I forgot I had on a petticoat with stiff, unyielding hoops.
I didn’t adjust for the hoops as I’d been taught, and my skirt and petticoat snapped up to obscure my face and vision. It happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react. All of a sudden, I went from sitting gracefully to exposing myself to a room full of strangers. Oh, I had on the long bloomers and stockings, and though I hadn’t fit into the high-button shoes, I wore sensible, flat ballet-style slippers. I also wore a corset tied tightly enough to cut off the circulation to the entire lower half of my body. At that instant, I would have preferred it to be around my neck so that I was spared the immediate shrieks of dismay and bursts of laughter from startled spectators.
For a paralyzing moment, I did nothing. Time seemed suspended in some kind of warp. It probably wasn’t nearly as long as it felt, but I somehow managed to push my skirt and petticoat back down and pretend nothing had happened. That’s a lot harder than one might think. I had to hold down the rebellious hoops with one hand and adjust my posture to accommodate the curve of the hoop I had sat on. It finally slid free, and my skirts stayed in place. The hoop quivered with a threat of repeating the action, so I balled up my fists and cudgeled it into submission.
People were still laughing, and I gazed toward the other room, ignoring them as if I had no idea I’d just shown complete strangers my underwear. My face felt hot, and beads of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I patted a curl of my hair back into place, then smoothed the ugly gray skirt. If I’d had a lace fan, I’d have been fanning myself furiously. Then a voice cut into my attempt at invisibility, and I cringed inside.
“Why, Trinket Truevine, is that you? I declare, you haven’t changed a bit!”
I couldn’t very well ignore the owner of the voice because she was standing right in front of me, so I looked up.
To my chagrin, it was a classmate from my brief sojourn at Ole Miss. I’d dropped out to go off to protests with my future husband, a man with six-pack abs and the work ethic of a grasshopper. She’d gone on to graduate and marry a football jock who made a fortune on Wall Street. I heard she’d divorced and remarried a couple times. I hadn’t seen her in nearly twenty years, and I couldn’t imagine why she was in Holly Springs.
I put a smile on my face and lied, “Darlene Landers, it’s good to see you.”
She smiled back at me, her eyes turning up at the corners like a sly cat. “I’d say it’s good to see you too, but I’m not sure if we were meant to see so much of you.”
I forced a laugh. “Sometimes the hoops get away from me. Have you moved back to this area?”
Darlene tossed back her dark hair and glanced behind her. I saw a tall man hovering by the door. He smiled when she waggled her fingers at him. She turned back to me. “We’ve been looking at real estate near here. Derek and I thought that with all the kids grown, it’d be nice to live closer to my mother. She’s getting up in years. So we thought we’d find a small place to buy in the area. Derek is from Illinois, so I brought him to see some of the historical aspects of life in the South, like this pilgrimage.”
If I remembered correctly, Darlene was from Oxford. She’d married Early James right after graduation and six months before their first child was born. On one of my visits back home, I’d attended a baby shower for her. It’d been so long ago it felt like forever.
I managed a smile and feigned interest. “Well, I hope he’s enjoying the pilgrimage.”
“He seems to be. We’ve signed up for the brunch here tomorrow, too. Are you still married to Perry?”
“We were divorced last year,” I said. “I came home to help my parents now that they’re in their seventies.”
I’ve noticed that when you meet up with someone from school and it’s been a couple decades, there’s really not that much to talk about after you run through the list of spouses and kids. Darlene expressed a few more niceties about the pilgrimage events, then right before she turned to leave she said, “Wasn’t someone murdered during the reenactment today?”
“I think it was an accident. We don’t know yet.”
Darlene nodded. “It was murder.”
A bit startled by her obvious certainty, I asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Honey, when a rich man drops dead from a bullet wound, you can trust that it’s not an accident.”
“But Walter Simpson wasn’t rich. I mean, he had some property, but I never heard he was wealthy enough to be murdered. How do you know for sure that he was shot?”
“Please. It’s all over North Mississippi. It was even on the evening news. Well, I hear the orchestra tuning up, so we’d better go in. Good to see you again, Trinket.”
As she walked over to her husband standing by the door I pondered her comments. I was sure the police hadn’t ruled cause of death yet. It’d only been a few hours. Maybe I should have been watching the evening news instead of drinking Jack Daniel’s with Bitty.
“Here’s your coffee,” my cousin said at my elbow, and I turned to look at her.
“Was Walter Simpson very wealthy?”
She blinked a few times before answering. “He was quite comfortable, but I’m not sure you’d call him wealthy. Why?”
“Because someone just mentioned he was probably murdered for his money.”
Bitty shoved the coffee into my hand. “Drink all of this right now. I think you’re having some kind of hallucination.”
I took the coffee. “No, seriously. Do you remember Darlene Landers?”
“Dated Early James and graduated magna cum pregnant?” She nodded. “I do. Why?”
“She’s here with her new husband and—”
“Tall, gray hair, and big nose?” Bitty interrupted me, and when I nodded she said, “Derek Pratt. He’s a Yankee.”
“He’s from Illinois, yes. To get to my point, Darlene said when a rich man dies from a bullet wound, you can bet it’s murder.”
“That sounds about right. Drink your coffee. You look all flushed.”
Since I was probably still flushed from the humiliation of having my skirts fly up over my head in the middle of a crowd, and I had no intention of sharing that with Bitty, I drank my coffee. I handed her the empty cup, and she passed me a stack of programs.
“Give these out at the door while I make sure there are some available for those already seated.”
I stood at the door with programs for those attending the concert, and Bitty flitted about through the crowd, meeting and greeting. She’s a social butterfly. I’m more of a shy brown moth. It’s not that I don’t enjoy going to concerts, speaking to people I’ve just met, or just making small talk. I do. I’m just not the expert at it that Bitty is. She’s a Belle. That’s with a capital B. She can carry on a conversation with complete strangers and charm them, flattering and teasing at the same time.
The few times I tried my hand at being a Belle, I came off as a Bitch. That’s with a capital B, too. So I stuck with what I know best. I smiled and handed out programs.
By the time the concert was over, I was exhausted. It’d been a long weekend. I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed with the covers over my head. I thought Bitty would never stop mingling with garden club members and guests. I sagged against a doorframe and waited for Madame Butterfly to stop flitting. Sometimes it took a while.
Finally, she glided toward me, her face glowing like a Halloween lantern. “Well, Trinket, we’re done for this year. Tomorrow is the Sunday brunch, and we aren’t participating in that, so you’re free to pack away your dress until next time.”
I just looked at her. She was having such a good night, I knew I shouldn’t ruin it by telling her there was no way I’d be joining the festivities next year. Even if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be in a dress that made me look like a shiny gray boulder. So I smiled and nodded.
We went outside on
the beautifully lit sidewalk to wait for Brandon or Clayton to arrive. It was a lovely night: a bit chilly with a slight breeze blowing, but winter was definitely over. I hoped for a summer that wouldn’t make me feel like a boiling crawfish every time I went outside, but I realized that living in Mississippi, hot weather is pretty much a certainty. So I just enjoyed the excellent weather while I could.
Bitty shivered. “I should have worn a shawl,” she said.
“You really are a hothouse flower, aren’t you,” I observed.
“I have delicate skin. I’m not like some people who bake in the sun and look like a dried apple doll by the age of forty. I preserve my magnolia skin as much as possible.”
“Magnolia skin? Delicate? Who sold you your magic mirror—Walt Disney?”
Actually, Bitty does have lovely skin and very few blemishes, but she also sees a plastic surgeon on a regular basis and gets Botox injections. I’ve informed her that Botox is a poison, but so far she hasn’t paid me the least bit of attention. She hears what she wants to hear. I’m a lot like that myself. Still, I recalled a tanning bed in her not-so-distant past.
“Jealousy is an ugly thing, Trinket.” Bitty patted an imaginary stray strand of blond hair back into place. “Of course, you’re entitled to it, I suppose. It must be difficult for you, being so close to me and all.”
There’s little I like better than swapping insults with Bitty. I’ve heard that keeping brain cells active prevents senile dementia.
“Not really,” I said. “But since I don’t live in Oz with you and the rest of the Munchkins, I’m more closely acquainted with reality.”
Bitty patted me on the arm. “Oh honey, you’ve been so bitter since that tornado dropped a house on your sister. Try to get past it.”
I had just opened my mouth to mention flying monkeys when Bitty’s Mercedes pulled up in front of Montrose, and we went out to the curb. Brandon leaned across the front seat to open the door for his mother while I got into the back. I manhandled the hoops into submission and stretched out my legs with a sigh of relief. It was over. Thank God. I wasn’t sure I could have endured too much more. I’m not as hardy as Bitty when it comes to social excess.
Once back at her house, I went upstairs to retrieve my clothes I’d left there earlier. I’d discovered that putting on a corset properly required two people: one to pull the laces tight and one to shriek in agony. I’d done my part admirably. Just the sight of my Lee jeans and long-sleeved tee shirt formed my decision that I couldn’t go another minute or three wearing all the accouterments of a nineteenth century victim. I got out of the blamed things as quickly as I could. It wasn’t easy undoing the corset laces, but I managed it. Desperation helped.
I threw the dress, corset, stockings, and petticoats over my arm and went downstairs. “Here,” I said to Bitty, who was still clad in her lovely dress, “you can burn these now.”
She looked shocked. “Are you insane?”
“Probably. If not, I’m sure I wouldn’t have let myself be talked into wearing this dress, much less the corset. Guantanamo prisoners don’t suffer this much.”
“I’ll have these cleaned and stored for you until next time,” she replied, taking the vile things from me.
“Dream on, Endora. Not even a twitch of your nose and generous sprinkling of fairy dust could accomplish my return to corset duty.”
“It was Samantha who twitched her nose. Endora just snapped her fingers.”
“Whatever. Reruns of Bewitched aside, I have done my part. My involvement with the next pilgrimage will be as a contented tourist.”
When Bitty didn’t respond, I knew she intended to talk me into it again next year. I was determined to resist. There were some things too horrible to contemplate.
“Darlene Landers was right, you know,” Bitty said as she took my pilgrimage garments to her laundry room. I followed behind her, not too closely just in case she made an unexpected stop or detour.
“About what?” I asked.
Bitty set my clothes down on a granite counter and got a hanger and dry cleaner bag off a rack. “Walter Simpson was shot through the heart.”
“Who told you that?”
“Rayna.”
Rayna Blue is a founding member of the Dixie Divas. The Divas are a local club of women-only members who meet once a month to eat good food, sip exotic drinks or sweet tea, according to personal preferences, and generally misbehave. It’s a great way to relax. No men are allowed at these meetings except as entertainment or to tend bar; we’re inclined to get raucous on occasion, but we’re usually harmless. There are no requirements to be a Diva, except being female and having a sense of humor. All ages and professions are welcome. Membership stays at about a dozen, for reasons of space and notoriety.
At any rate, Rayna’s husband Rob Rainey is a bail bondsman and insurance claims investigator, so she usually knows such details long before they’re made public. It comes in very handy on occasion.
I watched Bitty slide the gray satin dress onto a padded hanger and put it on the rack; she put the coiled-up petticoat on a separate hanger, put corset, pantalets, and stockings into a small mesh bag and attached it to the hanger, then covered it all with a dry cleaner’s bag, all ready to be cleaned and stored.
“Do the police think it was an accident?” I asked after I digested the information that a man I had been speaking with just hours earlier had been shot through the heart. I’d hoped for an accident. Deliberate murder was too horrible to contemplate.
“I’m not sure what the police think. Darlene thinks it was murder, and she might be on to something. Whether it was accident or murder, Walter Simpson is just as dead.”
“Now that I think about it, Rodney Farrell questioned me as if it could be a murder. I suppose they have to do that just in case. But still . . .”
“Rodney Farrell isn’t sure that gravity is a law,” said Bitty. She and Deputy Farrell didn’t always get along, so it wasn’t surprising she felt that way. “I wouldn’t worry so much about what he said. He just follows orders.”
“True. There’s going to be a thorough investigation, I’m sure. Poor Walter. I just wish I hadn’t made him wear a Yankee uniform,” I said. “Now he won’t get to wear the gray next year.”
Bitty turned to look at me. “That’s not your fault, Trinket. It wouldn’t matter what uniform he wore if it was his time. What’s going to happen just happens, whether we want it to or not.”
I nodded. “True. Still, I wish he’d gotten to wear what he wanted. He was so unhappy at having to wear the Yankee uniform, but he was the only one who could still fit in it.”
Bitty patted me on the arm. “It’s all right, sugar. After all, someone had to be the enemy. It was just his turn, that’s all.”
That struck me as pretty philosophical. Especially for Bitty. Sometimes we just have to take our turns being the bad guy, so to speak. I’ve had to do it several times in my life, and it’s one of those things that is not very pleasant. But someone has to do it.
It was a good thing I felt that way, because it wasn’t long before I had to take my turn as the bad guy again. It was just as unpleasant as I remembered.
I ended up staying the night in Bitty’s guest room; I hadn’t been asleep but an hour or two when I was awakened by a rude shaking. It jerked me from a sound sleep, and I sat up, swinging one arm outward.
“Hey!” Bitty protested, ducking just in time. “Be careful, Trinket. You nearly decapitated me.”
“What are you doing?” I peered at her; light from the hallway behind put her in silhouette, but I could still see pink everything, including whatever was smeared on her face.
“Brandon just called. His car broke down, and we have to go get him. I want company.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of Triple A?” I grumbled. “Where is he?”
“JB’s. He called a tow truck, but the guy couldn’t give him a lift home. And everyone else has already left.”
“That’s what, half a mile? Oh, never mind. Fine. Let me find my slippers, and I’ll come with you.”
That’s how I found myself in my jammies and bunny slippers, sitting in the front seat of Bitty’s car with a pug on my lap at three in the morning. My eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep, and I was rather irritable.
“He could have walked home by now,” I muttered as Bitty steered the Benz down the street toward Van Buren. JB’s is the local late-night spot for music and drinks, right on the court square. It’s close to Budgie’s, so we often end up there during the day if we want a drink that isn’t tea or coffee.
At three in the morning, Holly Springs’ court square was pretty much deserted. Traffic signals and security lights were about the only lights still on. The sidewalk in front of JB’s was empty, no sign of Brandon.
“Maybe he walked home,” I said rather grumpily. “He’s probably there wondering where we are, if he noticed your car gone.”
“He specifically said he needed a ride, but he didn’t say why,” Bitty murmured, peering out the windshield at the dark, shadowed sidewalks. She slowed the car to a crawl. “It’s only been about ten minutes since he called. I know he said JB’s. Where could he be?”
“In your kitchen having a late snack, is my guess.”
“I don’t know. He sounded a bit upset. He should have stayed home and not gone out, but he said he was going crazy, thinking about poor Walter Simpson. He ran to help, you know, and saw him lying there, lifeless—it’s a lot for a young man to face.”
I agreed. But all I said aloud was, “Why isn’t Clayton with him? I thought they did most things together.”
“Clayton is asleep.”
I turned in the seat to stare at her. “What? Why didn’t you send him instead of getting me out of bed? I knew I should have gone home tonight, but No, you said, You’ll sleep better here, and You can go home after a good night’s rest. So here I am, at three in the morning, on a rescue mission for someone who isn’t even—”
Divas Are Forever Page 4