“No problem,” I said brightly.
As soon as he was out the door, I raced upstairs for my bathroom. I scrubbed drool off my chin, brushed my teeth, checked my underarm deodorant, brushed snarls out of my hair, and then spritzed a light perfume over my clothes. Really, one of the perks of being over fifty is that I don’t have to worry as much about my appearance as long as I’m clean and neat-looking. But put an eligible man into that equation, and it changes the dynamics. While I haven’t gone as far as Bitty in spraying lacquer on my hair until it would survive a nuclear explosion, I’ve found that I still have enough vanity left to freshen up. I want it to look natural and effortless, of course.
By the time I went back downstairs and fixed Kit a glass of sweet tea, he was done with cats and coming up the back steps. Perfect timing. As he came through the back door, I did a graceful turn toward him, holding out his glass. Effortless. Natural, I told myself. I smiled as I glided across the kitchen floor with his tea, my eyes on his wonderful face.
Only two steps into my effortless, natural glide, I hit a road block. Something hit me right below my knees, and I lurched forward. The glass of tea sailed through the air, and I ended up sprawled on the kitchen floor like a felled tree. The road block yelped, the glass hit the wall and shattered, and I seriously considered just lying there with my face pressed against the floor until The Second Coming.
“Trinket! Are you hurt?” I heard my dream man ask, and I knew I couldn’t lie there forever. Too bad. It sure beat having to face humiliation.
“I’m fine,” I said and lifted my head to find myself eye level with the little brown road block. Brownie stared at me. He’s a beagle-dachshund mix that showed up one cold winter and stole my mother’s heart and attention. I narrowed my eyes at him. He licked his butt. I decided I didn’t want to be that close to such a disgusting activity and took the hand Kit held out to me.
“I’ll get you another glass of tea,” I managed to say calmly, once I was standing.
“No, that’s okay. Where’s the broom? I’ll help you clean up this mess.”
Who couldn’t love a man like that?
Once we swept up all the glass and had the floor mopped clean of sticky tea, I asked how Mama’s cats were doing. It was a polite question to bridge the awkwardness I felt.
“They’re doing fine. It’s a good thing we caught one of the new cats in time. She’s going into heat and needs to be spayed. I’ll wait until she finishes her round of antibiotics for that though. So—I heard the pilgrimage went well except for Walter Simpson.”
His comment wasn’t completely unexpected. I nodded and said dryly, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”
Kit grinned. “A very close parallel. I’m glad I wasn’t there. It had to be horrible.”
“I couldn’t believe it. One minute he was alive and well, the next minute he’s lying dead on the ground.”
“How’s Sammy taking it?”
“I haven’t seen him since the pilgrimage, but I hear he’s devastated. He was Walter’s closest kin and has been living in his house and taking care of him for the past three years.”
Kit shook his head. “That’s got to be difficult for him. It’s always hard to lose someone close to you.”
We both had experience with that, and I’m sure Kit was thinking about those he’d lost as much as I was. After the first shock subsides, the anguish and grief are close behind. Acceptance comes eventually, but it takes a long time. Sometimes a lifetime.
Mama came in the back door, and Brownie greeted her joyfully. They were both wearing blue argyle sweaters. He’s never far from her if he can help it. She aids and abets his sneak-thief tendencies. The dog’s penchant for devouring inedible objects is how I first met Kit, so I can’t complain too loudly. After all, if not for Brownie’s afternoon snack of jewelry, I wouldn’t have raced the dog to the veterinary clinic to remove the jewelry he devoured while I was busy medicating my mother’s cats. I’d had cat spit in my hair next to a partially dissolved pill that had been forcibly ejected from said cat’s throat and a wad of straw from the hayloft sticking out like porcupine quills, so I had definitely made a lasting impression at our first meeting.
My curse of being less than graceful hasn’t deterred him from seeing me, so I feel pretty good about that. I occasionally have the tendency to react like one of the Three Stooges in a skit, especially when I’m with Bitty. It can be very embarrassing. Kit doesn’t seem to mind.
“Does this medicine have to be kept in the refrigerator?” Mama asked him, holding up the bottle. “It doesn’t say on the label.”
“Yes. Be sure to finish it out. Then bring her in to the office, and I’ll spay her for you.”
Willow Bend Animal Hospital gives my mama a discount on all the stray and feral cats she manages to bring in to be fixed. I’m sure a large portion of Daddy’s pension from the U.S. Postal Service goes toward making life comfortable for the Marshall County cat population.
When Mama brought out a fresh apple pie from the old pie safe and put on a pot of coffee, I knew Kit would linger a while. Very few people can resist my mother’s baking, especially her pie crusts. I don’t know how she does it. I can cook plain food and make excellent desserts, but I’ve never been able to master the art of the pie crust.
We sat at the kitchen table over our pie and coffee, and when Daddy came in from his yard duties he joined us. The talk inevitably got back around to Walter Simpson and the puzzle of how he’d happened to be shot.
“Someone just put a live round in their gun, that’s all,” said Daddy. “A stupid mistake. I don’t know how anyone could manage it.”
“Especially when it’s one of those old guns,” Mama agreed. “You’d think they’d know better, using all those old weapons like that. It was just an accident waiting to happen.”
After a moment Daddy said, “Maybe it wasn’t such an accident.”
I was flabbergasted my father even hinted at murder. I recovered enough to ask, “Why on earth would you say that?”
Daddy shrugged. “Walter Simpson wasn’t the most well-liked man in town. He had a way of irritating people. I suppose any number of folks wouldn’t have minded taking a shot at him.”
“Why, Edward Truevine, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Mama got out after a moment of stark silence. “No one deserves to be killed for being a trifle irritating.”
“I didn’t say he deserved to be killed, Anna. I just said there are a lot of people who might want to take a shot at him. That’s different.”
“Well, don’t you go letting anyone hear you say that, or you might end up as a suspect.”
Daddy sighed. “Since I was here where at least four dozen people saw me during the time of the reenactment, I doubt that’s going to be an issue.”
“You just never know these days,” Mama said with a shake of her head. “The world’s gone crazy. Anything can happen.”
I had just opened my mouth to say I was sure it was a terrible accident when the kitchen phone rang. I got up to answer it, since I’d already eaten every bite of my apple pie. I might have even licked the plate if Kit wasn’t there. One should never horrify their attractive male guest, however.
“Hello,” I said into the receiver as cheerfully as I could. For a moment there was no response, then I heard a rather hysterical voice babbling something I couldn’t understand. “What did you say?” I asked. “Who is this?”
There was a scuffling sound, a cough, and then: “It’s Bitty—oh Trinket, come quickly. I need you.”
Alarmed by her obvious panic, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Trinket,” she said in a sobbing voice, “they’re arresting my baby!”
For a moment, the words didn’t sink in. I stood frozen to the spot beside the phone base on the wall as I tried to make sense of what she’d sa
id. I couldn’t imagine why one of her boys would be arrested or for what.
“But why?” I asked. “Which one and what did he do?”
“Brandon . . . they said he killed Walter Simpson.”
Stunned, I couldn’t say anything but, “Call Jackson Lee as soon as we hang up. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Jackson Lee was here. He’s on his way to the police station now. Just come be with me. I don’t think I can get through this without you.”
“I’m on my way.”
When I hung up, I started for the stairs. “Brandon was arrested for killing Walter Simpson. I’m going to be with Bitty as soon as I get my purse,” I said.
Kit stood up immediately. “I’ll drive you there. You look too upset to drive yourself.”
He was right. My hands were shaking, and I had a slight tremble in my voice as I thanked him. Mama had gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, and Daddy had uttered an oath I would have gotten smacked for saying once upon a time.
This didn’t make sense. I hoped it was all a mistake, but the sense of foreboding inside me warned there was trouble ahead. I wasn’t that surprised.
Chapter 4
“HOW CAN THIS BE?” I asked Jackson Lee as we perched on chairs in the police station and waited for Brandon to be released on bail. “That rifle doesn’t even fire.”
Jackson Lee shook his head. “Apparently, it fired this time. The rifling on the bullet is consistent with the rifling on the gun barrel of the weapon he used. The prosecutor believes there’s enough evidence to charge Brandon with involuntary manslaughter. I’m sure I can plead accidental death at most, but of course, I’m going to try to get all charges dismissed.”
Bitty looked up at him with horror in her eyes. “He’s going to have another trial?”
“That was just an arraignment, sugar. He’ll have to surrender his passport and make bail, and you know I’ll do everything in my power to get him cleared of all the charges. We just have to figure out what happened.”
Bitty seemed dazed. I’d put my arm around her shoulders, and I gave her a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay, Bitty. You have to believe that.”
She turned toward me, eyes shiny with unshed tears, and I wanted to hug her and make it all go away. I didn’t know what else to say. The usual platitudes seemed so inadequate.
Kit cleared his throat. “You have the best lawyer in all of Mississippi on your side, Bitty. If anyone can make all this go away, it’s Jackson Lee.”
Jackson Lee looked at Kit with a faint smile. “I appreciate your faith in me. I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.”
The two men nodded. They’re both tall, dark, and handsome, and both professionals who don’t skimp on assisting clients or patients. Kit was right. If anyone could handle this, it was Jackson Lee.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait at the house, hon?” he asked Bitty. “I can bring him home to you as soon as he’s released.”
Bitty shook her head. “No. He’s my son. I’m not leaving until I can leave with him by my side.”
Brandon had to be processed: fingerprinted, photos taken, identifying marks like tattoos or scars noted. The bail bondsman had to pay his bail and get the paperwork signed. I expected Rayna’s husband, Rob Rainey, to show up at any moment. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d come to our rescue with bail bonds.
The old cliché that the wheels of justice turn slowly seemed to hold true for the first part. I wasn’t sure about the exceedingly fine part of the cliché, but things definitely moved at a slow pace. No one seemed in a hurry to get anything done.
“Where’s Clayton?” I asked Bitty as time stretched and the silence seemed too loud. “Is he okay?”
“He’s at home. I wouldn’t let him come with us. He’s too upset, and I don’t know if I can handle that right now.”
I nodded understanding. Sometimes keeping a lid on our emotions can be ruined by the smallest of things. A lady doesn’t make a public spectacle of her grief, and Truevines remember that at the most trying of times. Often a bit late, but we get there eventually. So Bitty and I sat quietly on the outside, while inside we were both in turmoil. I could feel her trembling next to me and knew she was frightened for her son. Mothers invariably go into protective mode when their child is threatened, and I knew she felt helpless, because I did, too.
Since I didn’t want to keep saying, “It’s going to be okay,” I asked her if she wanted something from the vending machine. A lone drink machine stood next to one of those vending machines that spit out bags of chips or candy bars. They both looked shabby but offered variety.
“A Coke will be fine,” she said, and I got up and dug into my purse.
“What kind? Grape, orange, water, or Co-cola?” I asked. In the South, all soft drinks are called Cokes. I don’t know why. If someone orders a soda or pop, we immediately know they’re not from the South. Some Southerners still refer to Cokes as “Co-cola” instead of Coca-Cola. Of course, I speak for older Southerners, not the newer generations.
“Diet Sprite. Oh, and a bag of chips and some chocolate. I really need a big chocolate bar right now.”
Disaster can occasionally be eased by the magic of chocolate. It’s an equal opportunity therapy that takes the edge off many catastrophes.
About the time her drink clunked into the metal slot, the door opened, and Rob Rainey stepped into the waiting room. Bitty immediately rose from her chair, and when she saw Rayna behind him, she gave a sigh of relief. Things would move along much more swiftly now, I was sure.
It still took some time to get all the necessary paperwork done, but within a half hour Brandon came out of the back. His blond hair was tangled, and he looked shell-shocked. Bitty didn’t make a scene; she just went quietly to him and stood by his side. A fifty-thousand-dollar bond had been set, which meant that ten percent equaled five thousand dollars for the bondsman. Rob refused to take Bitty’s money.
“No. I know you and I know Brandon, and I’m not worried he won’t show up for his court date.”
Bitty’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded her gratitude. Rayna hugged first Bitty, then Brandon, then me. “Call if you need me,” she said to us. “I’ll be right there.”
“I know,” said Bitty. “Divas are forever.”
We left the police station and went out to our cars. A lopsided moon illuminated the night sky and silvered tree tops behind the lights of the parking lot. It had gotten dark without me even noticing. Time had crawled while waiting, but apparently, it was later than I’d thought.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Bitty asked me when we stood by her car. “I don’t want to sit there driving myself nuts about all this, and I can’t tell Brandon how terrified I am about what might happen, but you know I don’t have Jackson Lee stay over when the boys are home.”
Bitty may be a bit snobbish, even bitchy at times, and she’ll do the craziest things I’ve ever seen or heard of, but she’s an excellent mother. She never does anything that might embarrass her sons in that way. There’s a huge difference between being crazy and being a bad mom.
“Of course,” I said immediately. “Kit can take me home for an overnight bag, and I’ll be right back.”
On the way back to my house, I asked Kit, “Do you think Brandon is going to be cleared of the charges? I mean, how can they say his gun fired the fatal shot when it hasn’t worked in a hundred years?”
Kit shook his head. “I don’t know. Jackson Lee is pretty near a miracle worker, but if the ballistics report says Brandon’s bullet killed Walter Simpson, there’s not a lot that can be done. I hope it will be ruled just an accidental shooting instead of reckless endangerment or involuntary manslaughter, but you never know. A lot depends on the prosecutor, I guess.”
“We have a new prosecutor, but I haven’t heard much about him. H
e’s supposed to be sharp, I think.”
“No matter how sharp he is, I’m sure Jackson Lee can handle him. Brandon will be just fine.” He reached over to hold my hand, and it made me feel a lot calmer.
By the time I got to Bitty’s house, it was almost ten, and she was already in her pajamas. Bitty wears a lot of pink, especially in her nightwear. She almost always looks like she’s been dipped in Pepto-Bismol. That night was no exception. She greeted me at the door, pink silk pajamas covered by a pink silk robe, with her pink kitten slippers festooned with pink feathers.
“I thought you’d never get here. I have wine chilled and ready. Come on into the kitchen.”
“And hello to you too,” I said as I put my overnight bag down by the stairs and followed her to the kitchen. “Mama and Daddy say they’re praying for you and Brandon that everything will be all right.”
Bitty smiled. “That’s so sweet. I know they worry, too. And I’m sure we can use all the prayers we can get. Here we go: I have Zinfandel for you, a crisp, ebullient Riesling for me.”
“You’ve been going to wine tastings again, haven’t you,” I observed as I took my glass and followed her to the small parlor that used to be a butler’s pantry of some kind. She changed a lot around when she remodeled, and it makes a very cozy place to sit and chat.
“Only a few tastings,” she said. “I’ve learned so much about wine.”
“And you have new white slipcovers, I see.”
Due to a small accident during the fall season, the white slipcovers on her overstuffed chairs met an awful fate. Bitty changes slipcovers with the seasons, just as she changes storm doors for screen doors in the summer. She also rolls up rugs and has them taken out to be cleaned and some of them stored. It’s a spring ritual. Heavy bed curtains give way to filmy mosquito nets; her sunporch that was once a kitchen back when kitchens weren’t attached to main houses has the glass windows taken off to leave only the screens. Wicker furniture on the front porch is cleaned and pillows refreshed or replaced. Her lawn service removes winter greenery and pansies and replaces them with summer greenery and a host of flowering plants.
Divas Are Forever Page 6