“You sound like Custer.”
“I feel like Custer. Why dark clothes?” Bitty gave me a Duh look, and I shrugged. “Yes, so we blend in better, I assume, but do you intend to walk there? If not, the Jeep will let them know we’re there, and dark clothes will be superfluous.”
“We can park down the road. There’s a lay-by that’s clear. As long as it stays dry, we can leave the Jeep there.”
“I see a lot of surprises that can pop up. One, they’re armed and waiting and shoot us; two, they’re drunk and armed and shoot us; three, they’re not there and have already ditched the rifle somewhere.”
“Four,” Bitty said, “we find the rifle and prove Skip killed Walter.”
I sighed. I realized her desperation but had hoped Bitty would see the madness in her scheme and change course. Perhaps that had been in vain.
Sometimes Bitty surprises me.
“But you’re right, Trinket. In retrospect, it does sound insane to go up there alone in the dark. But I know Skip is the killer. Did I tell you what Brandon said?”
Almost overcome with relief, I could barely speak so shook my head. Bitty smiled.
“Brandon said he and Clayton hadn’t wanted to worry me so had never told me about the confrontations with Skip a while back. They know I don’t like it when they get in fights. I reared my boys to be gentlemen, not thugs. It seems that Skip stole my rifle last year when they were at the reenactment in Stones River. Sammy Simpson made him give it back, but it was after Skip and Clayton had a big argument. Then Skip went out and bought his own antique rifle, so it blew over and they didn’t think any more about it.”
“I thought their argument was over a girl,” I said.
“Oh, that’s what started it. Skip is abusive, and Clayton told him Jenna was too nice to be with him. They’d been drinking, you see. Apparently, a lot goes on at these reenactments that I didn’t know, but we won’t worry about that now. At any rate, that’s what started their feud. It seems to have escalated.”
“An understatement. So, do you think Skip was aiming at Clayton?”
“I don’t know. He’s mean as a snake and could have just wanted to kill someone, or he could have thought Walter was Royal, or he could have been aiming at Clayton, or he could have not realized his gun was loaded, then panicked and switched with the first person he saw—or deliberately switched with Brandon.”
“You’ve got some solid reasoning there,” I said in admiration.
Bitty preened, smiling and nodding and stroking Chen Ling between her cute little ears. The world was looking better. We weren’t going to go off on some madness, Bitty made sense, and I wouldn’t have to ride in that Jeep again.
One out of three isn’t what I’d call good odds.
“We just have to trick Skip into admitting it, and I have a plan,” she said, and I looked down at my empty tea glass and thought about switching to wine. Or Jack.
“How do you change course so quickly?” I asked as she joined me in the kitchen. “You go from planning a midnight raid against armed men to luring them to some godforsaken spot and getting a confession, all in sixty seconds.”
“Oh no, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since Brandon called me back last night and told me about their Stones River confrontation. It just would have been easier to find my rifle in Skip’s possession. If that isn’t possible, I had to have plan B. Or C.”
“Does Jackson Lee know about the confrontation?”
“He doesn’t have to know everything.”
“Of course he does.” I found my favorite wine in the cooler tucked next to her gigantic refrigerator. In proper doses, Zinfandel helps soothe jangled nerves. It’s rather like Xanax; too little doesn’t work, too much can put you into a coma.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking Jackson Lee’s side against mine,” Bitty said, and I added a little extra wine to my glass.
“Okay. I won’t tell you. Cheers.” I took a healthy sip of the cool, delicious beverage that could alter even Bitty’s drama into acceptable behavior.
Bitty poured red wine into her glass, narrowing her eyes at me as she sipped. Her long fingernails drummed against the counter with an annoying click like dog nails on a wood floor. We had a stalemate. Mexican standoff. Staring contest.
Then Bitty caved. I was temporarily elated.
“Very well, Trinket. Tell Jackson Lee anything you like. I just won’t give you any details so you can rat me out.”
You can see why I said it was temporary elation.
“Just so you know,” I said after a moment, “my primary concern in this is you. I prefer you being out of jail and alive, not shot by a man who has already murdered in full daylight in front of a hundred people or more. He’s either reckless, stupid, or a sociopath. Neither of those things are good.”
“I take your point,” Bitty said. “And thank you. I know I get carried away sometimes, so I appreciate your looking out for me. And yes, I know Jackson Lee feels the same. But if no one is taking this seriously, how will the police know to look at Skip?”
“Are you sure the police aren’t already looking at him?”
Shrugging, she said with a sigh, “Not according to Jackson Lee. He’s not a suspect because there’s nothing to tie him to the case. They’re focusing on other evidence.”
I thought for a few minutes and more wine. Then I said, “Do you still have that DVD of the reenactment? Maybe we need to look at it again.”
We went back to the war room. Bitty pushed a button, and the painting over the mantel slid up to reveal a big-screen TV. A cabinet under the window held things like cable boxes and DVR players. She turned on the DVD player, found the case holding the right disc, and slid it in. Then we literally sat on the edge of our seats to watch.
“My God, you look like a porpoise in a bonnet,” Bitty said when the camera scanned across me, and I said, “I told you so.”
“I’ll get you another gown made for next year.”
“That will be a waste of your mon—oh look, who is that?”
We stood up and peered closely at the screen, Bitty rewound, then paused. It was a fuzzy picture because of the transfer from phone to YouTube to DVD, but I recognized Brandon—no, it was Clayton. He held the sword. Brandon had the rifle. Smoke poured thickly into the air, and the man who came up behind him had caught our attention.
“It’s Skip!” Bitty exclaimed, and I shook my head.
“Put on your glasses, Bitty. It’s not Skip. It looks like . . . whoa!”
Our jaws dropped.
Chapter 16
“WHAT WAS HE DOING in the reenactment, and did anyone mention it?” Bitty asked Jackson Lee, who shook his head.
“I don’t know. Since the police have this as well, I’m sure they’ve investigated and have cleared him. If not, we’d have heard about it.”
“If not, he’d be off the force,” I said. “I’m just wondering why it wasn’t mentioned at any time. Royal didn’t even mention it.”
“Maybe Royal doesn’t know,” Bitty said darkly. “This certainly shoots my theory out of the water, if Skip didn’t do it.”
“Mine, too.”
Jackson Lee leaned back in the chair. Chen Ling sat in his lap. He didn’t seem to mind. “I can’t see how Barron Stewart taking part in the reenactment would impact the case, as long as he didn’t shoot Walter.”
“But that’s just it,” Bitty said. “How do we know he didn’t? He could be mad at Walter because of that fender bender his brother had, or maybe Walter did something to him. The old man sure seems to have ticked off the rest of the town. And it’s odd he never mentioned being in it, you know.”
“Is Barron Stewart bald?” I asked, and Jackson Lee and Bitty both stared at me. I put my hands out in a Scooby-Doo shrug. “I just got a glimpse of the driver of the tru
ck. It wasn’t a monster truck, so it has to belong to someone.”
“What truck is that?” Jackson Lee inquired, and Bitty looked daggers at me. Uh oh.
“Oops,” I said.
Jackson Lee turned to Bitty. She sucked in a breath and explained it.
When she finished, Jackson Lee said slowly, “So you’re telling me that you and Trinket trespassed on someone else’s property, then tried to run them down?”
“Why do you always have to look at things so negatively,” Bitty complained. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Did you have an invitation or the Whalen’s permission to be there? No? Then it’s trespassing. As for nearly pushing them off the road . . .”
He went on for a few minutes scolding us like children, and I thought it well-deserved. Bitty sulked a little but nodded meekly enough in all the right places. That in itself told me she knew we’d gone too far. Again.
Finally, Jackson Lee said, “I know you both just want to help. I’ll look into the Whalen family. I’ll also see what I can find out about Barron Stewart. Just give me a chance to do that before you commit any more crimes against humanity, please.”
“That’s a little strong,” Bitty objected, but she agreed to let him look into it before going on to plan B or C. For all I knew, she had a plan Z, too. It was daunting.
“Why don’t you stay for supper, sugar?” Bitty asked him, and I decided it was time for me to make my way home. The day had been exciting enough. When I gathered my purse, Bitty said, “Oh, do stay, Trinket. There’s plenty of food in the freezer. It won’t take long to heat.”
“I should go. These shoes are rubbing blisters on my heels without socks. And I have things I need to do that I’ve let go for a while.”
I did have blisters, and I didn’t have a thing to do but get away before she thought of some godawful plan that would be worse than the others. She may have promised Jackson Lee she wouldn’t do anything until he’d done his own investigations, but that wouldn’t keep her from plotting. Sometimes her plotting takes a more active turn. More active turns can be scary.
By the time I made my escape, it was the middle of the afternoon, and I felt lucky to have the rest of the day to myself. I would go home, take a long, luxurious bath, probably wash my hair, then perhaps relax and finish reading my novel. It had all the requirements for an exciting book: knights and damsels and love and danger. I liked danger when someone else was dealing with it. Not so much when it was me.
Of course, when I got home, I found guests there, and Mama and Daddy were out at the barn with them. No problem. I could just sneak in and go upstairs and have the entire floor to myself. I parked out front and walked around the back.
Brownie greeted me with vociferous barking, as if he’d never before seen me, and I was there to burgle the house. I tried to shush him, but Mama saw me and waved me over. I wanted to just wave back and go inside, but I knew better. I joined them at the barn, Brownie sniffing me as if I’d rolled in cow patties.
The two ladies visiting were from a cat rescue. My heart leaped.
“Are you here to take all the cats?” I asked, hope no doubt gleaming in my eyes.
“Oh no, not all of them. Your mother was just telling us about the tame ones we think we can place in good homes.”
Well, that would do. Next time my parents went out of town, there would be less cats demanding my attention and hissing when I was five minutes late with their dinner.
“The kittens in particular should be adoptable,” Mama said, and the ladies nodded. “People drop them off here in boxes, or even bags, just left on my porch or doorstep. It’s awful, what people do,” Mama said with a sigh.
I agreed. People have some notion that dropping an animal off in the country is better than taking it to a shelter or even euthanizing it. It’s not. Most die of starvation, dehydration, or are struck by cars, killed by other animals, or die in the elements. Winters are cold, summers are hot, spring brings flash floods and storms—it’s much kinder to take the poor thing to a shelter than abandon it. I’ve seen dogs sit by the side of the road waiting for their people to come back, resisting rescue for weeks. It makes me feel murderous toward the heartless owners who left them there. Most rescues are overwhelmed with the sheer number of homeless pets.
So as Mama chose lucky kittens to go with the ladies, who had brought about ten pet carriers with them, I tried to ease away. Daddy caught my arm. “You’ll help load them, won’t you, Trinket?”
What could I say? “Of course, I will.”
Nearly an hour later, the last of the lucky kittens were loaded up into the van, off to new lives and hopefully, wonderful new homes. Mama looked tired and pleased but had tears in her eyes as the van pulled out of our driveway. She saw me looking at her.
“I do my best, but it’s hard to say goodbye, sometimes. I get attached. Those are the ones that were left last month, tiny little things. Dr. Coltrane took them to his office for the techs to help bottle feed them, then brought them back to me. They’re doing great.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. My mother has such a big heart, but I worry that as she gets older, this will all be too much for her. It’s too much for me, now.
“You’ve saved their lives,” I finally said. “If not for you, they’d never have made it this far.”
Mama nodded. “I know. I’m just a silly old woman.”
I hugged her. “No, you’re a wonderful person who cares. That’s too rare these days. It will be—agh!”
A sharp pain in my ankle made me shriek in her ear. Mama jumped back, accidentally stepping on a cat. The cat screamed, Mama screamed, Daddy came running with a rake in his hand, and the little horror attached to my ankle gnawed voraciously on my unprotected skin. I shook my leg. Brownie remained firmly attached. Mama immediately came to the rescue.
“Oh, be careful, you’ll hurt him . . . let go and come here, Brownie. It’s all right. She was just giving me a hug.”
Just before I was ready for the Jaws of Life to pry the dog off my ankle, Mama got him detached. I sank to the grass to inspect what I expected to be gaping wounds. It was rather deflating to see only red scratches. He hadn’t even broken the skin. That seemed impossible. It felt like puncture wounds.
Daddy inspected my ankle while Mama cuddled Brownie against her, looking worried. I didn’t flatter myself it was about me. She nodded encouragingly. “You’re scratched up a bit but not bleeding. It must be because his teeth are worn down. The poor thing ate rocks before we got him, you know.”
“Did he. I’m not surprised.”
Daddy helped me stand. “I’ll fix you up, princess. Come on.”
It was the “princess” that made me smile. He hadn’t called me that in a long time. I think I’m really a Daddy’s girl at heart.
While Daddy fussed over me with hydrogen peroxide, warm water, then antibiotic cream, Mama peeked into the downstairs bathroom to check on us. “No deep cuts, I hope?”
“No, she’s just bruised. Wonder why he did that?” Daddy mused, and I answered.
“Well, you’d think the car wash would have cleaned my feet off good enough, but it may be that he smelled other animals on me. Bitty and I went for a short hike in the woods.”
Mama and Daddy both stared at me in disbelief. They know Bitty and I don’t hike. Or wash cars. Not willingly, anyway. I sighed and gave them the Disney version of our morning, leaving out all the parts about Skip Whalen being suspected of Walter’s murder.
“Bitty does carry on about heirlooms,” Mama said when I finished.
Daddy stood up, shaking his head. “Bitty beats all I’ve ever heard. Remember the time in the fifth grade when she insisted Darlene Landers had stolen her favorite sweater?”
Mama laughed. “And then Darlene’s stepmother showed up at church wearing it the next Sunday. Bitty made
a big scene right there, claimed it’d been her grandmother’s, and then proved it with a little label sewn inside. Her mother verified it. The pastor gave a sermon about coveting a neighbor’s possessions not long afterward, but poor Sarah was mortified that Bitty had been involved. And of course, it turned out that Shirley Landers had just coveted the sweater and had Darlene steal it in Sunday School, so Bitty didn’t get in trouble. But that was a scandal for a while.”
“Good lord,” I said, “I don’t remember that at all.”
“You should. You asked me why some mamas can be bad and not get in trouble for it. I asked if there was something I’d done. You said, ‘Not yet.’”
I laughed. “I don’t recall you ever being bad enough to warrant that question, so I’m sure it had nothing to do with you.”
“That’s a relief. I’ve often wondered.” Mama cuddled little Brownie closer to her and whispered something in his ear, and the dog smiled blissfully.
“I can understand why you’ve replaced us with animals,” I said as I put my foot on the floor and gingerly tested my mobility. “Please explain to him that I know my place, so he doesn’t have to bite me again.”
“Oh, he says he’s sorry. He just got confused.” She held up the dog’s paw and waggled it at me. I swear, I thought of Bitty.
“Why is it I’m the one who’s considered the weird one in our family?” I asked no one in particular, and Daddy laughed. He stopped when Mama gave him the evil eye.
“You can’t top Bitty,” Daddy said, and I nodded.
“Yes, but she’s extended family.”
I thought about that when I went upstairs. Bitty and I were closer than my twin sister and me, and we always had been. I love my sister, but she and I are from different planets. We’re no closer than other sisters, despite simultaneously sharing a womb and a room. She looks like Mama; I take after the Truevine side of the family. No one ever believes we’re twins.
Whereas Bitty and I look nothing alike, we’re both regarded as family outliers. It has become apparent since my return to Holly Springs that we have always generated mischief, although of a much less dangerous kind than we do now. It’s not as if we seek it out. We just seem to attract it, like magnets. Perhaps we should learn to channel this talent in more positive directions. I wasn’t sure how that could be managed.
Divas Are Forever Page 25