Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  There are a lot of rules on a movie set. Some of them I understand, like being quiet when we’re not required to speak, being where you’re supposed to be, and doing what you’re supposed to do without being micro-managed. Have I mentioned that Bitty sometimes needs micro-managing?

  “You’re going to get us thrown off the set,” I hissed into her ear when she spent too much time rearranging her hair and not enough actually listening to the director. “We’re supposed to be hitting our marks, not staring at our reflection in a window.”

  “Hitting our marks? My, you’ve picked up the jargon so quickly.” Bitty turned from the glass-front window of the hardware store where she’d been admiring her reflection and positioned herself on the strips of masking tape on the sidewalk. “Is that better, Mr. DeMille?”

  I rolled my eyes. This scene called for two women to accidentally bump into Buck Prentiss, who was playing the part of Billy Joe Cramer, in the hardware store. We were supposed to stare at him with disapproval, then deliberately avoid going anywhere near him. Sandra had wrangled the parts for us. I was sure Bitty had been responsible for that in some way but couldn’t accuse her of it until I had proof. She knew I didn’t want to be in the movie. I’m much happier watching movies with a bucket of popcorn and a box of Junior Mints, but she was bound and determined that we were going to break into Hollywood by hook or by crook. I felt like giving her a left hook at the moment, but kept my pleasant façade so we didn’t have to shoot the stupid scene a third time.

  I glanced over at Buck Prentiss. He looked like everything Billy Joe Cramer was not—tall, thick blond hair and dazzling green eyes, a lazy smile and perfect white teeth, a lean build and very handsome. A movie heartthrob with a bad drinking problem, according to the tabloids; I hadn’t noticed any problems on the set, but what did I know?

  The first shot had the lighting wrong, so we did it again. The second shot, Bitty was picking lint from the front of her dress instead of paying attention so had to be shot again. Maybe the third time would be the charm. A crew member gave the cue, and the director called for action. Cameras panned across the front of the stores east of the courthouse. Fifties and sixties era cars were parked on the street.

  On cue, we strolled into Booker’s Hardware. The glass door swung inward onto old wood floors that had been there since the Civil War. Our 1960s shoes sounded loud as we approached the display of Number 8 washtubs and stoneware butter churns. Black iron skillets on shelves were opposite the display. Our directions were to inspect the washtubs, with one of us looking at the cast iron skillets. Buck aka Joe Don was to come toward us, at which time we were supposed to draw up our skirts as if he would contaminate us, look down our noses at him, then leave the hardware store whispering to each other about him.

  That’s what was supposed to happen.

  Bitty, determined to get noticed by a talent scout, decided to improve upon her small part. If she had shared this information with me perhaps I could have persuaded her otherwise. However, she didn’t, so when she suddenly whirled around with a dramatic clutch at her chest it caught me off-guard. I stepped backward from the display of tin washtubs and stoneware butter churns, caught the heel of my pump in a crack in the floor, and lost my balance. My leap scared Bitty, who hadn’t been expecting me to react to her melodramatic gesture, and she staggered backward into the tall shelves of cast iron skillets. One of us screamed. It might have been me, because as I went backward I clawed at something to catch myself, and all that was handy was a butter churn handle. It didn’t save me. Instead, I ended up on my rear end in a stack of Number 8 washtubs, waving a wooden churn handle over my head. My stupid little madras hat to match my hideous madras dress slid down over my face to come to rest on my nose. I had a very narrow view of my dear cousin.

  At least Bitty didn’t fare much better.

  When she staggered backward into the tall shelf of cast iron skillets it began to sway alarmingly. She grabbed at the sides, splayed out like a starfish, her eyes wild as she rode the damn thing all the way to the floor. There was a terrific noise as a dozen or so cast iron skillets banged into iron and wood and tumbled all over the place. A stoneware butter churn exploded into a hundred pieces as a ten-inch skillet slammed into it, chunks of stoneware flying out like small meteorites. One of the hardware employees had to duck. I saw Buck Prentiss double over with laughter. Bitty finally sat up in the midst of the carnage and flicked at ceramic dust on her sleeve. She reminded me of one of my mother’s cats pretending to have done it on purpose when missing the bottom rung of the ladder to the loft. It didn’t do her much good. Before we knew it, we’d been helped up off the floor and escorted off the set.

  I was relieved. Bitty was despondent.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I said to her when we stood all the way across the square in front of the lingerie store where Bitty had parked her car, “I heard Buck Prentiss say that he hasn’t laughed that hard since he was ten years old.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t help,” said Bitty with a sigh. “I was hoping to get noticed.”

  “I’d say you achieved that goal admirably.”

  “Well, not that way, Trinket. I wanted to be discovered. Swept off to Hollywood to be a star.”

  “I’m not sure you’d be any more appreciated than you are here. You’re the star of Holly Springs instead of Hollywood. That isn’t so bad, is it?”

  She managed a faint smile. “I guess not. And really, I wouldn’t want to leave all of you behind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “We all have dreams,” I said.

  Bitty pulled her coat more snugly around her and started to say something but was drowned out by the sudden shrill screaming of police sirens. Startled, we both turned to watch as three patrol cars sped down Van Dorn Street headed east. Movie crew scattered, and extras ran for their cars. Something big must have happened.

  “What on earth?” Bitty said, and looked at me. I looked back at her. Then we both headed for her car. It was parked behind the lingerie store, and by the time we reached it we were out of breath. We had taken a shortcut through the shop, much to Carolann’s curiosity, and she hollered after us to be sure to let her know what was going on. Sirens in a small town aren’t that common, and when excitement happens we all like to be a part of it.

  “Get in, Trinket,” Bitty yelled at me when I paused next to her black Mercedes.

  “Unlock the door, Einstein.” Bitty hit the switch control, the lock popped open, and I yanked the door handle and slid onto the expensive leather seat as Bitty put the car in gear and backed up so fast I almost fell out before I could get the door shut. I think I said something like “Eeek!” but she didn’t bother to slow down. We were on a mission.

  Bitty aimed the car toward Memphis Street, took the corner on two wheels—not an easy feat in a car built like a tank—and sped toward Van Dorn Street. The movie crew had blocked it off so we had to detour, but we got to Market Street in record time, turned left, and hit the light to turn right and follow the police down Van Dorn. They’d disappeared, but the sound of sirens led us to turn down Randolph toward Bitty’s street. It sounded like they were near her house.

  “Oh lord,” she said, “I hope nothing’s happened at home. Chen Ling is there by herself.”

  I understood her panic. Chen Ling has been known to devour doorstops and dildos. The last was a moment I hope to never see again.

  “Unless she’s figured out how to hit the panic button on your alarm,” I said to soothe Bitty, “I doubt they’re at your house. Those were police cars, not fire trucks.”

  “Someone could have broken in. They could be holding Chen Ling hostage at this very moment.” She lowered her foot on the accelerator, and I grabbed the door handle to hang on. The powerful Mercedes engine roared louder, and I closed my eyes. If we were going to hit a pole or plow into a house, I didn’t want to see it coming.
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  “Who would be brave enough to try to catch her?” I asked blindly. “She bites.”

  “She’ll be so frightened . . . my poor precious.”

  “Your poor precious could survive Armageddon with no problem, Gollum.”

  “Don’t be mean, Trinket. She may have big eyes, but she’s not a hobbit.”

  “I was talking about you, Smeagol.”

  “I’m in no mood to trade insults. And you can open your eyes now.”

  Of course, there wasn’t a sign of any activity at all at Bitty’s house. It was quiet and serene, the pink house just sitting there. Bitty turned into the driveway. We backed out and headed toward the sirens that still screamed a few blocks away.

  Two streets over from Bitty’s house patrol cars blocked off the road. One of them was parked in the front yard. Lights flashed, and one of the policemen was stretching out a roll of yellow tape from the telephone pole at one edge of the yard to the pole on the other side. The house was an older home, brick, with a Craftsman-style front porch. It was in a decent area, but the yard was littered with old tools, some towels that looked as if they’d been there for a while, and overturned trash cans. A tattered Confederate battle flag dangled from a pole attached to the front porch. Behind the house a low fence corralled a baying pack of hounds.

  Bitty lowered the passenger side window of her Mercedes so we could see better. We were about thirty feet from the sidewalk and house. A beehive of activity was going on, police in and out of the house, radios chirping, and general official business that could only mean it was something serious. Lured by possible drama, people milled about on the sidewalk and in yards, all craning their necks for a better view, talking and whispering.

  “I wonder what happened,” said Bitty, and an awful premonition made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Just as I realized whose house it was, a bystander said, “Billy Joe Cramer shot himself.”

  Chapter 7

  “I KILLED HIM!” Dixie Lee wailed and broke into sobs again. “It’s all my fault. I might as well have taken that gun and put it to his head myself.”

  We were at Cady Lee’s house trying to console an almost hysterical writer. Cady Lee had called us, frantic because her sister was inconsolable and near a complete breakdown. When faced with life’s nastier side, it often takes several Divas to help one get through it. Bitty had brought brandy as well as a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. It wasn’t that we thought Cady Lee didn’t already have those things. It’s that it’s impolite to show up empty-handed. I brought a chocolate cake I bought at The Pig—that’s short for the Piggly Wiggly, a local grocery store that’s been around forever and a day. Rayna brought vodka and pie. Carolann brought peanut butter fudge, and her business partner Rose Allgood brought a box of something none of us had the courage to inspect yet. She stocks men’s edible underwear. Gaynelle brought sweet tea and Sandra Brady.

  Sandra sat beside Dixie Lee on an old settee in the parlor since filming had abruptly stopped at news of the tragedy. She slid an arm around her shoulders and said softly, “Honey, there’s nothing you can do when someone self-destructs. It’s not your fault. Billy Joe took the easy way out once he saw that the entire town knows what he did. He probably just couldn’t face everyone in the world knowing what an awful man he was once the movie came out. People like Billy Joe are cowards.”

  Tears had gummed up Dixie Lee’s mascara and smeared it all around her eyes. She looked like a raccoon. “But . . . but if it hadn’t been for my . . . book he’d still be alive.” She hiccupped, and Bitty thrust a snifter of brandy at her.

  “Drink this, Dixie Lee. All of it. Crying won’t solve a damn thing, and you know it. It’s too late for tears. What you need is damage control.”

  Sometimes brusque common sense will do the trick when sympathy isn’t cutting it. Bitty had hit on just the right tone, apparently. Dixie Lee took a big swig of brandy and sat up a little straighter. Her sobs stopped.

  “What am I going to do now? How do I fix this?”

  “There’s no fixing it,” I said. “You just have to minimize your part. It’s doubtful Billy Joe shot himself because of the reminder about old scandals. I don’t even think he did it because of the book or the movie. I talked to one of his neighbors, and she said that Billy Joe and Allison’s marriage was on the rocks because of his drinking.”

  “Really?” Dixie Lee sounded hopeful. “It wasn’t because of my book?”

  “I’m almost positive that’s why he killed himself. You weren’t to blame for it. Now you just have to put out a statement about how bad you feel to learn his impending divorce led him to such a drastic act. Make it very sympathetic.”

  She nodded. “I can do that. I do feel bad that he killed himself. I mean, I’m glad to hear it wasn’t my fault, but I’m sorry to hear it happened.”

  “Call Miranda Watson,” said Bitty. “She’ll fall all over herself at a chance to interview you about it, especially if Sandra Brady is by your side.”

  “How cynical,” I observed, and Bitty smiled.

  “But effective. If what you want is sympathy, Miranda is the one who can make sure you get it. She can certainly kick up a storm about silly things, so she might as well be useful.”

  Bitty still hasn’t quite forgiven Miranda for some things she wrote about Bitty as well as all the Divas in her column a while back. The South Reporter issued an apology for some of what was said, but as Bitty was already so mad, it didn’t matter. I must confess, I still harbor a smidgen of resentment for not only an unflattering photo of myself in the paper, but a few articles that made me look more foolish than I am. Not a small feat. Something totally irrational and amazing happens when Bitty and I are together. My mother is constantly appalled. I was just glad they were out of town. Even if I had to feed half the cats in Marshall County while they were gone, it was worth not having to hear my mother say, “I told you so.”

  “I’ll talk to Miranda as soon as possible,” said Dixie Lee.

  Sandra said, “I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ll be glad to sit beside you and answer any questions, if you like. Perhaps we could play up the drinking angle so that people won’t equate Billy Joe’s death with the book or movie. That will help.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the wisest thing to do,” Gaynelle commented. “It might backfire if people take it the wrong way. Most people don’t want to hear criticism of the dead. Not at first, anyway.”

  Sandra looked a little surprised, but she nodded. “Of course. I didn’t think about that.”

  Carolann fussed about, helping Cady Lee get out plates and glasses, putting out food on a table so we could help ourselves. It’s what women do in a crisis, especially Southern women. We tend to the daily rituals because it gives our hands something to do while we try to deal with our emotions. It’s a comfort.

  Cady Lee’s maid, Pearl, clattered pots and pans in the kitchen while she cooked; the tantalizing smell of fried chicken wafted into the parlor. More comfort food. Pearl had been with the family for long enough that she knew what was required without asking. It was the same in most families. There are times that only familiar favorites can soothe the troubled heart.

  I wandered toward the living room where the production crew and set dresser had staged it for a scene with Kathy Adams playing Dixie Lee’s character. It was a scene where Desirée DuBois discovered the young man who abducted her had committed suicide. Rather awkward in light of the recent events, I thought. According to Sandra, Desirée realizes too late that she’s in love with Jimmy Patterson. In her grief, she promises to help Doris Dancey fight the racial prejudice that prevents Joe Don from marrying his true love, Sharona. The love-struck couple defy the town and their families to wed, then move away to start their new lives.

  It was the biggest cover-up of the truth since Watergate.

  “Dixie Lee has one he
ll of an imagination, doesn’t she,” Bitty murmured in my ear as we gazed at the staged scene where masking tape stuck to carpet and wood floors. “She managed to gloss over some really ugly events and come out looking like Mother Teresa.”

  “I haven’t gotten that far in the book yet,” I said. “I’m at the beginning of the fourth chapter. Joe Don has just met Sharona, and Desirée is still going steady with Jimmy. The stage has been set, but no players have been seduced or abducted. The best is yet to come.”

  “If you’re at the fourth chapter then you’ve already passed the part where the snobby, stuck-up beauty queen is dating the handsomest jock in high school.”

  “Yes, I did read that—Barbie.”

  “I mean, really. Doesn’t she have any sense of self-preservation at all? Barbie goes on to marry the college jock, divorces him when she finds out he’s been robbing banks, marries three more times, and her last husband, the two-timing lieutenant governor, is mysteriously murdered, stuffed in her closet, and she’s arrested. Her new boyfriend, a high-powered Jackson lawyer, gets her off. Can you believe that? I should shoot her just for libel if no other reason.”

  “You’re not armed, are you?”

  “Not at the moment. A pity. If I have to listen to her whining about all the fuss she’s caused much longer I might be tempted to use her for target practice.”

  “Wait’ll I finish the book, and I might help you.”

  “The fourth chapter is where all the lies about Desirée and Jimmy take place. Talk to me when you get through with chapter six.”

  “Don’t ruin it for me. Let me be surprised.”

  “Oh, Trinket, you already know everything that happens. The real version, anyway.”

  “Not true. I had no idea Barbie spent her formative years under the influence of a mad scientist.”