Divas Do Tell (41 page)

After she scraped cornbread crumbs off the checked tablecloth onto an empty plate she looked up and said, “Has anyone talked to Cady Lee or Dixie Lee lately?”

“I haven’t,” said Bitty. “Did Dixie Lee get another fake death threat?”

Rayna smiled. “Not to my knowledge. She just disappears for hours at a time.”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Cady Lee. She’s worried that Dixie Lee is being so mysterious. She thinks she may be having a nervous breakdown.”

“She’s up to something,” said Bitty. “Dixie Lee isn’t the kind to have a breakdown.”

I looked at Bitty. “You’re such a suspicious little person.”

“Only when called for, Trinket. Dixie Lee is two-faced and backstabbing. I don’t think she’s changed that much since college.”

I looked at Rayna, and we both shook our heads. “”While I don’t agree with Bitty that people can’t change,” I said, “it is strange that she’s being so mysterious with her own sister.”

“Mark my words,” said Bitty, “Dixie Lee is up to something.”

Rayna took the topic in a different direction. “Somehow, I think Dixie Lee holds the key to who killed Abby and Buck. She did so much research in writing her book, and according to her kept only a portion of it in the final manuscript. I wonder what she left out, and if what she left out is important?”

“Well,” said Bitty, “I think it’s odd that since the first murder she hasn’t received any more death threats. Maybe she made up all that just to get publicity for the book and movie.”

“It’s possible,” I agreed. “She really did seem frightened, though.”

“
Pffttt
! Old Nick himself wouldn’t scare Dixie Lee. She’s mean as a snake and about as straight, too. She never could tell the truth when she was a girl, and she hasn’t gotten better.”

I barely kept from rolling my eyes. “Really, the two of you can carry grudges longer than anyone in all of Miss’sippi.”

“Not true. Parrish Hollandale has hated her cousin Lena since they were both three. They still try to get one another arrested on a regular basis. And Parrish is older than dirt.”

Bitty’s ex, Philip Hollandale, left behind a sister, Parrish, and a mother, Patrice, who had never liked Bitty, and they’d all been arch-enemies for years. Even after divorcing Philip the feud had gone on right up until his death. His funeral was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Yet they still kept tabs on the other’s activities. I didn’t understand any of that. I don’t have the energy to carry grudges or maintain a healthy feud. It’s just too taxing.

When we went outside to Rayna’s car, we’d all agreed to get together the next morning to talk over our suspicions and compare them with facts. It wasn’t that we thought we could actually solve the murders; it was more that we knew so many of the suspects we could weed out those least likely to shoot, bludgeon, or push someone down the stairs.

“Not that the police will appreciate our efforts,” said Bitty with a disdainful sniff. She fastened her seat belt at Rayna’s urging, and we drove back up Van Dorn toward the Delta Inn.

“That’s all right,” I said. “They don’t have to appreciate us. All they have to do is catch the murderer.”

“Easier said than done,” Rayna remarked, and I nodded agreement. Police are constrained by such pesky things as laws; as civilians we can risk imprisonment and our lives by bulldozing in where the more cautious would fear to tread.

After leaving Rayna’s I went home with Bitty. Since she’d committed us to high tea out at Sandra’s rental house in Snow Lake there was little point in going home first. Her house seemed oddly empty without the pitter patter of little doggy feet to annoy me.

“When are you picking up Chitling?” I asked as I followed her into the kitchen.

“Chen Ling will be through with her spa day around five thirty. I thought we’d pick her up on our way back from visiting Sandra,” she replied as she got out two tall glasses from the top cabinet. “Sweet tea?”

“Of course. I’m delighted you’re not going to insist I drink unsweetened tea.”

“You know I don’t have unsweetened tea. That’s sacrilege. Do you know there are places in America that don’t serve sweet tea? I was shocked the first time I asked for sweet tea in New York, and they brought unsweetened iced tea along with a jar of sugar. It’s not at all the same thing.”

“I completely agree. It doesn’t taste right. It has to have simple syrup or sweetened while the tea water is still hot so it dissolves properly.”

“And fairly strong,” Bitty added. “It has to have color, not look like flavored water.”

Since I’d been raised on tea that was a lovely caramel color, I nodded agreement. “Strong but not bitter,” I said. “Sweet tea seems to be a drink that’s common only in the South, I found out when moving around the country. Mama used to send me care packages of Lipton tea bags.”

Bitty sighed at the tragedy of people who don’t know how to properly prepare sweet tea, and we went into her parlor to put up our feet on her plush ottomans and talk about whatever came into our heads. With Bitty, that’s always a sketchy proposition. You might get silk, or you might get dross, but you never get bored.

We chatted about her boys, my daughter, their lives and how we tend to think of them as still our babies when they’re young adults. Then Bitty said, “Rayna was right, you know.”

“About what?”

“That the police can’t do what we can.”

I froze with my tea glass halfway to my mouth. It took a moment to recover before I said, “No. Whatever you’re planning,
no
. It won’t work. It’ll be dangerous, and we’ll end up in trouble or jail.”

“Dixie Lee or Mira will get away with murder if we don’t do something.”

“Did you pay any attention at all to Sergeant Maxwell? Did he seem like the kind of man who would be agreeable to us doing what he said not to do?”

“I’m sure he’d get over being upset if we managed to identify the murderer.”

“And I’m sure he wouldn’t. I’m pretty sure we’d be doing hard time. Or at least thirty days and community service.”

“That’s just it, Trinket. We’d be doing the community a service if we were responsible for catching a killer.”

“I’m willing to bet the police would consider getting us off the streets community service enough.”

“You’re so shortsighted at times.”

“It’s a gift. Deal with it.” I saluted her with my tea glass, she stuck out her tongue, and I smiled. Regression to the third grade can be fun at times.

By the time we were on our way to Snow Lake to visit with Sandra, Bitty had gotten over her irritation with me. The car skimmed over asphalt like a bird. I checked my seat belt for the third time. We flashed by trees, meadows and cows, passed the dog grooming salon, and swooped down the next hill and up again.

“So why did Sandra decide to include Mira for high tea?” I asked as we neared the Snow Lake entrance just before the dam.

“She said she had discovered something about Mira and we should ask her about it.”

“I’m not that comfortable going out there to ask questions of someone who might have committed three murders,” I said.

“Well, there will be three of us and only one of her. She’s outnumbered.”

“That’s not always helped us, if you’ll recall,” I reminded her. “A loaded pistol can be an excellent equalizer.”

“That’s true. So it’s a good thing I have my gun in my purse.”

“Good lord, Bitty. Why do you carry that thing around? Is it the cannon?”

“If you’re referring to my forty-five, yes. And it’s come in handy in the past, you must admit.”

I sighed. I really disliked it when she made a good point in these arguments. It could be very annoying. “You’ll leave your gun in the car, right?” I asked.

“Really, Trinket, you always assume I don’t know how to behave in polite company.”

“Forgive me for going by past experience.”

“I’m always polite. And I have a permit to carry concealed.”

“That alone makes me wonder about the government officials we elected to keep us safe. They obviously weren’t aware of your bad habits before they enacted the gunslinger law.”

“Well, you can tell them all about me before the next election. It’s this entrance, right?”

I sighed. Talking to Bitty can be exasperating at times. “Yes, this is the entrance,” is all I said. I can recognize when I’m talking to a brick wall.

The house Sandra was renting on the west side of Snow Lake sat back off the winding road and could barely be seen through the trees. Tall cedars and pines threaded between the deciduous trees, spiked with the occasional thick clump of bushes to obscure the view. A set of iron gates barred the driveway, and Bitty stopped the car and punched the button on the intercom set into a high stucco wall.

“It looks like a fortress,” I commented, half admiring, half curious as to who needed this much security in a community where people rarely locked their doors. “Who owns it?”

“A realty company has it,” Bitty replied as she waited for a response. “The owners live out of state and don’t get here much. See that tower? It has a hot tub in it with a view all around the lake.”

“Cinderella’s castle isn’t this ornate,” I muttered as the gates swung open, and the BMW cruised down the sloping driveway to the house. “I’d ask how much it’s going to sell for, but I’m not sure I want to know. The price is probably more than the national debt.”

“Hardly. It is a little high for this area, though.”

The wide driveway ended in front of the garage. If not for an open door and an SUV in it I wouldn’t have known it was a garage. It looked like part of the house, with a stained glass window, columns in the front, and landscaping much like the front of the home.

“I don’t see a car that would be Mira’s,” Bitty murmured as she switched off the ignition and we looked around.

“She’s probably using her car service. It’s got to be much easier than trying to find your way around an unfamiliar town.” I paused, then said, “Mira is from Mississippi. I wonder if she really does have some kind of connection to Billy Joe or his family.”

“Well, of course she does, Trinket, or she wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I haven’t been sure she’s guilty of that. I lean toward her for Abby and possibly Buck, however. It just doesn’t make sense that she’d kill those two for no reason.” I pondered a moment before I added, “So it may just be true that she killed Billy Joe for whatever reason.”

“At last. You’re beginning to see sense.”

“Or maybe she had a feud with Abby, and Buck overheard them arguing so threatened to tell the police. But if he was seeing Mira at the time, would he do that?”

“Why not? Men do inexplicable things all the time.”

“Turning your girlfriend in for murder isn’t usually one of them,” I said dryly.

“Well, I can easily see Mira banging Buck over the head with a pipe wrench.”

“I didn’t know Buck was hit with a pipe wrench,” I said in surprise.

Bitty shrugged. “Pipe wrench, claw hammer, it all sounds too much like Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick.”

“It does sound like a game of Clue,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, it’s all too real.”

Sandra greeted us at the door, dressed in the deep red velvet lounge suit I’d seen her wear before. Bitty presented her with the expensive bottle of wine she had brought. “This is from both of us,” she said to cover my lack of a hostess gift as Sandra ushered us into the living room. It looked out on the lake, a wide expanse of windows with no curtains or shutters. Even in winter it was a beautiful scene, the reflection of the bare trees and evergreens in the lake, geese floating serenely, and a crane or two walking the shallows on stilted legs. The gray sky above seemed to meet the tops of towering trees in the Holly Springs National Forest that formed a boundary of Snow Lake Shores.

“It looks like rain,” Bitty remarked as Sandra took our coats and draped them over the back of a chair. We set our purses in the seat of the chair. “What a perfect view. I love the way the water laps against the shore. It’s such a soothing sound.”

Sandra smiled. “That’s why I have the windows open. At home I have a view of the Pacific, but this is the next best thing. I’m so glad you found me a house out here, Bitty.”

“Oh, that was Laura. She’s very good at finding just the right thing a client wants.”

“She certainly is. Tea, ladies? The water is hot and the tray is ready.”

“Should we wait on Mira?” I asked as we followed her into the kitchen. A tray had been set with tea cups, lemon, sugar, and milk. A variety of cream cakes cluttered the granite countertops, and cookies filled a small basket. Strawberries and cream happen to be one of my many favorites, and my mouth watered as Sandra set the cakes on the tea table.

“Mira is always late,” she said lightly. “It can be very inconvenient on a movie set. But since she thinks she’s a huge star, she does what she likes.”

Bitty and I exchanged glances. It was obvious Sandra really disliked Mira. If she’d killed all those people, I could well understand it. I wondered if Sandra had proof of Mira’s guilt. I wasn’t too comfortable with us confronting a possible murderer, no matter how young and thin she might be or how many of us there were. Bitty’s expertise with a pistol was hit and miss. Any use of firearms could be a very risky proposition. Sandra was an unknown quality when it came to confrontations, too. Although she’d done well defending Dixie Lee from Billy Joe, that had been an entirely different kind of confrontation.