“So, have you met Jackson Lee’s new private investigator yet?” Rayna asked us after we had done major damage to our brunch of chocolate cake and wine.
Bitty was too busy sucking chocolate frosting off the end of her fork, so I said, “No, he hasn’t made an appearance so far. Why?”
Rayna waggled her eyebrows and sipped her wine before saying, “I know who it is.”
Bitty gave up the frosting to ask, “Who is it, and is he any good?”
Instead of answering, Rayna picked up her cake plate and mine, obviously about to go back inside. Of course we immediately followed. By now Bitty’s curiosity made her abandon the second piece of cake on her plate. She trotted behind us back into the hotel.
“Rayna, who is it? Do you know him? Is it someone I’m going to hate?”
I said, “Jackson Lee wouldn’t hire someone you’re going to hate.”
“Catfish Carter,” said Rayna, and we both stared at her. Bitty recovered first.
“What?”
“Catfish Carter. His first name is Claude, I think. Anyway, he goes by Catfish. I’m not sure why.”
Nonplussed, I didn’t know what to say. Finally Bitty asked, “Isn’t that a baseball player?”
Rayna said, “No, that was Catfish Hunter. He was a pitcher in the Major Leagues.”
“Oh. Well . . . where is this Catfish from?”
“Yazoo City. He’s been in North Mississippi about a year and a half now. Jackson Lee first met him on a case he worked on down around Meridian.”
“So he’s bringing in some stranger? Why didn’t he tell me about this?” Bitty asked. I could tell she was getting upset.
“He probably hasn’t had a chance yet,” I said. “Give him time.”
She didn’t look convinced. “I’m not at all sure I want somebody named Catfish to be the difference in whether or not my son is convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Jackson Lee is the difference in whether or not Brandon is convicted,” I argued. “An investigator is only his helper.”
“It’ll be just fine, honey,” Rayna assured Bitty. “You know Jackson Lee isn’t going to do anything that’d hurt you or Brandon.”
“I know.” Bitty sighed. “I just get so . . . worried. You know?”
I hugged her. That’s better than words in some situations. After a moment, she cleared her throat and said, “So. What can you tell me about this Catfish person?”
We both looked at Rayna. She rinsed off her plate and put it in the dishwasher before answering. “He was a police officer, worked his way up to detective grade, left the force, and got his license as a private investigator three years ago. He’s worked on a few high-profile cases, including the bank robberies down in Jackson a few years back.”
“You mean the Loan Ranger robberies?” I asked, and Rayna shook her head.
“No, they haven’t caught that guy yet. He’s all over the South, anyway. Funny, to spell it L-O-A-N. But that’s mostly Texas. I’m talking about the Soap Opera Bandit.”
“I never heard of that one.”
“Oh, I think I remember hearing about that,” said Bitty. “The guy wore the mask of an actor from one of the soaps when he robbed banks, right?”
Rayna nodded. “He robbed three banks around Jackson, the last one in Madison County, and Catfish Carter tracked him down and made the arrest. It was right before he left the force and became a PI. Anyway, he’s supposed to be very good. You may like him, Bitty.”
When I saw the mulish expression on Bitty’s face, I had my doubts. She tends to want to be in control of such things. I understood, even while I hoped she wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss. Carter may decide it wasn’t worth the money and walk off if she made it too difficult for him.
I misjudged both of them.
I DON’T KNOW what I expected when I thought of a private investigator, but it wasn’t a bit like Catfish Carter. There was no rumpled overcoat and cigar, no exquisite mustache or Belgian accent, no craggy good looks and thick blond hair. The man introduced to us in Jackson Lee’s office was a portly man, rather neat in appearance but not excessively so, dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, polo shirt, and tennis shoes. He wore thick glasses. Nothing like the TV detectives I’d seen.
Once he opened his mouth, however, he sounded like a cheap detective novel trying to emulate Mickey Spillane. “Jesus, what a dame,” he said in a tough, brittle tone as he eyed Bitty. “He said you were gorgeous, but he didn’t say you look like a Madonna in mourning, eyes like wet blue stones, hair like cotton candy—don’t worry, dollface. I can find the scum that crawled up outa the gutter to shoot down an old man like he’s nothing but a dog, old and past his time. It won’t take too long to find the rat, run him out of his hole like the coward he is, drag him in front of a judge, and send him up the river to the Big House.”
While I stood there in stunned silence, Bitty lifted a brow and studied him. Jackson Lee’s secretary kept her expression polite, but I’m sure I saw her stifle an eye-roll. Since we stood in Jackson Lee’s outer office and it was a dignified atmosphere, the whole thing seemed totally absurd to me. Carter’s choir boy face belied his apparent belief in his own cynicism. The plush carpeting, dark heavy furniture, and professional setting made it feel surreal.
“Would you like to step into Mr. Brunetti’s office to wait?” Sherry asked. She’s been Jackson Lee’s secretary for a few months since his other secretary left to get married. She’s not as well-acquainted with Bitty by experience as the last one. Although I’m sure my cousin’s reputation preceded her, so Sherry was quite likely being cautious.
Bitty looked from Carter to Sherry. “No, I’m not sure that’s going to be necessary. Will Mr. Brunetti be here soon?”
I could almost read her mind; she wanted no part of Catfish Carter.
Apparently, Carter was pretty quick on the uptake too because he said, “Getting cold feet already? I figured you for stronger stuff, dollface. You want the best, right? Well, I’m it. If you want your boy cleared of suspicion and to find out who cut down that old man before your kid gets sent to prison, stick with me. Maybe I’m a little rough around the edges, caught up in life’s big wheel like a lump of tar stuck to the tire, trying to rid the world of sick souls who don’t care for nothing but their own pockets, their own greed and lust and need for power, but I can get the job done. I scrape criminals off the soles of my shoes like they’re nothing but dog crap, left in the gutter to—”
“Oh lord, give it a rest, Sam Spade,” Bitty snapped.
“Mike Hammer,” I disagreed, and Catfish looked offended when he peered at me.
“I carry a piece and I get the job done, Stretch.”
Bitty finally looked interested. “What kind of piece? Do you mean a gun?”
“Whaddya think, dollface? Of course, a gun. A nine-millimeter semi-automatic.”
When Bitty reached into her purse and pulled out a pistol, I nearly passed out. Sherry flung herself backward about four feet and looked terrified, while I protested, “Bitty, put that up! Does Jackson Lee know you bought another gun?”
“This? I’ve had it for a year. It’s a Kimber Solo Carry with the shortest barrel and least recoil of any nine-millimeter pocket pistol on the market.”
The last was directed toward Catfish Carter, and he immediately pulled out his weapon and they began to compare. I stepped toward Sherry where she cowered behind her desk.
“If you have a way to contact Jackson Lee and get him here quickly, I’d do it,” I said and she clawed at the desk phone with shaking hands.
“She’s not going to shoot that in here, is she?” Sherry asked while waiting for Jackson Lee to respond. I shook my head.
Since I couldn’t assure her she wouldn’t be accidentally shot, and I didn’t know if Bitty’s gun was loaded and had no idea if C
arter was a responsible gun owner, I decided to check out the ladies’ facilities. I bolted the door as soon I got into the restroom and sat down on the nice little chair placed in front of an antique washstand with a marble sink. An oval mirror hung on the wall above it, and a glance at my reflection reassured me that I still had all my hair. Sometimes I’m tempted to pull it out when dealing with Bitty.
I had no idea what to think of Catfish Carter. He seemed like a caricature of a detective, and I wondered if Jackson Lee had erred. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. Usually Jackson Lee was pretty shrewd in his business decisions. But there’s always a first time. And Catfish Carter may be a good detective, just strange. Most Southerners understand strange. We’re used to strange. We usually embrace strange. But then, there’s really strange, and that’s different.
By the time Jackson Lee arrived and I was coaxed out from where I’d barricaded myself, I’d decided that I shouldn’t judge people on first impressions. Maybe this guy was okay. And if it kept Bitty from running around, conducting her own version of investigating, I was good with that, too.
We gathered in the inner sanctum of Jackson Lee’s office, and he waved us toward the plush chairs in front of his desk. Catfish went to stand against the built-in bookcases, crossing his arms over his chest. I eyed him a bit warily. I wanted to ask where they’d put their guns, but I refrained. Jackson Lee is usually pretty efficient. I was sure he’d make certain they were safely tucked away.
Jackson Lee is a tall man, his Italian heritage obvious in his dark good looks, and as I’ve said, he absolutely adores Bitty. But he has little patience with some of her more dangerous activities, which includes carrying a pistol in her purse. She’s shot the bottom out of a couple of her expensive purses, not always by accident.
“Bitty sugar,” he said as she settled her Jimmy Choo purse in her lap, “why are you carrying another pistol?”
“Well, I just felt the necessity. I talked to that Sergeant Maxwell, and he was very snippy with me when I asked if I could get my forty-five back. I know it’s being held as evidence until after that other trial, but it’s not like it was a murder weapon or anything. I was hoping you could talk to him for me, honey.”
Jackson Lee cleared his throat. “And I will, sugar, I’ll do that. But I have to ask if you’re sure carrying a pistol is truly helpful. Sherry seems to think you were pulling it out and waving it around a bit.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t waving it around. I was just showing Catfish my semi-auto nine-millimeter. He has one, too. Now let’s talk about this investigation. Since you’ve hired him to help me investigate—”
Jackson Lee quickly interrupted. “No, sugar. I hired him to conduct the investigations. You don’t need to worry about it. Remember?”
“Yes, I do recall you suggesting that, but I believe I can be of assistance. After all, I know the Simpson family and their history. I can ask questions without anyone wondering why I’m being nosy. He’s a stranger here, and people won’t talk to him freely.”
I saw a fine mist of perspiration pop out on Jackson Lee’s forehead. He was trying very hard not to be too obvious. I could have told him it wasn’t going to help. Bitty had reinvented herself again. If it wasn’t for the fact I might get tangled up in her schemes, I would probably have rather enjoyed the show. But as it was, I knew I was much too close to the brink of danger. So I decided to help.
“Bitty, the deal is that Jackson Lee found you an investigator so you can focus on all the other things you have to do. Brandon needs your support and attention.”
She nodded. “And when he gets home for the summer, he’ll have it. Right now, he’s on his way back to school and focusing on his studies. By the time school is out we should have all the evidence we need to clear him.”
Okay. It wasn’t going to be easy. While I scrambled for a way to say what had to be said, Catfish saved me the trouble.
“I work alone, dollface. I’m a lone wolf, a solitary hunter determined to drag out all the dirty little secrets, digging under rocks in people’s lives to uncover all the sordid details that rule their darkest desires and make them act like beasts . . . It’s a wicked world out there, baby.”
A couple seconds crawled past before Jackson Lee said, “Just keep us updated on what you find out, Catfish. You have all my numbers to call, and I can relay the information to Bitty.”
“On a need-to-know basis?” Bitty inquired with a smile that didn’t fool me at all. She looked positively feral. Jackson Lee sighed.
“Sugar, you know I’ll come to you immediately with anything important. There’s no point bothering you with unimportant details.”
Bitty stood up and shouldered her purse. “That’s fine, Jackson Lee. Just let me decide what’s important and what’s not, all right, sugar?”
Impasse. I didn’t hold much hope for Jackson Lee’s chances of breaking it without a total surrender. Once again, Catfish Carter came to the rescue, whether he meant to or not.
“Hey chief, I only give important information. I’m wise to what’s trivial and which of the daily sins people commit in this weary old world matter in the grand scheme of things. I walk the wild side. I get results. I don’t waste time taking on windmills.”
Nice, I thought. Even a Don Quixote reference. Catfish might be weird, but maybe weird is what was needed. It wasn’t even that different from our usual way of handling things. It just might work.
Of course, if factoring in the Bitty equation, things might just go horribly wrong, too. It was a toss-up.
Chapter 6
“THE READING OF the will is this coming week,” said Deelight Tillman as we sipped wine and dipped into buffet offerings at our monthly Diva meeting. We stood in her living room, an expansive space with comfy couches, chairs, and chattering Divas.
Deelight’s older sister—christened Deevine Faithann Grace, and now going by her middle name, shortened to Faith—had come into town for the funeral and family gathering. Since Walter had been laid to rest several days before, all that was left were the loose ends that always accompanied a death. Rosewood, the Simpson ancestral home, would be left to Walter’s heirs.
“The furnishings are mostly antiques,” Faith said. “Grandmother Myrtle had us tell her what we wanted when we were still kids. I remember her writing everything down in a ledger. A Simpson tradition has always been that each heir be able to choose a sentimental piece. That way even if we don’t get equal shares, we all have something of the family to hand down to our own children. That old house is chock full of antiques.”
“Don’t forget the money from the sale of the company and all the stocks and bonds,” her sister reminded her. “He always talked about dividing that up equally among his children, with the grandchildren receiving any deceased parent’s share. Since there’s only one child left, the rest will go to us grandchildren.”
“I imagine the house itself goes to only one heir,” said Bitty. “Being antebellum, I doubt it’s to be sold away from the family.”
Deelight nodded. “True. Sammy’s father would have inherited, but since he’s gone, it’ll go to Uncle George. He’s the youngest son. I’m sure he never thought he’d be left the property, but he’s the closest surviving direct descendant. Since he lives in Alabama, he may want Sammy to stay and manage the property. I would imagine that’s what he’ll do.”
“So when George is gone, the property will go to his closest heir? What’s that going to do to Sammy?” I asked. “It seems a little unfair to him to have him stay on to take care of the house and land, yet not share in it as his inheritance.”
“Well, George and his wife are childless but even if not, Sammy will still inherit what the rest of us will also get. Once George is gone, the house goes to the oldest grandchild.”
“Sammy is unmarried and childless too,” Bitty added. “After George is gone, the house
will have to be sold and money divided up; or whoever wants to live there will have to buy out the others. That’s what happened in my mama’s side of the family. One of my cousins bought the rest of us out after they ran out of direct descendants who wanted to live in a big house in the middle of nowhere.”
“Since Rosewood is on the edge of town and not exactly in the middle of nowhere, I’m sure there’ll be no problem finding one of us who wants to live there,” said Deelight. “But it’ll be a few years before we have to worry about that.”
“We certainly hope so, anyway,” said her sister. They exchanged glances. Then Faith smiled. “It’s not as if we were that close to Walter, but it’s awful that he died before his time. We can take some comfort in the fact he died doing something he loved doing, I suppose.”
Guilt nipped at me. “Except he wasn’t wearing the right uniform. I feel bad about that.”
“Oh, Trinket, it wasn’t your fault,” said Deelight. “You know how he was. He’d probably rather get a hole in a Yankee uniform than he would in a Rebel uniform anyway. You’d think The War just ended a few years ago, the way he always carried on. It’s not that I’m not proud of my heritage because I am, but I admit, I’m not as focused on the sacrifices and hardships our ancestors suffered as Walter was. He couldn’t seem to forget even family feuds.”
Bitty drained her wine and stood up. “Does anyone else want a refill? All this talk about wills and history makes me thirsty. Deelight, your chocolate soufflé is excellent. Is that an old family recipe?”
Bitty’s diversion tactic worked. We talked about chocolate and old family recipes instead of untimely death and ancient feuds. It restored our good moods and led to our Easter egg hunt, Diva style. While Easter was behind us, Deelight had created a fun way to celebrate the illusion of Easter bunnies handing out chocolate rabbits and decorated eggs: a six-foot rabbit we called Harvey arrived, dressed in black tie and carrying a wicker basket full of treats. The real treat, however, was Harvey, a most handsome young man. Did I mention that except for some tight Spandex running shorts, a black tie was almost all he was wearing? And that he obviously worked out and smelled of some kind of tantalizing body oil that made his muscles shine?
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