Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  “Oh lord, that child has always been a mess. Poor Sarah used to fret so over her. I always said Bitty was born under a lucky star. She manages to come out on top every time.”

  “Well, she did get stitches in her head, but she was lucky not to be hurt worse in the car wreck. Riley Powers broadsided her,” I said. “He was driving his dual cab truck, or he might have been the one in the hospital with stitches. That Benz is a tank.”

  “It’s the rest of us who need to worry,” Daddy said. “Bitty may be under a lucky star, but we aren’t so lucky. One of these days all our luck is going to run out.”

  Even though he doesn’t believe in such things, sometimes my daddy can be prophetic.

  BUSINESS AT Carolann’s shop is notoriously slow in the first few months of winter, but this year the shop had gotten a nice bump from the movie people and curious tourists. We were fairly busy all morning. After lunch, Rose Allgood showed up with news about the factory she’s about to open in Holly Springs. It was once a toy factory. Now it would manufacture adult toys and mundane things like plastic spoons and forks. It’s nice to diversify.

  “You should have made it to Bitty’s,” Carolann said to Rose as I checked out a customer. “It was lovely. Bruce Wallace is not only gorgeous, he’s very nice.”

  Rose shook her head. “I’d have come if not for the emergency consultation the architect and engineer dropped on me. I never knew a few inches one way or the other could make such a huge difference in an assembly line.”

  “There’s always some detail that can muck things up,” I said as the customer left with a bag of lovely new underwear. “Usually that detail is Bitty.”

  We all laughed. As mentioned before, we all know Bitty.

  “She certainly has a talent for doing the unusual,” Rose said in her offhand manner. “I’m always amazed.”

  “As are the rest of us,” I agreed.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did when Bitty suddenly popped up, striding into the shop with all the assurance of a runway model.

  “Good afternoon, all,” she said breezily. “I thought I’d find you here. Trinket, we never did finish our discussion about Sandra. Here. I brought the tabloid with me so you can read it for yourself.”

  She plopped down a folded section of one of the sleazy tabloids. I’d begun thinking of them as sleazy ever since they began printing unflattering photos of me. I meant to ask Jackson Lee if I could sue them since they didn’t get my permission, but hadn’t yet. At any rate, I picked up the tabloid and saw the article she’d mentioned under the heading: Actress Rekindles Romance? “What well-known actress shooting a movie down south kept a late night with her former husband? Rumor has it that the May-October relationship is on again. Here’s a hint: Steel Magnolias meets The Greek Gladiators.”

  I looked up at Bitty. “What does that mean? What Greek gladiators?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket, don’t you ever read anything but Walmart ads? Bruce hit it big with his gladiator movie. He was already a rising star, but that put him on the map.”

  “And the ‘May-October’ reference must mean Bruce is May and Sandra is October. How clever. Not to mention bitchy. Who writes these things?”

  “No Nobel prize winners in that group,” Rose remarked, and I nodded agreement. Bitty rolled her eyes.

  “Honestly, as busy as I am, and I still find time to keep up with current events.”

  I looked at her. “Really? Who’s our vice president? Our Secretary of State?”

  Bitty gave me a blank stare. It probably mirrored the one I had given her about the tabloid rumors. Then she dismissed my questions with a wave of her hand.

  “That’s a different set of current events.”

  “Of course. Movie stars are much more important than heads of state.”

  “I didn’t say that. But the tabloids found out that Sandra and Bruce are together again when we didn’t even know. They must do around-the-clock surveillance, don’t you think?”

  “It’s possible,” I agreed.

  Carolann said, “The tabloids are always ahead of everyone else at digging up dirt on people. I think they must know where all the bodies are buried. So to speak.”

  “An appropriate analogy,” I said. “I can see why Sandra wants to move somewhere much more private.”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention that Sandra moved out to Snow Lake this morning,” Bitty said and I turned to gape at her.

  “Snow Lake? Already? How did she manage that?”

  Bitty smiled. “Laura called me late last night to tell me she’d gotten hold of the family who owns that beautiful place with the big iron gates on the little peninsula. It’s very private. No one can get in the gates unless buzzed in, and since it’s back at the far end of the lake’s middle finger, no one can spy on her by boat without being seen. I called Sandra, and she went out there immediately. One of the assistants is taking all her clothes and things to her.”

  Carolann tilted her head to one side, frowning. “Is she going to like driving out there and back every day? It’s much more convenient in town I’d think, since this is where most of the movie is being filmed.”

  “Oh, they’ll send her driver for her. Being a big star, she can get anything she wants just by asking someone to bring it out to her. That’s the way they do it in Hollywood.”

  “I imagine she wants to get away from all the fans and constant demands on her free time too,” Rose suggested. “From what I’ve seen, actors don’t get a lot of free time when they’re filming a movie. Late nights and early mornings have to be difficult. I’m amazed they manage to evoke such drama and passion on-screen.”

  “Don’t forget off-screen.” Carolann grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “Do you think Sandra and Bruce are really together again? Wouldn’t it be exciting if they got married here?”

  I barely kept from rolling my eyes. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that I had so many other things to worry about that tabloid gossip was far down on the list. Bitty is near the top. Only my parents’ health and my daughter’s welfare beat her out. Personal money issues hover just below the Will Bitty do something else stupid to get us nearly killed position on the list.

  Bitty, however, was more than willing to voice conjectures on the Bruce-Sandra romance possibilities. I eased away from them and found some underwear to fold. By the time I was ready to leave, they’d finished hashing and rehashing the romance issue, so I escaped without being forced into offering my opinions. It was still light outside, with winter easing toward spring.

  Just as I reached my car, Bitty trotted down the back steps and toward me, juggling her dog-in-the-sling with a sack of new silk undergarments. “Trinket, wait a minute,” she called, and I leaned back against my car while she navigated the ruts and cracks in the uneven pavement.

  “You should try out for the Flying Wallendas,” I said when she reached me.

  She gave me a blank look. “Who?”

  “The Wallenda family. Famous aerial acrobats? Walk a tightrope eighty New York floors up in the air?” When she still stared at me, I added, “I think one of them fell to his death doing one of the stunts, and they didn’t do it for a while.”

  “Oh. I think I do remember that. It was awful. Why would you say I should join them? Are you trying to kill me off?”

  “No. If I was going to do that, it’d be in a fit of pique, not a planned murder. I just meant I don’t know how you manage to walk across rubble in nine inch heels without falling.”

  “Good heavens, Trinket, you take the long way around to get to your point, don’t you.”

  “I learned early. So what are you up to now?”

  “Uncle Eddie’s tractor is ready. Do you want to drive it out to him?”

  It was my turn to stare at her with incomprehension. “Huh?”

 
; “The tractor,” she repeated. “It’s ready. Someone has to take it to him or drive it out there. I thought you might want to do that.”

  “Why would you think that? I have no intention of doing anything like that. You rode it into town. So technically, it’s your responsibility to ride it back to where you got it. Here. Hand me your dragon. I’ll watch her while you take it back.”

  Of course, I knew she wouldn’t do anything remotely close to driving it back. It was just fun to watch her face when I suggested it.

  A gust of cold wind lifted the collar of her light jacket as she pondered a way to get me to agree. I can read her like a book sometimes. Finally she said, “I’ll have it delivered by truck.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. So, what are you doing now?”

  “Jackson Lee was going to take me out to dinner, but something came up with the big case he was working on, so he’s had to go over to Oxford to talk to another attorney. Why don’t you come by the house? We can drink something warm. I have leftovers, too.”

  When I hesitated she said, “You don’t have to go home to feed critters so you can stay as long as you want.”

  That sounded pretty good, actually. For the first time in a month my off time was my own. I followed Bitty back to her house. Her jaunty little BMW convertible took the corners smoothly, and she even came to a full stop at the Stop sign. I was so proud.

  Naturally, Bitty’s idea of something warm to drink involved alcohol. I was not averse to participating. We both had hot toddies. While the snow and ice was long gone, the wind could still bite pretty sharply. It even rattled one of the downstairs shutters against the wood siding.

  “I’m going to have to get that fixed,” said Bitty as we sat in her cozy little parlor on the overstuffed chairs with matching ottomans. A fire burned in the grate, and soft music drifted from the speakers of her Bose discreetly tucked into an alcove. “Maybe Waters will come take care of that for me.”

  Waters is an elderly gentleman who is spryer than most men half his age. He still works, doing home repairs, odd jobs, anything that pays money to help supplement his Social Security. I used to see him scaling ladders to fix a roof and held my breath waiting for him to fall. He never did. Maybe he should have tried out for the Flying Wallendas.

  “How is Mr. Waters’ wife? Is she still alive?” I asked.

  Bitty nodded. “She had cancer a while back, but they got it all, and she’s almost back to her old self. They still live over there in the little house behind the Taylor family. Or it used to belong to the Taylor family. Now it belongs to the Warrens. Mr. Taylor’s niece didn’t want the old house since she has one that’s a lot newer and bigger so she sold it.”

  “A pity it didn’t stay in the family,” I said as I sipped my toddy.

  Bitty nodded. “No one has respect for history these days. Thank heavens my boys aren’t like that. They respect the past and respect family heirlooms, too. For the pilgrimage Brandon is going to use the rifle my mama’s family had in The War. It went through Shiloh and Brice’s Crossroads, and it doesn’t fire properly any longer, but it’s our history.”

  Bitty’s mama was from up in Hardeman County Tennessee, very close to where the battle of Shiloh was fought a hundred and fifty years ago. Southerners take pride in keeping not only heirlooms, but our personal history alive. Links to the past, to our heritage, keep us connected to family and home and our roots. We cherish those memories, the bad along with the good. It’s not always something we may be proud of, but it’s fact, and we can’t ignore it or rewrite it no matter how many people try to do so. It happened the way it happened. Whitewashing or changing it won’t take that away. Learning from it so the bad aspects don’t happen again is what’s the most important, in my opinion.

  “So have you been fitted for your gown yet, Trinket?” Bitty asked, blindsiding me with the question. I didn’t have a lie or evasion ready.

  “Uh,” I said, “why do you ask?”

  Bitty’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t gone to be fitted yet, have you? You know the pilgrimage is only a couple months away. How do you expect your gown to be ready in time if you don’t get fitted?”

  I should have gone with the truth: I hoped it wouldn’t be ready, and I wouldn’t have to wear it.

  But foolishly, I didn’t. “I just haven’t had time,” I said. “You know, with all my animal welfare duties, Mama and Daddy coming home . . . it just hasn’t been a priority.”

  Bitty gave me a stern look. “Go over to Jean Buford’s and get fitted as soon as possible. Stop procrastinating.”

  I lifted a brow at her and tried to obfuscate. “My, my, a five-syllable word. I’m impressed with your increased vocabulary.”

  She set her glass down on the table and reached for her cell phone. I knew before she dialed who she was calling. My resistance was futile. I was trapped. I would end up wearing a hot, itchy antebellum dress with horsehair petticoats, long pantalets, button-up shoes, hose and probably a wide-brimmed hat that would make me look like a demented mushroom. Going to the bathroom would be nearly impossible. And I would have to smile at tourists while I shifted from foot to foot waiting for the chance to sneak away before I made a puddle.

  Once she was through talking to Jean Buford, Bitty looked at me and said, “Ten o’clock Friday morning.”

  “What if I’m working?”

  “You aren’t. You already told me you’re off for the next few days.”

  “Oh.” All my options were exhausted. Doom closed in around me. I sucked down more toddy. Jack Daniel’s in heated water with honey, lemon, and cinnamon had rarely tasted so good. Recalling the outfit she’d chosen for me to wear during our short-lived movie career, I finally felt brave enough to ask what material and style she’d chosen for my dress, after a few more sips of toddy, of course.

  “Oh, you’ll love it, Trinket, you really will. It’s a perfect style for someone of your height. I wanted a bustle in back, but then I thought maybe you’d look better in something more sedate. So I chose a hoop skirt of gray satin with black trim, a high lace collar, and snug-fitting jacket that will show off your small waist. You know, for a large woman you have a really nice hour-glass figure.”

  I reeled from not only the backhanded compliment but the visual image of me in a hoop skirt and lace collar. Not to mention tight-fitting jacket. If it was cool I’d be okay. If the sun was out like usual in April, I’d sweat through the satin in a heartbeat.

  So I said, “I’ll sweat to death. My potassium levels will drop, my electrolytes will go crazy and unbalance my system, and I’ll fall down in a dead faint. I’ll be a big gray glob on the pavement.”

  Bitty looked shocked. Then she smiled. “Do you remember what Aunt Imogene used to say?”

  “Bring me my snuff?”

  “No, she always said, ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow.’ So you won’t sweat. You’ll just glow.”

  “Great. I’ll be a big, gray, glowing glob on the pavement.”

  “Honestly, Trinket, sometimes there’s just no pleasing you.”

  I might have said something tacky then, but the doorbell rang, and Chen Ling leaped from Bitty’s lap to be first at the door, yodeling all the way like the Hound of the Baskervilles in one of the old Sherlock Holmes movies we used to watch. Basil Rathbone is still my favorite actor to play the role of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t have a favorite hound.

  Rayna followed Bitty into the parlor and accepted her offer of a hot toddy. “Lord, yes, I want a toddy. Leave out the water, lemon, and sugar.”

  I sensed something was awry. My stomach did a flip. “There hasn’t been another murder, has there?” I asked, and she shook her head.

  “Wait’ll Bitty gets back with my toddy, and I’ll tell you both about it. If I have to repeat it too many times I might cry.”

  Rayna is one of our most se
nsible Divas. She and Gaynelle are our cornerstones of stability. The rest of us just gravitate between functional and giddy.

  Bitty rushed back with the toddy, and Rayna belted back half of it—excuse me, I mean she daintily sipped half her drink before taking a deep breath and steadying herself. Then she said, “Mrs. Whitworth was attacked in her home this afternoon and nearly killed.”

  I gasped, and Bitty clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. One of us, I’m not sure which, asked what happened.

  Rayna shook her head. “We don’t know all the details. I heard it on the police scanner. I had been doing some skip-trace work for Rob on one of his other cases since he’s been so busy with trying to mediate between movie producers and insurance companies. Anyway, there was a call to her home, and when they got there she was unconscious. One of the neighbors called them when they went over to take her some mail that had been mis-delivered—after all these years you would think the post office would know what goes to who—and saw her lying on the floor in the living room. They couldn’t get in because of the locked door so called the police. At first they weren’t sure if the person who attacked her was still in there or not.”

  “And was there?” I asked when she paused for breath and another sip of toddy.

  “No. Whoever attacked her was gone. They’ve taken her to Alliance, but she may end up airlifted to a bigger hospital in Southaven or Memphis.”

  It was shocking. I looked at Bitty, and she looked back at me. We had to have the same horrified expression. Who would want to hurt Mrs. Whitworth? And why?

  Chapter 20

  “AMELIA WHITWORTH never hurt anyone,” said Jean Buford as she pinned the hem on the gray dress I wore. I stood on a stool in the middle of her sewing room, slowly turning as she worked her way around the hem of the ghastly gray gown.

  “No,” I agreed. “I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about her. Are you sure this gown is going to fit? It seems rather tight through the waist.”

  “I’ve let out the hem as far as I can. The seams are just basted, so I can let them out a bit, too. Be sure to watch your weight between now and the pilgrimage.”