I hated to admit it, but she’s right about that. As amazing as it always seems, there have been times Bitty has been right in her suspicions. Perhaps a bit flawed, but right enough for her to preen like a peacock about it. I resisted walking down that path, however.
“And besides,” Bitty continued, “since the budget cuts the police don’t have the resources to check out everyone’s alibi. We can do that for them. They’ll probably be very grateful.”
I regarded her with a smile. “It’s so nice in Bitty-World, no pesky logic to get in the way, no reality checks to interfere with your thought processes.”
Bitty narrowed her eyes at me. Chen Ling growled. I ignored them both.
Rayna came back from carrying our plates to the kitchen, replenished our wine, then cleared her throat. “We can certainly check out Dixie Lee’s alibi as well as all the other suspects. Is there anyone we’ve left off the list?”
“That’s just it,” Gaynelle said. “We don’t know who else on the crew or in town making the movie, or just watching them make a movie, might bear a grudge toward any or all of the victims. We could find out a complete stranger committed these murders.”
“Or it could be one of those unsolved murders,” said Bitty. “Years from now we could be having tea and one of us would ask, ‘Who do you think killed all those people?’ and someone would answer, ‘I thought it was Dixie Lee Forsythe, but since she was murdered too maybe it was someone else.’”
“You really do live in a fantasy world, don’t you,” I remarked.
Bitty smiled. “Sometimes it’s good to daydream.”
“So what time should we be at your house for Diva Day, Bitty?” Rayna asked.
“Noon-ish is good. It’s not a real Diva Day. I just wanted Sandra to meet everyone, and we can all use a break. Besides, we need to get together and see if we can figure out the most likely suspect. Twelve heads are better than one.”
“I’m glad you’ve decided against inviting Allison and Mira,” Gaynelle said. “That wasn’t such a good idea, you know.”
Bitty sighed. “I know. We should just stick with Sandra. She’s almost one of us.”
“You mean, she’s one of us if we’re all rich, famous, and world travelers,” I pointed out. “I can’t say she’s one of us, but she does seem very nice and I think fits into our group nicely.”
“This has to be awful for her, too,” said Bitty. “I mean, they were her friends.”
“They were her co-stars,” I corrected. “A big difference. Despite Sandra being so upset by Abby’s death, I got the distinct feeling there was some kind of rivalry between them.”
“I imagine that’s true with most movie stars,” said Gaynelle. “Even though Abby wasn’t an actress she had the director’s ear. Then there’s billing, such as whose name comes first on the credits and posters, who gets the most publicity and money, all that kind of thing. It’s a cut-throat business from what I understand. All that money and fame can hardly be worth some of the stress they endure.”
“Apparently it’s worth the stress to quite a few of them,” Bitty said with a laugh. “If not, I don’t think they’d keep doing it.”
Rayna set down her wine glass. “I don’t know. Artistic expression can be very strong. If a person’s talent is as an actor, then they’re just driven to keep on. It’s rather like painting, I would imagine. Whether you’re making money or not you just have to keep doing it. If not, you begin to feel restless, incomplete, unhappy because you don’t have a canvas you’re working on, or in the case of an actor, a play or movie role.”
“Or in the case of an author,” I said, “writing a book. Look at Dixie Lee. Maybe she’s not a literary success, but she’s an entertainer. Dark Secrets Under the Holly may not be as worthy as a Faulkner or Hemingway, but it’s a bestseller, and it’s being made into a movie. Some of us should keep that in mind.”
Bitty stroked the top of Chen Ling’s head and said, “I know you’re talking about me. I don’t care. Dixie Lee is plagiarizing people’s lives. I don’t think it’s right.”
“She’s done no more than any true crime writer,” Rayna pointed out. “Kathy Reichs uses past cases she’s worked on to weave a story, and Bones is now a TV show. Why can’t Dixie Lee do the same?”
“If she’s so proud of her work then why did she use a pseudonym?” Bitty asked. “I mean, Desirée DuBois. Good lord.”
We had to laugh at that. “It does sound like she should be working a corner on Bourbon Street,” I admitted. “But why not invite her to Diva Day and ask her why she chose not to use her own name? After all, Cady Lee is our friend and would appreciate not being put on the spot by leaving out her sister.”
Bitty rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. I’ll invite her. But don’t be surprised if things go south. I can’t be in the same space with her longer than a minute before she gets on my last nerve. She’s like a can of gasoline at a bonfire. One little drop of her starts a helluva blaze.”
“I know,” said Rayna. “But Trinket’s right. Cady Lee is our friend, and if we leave out her sister there may be hard feelings down the road. We’ll just try to keep her busy and out of your way.”
I feared trouble, but there really wasn’t anything else we could do.
BY DIVA DAY WE’D gotten the terrible news that Buck Prentiss had been bludgeoned and then either fell or was pushed down the stairs. The cause of death was the blow to the head, but I was sure the trip down that staircase hadn’t done him any good either. I was also certain it was going to be the main topic of our conversation that afternoon.
I had arrived early to help Bitty and was whining about where she’d chosen for us to retire after our lunch. “I wish you’d entertain in the parlor instead of your living room,” I said. “That blamed antique couch is so uncomfortable.”
“It’s a settee, Trinket. It’s stuffed with horsehair. It’s not meant to be judged by today’s standards. Our ancestors sat on it without complaint.”
“Then our ancestors probably died of complications from hemorrhoids, because that’s the hardest cushion I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit on,” I replied. “Let’s move the couch from your office into the living room. It’s a lot more comfortable.”
“It doesn’t match the style or era.”
“But hemorrhoids do?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Trinket. Let’s just get the table set. They’ll be here any minute. I need to be sure everything’s staying hot in the kitchen. That stupid warmer sometimes goes out. Can you finish here without me? Or without talking about hemorrhoids?”
“I’ll do my best.”
The table had been set with her mama’s heirloom silver flatware and china, a linen table cloth, and linen napkins. Fresh flowers burst out of a cut crystal vase. Heavy sterling silver candelabras held long, flame-tipped tapers. Royal Copenhagen place settings adorned the table.
Really, Bitty puts style over comfort every time. We’d all be much more comfortable in her office. Or even downstairs in the basement that’s usually her sons’ territory. It’s decorated in Early Mobster but still a lot more comfortable than that blamed horsehair-stuffed antique settee in her living room.
“This feels more like a wake than a Diva Day,” I said to Bitty when I returned to the kitchen. She gave me a horrified look.
“Bite your tongue, Trinket. Everything has to be perfect. Do you think the Baby’s Breath is too much in the flower arrangement?”
“No. It complements the white linens. All this because of Sandra Brady? She’s been here before. She’s seen your dog squatting in the middle of a food tray, scarfing down all the pimento cheese. She’s met Miranda Watson and her pig in your living room, for heaven’s sake.”
“Which is one more reason I’d like her to leave with a good impression today. I even took Chen Ling to Luann Carey’s for a play
date. She’ll bring her back later.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Don’t be hateful. I hired Kinzey to come in and help as soon as she’s out of school. She goes only half-days so should be here in an hour to help serve. Let’s put out the hors d’oeuvres.”
Bitty had managed to wheedle Sharita Stone into catering Diva Day since the movie set was temporarily closed down, and there was everything from Aunt Sarah’s pimento cheese to a Lane cake. For the uninitiated, a Lane cake originated in Alabama. God bless Alabama. It was first concocted by Emma Rylander Lane in 1898 and is four layers of moist sponge cake, raisins, pecans, and coconut, a wine glass of bourbon or brandy, and whipped icing. Mama lets it sit a few days before serving so the flavors meld together. It’s heaven on a plate and not for anyone under legal drinking age. The bourbon can have quite a kick.
Since Sandra had professed a desire to taste “real down-home Southern cooking,” Sharita had provided a ton of good Southern dishes like fried okra, purple hull peas, a mess of turnip greens, white beans and ham hock, skillet cornbread, and cornbread sticks—the latter baked in heavy cast iron pans greased with enough bacon fat to clog all our arteries for a year. Bacon grease is de rigueur in the South. Unless we’re on a healthy diet we use it in almost everything we cook. Maybe not all our desserts. I don’t think there’s any bacon grease in buttermilk pie, for instance. But there is definitely lard in the best cake frosting.
The doorbell rang, and I wiped my hands on a towel and went to answer it while Bitty put the finishing touches on the food Sharita had provided. Sandra Brady arrived with Gaynelle and was quickly followed by the others: Deelight, Rayna, Carolann, Sandra, and Cindy. Rose had promised to come by later when the afternoon shift showed up at the shop.
Cady Lee was bringing Dixie Lee. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Maybe good food would soak up all that animosity between Dixie Lee and Bitty.
I took their coats into the parlor while Divas went into the kitchen. We’re usually pretty informal. Bitty was just putting on the dog for Sandra’s sake. “Putting on the dog” means trying to impress someone with all your best clothes, furnishings, or manners. I have no idea where that phrase originated, but we use it fairly frequently.
Fortified with glasses of wine, we milled about chatting with each other about everything but murder. I think we’d had enough of the subject for the time being. Besides, we all knew it’d come up before the afternoon was over.
Sandra was very gracious, greeting Divas as if they’d been friends forever, just as down home as any of us. She held a glass of one of Bitty’s prized bottles of wine, not the California wine that I preferred, but some fancy French label. Haut-Brion is a wine just coming into its prime according to Bitty, and I happened to know it cost somewhere around a thousand dollars a bottle. Frankly, I don’t think Bitty is a wine connoisseur; she just likes to spend money on wine to impress people. I judge wine by the alcohol content. Yes, I’m pedestrian in my tastes.
Apparently, Sandra knew the label, however. “Oh, this just came to first maturity in 2010,” she said as she looked at the bottle. “It has a lovely texture like velvet on the tongue.”
Bitty looked about to burst with pride. I felt like bursting from pretentiousness.
I gulped down my glass of delicious California wine and poured another. The afternoon was apparently going to require a great deal of wine if I was to get through it.
I was very glad for my third glass of wine when Cady Lee arrived with Dixie Lee in tow. It was apparent to me that Dixie Lee was about as thrilled to be there as Bitty was to have her in attendance. Oh joy.
Thankfully, they were no sooner in the door and their coats safely in my custody when Kinzey arrived, and Bitty rang the dinner bell. Food should appease the more argumentative sides of human nature, I thought as I joined them in the dining room.
That was when I saw that Bitty had put out sterling silver name tag holders. People looked for their designated spots at the table, while I looked at Bitty and shook my head. She was determined to keep Dixie Lee as far away as possible. A good thing if one looked at it in the light of a truce. Insulting if one considered that Sandra Brady was obviously an honored guest on the right of our hostess while Dixie Lee was relegated to a chair “below the salt” so to speak.
That just means she was at the far end of the table. Salt cellars in the middle of the table once delineated positions of importance, those farthest away from the host the least important. Bitty sometimes adheres to old social customs. Unfortunately, very few of the good ones.
Kinzey brought in elegant serving dishes of food and crystal pitchers of sweet tea. It was a contradiction in styles as far as I was concerned: exquisite dinnerware alongside food better suited for country tables. Cornbread wedges and cornsticks nudged yeast rolls in the breadbasket, crystal dishes held creamy butter, an oblong dish inside a silver casserole with tiny warmers held country fried steak and milk gravy; mashed potatoes, fried okra, turnip greens, snap beans, and fried green tomatoes adorned other covered silver dishes.
Sandra gamely loaded her plate with chicken fried steak and milk gravy, a heap of mashed potatoes, fried okra, turnip greens, and a big wedge of crusty cornbread dripping with butter. I became a bit alarmed. If she OD’d on calories and grease there might be another casualty. If you aren’t used to Southern food it can have a devastating effect on your arteries. Not to mention your thighs. I think those of us who grew up with it have built up some sort of immunity. Or maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves so we can ignore the cardiologists’ warnings. If researchers ever come out with a vaccine against fat and calories, I’m going to surround myself with tables full of Southern plain cooking and desserts and eat to my heart’s content.
However, I restrained myself admirably. I only had one piece of chicken fried steak, still hot in the warmer, ladled milk gravy over it, piled up fried okra and fried green tomatoes for my green veggies, and added some fried corn for color. Sweet tea replaced my wine. One must pace oneself when it comes to spirits, my mother had always warned me. Ladies are never to be publicly intoxicated.
Of course, that axiom would have put an end to all Diva Days, so I loosely adhered to the rule. As did the other Divas.
Since I sat on Bitty’s left side at the head of the table, I was within striking range if she got out of hand. My size nine feet could put quite a dent in her shins, although I’d steer clear of her feet since she was wearing six-inch stilettos sharp enough to go frog-gigging.
Everyone was obviously enamored with Sandra Brady. She was charming and amusing and had us all laughing at some of her anecdotes about working in the movie business. Apparently, the thespian muse makes movie-folk just as crazy as the creative muse does artists and authors. All have their quirks.
Bitty was on her best manic behavior, too, and regaled Sandra with tales of Southern goings on and our penchant for nicknames. “It’s just difficult to take a politician or minister seriously,” she said, “when they go by Chigger or Bubba, or Possum or Coon. I’ve known a Buster, Booger, Hoss, Rawhide, Catfish, Cooter, Boo, and a Skeeter or two. Then there was Race, short for Ronald, but his last name was Champion, so that was a given. Let’s see, who else, Trinket?”
“Snake, Snort, and Snot,” I promptly replied. “The Sneed triplets.”
“Lord, I’d forgotten all about them. Those nicknames fit those boys, too.”
When she stopped laughing, Sandra asked me, “How did you get the name Trinket?” Smile lines lent her face a mature beauty. It was an infectious smile, and I smiled back.
“My parents named me Eureka May Truevine, after the old Eureka Truevine Methodist church my great-grandfather built after The War. My twin sister’s name is Emerald May Truevine, but since I was born first I got the family curse. I mean name. My older brother Jack couldn’t pronounce Eureka and somehow he shortened it to Trinket. It’s pre
tty well stuck over the years. I’m just grateful my nickname isn’t Puddin’ or Dimples.”
Rayna offered the information, “My mother always called me Rae-Rae. As soon as I got old enough I refused to answer to anything but Rayna. If she were here she’d still call me Rae-Rae, I’m sure.”
Deelight, whose maiden name was Grace, said, “My name is Deelight Joyann Grace, and my sister’s name is Deevine Faithann Grace. My parents were very religious.”
Gaynelle said her parents had called her Nellie, Sandra’s mother still called her Sandy, Cindy was short for Cynthia, and Carolann’s adult brother still called her Crayon, his three-year-old version of Carolann.
Bitty’s name is fairly simple, short for Elisabeth, also attributed to a brother too young to correctly pronounce it.
“There’s not much that can be done with Sandra,” said Sandra with a laugh. “Unless someone calls me Dimples or Puddin’.”
Kinzey removed our serving dishes and dinner plates and brought out the desserts. The Lane cake was the pièce de résistance as far as I was concerned, but there was also chess pie, buttermilk and lemon pie, and banana pudding. Some of us took a little of each, and others of us took a piece of each. I won’t say who had what and how much. It may not have been an official Diva Day, but I’m sticking with “What happens with the Divas, stays with the Divas.” It’s the least I can do.
After we were all pretty well stuffed to the gills, we trailed into the living room. Of course, the only place left for me to sit was on the horse’s rump. My lone consolation was that Bitty had to sit on the other side of the rump. That settee is really uncomfortable.
Sandra Brady had wisely chosen the upholstered chair Bitty drags in for company, and the Turkish ottoman is always our coffee table. An antique love seat stuffed with cotton instead of animal hair and a scattering of Louis XVI chairs from the dining room sat next to the plush ottomans from the parlor. Divas divided time between the living room and the kitchen. We’re pretty informal in our meetings. Bitty just wanted to impress Sandra Brady.
Divas Do Tell Page 23