Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  “Oh, I remember now,” said Gaynelle. “You were a child actor. It wasn’t until you and Sandra met again on another movie set that you were old enough to date.”

  Bruce grinned. “Something like that. I dated. I just dated girls closer to my age. I was twenty-two when Sandra and I met up again. It felt like the first time. Kismet.”

  Since I didn’t remember all the movie gossip of the Bruce and Sandra era, I just listened to them reminisce. Something didn’t sound quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. As Bruce had said, movie people usually fudged their personal details, but I still couldn’t imagine why Sandra hadn’t mentioned the important detail that her family was from Mississippi. Have I mentioned that I can be obsessive?

  Sandra arrived not ten minutes later, apologizing for being late. “It took three takes before Mira got her lines right,” she said as I took her coat and Bitty beamed at her. “I know she’s still upset about Buck, but it costs money and is very annoying when she does that. Bruce, darling, I see you got here on time.”

  They air-kissed in a rather stilted embrace, and I thought about what I’d do if I ran into Perry somewhere. Any kind of kissing would be very unlikely. Not that I hated him or even really disliked him. I was just over him. But then, our divorce had been a relief to both of us, and as far as I knew, he’d never cheated on me or dumped me for a younger woman. Hollywood people obviously had different codes of conduct that required public cordiality; Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger not included.

  Bitty poured the expensive wine for Sandra and Bruce, and as the rest of us were quite happy with our fifteen dollar bottles, none of us felt slighted. In the past Bitty had offered her treasured bottles of wine to mixed Diva reviews. Mostly we were just perplexed as to why it cost so much more but tasted so much the same. Sandra and Bruce seemed suitably impressed, however, so Bitty’s ultimate goal was met.

  “An excellent vintage,” Bruce said politely, and Sandra nodded.

  “Bitty has quite an extensive cellar. It’s lovely meeting someone else who has such an exquisite palate.”

  Bitty preened like a canary. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to hear her start chirping. Instead she said, “I have a lovely surprise in the kitchen. Trinket, do you mind helping me?”

  “Can you believe her mama is from Mississippi?” Bitty hissed at me as we put our heads together in the kitchen. “And she hasn’t even hinted that her family is Southern.”

  “I know. I wonder what her mother’s maiden name was, or if she was married while here and to who. We could have another famous former Holly Springs resident like Shepard Smith, the news anchor on FOX TV.”

  “I don’t watch FOX News,” said Bitty. “I do like Shepard Smith though.”

  “You don’t watch any news programs,” I pointed out.

  “True. I think we should just ask Sandra about her family.”

  “I do too. What are you looking for in there, for heaven’s sake?” I asked as she hunted in the refrigerator, shoving aside all kinds of leftover goodies.

  “Ah. Here it is,” she said as she moved aside a carton of orange juice.

  I wasn’t that shocked when she brought out a jar of something that looked like blackberry jam. “Caviar, Bitty?”

  She nodded. “Beluga. I had a heck of a time finding any on such short notice, but luckily Diane Morgan happened to have a jar left from her daughter’s wedding a few days ago.”

  I’m not sure how I kept from rolling my eyes. “That stuff is over a hundred dollars an ounce,” I said, and she looked up at me.

  “Try two hundred dollars. A little over since I had to pay extra to get her to sell it to me.”

  I shook my head as I watched her scoop the black pearls into a special dish of cone-shaped glass set into a larger glass bowl of ice water to keep the caviar chilled. Mother-of-pearl spoons and forks were arranged on white linen napkins next to plates of plain, unsalted crackers; a small bowl of lemon wedges was placed discreetly to one side.

  “Caviar must be accompanied by champagne, of course,” said Bitty as she brought out champagne flutes and two bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne. Since I had no intention of eating fish eggs no matter how much they cost—a bad experience years before had convinced me that food experimentation was not my calling—I said I’d arrange the flutes on the tray for her. She made quite a production of the entire thing, and I fought the desire to giggle at the pretentiousness of her effort to impress. If not for her flamboyant style, Bitty would have seemed like a cartoon character, but she somehow managed to bring it off without looking foolish. A neat trick, I can tell you.

  When she presented the tray and set it on the Turkish ottoman Sandra and Bruce exclaimed in unison, “Caviar!”

  Rayna and Gaynelle stared at the tray in fascination, while Deelight and Carolann just seemed intrigued. The champagne corks were popped and bubbly poured into flutes, and since I only boycotted fish eggs and not fermented grapes, I lifted my champagne when Bruce proposed we toast our hostess.

  “To Bitty Hollandale, hostess extraordinaire and a beautiful lady of the South,” Bruce said gallantly, and we all clinked our glasses.

  The champagne was excellent. A little dry, but delicious. Maybe there’s something to that whole “expensive is better” motto Bitty likes to trot past me. I’m perfectly fine with having less than expensive tastes despite her efforts to improve me, but there are times I have to admit she has a point about some things.

  “This caviar is excellent,” Sandra said after spreading some on a cracker and eating it. “You never cease to surprise me, Bitty.”

  “I never expected caviar and Dom Pérignon in a small town,” Bruce said. He looked up at Sandra and smiled. “As always, you find the best people and places, Gypsy.”

  “Gypsy?” I echoed.

  Sandra laughed. “It was always his pet name for me. He used to say I moved more than a Gypsy since I’ve lived so many different places that I’ve lost count.”

  When they gave each other a smiling look I began to feel like an intruder. A glance at the other Divas convinced me they felt the same. It wasn’t a huge surprise when a scant half hour later Sandra pleaded an early call and need for rest, and Bruce offered to escort her to the Court Square Inn. Gaynelle waggled her eyebrows at me in insinuation, but I managed to keep a straight face as they put on their coats and left.

  “What was that about?” I asked the minute they were out of earshot, and Gaynelle had a mischievous smile.

  “I suspect there are still some sparks there. His offer to see her to the inn may mean a lot more than just a ride.”

  Since we do love conjecture, we lingered over freshly brewed coffee and discussed the possibility that Sandra and Bruce might rekindle their romance. Once all speculation had been discussed, Divas began to leave until there was just Bitty, Rayna, Gaynelle, and I left behind.

  I immediately said to Rayna, “Did you know that Sandra Brady’s mother is from Holly Springs?”

  She put down her wine glass. “I had no idea. Who told you that?”

  “Bruce Wallace,” Bitty promptly replied. “He asked us not to say anything to her about it and to let her tell us on her own.”

  “And yet she hasn’t mentioned a word,” Gaynelle said thoughtfully. “I wonder why.”

  “Bruce said it was common for stars to create ‘mystique’ about their background. They change their names and a lot of other facts about themselves. I just don’t know why she hasn’t at least mentioned that her family is from the South,” I said.

  “It’s rather curious that she hasn’t,” said Gaynelle. “I cannot imagine why.”

  Rayna drained the last of her wine. “Neither can I, but you can bet I’m going to check it out as soon as I get back to Rob’s office.”

  “How are you going to do that if she’s changed her name?” Bitty asked.
“I mean, she may have changed a lot more than that.”

  “I’m sure she has. I can reference and cross-reference what’s in her bio with local records and see what matches. I may have to do a couple years’ worth, but I’ll find out what we need to know.”

  “What puzzles me,” I said, “is why she hasn’t mentioned that her mother was born here. She’s had all kinds of opportunity to tell us, yet she hasn’t said a word.”

  Rayna shrugged. “Maybe she’s just sticking to her published biography. I guess being from Chicago is a lot more sophisticated than her family being from Mississippi.”

  “That’s true,” Gaynelle agreed. “This could be very innocent. After all, being from Holly Springs isn’t exactly something one would necessarily want to hide. We’re not Mother Russia or hiding the Taliban here.”

  “Well, I don’t think she has anything to hide,” said Bitty rather indignantly. “This is all just coincidence. While it would have been nice for her to tell us her family is from here, with all the commotion about Billy Joe being murdered, maybe she felt it was better to just let sleeping dogs die.”

  “You mean lie,” I corrected, and she looked at me.

  “I’m not lying, Trinket.”

  “No, I meant—never mind, Miss Malaprop.”

  “Who is this Malaprop person you keep mentioning?” Bitty asked irritably.

  I didn’t bother telling her the definition of malapropism. It’d only confuse her, I was pretty sure. Gaynelle, however, decided to try.

  “Mrs. Malaprop is the name of a lady in a play who constantly used incorrect words, quite unintentionally, of course. It’s derived from French mal à propos, that means out of place or unsuitable. Usually the word sounds similar but makes the sentence meaning rather ridiculous.”

  “Well for heaven’s sake, I don’t know what that has to do with Trinket thinking I’m lying about something.”

  “I’m sorry, Bitty,” I said before Gaynelle wasted her time and breath trying to explain. “I didn’t mean to say you were lying.”

  Bitty nodded. “Thank you, Trinket. I accept your apology.”

  Rayna stood up and set her empty wine glass on the tray. “Let’s help get this cleaned up before we go. I’m eager to get home and see what I can find out about Sandra Brady.”

  “I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it when we ask,” said Bitty. “I think it’s wonderful that Sandra’s family is from Mississippi.”

  “So do I,” said Gaynelle. “I’m just curious why she hasn’t mentioned it to anyone.”

  “I bet all this is going to turn out to have a rational explanation,” said Bitty. “We’ll find out it was just something simple.”

  “It could be that she doesn’t want distant relatives showing up trying to cash in on her fame and wealth,” Rayna suggested.

  Gaynelle nodded. “That’s possible. Sometimes relatives show up wanting to share in the spotlight.”

  “Not all relatives feel that way,” I said wryly. “Or at least, Mira Waller’s close family relations made no bones about not wanting any part of her.”

  “Too bad all distant relatives don’t feel that way,” Bitty said with a lift of her brow. “My least favorite cousin calls every once in a while to ask me for a loan for some ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme he wants me to invest in. I always have to tell him no, and he gets mad. I can certainly understand why Sandra would want to avoid that.”

  “She could do like Mira,” said Rayna, “and just be so hateful they won’t bother.”

  “Or like Dixie Lee,” said Bitty, “and pretend she doesn’t know they exist. Cady Lee said distant relatives have been coming out of the woodwork since the book came out and Hollywood got involved. Apparently Dixie Lee and her third cousin got into a screaming match out in the front yard yesterday.”

  Rayna said, “I’m intrigued. Any details?”

  Bitty smiled. “Of course. The best part is that her cousin Sarah Lee—no kin to the baking corporation—said she knew for a fact Dixie Lee killed Billy Joe Cramer, and she was going to go straight to the police with the information.”

  The rest of us sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Gaynelle said, “And you didn’t think to tell us this earlier?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t say anything in front of everybody. What would Bruce and Sandra think?”

  “Probably that Southerners are a little crazy,” I replied.

  “Sometimes you come closer to the truth than is comfortable,” said Gaynelle after we all laughed.

  It was as good an explanation as any for the events that followed.

  Chapter 19

  “TRINKET,” SAID MY early-bird cousin at the awful hour of six the next morning, “have you heard the news?”

  “No, I’ve been sleeping. And I’m not sure I want to hear any news. If you’re calling me before the sun is up, it can’t be good news.”

  “It’s not bad news. It’s just news.”

  I sighed. I’m not usually too sharp early in the morning. Especially when it’s still dark outside and my alarm hasn’t gone off. I tried to focus on Bitty’s continued dialogue, but I was finding it a bit difficult.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “Rayna looked for hours and found out a few things, but then this morning when the Enquirer came out there it was—in black and white.”

  “I don’t want to hear what that paper has to say, even with color pictures,” I said.

  “Try to keep up, Trinket. It’s an article stuck in the middle. No photos. Just a small piece about Sandra Brady and Bruce Wallace being an item again.”

  “That’s the news you called me before daylight to share? And since when have you been an early bird anyway? You’re always up until four or five in the morning and sleep past noon.”

  “You can be so cranky. I’ve decided to be on a different schedule. Jackson Lee had me up early anyway so I can pay the fine and get Uncle Eddie’s tractor from the repair shop.”

  I went temporarily lightheaded. How on earth had I forgotten about Daddy’s John Deere? If he found out it was gone and broken before it could be repaired and returned he’d be so upset.

  “So did you get it from the repair shop?” I squeaked.

  “Of course not, Trinket. It’s too early. Everything’s closed. I’m just up so I can get there early. I’ve already talked to Spike, and he’s going to put a rush on it when he gets in to work. When do you think is the best time to bring it back?”

  “When Daddy isn’t home,” I replied. “Maybe I can take him and Mama out to eat. Let me know when it’s ready so I can lure them away from the house.”

  “I’m glad he hasn’t noticed it’s gone yet.”

  “Me, too.”

  As always, I spoke too soon. Still groggy, I went downstairs to start the coffee but was once again behind my mother. She turned to look at me, a half-smile on her lips as she said, “Good morning.”

  “Is it? It’s too early for me to tell,” I said, stumbling toward her for a cup of coffee.

  Mama laughed, then Daddy came through the kitchen door, a thunderous expression on his face. “Someone stole my tractor,” he boomed. “Call the police!”

  My heart sank. Too late. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.

  As Mama started toward the kitchen phone I put up my hand. “Wait. I know where the tractor is.”

  Daddy turned toward me, surprise written all over his face. “You do? You know who stole it?”

  “It wasn’t stolen. It was just . . . er . . . borrowed. It’s being fixed up and will be back in the shed long before grass-cutting time.” I hoped I was right. Daddy looked quite upset.

  “Who borrowed it?” he wanted to know.

  I decided not to hedge. He’d find out the truth anyway. “Bitty borrowed it. There was a slight problem so as soon as it was
out of the impound lot it went straight to the repair shop.”

  “Problem? Impound lot? Repair shop?” my father echoed. He looked dazed. He really does love that silly tractor. I’m not at all sure why. While it’s not normal to form attachments to inanimate objects, I find myself doing it all the time. My Ford Taurus, for instance, is a cherished part of my life. It’s rarely let me down, starts every time I put the key in the ignition, and rides so smooth I think it’s better than Bitty’s Franklin Benz. That thing is like a tank.

  “Why did Bitty borrow the tractor?” my mother asked.

  I sighed. “Why does Bitty do anything? Well, you see, she’d had a small accident in her own car and ended up staying here with me to recuperate. When she felt better she decided to go into town, but I was at work, and her Benz was still in the repair shop and her other car at home in her garage. So she borrowed the tractor to get into town. Yes, I know. It sounds stupid. But you know Bitty.”

  “Yes,” Mama said with a sigh similar to mine, “I know Bitty.”

  Daddy didn’t say anything for a minute. He just looked at me with reproach, and I felt guilty. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It just never occurred to me that Bitty would fire up the John Deere and ride it into town. If it hadn’t locked up on her she might have been able to get it to stop, but it did and she didn’t, so kept circling the courthouse. She took out half the lawn, a flowerbed or two, and some bushes. Since she’d also run over some of the movie peoples’ cables in the street I think someone called the police, and Rodney Farrell showed up. That’s how it ended up in the police lot.”

  For a moment it was quiet. Then my mama started to snicker. She quickly put her hand over her mouth, but it didn’t completely muffle the sound. She tried to make it sound like a cough but didn’t fool me or Daddy. Finally his lips twitched. The dark expression on his face eased into amusement, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  By the time I told the entire story and my part in it, both my parents were laughing so hard tears ran down their cheeks. Mama leaned weakly against Daddy, fanning her face with one hand.