Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  By the time the Mercedes was parked in her driveway I had begun to see the humor in the ordeal. I snickered. Bitty looked over at me, and I said, “Did you see her face when Allison came at her with the bat?”

  Bitty nodded. “Yes. Her eyes bugged out like a frog’s. I bet her fancy drawers have to be wrung out. And there you were yelling—‘Run, Forrest, run!’”

  We started to laugh. Once we started we couldn’t stop. By the time I was breathless and wheezing Bitty had tears running down her face. As we sat there it started to rain again. The windows fogged up, and we finally got out of the car and ran for the back door. Bitty’s three-car garage isn’t attached to the house. It was a carriage house in the early part of the last century. Sometimes Bitty leaves the back door unlocked. She has an alarm system that she uses at random moments, although more often since she’s had an intruder or two in the past year.

  A screen porch/sunroom that was built as a kitchen back in the days when kitchens weren’t inside houses was open, and we stood there for a few moments shaking rain out of our hair and clothes. Bitty’s hair is like a helmet, impenetrable by anything less than a heat-seeking missile. Mine is more like squirrel fur. It lies flat on my head, and I usually keep it back in a ponytail unless there’s a chance I might run into Kit. Then I leave it loose and brushing my shoulders. Since I’ve been keeping a color on my hair lately, I no longer look so much like I’m wearing a squirrel on my head, but there are still occasions when the resemblance is much too close for comfort.

  Bitty had actually remembered to set her alarm so punched in the code on the keypad on the wall just inside the kitchen door from the sunroom. It’s a sunroom in winter. In the summer it’s a screened-in porch. Bitty changes her house to suit the seasons, just like putting her pug in a new outfit.

  Winter in Holly Springs is usually limited to cold days and rain, with the occasional flurry of snow or ice just to make things interesting. We rarely have snowfall anymore. Global warming can be fickle, however, so there’s always hope.

  “Stay for dinner, Trinket,” said Bitty. “We can eat early so you’ll get home in time to take care of Aunt Anna’s dog and cats.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. What do you have?”

  “Chicken parmigiana. Or pork roast. Whichever one you want. I can pop one in the oven or the microwave.”

  “What would you do without Sharita? I swear, you’d starve to death.”

  “I know. I’d have to learn to cook or order take-out all the time. Then I’d end up gaining weight and looking just awful. I do think Miranda has lost a lot more weight, don’t you?”

  “She has,” I agreed. “I wonder if she knows her teacup pig is going to end up weighing as much as she does?”

  Bitty’s eyes got huge. “No! Really?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Miranda said she was told Chitling would only weigh around forty or fifty pounds when she reaches adulthood. The reality is closer to a hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds. After all, it’s still a pig.”

  “Hunh,” Bitty sniffed, “Miranda hasn’t seen a hundred and fifty pounds since she was in third grade.”

  I smiled. Trust Bitty to go right to the heart of the matter.

  We chattered and gossiped as Bitty took a fully cooked pork roast out of the freezer and slid it into a baking dish. Sharita had put vegetables and new potatoes in another freezer container, and we put that in the microwave once the pork roast was done. After we ate, Bitty lit the fire in her parlor, and we fixed Irish coffee.

  Since mine had extra whipped cream with a cherry on top, while Bitty’s had extra whisky with a cherry on top, I was still licking the white stuff off my upper lip when the doorbell rang. Chitling is an excellent guard dog. She immediately began yodeling right along with the doorbell. It reminded me of an episode of Golden Girls when Rose installed a doorbell that sounded like a dozen barking dogs to scare off her stalker. Bitty’s one pug sounds like Rose’s doorbell.

  In a minute Bitty returned with Jackson Lee trailing behind her. Jackson Lee is tall, dark, very handsome, and Italian. Bitty is short, blonde and voluptuous. I often call her Mississippi’s version of Dolly Parton. She calls me a Delta Burke knock-off. Then we smile at each other.

  Jackson Lee, being an attorney, is capable of masking his emotions very well. Except when he’s gazing at my cousin with utter adoration that borders on idiocy; he wasn’t doing that, so I knew something was up.

  “Evening, Trinket,” he greeted me. “How are you tonight?”

  “I’m fine, Jackson Lee. And you?”

  “A little damp from the rain but not too bad. Are your parents doing well?”

  “I haven’t heard from them yet, so I’m assuming they’re just fine. And thank you again for being so kind as to track them down. As you know, I was near hysteria.”

  “I’m glad I could help. Here, sugar. You sit down. I’ve been sitting all day.”

  Bitty sat on the edge of her overstuffed chair and gazed up at him. She knew something was up, too. All the Southern courtesies behind us now, he put a hand on Bitty’s shoulder and glanced over at me.

  “You’re going to hear about this soon, so I want you to hear it from me—no, sugar. Your boys are just fine. You know I’d tell you if they weren’t. This isn’t about any of your children.”

  As mothers, Bitty and I always fear the worst. Having something happen to your child is the most horrible thing that can happen to a woman. Jackson Lee cleared his throat.

  “I’m just going to say it straight out—there’s been another murder.”

  Bitty reached for her Irish coffee, and I asked, “Who? And what do you mean—another?”

  “Her name is Abby Bloom, and she’s an assistant to Simon Donato, the director. Her body was found in a downstairs bathroom at Montrose just a short time ago.”

  My head swam. I’d just seen her only a couple of hours before—how could she be dead?

  I didn’t ask that. Instead I asked, “Who is the other victim?”

  “Billy Joe Cramer.”

  After a moment of shocked silence Bitty said, “Billy Joe committed suicide.”

  “Not according to the coroner. He couldn’t have fired the fatal shot. Billy Joe was murdered.”

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS ALL OVER Holly Springs like wildfire—Billy Joe Cramer had been murdered, and one of the Hollywood people had been bludgeoned to death in the bathroom at Montrose. All production had come to a halt for the time being. Sandra Brady was pretty shaken by Abby’s murder.

  “I’d just talked to her,” she said, her hand trembling as she held on to her coffee cup. We sat in a corner at Budgie’s café. “She was in the kitchen when I went to get a cold drink. All those lights . . . it gets so hot sometimes, even in the winter. Abby was stressed out, as usual. It’s always this way on a shoot. I think she was much too young to be Key PA. There’s so much pressure, and if one thing goes wrong or is forgotten, it can cause a lot more work. Simon’s a great director, but he’s demanding. Most of the good ones are.”

  Bitty, Gaynelle, Rayna, and I just let her ramble on. Sometimes the best thing you can do for people in shock or grief is to just listen. Let them talk it out, whether it’s about the person who died or something entirely random. Just—listen.

  Sandra put one hand to her brow, looking so distraught I felt very badly for her. “What’ll her family do? Abby helped them so much. She’s the oldest of five kids, the only one with a steady job, and she sent money home every month. Her mother’s in a nursing home . . . it’s so awful. It’s just so awful.”

  Tears ran freely down her cheeks. Bitty handed her a tissue. “Oh, Sandra, I didn’t know. Abby was always so busy, and I didn’t get a chance to really talk to her. She seemed very sweet, though.”

  Sandra nodded as she wiped her face with the tissue. “She was sweet. Probably too sweet.
But young girls can make such bad choices sometimes, you know?”

  Rayna and I exchanged glances, and I saw Gaynelle nod understanding. Apparently Abby had a boyfriend. Was he a member of the crew? An actor? Buck Prentiss was close to Abby’s age. Could it be him? The choices were many.

  It was Gaynelle who asked delicately, “Was she seeing someone on the crew, and perhaps there was a lover’s quarrel?”

  Sandra gazed at her for a moment then looked down at her hands and said softly, “If it’s not common knowledge I don’t want to be the one to say anything.”

  In my experience, anyone who says they don’t want to be the one to say anything really does. So I wasn’t surprised when Bitty leaned across the table and said just as softly, “Oh, honey, it’s okay. You’re among friends.” We all nodded agreement, leaning forward eagerly.

  Sandra bit her lower lip. Her eyes were red and puffy and her nose red, too. She didn’t look at all like a famous movie star. Maybe that was why we felt so comfortable with her. Sandra was one of us. She could be our neighbor or best friend. She sighed and looked around at us.

  “Most of the crew know about it, but of course, since you’re not on the crew you may not have heard the behind-the-scenes gossip. Abby and Simon have been seeing each other for a while. Or were seeing each other, I suppose I should say now.” She hiccupped and pressed the tissue to her mouth.

  “Didn’t Abby know he’s married?” asked Gaynelle.

  “Honey, everyone in the business knows he’s married. I told you how Tasha tracked him down and threw a big fit on the set, accused him of having an affair. He always has affairs with one of his stars. But of course Simon wasn’t even at Montrose when it happened. He was doing a location shoot at Darcy’s old house. He wasn’t anywhere near Abby when she was found.”

  “Who found her?” I asked.

  “One of the crew. Jason something. They’d finished shooting and everyone left. He went back to get his backpack, decided to use the bathroom, and couldn’t get the door all the way open. From what I understand, he saw her lying on the floor. They had to take the door off the hinges to get to her.”

  “So she must have still been alive when the killer left,” said Rayna.

  Sandra looked at her with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “If she’d been dead and lying on the floor, the killer couldn’t have gotten out. Not if the door had to be taken off the hinges because she’d fallen in front of it. Bathroom doors open inward.”

  “I never thought of that. Poor Abby. She must have lain there knowing she was dying and unable to do anything—oh God.” Sandra burst into tears again, and we did our best to comfort her.

  When she’d calmed down a bit Gaynelle said, “I’m sure the police will investigate thoroughly. We may not have the sophisticated equipment a lot of bigger cities have, but our police are very good. I know they’ll find Abby’s killer and bring him to justice.”

  Sandra nodded. “I hope so. Oh my. I’m just worn out. I think I cried half the night after I heard. It was so awful. And those terrible reporters—the tabloids are the absolute worst. They’ve been hounding all of us. Security keeps them off the set as much as possible, but getting to and from locations can be a nightmare. Simon had to temporarily halt production.”

  “How long will the movie be interrupted?” asked Rayna.

  Sandra’s face was drawn. “First call is five in the morning. Shooting was suspended so the police could do their inspecting of the scene, but they’ll have it cleared by then. The production has to go on. Every day without work costs a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Bitty’s jaw sagged. I felt lightheaded. “That much?” I squeaked.

  “Close to it. Production costs on location are steep. There’s rent on the locations, salaries, food costs, equipment . . . it all adds up quickly. So we’ll begin shooting again in the morning.” She put a hand to her cheek. “I feel so flushed. I haven’t slept, so I’m going back to my place to see if I can nap. I have to be up early to go over my lines.”

  Sandra had chosen to rent the entire upstairs of Court Square Inn, a small bed and breakfast on the square. It wasn’t a big house like Mira Waller had rented—demanding that the owners completely vacate with all their things while she stayed there—but it had luxury suites. Buck Prentiss had rented a smaller home behind the square, and there were rumors he had a party almost every night. The neighbors were ready to have him evicted, movie star or not.

  Kathy Adams, who played Desirée alias Dixie Lee, had rented a nice little bungalow not too far from Bitty’s house. Since most of the locations were within two square miles, there shouldn’t have been high transportation costs. That was the good thing about shooting movies in Holly Springs. So many great locations are in a small area. Most of the crew had motel rooms near 78 Highway where all the fast food restaurants and liquor stores are clustered.

  Simon Donato had rented Montrose. It was the crown jewel of Holly Springs’ antebellum homes and owned by the garden club, so shooting the movie there and living there seemed to go hand in hand. He had been put out of his living quarters by Abby’s death, and I couldn’t be the only one who wondered if he had anything to do with killing her. Maybe she’d wanted more from their relationship, and he hadn’t wanted to leave his wife. Maybe she had broken it off with him, and he killed her. These were questions I was sure the police would ask, too.

  We walked outside with Sandra. Cold and rain of the day before had turned into a bright, cool day. Sunlight glinted off the court house clock tower across the street. Reporters waited on the sidewalk, cameras clicking as we came out. Four huge security guards, each one the size of Mama’s refrigerator, surrounded Sandra, rudely shoving aside the photographers and reporters as they escorted her to a waiting car. She got in, waggled her fingers at us just before the door closed, and the security guards got inside. The car drove around the corner and stopped just beyond the court house lawn at the bed and breakfast on College Street. The rest of us looked at each other. Gaynelle said she had to go to the grocery store. Rayna said Rob needed her back at the office since his insurance investigation and bail bonds business kept him busy, and he was going a little nuts trying to make sure everything stayed on track.

  “Are you working today?” Bitty asked me, and I shook my head.

  “With all the movie people in town, people are hanging around watching them instead of buying silk lingerie. I did learn that Rose’s side has done a brisk business since production started, though.”

  “That figures. Hollywood people can be so twisted. Your parents will be back in a few days, so what are you going to do with the rest of your free time?”

  I looked at her. “Free time? I’ll have more free time when they’re back to put pet food in one end and clean up after it at the other end. I didn’t realize how exhausting that is. I don’t know how they do it. I’m pooped.”

  “An appropriate sentiment. Come on, then. I have an idea.”

  I hesitated. “What kind of idea?”

  Bitty turned to look at me. Her stilettos sparkled in the sunlight. I think they had sequins all over them, and I put up a hand to ward off the blinding reflection. “I don’t think Billy Joe was murdered by his wife or someone who knew him well,” she said. “Something about the way it’s supposed to have happened just doesn’t sound right.”

  “The paper said the pistol was left beside him, so that’s why it was first assumed he’d shot himself. Only the coroner’s more thorough investigation showed the angle was all wrong for him to have done it himself. The police are looking at Allison.”

  “I know. I don’t think she did it.”

  I gaped at her. “Why not? Don’t you remember her coming after you with a baseball bat? She’s certainly capable of violence.”

  “Dixie Lee did it.”

  “What? What are you saying?”


  Bitty looked obdurate as a mule. If she’d had on a straw hat I’d have put a feed bag over her head.

  “I’m saying, Trinket, that I think Dixie Lee did it. She had motive and opportunity.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Billy Joe threatened her. That’s motive. He knew her and would have let her in the house, so that’s opportunity. I think she’s the killer.”

  “I think your shoes are too tight. They’ve cut off the oxygen to your brain.”

  “Trinket, I’m serious.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  Bitty gave me an exasperated look, then grabbed my arm and dragged me toward her car. “Come on, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do once we’re in the car.”

  For a small person on stilts she can walk very fast. I found myself at her car before I could come up with a good enough excuse to walk the three and a half miles home. So I went with the truth.

  “Take me to my car, Bitty. I don’t want to get involved in any of your insane vendettas.”

  Bitty had unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. She motioned for me to get inside, and I did, although warily. Sometimes she does inexplicable things.

  “This isn’t a vendetta, Trinket,” she said calmly. “I’ve thought this over pretty carefully.”

  I shut my door and reached for the seatbelt. “No. Whatever it is you want to do, no. I don’t want to be a part of it. I like not being chased by people with sharp implements or firearms. I like not being hit in the head. I like not being terrorized. So no. I don’t want to do it.”

  “Honestly, sometimes you’re so skittish. I have no intention of being chased, stabbed, shot at, or hit in the head. We’re just going on a reconnaissance mission.”

  “Oh lord. Have you been watching the Military Channel again?”

  “Not last night. Listen. First we’re going over to Billy Joe’s house and talk to the neighbors.”