Divas Do Tell (21 page)

“Stop what?” I asked. “Killing?”

“That, too. I was talking about being who they are, though. Dixie Lee has always been spoiled, vain, and egotistical. She hasn’t changed much since our college days.”

After Bitty tottered out the door in her stilettos, Gaynelle said, “Sometimes Bitty is right by default. Dixie Lee really hasn’t changed that much. Cady Lee was always the nicest of the girls. Mossy Lee was nice, too. Delta Lee never did have too much to say to anyone, so I’m not that familiar with her.”

Gaynelle had grown up in Holly Springs and taught decades of elementary school children how to read, write, and wash their hands after using the toilet. The only time she’d lived elsewhere was during her college years, and then she’d come right back home to teach. She’d been an only child, and her parents left her the house she grew up in and still lives in now. I didn’t regret my years away. There’s something very educational about living all over the country. Meeting different people and learning other customs and quirks gave me a diverse experience that I still appreciated.

“She was so much younger, too,” Rayna agreed. “Delta Lee was the youngest of the six. I think she was a change of life baby, wasn’t she?”

Gaynelle nodded. “Her parents were just too tired to insist she do all the things her older sisters did, so she grew up without benefit of the society expectations they had put on the older girls. I’m sure she was very relieved.”

I thought about that later on my way home to feed the furry legions. I’d been pretty fortunate. My parents just expected us to go to school and get an education, learn good manners and the basics of right and wrong. While I’d disappointed them with my decision to quit college and run around the country with Perry, they’d still made it clear they loved me and were proud of my growth into a self-sufficient adult. It just took a little longer than hoped for, I’m sure.

Brownie greeted me at the back door, doing his happy dance so I’d let him outside to nurture tree roots and rid the yard of squirrels and birds. I stood on the back deck watching him run around with his nose to the ground and his tail in the air. His dachshund-beagle heritage kicked in frequently as he bayed at the squirrels in the treetops. They know better than to come down when he’s out. On occasion they pelt him with acorns or twigs and chatter challenges that he answers with frenzied howls. Peace didn’t resume until I ushered him back into the house.

His clarion calls had summoned several dozen cats, and they waited with growing impatience in the open door of the barn. Since cats can obviously tell time, I changed my clothes and went back outside with a stack of new aluminum pie plates that I’d bought as food dishes. It might cost a little more, but it was a lot more expedient than washing tin plates.

Once I finished my feeding the flocks duties, I put a frozen dinner in the microwave and fixed myself a tall glass of sweet tea. Brownie, having gobbled his chicken, rice, and dry food, licked his lips as he stared expectantly at the microwave.

“Forget it,” I told him. “You had yours. This is mine. I don’t share. Remember?”

I know he understands me. He pricks up his floppy brown ears and gazes at me as if to say he’s figured out how to work most human beings to his advantage. He has the head and color of a dachshund, the body-type of a beagle, and the mind of Machiavelli. I’d pit him against Henry Kissinger when it comes to foreign policies. He knows my weaknesses and how to exploit them.

I’d just finished eating my chicken pot pie and given Brownie the cardboard bowl to lick clean when the kitchen phone rang. It was my mother.

“How’s Italy and the Mediterranean?” I asked, squinting at the calendar and counting off the days until their return.

“Oh, Trinket, it’s even more beautiful than we imagined. The sea is so blue and the villages so quaint, and we’ve met some lovely people.”

I smiled. “I’m glad you’re having a wonderful time. I’m even more glad your ship didn’t sink and wasn’t attacked by pirates. It wasn’t, was it? You’re still afloat? No pirates?”

“You’ve always had such a wild imagination, dear. No, we’re fine. We sail for Naples tomorrow so we only have a few more days of our cruise left.”

“Four, by my count. That means you’ll be home by the twenty-eighth.”

My mother cleared her throat. A warning bell went off in my head when she didn’t immediately agree.

“Did I tell you we met some lovely people? Maria and Angelo Buittoni. They lived in New York for almost twenty years while he worked on an engineering project and have only been back in Italy for a few years. They have a home overlooking the sea in Portici, not far from Mount Vesuvius. We’re going to see Pompeii while we’re there.”

“Pompeii is buried under six feet of ash and volcanic rock. Vesuvius is still active. It could blow its top at any moment.”

“They’ve cleaned up Pompeii. Etna is active. Vesuvius’ last destructive eruption was in 1944, Trinket.”

“Then it’s past time for it to erupt again. You’re not there, are you? You’re not in Pompeii?”

“Not at the moment.”

My head began to whirl. I reached blindly for a kitchen chair. “What does ‘not at the moment’ mean? You’re not going there, are you? Volcanoes spew fire. Ash. Molten lava. Where are you?”

“Honestly, Trinket,” my dear sweet mother said to me, “you worry about the silliest things. We are just fine, and yes, we’re going to Portici to stay a week with Maria and Angelo. They’ve been kind enough to invite us, and we’ve accepted. Our flight reservations have been changed, and we’ll be home on the eighth of February. I don’t want you to worry. How is Brownie? Have there been any problems with the cats? Hello? Trinket?”

I couldn’t get out a word for a moment. Speechless, groping for the chair to sit down in it before I collapsed on the floor, I was only vaguely aware of Brownie eating the cardboard container that had held my chicken pot pie. Finally I said, “Brownie is just fine. The cats are just fine. I’m suicidal.”

“That’s good, dear. Your father wants to say a few words to you before we hang up.”

Daddy got on the phone, and before I could even bleat out a plea that they not surrender to the madness of staying away longer he said, “You have no idea how much it means to us to know you’re there taking care of everything, punkin. We don’t have to worry about unreliable people or things going terribly wrong. Is there anything you want us to bring you when we come home?”

I’m not sure what I answered. I was having an out of body experience. Or maybe it was just an out of mind experience. After the call ended I sat there for who knew how long holding the dead phone and staring into space. By the time I regained my senses enough to hang up, Brownie had consumed the cardboard bowl and half a paper napkin I’d discarded. I have no idea how he got it off the table. I took the tattered, damp remains and put them in the garbage can in the broom closet, shut the door, then went straight for Mama’s old computer. It sits in a corner of the den near a window. I powered it up, clicked on Google, and read all I could about Mount Vesuvius and Mount Etna.

I knew more than I ever wanted to know by the time I clicked off the computer. Mama was right. There had been no cataclysmic eruption of Vesuvius since 1631. However, the Italian government expects an eruption in the near future and has made plans to evacuate all those who aren’t incinerated in the first pyroclastic explosion. Portici lies on a small bay at the very foot of Vesuvius. Hardly comforting.

Someone should write a manual on how to care for elderly parents who are still mobile enough to visit far-off destinations and max out their credit cards. My expectations run to forays to Senior Citizen Centers, while theirs obviously run to exploring live volcanos. Really, we needed to meet in the middle. It was getting unnerving, to say the least.

After a hot bath and three glasses of wine, I felt much better. I had settled onto the couch with the TV remote and Brownie. It wasn’t that I’d invited him to sit next to me. I apparently have an allure for him that he can’t resist. Too bad it’s never worked that way with men. My current relationship with Kit Coltrane aside, I’m not exactly the kind of woman to draw men with devastating beauty and sharp wit. So when he called, I picked up my cell phone with a smile and a sigh.

I thumbed the Mute button on the remote and answered in my sexiest voice, “Hello, handsome.”

“Trinket?”

“Yes, Kit?”

“Oh. I didn’t recognize your voice. Is everything okay? You sound hoarse.”

So much for trying to sound sexy. I cleared my throat. “At the moment, everything is just fine.”

“That’s good. When I saw the accident I wasn’t sure if you were hurt or even there.”

I sat up a little straighter. “I’m at home. What accident?”

“No one has called you?”

“About what? What accident? Where? Who?”

Kit said calmly, “I’ll come and get you. Just stay there. I’m sure she’s fine, but we’ll go to the hospital anyway.”

“Hospital? She who? Bitty—is Bitty okay?”

“Bitty’s car hit a telephone pole. She was taken to Alliance Hospital emergency room.”

Chapter 12

ALLIANCE HEALTH Care system is a forty bed hospital for general medicine and surgery. It has an emergency room with well-qualified physicians and staff. For major traumas, patients are transported to The Med in Memphis or Baptist DeSoto in Southaven. Since Bitty was at Alliance, I was pretty sure she wasn’t seriously injured.

Bitty was still in the emergency room when we arrived. She’d been put in a curtained-off area and in a bed with chrome metal sides. I went immediately to her side. Her eyes were closed, her blonde hair had a dent in one side, and she was very, very pale. She was so white I was instantly alarmed.

“Doctor,” I called. “Nurse!”

Kit, who had remained discreetly on the other side of the curtains, drew one back and looked in at me. “What’s wrong?”

I pointed to Bitty. Even in the dim light afforded by a single lamp on the wall she was so pale it looked as if she’d lost all her blood. “Look at her—she’s deathly white.”

Kit stepped closer to the bed. He peered at Bitty then looked at me. “That’s chalk from the airbag. It’s all over her, see?”

I squinted at her. He was right. A fine dusting covered her face, hair, and what clothes I could see under the sheet pulled up to her chest. Relief seeped through me and I nodded.

By that time Bitty had opened her eyes. “Is that you, Trinket?”

I grabbed the hand she held out. It had an IV in it, attached to a bag on a pole, and I avoided the plastic tubing as I held on to her. “Yes, honey. It’s me. How are you feeling?”

“Like I hit a telephone pole. My Franklin Benz . . . it’s totaled.” She started to shake her head but winced at the motion and stopped. “I’m just glad I didn’t hurt anyone. Rodney Farrell was right. I’m a menace.” Tears leaked from her eyes and made ragged paths through the chalk dust on her cheeks. She closed her eyes again.

I patted her hand. “It’s okay, honey. Cars can be repaired or replaced. The main thing is that you are okay.”

Bitty sniffled. I kept hold of her hand until Jackson Lee arrived. He rushed right to her side, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was scared and relieved at the same time.

“Sugar,” he said softly, “it’s me.”

Her eyes opened. “Oh Jackson Lee, I’ve made a mess of things again.”

He held her other hand and laid it against his cheek. For such a big guy who has the reputation of a shark in a courtroom, Jackson Lee has very tender moments. I released Bitty’s hand and stepped back. It was a private moment, and I felt like an intruder.

Kit met me in the corridor. “How did you find out about her accident?” I asked.

“I had an emergency that kept me late at the clinic. I was on my way home when I saw her car and the police. For a minute I thought there’d been another murder.”

“Bite your tongue. We’ve had more than our share lately.”

He slid an arm around my waist and walked me to a bank of chairs against the far wall. “It’s all the movie people in town. They’ve been stirring up old memories and hate.”

“Except for Abby’s death. That trouble came with them.” We sat in the uncomfortable chairs in the dimly lit corridor, and I leaned my head back against the wall. “I just can’t imagine how awful Dixie Lee must feel that her book has caused such hard feelings.”

We’d talked about the murders on the way to the hospital, neither of us wanting to dwell on Bitty until we knew how she was doing. With my worst fears calmed, I returned to the topic on most of Holly Springs residents’ minds.

“Do you think Billy Joe’s wife killed him?” I asked Kit and turned my head to look at him. He’s tall, with dark hair sprinkled with gray at the temples and dark eyes that I love to get lost in. Since I’m tall it’s always nice to be able to look up at a man. It makes me feel rather feminine.

Kit looked back at me, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment he said, “It’s always a possibility. It’s no secret that they fought all the time. Billy Joe ran around on her, drank too much, and was generally unpleasant. So I wouldn’t be surprised. Yet . . . somehow I don’t think so. Allison had put up with it all these years, and unless he did something too drastic I can’t see her shooting him. She’s too soft-hearted, for one thing.”