Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  Then we just stood and looked at it for a few moments. Wind sighed through holly limbs and oak branches, and in the distance a dog howled. It was very Sherlock Holmes. If a sudden fog had sprang up and curled around our feet, none of us would have been surprised.

  Finally Rayna, our undeclared leader, said softly, “Let’s do it.”

  We positioned ourselves around the opening, and reached inside to grab the carpet and haul the senator out by his feet. To my surprise, he was much deeper than I remembered, because I felt only empty air. I wasn’t the only one. Bitty reached so far inside I thought she might just fall all the way in, so I grabbed her by her purse strap. It was the only thing loose enough to grip. Her jumpsuit looked painted on.

  After a few moments, Gaynelle said the obvious: “The senator is no longer here.”

  We all looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  “Where the hell is my carpet?” Bitty demanded, but I could tell from the slight quiver in her voice that the expensive rug had lost some measure of importance to her.

  “No doubt,” Gaynelle said, “still with the senator. Oh dear. This could be a problem.”

  That was an understatement. It couldn’t have escaped anyone’s notice that all our fingerprints were likely to be on the plastic Leaf and Garden bags, and Bitty’s rug could certainly be traced back to her. But what puzzled and bothered me most, was the question of just who had found the senator in the cemetery, and who had put him in Bitty’s coat closet in the first place. It was quite likely to be the same person or persons who had killed him in Sanders’ foyer.

  Even in the dim light afforded by the moon, when I looked at Gaynelle, I saw from her expression that she’d come to the same conclusion.

  “Perhaps we’d best leave and discuss this matter elsewhere,” Gaynelle said, and most of us instantly agreed.

  “Shouldn’t we just look around a little bit first,” Georgie asked, “to see if maybe dogs or something dragged him out?”

  “It’d have to be really big dogs,” Sandra said uneasily.

  “Not to mention dogs with a key to the gate since the fence keeps them out,” I observed.

  “No, sections of the fence are down,” Georgie said with a shake of her head. “But I don’t really think dogs could drag him away.”

  “Maybe he thawed,” Rayna said. “Or even melted. No. That’s ridiculous. I must be a little bit hysterical. The rug would still be here.”

  “My lovely rug is gone,” Bitty said. I decided that focusing on the non-essential details kept her from descending into hysteria, and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

  “Bitty dear,” Gaynelle asked, “do you still have that bottle of Jack Daniel’s with you?”

  Wordlessly, Bitty reached into her purse and took out a bottle. “I brought it along just in case,” she said, and we passed it around, then went and got back into our cars.

  * * * *

  Back at the Inn, the general consensus was that we were all in a great deal of trouble. If the police had been notified of a body being found in an empty vault, their investigations would certainly lead to us.

  “If pranksters saw us,” Sandra suggested hopefully, “maybe they just hid the body somewhere else and it’ll turn up in a day or two.”

  “What kind of pranksters,” Rayna asked, “Transylvanian teenagers? Who steal bodies?”

  “Apparently,” Gaynelle said darkly, “we do.”

  Bitty brushed that aside. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Gaynelle, we didn’t steal him. We just moved him. Knowing Philip, the devil probably threw him back up here and he just landed in the wrong place.”

  “What are we going to do?” Sandra asked plaintively, and silence fell for a moment.

  Finally Georgie said, “I’ll go out there and look around for him tomorrow. I go out there so much anyway, no one will ever suspect I’m trying to find the senator or a clue as to who took him. Everyone will just think I’m still doing my historical work.”

  “An excellent and practical solution,” Gaynelle approved. “I’m glad to see my brother’s intellect is thriving in you, my dear.”

  Georgie looked very pleased.

  “And if we don’t find him? What then?” I asked, hating to prick their bubble of hope but forced to ask the unavoidable question.

  A discussion ensued in which several ideas were passed back and forth, everything from reporting it to the police, to staking out the cemetery like resident ghouls and waiting to see if the killers or pranksters returned to the scene of the crime. The former idea of reporting it to the police did not, I regret to say, gather much support. Even Gaynelle thought it a risky idea.

  “There was so much rancor between the senator and Bitty, that they may very well jump to the immediate supposition that she killed him. Especially since he’s still wrapped in the carpet that made the judge in their divorce threaten to cut it in two and give each a half. Solomon’s solution is still remarkably effective in so many instances.”

  “I don’t know about Solomon,” Bitty remarked moodily, “but Philip was more than happy to cut it in two rather than give it to me.”

  “That’s the idea, Bitty,” I said. “The judge then knew who really wanted the carpet most, the person willing to destroy it, or the person willing to give it up to preserve it. See? Solomon’s choice.”

  Bitty just looked at me. “Well, that’s just the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Solomon Schreiber would never cut up an expensive carpet, and neither would I.”

  There are times Bitty can be quite obtuse, but since we were all under a great deal of stress, I thought it best not to continue with explanations.

  “So then,” Rayna said, “why don’t we go home and sleep on it tonight, and when we get up in the morning, we’ll see what’s happened. If the police announce they’ve found Philip Hollandale’s body, we should all go in immediately and tell them exactly what happened before they get to the truth themselves. If no one says anything, we can assume pranksters—or the murderer—found him and did something with him. Either way, I think we’re going to have to tell the police what’s happened. We can’t just keep moving the senator around like a chess piece, especially once he starts to really thaw out.”

  Rayna said it so much better than I had, and after the shock of the evening’s events, Bitty seemed to listen. She nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’m sure you’re right. Chess never was my game. Philip was always much better at it, but then, aren’t politicians supposed to be good at strategy as well as lying and stealing?”

  “Most of them are multi-taskers,” I agreed.

  We all parted with a flexible game plan of waiting for the morning, then making a much more informed decision.

  Once back at Bitty’s house, she turned off the alarm system she rarely used, and had me check the upstairs while she checked the downstairs. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for other than burglars or a body, but finding neither, I went back downstairs to find Bitty sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, and she nodded.

  “Just waiting on you to go with me to the cellar. If Philip is down there, I don’t want to go alone.”

  That thought hadn’t occurred to me, and frankly, I couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for going into the cellar. They always smell musty no matter how many windows or air circulators or dehumidifiers they may have, and make me think of being buried alive. Rather macabre, I know, but when I was a child a Vincent Price horror movie about being buried alive had made a lasting impression. To this day, I don’t care to sleep in a completely dark room. Perry had preferred pitch black surroundings at night—unless he felt like doing the horizontal tango, at which time he wanted every light in the room so bright we could have been in an operating room. Two more reasons we’re entirely unsuited for one another. What sane woman wants all her flaws lit up like an appendectomy patient on the surgery table?

  Anyway, Bitty and I did our osmosis thing again, where we tried to meld into one another
to present a bigger target as we crept down the cellar steps. When Bitty turned on the overhead light switch, I blinked.

  “You’ve done some redecoration.”

  “I know. It’s the family room.”

  “For what family, The Sopranos?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket, the boys chose the decorations. I just paid for it.”

  That explained it. A massive pool table commands the middle of the room, but there’s a giant TV, an electronic dart board, some poker tables, a refrigerator, and a wet bar strategically placed against dark paneling. A black leather couch and matching chairs are in the middle. All thate s missing are layers of cigar smoke and a few men dressed in black suits, white ties, and shoulder holsters.

  “What’s that door over there?” I asked while we still stood on the stairs and peered around the ‘family room.’

  “The wine cellar. It’s temperature controlled. Not very big, though. I keep it locked.”

  “And that door?”

  “To the back yard.”

  We stared at it for a moment, both knowing it should be checked but neither of us in a great hurry to do it. After a moment, I gathered my courage—which I can do with a thimble—and said firmly, “We’ll check it together.”

  Thankfully, there was no sign of intruders or forced entry. We congratulated ourselves on being so composed and Bitty’s foresight in installing iron bars over the cellar windows, and then we went back upstairs.

  I took a shower in the guest room bath that had one of those stalls with water jets spraying from five different directions, washed my hair with a shampoo that smelled like an exotic fruit, and slathered on conditioner. If I don’t use conditioner, my hair feels like straw. It’s very coarse.

  Afterward, wrapped in three different towels big enough to use as sheets, I examined my face in the mirror for signs of depravity. People who hide corpses should have bulging eyes, rat-like teeth, and a nose like a weasel. So far, my depredations hadn’t made it to my face. I just looked very tired and fifty-one years old. Not an attractive combination, although I suppose with a little rest and a life free of crime, I might be presentable enough. My auburn hair has darkened with the years and has a few streaks of gray I do my best to pretend aren’t there, and while my green eyes aren’t the vivid hue of a Hollywood starlet’s, they’re fairly bright. My brows are thin and arch naturally, and my lashes and brows are light brown. My nose is short and straight, my round chin has a dimple I’ve always hated, and my complexion is fair with a few freckles I’ve done my best to eradicate all my life. Freckles, like cockroaches, are indestructible, it seems.

  Bitty had laid a shapeless caftan on the bed for my nightwear. Once I’d towel-dried my shoulder-length hair, brushed my teeth with a toothbrush Bitty thoughtfully provided, and rubbed some kind of face cream into my skin that probably cost more than I’d made in a week, I got into the caftan and then the bed. It was antique, of course, with a half-canopy and mosquito netting that was pulled back at the sides in a graceful swoop. A quilt I was certain had been crafted in another century smelled clean and fresh, and pale light came through tall windows covered by sheers and damask drapes.

  I fell asleep almost immediately, a surprise since I’ve always thought criminals must lie awake at night plotting more crimes or worrying about imminent apprehension.

  When I awoke the next morning, rain pattered on the windows and dripped from eaves, and the smell of coffee drifted up the stairs. I lay there for a few minutes. In the past, Bitty got up at the crack of noon, but lately she’s been an early riser. Joining the Historical Society has been very good for her, on one hand; on the other hand, it’s led to murder, although indirectly. Which led me to mull over the improbability of Hollandale visiting Sanders by coincidence.

  While Bitty frequently suspected the senator’s motives, it was quite likely she was very correct this time. Philip Hollandale was not the kind of man to visit constituents unless there was an advantage to be had. Sherman Sanders doesn’t seem like a large donor, though stranger things have been known to happen.

  So what reason would take Hollandale out to Sanders for a visit other than some scheme to delay or prevent The Cedars being put on the historical register? Perhaps the first thing that should be investigated were connections between the senator and Sanders, then possible deals in which he was involved that might affect Bitty. It sounded far-fetched in one way to think Philip Hollandale would go to such lengths for petty vengeance, but it’s been my experience that in the case of lost love and divorce, petty is the norm and vengeance figures in somewhere. Money, of course, is the biggest and most frequent factor.

  My clothes from the day before were gone, so I found a pair of white socks in a chest of drawers to cover my feet, and went downstairs, caftan billowing around me. Bitty was nowhere to be seen, but a pleasant young woman with light brown skin, black hair styled in attractive curls around her face, and a big smile stood in the kitchen.

  “You must be Trinket,” she said, and poured coffee into a big mug and put it in front of me along with a blueberry muffin dripping in butter. I just looked at it with my heart beating fast.

  “Are those freshly baked muffins?” I asked hopefully.

  “Took them out of the oven only ten minutes ago. Kept them warm in a biscuit keeper.”

  “You must be Sharita,” I deduced, remembering the chicken and dumplings.

  She laughed. “Was it the muffins that gave me away?”

  I’d already bitten into the muffin and had closed my eyes with utter ecstasy. After a moment of pure bliss, I opened my eyes and nodded. “And the chicken and dumplings.”

  Sharita laughed again, her milk chocolate dark eyes lit with amusement as she went on with her tasks. Flour, sugar, eggs and milk were being used in a most business-like way atop the Corian counter.

  “I heard about old man Sanders’ mule eating those dumplings,” she said. “I’d like to have seen that.”

  “It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime sight,” I said. “So do you come in every day? Bitty never mentioned she has someone help her in the kitchen, though Lord knows she’d either starve to death or have to eat out all the time if she didn’t.”

  “I come in once a week and prepare all her meals,” Sharita said as she worked a flour sifter, one of those aluminum ones with the pull handle. “Sometimes Bitty has parties or special events, but most of the time it’s just a weekly menu that I put up in the freezer for her.”

  “You ought to sell these muffins,” I said as I finished the last bite. “They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  Sharita grinned. “I do. I own a catering company and small diner, and we also make up gift baskets of baked goods, jams, jellies, and apple butter we’ll deliver for a small extra fee. Of course, I charge a little more if I go to clients’ homes to cook, but those who want me to do that can certainly afford it.”

  “Like Bitty,” I said, and Sharita nodded. Thinking of my parents and how much they’d like a basket of muffins and jellies, I asked, “Do you have a business card?”

  After getting to a stopping place with the sifter, Sharita reached in her smock pocket and took out a business card. Though obviously printed on a home computer, it was as business-like and attractive as Sharita. It read Sharita Stone Professional Catering and had the address of her diner, business number, and a cell phone number, all in a burgundy color against cream stock.

  “Don’t be trying to steal her,” Bitty said, coming in the back door with a newspaper under one arm and a big coffee mug in her hand. “I’ve got Sharita this time every week. Put your name on the waiting list.”

  “Unfortunately, you don’t have to worry about that. Though I am going by her diner to pick up a gift basket for Mama and Daddy to take on the Delta Queen with them.”

  Bitty poured herself another cup of coffee. “I’d forgotten they were going on that trip. So much has happened—” She stopped abruptly with a glance at Sharita, and then beckoned me to go with her back to the
screened porch just off the kitchen. “It’s nice out there this time of morning, Trinket. Come get some fresh air. You look like you need it.”

  “Is that a passive-aggressive way of telling me I look like hell?”

  “When did you learn all those kinds of terms? You’ve been paying too much attention to the wrong things. I think you need to meet a man, get some new interests in your life.”

  By this time we were out on the screened porch and far enough away from Sharita that she couldn’t overhear us, and Bitty motioned for me to sit down in a wicker chair with fat pink cushions that looked remarkably similar to the ones on the front porch.

  “Apparently,” I said in a low tone, “getting new interests in my life involve grave-robbing and desecration of a corpse.”

  “Don’t go overboard. You have such a tendency to do that. It’s just that Sharita’s brother is that nice young police officer who came to question us yesterday, and I’d just as soon not get either of them involved right now.”

  Before I could point out that the officer would inevitably be involved quite soon, she thrust the morning paper at me. The local headline read: “Senator Missing, Foul Play Suspected” and right below that an article detailing a search of The Cedars for the missing Sherman Sanders.

  “No mention of Philip’s body being found,” I said.

  “So I noticed. Of course, it was midnight last night before we even knew he was missing. Along with my carpet.”

  “What is it with you and that rug?”

  “It broke up my marriage. Not like you may think.” Bitty sipped at her coffee and tucked her feet under her in the chair. She wore a thick cotton robe that still managed to look stylish on her, and matching blue house slippers with a band of fur and glitter marching across the instep. “I wanted the carpet, Philip refused to buy it, so I used my own money. Philip was furious. So he bought his legal assistant a boob job then tried them out just to be sure they worked. Of course, he made sure I knew all about it. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot his ass with my forty-five. Instead, I filed for divorce on grounds of infidelity. He nearly went through the roof. Worried more about how it’d look to his constituents than how I felt about everything. Not that it was his first time to stray. Usually, he bought me something expensive to make up for it. That time, I had to pay for it myself. So, I have the carpet to remind me not to be an idiot again.”