“In a way, you did. But never mind. Read Dickens or Lewis Carroll. They’re much more entertaining.”
“I love Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass,” said Bitty. “‘The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—of cabbages and kings.’”
“‘And why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings,’” I finished. We may quote a lot of TV and movies, but on occasion, we can quote more cerebral characters, if you want to think of Lewis Carroll as highbrow. “You know there are people who analyze the Alice books and compare the characters to religious and political views, don’t you?” I added.
“That thought gives me a headache. Why can’t people just enjoy the book?”
“Some people have to give every act a deeper meaning,” I said. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive behind their words, thoughts, or actions.”
“If you’re talking about me, I don’t know whether to be insulted or pleased.”
“See what I mean? You’re thinking I had an ulterior motive in my comment.”
“Yes, sorry. Maybe that’s just experience talking.”
I smiled. “Maybe it is.”
“Then again, it could be the wine.”
“That’s possible, too.”
Afternoon shadows deepened to dusk as we sat on the porch listening to a symphony of crickets serenade us as night fell. It was peaceful, the quiet broken only by the occasional bark of a dog or slow passing of a car down the tree-lined street. Small town America at its best. A Mayberry of sorts, I fancied, although more sophisticated people might view it as a town too large to be as simple as Mayberry, and too small to be as urbane as Memphis. Holly Springs sits on the cusp of both worlds.
I can walk the downtown area in less than fifteen minutes unless I run into people I know from church or my childhood. Then my walk may run to an hour or so, depending on if I’ve been greeted by a dear old thing or a former school friend. Dear old things are little old ladies who have little else in life to do other than reminisce, usually about the past crimes of people they’ve known since childhood. Sometimes the past and present intermingle to produce conversations that are often fraught with consternation and confusion.
Mrs. Tyree, who lives next door to Bitty and has occupied her home for over twenty years, is an excellent example of a sharp-witted dear old thing. She’s a tiny little woman who started a cleaning dynasty back during the aftermath of civil rights and Rosa Parks. Bitty’s maid Maria was employed through her former company. Mrs. Tyree can be a force of nature.
Therefore, as she appeared on the sidewalk in front of Bitty’s house, pushed open the iron picket-gate, and came up the bricked path with a determined set of her narrow shoulders and a grim expression on her face, Bitty said, “Uh oh. I hope Chen Ling hasn’t been pooping in her flower beds again.”
Ida Tyree’s wooden cane tapped against brick as she approached. She wore an elegant dress with a slim skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month, sensible shoes that were stylish, and a gorgeous gold chain around her neck. A Pandora bracelet jangled on her slender wrist as she put one hand atop the other on the crook of her cane, positioning herself on the bottom step.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyree,” Bitty said. “Care to join us? We’re drinking wine.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Mrs. Tyree. “Although I prefer sweet tea. I’m not that fond of strong spirits.”
“No problem,” Bitty assured her, and got up and pulled a chair closer to us, then went inside to fetch a glass of tea.
That left me alone with Mrs. Tyree. She scares me a little, in the same way a teacher used to scare me, with that knowing glint in her eye and lifted brow, as if she knows exactly what I’ve been up to and disapproves.
“It’s good to see you weren’t too terribly affected by being witness to a murder,” she said as she sat down in the cushioned wicker chair next to me. “Or should I say, another murder?”
Mrs. Tyree is tactful. We’d become notorious for finding bodies in the last year, not the kind of fame I prefer. I blame Bitty’s last husband, since he went and got himself murdered, and we had to be the ones to find him. It was very unpleasant. Unfortunately, it seemed to encourage other murders in our vicinity. Or maybe it was just our luck to know people who got murdered. Bad luck must be contagious.
I managed a smile and tried for a light tone. “Our reputation has spread, I see.”
“Indeed. You and Bitty have become famous.”
“Some say infamous.”
A twinkle lit her dark brown eyes, and a smile curved her mouth. “Yes, that, too.”
“It’s very inconvenient,” I confided. “My parents sometimes look at me as if I have two heads. If I knew how to control this newfound talent, I would be more than happy to live the rest of my life without falling over another body.”
“I can well imagine. Do the police still think Brandon did it?”
“He’s not yet been cleared as a suspect, but Jackson Lee is working on that.”
She nodded. “If anyone can get him cleared, it’s Jackson Lee.”
A lot of Holly Springs’ residents have that view of Jackson Lee. It may be part education, part sharp wits, and part magic, but he has an excellent track record defending his clients.
By the time Bitty returned with Mrs. Tyree’s glass of sweet tea, we had moved on in our discussion to the issue of property taxes and politicians. We’d decided we weren’t in favor of either.
“Politicians lie,” I said to bring Bitty up to date on our conversation.
“Tell me about it,” said Bitty as she gave Mrs. Tyree her glass. “My marriage to the senator was a lesson in restraint. Not his—mine. I couldn’t believe that he felt it perfectly fine to lie about everything. But of course, the man didn’t have the morals of a billy goat, a requirement to win and hold any public office. I think it’s even written in the bylaws: No Morals Allowed. Do you need more wine, Trinket?”
“No, I’m good. Two glasses are my limit when I might have to drive.”
“Do you ever hear from the Hollandale family?” Mrs. Tyree asked, adding, “I was told Miss Parrish asked my cousin Nettie about you not long ago.”
I nearly choked on a sip of tea. Old ghosts kept popping up. It made me wonder if the universe was trying to tell us something.
Bitty echoed my concern. “Good God, that’s the second time in recent memory I’ve been asked about them. I hope this isn’t a cosmic warning they’re going to show up soon.”
“There’s no reason why they should,” I said. “All litigation is over with now. The senator’s estate has been settled and all claims satisfied. Including yours.”
“Yes, one would think they would appreciate all I did for Philip during our marriage, but instead, they tried to cheat his poor widow.”
I remembered it a bit differently: “You weren’t married to him when he was killed, Bitty, so you were never technically his widow.”
She peered at me over the rim of her wine glass, eyes narrowing a bit. “Yes, Trinket. I know. But I was married to him long enough to earn the divorce settlement they tried to cheat me out of after he was murdered, and I deserved that money.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “You certainly did. Philip treated you horribly. Thank heavens you have Jackson Lee now.”
That smoothed her ruffled feathers. She smiled. “Yes, I do, don’t I?”
Mrs. Tyree sipped her tea, then leaned forward, her voice soft as she said to Bitty, “It will be just fine with Brandon. You’ll see. Mr. Brunetti is wonderful at these things.”
We all nodded, then Mrs. Tyree added, “Besides, I know who killed Walter Simpson.”
I stared at her while Bitty nearly dropped her wine glass, sloshing some of it over her lap and pug.
“Ex
cuse me?” I asked politely, a tad worried that Mrs. Tyree may have suffered some kind of mental aberration.
I needn’t have worried. She sounded quite sane when she repeated, “I know who killed Walter Simpson. I overheard him talking about it at Budgie’s the day before yesterday.”
I looked over at Bitty, who was busily wiping wine from her damp pug, and she looked back at me. Then we both looked at Mrs. Tyree.
“Do tell,” we chorused, and she smiled.
Chapter 11
“WELL,” SAID THE elderly center of our attention after she took a delicate sip of tea, “I sat at the table in the corner, where I’ve sat once every week for the past twenty years, and I suppose I was out of sight, or he wouldn’t have talked so loud. It’s been my experience that most people think the elderly have lost their hearing anyway, so they don’t credit us with the sense God gave a goose, but as you see, it’s not true of everyone.”
Bitty and I nodded our earnest agreement, and I urged, “You are so right. Do go on.”
“Budgie has chicken fried steak and milk gravy as the special every Tuesday; you can’t make it yourself as cheap as she sells it in the special. It’s always pretty crowded in there on Tuesdays. Budgie had just brought my plate to me when the oldest Grace sister came in and sat down with a young man at the table right behind mine. You know who I mean?”
“Yes. Faithann Grace, now Faith Simon,” Bitty said. Her hand stilled atop Chen Ling’s head, her huge diamond ring glinting in the fading daylight. “Who was with her?”
Nodding, Mrs. Tyree said, “Yes, that’s her. It must have been her son who was with her. He called her Mama. Thirty-ish, hair thinning on top, angry.”
“Brett Simon.” I glanced at Bitty then back at our elderly visitor. “He’s rather disturbed by the reading of the Simpson will.”
“I gathered as much by the direction of their conversation,” she said wryly. “Normally, I don’t eavesdrop. It’s rude. My mama would have boxed my ears for it. But he spoke so loudly, I couldn’t help but overhear before his mama shushed him.” She paused to take another sip of tea.
Bitty and I waited, probably looking like two hound dogs leaning forward with our ears perked, heads cocked to the side to catch every word. Mrs. Tyree held her tea glass between her palms and smiled, recognizing an attentive audience.
“They weren’t sitting there two seconds before he came out and said, ‘I loaded that gun myself, Mama. I aimed it right at him.’ I nearly fell out when I heard that, but I kept on eating. His mama hushed him pretty quickly and said that they were just going to have to put it all behind them as best they could. Now that Walter was buried and the will read, there wasn’t any reason for them to stay in town any longer.”
Flabbergasted, I didn’t know what to say. Bitty did.
“We need to call the police immediately. Call Jackson Lee. Call Catfish Carter.” Bitty stood up, excitement in her voice. Clutching Chen Ling tightly to her ample bosom, she added, “I think we should notify the prosecuting attorney, too, and get the ball rolling.”
I hated to burst her bubble, I really did. “Bitty,” I said gently, “just where do you think you can roll that ball? What Mrs. Tyree just told us is important and definitely something to get Catfish to look into, but it’s not firm evidence. It’s what Jackson Lee would call hearsay.”
Bitty looked disappointed, then quickly rallied. “Well, we have what I call a witness. Would you be willing to tell this to the police and Jackson Lee, Mrs. Tyree?”
“Of course. That’s why I came over here. Oh, except for one more thing. My gardener stepped in a pile of pug-size poo and tracked it all over my back deck.”
“I’m so sorry. Lately she’s been getting away from me so fast. There must be a hole in our fence. Shall I send someone over to clean it up?”
“No, it’s already been cleaned. I just thought you should know she’s been getting loose. She may get lost if she wanders too far.”
Mrs. Tyree is too polite and well-bred to say what she really thinks, but it was evident in her tactful comment that she didn’t appreciate pug poo on her porch. Bitty apologized again and scolded Chitling, even though the dog looked more bored than ashamed.
I looked at Mrs. Tyree and smiled. “I’m sure whoever found her would bring her right back. Just like in an O’Henry story. Once they found out what they had, they’d be eager to get rid of her.”
Mrs. Tyree laughed. “Yes, she is a rather spoiled little thing. If she wasn’t so cute, she couldn’t get away with it.”
“Are we talking about Bitty or the dog?” I asked, and Bitty said something tart and Mrs. Tyree laughed again.
Still shaking her head, she said, “You two remind me of my sister Ruth and how we used to carry on. She’s been gone nearly ten years now, and I still miss her every day.”
“You should join us at our next meeting,” Bitty said after a moment of contemplative silence. “I think you’d enjoy it.”
“Lord no, child! I remember the last one I attended. I don’t have the stamina or stomach for some of the stuff you ladies get up to, and that’s the truth. I’m fine watching y’all from a distance.” She set her empty tea glass on the little wicker table and stood up. “Thank you for the tea and hospitality. Let me know how it works out with the police. I’ll be glad to go in and make a statement anytime they want me.”
Bitty could hardly wait to call Jackson Lee. He expressed cautious enthusiasm that I could hear from my spot huddled in the parlor chair close by. I contemplated the impact of Mrs. Tyree’s revelations. On one hand, it added to the suspect pool and lent validation to our suspicion of Faith’s son; on the other, it only muddied the waters.
I wondered what Jackson Lee thought about it all, and in only a few minutes, I had my question answered as Bitty hung up her cell phone and gave me a triumphant smile.
“He’s contacting Catfish immediately. Just to confirm, of course. I know it has to be Brett Simon now.”
“Fifteen minutes ago, you were positive it was Sammy,” I argued and was dismissed with a wave of her hand.
“Roll with the flow, Trinket, roll with the flow.”
I rolled my eyes instead. “Honestly, Bitty, sometimes you worry me.”
“I don’t know why. This is all coming together at last. Brandon won’t be suspected of something he didn’t do.”
“That was already decided when the gun expert gave his deposition,” I said. “I don’t think it’s wise to run around saying that Brett is the killer until he’s been arrested and convicted.”
“So you think he’s guilty too,” she said with a wide smile.
“I didn’t say that. Although it’s a definite possibility.”
We were still discussing—arguing—about the social rules in accusing a friend’s son of murder when Bitty’s doorbell rang. Chen Ling is a reliable backup just in case we don’t hear it, and for several moments, neither of us could hear anything but indignant pug. While I tried to shush her, Bitty opened the door. Our visitor did not assuage the dog’s indignation. Strangers tend to have that effect on Chitling.
Panting from my efforts at catching an old pug with bowed legs and more determination packed into fifteen pounds than most fifty-pound pit bulls, once I had her firmly in my grasp I looked up to see Catfish Carter stepping into the entrance hall. I nearly dropped a pug.
`“Mr. Carter,” I managed to say, wheezing a little from hefting a heavy, wiggling dog while trying to remain upright, “what a surprise.”
“Life is full of surprises, dollface. Nasty ones, nice ones; the big wheel just keeps on turning.”
Ignoring the CCR chorus of “Proud Mary” that immediately popped into my head, I stepped aside as Bitty showed him into her living room. My cousin, however, showed no such restraint.
She sang about big wheels turnin’ as she seated him on th
e uncomfortable horsehair settee infamous for rearranging spinal alignments in guests.
At first Catfish looked confused, then he said, “Rollin’ on the river, right? Yeah. I get it. John Fogerty.”
“CCR and Tina Turner,” I added, contributing my limited musical knowledge to the strange conversation. “CCR is my favorite version.”
“She’s talking about Creedence Clearwater Revival,” Bitty said when Catfish gave me a baffled stare. “Now that we have that out of the way—I assume you’ve heard the good news?”
“Do you mean that your son may be cleared of suspicion? Yes, I heard that.”
“So I assume you have been taken off the case now?”
Catfish shook his head. “I’m working a related case now, dollface. What can you tell me about Sammy Simpson?” He shot me a glance as well, lifting a bushy eyebrow. He reminded me of a portly Groucho Marx. All he needed was a cigar and a sneer.
I kept my mouth shut and let Bitty wade in with both feet.
“He’s an unprincipled scoundrel,” she said promptly. “Why?”
“I need facts, not opinions, sweetface. You saw him and Walter in Southaven?”
“No,” I said, intervening before Bitty could dig a conversational hole. “That was Doctor Coltrane, the vet at Willow Bend.”
“Well, somebody got that wrong.” He took out a small notebook and ruffled the pages as he searched for whatever he’d written.
“Would that somebody be Brett Simon?” I asked, and he glanced up at me. I shrugged. “We told him about it, so that must be where you got your information.”
“Think you’re a sharp cookie? Well, I’ve got eyes and ears all over this little burg. It doesn’t take me long to find out what people know.”
Before he could launch into another bad imitation Philip Marlowe recitation, I asked, “Does this have to do with the recent will reading of Walter Simpson? Are you Faith Simon’s investigator too?”
“Oh, he can’t be, Trinket,” said Bitty. “It’d be a conflict of interest. Wouldn’t it?”
Catfish shook his head. “No. I’d be a free agent if no longer employed by Mr. Brunetti. If I was helping Mrs. Simon, which I haven’t said I am, there’s no conflict.”
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