Divas Are Forever

by Virginia Brown

  “Thank you,” she said with an obvious attempt at dignity.

  Jackson Lee blew out a breath he’d obviously been holding and said, “Bitty, we can talk when it’s daylight, and you can tell me all about this adventure then. I’d like to get some sleep in what’s left of the night. I’m not up to sorting out your no doubt tangled reasoning.”

  In a small voice, Bitty said, “You’re mad at me.”

  There was a brief silence, then another sigh, and he said, “I won’t be when I wake up again. Please go home, sugar. Straight home. Shall I follow you?”

  “No, that’s fine. I’m sure Trinket won’t mind. If it’s any consolation to you, she told me not to do this.”

  “It’s not, but good to know. Good night, ladies.”

  And with that, our tall, dark, handsome hero walked off into the night. I smiled, then I realized I was stuck with Bitty. That put a damper on the situation.

  “Can you take me home, Trinket?” Bitty asked, adding, “We came in Miranda’s car. I assume she has abandoned our mission and me.”

  “Probably the smartest thing she’s done all night. I have cloth seats. You smell like pizza and garlic. I’m not sure I want that lingering in my car.”

  “I’ll buy plastic bags at the gas station.”

  “A deal,” I said, and we walked toward Cousin’s gas on the corner where I’d left my car. Fortunately, it was still there. Not much traffic on Highway 4 to witness our curious arrival, me in sweat pants, sweatshirt, and bunny slippers, and Bitty disguised as a giant pizza slice. All in all, it wasn’t the worst situation I’ve been in with Bitty.

  “I wonder how the police knew we were out there,” Bitty said as I drove down Craft, and I shook my head.

  “It’s a police station. They have cameras everywhere. Just because the lights were out, that doesn’t mean they can’t see you. I’m amazed they didn’t arrest you. What did you think you could do, even if you hadn’t fallen into the dumpster? And how did you manage that?”

  “It’s a long story.” She shifted to look at me, and plastic made a snicking sound under her leather-clad thighs. “I was told the evidence room was at the rear, so I figured I could go and see if I could at least look inside and spot my rifle. But the only window was high up, so I needed something to stand on. Miranda suggested I look in the dumpster for a box. Other than that, she was no use at all. She was the one who told me the lights were out because they were changing to new lighting, so I decided it was the perfect night to try, you see. And she graciously agreed to help me.”

  “I’m astounded you’re talking casually to Miranda. You usually have unkind things to say about her.”

  “Well, perhaps I misjudged her. Then again, she left me, so perhaps I didn’t. But at the moment, I had no one willing to do the tiniest little favor for me, so—”

  “Hold it right there, Miss Martyr. Breaking into a police station isn’t a ‘tiny little favor.’ It’s usually suicide. Or at the least, incarceration-icide.”

  “That’s not a word,” she protested, making the plastic squeak as she crossed her arms over her ample chest.

  “It should be. Do us all a favor and just buy prison denims or an orange jumpsuit. Stop trying to earn Jailhouse Fashion.”

  “I’ve often thought about starting my own clothing line, you know. I studied design in college, so perhaps I could share my visions with the world.”

  I turned onto Van Dorn and sped up to beat the light at Memphis Street, and headed for Randolph Street. College Street would be the next turn off Randolph, and I could leave my deranged cousin at home. Only a couple more blocks to go . . .

  But as we passed the courthouse, a police car pulled out to follow us. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror, only half-listening as Bitty rambled on about designing prison clothes for the un-incarcerated as well as more fashionable garments for those inhabiting prison dorms on the government dime. I expected lights to flash at any moment so I paid scrupulous attention to turn signals, speed, and no rolling stops. That had been an issue in the past that I did not care to repeat. If Rodney Farrell was in that patrol car, I may well be called to account for a misdeed I hadn’t taken into consideration. It’s happened. My intentions to read the Mississippi Driver’s Manual from cover to cover had yet to be realized. The road to hell narrowed.

  The light changed at S. Market Street, and I braked to a halt while Bitty rambled on about measuring the stride, whatever that means. The patrol car pulled up next to me. I tried not to look out my window, but a quick “burp” of the siren drew my attention. The officer motioned for me to pull over. I stared at him. It wasn’t Rodney Farrell. I made a right turn and nosed in my car across from Tyson Drugs, closed for the night as most sensible people were safe in bed.

  Bitty didn’t even seem to notice; she kept talking about denim and duck cloth and horizontal stripes. I turned off my engine. That got her attention. She glanced around.

  “Tyson’s is closed, you know,” she said. “So is JB’s.”

  “I don’t think that officer cares about laxatives or whiskey sours, Bitty. Do you know him?”

  “What? Oh. The police. What did you do?”

  “I have no idea.” I hit the button to roll down my window before the delayed action safety feature ended. The officer appeared in the opening. He had his cap pulled low over his forehead, but it was the little ticket book in his hand that caught my attention.

  “Officer, was I speeding?”

  “License and proof of insurance, please.”

  Uh oh. That was going to be a problem.

  “My purse was stolen. It had my license and insurance card—wait. I have a card in my glove compartment. Move, Bitty, so I can get it—”

  “Put your hands on the wheel,” the officer said sharply, and I froze in reaching over Bitty for the glove compartment. “Back where I can see them.”

  I slowly complied. My heart beat so fast it sounded like thunder in my ears. The street was empty, even late-night people having deserted this part of town. Bitty, oblivious to the nuances of an armed man at my window with the law on his side, leaned forward.

  “Who are you? I don’t know you. Are you new?”

  The officer had stepped back to speak into some kind of radio he wore like a pin on his lapel, and I hissed at Bitty to shut up. She ignored me. She squinted out the window to try and see his face or maybe his badge number, I didn’t know. I just didn’t want any complications when I still hadn’t replaced my driver’s license. I was pretty sure I had an insurance card in the glove compartment, but I certainly wasn’t about to reach for it now.

  Then the officer stepped close, bent down to look into the car at my passenger, and asked, “Are you Miz Hollandale?”

  Before I could reply, Bitty said, “I’m Mrs. Hollandale, yes. Who are you?”

  “Officer Barron Stewart. I just moved back to Holly Springs.”

  “Barron—are you Royal Stewart’s brother?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What are you ladies doing out so late at night?”

  Bitty bridled. “Is that a crime now?”

  Officer Stewart shook his head. “No, ma’am, but the car’s right taillight is out. This was a courtesy stop.”

  I didn’t like the sound of was, so I said, “Thank you so much, Officer. I’ll have my daddy take a look at it first thing in the morning.”

  “Can your daddy explain why you don’t have a driver’s license?”

  I sighed. “Yes, but it won’t help. My purse was in Bitty’s car when it was stolen a few days ago, and I haven’t yet replaced my license. I did cancel credit cards and things like that but hoped when the car was found, it’d still have my identification in it.”

  Officer Stewart was busily writing in his little book. He glanced up at me. “You said you have your insurance card in the glove box?”

/>   “I do.” I motioned to Bitty, and she opened the glove compartment and found the little slip of paper with insurance information, handed it to me, and I handed it to the officer. He read it, wrote more in his ticket book, then gave it back to me.

  “Miz Truevine, you should go get your license replaced first thing tomorrow too. I’d normally give my own brother a ticket for something like this, but I’m giving you a warning instead. This is a written warning, so if you don’t get a new license and get stopped again, it will be a definite ticket and fine.”

  Filled with the warmth of having escaped paying a ticket, I gushed, “Oh, thank you, sir! It’s been so awful, getting the car stolen, then police finding it stripped, and after the murder and all, it’s been a terrible time lately.”

  Officer Stewart tore the warning from his pad and held it out. “Yeah, the murder at the pilgrimage was bad. My brother can’t stop saying that it could have been him, since Walter was wearing the uniform he’d been wearing the day before. If not for that bar fight and going to jail, Royal might have been the one killed.”

  That struck me. All this time I’d been thinking Walter Simpson was the target. What if he wasn’t? What if it truly was an accident, or at least, the wrong victim? Even Bitty caught that and leaned forward to look past me as I took the warning from Stewart.

  “Why would you say that? Was it an accident after all?”

  Officer Stewart didn’t answer. He just touched a finger to the brim of his hat and turned and walked away. I looked over at Bitty and did an imitation of The Twilight Zone theme. She rolled her eyes.

  “Royal Stewart is a terrible flirt, you know,” she said as I backed my car out of the diagonal slot and had to go around the block to come up at the light on Randolph Street. “He hit on Skip Whalen’s girlfriend right in front of him while at JB’s. She apparently liked it, and that really set Skip off, the way I heard it from the boys.”

  “Tell me about Skip Whalen,” I said, and Bitty, who loves to gossip, even though she says otherwise, launched into a lengthy history of the Whalens and their son Skip—whose name really was Skip on his birth certificate, and didn’t that sound like a dog’s name rather than a baby’s—saying they’d only been back in town for a few years. . . . I shall spare you the finer points.

  After sorting out the non-essential details when she finished, I parked in front of her house. “So what you’re saying is that Skip is rowdy, but don’t get him mad? I wonder how mad he got at Royal Stewart.”

  “Maybe we should ask him. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

  “No, I have to drive up to Olive Branch to get my driver’s license before I do anything else.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  As she opened the car door, plastic bag rustling a farewell to leather, I said, “Isn’t the Benz being delivered?”

  “Yes, but Jackson Lee wants to take it for a test drive before bringing it to me. Just in case. You can take me by his office when we get back from Olive Branch. Or Nesbit, if it’s too busy at the Olive Branch DMV.”

  I groaned at the thought of driving an extra fifteen miles each way, an hour extra in the car. “I’ll hope for short lines.”

  Bitty bent to smile at me. I got a good whiff of sausage and peppers as she said, “You do that, honey. Optimism is a fun exercise.”

  I hate it when Bitty is right.

  Chapter 12

  “MAY I SMILE?” I asked the lady manning the DMV camera, and she looked amused.

  “Will you be smiling when an officer stops you?”

  “Probably not, but since I have to use my license as ID to write a check at grocery stores, I’d prefer looking pleas—”

  The click of the camera warned me that I would definitely not be looking pleasant on my laminated license. The lady—and I now use that term loosely—manning the camera gave me a nice smile, however. “All done. Wait over there, please.”

  I sat down next to Bitty, who had a driver’s manual in her hand and flipped through the pages. “Listen to this, Trinket. It says that mud flaps are required on all trucks. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s on the test, I bet. ‘All motor vehicles, trailers, and semitrailers must have fenders, wheel covers, or flaps to prevent mud, water, or other material from being thrown from the wheels up onto other vehicles.’ Can you believe that? I wonder if the Benz should have mud flaps.”

  “The Benz should be plastered with signs warning other drivers that it’s subject to sudden stops, swerves, and general insanity instead of pink bumper stickers with pugs and pistols.”

  “You’re just jealous. I’ll get a bumper sticker for your car. You’ll like it, I’m sure.”

  “Not if it has a pug or pistol on it. And I’m not taking a test. Just replacing a lost license.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. You’d have the right answer to at least one of the questions.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that she had only gotten out of driver’s ed because she wore a low-cut blouse to class and a form-fitting sweater on test day. And she wouldn’t have had to take driver’s ed if she hadn’t run a car through the front of the McDonald’s while still driving on a learner’s permit. I’d been the licensed driver foolish enough to let her take the wheel, so I remembered it quite clearly. My daddy did too, I was pretty sure. Age might have robbed him of the memories of my first school play, my winning a spelling bee, and other minor childhood triumphs, but he definitely still recalled the disasters.

  “So riddle me this,” I said instead. “Would Skip Whalen be angry enough at Royal Stewart to try to kill him?”

  Bitty closed the driver’s manual. “He’s been known to carry grudges, so he might. But his eyesight is still good, so I can’t imagine him mistaking an old man like Walter Simpson for Royal. After all, Royal is young and good-looking.”

  “And Walter looked like a peach pit,” I mused aloud. “Both were tall and thin, though. And with the smoke and chaos—he might have still thought Walter was Royal.”

  “But didn’t Royal go to jail? Skip might have thought he was still there. And anyway, Royal looks nothing like Walter. Gray hair and wrinkles aside, he even walked like an old man.”

  “All very true. It just seemed that perhaps I’d found a rationale for his murder.”

  “There’s nothing rational about murder, Trinket.”

  “No, but rationale is defined differently from rational. It’s a justification for doing something insane, while rational means balanced thinking.”

  Bitty flapped a hand at me. “There are a lot of murderers who think killing someone is rational and balanced thinking.”

  Still thinking aloud, I said, “But of course, profit is a common rationale for murder too, and there were people who profited from Walter’s death.” I pondered the possibilities. While I hated to think Walter’s death was a mistake—random murder seems so unnecessary, capricious, and impossible to prevent—I hated even more thinking someone hated him enough to kill him. Just because people are cranky, that doesn’t mean they deserve the death penalty. If so, the world would have maybe a hundred people left.

  A sharp elbow in my side earned an “Ouch!” and some stares my way as Bitty got my attention.

  “They’re calling your name, Trinket.”

  I got up and went to the desk to get my license. As I suspected, the photo caught me with my lips pinched in the act of saying a word beginning with P, but it was the name that got my immediate attention. European Treevine. I had been reduced to a botanical phrase. It took a moment to get the clerk’s attention, as she was busily chatting up a handsome man and had no time for a woman with pinched lips, but finally she sauntered over.

  “Everything accurate?” she asked in a bored tone. She looked to be about fourteen going on thirty, but since she worked at the DMV, I assumed she wa
s at least eighteen.

  I smiled. Her eyes got big and she took a step back, so maybe it wasn’t as pleasant a smile as I intended. Still, I proceeded to show her my license.

  “This information is incorrect. My name is Eureka May Truevine.”

  She peered at the license. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what it says here. European Treevine.”

  I inhaled deeply. “It can’t just be my accent, as I filled out the card and gave two forms of identification. Here they are. See? The names do not match.”

  I spoke clearly and concisely. The girl looked puzzled. I understood that my forms of ID were a bit unusual, but it’d been all I could find that I didn’t already have in my purse—the purse that was stolen: My birth certificate and a former work ID when I lived in Nevada and worked at a casino-hotel named Hot Pants and Hot Slots. I was there less than a week, but it was the only ID with my photo and signature that I still owned. The other IDs I had presented were judged unreliable. And no, I did not wear hot pants while working there. My job was in Human Resources and writing workmen’s comp claims, so I stayed out of sight in the back. It still hadn’t been enough to calm my anxiety over working at a hotel-lounge-casino named Hot Pants and Hot Slots. The parent company had a normal name, something like Casinos Ltd, or I’d never have taken the job in the first place. A warning to those who apply online for jobs.

  At any rate, as I was laboriously explaining to the girl behind the counter that while my name may be unusual, it is authentic, Bitty tugged on my sleeve quite firmly. I jerked to one side and turned to glare at her. “What?”

  “We have to go, Trinket. There’s an emergency. Come on, Trinket, let’s go!”

  By now the girl behind the counter was looking at me suspiciously. Trinket is not quite the same as Eureka or even European, so I decided to forego the possibilities I saw looming in my immediate future and left with Bitty, clutching my new license in my hand. I could come back, and perhaps to another DMV where people knew how to recognize computer entry errors.

  “We should have stayed at the DMV in Olive Branch,” Bitty fumed. “Now here we are on the other side of the state when we need to be in Holly Springs.”