Divas Do Tell (29 page)

I turned, squinting, and that was when I saw a small group of photographers clustered at the curb. Behind me Simon Donato cursed, then muttered, “Blood-sucking paparazzi.”

Of course. Any reporter getting wind of a murder would be here anyway, but that the victim was a well-known and beloved movie star would get them here even more quickly. Local and national news trucks should arrive at any moment. This was big news in a small town and big news everywhere. Buck Prentiss had made a number of movies as well as the cover of
People
magazine as one of the handsomest men in the world. It had probably been a big coup to get him in this movie, and now he was gone. It’d be difficult to replace him if they decided to go ahead with the movie. All that was now up in the air, I imagined.

Simon got on his cell phone, said, “Pick me up,” then strode down the walkway to the street without another word to us. Questions were shouted at him at the speed of a machine gun.

“How did Buck Prentiss die?”

“Was he alone when he was killed?”

“What does this do to the movie?”

“Is it true Buck committed suicide?”

“Was Buck Prentiss murdered?”

Simon just kept silent to all the questions, moving ahead with purposeful strides as the big black Escalade rolled around the corner and came to a halt. He got in without a word, shut the door, and hid behind the tinted glass as the vehicle jerked forward. Paparazzi scattered.

Meanwhile Dixie Lee had been recognized, and she and Cady Lee ran a gauntlet of their own questions and clicking flashes. Bitty and I stayed safely under the tree behind the police tape.

“I’m glad we’re not famous,” said Bitty after a moment, and I nodded.

“Yeah. We don’t have to worry about paparazzi pictures or any snarky comments in the
Enquirer
.”

It must have been a slow news week.

My cell phone rang early the next morning. I was still groggy from getting home late and not enough sleep the night before. Since I had the blamed thing charging on my nightstand, I fumbled around for it, eyes open only a crack, struggling against a heavy pressure atop my legs. I sleep on my stomach, which I understand makes your face wrinkle sooner, and I couldn’t quite figure out why I was trapped under a hefty weight. It wasn’t until I rolled over and Brownie fell off my thighs that I discovered the culprit. Then my phone stopped ringing.

I sat up, and Brownie cocked his head to one side, his right front paw lifted, his eyes fixed on me as if he stared long enough I’d get out of bed and feed him. “You’re a dreadful little beggar,” I said to him. “And an even worse sleeping companion. Get off the bed and I’ll get up.”

It’s a complete fallacy that dogs don’t understand the human language. I swear that dog understands me perfectly. He leaped up, bounced off the bed, and stood watching and waiting for me to get up. I did, grabbed the cell phone, stuck my feet into my fluffy slippers, and headed for the stairs. As I bumbled along I checked the phone log. Bitty. I’d call her back as soon as I had coffee.

My phone rang again as I was scooping coffee beans into the grinder. I reached for it, saw that it was Rayna, and thumbed it open to answer. Rayna said without preamble, “Have you seen the morning paper?”

“No. I just got up and am making my coffee and about to feed the furry stomach staring up at me. Why?”

“Do you get the
Commercial Appeal
?”

“Yes, but it’s down at the end of the drive, and I don’t want to go out yet. What’s going on? Should I prepare myself for something awful?”

“Yes. I’ve talked to Bitty, and she told me about Buck Prentiss. She also told me all about her and Dixie Lee’s little discussion in front of the house.”

A tingling began at the bottom of my spine. I hit the top of the grinder in a couple of quick bursts, then poured the coffee into the waiting filter. I punched the On button and headed toward the refrigerator, mentally counting to ten so I didn’t say or do something too stupid.

“Trinket? Are you still there?”

“I’m afraid so. Okay. What’s in the paper that I’m pretty sure I don’t want to read?”

“It’s the picture that’s the bad part. Oh, and they got your name wrong.”

The tingling increased, crawled up my spine to lodge between my shoulder blades, and a faint buzzing temporarily deafened me. Spots danced in front of my eyes. I leaned against the refrigerator with Brownie’s food tray in my hand. Maybe I was having a seizure of some kind. I occasionally had bouts of low sugar. Not often, since I made it my mission to refuel with plenty of sugary treats, but I felt at the moment like I was about to pass out.

Rayna went on as if I were participating in the discussion. “Go out and get the paper, and you’ll see it. First page of the second section. Bitty looks pregnant, but if you look closely enough you can see Chen Ling’s face in the sling. Dixie Lee looks deranged. You look . . . well, it’s not the most flattering picture of you that I’ve seen.”

“Oh lord.” Since I had recently been photographed by the press with my skirt flying up and arms outstretched like I was catching the winning football pass, and had been photographed standing behind a hydrangea wearing a wet tee shirt and blue flowers covering all the important places, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this picture if it was less flattering than those.

“I’ll call you back when I’ve seen the paper,” I said with a sigh. I hung up, fed the dog, poured a cup of coffee, then I shrugged into my daddy’s coat for my trip down the driveway. We have a painted strip of wood with knobs right at the back door for our coats. Mine is never where it should be, so I frequently end up wearing someone else’s coat for unexpected jaunts outside.

It was really cold, but the sun was bright. The paper lay on the gravel in its little blue plastic sleeve, and I picked it up and started back to the house. A car passing by suddenly braked and then wheeled into our half circle drive and crunched to a halt. The tinted window hummed down, and a man stuck his head out.

“Miz Truvy? How are you doin’ today?”

I stopped. My Spidey-sense told me this man was not a friend. I pulled Daddy’s coat more tightly around me and flexed my toes inside my fluffy slippers. “I’m not Miz Truvy. Who are you?”

He opened the door, and I took several steps closer to the house. “Wait,” he said, “I want to ask you a few questions.”

Still heading toward the house I said over my shoulder, “This isn’t the right time. Come back never.”

If he responded to that I didn’t wait around to hear. I almost ran back to the house and got inside and slammed the door. My heart pounded against my ribs. Maybe having a movie come to town wasn’t as good an idea as it had seemed at first.

My coffee wasn’t hot enough, so I reheated it in the microwave as I flipped open the paper. The usual headlines about national politics and local crime filled the front page, but in the second section I saw what Rayna meant about the photograph not being flattering.

The flash had caught Dixie Lee lunging toward Bitty who had already turned away, and apparently I had reacted with an open mouth and lifting of my arms so that I looked like a giant praying mantis about to leap upon my prey. The coffee pot dinged, so I got my coffee and added milk. I lingered. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read the blurb beneath that photograph.

The photo didn’t look any better at second glance. The caption read, “Dixie Lee Forsythe, aka Desirée DuBois, the noted author of
Dark Secrets Under the Holly
, the bestseller being filmed in Holly Springs, Mississippi, attacks the woman who found the body of famous actor Buck Prentiss. Ms. Bitty Hollandale, ex-wife of slain senator Philip Hollandale, and her sister Ms. Tricket Truvy, found the actor’s body when they arrived for a visit. Mr. Prentiss had been having loud parties, according to neighbor Samantha Clark. It is not known if Ms. Hollandale and Ms. Truvy are friends of the late actor. Director Simon Donato was present at the crime scene as the actor’s body was removed from the rented house where he had been staying.”

It could have been worse. I noticed that Bitty was mostly in the background, but I could indeed see Chitling’s frowning face peeking out of the sling. It was a black and white photo so not that clear. Simon Donato had stepped back so that only his arm was visible. Cady Lee’s hand was barely visible as she tried to grab her sister.

I called Rayna. “It’s not a good photo of me,” I conceded, “but not the worst that’s been in the paper. At least I was in the background.”

“Your mouth is open, and you look like Ralph Macchio doing the one-legged tiger stance in
Karate Kid
.”

“I never heard of the tiger stance. And Ralph Macchio is nearly our age now.”

“Good lord. Where has the time gone?” There was a moment of silence before Rayna said, “Bitty claims Buck Prentiss was most likely murdered. What do you think?”

“I think Bitty talks too much.”

“Good point. If you’re not working today, why don’t you and Bitty come over. I’m baking my chocolate cream cake.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll call Bitty.”

“It’s about time you called back,” said Bitty when I called her after my first cup of coffee had time to settle my nerves. “Have you seen this morning’s
Commercial Appeal
?”

“I have. Rayna called and wants us to come over for chocolate cream cake.”

“Good idea. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No. I’ll be at your house in an hour.”

“I’m calling Gaynelle. We need to do something about this.”

“Do something about what? Bitty, I refuse to get involved.”

“You’re already involved, Trinket. We found the body, remember?”

“That’s as involved as I want to be. Forget doing anything else. Promise me we won’t get involved. Bitty?”

“Honestly, Trinket, sometimes you can be very annoying.”

“I know. But we’re not getting involved. Right?”

“Oh, Chen Ling needs to go out. I’ll see you in a few, Trinket.”

As I hung up I realized that Bitty had neatly sidestepped a promise to not get involved.

Chapter 16

WE SAT IN RAYNA’S hotel lobby, a cheery fire in the grate and our chairs and a loveseat pulled up close to the warmth. Two black dogs lay on the hearth rug, and a couple cats nestled in baskets nearby. Rayna had pulled an old table with peeling paint into the middle of our group and set it with cake, plates, wine, and glasses. A stack of different colored napkins spilled out of a small wire basket.

“I agree with Trinket,” said Gaynelle, passing me a piece of chocolate cream cake on a china plate. “The police can handle this without our help.”

“Of course they can,” Bitty replied. “I’m not suggesting we do their job. I’m just saying we have information that may be useful to them.”

I looked at her. There are times Bitty can be evasive. Or in complete denial. I didn’t see any subterfuge in her expression, so I decided on a cautiously optimistic response.

“We can always share our thoughts and the few facts we’ve learned,” I said. “The police probably already have most of the information we have anyway.”

“Having the information and knowing how to use it can be two different things,” said my clueless cousin. “I mean, look how long it took them to decide Billy Joe’s death was a homicide instead of suicide.”

“That’s not the same thing, Bitty,” said Rayna. “Sometimes it’s interpreting the evidence they have that’s difficult. Just one new piece of evidence can change the entire game.”

Bitty lifted a brow. “My point exactly.” When we all looked at each other she added, “I said from the beginning that Dixie Lee killed Billy Joe, but did anyone listen? No. Now look. We found out he was murdered like I said in the first place. Abby’s death was a murder. I’m betting that Buck’s death is going to end up a murder as well. He didn’t just fall down those stairs, I don’t care how much he had to drink. He was only thirty-four years old. He was in good physical shape. I don’t think the fall killed him. I think he was dead when he was pushed down the stairs.”

For several moments none of us said anything. It was a possibility, of course. But who would want to kill Buck? That brought up the question, who would want to kill Abby Bloom or Billy Joe Cramer?

Gaynelle nodded as she sliced into her cake with the edge of her fork. “It seems there are several options. Either one person killed all three, two people killed two of them, or a different person killed each victim. I think the last option strains credulity too much. Coincidence cannot support three unknown killers. Nor do I think there are two killers. I believe all three of these murders are connected, and the odds are that one person committed them.”

We all mulled that over for a few moments. Then Rayna said, “That’s the most logical answer. Going from that point, then we have to find one person with motivation, opportunity, and means. Who would that be? And no, I don’t think it’s Dixie Lee, Bitty.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Bitty lied. I could tell from the way she said it that it was the first thing she was going to say, but I let it go.

“Right now,” said Rayna, “the most logical person is Mira Waller. She has opportunity, motivation, and means for killing Abby and Buck. I don’t see a motivation for killing Billy Joe.”