Divas Are Forever

by Virginia Brown

  “Stones River reenactment. It was right after Christmas. Why?”

  “That’s up around Murfreesboro?”

  He looked surprised. “Yes, ma’am. Not many people are familiar with the more obscure battles, just the famous ones.”

  “I know lots of useless trivia.” I abandoned the rifle on the wall and moved closer to him where he stood by a small sofa set in front of a sixty-inch television hooked up to gaming systems. As in multiple. He wore a tee shirt, Spiderman pajama pants, was barefoot, and looked very young. “Is that your rifle?” I pointed to the one on the wall.

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Well, it’s not an heirloom or anything. I bought it at one of the reenactments.”

  “Does it fire?”

  He looked puzzled, then wary. “It did last time I used it. Why?”

  “And the last time you used it was at the pilgrimage the day before Walter was killed?”

  “I told all that to the police already. They gave it back to me last week. It’s not the gun that killed Walter Simpson.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.” I walked back over to the rifle and studied it. “When you clean it, do you break it down completely? Take the barrel off and everything?”

  “That’s the best way to clean a weapon.”

  “Did you clean it at the last reenactment at Stones River?”

  I turned to look at him when he hesitated, and he still looked mystified. “Yes, ma’am, as a matter of fact several of us cleaned our weapons. There wasn’t much else to do except drink, and you can only do that so long.”

  “Do you recall who else was there?” Rayna asked, and I saw that she’d caught the drift of my interrogation.

  He nodded. “Brandon and Clayton, of course, and Sammy Simpson . . . let me think, oh yeah, Arlie Newton and Tommy Gibbons were with us too, as well as Skip.”

  Rayna glanced at me, and I lifted my eyebrows. Then I looked at Royal. “Do you know what kind of rifle Skip Whalen owns?”

  “Enfield, like the rest of us. It was the second most common weapon used, although the 1861 Springfield was the most popular the last few years of the War.”

  “So tell me about Jenna. That’s who Clayton and Skip got in an argument over, right?”

  Royal shrugged. “She’s a pretty girl. I think she’s screwed up messing around with Skip since he has a reputation for getting, ah, rough with his girlfriends, but some people just don’t get wise until it’s too late.”

  “So how did you get involved that Friday night?”

  Royal shifted, crossed his arms over his chest, obviously getting tired of our questions. “Look, I don’t want to be any more involved in this than I am. Skip got rough with Jenna, I got mad, he took a swing at me, and I tried to break his nose. We both went to jail.”

  “And how was Clayton involved in that?” Rayna asked.

  Royal shrugged. “He wasn’t. Not that night. They’d got into it over Jenna a while back. Clay cleaned his clock. Skip said he’d get even with him for that, but they must have patched it up because he didn’t have much to say to him that Friday night.”

  “I appreciate your information,” Rayna said. “I think it will help a lot.”

  “Just keep my name out of it, please.” Royal shoved a hand through his hair, a rueful smile on his face. “My brother says if I get in trouble again he’s going to make sure I spend some quality jail time.”

  I understood that. We walked the few steps to the door, when I thought of something and turned. “Can you tell me when Skip got out of jail?”

  “Oh, he got out before I did. His daddy came and paid bail before he even got to a cell. He was bleeding everywhere. My brother let me sweat until early morning.”

  I smiled. “You’ve really helped Brandon and Clayton, I think. Thank you.”

  I made it almost all the way down the steep stairs without tripping but did have to take the last two steps in a giant leap to keep my balance. Rayna had glided down as if greased. There are times I find her quite annoying.

  “So what do you think?” she asked once we were back in my car.

  “I think we have some intriguing possibilities: a fight over a girl, an angry boyfriend, an opportunity to sabotage his rifle, and someone attacked Brandon after the fight at JB’s. Are you still grounded from doing any kind of investigating?”

  Rayna made a rude sound. “Rob can advise, he can request, but I draw the line at orders. I take it we visit Mr. Whalen next?”

  I smiled. Rayna is very quick. I like that about her.

  Chapter 13

  WE WENT BY HER house so she could look up information on Skip Whalen on the programs installed in their computer, while I let her dogs out into the garden to do their business. She has an old dog named Belle, a lovely black lab with a friendly temperament that regards everyone she meets as a friend. Jinx is much younger but seems to realize Belle is slower and has her limitations. They ambled slowly around the garden while I breathed in the scents of spring and essence of Mississippi. Lovely fragrances that recalled my childhood.

  As I reflected on childhood memories, one of the depot owners emerged with a dog on a leash. Both black labs ran to the fence and barked welcomes, and she waved. I waved back. Next door, the lunch crowd at Phillips had picked up, and I was glad I had a parking spot. Rayna said they intend to eventually pave the narrow driveway that leads to the back of the property and the alleyway where their garage/former carriage house is located. Old properties require constant maintenance—a reminder to me whenever I thought of buying my own house once I won the lottery. Of course, I’d win enough to pay someone else to do all the maintenance, but as long as I was dreaming, I included a magic house that cleaned itself.

  Rayna whistled from the door, and I took that as my cue to follow the dogs.

  “Sorry to take so long,” she said when I joined her inside the huge former hotel lobby. “I did some sleuthing while I was at it. Oh, and I made us some lunch. Hope you’re hungry.”

  She’d put a small buffet atop the former registration desk, and I realized I was pretty hungry. “I’m starved. Reminiscing and fantasies always make me hungry.”

  Rayna pulled up a stool next to me. “Reminiscing about . . .?”

  “Childhood. Spring and summer when everything was green, and the world had no sharp edges. Hopscotch. Swinging on vines over the creek, falling into cool water and pretending I had slipped, chasing fireflies at dusk, roasting marshmallows on a green stick Daddy cut for me, sleepovers where we giggled and made up stories.”

  Rayna smiled and pushed a dish of strawberries toward me. “Picking strawberries in June, blackberries in midsummer, blueberries in late summer, apples in the fall—we used to have such fun. What are your fantasies? G-rated, please.”

  I laughed. “Old houses that magically clean themselves.”

  “I keep looking for that bottle with a genie inside. I understand perfectly.”

  “So what did you sleuth?” I asked as I chose a fat red strawberry.

  “Just some background on Skip. We did his bond and Royal’s that Friday night. Rob took care of Royal, and I wrote Skip’s bond. He’s got a record of arrests, mostly for fighting and malicious mischief. Nothing major, mostly vandalism.”

  “I so look forward to meeting him,” I said with a sigh, and Rayna laughed.

  After we finished ham sandwiches with tomato and lettuce, ate fresh fruit and cheese, and drank sweet tea, we tidied up and headed for my car.

  “I have another fantasy,” I said as we got inside and I rolled down the windows to let in fresh air.

  “G-rated?”

  “My fantasies usually are, unfortunately. Which way do I go?”

  Rayna consulted her printout. “Oh, not far at all. Close to Cady Lee. What’s your other fantasy?”

  “That we find out who
killed Walter and why before Bitty does something else stupid. Did I tell you what she did last night?”

  “Oh Lordy, she called me to ask for my help, but I was bonding out someone and couldn’t get away. She didn’t tell me what she had planned, though. Do I want to know?”

  “She tried to break into the police station in the mistaken belief that her rifle was kept in an evidence room there. And she incurporated Miranda Watson as her accomplice.”

  Rayna laughed, and I entertained her with Bitty’s latest escapade all the way to the Whalen house.

  It turned out to be close to Cady Lee’s house, not far from the cemetery in a lovely old area. Several of the houses are always on the pilgrimage. It was quiet and serene, basking in the spring weather, sunlight and soft breezes that could be deceptively balmy. April is a fickle month in the South. A gorgeous day can turn into a night of tornadoes and hail that destroy crops and shred fruit blossoms. Not to mention turn lives upside down.

  So I just enjoyed the weather while possible as we turned into the driveway of the house where Whalen lived with his parents. It was a charming little house, brick with arched doors and wooden shutters and window boxes, gently sloping lawn, and a garage out back that held a monster truck behind the open doorway. It had huge wheels. I assumed it belonged to Skip and not his middle-aged parents.

  “Rob would love that truck,” said Rayna as we got out of the car. “He has a fantasy where he’s in a monster truck rally.”

  “That’s frightening to know. And I always thought Rob had good sense.”

  “He has his moments,” she said, and I nodded.

  Rob did indeed have his moments. He’d saved our lives not an awful long time ago, and I still talked nicely to him and brought him slices of cake when my daddy didn’t eat it all. He’s a big fan of Hummingbird cake.

  Mrs. Whalen answered the door. She was about my age, with tidy brown hair and a nice smile. Until Rayna asked if her son was home, then her smile turned into a grimace, and she looked at us as if we were bugs in her salad.

  “Who are you? Wait—I’ve seen you before. You’re that crazy woman who runs around getting mixed up in murders.”

  Since that could have applied to both of us, I let Rayna take the lead. Besides, the woman was intimidating. She was slender but wiry, and confrontational. Then her husband popped up behind her, and he was definitely intimidating. He had brawny shoulders, a bald head, arms like a wrestler, and tattoos on his neck and face.

  Rayna stood her ground. “Is your son in? We handled his bail bond, if you recall, and I have a few questions for him.”

  Mr. Whalen pushed his wife aside and filled the open door with his bulk. He did not look at all friendly. “What kind of questions?”

  “As your son is not a minor and capable of response, I must address those questions to him.”

  Rayna remained cool and calm, and I goggled with admiration.

  Mr. Whalen leaned against the door frame. “He ain’t in. I’ll tell him you came by.”

  “Do you know my name?”

  “Don’t need to. You’re the bail bond lady. He’ll know it.”

  He had a point. I took a step back. Rayna stood firm. “Rainey Bail Bonds. He must ask for Rayna.”

  Whalen guffawed. “Rayna Rainey? Sounds like a boy band.”

  Rayna didn’t move. “My name is Rayna Blue. If he does not contact me soon, I shall consider him non-compliant. There are consequences.”

  She sounded very professional and confident. I believed her. Apparently, so did Skip Whalen’s father.

  “Fine. He’s in the garage. Talk to him.”

  Then he stepped back and shut the door in our faces. I was relieved.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” I said as we walked down the short brick path to the driveway. “What consequences would there be if he didn’t contact you?”

  “I’d be bummed.”

  When she didn’t add anything, I said, “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Did you believe me?”

  “I did. You’re good. Ask Skip if he killed Walter. Tell him there are non-compliant consequences for lying to a bail bondsman.”

  Rayna just laughed.

  Skip was under the monster truck when we found him. He was on some kind of rolling board, and when Rayna called his name, he rolled out to peer up at us. He squinted slightly. “Whaddya want?”

  “Do you remember me?” Rayna asked, and he blinked.

  “Naw. Who are ya?”

  Grease smeared his forehead, and his nose looked a bit off-center, but other than that, he could have been handsome, if I fancied female abusers. Since I do not, I found him rather repulsive.

  Rayna remained calm and in charge of the situation. “I bonded you out of jail the night you got in a bar fight with Royal Stewart.”

  He grunted. “Which time?”

  “The night before Walter Simpson was killed.”

  “Huh. Yeah, I remember that.”

  “That’s a good start. What else do you remember of that night?”

  Scowling, he pulled himself the rest of the way out from under the truck by grabbing the frame and rolling backward. Then he got to his feet. He was built a lot like his father, brawny but with hair. He had peculiarly light eyes, and I couldn’t decide if they were blue or gray. He wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. He wore mechanic’s overalls; they might have been gray. It was hard to tell.

  “What’s this about?” he demanded, and Rayna didn’t flinch when he towered over her. I thought she looked splendid and uncowed.

  “It’s about the fight that night with Royal Stewart. What is your version of the event?”

  “What does this have to do with my bond?”

  “You haven’t been to court yet. I want to be sure you’ll make an appearance, and it’s more likely you’ll show up if the consequences are likely to be light.”

  “The charges are creating a public disturbance and property damage. I’ll pay a fine and go home.”

  “Perhaps. Don’t you have a previous record?”

  Skip looked uneasy. “Yeah.”

  “Now, please give me your version of the events of that night.”

  Skip tried once more: “I already gave my statement to the police that night.”

  “Yes, and now I want the truth. After hitting Jenna, what happened next?”

  “Did she tell you that? Don’t believe anything that lying little bitch has to say.” He added a few more comments it’s best not to repeat, ending with, “Fine. She got all uppity, and I gave her a reminder of what happens when females act stupid. I didn’t hit her. Hard, anyway. Then Clay had to put his nose in it, but his brother had the good sense to make him leave. After that, Royal decided to stick his nose in my business, and it ended up in a fight.”

  “I heard you got whipped,” Rayna said, and Skip’s face turned bright red.

  “The hell I did! He might have broke my nose, but he ended up spending the night in jail for it. My daddy got me out and took me to the ER. They put a splint on it, but it still ain’t right. Now I have to go to court and pay fines—he shoulda minded his own business.”

  “So you’re pretty mad at Royal, I imagine.”

  “I don’t get mad. I get even. My daddy taught me not to take nothin’ off nobody, or I’d be kicked around in this world, and he’s right. So I don’t. Now, get out of here if you’re through asking stupid questions.”

  Oddly, he reminded me of Catfish Carter. Maybe it was his way of speaking, tough and covering up a multitude of deficiencies, I was quite sure. Except Catfish was efficient in his job, and Skip seemed to lack even basic decency.

  “Lovely family,” I remarked as we returned to my car.

  “Yes, I found them obnoxious too.” Rayna buckled he
r seatbelt and leaned back. “Skip has motive, opportunity, and means. And I didn’t even get around to asking him about his rifle. I wonder why he wasn’t in the pilgrimage reenactment since he goes to the other ones.”

  I was struck by that. I looked at her as I started the engine. “That’s a good point. Did he try to join and was turned down? Did he elect not to join in because he had other plans? So maybe he was at the depot but not dressed as a soldier. Wouldn’t carrying a weapon be noticed then?”

  “It’s possible. Or it’s also possible he dressed as a soldier and slipped into the crowd and joined the fight without anyone noticing.”

  “But the police should have caught that if he did,” I mused aloud. “After all, they were questioning everyone and even made the spectators stay for questions.”

  “Once they got there,” Rayna said.

  A lightbulb went on in my head. “True! There was a span of time after the murder was even noticed. Plenty of time for the killer to escape. But that doesn’t explain how Brandon’s rifle was the one that fired the fatal shot.”

  “And there’s no evidence that Walter wasn’t the intended target all along.” Rayna got quiet, and we both pondered all the new information.

  Then I said as we reached Van Dorn Avenue, “Jackson Lee says there’s a discrepancy in the rifle identification. The experts don’t agree. Did I already tell you that?”

  “No, but I deduced something like that from the questions you were asking Royal. What kind of discrepancies, did he say?”

  “No. We were being secretive on the front porch while Bitty cleaned up her pug. We’d rather Bitty not know anything about that. She worries, and when she’s worried she does crazy things.”

  “Like try to break into police stations. Lord, sometimes I wonder what goes on in her brain.”

  “Don’t go there. It’s frightening.” I braked at the light on S. Market, glanced in my rear-view mirror, and saw a patrol car behind me. Secure in my new taillight, I smugly waggled my fingers at the officer. He responded with a friendly flash of light and siren burp. The light changed, I moved forward, and the siren and light repeated. Maybe it hadn’t been friendly.