck, and I looked at my cousin and smiled. There were worse things to do than solve murders, and even though the police had already figured out the killer’s identity, we had helped gather enough evidence to see that Breck paid for his part in it. Victoria had paid the ultimate price, but I was just glad she’d never have another chance to hurt someone.

“Did you hear that Cady Lee’s sister wrote a book set in Holly Springs?” Bitty asked, and I shook my head.

“No. Has it been published?”

“It comes out in January. I heard that it’s causing a lot of controversy because of the subject. There’s a lot of people in town who are madder than a hornet and threatening to sue for libel. It is libel, isn’t it, Jackson Lee?”

He nodded. “If it’s the written word about someone and printed without their permission, it’s libel. I’ve already had two people come to talk to me about it. Until the book comes out, however, I can’t do anything.”

“So what’s it about?” asked Kit.

“Local domestics and how they were treated before the Civil Rights act. It’s bound to be controversial.”

“But isn’t there another book out about that kind of thing?” Bitty asked. “Why would she want to copy someone else?”

“Beats me. But some of the older families in this town are up in arms about it.”

A shiver went down my back. My Spidey-sense told me that there was going to be trouble when that book came out, and Divas were going to be smack dab in the middle of it.

“Well,” said Bitty, “you know Cady Lee’s sister is going to be in high cotton if that book gets a lot of publicity.”

“Exactly,” I said. “We just better be prepared.”

“Oh sugar, aren’t we always?”

Jackson Lee and Kit exchanged glances, and one of them groaned. I think it was Kit, but I couldn’t be too sure.

“Here we go again,” said Jackson Lee with a sigh.

(Continue reading for an excerpt from
HOUND DOG BLUES
)

A new generation of Divas!

Meet Harley Jean Davidson, the Gen X sleuth who’s following in the Divas’ footsteps.

Hound Dog Blues

The Blue Suede Memphis Mysteries

Book One

Excerpt

One

“King’s been kidnapped.”

Harley Jean Davidson shifted her cell phone to her other ear and sighed. “Diva, what do you mean, kidnapped. Wouldn’t that be dognapped?”

Sitting in the drive-thru lane of the Taco Bell across the street from the buff brick building where she worked, Harley ignored the cashier leaning out the stainless steel window and kept sorting through a pile of change with her free hand.

“Harley,” her mother said, “this is serious. He didn’t come home yesterday. Your father’s beside himself.”

That seemed true. In the background, Yogi was yelling something about calling PETA to report the local medical school for abducting dogs for their research.

“Tell Yogi not to call PETA again,” she said quickly, “they’re getting tired of hearing from him. I’ll come by later.”

Leaning out of the car window, she deposited the exact change for her burrito supreme with extra salsa and cheese into the cashier’s outstretched hand. Fingers closed over the money, and the arm and cashier disappeared.

“You need to find King,” Diva said, and there was the slightest tremor in her tone that indicated her own distress. “He’s in danger. I sense great trouble if we don’t find him soon.”

Harley swallowed an exasperated sigh and said instead, “I have to stop by the office first, and then I’ll be right there. Okay?”

“Hurry,” Diva said plaintively. “We just got a ransom letter.”

“A ransom letter—for
King?
” Her voice went up on the last word, high-pitched and incredulous. “Who’d want that goofy dog?”

“Yogi.”

Oh yeah. That was true. Her father adored that maniacal mutt. Harley blew out a sigh and mumbled that she’d get there as soon as she could. It boggled her mind that anyone would willingly take a dog that gleefully dug holes in flowerbeds, dumped garbage cans, and—despite being neutered—went on regular romantic sprees through the neighborhood. Of course, taking the dog could be a form of protest against his depredations.
That
, she’d understand. After all, it wasn’t like her parents had money. Just the opposite. They lived in a small house her father had inherited from his parents when Harley was only fourteen, and eked out a meager living by selling junk and homemade kitsch at the weekly flea markets in the area. No, taking King had to be a protest of some sort. It was more likely the ransom letter was a list of demands, with keeping King inside a fence at the very top.

A car horn honked behind her, and Harley took the white sack being held out to her, and then shifted the Toyota into first gear. Jeez, she’d planned on taking the afternoon off. Now she’d have to deal with the damn dog. What a waste of sunshine on a dog that was probably in the holding pen at the Memphis Animal Shelter. Still, it wasn’t even noon yet and if she found him quickly, she could still manage several hours of sun and relaxation. Stress busters.

Cutting across eight lanes of traffic on Poplar Avenue took the nerve of a Navy Seal and the skill of a NASCAR driver, but she managed it, pulling into the parking lot of Memphis Tour Tyme offices without causing any wrecks or being seriously injured. She nosed the silver ’91 Toyota into the comparative shade of a hedgerow that ran along one side of the lot, and then sat back for a moment to think about her options.

She had to show up to look for the dog or guilt would overwhelm her, so it was a good thing she didn’t have a tour group this afternoon. As a charter tour bus driver and general flunkey, it was sometimes feast, sometimes famine. So she’d decided she’d bask in the sun to recover from the week before and rest up for the week ahead. Memphis in May was always a hectic time of year. This year she’d be ferrying people to or from the airport, to Beale Street and the annual world-famous barbecue, out to Graceland, and down to Jerry Lee Lewis’s home in Nesbit, Mississippi, and even down to Tupelo, Elvis’s birthplace. It wasn’t a bad gig, all in all, though on occasion—such as when she’d taken an entire Australian soccer team on tour—it’d get a little crazy. In mid-August, when thousands of Elvis fans descended upon Memphis and Graceland for the anniversary of Elvis’s death, tour groups ran three shifts and it’d be insane. The candlelight vigil on the anniversary eve would be the busiest night. A new job might be called for by then. Or maybe a convenient coma.

“Hey baby,” Tootsie greeted her when Harley stepped into the receptionist area offices on the second floor, “you’ve got some messages.”

Harley leaned her arm on the ledge a foot above Tootsie’s desk. “I’m just stopping by to go ahead and clock out for the day. Diva called. King’s missing again.”

Leaning back in his chair, Tootsie grinned. “It must be garbage day in their neighborhood. You know he likes to supplement Diva’s vegetarian cuisine with his own version of takeout.”