Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Rayna and Gaynelle said in unison, and we all laughed.

  By the time I reached Carolann’s shop it was nearly ten o’clock, and my energy was lagging. I made a pot of coffee in the break room at the back of the store before going out on the floor to rearrange expensive silk underwear. Carolann also sells beautiful blouses and a few boudoir items, but it’s her partner Rose Allgood who sells the really sexy stuff. By that I mean sex toys. Dildos. French panties with no crotch. Other things I haven’t examined and don’t want to know exist are neatly in glass cases in the part of the shop that’s a step down and behind blue velvet curtains. I call it the Blue Room.

  Rose bought a former toy factory in town and has been outfitting it to make things like plastic forks as well as rubber “man parts” that I find both embarrassing and amazing. Just a peek into her side of the shop is a trip into a bizarre wonderland of different colored “man parts” of every size and consistency. It’s mind-boggling. What’s even more surprising is that Rose looks as if she’s stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, with pale blonde hair, a flawless complexion, and a cool demeanor more suitable for a socialite than a female version of Larry Flynt, the porno magazine entrepreneur.

  “There are pastries in the fridge,” said Carolann as she stepped into the break room for a cup of coffee. “Fresh this morning.”

  “I’m watching my girlish figure,” I lied. “Don’t tempt me.”

  She grinned. She had her wiry red hair pulled up into a knot on top of her head and secured with a scrunchy hairband; huge wire hoops hung from her earlobes, and she had on green eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara thick enough to lube a car chassis. Her long tunic top and flowing accordion pleat skirt were tie-dyed in rainbow colors of scarlet, yellow, blue, and green. Plastic Mardi Gras beads hung around her neck. She gestured to the shop’s main floor.

  “I’m decorating the shop with a combination of Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day items. Come tell me what you think.”

  Racks of expensive Vera Vera undergarments by Vera Wang were strategically situated to catch the shoppers’ eyes when they came in the front door. Carolann had hung a few Mardi Gras masks on one side of the shop and big red hearts and lace doily cut-outs on the other side. Somehow it worked.

  “I’m not a big name shop, but I did manage to get in a limited line of Wacoal Dia and Agent Provocateur corsets,” she said.

  I looked at them. They were lovely, fashioned from silk and lace, wispy undergarments that fairly shouted sex appeal. When I looked at the price tag I nearly fainted. The corsets started at $345, and the bras sold for no less than $150. Sex appeal should never shout that loud.

  “Good lord,” I said. “Are these going to be regular items?”

  “No, just while all the movie people are here. They have money, and you just never know when one of them might come into the shop.”

  “How many of these corsets does Bitty have?” I wondered aloud, and Carolann grinned.

  “Two. One in white and one in black and red.”

  “Bitty does love to be prepared for every occasion,” I said. “I shudder to think what Rose has put in the Blue Room.”

  “She’s not as farsighted as I am. I think she’s done very little to entice the wealthy.”

  “A pity. I’m sure she’d sell out the shop in an hour if they only knew.”

  “Any luck on finding out who sent Dixie Lee those death threats?” Carolann asked as we positioned the new items within three feet of the front door.

  “Yes. Everyone in Holly Springs and a fifty mile radius wants to see her dead. Other than that, no, we don’t know who sent them.”

  “It makes me wonder how everyone felt about her before she wrote the book. Was she always this hated?”

  “I have no idea. I vaguely remember her from my teenage years. She was older than us by three years, I think. Or four. It depends on who you talk to as to her age.”

  “She’s certainly made some unwise decisions in her life.”

  I finished setting up the rack with the bras, then said, “Haven’t we all? We just don’t write about them in a bestselling book.”

  “Have you read it yet?”

  “I’ve read the first three chapters. Bitty loaned me her copy. She highlighted certain paragraphs in it, so I’ve been a little worried she might do something rash.”

  Carolann laughed. “I’m shocked at the very suggestion. Bitty is such a calm person. Not at all a danger to herself or the community.”

  She was being sarcastic. It’s well-known that my serene cousin carries a huge pistol and has been known to use it, although never too recklessly. Due to Diva complaints, she took classes and had her weapon registered, but that’s not always enough to protect the town. Her efforts did come in handy not long ago, but now we’re just waiting on catastrophe.

  Business picked up during the day, and I didn’t have much time to think about Dixie Lee or the threats against her, although I did catch some of the excitement at the movie people being in town. It was interesting watching them set up for location shots, the camera guys setting up little tracks and adjusting all the time for lighting or the best angles.

  By the time we closed the shop at six it was dark, and the movie people had all vanished from the street in front of the courthouse. One of the shop’s customers had said they were shooting scenes at Cady Lee’s house, supposedly the childhood home of the Forsythe family and where the fictional character of Desirée DuBois grew up. Some of the book’s scenes featured the narrator, Desirée, as an observer of the events she described. From what I’d read so far, Desirée immersed herself in the lives of others only when it moved the story along. The main plotline revolved around the scandal of Billy Joe Cramer and Susana Jones—or Joe Don Battles and Sharona Smith as they were known in the book—and how Civil Rights issues affected them.

  “Do you want to go over and watch them film at Cady Lee’s house?” Carolann asked, and I shook my head.

  “I have to go home to feed critters. If I’m too late, Brownie tends to devour furniture and other delicacies. I’m not sure I could explain that to my parents.”

  “I’m going over there for a few minutes,” said Carolann. “It’s just so exciting to watch.”

  I didn’t feel a bit left out as I drove home. Watching movies being made held limited appeal for me. Bitty may be blinded by Hollywood lights, I told myself, but I was just fine in the dark.

  It doesn’t take as long as one might think to put out big pans of dry cat food and open dozens of tins for cats in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They’ve got the routine figured out a lot better than I do. Some sit patiently waiting while others curl around my ankles and yammer at me until I empty the tins into shallow pie pans. There aren’t usually too many squabbles between the cats since there are a lot of pie tins to go around. While they eat I clean water bowls and refill them and make sure there are no injured cats in the beds along the walls or up in the lofts. I was lucky enough this time that there were no sick cats requiring medications so that I didn’t have wire crates with litter pans to empty and cats to medicate.

  When I finished that I went in the house to turn the hound loose in the back yard. He ran around like crazy, throwing back his head every now and then to announce the fact that there’d been a squirrel, bird, or other critter in the yard. Since Cherryhill sits on ten acres surrounded by woods and fields, and the subdivision down the street has too many residents to encourage critters like possums or raccoons, we get our fair share in the yard. I waited on the deck for the dog, mentally counting to ten a few times while he finally decided to take care of his business. Sometimes he sniffs along the ground and poops at the same time, a trick not many dogs I’ve known have managed. I can’t decide if Brownie has attention deficit syndrome or is just really good at multi-tasking.

  Once back in the hous
e I went through the ritual of heating his food and putting it in his bowl on the placemat before I could tend to my own dinner. Another frozen pizza had little appeal. I decided to scramble some eggs and make toast instead.

  I’d just sat down at the table when my cell phone rang. It was still in my purse across the kitchen, and I debated not answering it. Sometimes my first instinct is related to survival. When I ignore that instinct is when I get into trouble. Still, I got up and went to my purse to dig out the phone.

  Bitty chirped, “I’m coming over with our outfits. We need them tomorrow, so you have to try on yours. I think you’re going to like it.”

  I doubted that. “I’m eating,” I said. “Maybe we can do that tomorrow.”

  “No, tonight. We have to be on the set at five in the morning.”

  Black dots danced in front of my eyes. “Five in the morning? Who does anything at five in the morning?”

  “Well, apparently, Hollywood people do.”

  “That’s obscene. And I’m amazed you’re even considering it at that hour. You rarely get up until ten in the morning.”

  “I’m willing to suffer for my career.”

  “What career?”

  Bitty sounded a bit exasperated when she said, “My acting career, Trinket.”

  Good lord.

  “An acting career as an extra doesn’t sound like something I want to suffer for, Bitty. If it was later in the day, maybe I would be more interested.”

  “This could be our big break, Trinket.”

  “As what? Pedestrians?”

  There was a moment of silence before she said, “One day you’ll thank me for dragging you out. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I would have said I was going to bed or taking a shower or just twiddling my thumbs, but she’d already hung up. Since I’m not sure I know how to twiddle anyway, I sighed and finished my scrambled egg sandwich. Brownie looked up at me expectantly. I shook my head.

  “Remember me? I’m not your real mama. She gives you bites of her food. I don’t. You’re already fat enough.”

  When he kept staring at me as if he stared hard and long enough food would suddenly magically materialize, I gave in and got him a doggie biscuit. He immediately took it and trotted to the den with it. I had been had, I was pretty sure.

  All too soon Bitty was at my door. She likes to come in the back way since it leads straight into the kitchen, and it’s the door we’ve used since we were kids. Most of the time the front of the house is reserved for company only. I dust it for Mama once a week, but other than that it’s rarely used.

  “Look, precious,” she said to Chitling, “there’s your cousin Brownie. Be nice.”

  Precious looked grumpy in her thick turtleneck sweater and little plastic rain boots. Brownie sat down and looked at her. A low growl vibrated in his throat until Bitty took the sweater and boots off the pug. Then he recognized her. Canine peace was restored.

  “It must be raining,” I said as Bitty set the little yellow dog boots on the table. They were cleaner than her purse since they’d never hit the ground, and her purse was frequently set on Budgie’s floor.

  “Just a sprinkle or two.” She shook out the nylon rain cap she’d worn atop her blonde helmet. No trace of the recent pizza fire remained.

  “I don’t want to be an extra,” I said, registering my protest even though I knew it was just a futile formality. “I don’t want to be up at five in the morning. I don’t want a career. I like the one I have.”

  “You don’t have a career, Trinket. Now here. Try on this dress.”

  She handed me a madras dress with a thin leather belt. I held it up to me, and as she’d promised, the hem hit me below the knees. It looked like a red and blue plaid madras tent.

  “Where’s your dress?” I asked.

  Bitty held up a lovely soft pink wool with a scooped neckline and three-quarter sleeves. I handed her back the madras dress.

  “I’ll look like a billboard in that thing. I’m not wearing it.”

  “It’s the only dress I could find in your size. There’s a nice little hat that matches.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. I won’t wear it even if the hat comes down over my face to hide my identity. I’d be a plaid nightmare.”

  “But you’d be in the movie,” Bitty argued. “Just think how impressed Aunt Anna and Uncle Eddie will be if you’re in a movie.”

  “In a madras dress that makes me look like the Shoney’s Big Boy? I don’t think so.”

  “Please, Trinket. I promised her that I could get some people as extras. You’ll make fifty dollars.”

  I eyed her for a moment. She seemed really intent on doing this. “Who are you trying to impress and why?”

  “Her name is Abby Bloom. She’s the Key PA. That’s a personal assistant. She said I have the face and presence to be a great character actor.”

  “And where did you meet her?”

  “She came into Budgie’s to pick up an order for lunch. She was struck with my appearance and said I should show up for open call—that’s auditions—tomorrow if I wanted to be in the movie. So I told her I’d bring a friend. See? I was thinking about you.”

  “Why couldn’t you think about me when you’re making a withdrawal from the bank?”

  “Oh, Trinket. Now here. Go try this on, and I’ll try mine on, and we’ll see how we look.”

  I know better. I really do. Anytime I do something Bitty thinks is a good idea there are always serious repercussions. And yet I gave in, tried on the dress, and the next morning before it was daylight and while it was still cold and dark and my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, I showed up at Bitty’s house wearing the damned dress.

  “I HOPE YOU’RE happy,” I said while we stood in the dark outside the courthouse and waited for the sun to rise so shooting could begin. Other people had shown up as well, and stragglers arrived as it got lighter. Klieg lights looked like a dozen distant moons as the lighting crew moved them up and down the trolleys set up for the cameras. Some of the crew used hand-held meters to test the light while others did all the necessary preparations for staging the scene.

  “Delirious with joy,” Bitty replied. “Thank you for coming, Trinket. Isn’t this fun?”

  “Maybe it will be soon. So far the only entertainment factor is feeling my feet slowly turn to ice. Unless you count watching my breath form icicles.”

  “I love the way you can find the good in every situation. You’re a trouper, aren’t you.”

  “Is that sarcasm? Because it’s way too early for sarcasm. It’s too early for birds to be chirping.”

  “Oh, here comes Abby,” Bitty said as daylight broke in the east, and the sky went from dark blue to pale blue. “You’ll like her. She’s really nice.”

  A young woman with short blonde hair, khaki cargo pants, a heavy jacket, and a clipboard in her hands strode energetically toward us. It didn’t take her long to get us all situated, who went where, what we were to do, and above all—wait for the director’s cue. No one was to do anything until the director gave the go-ahead. She had a hand-held walkie-talkie that kept up a constant chatter attached to her jacket pocket by a clip.

  “Abby,” said Bitty, and snagged her by the arm when she walked by, “do we look all right?”

  Abby stopped, smiled, and said, “You look wonderful, Betty. Just wonderful. Thank you for being here. Simon likes to shoot at the magic hour, and these first scenes are important.”

  “Did you hear that, Trinket?” my clueless cousin asked as Abby went on her way, occasionally pausing to talk to other crew members. “We’re important.”

  “Well, Betty,” I said, “what I think Abby said is that the scenes are important. We’re just props. Like that old car parked in front of the courthouse. Isn’t that a sixties-era Cadillac?”
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  “How would I know? Do I look like a used car salesman?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question? Because if it isn’t, I want to tell you what we both look like.”

  Bitty gave me a narrow-eyed glare that said she wasn’t happy with the direction of our conversation. That was okay. I wasn’t that happy being up at daylight when I could have been home in my nice warm bed. She crossed her arms over her considerable chest, stuck her chin in the air, and turned to look across the street. Then she made a sound like a snake. Or a leaky tire. Whichever, I knew it wasn’t a good sound for her to make.

  “Well, would you just look at that,” she muttered. “If it isn’t Miss Dark Secrets Under the Holly herself.”

  “I thought they changed the title for the movie,” I said as I turned to see the culprit.

  Dixie Lee Forsythe looked as perky as a new puppy. She had a cup of coffee in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other, and was chatting away with Abby Bloom. Curls of steam rose up from the cup, and the wind ruffled the papers she held.

  “She’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the old heifer,” Bitty almost snarled.

  Because I was cold and sleepy and unhappy about being there in the first place, I let myself be mean.

  “She certainly looks good for it being so early in the morning. Is that a designer jacket? It’s so cute. Dixie Lee knows how to dress, I’ll say that for her.”

  Through gritted teeth Bitty said, “That’s a Phillip Lim leather jacket. I recognize the ruffled hem. She’s much too old to wear that.”

  “Really? But she looks so nice in it.”

  “Miranda Watson’s pig looks nice in a silk hat, but she’s still a pig.”

  When Bitty brings up Miranda Watson’s pig I know I’ve gone too far. The pig—named Chitling—is spoiled just as badly as Chen Ling. Miranda puts cute little outfits on her, dresses her up in sparkly collars and sequined sweaters, and even though she doesn’t have Bitty’s canine couture budget, Miranda does a pretty good job of rubbing Bitty’s nose in it.