Divas Do Tell (26 page)

I had no idea that the worst was yet to come.

Chapter 14

OUR NEXT VICTIM—rather, interviewee—lived in the hills outside Hickory Flat. It was hilly in this area, fringed by the Holly Springs National Forest, with roads no bigger than cow tracks winding up into thick trees or edging a bare hill with a drop that made me hold onto the door handle. In the back seat, Bitty kept up a running litany of her complaints concerning our current activities.

“We already know everything we need to know,” said Bitty irritably. “Mira Waller is guilty of one of the murders, at least. Although Dixie Lee killed Billy Joe, I’m pretty sure Mira knows something about it. That’s what got Abby killed, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t end up that Mira knows about Dixie Lee too. If you’ll note, she doesn’t get any more of those death threats. Or at least, she isn’t talking about them if she does.”

“That’s true,” I said after a moment’s thought. “No more has been mentioned about those letters. I wonder if they stopped. It could be that we spooked whoever was sending them with our questions, I suppose.”

“Or it could be that Dixie Lee made them up to get attention. She’s like that.”

“Allison is still alive,” I pointed out to Bitty. “She could send more letters if they were responsible for them in the first place.”

“It’s possible,” Bitty conceded. After a moment she said, “It’s also possible that Mira and Dixie Lee both killed Billy Joe. One covering for the other.”

“Why?” I asked, and Bitty didn’t have an answer for that.

I thought about it then said, “Billy Joe could be Mira’s father.”

“You mean grandfather,” said Rayna, and I nodded agreement.

“Yes. He was too old to be her father. That happened back in the sixties. She’d have to be in her early forties by now.”

“Well, that lets out most of our suspect pool,” Bitty said rather sarcastically. “Dixie Lee is way too old and Mira is way too young.”

“Let’s see what Mira’s mother’s family has to say,” Rayna suggested. “Maybe they can tell us something we don’t know.”

Bitty yawned. “Unless they’re going to tell us how she killed Billy Joe or Abby it’s going to be a waste of time.”

“Our last visit wasn’t a waste, so this one may not be either. Let’s see what happens.”

Mira’s maternal aunt lived north of Hickory Flat. We’d gone down Highway 5 from Ashland and turned west. There was a lake just north of a road that looked more like a logging trail than a road, with gravel and red clay gumming up the SUV tires.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going, Dan’l Boone?” Bitty asked after a couple minutes of crunching rocks under our tires. “Sure this isn’t a creek bed?”

“No, I’m not sure of anything,” Rayna replied, frowning down at the map she’d printed out. “I think I’m on the right road. But I didn’t see a signpost with a name.”

Just when we considered turning around, I saw a glint of sunlight on metal and pointed. “Is that a trailer?”

A big double-wide trailer sat up on cinder blocks at the crest of a red hill. Some scraggly pines surrounded it, and the detritus of long-time neglect lay all around it. A mailbox leaned over the road at an odd angle, the few letters D-k-ns crudely drawn in white paint. A few tires piled up in a leaning rubber tower, and someone had tried to improve the yard with a planter made out of a tire turned inside out and painted. Most of the paint was gone, and whatever had been planted in it was long gone as well. Some dead stalks stuck straight up out of the dirt, and a dog curled in the middle of the makeshift planter. It lifted its head and let out a long bay of welcome or warning, I wasn’t sure which.

Electric power lines swayed over the road so low that if we’d been in a truck we’d have been tangled up in them. They tethered this outpost of remoteness to civilization. Two little kids sat out front with ice cream buckets they were filling with sand from the driveway, and when we rolled to a stop they looked up at us with little curiosity.

We sat for a moment in the truck, the engine running. Except for the dog and the kids, it looked deserted. Even the sky was gray, no light brightening the area and a sense of depression. I didn’t want to stay. I looked over at Rayna and saw the same feeling in her eyes. She put the car in gear again. Then the front door swung open, and a woman filled it, staring out at us with a look of suspicion.

“We might as well talk to her since we’re here,” said Rayna after a moment. She put the car back into park and turned off the ignition. None of us wanted to get out. The air of despair seemed to have turned the sky gray. I couldn’t imagine having to live here. Then Rayna opened her car door, and I opened mine.

When I stood outside the car I peered in at Bitty. She sat resolutely in the back seat with her dragon. Neither one of them seemed inclined to get out, so I opened her door for her.

“Come along, Princess,” I said. “Leave the dragon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Chen Ling goes where I go. You know that.”

Energized by her irritation, Bitty got out of the car. She looked absolutely conspicuous in her expensive navy skirt, jacket, and red silk blouse. Her stilettos were embroidered in red, navy and green swirls and lines, dotted with sequins, and had trademark Christian Louboutin red soles.

The pink chenille sling and sour-faced dog swathed in Pepto-Bismol pink were a glaring blot on her attire. I had to wonder what we must look like to the woman in the doorway. Rayna and I in our slacks, low flats, and sensible light jackets, and Bitty dressed like a CEO from Wall Street but with a puggy growth on her chest, probably made her think we were refugees from a bizarre circus. All Bitty needed was a silk top hat to be the Ringmaster.

We walked across the bare dirt yard toward the trailer. A couple cats sat up under it, one of them washing its face, another orange one stretched out in a supine pose. The dog in the tire planter sat up, suddenly alert at the sight or smell of Bitty’s blamed dog. I foresaw trouble. Not Bitty. She picked her way across the yard behind Rayna.

“Hello,” Rayna said pleasantly as she drew near the woman watching us. “I’m Rayna Blue, and these are my friends, Bitty Hollandale and Trinket Truevine. We understand that your niece is Mira Waller. The movie star?”

“I know who she is.” Her gravelly voice held no hint of welcome. I felt uncomfortable. There we were dressed in decent clothes; Bitty, the Queen of the Nile and her familiar next to us in her regal attire, and Latricia Jones Deakins had on a stained sweatshirt with frayed cuffs and stained sweat pants of an indeterminate color. She wore torn canvas tennis shoes that may have been white once. I could feel her resentment wafting toward us, and I didn’t blame her.

It suddenly seemed too insensitive to be there.

But there was no way to abort our mission now without making things worse, so I went behind Bitty and Rayna to talk to Latricia. She still regarded us warily. She was a tall woman, almost my height, very slender. As we got close I saw the weariness in her eyes, too. Poverty isn’t just demeaning; it’s exhausting. I’d seen extreme poverty in the Appalachians, the children with the big haunted eyes and pinched faces, wearing shoes with no socks even in the frigid winters of West Virginia. While this wasn’t as extreme, it had to be just as exhausting.

Rayna started right in once we reached the front steps that weren’t really steps, just slabs of wood across cinder blocks. Latricia crossed her arms over her chest and observed us as if we were an annoying new species of fly. Since Bitty wobbled over with the ugly baby in the sling, I’m sure Latricia was convinced we were all crazy, too. She wasn’t far wrong.

“Since Mira is so close to her roots,” Rayna was saying, “we wondered if perhaps you’d like a reunion get-together. I live in the old Delta Inn, and there would be plenty of room for all of you if you decided that would be something you want to do.”

Rayna talked a little fast and a little high, but that was the only sign of nerves.

Latricia’s mouth curled at one side. “Reunion? Somehow I can’t see Mira showing up for a reunion with her mama’s family. She don’t know us anymore anyway, and we don’t know her. It’s best that way.”

“Oh, well, perhaps your other relatives don’t feel as you do and would like to—”

“Look, ain’t nobody here care nothing about seeing her after she said and did all that she did. She’s dead to us, and we’ve been dead to her a long time. She was a kid when she left here and ain’t never looked back. I don’t blame her. If I could get the hell out of here I would, too.”

My curiosity was piqued. I had to ask, “What did she do that made her dead to you?”

Latricia’s eyes got narrow. “It ain’t really none of your business, lady. It’s family stuff, and you ain’t family.”

“Mira’s mother is related to Ruby May Wilson, and we’ve known her for years. While we’re not family, she is and may want to have a reunion. I’m sure she’d like to see all of you. If Mira is Ruby’s niece then she must be related to you as well.”

“I doubt it. For one thing, Mira, as you call her, is my sister’s kid, not mine. Last time I saw her, her name was Myra, not Mira, and my sister ain’t bothered to so much as send a card on Christmas. Miss Ruby is a fine woman, but Sukey is her niece by marriage, not blood.”

“Is Sukey a nickname?” Rayna asked. “Possibly short for her given name?”

Latricia shrugged. “We all just called her Sukey. Used to call her a few other things, too, but I don’t know as you’d call ’em nicknames.”

“I have a sister, so I can understand that,” Rayna lied. When Latricia cut her eyes toward Bitty, Rayna smiled. “We all have someone in our family that doesn’t quite fit. In fact, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t.”

That got a faint smile from Latricia. One of her kids who had been playing in the dust came up and tugged at the bottom of her sweatshirt. She looked down, and her eyes softened. She put a hand atop the child’s head, stroking all the braids done up with small pink barrettes on the ends. “You okay, baby?” she asked, and the little girl looked up and nodded.

“Jus’ firsty.”

“Say it right, baby, and then go on in, and I’ll get you a drink.”

Smiling up at her mother, the little girl said, “Jus’ t’irsty.”

“That’s better. Take your brother with you. He’s probably thirsty, too.”

The little girl held out her hand to her brother, and he took it. He looked to be about two years old, his sister maybe four. They were dusty, a tan coating on their dark skin, wearing long pants and shoes with no socks, long sleeve shirts but no coats. It was cool, almost too cool. I was glad for my jacket. They clambered up the steps and pushed open the door and went inside.

Latricia put her hand back to hold open the door. “You ladies be careful goin’ back down the road. Sometimes it’s washed out.”

We were about to lose our chance to ask the question that had been burning on my tongue since we got there, so I just took a deep breath and asked, “Is your sister Sukey the same person as Susana Jones?”

Latricia stared at me for a moment. Then her lips quirked with humor. “Is that why you come up here? You think Sukey and Susana are the same person? It’s all that movie stuff coming here that brings it all back to haunt folks. No, Sukey took off when she was young, but it wasn’t Billy Joe that got her pregnant. I don’t know why y’all want to stir up all that old stuff anyway. I was just a little kid, but I remember how upset my mama got at everything that went on back then. It was hard times. We kept to ourselves all we could. Now it just needs to die, but some fool has gone and written a book about it, and there’s gonna be a movie—seems to me people oughta have something better to do.”

I couldn’t help but agree with her. I might have told her that, but she stepped up into the house and shut the door behind her with a final thud that left us in no doubt how she felt.

“Well,” Rayna said, “I guess we’ve hit a dead end.”

During the past few minutes Bitty hadn’t said a word, just stood next to us with her pug in a sling and looked around as if she was bored. I glanced at her and saw something like horror in her expression as we turned to go.

“Are you okay?” I asked her, and she nodded.

“Mostly. I want to do something. Anything. Buy them clothes, coats, shoes and socks—and a gross of pink barrettes.”

Bitty is one of the most generous people I know. She donates to charities, heads fund drives, and supports benevolent societies. Sometimes Jackson Lee has to rein her in before she gets too carried away.

“I know, honey,” I said softly. “It’s difficult to see people in need. We’ll think of a way to help them. I have a feeling Latricia wouldn’t be pleased if you showed up with a gift basket.”

“You’re probably right, but I must do something. I
will
do something.”

We were almost to Rayna’s SUV when like a bolt from the blue, a tan and black comet leaped at the pink pug still attached to Bitty. She turned quickly, shielding Chen Ling with both arms while I tried to grab the dog jumping up at the fiercely growling lunch meat wearing pink velvet. Chen Ling is dumb as dirt. She egged that dog on by barking and snarling, scrabbling at the pink chenille sling to get loose and go after a dog five times her size.

Staggering sideways in her stilts, Bitty tried to keep her balance, but it was a losing battle. Rayna leaped for Bitty since I was doing my best to keep that coonhound from gobbling up Chitling, and she managed to grab the sling right before Bitty went down. She landed with a solid plop in the dust. Small clouds rose up around her. One of her stilettos had come off in the tumble and lay next to her. I had to grab the hound by its ragged collar and hold tightly while Rayna did her best to keep the little dragon from springing an attack from her chenille launch pad. It wasn’t a pretty sight.