Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  While I wasn’t as sure of that as she seemed to be, I consoled myself with the thought that since the senator wasn’t dead after all, it didn’t really matter.

  Gaynelle Bishop, an older woman newly retired from teaching school for forty years, has the face of someone whom nothing can surprise. Acquired, I’m certain, from decades of dealing with children who lie, cheat, and mess their pants. Gaynelle looked at me as if I was one of the latter when I smiled and said hello.

  “Don’t I know you?” she asked sharply. “Who’s your family?”

  I clenched my cheeks to keep my Hanes clean. “Ed and Anna Truevine.”

  Her face cleared and she smiled. “Of course. You’ve been gone a long time. Your sister comes back home quite a bit, though.”

  It took a little effort to keep the smile on my face at her implied criticism. Emerald comes back only when she can’t stand another moment of listening to the incessant whine of her kids and demands of her husband. She stays a week or two, drags Mama to Memphis shopping, sleeps until noon, and gets room service from Daddy. My usual consolation is that my sister and I didn’t come from the same egg, even if we were born six minutes apart. I came out first, eager to see the world and make myself known. Emerald had to be dragged out and woken up, and yawned all the way through the first year of her life. I, on the other hand, rarely slept, and could be usually found in any spot where I wasn’t supposed to go. Family history says my mother didn’t sleep more than ten minutes at a time for the first five years of our lives, at which point we went to kindergarten and she finally got a three-hour nap.

  “That’s what I hear,” I said to Gaynelle, “but Emerald and I always seem to miss each other somehow.”

  She laughed at that. “So you do.” Gaynelle isn’t stupid. She may be somewhere around sixty or sixty-five but she’s got the energy of a thirty-year old, the body of a fifty-year old—one in much better shape than I am—and the sharp mind of a scholar. She also has the sharp tongue of a lame-horse politician. Gaynelle dyes her hair light brown, wears contacts, and has a penchant for silk. This is a radical change from her days as a teacher when she had graying hair, cats-eye glasses, and sensible cotton dresses. Viva lá retirement.

  “So tell Trinket your idea,” Bitty urged, and Gaynelle nodded.

  “It’s very simple. We should go out there and talk to Sanders. If he doesn’t know about the senator being struck on the head, he’ll need to in case of a possible lawsuit. If he does, then we threaten him with disclosure to the police unless he goes to them with his explanation. Or his confession.”

  Simple? It sounded suicidal.

  “Uh, you do know that Sanders carries a shotgun, right?”

  “Yes, of course I do. But since he can’t possibly maim or kill all of us, I doubt he’ll even attempt to try such a thing.”

  “Safety in numbers,” Bitty piped up.

  I looked at her. “Except for the tallest target. I’d just as soon not be included in this little group, if you don’t mind.”

  Bitty blew out her breath in a huffing sound. “Can you think of a better idea?”

  “Yes. Do nothing. If Philip Hollandale wants to file charges, let him. If he doesn’t, we need to keep our noses out of it.”

  Gaynelle shook her head. “That would certainly be true if we knew the senator to still be alive. What if he’s not? Then Bitty has a duty to report it to the authorities.”

  She had me there.

  “It’s something to consider,” I finally said, and we all agreed on that.

  “Until she does,” Gaynelle said, “it’s really best not to mention this to anyone else. Not a single soul, shall we agree?”

  I agreed with that, too.

  Thankfully, any further discussion of possible murder and missing bodies ended when the entertainment arrived. Since it was a Mardi Gras celebration, Rayna had hit upon the perfect idea for our festivities: A transvestite stripper. It embodies all that makes New Orleans unique.

  Hoots, whistles, and a few tipsy proposals were shouted at the six foot version of Britney Spears. He—she?—undulated into the lobby, wearing leather, a halter top, some kind of fringe, and knee-high boots. A blond wig shimmied around his face as he mimicked what I assume to be Britney’s moves, and one of her songs played on a boom box he strategically placed on a table by the front door. Just in case we became too rowdy an audience, I’m sure. Quick getaways must be frequently required in his profession.

  At first I wasn’t sure where to look. I mean, the tiny little shorts he wore made it obvious he had more external equipment than Britney, but after Bitty poured me another glass of wine and told me to get the stick out of my rear, I grew more enthusiastic in my appreciation. I may be through with men, but that certainly doesn’t mean I can’t admire—and remember—the tanned, taut packaging they come in when they’re twentyish. I’ve always been partial to a man’s belly for some unknown reason, and this Britney had toned abs and a six-pack that would make a nun sigh with pleasure. Maybe Joan Collins has the right idea but the wrong carry-through. Toy boys should be enjoyed but not married. Not that I have any intention of doing either.

  None of that, however, kept me from catching his halter-top when he took it off and slung it into the air. It must have been that fourth glass of wine, but I found myself whipping it around in the air over my head and shouting things like “Yee-haw!” and “Take it all off!”

  Shortly after that, Marcy Porter caught the skirt of leather strips he threw out into the room, hollered that she was going to “ride you like a stallion!” then launched herself at him. Britney’s eyes got big, he sucked in a breath that made his belly meet his spine, and before he could escape, went down in a tangle of excited, half-inebriated Divas. Gaynelle Bishop must have perfected a few karate moves, because she beat Marcy to him. I believe I heard Britney say what sounded like “Agghh!” but since it seemed like he was doing just fine, I assumed he was only expressing his appreciation.

  Of course, I’m not allowed to say any more than that. After all, what happens at the Inn stays at the Inn.

  I will say that I’ve rarely spent a more entertaining afternoon.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve recently realized that childhood memories and adulthood expectations are often at complete odds with reality. Especially when said adult lives far away and visits home are always, of necessity, brief.

  My early childhood memories are of idyllic, Norman Rockwell years occasionally marred by one or more of my siblings’ misdeeds, of which I was always the innocent and much maligned victim.

  My adult expectations before returning to Cherryhill to care for my parents were visions of a loving daughter gently easing feeble, grateful seniors into the twilight of their lives with my serene smile and a saint-like patience.

  Neither of those is anywhere close to the truth.

  If pressed, I can recall a few, and only a few, times when I might—and I stress the word might—have given insult or caused injury to one of my siblings. Emerald has always been known to exaggerate, and my brothers preferred getting even to tattling. My mother remembers it quite differently, but her memory isn’t what it used to be. There are still a great many events that my parents are better off not knowing and I’d rather not discuss. But I digress.

  The feeble, grateful seniors of my imagination are in actuality hormone-driven, energetic people who have no intention whatsoever of fading into twilight anything. Instead, they’re quite obviously determined to blast headlong into eternity riding jet skis or climbing Pike’s Peak. If I’d ever possessed a claim to patience or sainthood, my chances are definitely blown now.

  “You’re going to what?” I asked in disbelief when informed of my parents’ plans.

  I could hear my own voice rise several octaves that caused my mother to look up at me in mild surprise and disapproval.

  “Dear, it’s impolite and unladylike to shriek,” my mother pointed out in the soft tone that I recalled from my childhood. She’s never had to lift h
er voice. All that’s required for instant and lasting self-flagellation is that cutting edge of disappointment and disapproval.

  More calmly, I said, “Sorry. I’m just . . . surprised that you and Daddy have decided to sail on a clipper to Brazil. It’s operated by wind. Not reliable engines. Wind. It will take months. Or years. What if you have a medical emergency?”

  “There’s a medic aboard ship,” Daddy said enthusiastically. “And radios. A helicopter or the Coast Guard can find us if there’s an emergency.”

  “The American Coast Guard doesn’t cruise off Brazil. Besides, you have obligations here that you’ve acquired.”

  Daddy looked stunned. “What obligations?”

  “Well, that cat colony in the barn for one. Your neurotic dog for another.”

  “But isn’t that why you came back,” Mama asked, “to help us enjoy our last few years?”

  I stood there for a moment with my mouth open but nothing came out. I’d never admit I’d entertained visions of them as invalids sitting cozily in chairs before the fire while I brought them cups of tea and turned the radio to a classical music station. I tend to get wrapped up in my own imaginary scenarios that no one appreciates but me. This seemed to be one of them. And really, did I want my parents to be feeble and needy? Of course not.

  But neither did I want them stuck on some ship in the Atlantic with a crew of possible white slavers or drug smugglers. I approached from a different angle.

  “Of course I want you to enjoy your lives,” I said. “You’ve earned it. I’d just rather you start off more slowly, work your way up to Boston clippers. You might have a tendency toward seasickness, for instance. Or the ship’s captain could be mentally deranged.”

  “Oh, I doubt anything terribly awful will happen,” my mother said. “It has a Triple A rating.”

  Their expectations obviously leaned toward high adventure with no risks. My imagination ran toward burials at sea.

  We compromised.

  Reservations were made on the Delta Queen for a cruise down the Mississippi to New Orleans in March. They’d be gone seven days. That gave Daddy three weeks to get the majority of work done on the house before the April pilgrimage and me three weeks to rest up from taking care of a herd of cats and a neurotic dog. I don’t know who dreaded it more, me or Brownie. He gave me an occasional untrusting look that said quite plainly I’m not qualified. I agreed.

  With this major crisis narrowly averted, I drove my beige Taurus over to Bitty’s house for mimosas and sympathy. It was a pretty day, lots of sunshine and wind-driven clouds.

  Bitty lives in an 1845 house on Walthal Street a block from the Delta Inn. It’s named Six Chimneys, has six bedrooms, a front porch that goes all the way across the front and around the sides, is painted a soft pink with white trim, has a black iron picket fence, a white gazebo in the side yard, and a carriage house converted to a garage on the north side. It’s beautiful.

  It’s not the house Bitty truly wants.

  Since she’s been six years old, Bitty has wanted a particular house on West Chulahoma Avenue. The Walter Place is built of stone, has twin turrets like a castle, estate size grounds, and was a temporary home for General Grant and his family when they stayed in HollySprings in 1862. It’s probably the main reason Bitty married her third husband, Franklin Kirby III. His elderly aunt owned the house, and Franklin was her favorite nephew. If not for their falling out when Franklin married Bitty and his devoutly Catholic Aunt Mary disapproved of his marrying a divorced woman, maybe she’d have at least gotten to live in it a while. And wouldn’t you know it? Not long after Bitty’s divorce from Franklin, Aunt Mary died, the house went up for sale, and Bitty lost the winning bid. She was fit to be tied. Sometimes things just don’t work out.

  As it is, Bitty makes do with Six Chimneys. Not a shabby bargain, in my opinion. It’s a lovely old house with a nice history that always sounds impressive on the pilgrimages. Cherryhill on the other hand, is basically a farmhouse built in1898, and is only included on the pilgrimage because the original foundations of 1859 are beneath the “new” structure, the first house having been burned at the hands of Grant’s soldiers. While there was nothing left but the basement and footings, Cherryhill has the distinction of having suffered at the hands of the enemy. If there’s one thing Southerners appreciate, it’s past suffering. Especially if Yankees are the cause. That alone lends the structure, person, or battlefield, a revered sheen of heroism. Messy details tend to be glossed over, and past honors glorified far beyond anything possible.

  I’d seen the same sort of reasoning when visiting London several years before. Though the Norman duke, William the Conqueror, defeated Saxon King Harold in 1066, books upon books are available at Westminster Abbey about Harold. When I inquired about the availability of a book written about William, the clerk gave me a rather startled look and said coldly, as if I should already understand, “William was a Norman214 .” And being from the South, I completely understood. Holly Springs doesn’t have a single monument to General Grant, either.

  Bitty and I sat out on the front porch of Six Chimneys and sipped mimosas from crystal goblets. Sunshine didn’t quite reach our wicker chairs with fat blue cushions that we pulled back into the shade of the porch.

  “We have Strawberry Plains again this year,” Bitty said as if it didn’t matter at all, but I knew from the way she said it that it was a major coup.

  “That’s wonderful. The renovations are completed?”

  Bitty nodded. “A few years ago. Now it’s a nature walk as well as on the historic register. Every year there’s a big deal about the hummingbirds. Thousands of them appear for a few weeks in the fall before migrating south. It belongs to the Audubon Society now.”

  Strawberry Plains is very close to Truevine Road, a lovely old house Yankee soldiers burned after putting the women and children of Rebel soldiers out into the cold. The family watched their home burn, and after the Union army left on their march south to Vicksburg, the women set to work rebuilding, living in the roofless ruins with their children because there was nowhere else to go. Marshall County has dozens of stories like that one, as does the entire South, and no doubt a fair share of homes up North as well. Civilian suffering isn’t restricted to any one area, I’ve noticed.

  What I really wanted to discuss with Bitty hovered on the tip of my tongue. It had nothing to do with my parents, old houses, old wars, or the pilgrimage.

  Finally I said, “Budgie mentioned that Philip voted against funds to renovate the Inn as a historical building. Did you know about that?”

  “Philip’s always been a horse’s patoot. He’s been a thorn in our sides since Rayna first applied to the Historical Register.” She waggled her glass at me. “Mark my words, the minute we get the Inn approved for state funds, he’ll find a way to screw it up or delay it.”

  “Have you heard anything about him since Friday?”

  “Not a word. Thank God.”

  “Nothing from Sanders either?”

  Bitty looked at me. “You think something’s happened to Philip?”

  “Well, if you saw him with his head split open, you’d think there’d have been something in the papers or on TV by now about an assault or accident. It’s been three days.”

  “Maybe he’s lying unconscious somewhere. Maybe he tried to drive to the hospital and passed out. He could be in a kudzu gully.” Bitty began to look alarmed.

  I wasn’t sure if it was because she cared about Philip or her alimony checks. It’s not that Bitty is insensitive or greedy, but there is the whole scorned woman thing that she takes quite seriously. Philip’s extracurricular activities were quite humiliating for her.

  “We should have reported it,” I said. “I know better. Even if he wasn’t there anymore, we should have immediately informed the police and let them investigate.”

  “Anonymously, of course.” Bitty took another sip of champagne and orange juice. “No sense in being silly about it. I’m just glad no one knows I was
out there. Except Gaynelle and you, of course. Do you think Sanders has something to do with it? He must,” she answered her own question, “for I’m sure no one else would have cleaned up the floor but him. I’m just trying to figure out why Philip would even visit him if he didn’t mean to screw up The Cedars getting registered, but we’ve heard nothing. There has to be some good reason he went out there, since he’s not known for his good works or philanthropy. I can’t see Philip taking a pot of chicken and dump—oh . . . my . . . God!”

  Bitty sat straight up in the white wicker rocking chair with its fat blue cushions, her eyes so big and round they looked like Blue Willow dinner plates. I nearly spilled my mimosa.

  “What on earth’s the matter with you, Bitty?”

  “My chicken and dumplings. I left them.”

  “Didn’t the mule eat—oh my. You don’t mean you left a second batch of chicken and dumplings out there, do you?”

  Silent and white-faced, Bitty nodded. I tried to think back to what we’d found out there when we’d gone, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall any pot on the porch or in the foyer.

  “You didn’t leave them in the car?” I asked, more hopefully than rationally and of course she shook her head. “Okay. Just try to remember everything you did from the time you got there until you left. And remember—Philip is alive, just mad as blazes and plotting revenge.”

  Bitty sucked in a deep breath and set the crystal flute down on the wicker table by her chair. Then she folded her hands and sat with her feet together on the porch floor, her spine stiff, and her chin only slightly quivering. She spoke with the elucidation but hesitation of a student in the finals of a spelling bee.

  “I got out of the car . . . I remembered to take it out of gear this time . . . I pulled out the pot from the back . . . I used pot holders because it was still too hot since Sharita had just finished them when I got to her house. I remember thinking that by the time Sanders got around to eating them, the dumplings would have soaked up the broth just about right . . . since I had to hold the pot with both hands, I couldn’t knock on the door, and he didn’t hear me call him, so I set it down on the porch right by the door. Then I opened the screen door and stepped inside . . . at first I thought maybe Sanders had fallen. When I realized it was Philip, I was so surprised, then a little angry, because . . . you know, he always seems to muck up things I’m trying to do, just for spite. The statue was lying there next to him, like someone had just dropped it and left it there. I picked it up because it seemed like sacrilege for such a fine antique to be on the floor. And in case I might need it. That’s when I saw the blood on the floor and the big gash in Philip’s head.”