Apparently this interview was going to be a lot more lively than anticipated.
Chapter 8
DIXIE LEE EYED Miranda and her pig with obvious disgust. “What is Sandra going to think about you bringing a barnyard animal to an interview?” she asked irritably.
“Chitling is not a barnyard animal,” said Miranda a bit testily. “She’s a Stewart miniature pig. They start at five thousand dollars.”
Mistake number two: Never discuss money when in polite company. It’s crass. Mistake number one was in bringing a pig, but since Bitty totes her pug everywhere she goes that was a moot point.
Dixie Lee lifted a brow and looked at Miranda like she’d lost her mind. “The cost of the pig is not the issue. The issue is that you brought it to an important interview with a movie star. While stars are often eccentric, I’ve never heard of one taking a pig or a goat to an interview.”
“Dear,” Bitty interrupted with a syrupy sweet smile, “Miranda is kind enough to straighten out all the mess about Billy Joe, so I don’t think bringing her pet to an interview is that big an issue.”
Dixie Lee shut up at the reminder she needed a positive spin on this interview about Billy Joe’s death. She forced a smile and reached for another finger sandwich.
Miranda settled back with her china plate on her lap, and I thought Bitty was going to pitch a fit when she fed her pig an entire pimento cheese finger sandwich. She didn’t, but her smile was positively feral as she politely asked if Miranda needed another plate for the pig.
“No, we’re fine. This is delicious pimento cheese, Bitty. Where did you buy it?”
“It’s not store-bought. It’s my mama’s recipe.”
“You just have to share the recipe with me. I’ve never eaten pimento cheese this good.”
“Nuts.” Bitty held out the crystal bowl of cashews. She’d used her Waterford crystal and good china, and I’d helped her polish her mother’s silver flatware and tea service. Everything sparkled. If not for the fact the antique settee was stuffed with uncomfortable horsehair and a glowering Dixie Lee, and the Louis XVI chair was fragile under Miranda’s weight, it’d have been a charming scene.
By the time Sandra Brady arrived Miranda and her pig had nearly demolished the plate of finger sandwiches, and Bitty had developed a twitch in her right eye. Chen Ling, ever mindful of possible food falling into her hemisphere, sat grumpily on the floor and eyed the few sandwiches left. She’s a huge fan of pimento cheese. Chitling the pug has been known to disrupt a Diva meeting in order to get at the tray of pimento cheese. Chitling the pig was apparently becoming an enthusiast as well. I feared an impending uprising.
While Bitty went to the front door to greet Sandra, I reached for the plate of sandwiches with the intention of removing them from danger and replenishing them with the meager bit left in the kitchen. I also hoped it might prevent Chen Ling from plopping herself in the middle of the Turkish ottoman that served as a small cocktail table just to get at them. It had happened before, but I was determined it wasn’t going to happen this time.
I can be so optimistic.
Chen Ling apparently didn’t know or care that I had the plate firmly in my grasp. She lunged at the ottoman with all twenty pounds of her bulk, alarming the pig sitting in Miranda’s lap. Chitling the pig squealed loudly. Chitling the pug didn’t even slow down. She’s not as spry as she should be, so only half-landed on the ottoman. It was just enough to send nuts flying into the air, the silver tea service launching across the Persian carpet like shiny missiles, and hot tea splashing all over Miranda and her pig. Both of them protested very loudly. I couldn’t tell the squeals apart, but I did manage to save the crystal plate with the few finger sandwiches from destruction. Chen Ling scrabbled at the velvet ottoman in a desperate effort to pull herself all the way on the top. The silver tray dislodged and dumped onto the floor, spilling petit fours and cake everywhere. When I tried to catch it, what was left of the finger sandwiches slid off the crystal and ended up practically in Chen Ling’s lap. She was delighted.
Bitty and Sandra stood just inside the living room staring at the carnage while I tried to get Chen Ling off the ottoman, and Miranda waved her linen dinner napkin in the air over her head like a white flag of surrender. Chitling the pig, dumped on the floor when Miranda tried to avoid the tea, snuffled for food.
I felt a little sorry for Bitty. All her careful preparations to make just the right impression on a movie star were for naught. My sympathy was tempered with my memory of the reminder I’d given her about letting Chen Ling attend the interview, however.
“Don’t do it,” I’d said to her. “Things happen.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bitty had replied. Perhaps next time she’d listen to me, but I doubted it. People are going to do what they’re going to do, I’ve learned, no matter how much sense someone makes when warning them it might not work out well.
Dixie Lee sat with her mouth slightly open as I took Miranda’s napkin and helped wipe the tea off her head and shoulders. Chen Ling squatted triumphantly in the middle of the Turkish ottoman and licked smears of pimento cheese off the velvet. The pig worked her way through spilled nuts and petit fours scattered across the Persian carpet.
After a moment of stunned silence Bitty said, “It’s so kind of you to come, Sandra. Tea or whisky?”
Sandra’s eyes looked dilated as she followed Bitty into the living room. “Just whatever you have left will be fine, thank you.”
Bitty smiled bravely. “I still have the cheese tray and more sandwiches in the kitchen. Trinket, when you finish there could you help me, please?”
Apologizing to Sandra and Miranda as I cleaned up as much of the mess as I could, I followed Bitty into the kitchen with the crystal platter sans pimento cheese finger sandwiches. “She got them all,” I said when Bitty looked at the empty platter. “Chitling is pretty fast for an old dog.”
“The pig wasn’t doing very badly, either. We’ll put out the cheese tray and rest of the petit fours. There are more finger sandwiches in the fridge. I’ll put on the kettle to boil for more tea if you’ll bring the silver tea service. Mama’s china is clean. We can use that.” She opened a cabinet door and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I’ll just fix myself a little drink first.”
A full cup of bourbon later, Bitty busied herself trying to salvage what was left of her high tea while I retrieved the silver teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl from the Persian carpet, returned with a whisk broom and paper towels, and tried to listen in on the interview Miranda had recovered enough to begin. What can I say about being nosy? It’s a Truevine trait, apparently.
Miranda had out her notebook and pen, looking a little worse for wear with tea-drenched hair but game enough to continue. She smiled at Dixie Lee, who still sat safely out of range on the antique settee.
“So tell me what motivated you to write about the Holly Springs residents, and when you first conceived the idea for the book.”
Dixie Lee started what was probably her standard interview speech. “I’ve always been creative, inventing stories in my head since I was a little girl. So many wonderful people live in the Holly Springs area that during my years living away, I thought of their lives and stories. It was the Civil Rights issues that sparked my imagination as a backdrop for Dark Secrets Under the Holly, however.”
When she paused to take a breath Miranda jumped right in with another question. “When did you decide to use events with real people as your characters? And do you think Billy Joe Cramer’s suicide is a direct result of what you wrote about the fictional Joe Don and Sharona’s experiences?”
For a brief instant the air grew still. I stole a glance at Dixie Lee. She looked like she’d just been hit with a two by four. Sandra seized the moment to interject her interpretation.
“Darcy Denton was a real character whose counterpart in the book and mov
ie is a courageous woman who made a big difference. As Darcy aka Doris Dancey, she confronted the racial tensions and divide, and as a result Joe Don and Sharona were able to defy the culture and social mores of the time and begin a new life together.”
“True,” said Miranda, “but that’s not what happened in real life. Billy Joe and Susana didn’t end up together. It ended disastrously despite Darcy’s well-intended and determined efforts. How do you think that’s affected people who still remember those events, Dixie Lee?”
After inhaling a deep breath, Dixie Lee said, “My book is a work of fiction. While the characters and events closely parallel some incidents, they are products of my imagination. I would never—and I repeat, never—deliberately set out to cause someone harm.”
Sandra, sitting next to Dixie Lee on the uncomfortable horsehair settee, put a hand on her arm, but her comments were directed to Miranda. “While there’s a difference in what was written and the actuality of the ultimate ending of the characters, Miss Watson, Dixie Lee gave them a happy ending, perhaps the happy ending they deserved and what might have happened had it not been for the dissention between the races. It’s a tragedy that two people were hurt, and an even bigger tragedy that Billy Joe Cramer’s private life caused him to make such a final choice, but it was inevitable given his circumstances. Alcoholism and divorce are the two leading causes of suicide. I’m sure you’ll keep that in mind.”
“Of course I will. It’s well-known that Billy Joe drank too much and that he and his wife have had their differences. But I would be doing my readers a disservice if I didn’t at least ask the questions that have everyone talking.”
I looked back at Sandra and Dixie Lee. Sandra smiled. “I admire your thoroughness. Of course, you must give your readers your best work. They expect it of you. I know that as a journalist, you’re going to give them the truth and not sensationalism.”
Miranda nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. I do try to report the facts even if I may occasionally get it wrong. There are times one person’s truth is another person’s fiction.”
I thought no truer words had ever been spoken.
“IT COULD HAVE gone better,” Bitty agreed once everyone had left and we were cleaning up the bulk of the disaster.
“I’m not one to say ‘I told you so,’” I said, “but I told you not to let your pug loose in polite company.”
“You love to say ‘I told you so’ and don’t pretend otherwise.” Bitty sounded testy, so I didn’t remind her of the last time Chen Ling had inserted herself into the midst of polite company. It had ended in much the same way. We never did figure out how she escaped the upstairs bedroom.
Not that Divas are always ‘polite company’ either. Sometimes we may get a bit rowdy. It depends on how much Jack Daniel’s and California wine are available.
“Still want to invite Sandra to a Diva meeting?” I asked when we had the dishwasher loaded and the pimento cheese scrubbed off the velvet. “No telling what could happen.”
“I’ve already invited her, so we have to take that chance.” Bitty tossed the used dishrag into the trash can. “Maybe Chen Ling can have a play date at Luann’s house that day.”
Luann Carey rescues pugs. She lives over on Higdon Road and has a yard full of them at any given time. When Bitty first “borrowed” Chen Ling, I’m sure Luann congratulated herself on successfully finding a sucker—I mean owner—for the grumpy little Buddha. I must admit, it’s worked out very well for all concerned.
“That would be best,” I said without gloating. I love being right. It happens so rarely.
“I wonder what Miranda is going to write about Dixie Lee’s part in Billy Joe’s suicide. I mean, she did practically kill him.”
I was appalled. “Bitty! She did no such thing. If everyone committed suicide because of a little personal humiliation there wouldn’t be billions of people on the planet.”
Bitty shrugged. “Whatever. At least Miranda wasn’t badly hurt by the hot tea. I thought it might scald her. I don’t want to be sued.”
“Nice to know you have her best interests at heart.”
Bitty looked annoyed. “You know that no matter what I think about her personally, I don’t want to see anyone actually hurt.”
She was right. I did know that.
Bitty obviously was still fuming about Miranda’s pig, too. “Even her silly little pig. Did you see that sweater she had on? It’s almost an exact copy of one I bought for Chen Ling.”
“Without five hundred dollars’ worth of diamonds on it, though,” I pointed out.
“Don’t be silly. She doesn’t have a sweater with diamonds on it. It’s her collar. And it’s not five hundred dollars’ worth, either.”
“You just can’t stand it because Miranda got a pig named Chitling that she treats like you treat your pug named Chitling.”
“Her name is Chen Ling, as you know very well.”
I waved my hand in the air. “Whatever. Not that we should be even worrying about all that when there’s a possibility Miranda may make it worse for Dixie Lee.”
“While I still think Dixie Lee deserves to have to wear second-hand clothes and cheap shoes the rest of her life, I don’t want the entire town taking opposite sides. The Cramer family is up in arms saying Dixie Lee is responsible for Billy Joe killing himself, and half the town is saying the book doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s not good.”
I nodded agreement. “Hopefully Miranda’s column will go a long way toward easing tensions.”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Miranda has been known to be contrary.”
I worried all the rest of that day and part of the night about what Miranda’s column would say in the next South Reporter. It almost ruined my date with Kit.
“It’ll be fine,” he said for probably the tenth time in an hour. “Miranda has a vested interest in saying just the right thing.”
We sat in a Mexican restaurant in Olive Branch, a bedroom community just across the state line from Memphis that’s a cluster of chain stores and restaurants only twenty-five minutes up 78 Highway from Holly Springs. Lovely subdivisions surround the new stores and old Olive Branch.
“What makes you think she has an interest in whether or not Dixie Lee’s responsible for Billy Joe killing himself?” I asked after a particularly spicy bite of my chile relleno.
“Miranda still has to live in Holly Springs. While Dixie Lee might not live here, her sisters and other family members do. Not to mention her old friends.”
“Most of whom aren’t speaking to her now,” I pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. Miranda won’t be foolish enough to alienate everyone. She’ll find a way to soothe all the ruffled feathers without widening the rift.” He smiled, candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes as he looked at me. “Tonight I want to focus on just being with you. Tomorrow will take care of itself.” My heart did a little flip.
“I hope you’re right,” I said calmly enough when inside there was a little woman jumping up and down shouting yippee! He likes me! I’m still not quite used to that. I’d pretty much decided that after my divorce I’d be alone the rest of my life. Kit proved me wrong. How wonderful.
Kit held up his margarita glass, and I bumped it with mine. “Here’s to peace in Holly Springs,” he said, and I smiled.
“There’s always hope.”
I must say, the rest of the evening was lovely. We skipped the movie and ended up driving down to the Memphis river bluffs. The huge M-shaped bridge across the Mississippi lights up at night, and the water looked dark and mysterious with the reflections of dozens of tiny lights churning about in the rushing currents. A barge slipped past, the small light in the wheelhouse all that signaled its passing. Kit left the heater on and motor running as we parked in Tom Lee Park, a well-lit area at night. Behind us the pedestrian bridge on
the riverwalk was also lit up. There were two more cars in the lot, and to the north a red blinking light atop The Pyramid punctuated the darkness.
We talked about everything except the book, the movie, and the suicide. Those were subjects we deliberately avoided. And yes—we necked like teenagers, just for fun. When we finally left the park and caught the interstate to 78 Highway, I was feeling relaxed and content. Life could certainly have its wonderful moments.
In retrospect, I’m glad I had that night of relaxation. It was the last one for a while.
Miranda Watson’s column comes out in the weekly paper on Wednesday mornings. By noon that Wednesday another Civil War had started.
Chapter 9
SCENE: DARCY’S MEETING with Susana. Location: Montrose. Players: Sandra Brady, Trinket Truevine, and Bitty Hollandale. Take one: Sorry. I love to get into the behind the scenes action sometimes. As long as I can stay behind the scenes and not actually be in one, I’m just fine.
“Did you hear the latest?” Sandra Brady asked us, leaning closer from her actor’s chair and lowering her voice. When Bitty and I stretched out our necks like a couple emus to hear what she had to say, she smiled. “Tasha Donato is in town and threw a big fit on the closed set last night.”
“Tasha Donato?” Bitty echoed. “Isn’t she Simon’s wife?”
Sandra nodded. “She snuck in and has been hiding out in town the last two days checking up on him. Of course, we all knew it was bound to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“We did?” I asked when Bitty just nodded and pretended she knew what Sandra was talking about. “Checking up on him for what?”
Sandra looked a little surprised. “Don’t you keep up with the gossip? Simon always has an affair on a location shoot.”
“With one of his stars?”
“Usually. This time, though, he really lowered his standards. I suspected who it is, but wasn’t sure until last night.”
Divas Do Tell Page 11