Divas Do Tell (39 page)

That sounded pretty good, actually. For the first time in a month my off time was my own. I followed Bitty back to her house. Her jaunty little BMW convertible took the corners smoothly, and she even came to a full stop at the Stop sign. I was so proud.

Naturally, Bitty’s idea of something warm to drink involved alcohol. I was not averse to participating. We both had hot toddies. While the snow and ice was long gone, the wind could still bite pretty sharply. It even rattled one of the downstairs shutters against the wood siding.

“I’m going to have to get that fixed,” said Bitty as we sat in her cozy little parlor on the overstuffed chairs with matching ottomans. A fire burned in the grate, and soft music drifted from the speakers of her Bose discreetly tucked into an alcove. “Maybe Waters will come take care of that for me.”

Waters is an elderly gentleman who is spryer than most men half his age. He still works, doing home repairs, odd jobs, anything that pays money to help supplement his Social Security. I used to see him scaling ladders to fix a roof and held my breath waiting for him to fall. He never did. Maybe he should have tried out for the Flying Wallendas.

“How is Mr. Waters’ wife? Is she still alive?” I asked.

Bitty nodded. “She had cancer a while back, but they got it all, and she’s almost back to her old self. They still live over there in the little house behind the Taylor family. Or it used to belong to the Taylor family. Now it belongs to the Warrens. Mr. Taylor’s niece didn’t want the old house since she has one that’s a lot newer and bigger so she sold it.”

“A pity it didn’t stay in the family,” I said as I sipped my toddy.

Bitty nodded. “No one has respect for history these days. Thank heavens my boys aren’t like that. They respect the past and respect family heirlooms, too. For the pilgrimage Brandon is going to use the rifle my mama’s family had in The War. It went through Shiloh and Brice’s Crossroads, and it doesn’t fire properly any longer, but it’s our history.”

Bitty’s mama was from up in Hardeman County Tennessee, very close to where the battle of Shiloh was fought a hundred and fifty years ago. Southerners take pride in keeping not only heirlooms, but our personal history alive. Links to the past, to our heritage, keep us connected to family and home and our roots. We cherish those memories, the bad along with the good. It’s not always something we may be proud of, but it’s fact, and we can’t ignore it or rewrite it no matter how many people try to do so. It happened the way it happened. Whitewashing or changing it won’t take that away. Learning from it so the bad aspects don’t happen again is what’s the most important, in my opinion.

“So have you been fitted for your gown yet, Trinket?” Bitty asked, blindsiding me with the question. I didn’t have a lie or evasion ready.

“Uh,” I said, “why do you ask?”

Bitty’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t gone to be fitted yet, have you? You know the pilgrimage is only a couple months away. How do you expect your gown to be ready in time if you don’t get fitted?”

I should have gone with the truth: I hoped it wouldn’t be ready, and I wouldn’t have to wear it.

But foolishly, I didn’t. “I just haven’t had time,” I said. “You know, with all my animal welfare duties, Mama and Daddy coming home . . . it just hasn’t been a priority.”

Bitty gave me a stern look. “Go over to Jean Buford’s and get fitted as soon as possible. Stop procrastinating.”

I lifted a brow at her and tried to obfuscate. “My, my, a five-syllable word. I’m impressed with your increased vocabulary.”

She set her glass down on the table and reached for her cell phone. I knew before she dialed who she was calling. My resistance was futile. I was trapped. I would end up wearing a hot, itchy antebellum dress with horsehair petticoats, long pantalets, button-up shoes, hose and probably a wide-brimmed hat that would make me look like a demented mushroom. Going to the bathroom would be nearly impossible. And I would have to smile at tourists while I shifted from foot to foot waiting for the chance to sneak away before I made a puddle.

Once she was through talking to Jean Buford, Bitty looked at me and said, “Ten o’clock Friday morning.”

“What if I’m working?”

“You aren’t. You already told me you’re off for the next few days.”

“Oh.” All my options were exhausted. Doom closed in around me. I sucked down more toddy. Jack Daniel’s in heated water with honey, lemon, and cinnamon had rarely tasted so good. Recalling the outfit she’d chosen for me to wear during our short-lived movie career, I finally felt brave enough to ask what material and style she’d chosen for my dress, after a few more sips of toddy, of course.

“Oh, you’ll love it, Trinket, you really will. It’s a perfect style for someone of your height. I wanted a bustle in back, but then I thought maybe you’d look better in something more sedate. So I chose a hoop skirt of gray satin with black trim, a high lace collar, and snug-fitting jacket that will show off your small waist. You know, for a large woman you have a really nice hour-glass figure.”

I reeled from not only the backhanded compliment but the visual image of me in a hoop skirt and lace collar. Not to mention tight-fitting jacket. If it was cool I’d be okay. If the sun was out like usual in April, I’d sweat through the satin in a heartbeat.

So I said, “I’ll sweat to death. My potassium levels will drop, my electrolytes will go crazy and unbalance my system, and I’ll fall down in a dead faint. I’ll be a big gray glob on the pavement.”

Bitty looked shocked. Then she smiled. “Do you remember what Aunt Imogene used to say?”

“Bring me my snuff?”

“No, she always said, ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow.’ So you won’t sweat. You’ll just glow.”

“Great. I’ll be a big, gray, glowing glob on the pavement.”

“Honestly, Trinket, sometimes there’s just no pleasing you.”

I might have said something tacky then, but the doorbell rang, and Chen Ling leaped from Bitty’s lap to be first at the door, yodeling all the way like the Hound of the Baskervilles in one of the old Sherlock Holmes movies we used to watch. Basil Rathbone is still my favorite actor to play the role of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t have a favorite hound.

Rayna followed Bitty into the parlor and accepted her offer of a hot toddy. “Lord, yes, I want a toddy. Leave out the water, lemon, and sugar.”

I sensed something was awry. My stomach did a flip. “There hasn’t been another murder, has there?” I asked, and she shook her head.

“Wait’ll Bitty gets back with my toddy, and I’ll tell you both about it. If I have to repeat it too many times I might cry.”

Rayna is one of our most sensible Divas. She and Gaynelle are our cornerstones of stability. The rest of us just gravitate between functional and giddy.

Bitty rushed back with the toddy, and Rayna belted back half of it—excuse me, I mean she daintily sipped half her drink before taking a deep breath and steadying herself. Then she said, “Mrs. Whitworth was attacked in her home this afternoon and nearly killed.”

I gasped, and Bitty clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. One of us, I’m not sure which, asked what happened.

Rayna shook her head. “We don’t know all the details. I heard it on the police scanner. I had been doing some skip-trace work for Rob on one of his other cases since he’s been so busy with trying to mediate between movie producers and insurance companies. Anyway, there was a call to her home, and when they got there she was unconscious. One of the neighbors called them when they went over to take her some mail that had been mis-delivered—after all these years you would think the post office would know what goes to who—and saw her lying on the floor in the living room. They couldn’t get in because of the locked door so called the police. At first they weren’t sure if the person who attacked her was still in there or not.”

“And was there?” I asked when she paused for breath and another sip of toddy.

“No. Whoever attacked her was gone. They’ve taken her to Alliance, but she may end up airlifted to a bigger hospital in Southaven or Memphis.”

It was shocking. I looked at Bitty, and she looked back at me. We had to have the same horrified expression. Who would want to hurt Mrs. Whitworth? And why?

Chapter 20

“AMELIA WHITWORTH never hurt anyone,” said Jean Buford as she pinned the hem on the gray dress I wore. I stood on a stool in the middle of her sewing room, slowly turning as she worked her way around the hem of the ghastly gray gown.

“No,” I agreed. “I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about her. Are you sure this gown is going to fit? It seems rather tight through the waist.”

“I’ve let out the hem as far as I can. The seams are just basted, so I can let them out a bit, too. Be sure to watch your weight between now and the pilgrimage.”

I was aghast. “That’s over six weeks!”

“You can do it, Trinket,” said my duplicitous cousin. She perched on a chair across the room, having practically dragged me to my appointment. “It’s for a good cause.”

“It’s for the garden club to make money,” I grumbled.

Bitty gave me a reproachful look. “Without fund raisers there wouldn’t be enough money to keep up some of these lovely old homes. People enjoy the pilgrimage. Even your mama likes to put on hoop skirts and tell the history of Cherryhill every year.”

Since she was right and that made me grumpy, I just said, “I don’t see why I can’t stay at home wearing hoop skirts instead of be at your house.”

“Because Aunt Anna will be at your house, and I need someone to greet tourists at my house. Six Chimneys is right in town and will draw a lot more visitors than Cherryhill will, even though it’s pretty close to town.”

“Hold still,” said Jean Buford as I apparently twitched my skirts in annoyance.

I stood still and stared at the transom over the door. An eternity later I was fitted for my upcoming humiliation and allowed to change back into comfortable clothes. I looked with some distaste at the corset, stockings, bloomers, and horsehair hoop contraption I would be required to wear in six weeks. I was going to look like a beached whale. A shiny gray beached whale. Satin rustled ominously as Jean put the dress back on the form for alterations. My final fitting would be in three weeks.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I lied as we put on our coats to leave. Jean looked at me and smiled.

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” she said. “Just remember to adjust the hoops if you sit down, or your skirt will fly up over your head.”

“I can hardly wait.” I smiled back at her, already regretting being stupid enough to allow Bitty to talk me into this whole pilgrimage thing.

“Let’s go over to Rayna’s,” Bitty suggested once we were in the car and headed back to her house. “She may have an update on Mrs. Whitworth.”

Since Bitty was driving and we were in her Beemer, I wouldn’t have been able to refuse anyway, but I did want to find out if Mrs. Whitworth would make it. Rayna would also have all the details of what happened.

When we arrived she was in the middle of a painting. Dressed in a paint-daubed smock and holding a brush, she waved us in and shut the front doors behind us. Dogs and cats lay in front of the fire, while she had an easel up to catch the morning light from the east windows. A train rumbled past, wheels clacking against the tracks, barely visible out the window. Rayna had captured a scene with a train, the red Victorian depot and historically clad figures milling about.

“I’m doing this for Gwen,” she said cheerfully as she wiped paint from her brush and put it in a jar to clean. “She’s going to donate it to a craft booth during the pilgrimage. Did you hear the latest about Mrs. Whitworth?”

“That’s one reason we’re here,” said Bitty. She unwrapped a wool scarf from her neck and dropped it to the back of a chair on top of her coat. I shrugged out of my jacket and slung it to the settee by the fire. One of the dogs on the hearth rug lifted his head, gazed at me for a moment, then went back to sleep.

“The good news is that she’s going to be okay,” said Rayna. “The bad news is that it’ll take her a while to recover. She has a slight concussion, and her left arm is broken. At her age any fall can be fatal, and whoever attacked her meant to kill her.”

“Good God,” Bitty said softly. “What is going on? Three murders in less than two months, and now an old lady almost killed? This is just awful. What are the police doing? Do they think whoever hurt Mrs. Whitworth is connected to the other murders?”

“They’re spending a lot of twenty-four hour shifts trying to track down new leads and tie up loose bits of information. They’ve established a hotline for anyone with possible information about the murders or suspects to call in confidentially. The mayor is offering a reward.”

I perched on a stool at the former reservation desk now turned breakfast bar/Diva Day wine bar. There was something about the entire thing that really bothered me, besides the fact that an elderly woman had been assaulted.

“Do the police think she was attacked because she might know something about who killed Billy Joe? Or maybe even about the other killers?” I asked. “Are the murders connected? Are other people in danger?”

Rayna frowned as she wiped paint off her hands with a smelly rag. “I’m not sure. Since she lives across the street from Billy Joe Cramer that’s probably a good guess. This wasn’t a random attack. She had to be a target.”