by Nora Page
“Naughty boy,” Cleo said. She scooped up the Persian and set him down on a chair. He scowled.
“He’s a big doll baby,” Bitsy said. “I love cats. I wish Vernon Junior wasn’t allergic, or I’d get a pretty kitty like you, Rhett. You’re a handsome lion in your summer haircut, aren’t you?” Rhett kept frowning but gave away his true feelings by purring.
Cat people are nice people, Cleo thought, as she had with Jimmy Teeks. They’re kind and caring and likely fond of books and quiet reading too. She knew she was trying to talk herself out of their plan. She handed Leanna a can opener for the pineapple and then began opening what she feared was a can of worms.
“Where did you grow up, Bitsy?” Cleo asked.
Leanna kept her head down, eyes on the recipe—anywhere but on their guest.
Bitsy waved a pink-manicured hand. “Here and there. Some in Florida, a bit in Georgia and Louisiana. Texas for a spell.” She focused on tying an apron tight around her slender waist. “But there’s no place like home. I consider Catalpa Springs my heart’s hometown. It’s where I met my sugar, Vernon, and where little Vern was born. How about you all? You’re both lucky to be from here, aren’t you?”
Cleo was lucky, she agreed. Leanna was from Catalpa Springs too, but not as fortunate in her upbringing.
“I moved around in a bunch of families,” Leanna said, taking a deep breath. She shot Cleo a look suggesting she was steeling her resolve. “I often wished I’d had a nice family like yours, Miss Bitsy,” Leanna continued, face growing tomato red.
“Oh, honey,” Bitsy said, “I had a horrible family situation growing up. You are what you make of yourself. That’s always been my motto. And look at you, Leanna, you did that too. You’re gorgeous and smart, and Vern keeps saying what a gem you are at banking. I swear, the man wants to hire you full-time.” She flashed a bright smile. “If I didn’t know my Vern, I’d be worried, sending such a pretty young assistant to his office. Now, what does this say? Smashed ripe bananas?”
“Mashed,” Cleo murmured. She peeled brown bananas, piled them in a bowl, and handed Bitsy the pastry cutter she used for such purposes. Bitsy mashed. Cleo thought of smashing and mashing and bludgeoning, and her heart rate quickened.
“Perfect,” Cleo said when Bitsy was done. They mixed the dry and wet ingredients and poured the fruity batter into two round cake tins and a smaller tin for taste testing.
“Let’s have some tea and chat,” Cleo suggested. Leanna jumped up to fill the kettle and light the stove.
Bitsy took a seat next to Rhett. She stroked the cat and chatted about Vern’s birthday gift to himself, a new golf club. “I couldn’t have picked it out, no way. I told him, get yourself the perfect gift, and I’ll wrap it up and call it a surprise. It’s hard to wrap a putter, let me tell you!” She laughed, but her laugh stopped in a gulp. She stared at the stack of books on Cleo’s side counter. Killings in Cotton Country sat atop a Betty Crocker. No one spoke.
“You were asking where I’m from,” Bitsy said quietly. “You know, don’t you? It’s that awful book.” Her voice was low and, for Cleo’s taste, too coldly calm. Bitsy kept patting Rhett, who lapped up the attention.
There was no more delaying or dancing around the question. Cleo came straight out with it. “Bitsy, are you Liza Blackwell?”
Bitsy scooped Rhett onto her lap and hugged him close. Rhett’s expression blended grumpiness and bliss. Cleo’s forced herself to remain seated. Bitsy liked Rhett, she assured herself. He could safely suffer a cuddle. But what if Bitsy had harmed—killed—Buford Krandall and possibly Whitney too?
“I’m not Liza anymore,” Bitsy said. “A long time ago I was. Figures I’d fall in love with a cute town peppered with true-crime nuts! I didn’t think anyone would notice me. How many people even read that Pawpaw woman’s books? And the photo is pretty bad resolution, isn’t it? You can hardly see me.” Her eyes glistened. A tear dropped on Rhett’s head. The Persian detested water. He swiveled his furry face in frowning confusion.
“Sorry, Rhett,” Bitsy said, wiping off his orange noggin. Her tears cut rivulets through her foundation, running dark with mascara.
“Miss Bitsy,” Leanna said. “We’re sorry to upset you!”
Cleo wasn’t ready to issue apologies quite yet, but she got Bitsy a box of tissues. Rhett took the opportunity to jump from Bitsy’s lap to the table. This time Cleo plucked the cat up and scooted him out the back door. She mouthed, “It’s her” and “Okay” to Henry. He nodded, his cell phone clutched in one hand, a hiking stick with a sharp pointed tip in the other. His guard dog was snoring.
Bitsy dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Here I am carrying on, and it’s only the truth.” She gave a honking blow into the tissue and straightened her shoulders. “I’m not ashamed. I just wish you all—my friends—hadn’t been the ones to figure it out.”
Cleo’s neck prickled. She positioned herself between Leanna and Bitsy, thinking she could shove Leanna out the back door to safety if necessary. “Didn’t Buford Krandall figure it out first?” she asked. “How did he, anyway?”
Bitsy waved the crumpled tissue. “You know how Buford Krandall was. He had some kind of special gift, didn’t he? Like some folks can do math in their heads or play concert piano. He had an eye for faces and gathering up dirt. It wasn’t just that book. He found a newspaper clipping showing a bigger photo of me. Old me. Is that what y’all found?”
Cleo explained how the missing page in Priscilla’s book led them to look for more photos online.
“It was easy,” said Leanna and then added, “Sorry.”
Bitsy stood abruptly, her chair scraping and nearly tipping. “We know what has to happen, don’t we? Shoot, but those cakes are coming out in a few minutes.”
Cleo’s kitchen seemed to darken, though the lights were on. “No one has to get hurt,” Cleo said, forcing her voice to stay even, cursing herself. They should have waited for Gabby and hid the policewoman in the pantry … or let Gabby handle the questioning.
Bitsy cocked her head. “Hurt? You mean Vern? Oh, he’ll be fine. He loves me! That’s what I told that foolish Buford. Imagine, thinking he could blackmail me.”
Cleo’s thumping heart calmed a bit. “He wasn’t blackmailing you?”
“You didn’t kill him?” Leanna added hopefully. She blushed furiously. “Sorry! We kinda thought, you know…”
Bitsy groaned. “Of course, y’all did. Heavens, no! Buford tried to blackmail me. But to get blackmailed, you have to care. I didn’t.” She stomped a heel. “I did nothing wrong and didn’t care who Buford told. It was my rattlesnake daddy who murdered my family. I’m not bearing his guilt. I got over that a long time ago. If it had helped, I would have told the police all about him, but what good would it do? My mother and sisters and brothers were gone, and for a while, everyone thought I was gone too. I had a chance to remake myself. I started over. I washed it off.” She twined a finger around a curl, tugged it straight, and then let it go. The curl bounced back. “You are not what you’re born to. Leanna, remember that. Upbringings like ours, they make us stronger.”
Leanna frowned. “But weren’t you worried what the Ladies Leaguers would think? Or Mr. Givens? Or, gosh, your mother-in-law?”
Bitsy managed a tight smile. “You know what? It’d be a relief. I know my family will support me, and I’ll know who my true friends are.” She shot earnest looks at Cleo and Leanna. Leanna was agreeing heartily.
Cleo had more decades than Leanna. She held back. “What did Buford say when you told him you didn’t care?”
Bitsy scanned the room. “Is Rhett still outside? I wouldn’t say this in front of him. Buford gave me that awful alligator grin of his and pretended like he didn’t care either. Said, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’ I told him I didn’t care, I was better off than him in his moldering old mansion any day. Then I walked away and didn’t give him another thought.”
“Really?” Leanna said
, sounding more impressed than skeptical.
Bitsy tugged at the curl again. “Okay, honestly? It bugged me, like upsetting stuff sticks and won’t get out of your head, but I didn’t kill him.”
Cleo rinsed a mixing bowl. She tidied the counter, thinking. She could see Bitsy’s scenario. She could imagine other scenarios too, involving a desperate Bitsy bopping Buford on the head and tearing apart his library, looking for more incriminating photos and clippings. That wasn’t the Bitsy she knew, but she didn’t really know Bitsy, did she? “You didn’t hurt him?” Cleo asked, repeating Leanna’s query, knowing the answer could easily be a lie.
“No!” Bitsy said, looking wounded. “No, no, I swear. I’ll call up every Ladies Leaguer and Mama Givens right now if you want me to prove it. I’ll even tell the cops what happened. We can go this moment.”
Cleo mentally tallied the many reasons to disbelieve Bitsy. Bitsy wasn’t who she’d said she was. She had a hidden past, ripe for malicious gossip. She was strong and capable and got stuff done. And what of the former crimes? The murder and arson? Priscilla Pawpaw had insinuated that the culprit was still in question, the case never officially closed.
On the other hand, Bitsy’s actions in Catalpa Springs had been all about giving back. She helped people. She put up with Maybelle, for heaven’s sake.
The oven timer buzzed, and everyone jumped.
“These have to cool,” Cleo said, taking out the heavenly scented cakes. “You know Gabby Honeywell, the deputy? She lives right next door. Why don’t we go see her?”
Bitsy reached for her purse. “Miss Georgia police? Perfect! I trust another woman to see me right. Are we going to invite your sweetie, Henry, in now, Cleo? He’s been peeking in the window all night. I thought he was just anxious for cake.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Everyone, including Rhett Butler and Mr. Chaucer, marched to Gabby’s front door. Cleo raised a fist to knock. The door swung open, and she almost bopped her deputy neighbor on the nose.
Gabby jerked back, blinked, and offered a startled greeting.
“We have something important to report,” Cleo said.
“I’m Liza Blackwell,” Bitsy declared, head held high.
“Okay,” Gabby said, expression and tone set to quizzical. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Givens, you’re who? Is this an emergency? Otherwise, I have to run. There was a 911 called in for the mayor’s house, and the chief wants everyone out there.”
“Buford Krandall attempted to blackmail me regarding my previous identity,” Bitsy said, speaking fast. “I’m telling you so no one can think I did him in. I have alibis and a clean conscience, and I’ve just baked a marvelous hummingbird cake.”
Faint sounds of aggressive gardening floated down the picket fences. “Wanda,” Gabby whispered and ushered them into her hallway. “Buford tried to blackmail you? And you said…?”
Bitsy briefly recounted what happened. “You call the former sheriff down in Pinellas County, or better yet the insurance investigator. I’ll give you his name. They’ll tell you, my no-good murdering daddy set that fire and killed himself and everyone else. I wasn’t there. I had no part in it. Will you need to arrest me?”
Gabby took a moment to consider. “Honestly, I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll have to check up and contact Florida officials and get a statement from you.”
The radio clipped to Gabby’s chest chirped. The chief’s voice squawked on, demanding to know her ETA. “That’s estimated time of arrival, Deputy. Arrival! Get over here.”
Gabby ignored him. “Come and see me tomorrow morning. Say, nine o’clock? Do not leave town.”
Bitsy held up a hand. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere. Mama Givens has a chiropractor appointment tomorrow afternoon. She’d kill me if we missed it. Plus, Vern’s birthday is tomorrow, and we’ll be celebrating with homemade hummingbird cake.”
Gabby jogged to her car. Cleo and company hurried back to her house before Wanda could catch up with them.
“I wonder what’s happening at the mayor’s?” Henry asked when they were back in the kitchen.
“Whatever it is, no one can say I had anything to do with that,” Bitsy said. “I was with all y’all, baking up a storm. Think that cake’s cool enough to decorate?”
Cleo turned the conversation to frosting, and everyone taste-tested the sweet, buttery confection until they had the perfect consistency. They iced and sliced the little test cake and enjoyed some with herbal tea. Bitsy deemed it perfect.
“This will sweeten the blow for Vern,” Bitsy said to Cleo on her way out. “I should have told him before—that’s my only regret. I’ll tell him tonight. I know he’ll support me.”
She sounded shaky. Cleo felt bad for Bitsy and angry with Buford, who wouldn’t stop mucking with people’s lives, even beyond the grave. “I can go to the police station with you,” Cleo offered. “I can pick you up. I haven’t driven my convertible in ages. It could do for a spin. We can leave the top up if you don’t want to mess up your hair.”
“I don’t give two hoots about my hair,” Bitsy said. “Let’s be Thelma and Louise. Without the flying over cliffs and crashing and dying part, of course.” Bitsy enveloped Cleo in a hug. “Thank you, Cleo. I’ll repay the favor. I’ll make sure the Ladies League doesn’t give up on you and our library.”
Leanna left soon after, promising to be extra careful on her way home.
Cleo and Henry watched her go. Henry reached for his coat. “You lock your doors too,” he said. “Promise me, no more sleuthing tonight. I don’t want to see anyone else getting hurt.”
He kissed her hand, gallant and old-fashioned, and was off, his dog beside him. After he was gone, Cleo felt like Priscilla Pawpaw, nervously checking all the doors and downstairs windows too. In the living room, she stopped and listened, thinking she heard a noise outside. She listened harder but heard only Rhett’s demands for his bedtime treat and crickets caroling in the garden. Under a bright moon, shadows stretched across the garden.
What if Bitsy was conning them? Bitsy, aka Liza, had been playing a part for years, and very successfully. The alternative was awful too. If not Bitsy, then who? An even better actor, no one would ever detect? Kat, the fed-up spouse? Priscilla? The author was an expert on murder and true-crime techniques, and her scarf had been used to kill Whitney. The mayor or his consultant, angry with Buford, but about what? Was Buford threatening to reveal the mayor’s infidelity? Or was it something bigger, a threat to his pier and casino projects?
Cleo fed Rhett his treats. In her mind, she moved puzzle pieces that only got more jumbled. What if there were two killers? Whitney killing her uncle. Priscilla killing Whitney in revenge for her biggest fan. Cleo carefully kept Ollie and Mary-Rose out of the scenarios. She believed in their innocence wholeheartedly.
Cleo headed upstairs for bed, checking the front door once more as she passed. On the landing, she realized the frogs and crickets had gone silent. She peered out wavy old glass. A shadow moved in the garden, but when she blinked and refocused, it was gone.
* * *
The next morning, Cleo waved to Gabby from her front porch. Gabby was getting back from a jog or, judging by her sweating and panting, a sprint. Cleo and Rhett swayed gently on the porch swing, Cleo having a second cup of coffee, Rhett grooming his back leg. The young policewoman trotted up to stretch and chat.
“What happened last night with the mayor?” Cleo asked.
Gabby wiped a dewy, as in sweat-dripping, brow.
“False alarm,” Gabby said with an exasperated sigh and eye roll.
“Oh?” Cleo prompted. She waited, gazing out at the garden. It was another sunny day, the heat already building to a steam.
Gabby looked about and lowered her voice. “Keep this between us, but the mayor’s neighbors called nine-one-one and reported yelling at his home. I’m guessing it was a domestic dispute. By the time Tookey and I got there, Mrs. Day was conveniently “resting,” as in shut up in her bedroom and refusing to co
me out. The chief and Mayor Day were saying the neighbors must have heard a fox or a drunk. Chief Culpepper and the mayor then enjoyed bourbon on the porch while Tookey and I got to tromp around in the dark—just in case, mind you—looking for drunk foxes and getting mosquito bites.”
“Tookey got into more poison ivy. I’m starting to feel bad for him.” She scratched her knee and a rash that looked worse than mosquito bites. “I did learn that the mayor is holding a press conference this morning, so you should be prepared for irritation too. He’ll be talking up Catalpa Springs as the fishing capital of the galaxy and bragging about the murder arrest.”
Cleo expressed her displeasure with a sniff. “Ollie is innocent. You know that.”
Gabby gave a helpless shrug. “It’s not up to me. The chief and attorneys decide.”
And the mayor and the press and public opinion and a jury. Cleo tried to console herself with a belief in the jury system, but even there, her faith faltered.
Cleo forced her mind to problems she could fix. “I have some calamine lotion you could try on that rash. Aloe, vinegar, or honey can also work.”
Gabby snorted. “Imagine the rude jokes from the guys at work if I showed up covered in honey. Vinegar always makes me think of Easter egg dyeing. I’ll try that after I shower.” She paused. “What do you think about Bitsy and her secret?”
Cleo agreed it looked bad. “I think she’s telling truth. I want to believe her. Buford had dirt on other people too. They didn’t all kill him.”
Gabby agreed. “Of course, most folks aren’t knocking on my door, offering up their secrets like Bitsy did. We’ve heard gossip about affairs Buford might have uncovered and folks he riled up, but nothing as serious as arson or murder.”
Affairs. Cleo didn’t like to spread gossip, but then, these were dire times. “You mentioned a possible domestic dispute. You know, our mayor is rumored to be having an affair with the town’s new public relations maven.”
Gabby was stretching, palms flat to the floor, a move Cleo could once do. “I’ve heard,” Gabby said. “I could never ask Mayor Day. The chief would have a fit. Anyway, if I already know this bit of gossip, so does half the town, probably including the mayor’s wife. What hold would Buford have over the mayor if everyone knows? Now, Bitsy, she had a deep secret.”