It was later decided that the body oil was coconut flavored. I know this only because it was discovered after a tasting that made Harvey nervous and put all of Bitty’s wine tastings to shame. Sometimes it’s good to be a Diva.
I shall say no more about Harvey here, save that he survived the afternoon and was last seen fleeing up 78 Highway back to Memphis, sans black tie and treats.
BITTY AND I SAT out on her front porch contemplating the restorative properties of wine and chocolate, especially when consumed in tandem. It was the slow time of year at Carolann’s shop, and I felt lazy anyway. The weather was almost perfect. Warm days and cool nights that make using air conditioning optional is as good as it gets.
My white wicker rocker creaked as I listened to crickets chirp, bullfrogs burp, and Chen Ling snort. Bitty provided a monologue of irritating facts to prove that someone was trying to frame Brandon, while I tried to tune her out and focus on the sounds of approaching summer. It wasn’t easy. I must be getting better at it, because I didn’t notice when she stopped talking.
“Trinket Truevine, you’re not even listening to me,” she accused, and that did catch my attention. I scrambled to cover up my lack of courtesy.
“I was listening. You said the police are trying to railroad your son just because they want an easy suspect, that Rodney Farrell has camped out in an unmarked car down the street to spy on you, and Catfish Carter hasn’t found out a single thing so he must be in league with whoever is trying to frame Brandon.”
After a brief silence she muttered, “I don’t know how you do that when I know you were not listening.”
I could have told her it was easy to repeat what she’d said because I’d heard it a half dozen times just since I’d arrived two hours earlier, but I didn’t. I have a strong sense of self-preservation. Instead I said, “I hang upon your every word. Your every utterance is like a jewel falling from the sky, shining and beautiful.”
As I gestured toward imaginary falling jewels with my almost empty wine glass, Bitty said something quite pithy and made her own rude gesture. I smiled. Life is good when we’re insulting one another.
“So,” I said when she rolled her eyes at me, “it’s only been a week, and Catfish is still on the case. Don’t give up yet.”
“Catfish on the case—that’s another thing. That man is a parody. He’s annoying. He’s silly, and I just have to wonder what on earth Jackson Lee was thinking when he hired him. So far, he’s not done a blamed thing that I can tell.”
“And I thought you had bonded with him. You know—a similar interest in guns and other tools of death.”
“Please. You insult me. Okay, so I did have a moment of simpatico in regard to similar pistols, but that’s all it was. I’ve been waiting for him to find out something of use, and all I’ve heard so far is that he’s still investigating.”
“Did you think it would happen in an hour? Bitty, he not only has to be discreet, but he’s working in unfamiliar territory. Give him some time.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
“Neither can I. Maybe I need more wine.”
After we retreated to her kitchen for more wine, my favorite Zinfandel nicely chilled in her wine cooler, we returned to the front porch. Dusk had fallen. The street of familiar houses was cloaked in shadows and pink glowing pools from the streetlights. Bitty’s overhead porch fixture is a small outdoor chandelier with crystal pendants that tinkle lightly in breezes. It gives off a soft romantic radiance that makes everything look better. It’s the kind of flattering light that I look best in, and if I could ever figure out how to keep it around me instead of the harsher light of daytime and reality that usually illuminates me, I’d do it. Since I can’t, I just deal with it.
“Do you really think Brandon is going to be cleared of any suspicion?” Bitty asked when we had once again assumed our positions as guardians of her front porch. Chen Ling squatted in her lap, her little bug eyes regarding me with disinterest as I sipped my wine.
“Of course,” I said immediately. I believed it because any hint that it might not end well just wouldn’t reside long in my beleaguered brain. “Jackson Lee is a wizard when it comes to the defense of his clients, and even if he wasn’t, there’s no evidence that Brandon loaded his rifle with the intent of causing harm.”
I was actually repeating what I’d heard an attorney on Law & Order say in defense of his client, who had been guilty as sin but got off anyway. I figured if a guilty man could be acquitted, then Brandon was in no danger.
“The new prosecutor can argue that the loading of a rifle is in itself an intent of causing harm,” Bitty replied.
I admit I was rather impressed with her response until I remembered that she’s also an avid TV addict. She must have seen the same episode. “Well, Mr. McCoy, explain to the jury the difference between a hobby and a deliberate murder,” I misquoted.
“I think Adam told McCoy to explain the difference between murder and negligent homicide,” Bitty corrected.
“Whichever, we know there’s a big difference between intentional and accidental, and I still think it’s absolutely strange that a rifle that hasn’t fired in over a hundred years is capable of not only firing a bullet, but hitting and killing someone.”
“I know. I keep coming back to that too,” said Bitty. “It’s unexplainable, but the antique rifle expert said it was more than capable of firing a bullet fairly accurately.”
“Has anyone actually tried to fire it in the past hundred years?”
“Mama’s uncle on her mother’s side. It was to celebrate the new century, New Year’s Eve 1899. Just as the clock struck midnight, Uncle Jobert pulled the trigger and it misfired. He looked down the barrel—I think he’d been drinking some good Tennessee whiskey—and decided to add more powder and ball, to his immediate regret. The gun fired, a bullet plowed through his right ear, and took it clean off his head. He dropped the rifle just in time for a panicked horse and wagon to roll over it. It never fired after that.”
“Good lord. Was he killed?”
“No, but he never did hear well after that, according to family history. Oh, and he walked the rest of his life with his head cocked to one side.”
I thought for a moment. “Is your cousin Jobert any kin to your great-uncle?” I wondered aloud.
Bitty nodded. “His great-grandson.”
“Well, you know the apple doesn’t often fall far from that tree.”
“I imagine Jobert’s apple didn’t bounce much. He’s dumber than dirt.”
Our character assassination aside, Bitty’s cousin makes periodic calls to her with grand schemes of improbable value but always profitable in his own mind. He can get quite cranky when Bitty refuses to fund his latest venture. As you can imagine, Bitty’s childhood dealing with Jobert has made her justifiably leery of anything he proposes. She still hasn’t gotten over being left high up in a tree when she was only eight; he took away the ladder. Bitty can hold grudges about some things.
I’m familiar with that feeling, too. I’m still miffed about my sister Emerald hiding my favorite sweater so I couldn’t wear it on a date when we were in high school. It wouldn’t have been so bad except that she forgot where she hid it, and it took nearly three years to find it. By then bugs had gotten to it, and it looked like it’d been barfed up by a billy goat. Barns are not the best place for sweater storage.
“So,” I mused after a moment. “If no one has tried to fire that rifle since 1900, you don’t really know if it was operable or not.”
Bitty looked startled. “Well—no, I guess I don’t. Mama said it doesn’t work, her mama said it doesn’t work, and so I’ve always said it doesn’t work. I never thought to try it. I mean—why would I?”
“Did anyone ever suggest it be fixed? And maybe got it fixed and either didn’t tell you, or you forgot it’d been
fixed?”
“No, I’m pretty sure not. Mama would have told me if she’d had it repaired. We all just rather liked it broken, if you know what I mean. It’s just the way it was left to us, and Mama never would ruin an heirloom by messing with it.”
I nodded. “My mama has a cracked pitcher that won’t hold air, but she won’t give it up. It belonged to her great-great-grandmother and has her initials etched into the glass.”
“Daddy kept an empty tobacco pouch that Granddad Truevine used to carry in his back pocket. I’ve got it in a rubber tub with other family heirlooms.”
“Mama still has her mother’s embroidered hankies tucked away in a drawer. She says they’re part of my inheritance. I’m sure that along with the two hundred cats and a neurotic dog that are also part of my inheritance, I’ll end up spending my final days scooping cat poop and blowing my nose into heirloom hankies.”
After a moment Bitty said, “We’re rather a strange family, don’t you think?”
“Of course. Insanity is the family tie that binds, you know.”
“And here I thought it was a last will and testament.”
I shook my head. “Wills tend to bring out the beast in families, not the best.”
“Speaking of wills, at least Rosewood is going to stay in the family. So many times these lovely houses get sold at auctions or are abandoned and just gradually disintegrate. And all the antiques. . . . I heard there are some magnificent pieces at Rosewood. An old pianoforte and a solid mahogany armoire are supposed to be nearly two hundred years old.”
Bitty is, among other things, an antiques hound. She gets rapturous over old wood and silver teaspoons the way some people get excited over football and the Indy 500.
“Maybe Deelight will let you admire them once the will has been read. After all, according to her, Rosewood will probably be left in Sammy’s capable hands in trust for the entire family. I imagine his uncle will be more than happy to know he has the deed but not all the responsibility.”
“But he probably won’t be able to sell it without all the heirs agreeing, the way I understand it. It’s not like my situation when Mama and Daddy died. After Mama passed, we just sold everything that didn’t have sentimental value and split the money fifty-fifty. I mean, the house was only forty years old and not really my style or Steven’s. He and Tammy aren’t very sentimental, so I packed up all the things I’m sure Mama would have wanted passed down after Steven got his portion. If they ever decide they want their kids to have some of those things, I’ll be glad to share.”
“Steven doesn’t get back here often, does he,” I remarked, and she shook her head.
“Not since he married the Wicked Witch of the South,” she muttered. “They’re much too cosmopolitan to visit such a backwater town as Holly Springs. Tammy’s used to a more gracious way of life.”
I had to laugh at the way she said it, mimicking her sister-in-law’s rather haughty tone quite well. Since I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound equally catty, I just said, “Bless her heart.”
“Well, Hinds County is the Mecca of western civilization, you know.” She drank more wine then added, “Everyone has moved to Madison County now anyway. I loved living in Jackson. Philip and I had a house there for when the senate was in session. The people I met were lovely, and not a single one of them made me feel as if I’m deficient in culture. But that’s the old money people. It’s the nouveau riche who have to put on airs. Tammy is not old Jackson or old money. She tries too hard to be classy.”
“As Aunt Sarah used to say, ‘You can get away with anything if you do it with class,’” I quoted.
Bitty lifted her wine glass in a silent toast to her mother and her wisdom. “Here’s to grommets and ratchets, or whatever it is Steven’s firm manufactures. And to Tammy, the leader of all polite society. Long may she reign as Queen of Grommets.”
We’d no sooner finished our toast than Jackson Lee pulled up in his silver Jaguar. It’s not a new car, but it’s very nice. Wicker creaked as Bitty immediately smoothed her hair and patted down the collar of her blouse, just in case it’d gotten rumpled or creased. She likes to look her best for Jackson Lee, especially since he’s so often seen both of us at our worst.
Chen Ling growled her usual sweet welcome as he came up onto the porch, and I lifted my wine glass in a salute. “Greetings and salutations, Jackson Lee,” I said. “What brings you out on such a lovely evening?”
I expected him to say something flowery about Bitty being the lure. Like any good Southern lawyer, he has a way with words. Instead, he dragged over a chair to sit in front of us and looked at Bitty.
“I have a report from Catfish. He’s found out some interesting information. Do you want to read it, or do you want me to give you a summary?”
“Just tell me he’s found evidence that Brandon didn’t kill Walter Simpson, and I’ll be happy,” Bitty said, and I saw that her knuckles went white around the wine glass stem.
Jackson Lee shook his head. “Sugar, you know that’s not exactly what we’re looking for here.”
“It’s not? Why not?”
“Facts say the gun Brandon held fired the fatal bullet. We can’t disprove facts. What we can do is muddy them up a bit. We have to prove that he didn’t have motive but other people did. We have to create doubt that he knew the gun would fire. I have some good people working to recreate the scene. Crime scene units already did the line of fire, using the video from a tourist to place Brandon in the right position to fire the bullet. But we can state that there was a lot of confusion and chaos and that someone else could have fired the bullet from that rifle.”
Bitty looked confused. “But no one else had that rifle. It’s an heirloom.”
“I know, sugar. But it’s supposedly an antique that hasn’t fired in a hundred years. For it to fire this one time is pretty unusual, I’d say. So I intend to create doubt about the accuracy of ballistics that report only one rifle could have fired that bullet. Now here. Catfish has transcripts of his conversations with a few people around town. As we all know, Walter wasn’t the most beloved town figure. He made some enemies when he ran the insurance company. And he made more enemies when he sold it.”
“But that was what, six or seven years ago?” I asked. “What enemy waits that long for revenge? And even if they did, was it a bad enough offense to deserve murder?”
Jackson Lee smiled. “Not for normal people, no. But for someone without conscience or scruples, murder isn’t a problem. There are people who have waited a lot longer than eight years to get satisfaction for some slight they feel was done to them.”
“So what did Walter do that made him enemies?” I asked. “How did selling the insurance company upset people?”
“When you cut out your investors and make a private deal to sell it for more than market value, that can cause hard feelings,” Jackson Lee said dryly. “The company had been in business for nearly a hundred years. It’d gone through a lot of restructuring, but then a national company made an offer, and Walter quietly bought out his investors for pennies on the dollar, then sold it for a huge profit.”
Bitty looked bewildered. “How did Catfish find all that out?”
“By asking questions and researching records. He spent a lot of time in the archives. He’s also a computer whiz. He already has enough for reasonable doubt, if it comes to that.”
“Okay,” I said after we had time to absorb the implications, “this is all news, and it names people with reason to want Walter dead. Brandon had no motive whatsoever.”
“Except for the tourist who insists she saw him in an argument with Walter right before the reenactment,” Jackson Lee reminded me. “We know it was Clayton and just have to convince a jury of reasonable doubt if this goes to trial.”
“Do you really think it’s going to trial?” Bitty asked.
> “It’s always possible, sweetpea.”
Bitty looked so distressed I could hardly stand it. There’s nothing that gets to me more than a mother upset about her child being in danger. Maybe because as a mother, I relate so well.
“See, Bitty?” I said. “There are people with real motives who might have wanted Walter dead. Brandon had no motive whatsoever. It’s so obvious, any jury is bound to see that.”
“Thank you, Trinket.” Bitty managed a smile. “Now we just have to figure out which of the many who wouldn’t mind seeing Walter dead was at the reenactment and had opportunity.”
“Richard Grace was one of the investors Walter cheated,” Jackson Lee said after a few moments.
“But he’s been dead for several years,” I argued.
Jackson Lee nodded. “Yes. But he has children who are still alive.”
It took a moment to sink in. Then I said, “You’re talking about Deelight and Faith.”
“Yes. Catfish learned that Faith’s oldest son, who works for the MetLife Company that bought out Simpson Insurance, has said his grandfather stole the family fortunes from his heirs. And he did it quite loudly, and to anyone who’ll listen, in fact. That’s not exactly a good sign.”
“But he doesn’t even live in Holly Springs. And he wasn’t at the reenactment.” I shook my head. “Walter is still leaving his direct heirs a nice inheritance.”
“Some people can never have enough money,” Bitty said, and since I’d always thought of her as someone who revered money far more than most, I was intrigued by her observation.
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