That pretty much answered my question. Faith had hired him, too, I was fairly sure. Then Catfish Carter confirmed it by adding, “I heard you two dames reported Brett Simon made a café confession about killing Mr. Simpson. Now why would that be?”
If this was an example of his interrogation style, it left a lot to be desired, in my opinion, and I opened my mouth to tell him just that when Bitty intervened.
“Now who told you that? It was Mrs. Tyree who heard it, not us. I just now found out and told Jackson Lee, so he’ll report it to the police.”
“Way to go, Greyhound,” I said and lifted my brows when she gave me a baffled look. “Under the bus?”
She blinked. Then whatever passes for reality in Bitty-World must have hit because her eyes got wide. “Oh. Oh yes, but of course, that’s all hearsay, isn’t it? And Mrs. Tyree has made an appointment to talk to the police, I’m sure.”
The conversation didn’t go much better from that point. Catfish tried to wheedle more information out of us, we resisted, and finally Chen Ling took offense at his presence and bit his ankle. It was really more like a nibble, and that’s how we discovered he wears pink socks. I was intrigued. As Catfish likes to project an aura of ultra-macho man, it seemed incongruous. Not that alpha males can’t wear pink socks, I suppose, but it does lead to titillating questions. I refrained.
After closing the door behind him when he left, Bitty leaned back against it. “I locked it, but should I set the alarm?”
“It couldn’t hurt.” I thought a moment. “Chain lock, too?”
Bitty slid the chain lock, and we both smiled. Then Bitty refilled her wine glass, and we assumed prone positions in her parlor. Chen Ling joined us, coming to a stop by Bitty’s chair to stare up at her fixedly until her wine-drinking servant bent and lifted her up to sit in her lap.
“How are you going to stop her from pooping on Mrs. Tyree’s deck?” I asked as if we had nothing else to concern us but pug poo. “Install concrete block fencing? Razor wire on top? Turret towers with armed guards?”
“How many glasses of wine have you had, anyway?” Bitty readjusted the portly pug atop her lap.
“Not enough, or I’d be blissfully napping. Instead, I can’t help thinking about Brett Simon and why he’d say he shot Walter if he didn’t. Unless he was talking about something else, and that’s still saying he shot someone. Faith just doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to condone murder.”
“It’s her son,” said Bitty after a moment and lifted her hand to stop me as I opened my mouth to protest. “I know. I wouldn’t allow my son to get away with murder either, even though I’d get him the best attorney possible after he turned himself in to the police.”
That’s true. Bitty will go to any length to protect her children, like most mothers; but she doesn’t condone criminal activity, I consoled myself.
Then she suggested we commit a criminal act, and I figuratively slapped my forehead with my palm.
“Bitty, may I ask why you think it necessary to steal your rifle from the police evidence room? Brandon will be cleared, and not because of some iffy information about Brett Simon but because there’s not enough evidence to convict him. Isn’t that what Jackson Lee told you?”
“More or less.” She sipped from her glass, gazing at me over the rim. Chitling gazed at me because she’s plotting ways to remove me and have all Bitty’s attention for herself. Never underestimate a pug.
Despite the scrutiny, I said, “No. I will not willingly be part of a criminal enterprise.”
“Honestly, Trinket, it’s not criminal to reclaim your own property.”
“It is when you break and enter to reclaim it from police who are holding it as evidence,” I argued. “Didn’t we recently discuss this? And wasn’t it decided that would be foolish?”
Bitty sniffed disdainfully. “If you don’t want to go with me, Trinket, just say so.”
“I don’t want to go with you.”
“No, really.”
“Really.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel . . .”
I almost felt bad. Not bad enough to encounter the police while breaking into their evidence room, however.
“It is. Sorry to disappoint you. I have an aversion to prison, you see, and some of your plans go terribly awry.”
Bitty sucked down the rest of her wine. “Not always. But I see I am alone in this.”
I sighed. “Why must you reclaim your rifle now instead of wait for the police to bring it to you? Don’t they always return confiscated items?”
I referenced the previous times her pistols had been confiscated and had been duly returned, although with serious reservations, I’m certain. Lieutenant Maxwell had been quite specific in his requests—demands—that Bitty refrain from firing them at people.
“Because, Trinket,” she said slowly as if explaining to a small child, “they are holding my rifle until they locate a suspect, arrest a suspect, charge a suspect, indict a suspect, and then convict a suspect. I could be ninety by then. What if they never settle on a suspect? My heirloom will be lost forever.”
“And you don’t think they might suspect you are the one to steal the rifle? If so, you aren’t giving the police very much credit.”
“Well, of course they’ll suspect me. But I can put it away where they’ll never think to look, and then once they’ve settled on a suspect—what are you doing?”
“I’m going home.” I had stood up and tried to remember where I left my purse. It held my car keys. Then I recalled that I had a new purse now and readjusted my expectations. I found it quickly.
“You’re being so contrary, Trinket.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m usually contrary when someone suggests I break into a jail to steal weapons.”
Bitty smiled. “We don’t have to break into the jail, silly girl.”
I stopped fishing around in my purse for car keys and stared at her. “We don’t?”
“No. We just walk in, you distract the desk person, and I—what are you doing now?”
I’d dumped my purse upside down on the ottoman in a desperate search for keys. As I spotted a metallic glint reflecting lamplight, I said, “Getting out of here as quickly as I can. I’m not involved in this. Do what you will. I’m going home, where I intend to soak in a tub, then talk to sane people.” I paused before clarifying, “Reasonably sane people. Maybe a crazy dog. Any of whom will be an improvement.”
Keys rattled in my hand as I scooped up loose change, used tissues, lipstick, an empty wallet, a hairbrush, and a tattered grocery list that was probably a month old but my mother insisted was current. Then I straightened and looked at Bitty.
She sat glowering at me like a modern Medusa, and it was a miracle I didn’t turn to stone. Her gargoyle glared at me, too. I sighed.
“Sorry. I just can’t do it, Bitty. Jackson Lee will do his best to get your rifle returned to you intact and quickly as possible. You know that.”
She surprised me by taking a deep breath, then saying, “You’re right, Trinket. Jackson Lee will handle everything, and it will all be fine. At least Brandon is safe, and we can go on with our lives now.”
“Uh, yeah,” I managed to reply. “Are you all right? Your eyes are kind of glassy.”
“Allergies. Pollen in the air, you know.” She waved a hand at me. “I’m fine, really I am. Don’t worry about me, Trinket. You go on home to Aunt Anna and Uncle Eddie.”
“Uh huh. Bitty, what are you planning?”
Her eyes opened wide and she blinked. “Honestly, Trinket you say the strangest things at times. Now go on. They’ll be calling here looking for you if you don’t get home soon.”
She followed me to the front door, carrying her gargoyle, and I turned to look at her as she punched in the code to unlock the security alarm and then sl
id the chain free. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Prickles of suspicion danced along my spine.
“If you do what I’m sure you’re planning to do, don’t call me. I don’t want to know about it. Call Rob Rainey for bail money. Or Jackson Lee. Bitty, are you listening?”
“Of course, Trinket. I always listen to you. Have a nice drive home.”
I would have lingered to press her, but her gargoyle snapped at me when I got too close, so I just waved one hand in the air in a gesture of surrender and left. Oh, I knew she was going to draft some unsuspecting person into helping her go after her damn rifle, despite all common sense and police with badges and guns. I just knew it.
Sometimes I would rather be wrong.
DADDY WOKE ME by yelling up the stairs to come to the phone. I opened my eyes, blinking and wondering why I couldn’t see. Then I realized it was in the middle of the night as my eyes adjusted to total darkness except for my bedside clock. The big hand was on the three, the little hand was on the two. I tried to make sense of that.
“Eureka May Truevine, pick up the phone,” my daddy bellowed up the stairs, and I promptly got tangled in my covers trying to get up.
“Coming,” I yelled back, then fell out of bed onto the floor. Fortunately, there was a nice soft rug to break my fall, but I still said some ugly words.
It occurred to me, of course, that it was Bitty, and she’d either been arrested or was in trouble and despite my warning, calling me to come help. I intended to be strong. I intended to be firm. I intended to remind her she was crazy.
The road to hell, it is said, is paved with good intentions. I figured I was pretty much at my destination on that road.
At first I didn’t recognize the person on the phone and pressed it closer to my ear as I asked her to repeat what she’d said, following that request with, “Who is this?”
“Miranda Watson, and I need help. She’s stuck, and I can’t get her out and I’m afraid she’s going to be arrested—are you listening?”
Actually, I was stuck myself, wondering how Bitty had come to enlist Miranda Watson as her accomplice. I rallied and shifted from one foot to the other, curling my toes up from the cool kitchen floor. “Uh huh,” I answered brightly. “Stuck in what?”
There was a moment of silence, a sigh, and then, “A garbage can.”
I tried to picture that and failed. “Okay, so what—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Trinket, just haul your ass down here and help me get her out of this damn garbage can.”
That sounded direct. “Okay. Where are you?”
“The police station.”
Visions flashed before my eyes: me in an orange jumpsuit or black and white horizontal stripes; me stretched out on dirty pavement while police handcuffed me; Bitty, arms flapping and butt in a garbage can while police cuffed her. I sighed.
“I’m on my way,” I said, and Miranda muttered something that sounded like, “You bet your ass you are,” but I could have been mistaken.
The Holly Springs Police Department is now in a nice, one-story new building close to 78 Highway, on JM Ash Drive just off Highway 7 before it turns into Craft Street. It’s a red brick and fairly new structure, much too modern to allow break-outs or break-ins, even if suspects were incarcerated there. They’re usually taken to the building where we’d gone to pick up Brandon. The larger jail for longer-term convicts is also on the outskirts of town, with razor wire and all the accoutrements necessary for prisoners. Apparently, the newer building is where the evidence room is located, with Bitty’s heirloom rifle tucked away in a cubby somewhere. I had no idea where the garbage can was located.
It was dark, of course, but low lights were on inside. I saw no blue lights, nor did I see Bitty’s car or any sign of police officers dragging off a bubble-headed blonde. Nor did I see any sign of a gossip columnist, even though I drove to the back of the parking lot. As I turned my car to head back to the front, the lights happened to catch a dark shadow that moved. Uh oh. I stopped and peered into the night. Several cars were in the lot, most seeming to belong to government employees. I waited, and in a moment, the shadow moved closer.
Beckoning furiously, Miranda Watson said as soon as I got close enough to roll down the window to ask about Bitty, “You should have better sense than to drive in here like this. Go park the car at the gas station, then walk back.”
It made sense, although I didn’t much appreciate being scolded by a gossip columnist. I reflected it was a good thing I’d worn comfortable shoes. Unfortunately, they were my bunny slippers because I’d been too rattled to remember to put on sensible shoes like Nikes. By the time I parked at the corner and walked back to the parking lot, Miranda was pacing. She wore a dark hoodie and jeans, with a black turtlenecked sweater that she had pulled up over her chin almost to her eyes.
“Cameras,” she said in a muffled voice when I reached her, and alarmed, I glanced up and around.
“Here? Never mind. Where’s Bitty? If they have cameras, we’re all in trouble, so let’s get this over with before they happen to see us out here.”
I followed Miranda around the back to a small area behind the building. Trees, bushes, and dirt lined the rear parking area. Oddly, no light illuminated the space.
“I think they’re burned out or something,” Miranda muttered and pointed.
I looked where she pointed, but all I saw was a dumpster. Then it dawned on me. Oh no. Bitty must be horrified. And how could I get her out of there, if she couldn’t climb out?
I stood on my toes and peered into the abyss. My eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. It was empty, except for a Bitty cowering in the bottom like a rat in a leather jumpsuit. “Are you still wearing that thing? I thought you had it made into cushions ’cause it didn’t fit any more,” I said as I tried not to touch any part of the huge metal dumpster.
“Shut up and get me out of here,” she snapped and stood up. There was nothing for her to stand on, and I wasn’t tall enough to reach over and drag her out. I turned to ask Miranda if she had any ideas, but she’d disappeared. I didn’t blame her, but it did irritate me. “Trinket!”
I turned my attention back to my dirty Diva. The dumpster may be empty, but it had a vivid reminder of previous occupancy in a ripe odor that wafted toward me. I held my breath, stood on my toes, and offered my hands to Bitty. If not for her blond bubble hair, it wouldn’t have been easy to see, it was so dark back there. The pale helmet wobbled toward me, and I felt her grab at me. She missed, I tried again, found her skinny little arms, and clasped her tightly.
“You’re going to have to jump while I pull,” I muttered.
“I can’t jump. My cheerleading days are behind me.”
“Do tell. Look, you’ll have to help, or I’ll go get my car, tie a rope around you and the bumper, and put it in reverse. These are your choices.”
“All right! You’re terribly cranky tonight.”
“Yes, I get that way when I get hauled out of bed at two in the morning to come on some rescue mission for something I told you not to do in the first place. You can explain later just how you got in the dumpster and what you hoped to accomplish here.”
“Where’s Miranda?”
“No idea. That’s something else you can explain later. Now, ready? On the count of three I’ll pull, you jump.”
The first attempt did not go well. I pulled, she forgot to jump, and her slick leather arms slid out of my grasp. She landed with a thud on the bottom of the dumpster. I swear, the scent of pizza with sausage and peppers gusted up into my face like a Domino’s tornado. Bitty cussed a little, then stood up and waved her arms at me until we connected again. I was rather glad that I couldn’t see her that well.
The second attempt failed, too. I wasn’t strong enough, and Bitty couldn’t seem to leap high enough, since the dumpster was probably five feet deep, and tha
t’s her height.
“I’ll get my car,” I said, and Bitty made a sound like a distressed frog. “What else can I do? Go inside and ask a policeman for help?”
“That may be difficult to explain,” came the woeful response from the garbage well. It kind of echoed. She really sounded pitiful.
I thought about it a moment, then said, “Cats.”
“Honestly, Trinket, this is no time to talk about a Broadway play.”
Now she sounded cranky, so I said, “No, Princess Pew, I mean, we can say we’re out here trying to rescue a stray cat. You know. Everyone knows my parents are the local homeless shelter for stray cats.”
“Oh! Yes, that’s good. Okay. Go inside and get someone with a ladder to get me out of here. I’m going to have to soak in a tub, do a sauna, and shampoo something sticky out of my hair. Don’t ask.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t intend to.” I rubbed at my shoulder where it felt like I’d strained it trying to heft Bitty out of her unsanitary nesting spot, then turned to go into the police station to ask for help.
I immediately bumped into a solid wall that said something like, “Oof!”
My heart leaped, my stomach dropped, and my knees got wobbly. “Miranda?”
“No,” said a familiar male voice. I felt better.
“Jackson Lee?”
“Who else? I got a call from the station saying I needed to come get my significant other out of the dumpster before they have to arrest her.”
“A cat,” I said, squinting into the darkness to try and see his face. He was a big dark shape and that was it. I tried again. “We were rescuing a cat.”
“Of course you were. Is she still in there?”
“I’m afraid so. We may need a ladder.”
We didn’t need a ladder. Jackson Lee reached in, took Bitty by the arms, and hauled her out like a sack of flour. Then he immediately released her and took a step back. “You smell like pizza.”
Divas Are Forever Page 18