Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

I’ve come to the realization that I’m the Walter Mitty of my generation. I concoct wild, improbable scenarios in my fevered brain. The main difference is that I don’t act them out. Oh yes, and that they will never really happen.

  Bitty, on the other hand, does her best to act out the improbable situations she dreams up. It can be twice as frustrating as just replaying them endlessly in my mind. So I wasn’t that surprised at her next idea. Dismayed, yes, but not surprised.

  “We should let people think I’m in the hospital or a coma while I stay here. Then I can investigate, and no one will suspect me.”

  “Investigate what?” I asked.

  Bitty waved a hand. “Stuff. You know. Mira Waller is behind some of this, I’m pretty sure. It’s just too convenient that she’s always around when there’s a murder.”

  I sat down in Daddy’s big cushioned recliner. “What?”

  “Mira Waller. I’ve been thinking about this, Trinket. It was on my mind, and that’s why I didn’t see that truck at the stop sign. Look at the evidence—Mira Waller doesn’t like any of the crew or any of the actors, either. They don’t like her. Why? There have to be valid reasons for mutual dislike.”

  I raised my brows. “You don’t always have valid reasons for disliking someone.”

  “Nonsense. They may not seem valid to you, but they’re valid to me. Anyway, here’s a young actress on the brink of becoming a huge star. She’s cast in a movie based on a bestselling book and sees a chance to get her dream. Then Dixie Lee mucks it all up by killing Billy Joe. Maybe Mira knows it’s her, maybe she doesn’t. But you have to admit that it’s pretty convenient she can’t account for where she is at key moments.”

  “She can’t?”

  Bitty slowly shook her head. “No. She can’t. Rayna has been able to find out some interesting facts about little Miss Mira. For instance—she says her hometown is Jackson, Mississippi but leaves out the part where she was born around here and lived in Holly Springs until elementary school.”

  I’m sure my eyes got wider than dinner plates. Bitty smiled.

  “Why wouldn’t she have mentioned that?” I wondered aloud. “Who are her people?”

  That’s an old Southern way of asking who her family connections are, by the way.

  Bitty’s smile got wider. “Her mama is Ruby May Wilson’s niece. You may remember her—she used to work for the Forsythes a long time ago.”

  I nearly fell out of Daddy’s recliner. The Forsythe family had long employed the same family of Holly Springs’ residents to work in their home. It went as far back as Reconstruction, I think. The unique thing was the girls in the family were usually named after precious stones. Ruby. Sapphire. Pearl. Opal. It’s one of those inexplicable Southern customs like including a Confederate general’s surname in all your children’s forenames.

  Or naming your daughter Eureka May Truevine after the Eureka Truevine Methodist Church when it’s going to cause that daughter endless explanations her entire life, repeating over and over again that the name Trinket is derived from Eureka because your older brother was too young to say Eureka properly and—well. You get the picture. My twin sister Emerald never had to suffer the trials I did with my name, even though my young daughter used to call her Auntie Em. The Wizard of Oz and flying monkey jokes had to be almost as annoying to her as the Eureka jokes are to me.

  My parents have a lot to answer for.

  Bitty looked like the cat with a canary under her paw. “Mira Waller isn’t honest. When someone isn’t honest about the little things, they aren’t honest about the big things.”

  I agreed, of course. It’s true. “Do you remember what Aunt Imogene used to say?”

  “Clean out my spit can?” Bitty guessed.

  “That too. But I’m talking about when she used to tell us, ‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them.’ Do you remember that?”

  Bitty nodded. “I do. Mama used to say that, too.”

  “I know. Well, if you’re right, Mira has shown us who she is.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to help me investigate?”

  “No. I still think we need to let the police do that.” She looked so disappointed I had to add, “But I’ll help Rayna gather evidence. I’m just not going to snoop on people and risk my life and sanity running around town, hiding behind garbage cans or peeking in windows.”

  “I do not hide behind garbage cans, Trinket.”

  “Remember sneaking into Miranda Watson’s house that time? We hid in the bushes like stray cats and nearly got caught.”

  “Bushes aren’t the same thing as garbage cans.”

  “Close enough,” I said. “I hesitate to ask only because I’m not sure I want to hear your answer, but exactly what, who, and how are you planning to investigate?”

  “If you’re not going to assist me, Trinket, I see no need in divulging my methods to you. You’re either in or you’re out.”

  “If that’s supposed to make me beg to be included, it’s not working. Memories of past efforts are still too fresh in my mind.”

  “Fine,” said Bitty a bit petulantly.

  I just smiled. I know when I’m better off.

  Bitty sniffed. “I’d appreciate it if you took me home in the morning, Trinket.”

  “Not a chance. I promised Jackson Lee you’d stay here with me until the doctor said you could get up again, and he said you’re to have two more days of quiet and rest.”

  Bitty narrowed her eyes at me. “I think I know better than that doctor how I feel, and I feel just fine. I want to go home.”

  “No, you want to go making a nuisance of yourself somewhere by investigating murders that you shouldn’t be worrying about. And don’t even think about calling any Divas. I’ve already told everyone that you’re to have complete bed rest.”

  “Sometimes, Trinket, you are not very nice.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I know.”

  The next morning before I left to go in to work, I made sure Bitty had everything she needed: sweet tea, pills carefully laid out on the kitchen counter, frozen dinners ready to be put in the microwave, remote to the TV, snacks, all the animals fed, and all the liquor hidden. Some medications just shouldn’t be taken with Jack Daniel’s; I don’t care what Bitty says about it.

  Since her Franklin Benz was wrecked and her BMW safely in her garage in town, Bitty had no transportation. As I’d already cautioned most of Holly Springs that she was supposed to rest, I felt pretty secure in thinking she would still be there when I got home.

  I constantly underestimate my dear cousin.

  I left the lingerie shop for home after my four hour shift. It’d been quiet most of the day, and there hadn’t been much reason for me to stay. I stopped and picked up lunch for Bitty and me then I headed down Highway 7 to Truevine Road and Cherryhill. It was a nice January day, sunshine but cool, and I rolled my windows down to let the breeze clear out stale air and my brain. I’d been on overload lately. It was nice to just let my mind drift. There wasn’t much traffic on the highway—a few cars, a truck or two and a farmer out on his small tractor—so I got home fairly quickly.

  No one greeted me at the back door except for a grumpy Buddha and a squirrely dog. Both looked up at me expectantly as I called for Bitty. The TV was off, her lap blanket neatly folded on the couch, my parents’ bed made, and her small overnight bag that cost more than most people made in a week was still on the chair in their bedroom. The only thing missing was Bitty.

  I put our lunch on the kitchen table, let the dogs outside, and walked to the barn to see if she’d gone there for some strange reason. Bitty isn’t known as an outdoor person. The closest she gets to nature is in her flower garden with a basket and a pair of scissors. She hires people to mow her yard, trim her hedges, and plant her flowers. When she was young she had a pony that she rode al
l over the place, but looking back on those days I’ve realized that was just her accepted mode of transportation because she was too young to drive. Bicycles were never her favorite; it took too much energy to pedal. Her attempts at exercise were very brief.

  The only living creatures in the barn were a couple dozen cats sunning in hazy shafts of light through the open door. They blinked sleepily at me but didn’t get up. It wasn’t feeding time yet, and they don’t like expending unnecessary energy. It occurred to me that Bitty is a great deal like a cat. She’s only motivated by mysterious reasons she keeps to herself, is willful and often lazy. And she’d disappeared with no warning.

  When the dogs were finished with their business I escorted them back into the house and picked up the phone. I called Bitty’s cell phone. No answer. I left a message:

  “Elizabeth Ann Truevine Hollandale, you better not have gone off doing something stupid. Call me back, or I’m calling Jackson Lee.”

  Then I hung up. I waited fifteen minutes, and she didn’t call back. It was time to start tracking her down.

  I called Rayna first.

  “Have you seen Bitty?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t. I talked to her earlier though. She wanted me to come and get her.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, she just said she needed a ride to her house. Of course, I said no like you asked me to say.”

  I heaved a sigh. “She knows she’s not supposed to be active yet. The doctor advised two more days of rest.”

  Rayna was silent a moment, then she said, “Well, you know Bitty.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I know Bitty. Dammit.”

  I called Gaynelle next. “Have you seen or heard from Bitty?”

  “Not since earlier this morning. Oh, I guess around ten. I told her my car is acting up. Is she missing?”

  “Yes. She’s gone AWOL. I came home from work, and she’s not here.”

  Gaynelle asked, “Did she have plans of some kind, perhaps?”

  “Not good plans. She wanted me to go investigating with her. I don’t even know what she wants to investigate or who. I’d call Jackson Lee and ask if he’s heard from her, but I don’t want to worry him. She’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “Well,” said Gaynelle. “You know Bitty.”

  “That’s what scares me,” I said. “I know Bitty.” That seemed to sum it up fairly neatly. We all knew Bitty.

  I had just worked my way partially down the list of Divas when my cell phone rang. I clicked off the kitchen phone and answered my cell. The Caller ID said it was Carolann.

  “Hi,” I said. “You were next on my list.”

  Carolann didn’t ask why. Instead she said, “Trinket, is there a good reason for Bitty to be riding a lawnmower down the middle of the street?”

  I sat stupidly for a moment. Then I asked cautiously, “Riding a what?”

  “It’s a John Deere lawnmower. I don’t think it’s big enough to be a tractor.”

  I walked to the back door and opened it. At the side of the barn is a shed where Daddy puts the John Deere and some more equipment. Mama made him move it from the garage that used to be a stable when she couldn’t get their big old Lincoln inside without blocking herself in. The door to the shed was open. No John Deere.

  “No,” I said to Carolann, “there’s no good reason for Bitty to be riding a lawnmower down the street. That doesn’t mean she’s not doing it, however.”

  “I didn’t think it was Bitty at first.” She gave a little laugh. “Then I thought maybe she’s playing a role in the movie.”

  “I doubt it. The only reason she’s not been completely banned from the set is that she’s become friends with one of the stars. But anything’s possible. Are you sure it’s Bitty?”

  “It took a moment for me to recognize her. She’s—well, she’s not dressed as usual.”

  As I listened to Carolann I grabbed my car keys, purse and my coat, turned on a light in case I didn’t get back before dark, and went out to my car. I have a Ford Taurus that I love. It’s not new, it’s not fancy, but it’s paid for, and I love the way it drives. I clicked the door unlocked with the remote and got inside, asking as I started the car, “Why? What is she wearing? And is she still on the lawnmower?”

  I tore off down the half-circle drive and onto Truevine Road, bucking slightly over the concrete culvert as Carolann gave me a play-by-play on Bitty.

  “Well, that’s just the thing. She keeps circling the court house square. Some of the movie people have been yelling at her and pulling stuff out of her way, but she just waves at them and keeps going in circles. She’s wearing a felt cowboy hat, a scarf, a man’s jacket, boots, and she has on her expensive sunglasses.” Carolann paused a second then said, “She’s mowed the court house lawn twice now and took out some of the flowerbeds. Is that in the script?”

  I was almost down Truevine Road to the highway, and I took the turn on two wheels. Bitty’s not the only one who can drive recklessly, but at least I wear my seatbelt.

  “I have no idea. Are the movie people still yelling at her? What are they filming?”

  “I think they were filming the scene where Billy Joe and Susana meet up in front of the court house right before she leaves town. In the book they meet up to run off and get married, but we know that didn’t happen.”

  “Yes,” I said as I lowered my foot on the accelerator and tore off down Highway 7. “We know that didn’t happen. Bitty’s not in the movie, either. Where is she now?”

  “Still circling. Why is she doing that?”

  “I have no idea. I should be there in five minutes. If she stops for any reason, don’t let her get away.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Physically, probably. Mentally, she’s never been right.”

  There wasn’t much Carolann could say to that.

  By the time I reached the court square the movie crew had managed to pull all their cameras and dollies up on sidewalks. They stood under the overhang outside the realty office by Budgie’s café and just watched as Bitty made another circle. Daddy’s John Deere roared past in a blast of fumes and smoke. It didn’t seem to be doing well.

  I double-parked my car on Memphis Street and got out with the intention of flagging down my irresponsible, hard-headed, idiotic cousin. Unfortunately, by the time I got to the curb at the front of the court house, Bitty was on the backside. So I stood close to the gazebo on the court house lawn and waited for her. She thundered toward me quickly enough, her gloved hands tightly holding the steering wheel, my daddy’s hat tied to her head with a scarf, and another scarf around her neck flapping in the wind. She was wearing Daddy’s boots, too. They looked ridiculous on her feet, coming up almost to her knees. I had absolutely no idea why she was doing this, and hoped the bump on her head hadn’t made her crazy. Any more crazy, anyway.

  I stood my ground, convinced she would at least avoid me if not stop to argue. But as she got close she started yelling at me, waving with one hand for me to move. That made me mad. It was one thing for her to be stupid enough to use my daddy’s old lawnmower to get to town, and quite another to try and run me down. I had no intention of letting her get away with it.

  It wasn’t until she got within three feet of me that I realized she was going to stay on the same path she’d already worn in the grass. At the last moment I managed to leap out of the way, but I landed in a big old bush planted next to the gazebo. Nothing but chewed sticks stuck up out of the ground next to it, the tattered remnants of a destroyed nandina.

  Astonished as much as I was angry, I stared after her as she held on to the steering wheel and roared around the court house lawn, bumping over the sidewalks, rumbling toward College Street. It was obvious she’d gone insane. I couldn’t think how I was going to tell Jackson Lee that Bitty had finally snapped. Maybe
it was the bump on the head that had done it. Maybe it was just her time.

  In the South we like to say that it’s not so much the question of whether there’s insanity in your family, it’s more a question of which side it’s on. Usually that’s just a self-deprecating way of poking fun at ourselves. Now I thought perhaps it must be true. The insanity must be on the Truevine branch of our family tree. A sad realization.

  As Bitty roared toward me again, I stood up out of the bush and folded my arms across my chest. If she was going to run me down, she’d just better do it. If I survived we could be roommates in Whitfield, our state mental institution. Or whatever they call it now. A Retirement Home for the Criminally Insane, maybe. Mama calls it the “nervous hospital.” She’s being kind.

  Bitty had scooted to one side on the lawnmower seat, still clinging to the steering wheel, her scarves twisting in the wind, bearing down on me like a freight train. I imagined myself as a brave soul awaiting my fate, chin up, shoulders back, eyes clear, and resigned to the inevitable.

  It wasn’t until she got within five feet of me that I realized what she was going to do. She let go of the steering wheel, half-stood on the floorboard, then leaped at me from the lawnmower, scarves flapping like frayed wings, arms straight out, gloved hands curled into talons. She looked like a deranged hawk. I tried to avoid it, but she landed right on top of me. We both toppled backward into the bush. It wasn’t any more fun the second time than it had been the first time. I couldn’t imagine why she had attacked me.

  Leaves and branches crackled under me as I floundered around with my idiot cousin on top of me. Bitty may be short, but her boobs have to weigh at least fifty pounds all on their own. Her weight was pushing me back against branches that refused to yield, and I banged my head against the side of the gazebo. If I could have caught my breath, I’d have been cussing a blue streak. As it was I just mangled a few words of protest.

  Somehow Bitty got off me and out of the bush. Then she held out her hand to pull me up from the bush’s clutches. Still flailing about, I didn’t see it until she said, “Take my hand, and I’ll get you out of there, Trinket.”