Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  She sounded almost rational. Daddy’s hat had come off her head, and one of the scarves was still caught in the bush. She’d lost her sunglasses and one of Daddy’s boots. I took her hand, but only because it was probably the only way I was going to get free. She tugged, and I finally got loose. Then I stood looking down at her. I wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t do something else equally mystifying and dangerous. Her next words dispelled my fears. Partially, anyway.

  “You saved me, Trinket,” she said. “I couldn’t get the thing stopped—ohmygod, here it comes again.”

  Unbelievably, the lawnmower headed straight toward us, driverless, careening around the court house as if guided by remote control. We barely escaped getting mowed down. Breathless, she pointed at the monster machine.

  “How long does it take to run out of gas?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. What happened?”

  Still breathing hard, she bent over slightly, put her hands on her knees, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I wanted to come into town, but no one would come get me.” She shot me an accusing look. “You told them not to help me, or I wouldn’t have had to borrow that stupid lawnmower. I think it’s possessed. I got halfway here before I realized something’s wrong with it. It wouldn’t turn right, and I couldn’t get it to stop when I wanted, and then I got to Memphis Street and took the corner, and it wouldn’t straighten back out.”

  She stood straight again. “After almost running over those movie people and destroying a few cables, the only thing I could think to do was somehow get it onto the court house lawn. I figured it wouldn’t do as much damage here. Took me three turns around the square to manage it. At least I only destroyed a few flowerbeds and some bushes.”

  I glanced over at the sidewalk across Van Dorn where the movie crew, Simon Donato, Mira Waller, and Buck Prentiss stood safely out of harm’s way. “They might think differently. Those cables in the middle of the street look demolished.”

  Bitty nodded. “I finally got the blades up, but I had to yank pretty hard on the lever. I did everything I could to stop the blamed thing. I even turned off the ignition and pulled out the key. It kept going. General Motors wouldn’t have needed a bail-out if they could make a car nearly as indestructible as that vile lawnmower. It’s possessed. I think it’s Christine reincarnated.”

  “Here it comes again,” I said as it rounded the corner behind the court house. The wheels were at an angle, probably why it wouldn’t drive straight. It roared toward us, a thick, choking comet of black smoke trailing behind. People had come out of the court house to stand and stare at the rampaging John Deere. I was just glad Daddy wasn’t home. He wouldn’t be at all happy to see his old mower leaving a trail of nuts, bolts, and destruction.

  A police car stopped in front of the court house, and two men in uniform got out. One of them was Rodney Farrell. He stood there a moment, hands at his waist resting on his utility belt, then looked over at us. He looks like a cross between Barney Fife and Opie, all grown up. He’s a nice young man most of the time. His months on the police force were beginning to mature him. I was sure just dealing with Bitty alone had aged him several years.

  As the mower trundled around the court house again he just watched. The other officer shook his head, laughing, and sauntered up to the crowd now gathered on the court house steps. I knew it was about to get complicated and steeled myself when Rodney Farrell looked our way.

  “Miz Truevine,” he said, coming toward us, and I glanced around to make sure Bitty didn’t do or say anything to make the situation worse.

  My worry was in vain. Bitty had disappeared.

  Chapter 13

  “JUST WHAT IS going on?” asked Officer Farrell. “Didn’t I see Mrs. Hollandale out here a minute ago?”

  “Did you?” I asked, unwilling to toss Bitty to the wolves quite yet. That time might come very shortly, however, depending upon how much trouble the John Deere caused. I pointed to the mower as it rattled by for yet another circumference of the court house and gawking spectators. “It won’t stop. It’s stuck in gear somehow.”

  Pushing his patrol hat to the back of his head, Officer Farrell watched as the mower went around the far corner. It reappeared sixty seconds later, bearing down on the gazebo again. “How much gas is in it?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. It should be getting close to empty by now, I’d think.”

  As if I’d flipped a switch the John Deere coughed, spat out a noxious black cloud, and died. It shuddered a couple times, rolled to a stop, and went silent. The sudden absence of sound was a bit unnerving. I looked at the path of destruction left behind. The lawn looked skinned in places. A few bushes would never grow again. I had no idea how it had missed the trees. A couple feet one way or the other would have sent it plowing into a sturdy oak and probably damaged Bitty more than the mower. I wasn’t sure about that though. Sometimes Bitty seemed indestructible.

  “Is that your mower, Miz Truevine?” asked Officer Farrell.

  I sighed. “Yes. It’s my daddy’s mower.”

  “Uh huh. How did it get here from out your way?”

  “Down Highway Seven. I think it’s possessed. Did you ever see the movie Christine about the car possessed by evil?”

  “Now Miz Truevine, you and I both know that mower didn’t get here by itself. It had help. And I know that was Miz Hollandale I saw standing out here when I drove up. Knowing Miz Hollandale, I’m guessing she has something to do with that mower being here.”

  “Really?”

  Farrell gave me a rather weary look. “Yes, ma’am. Really. Any idea why she did this?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask her, Officer. I’m as surprised as you to find my daddy’s mower here.”

  “Well, we’re going to impound it. When you see Miz Hollandale tell her she needs to come in and talk to me. I don’t want to have to track her down.”

  I wasn’t at all sure how my daddy would react at finding his mower being held hostage at the police impound lot. I didn’t even know Holly Springs had an impound lot. This wasn’t going to make Daddy happy.

  “I’ll tell her when I see her,” I promised, and he walked away shaking his head.

  I felt like shaking Bitty. How had she disappeared so quickly? And where had she gone? I wasn’t certain I wanted to find her. Not right now, anyway. I stood there long enough to watch a tow truck come after the demonic mower then walked back to my car. In my haste I’d run off and left it unlocked, my purse on the front seat, car keys still in the ignition.

  When I opened my door and slid into the driver’s seat, a small voice from the rear said, “I hope you aren’t too mad at me, Trinket.”

  I shut the car door, fired up the engine, buckled on my seatbelt, and put the car into gear before I answered. “I’m not even going to ask how you got here. I’m taking you back to my house, so don’t bother asking to go anywhere else.”

  “I won’t,” said the same small voice.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror. The plaid blanket I kept neatly folded on the back seat in case of emergency shifted slightly. Instead of lying on the seat, it covered a cousinly lump. I briefly debated stopping to boot said lump onto the square right at Rodney Farrell’s feet. Then I decided against it. Maybe she could claim a concussion. There was medical evidence to back up that statement. Or at the least, back up a head wound with three stitches that could possibly be parlayed into a concussion in Jackson Lee’s capable hands.

  “You know you’re going to have to pay for damages,” I said once we were out of the city limits and down Highway 7 a little bit. I drove more slowly this time.

  “I know.”

  “And you’re going to have to turn yourself in soon. They’ll come looking for you, and I don’t want a police stand-off in my front yard. Mama would be horrified. You know how we both hate public scenes.”


  Actually, I was getting pretty used to embarrassing public scenes. Since returning to Holly Springs and taking up with my lunatic cousin again, there have been quite a few.

  “I know,” said my back seat blanket. “As soon as Jackson Lee gets back I’ll show up and explain everything.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. I’m not sure there’s an explanation that will appease the police.”

  “I’ll take my checkbook.”

  “That may go a long way, but don’t count on it.”

  Sounding rather peeved, the blanket said, “Well for heaven’s sake, it’s not like I wanted to do all that. I just couldn’t get it to stop.”

  “Be quiet. Blankets aren’t supposed to talk.”

  Blanket made an exasperated noise but didn’t say anything else until we got to the house. I got out of my parked car and walked to the back door without waiting to see if Bitty followed. I didn’t really care at the moment. I was aggravated with her, and I wanted her to know it.

  When I went into the house I was greeted with carnage. I slumped against the doorframe as I surveyed the damage done by two spoiled dogs. The lunch I’d bought and brought home for a shut-in no longer existed. However, half-devoured hamburger wrappers, French fry cardboard, and what was left of two special patties with sesame seed buns littered the floor. Only a pickle or two were sad, limp reminders of what had been. Belatedly, I realized that I had left our lunch on the kitchen table. Since Chitling was too fat and earthbound to get up in the chair that easily, I suspected the flying brown dog-squirrel. They both seemed completely unaffected by my regard as I stared sternly at them. Then Brownie burped. Chitling made a rude noise at the other end.

  Behind me, the blanket-draped form of my fugitive cousin said something along the lines of, “Oh, my poor precious, what has Auntie Trinket been feeding you?” as I pushed away from the doorframe.

  I slowly turned to look at her. “Really? After everything, that’s what you’re going to say? Be a good blanket. Go to your room, and don’t come out for a week.”

  The blanket narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of Michael Jackson’s kids, Trinket. My name is not Blanket.”

  “Too bad. Think of all the money you’d have inherited.”

  I started picking up the remains of our lunch, had a slight tug-of-war with Brownie over a tasty bit of red and yellow cardboard that still smelled of French fries, and got it all tidied up while my dear cousin wisely retreated to the den. It was the smartest thing she’d done all day.

  My head hurt, I had scratches and bruises in places I didn’t want to think about, and had no idea how I was going to explain to my daddy that his lawnmower had attacked the town and was now in police custody. Obviously, he’d placed his trust in me too soon.

  After I went upstairs and took a shower and changed into clothes suitable for feeding cats and scavengers, I went into the kitchen and dragged out my supply of disposable aluminum pie pans. Apparently I made enough noise to rattle the cage of my temporary lodger. She came into the kitchen. She’d obviously done some cleaning up of her own. Instead of my daddy’s hat and boots, she wore a pink fluffy robe, pink kitten slippers with feathers, pink silk pajamas, and a pug in a pink nightie. A pink turban swathed her head to hide the bald spot and stitches.

  “Can I help you do anything?” she asked brightly.

  I hefted my load of pie pans and spoons and shook my head. “Not in that outfit. You’d scare the bobcats and coyotes.”

  She tottered after me in her little kitten heels while Brownie kept a suspicious eye on the pink feathers on her feet. “I can turn on the lights for you, maybe.”

  I replied coolly, “It’s not dark yet, but thank you.”

  I went out the back door to the barn where the cats waited impatiently for their food. As I scooped out dry food and put wet food on the aluminum pie pans I thought how churlish I was being. Yes, Bitty had acted foolishly and unwisely and caused trouble again. But what did I expect? She was Bitty. She did things like that. And really, thinking about it, it was kind of funny.

  By the time I went back into the house I was in a much better mood. I can never stay mad at Bitty for too long. It’s futile to try.

  She sat on the couch watching the evening news when I went into the den after washing up. I sank down into Daddy’s recliner. Flanked by two dogs, Bitty looked over at me. Scrubbed of makeup, she looked younger and vulnerable.

  “I really am sorry, Trinket.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Just take care of it with the police before Daddy gets back and finds out his mower is gone. He loves that John Deere for some reason.”

  “I still think it’s possessed. I should have listened to you and stayed here. But I had this idea that I think will uncover the murderer, and I wanted to get home to see what I could do.”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking, but what’s your idea? And which murderer?”

  Bitty thumbed the Mute button on the remote. “I’m sure it’s the same person.”

  “Then that lets Dixie Lee out of the line-up.”

  “Why? She had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Billy Joe, and—”

  “And was having a steak dinner with her family when Abby was murdered.”

  “Oh.” Bitty looked momentarily crestfallen. “Are you sure?”

  “Rayna said the staff at JB’s Restaurant is sure.”

  Bitty sighed. “Well, it’s probably a good idea I didn’t do what I was planning then.”

  “Please don’t tell me what you were planning. There are some things I don’t need to know.”

  “Okay. I’ll think of something else.” She drummed her fingers against her leg for a few moments, then said, “We could always meet with Rayna and see what she’s been able to find out before we decide what to do next.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We can do that. Have you ever thought about getting a job? Like a job that you go to every day, that keeps you busy and out of trouble?”

  Bitty looked surprised. “Why would I want to do that? I mean, I got my real estate license years ago, but I’m so busy with my garden club duties and charities that I’ve just never really had time to spend on listing houses. Besides, people can be so picky.”

  I sighed. “It was just an idea. I’m not working tomorrow, so if you want, we can go over to Rayna’s and see what she’s found out. She was investigating backgrounds, you know. Since Mira Waller was actually born in Hickory Flat and spent her early childhood here in Holly Springs but hasn’t bothered to mention it to anyone, we just don’t know what else she may be hiding. It’s worth checking into, anyway.”

  “Are you sure I’m well enough to get out, Nurse Ratched?”

  “After today, I’m pretty sure you’re well enough to do anything you want.”

  Bitty just smiled.

  WE SHOWED UP at Rayna’s house around ten the next morning, and she was in the back at Rob’s computer. Two of her dogs, big labs, followed us back there, tails wagging despite the pug Bitty wore in a sling across her chest. I don’t blame her for using the sling. Chitling has put on a bit of weight. I thought she could have left the dog at her house, but Bitty’s not easily persuaded to relinquish her gargoyle. Her triceps must have doubled in size since getting that dog.

  “Bitty has an idea,” I said to Rayna once we were seated in Rob’s comfortably cluttered office. Bitty leaned back in a large wing chair while I perched on a padded stool right next to the desk. Rayna swiveled around to look at us from the roomy desk chair. Rob’s a big guy and needs big furniture. Rayna looked like a fragile little doll in his chair, but I can attest to the fact that she can be quite formidable when she chooses.

  “And what is your idea, Bitty?” she asked after a quick slice of her eyes at me.

  Bitty settled Chitling to one side. “Well, as you know
, I think that the murderer has to be the same person to commit both those murders. Otherwise it doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Billy Joe was killed out of a need for revenge, perhaps, but Abby didn’t seem to be a threat to anyone.”

  Rayna nodded. “That sounds logical.”

  “Except that Tasha Donato might disagree,” I pointed out. “She knew Abby was having an affair with Simon. What if she’s the one who killed her in a jealous rage?”

  Rayna said, “That’s logical, too.”

  Bitty shook her head. “Yes, it’s logical, but Tasha didn’t kill the last few women her husband had an affair with, so I doubt Abby—as a PA and not a big star—would represent any threat at all.”

  “Look at Julia Roberts,” I said. “She dated lots of movie stars, married a famous singer, however briefly, and yet she ends up married to a cameraman she met on the movie crew. It can happen.”

  “It can,” said Bitty, “but it didn’t happen this time, I’m pretty sure. I’ve been in Tasha’s position, remember, and as much as I may have wanted to kill Philip and even his girlfriends, I didn’t. I did pitch a hissy fit every time I found out about him fooling around, though. And he always bought me something expensive to make up for it. It never really made up for it, but I did manage to acquire quite a few nice things.”

  “And your point is?” I asked.

  Bitty heaved a big sigh. “My point is that if Tasha was going to kill either one of them, she wouldn’t have thrown a big fit so she’d be the first person police suspect. She’d have quietly killed her and either skipped town again or played the part of the unsuspecting wife.”

  “Bitty has a valid point,” Rayna said after a moment of reflection, and I agreed.

  “As surprising as that is, yes, she does. Not that these movie people are always rational, I’ve noticed. They’re artists. They thrive on doing the unusual. Bitty would have been a perfect movie star for that reason alone.” I smiled at my cousin so she wouldn’t say something tacky. A smile doesn’t always work.