“And Catfish Carter has been doing some work there?” Bitty asked.
I could almost see the wheels turning in her hamster-brain. When she turned to look at me, I said, “No. Leave him alone. He knows what he’s doing.”
“For heaven’s sake, Trinket. I wasn’t going to suggest we bother him.”
“Good. He’s doing just fine without us.”
“Of course he is.” Bitty ate the last bite of cake and stood up. “Where shall I put this, Deelight?”
There was the usual polite exchange of Bitty offering to clean up and our hostess saying she would do it later, and after a few more minutes of light conversation we left. As we went out to Bitty’s car, I said, “Well, that was slick, Ace Ventura.”
“What are you talking about? A pet detective movie? Did you put whiskey in your tea?”
“No, but it sounds like a good idea. Honestly, Bitty, you were about as subtle as a tank. Why were you accusing Sammy of murder?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that he’s the only one who benefits?”
“It seems sad and disappointing. But we can’t go around accusing him of murder, Bitty. Not to his relatives, anyway.”
“Maybe the police need a nudge in the right direction.”
I opened the car door and turned to look at her. “Don’t even think about it. If you do, I’ll tell Jackson Lee that you’re not keeping your word.”
“Did I say I’m going to do anything?” She slid behind the wheel of her car, and I bent to get into the passenger seat. The Cadillac still had that wonderful new car smell, and I breathed it in for a moment. Bitty started the car, and the engine purred. I closed my car door before trying to talk sense to her again.
“You don’t have to say you’re going to do anything. You just do it, and then it’s too late. I know you’re worried about Brandon, but getting things tangled up won’t help him.”
“I think Sammy did it, Trinket. He’s the only one who benefits. He has motive, he had opportunity, and he had the murder weapon. He switched it with our rifle. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how he did it, but I know he did.”
I hated to admit it to her, but it sounded plausible. The more I heard, the more plausible it became that Sammy Simpson had been responsible for his grandfather’s death. He got the most benefit, and he had been there. Then again, even though I’d been not fifty feet away, I hadn’t seen him shoot Walter. I hadn’t seen anyone shoot Walter. No one had really seen Walter shot.
The reenactment had been the perfect screen for murder.
Chapter 10
“YOU KNOW HE DID it, Trinket.”
“Maybe,” I said, still unwilling to let Bitty know I agreed with her. That could lead to acts of idiocy on her part. She’d have us staking out his house or breaking and entering to get evidence. I wasn’t up for that.
We had renewed the subject of Sammy’s guilt as we sat out on her front porch waiting for Jackson Lee to come by. He had another report from Catfish Carter, and I was interested in hearing what the investigator had to say next. He’d been pretty good so far. About every four days, he handed in a report, and Jackson Lee faithfully brought it straight to Bitty. As far as I knew, he didn’t leave anything out. It’d been four days since the last report, and I wondered if this one would incriminate Sammy.
“Deelight said Faith left this morning. Brett left yesterday,” Bitty commented, and I looked over at her, waiting for her to elaborate. She didn’t disappoint. “Apparently Brett made a big scene at Rosewood, and Sammy called the police, and they told him he couldn’t go back there without the owner’s permission. Soooo . . .”
“The owner being Sammy Simpson,” I said, when it became obvious she wanted me to respond. “And he said none of the family can show up at Rosewood.”
“Yep. None of Walter’s grandkids or even his son George can step foot on that property unless Sammy invites them. Or at least, gives them permission to visit.”
“That’s one way to avoid trouble, I suppose.”
“Or a way to keep everything for himself. He’s greedy, Trinket. I think he’s planned this for a long time. We have to stop him.”
“We don’t have to do anything. There are people a lot more qualified who can do a much better job. Trust me.”
Bitty eyed me over the rim of her wine glass. I tried to ignore that. I knew how badly she wanted to find someone to blame besides Brandon for Walter’s death; I did too. But getting in the way of the truth wouldn’t help any of us. If the two of us got involved in any kind of awkward situation, it could blow up in our faces.
Bitty responds to catastrophe with action. I respond to catastrophe with retreat. I like to know what I’m getting into. Bitty is more, Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.
There are drawbacks to both responses.
Fortunately, Jackson Lee arrived before Bitty could try to persuade me that we should stop Sammy Simpson from getting everything. I lifted my wine glass in a salute.
“You’re just in time, Mr. Brunetti. What news have you brought your fair maiden today, or should I ask?”
Jackson Lee smiled at my obvious attempt at levity. He probably figured that Bitty was getting restless. Keeping her well-informed was his way of putting off her eventual involvement in the situation. It was inevitable, but if he could keep her in line for as long as possible, perhaps there was a chance things might be resolved before she did too much damage.
“For one thing, an antique gun expert disputes the original findings that the rifle Brandon held is the only one that could have fired the fatal bullet. How does that sound?”
Bitty sucked in a sharp breath. “Really? You mean he says the gun doesn’t work? That it couldn’t have fired the bullet that killed Walter?”
Jackson Lee dragged a wicker chair over to sit by us, looking much too big for the fragile chair. “No, I didn’t say that, sweetpea. He disputes that the bullet could be fired by only that one weapon. It may have fired the bullet—but there are other old rifles that could have fired it too. Apparently, the bullet was mangled enough to make it doubtful.”
“Oh. Well . . . that’s good, right?”
“That’s definitely good. I’m sure now that we can make this go away. No charges can stick if there’s doubt that the gun Brandon held fired the fatal shot. Along with the other people Catfish found with actual motives for wanting Walter dead, I can make a pretty strong case for a dismissal.”
Bitty sat rock still for a moment, then she heaved a big sigh of relief. “Then he’s safe.”
“He will be safe. Just hang in there, sugar-pie.”
I relaxed and realized I’d been holding my breath. Relief swamped me. I looked over at Bitty and saw her smiling from ear to ear. Maybe this was all over. Brandon would be cleared of any charges, and our personal lives would go back to normal. Whatever normal is. At least, none of us would be charged with murder.
“So who do you think killed Walter?” Bitty asked. “Someone did. And it wasn’t an accident. I’m pretty sure of that.”
Jackson Lee riffled through some papers in a folder he pulled out of his briefcase. “That will be the police’s problem, sweetie. All we have to do is get Brandon cleared of charges. Here. I have Catfish Carter’s latest report. It sums up his findings. There are enough ambiguities for the police to follow up. There’s no shortage of other people with motive, as you’ll see when you read through it.”
“Catfish isn’t so bad after all,” Bitty said after a moment. She flipped over another page of the report. “Although he doesn’t say who he thinks is responsible for Walter’s death.”
“That’s not his job. He just lists facts. I do the conjecturing.” Jackson Lee smiled. “And I provide facts so the prosecutor can decide if he wants to risk losing in court.”
“That’s good. What do you think of him? The new prosecutor, I mean?�
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“Hard to say. I haven’t gone up against him yet, but he seems pretty sharp. He’s an Ole Miss law school graduate moving closer to home.” Jackson Lee looked over at me. “So now that the worst is over, you ladies can get back to life as usual. I’m filing for dismissal and don’t expect any unpleasant surprises.”
I read between the lines: Keep Bitty from doing anything outrageous.
That was a lot easier to ask than to accomplish, but I didn’t anticipate any problems. Her determination to keep him from going to jail had succeeded. Brandon would be safe. I smiled as I left them alone for a few minutes to exchange nauseatingly sweet endearments.
After Jackson Lee left, Bitty turned to me and said, “I need more wine. So do you. We need to free our minds to figure out what to do about this.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “Do about what? And there’s not enough wine in all of Mississippi to free our minds from jail, if you’re still talking about snooping around.”
“Sometimes your views are so limited, Trinket. Expand your mind. Dream the impossible dream. Reach for the horizons.”
“Good lord, when did you start channeling Timothy Leary? If you start chanting ‘tune in, turn on, drop out,’ I’m going home.”
“How about ‘question authority’ as a quote? That’s one of your old favorites.”
“I was such a rebel. I drew the line at LSD, however, so don’t even go there. I was never into illicit drugs. Or even legal drugs. My preference for mind-altering substances is limited to liquid enhancement like wine or other delicious products of distilling processes.”
“I’m in complete agreement with that viewpoint. More Zinfandel?”
Bitty poured us both another glass of wine, and we went back out onto her front porch to enjoy the balmy weather. April is usually almost perfect. Except for rain and the occasional tornado, it’s the kind of weather that makes Mississippians want to linger outdoors. May is good up until the last week or so, and June turns so hot, crawfish can boil in muddy ditches. July is like a blast from an iron-smelting furnace, and August has temperatures that rival our solar system’s hottest planet, Venus. September usually limps in with sultry days for the first couple weeks, then drifts into more bearable temperatures in October. Once upon a time in the olden days when I was a child, the end of September was coat and gloves weather. Now it’s shorts and tee shirt weather most of the time. I won’t argue the cause, just the effect: our planet is heating up.
“So what do you think we should do first?” my reckless cousin asked, jerking me from my pleasant reverie of heat-scorched planets. “Talk to Sammy or interview Royal, Mitchell, and Riley?”
“Do you really want me to answer that? You won’t like my reply.” I sucked down an inch or two of wine in anticipation of her response.
“There’s always the insurance company, I suppose. We can find out who the investors were and if they were mad enough at Walter to try to kill him.”
“Brandon is going to be exonerated. There’s no need for us to do anything. Let the police handle it. They have excellent methods and manpower.”
“Yes, that would be lovely, Trinket, but we both know they’re hampered by all the rights criminals have these days. We don’t have to Mirandize or provide search warrants.”
“We don’t have to do anything. We’re no longer involved. It’s none of our business who killed Walter.”
“I think Brett was right. It has to be Sammy who killed him. We just have to figure out how he did it. He must have switched the rifles. I really need to get in the evidence room and inspect my rifle.”
“Wait a while, and it’ll be returned to you. As soon as Jackson Lee gets the charges against Brandon dismissed, you should be able to get it back.”
“If you, Gaynelle, and Rayna provide the distraction, I can get in there and sneak it out. I mean, it’s my property, so it’s not like I’m really stealing anything.”
I stared at her. “Have you heard a word I’ve said? There’s no reason for us to get any more involved than we’ve already been—it’s over.”
Bitty cuddled her bug-eyed little gargoyle closer to her chest, stroking the fur between Chitling’s ears. “Of course, I could do it myself, but it’d be so much easier with your help.”
“Are you insane? It can’t be the heat because it’s not hot enough yet, so I doubt you’ve had a heat stroke. How much wine have you had today?”
At last she looked at me. “Not enough, or your disinterest wouldn’t bother me.”
“Bitty—Brandon’s charges will be dismissed. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Trinket, I know that. But surely you realize that until the real killer is found, he’ll still be considered guilty by some people?”
“Do you really care what some people think?”
“Not usually. But I’ve no intention of letting anyone say that Brandon is like his father. Frank was guilty and should have gone to prison, but for the first few years after all the scandal, I could barely hold my head up in this town. He cheated people we knew, friends, even family, and I thought it’d never die down. It wasn’t just me who had to deal with stares, whispers, the speculation that I was somehow aware of what he was doing or even involved. I don’t want my sons to go through anything like that again.”
For a moment I was silent. I hadn’t lived in Holly Springs when all that happened ten years ago, but I knew how it must have hurt Bitty to go through the humiliation of having her husband accused, then arrested, tried, and convicted of investment fraud, perjury, and false statements. He’s serving time in a Federal prison and probably has a hot tub in his cell while those he cheated try to scrape together enough money to pay their rent.
“I understand,” I said at last, and Bitty nodded.
“I knew you would.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to risk a prison term doing something crazy and reckless. I’m not sure I’d do well in jail.”
“I have a foolproof idea—”
“NO,” I said as loudly as I could. “Not just no, but hell no!”
Bitty lifted her waxed, perfect eyebrows. “My, my, that’s rather emphatic.”
“Yes, it is. Pay attention. One of these days your schemes are going to get us maimed, killed, or locked up for ten to twenty. I empathize with your need to exonerate Brandon. I do. But there are times when it’s much wiser to sit back and wait, than it is to rush out and do something stupid.”
“We’ve already been maimed a few times,” Bitty reminded after a brief silence.
“Yes, but not permanently. I’m in no hurry to change that.”
“Fine, we’ll talk about it another time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
Bitty leaned over her familiar and whispered in the pug’s ear. Chitling fixed me with a baleful stare. Sometimes I think she understands whatever nonsense Bitty imparts in her floppy little ears. It’s a bit scary.
“They’re returning my Mercedes tomorrow,” Bitty said after a moment, and I gratefully seized the change of conversational topic.
“With or without the tires?”
“Jackson Lee had them put on new tires, check it for other damage, and clean it. So the Franklin Benz rolls again.”
“Did the police find the thieves?”
“Not yet.”
“Will my purse be in it?” I asked.
Bitty blinked. “Why . . . I don’t know. I didn’t ask. There’s always that possibility.”
“I still haven’t replaced my driver’s license. The thought of waiting in line at the DMV is pretty horrifying.”
“What about your bank card?”
“Oh, I did that first thing. What little I have, I like to keep. That’s why I don’t play the stock market.”
“If you ever want to invest, I can put you in tou
ch with my broker,” Bitty offered, and I shook my head.
“No, thanks. I’d rather just set fire to my money than put it in the hands of someone who has very little personal stake in using it.”
“But they get money if they make you money, Trinket.”
“I follow the Edward Truevine school of thought on that issue. They don’t mind taking risks with other people’s money, not their own, so I choose not to participate in that dangerous game.”
“Very safe of you. Not particularly beneficial, but safe.”
“If you’re making fun of me, I don’t care. I’m fine just the way I am. I’m not in debt, and I like it that way. What I don’t have, I don’t need.”
“‘But you ain’t got no legs, Lieutenant Dan,’” Bitty quoted Forrest Gump.
“‘Yes . . . yes, I know that, you idiot,’” I paraphrased right back at her.
Bitty smiled. “Well, if you’re happy without money, that’s fine, I suppose. Money may not make you happy, but the lack of enough can make you miserable.”
“That’s very philosophical, Bitty,” I said. “Sometimes you surprise me.”
“Sometimes I surprise myself. I’ve been rereading a few classics lately, trying to get my mind off all the troubles. At first it was okay, you know, Austen and Brontë. Then I read a few other authors, and I’ve decided that far too many classics are depressing.”
“Let me guess—Thomas Hardy?”
“Jude the Obscure. What a downer. I realize it’s a classic and has to do with social mores of the times, religion and all that, but really? All that death, disappointment, and tragedy? Give me the Daily News anytime. It has death, disappointment, and tragedy but in a much more optimistic way.”
I barely kept from rolling my eyes. “Hardy’s work reflected a feminism ahead of its time and socialist views. It’s a devastating portrayal of a man conflicted with repressed sexuality, who makes bad choices and inevitably suffers the consequences.”
Bitty lifted her nicely waxed eyebrows. “Other than that, it’s a laugh a minute. I’d rather read obituaries.”
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