Divas and Dead Rebels (12 page)

“Well, we don’t know anything about how he died. Except, of course, that he was strangled with a wire clothes hanger and hidden in Clayton’s dormitory closet.”

“That’s probably more than the Oxford police know right now,” I pointed out. “Stop the car. Let me out. I don’t want to go.”

“If I thought you meant that,” Bitty began as she aimed the car toward the road, swerved into a turn and picked up speed down the hill, “I’d be very upset. However, I know you don’t want to disappoint me.”

“I do. Oh, I do. If it means having to stand in the professor’s living room and offer his wife my condolences when all the time I’m waiting for someone to ask me why we were pushing a gigantic laundry cart across the campus, I want to disappoint you. I can’t stand the suspense. You know that. You know I hate waiting on bad news.”

“You’re such a pessimist. Good heavens—where did all those houses come from? I haven’t seen them before, have I?”

“I assume you’re referring to the subdivision we’re passing. You’ve been passing them for about five years now. Daddy sold the cow pasture to some land developers. Stop trying to distract me, and do stop the car. I can still get back to the house before dark if I walk really fast.”

“Nonsense, Trinket. It’s not even noon yet. You’d be back at the house before lunch if I let you out.”

“Are you? Going to let me out?”

“Of course not. We need to stick together. I talked it over with Gaynelle, and she thinks going down there and seeing if anything out of the normal is said or done is a fine idea.”

“Gaynelle’s in her sixties now. She’s probably getting senile dementia.”

“If you really think that, you can tell her yourself. We’ll be at her house in about five minutes to pick her up.”

“She’s going with us?”

“I thought it best. Since she’s an academic, she can mingle with the professor’s associates.”

“Why do
I
have to go if Gaynelle is going?”

Bitty glanced over at me. “Are you whining again? I declare, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. You’re beginning to act like a spoiled child.”

She sounded like my mother giving me a good scold. To add insult to injury, her dog growled at me. I gave Chen Ling what I considered to be a withering glare, but it just rolled right off her. She lifted one paw and licked it daintily. Her toenails were a nice shade of purple.
My gawd
, I thought,
she’s turning into a furry Bitty . . .

“Did you paint Chitling’s toenails?” I asked instead of responding to Bitty’s unkind and far-too-close-to-the-truth remarks.

“No, Regina did. At the doggy spa. Why? Isn’t the color right?”

“The color is perfect, Princess Glitter. Y’all match beautifully. Does your dress have a tulle bow, too?”

“Yes. And don’t give me any guff about it, either. Your own parents are just as bad if not worse than I am about putting clothes on a dog.”

Alas, Bitty spoke the truth. It’s a source of great concern at times, although I realize that just because I never dressed up my cat or dog that doesn’t mean I’m deficient in the area of pet ownership. Or so I’ve convinced myself.

“Why is it important to dress up if we’re just going to the professor’s house?” I asked. “It’s not like they live in a mansion. Do they?”

“Where they live isn’t important, Trinket. It’s who they are. You want to be well-dressed, but not over-dressed. Of course, you obviously don’t have to worry about that last point.”

“Velvet and tulle is not over-dressed for a wake? Good lord. What madness have I become involved in?”

“Since it’s still daytime, you’ll probably pass inspection by the skin of your teeth. Or your cheap slacks.”

“Bitty, you are such a snob sometimes.”

She became immediately indignant. “I am not! I just like to dress appropriately.”

“Then stop making snide remarks about my clothes. I’m always clean, and I strive to wear suitable styles at the suitable times. Slacks and a sweater set are just fine for going to someone’s house in the afternoon. I’ll bet you’ll be the only one there in velvet and tulle.”

“And you obviously don’t know the ladies of Oxford.”

“True. Now I’m not sure I want to.”

“It’s just that there’s a certain code for the alumni and professor’s wives, and it includes dressing up for affairs. I’m no more dressed up now than as if I was going to a garden club meeting.”

“I’m not sure what that says about Holly Springs garden club members.”

“Trinket, this may
look
dressy, but it’s a pantsuit, not an evening gown. I’m not even wearing stilettos.”

I peered down at her feet. By golly, she was right. Instead of ten inch high heels, she wore nice, low-heeled pumps that matched her pantsuit.

“Badgley Mischka?” I guessed, and she shook her head.

“Manolo Blahnik. Fall collection.”

“Cute. I like the suede flower on the toe. And the heels aren’t so high you look like you’re walking on stilts.”

“I’d say thank you, but I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” said Bitty as she nosed the big black Mercedes against the curb in front of Gaynelle’s neat little house.

She must have been watching for us, because the front door opened immediately, and Gaynelle stepped out onto the porch and turned back to lock up. She wore a sensible tweed jacket with a matching skirt, low-heeled shoes, and a silk blouse with a froth of ruffles at the throat. Gaynelle’s hair was a lovely chestnut color this week. It framed her face nicely and made her look years younger than her sixties.

“See,” I said, “Gaynelle isn’t dressed in satin or velvet either.”

“Gaynelle isn’t related to me. You are.”

“Ah, so you’re only a snob with blood relatives.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s true. It’s a reflection on the Truevine name, you know.”

“Lucky me, to be related to you.”

“Indeed you are, my dear, and one day I’ll get it through to you that clothes may not make the man, but they definitely make the woman.”

I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue at Chitling. She barked fiercely at me, and I smiled. Really, Bitty’s right: I revert to childhood much too often these days.

“Hey, Gaynelle,” I said as she opened the back door and slid onto the leather seat.

“Hey, Trinket, Bitty.” She slammed shut the door and strapped her seatbelt. “I’m ready, so let’s go brave the Oxford matrons.”

“Are they really that bad?” I asked as Bitty put the car into gear, and we shot forward on the narrow street. It’s not that I doubted Bitty’s assertion, but an objective point of view is always welcome.

“Oh, no. Most of them are very nice, very down to earth people, but a few of them consider themselves a cut or two above everyone else. Did you put a rinse on your hair, Trinket?”

I reached up to touch my hair self-consciously. If I don’t put a rinse on it every six weeks or so, Brownie looks at me as if I’m hiding his enemy the squirrel on top of my head. I think it has to do with the gray color it gets and wearing it pulled back into a ponytail. I’ve tried to do better about letting myself go, especially since I started keeping company with Kit Coltrane. The handsome vet is enough to make any woman reconsider her options. Just the thought of his smile when he sees me gives me shivers and makes my stomach flip. In fact, just thinking about him at all has the same effect.

“Don’t you like it?” I asked, half-turning to look at Gaynelle. “Is the color off?”

“No, not at all. And I do like it. I just noticed that it was different than it was a few days ago, that’s all. Is that a medium auburn you’re using?”

“Yes. It’s the closest I can find to my natural hair color.”

“Your natural hair color is gray,” Bitty said. She’s unwilling to be left out of any conversation for very long. I still thought it tacky of her to say that.

“My natural color has always been auburn,” I corrected her firmly. “It’s just lately that I’ve been getting gray. Since I came home and starting hanging around with you, as a matter of fact.”

“Don’t be so rude, Trinket. You were gray when you drove across the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge. Don’t try and blame it on me.”

“Bitty, is that outfit by Gucci?” Gaynelle interrupted. I recognized her attempt to stop what could degenerate into a long exchange of insults.

Bitty glanced at her in the rear view mirror. “Why yes, it is, Gaynelle. Do you like it?”

“I do. I never thought blondes could wear that color, but it suits you.”

“It’s called Eggplant. I like it anyway. And my shoes match, too . . .”

Complimenting Bitty on her style choices usually soothes the savage beast in her, and it worked this time, too. We got into an involved conversation about shoe styles, the insane prices charged, and if they were really better than less well-known designers. Before I knew it, we were on the outskirts of Oxford. Engaging Bitty in a discussion about shoes and/or clothes is always a guaranteed time-consumer.

“Here we are,” said Bitty, and slowed the Mercedes down in front of a nice house with a front yard full of old trees and a driveway full of expensive cars. “Looks like we’re not the first ones here.”

“You
think
?” I murmured as I noted the Jaguars, Mercedes, Acuras and Lexus all parked neatly in the wide, wide driveway. Ivy climbed old stone walls, liriope circled the oak trees, and bright yellow and rust-colored mums dotted the carefully cultivated grounds. I began to think Bitty had been right. I didn’t know a thing about Oxford matrons.

Bitty quickly checked her makeup—after all, we’d been in the car for a good forty-five minutes—added some lipstick, then unfastened Chen Ling from her basket.

“You’re really going to take that dog inside?” I asked even though I was pretty sure a court order wouldn’t have stopped her. “Is she on the guest list?”

“Of course she is,” Bitty replied, undeterred by my mockery. “Her name is right above yours.”

“Hunh,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything better at the moment. I just undid my seatbelt and got out of the car. It was a little past noon, and weak sunlight slid between thick oak branches. Clouds had started to gather overhead, and I figured it would probably rain all the way back to Holly Springs.

As Bitty had predicted, everyone in the Sturgis home was dressed expensively. I should have felt out of place, but I’ve been around Bitty too much lately to let it bother me. Since no one gasped and pointed at me, I figured no one but Bitty noticed or cared that my entire outfit cost less than any one of their keychains.

Only a couple of men were there, and one of them greeted Bitty about three seconds after we entered the front door.

“Elisabeth Truevine, is that you?” he asked, his voice lower than usual because of the solemnity of the occasion.

“It’s Hollandale now,” said Bitty, matching his tone with just the right amount of decorum. “I’m a widow.”

I barely kept from rolling my eyes. Bitty and Philip Hollandale had been divorced for over a year when he got himself murdered, so that hardly classifies his ex-wife as a widow. Bitty, however, has taken to referring to herself that way no matter how many times I’ve pointed out the truth.

Turning to me, Bitty said, “This is the man I would have married had Frank not stolen my heart first. I know you’ve heard me speak of him—Breck Hartford.”

Of course, I played my part to perfection. Since I had never heard the name before in my life, I said, “Not
the
Breck Hartford?”

Bitty smiled. “The very one. Star halfback on the football team, Captain of the Varsity Club, and now assistant coach right back here at Ole Miss. How you been doing these past few years, Breck?”

She turned back to him to ask the last question, and I saw out of one corner of my eye a vaguely familiar face that seemed riveted in our direction. It took me only an instant to recall her: Mrs. Sebastian Sturgis. Wait.
What was his first name
? I wondered as she detached herself from the small group of ladies and came toward us. It wasn’t until she reached us that the name came to me.

Gaynelle greeted her first. “Perhaps you remember me, Mrs. Sturgis? I worked briefly with your husband on a refresher course of ancient history a few years ago. You invited me here for lunch.”

“Oh yes, of course. Gaynelle Bishop, is that right?”

Gaynelle nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry we must meet again under these circumstances. Please accept my condolences.”

Emily Sturgis nodded, and her gaze flicked across Bitty and Hartford for a moment before settling on me. “I believe we’ve met before?” she began, and I nodded.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your husband,” I said, taking the hand she offered to me. “Everyone says Spencer was a wonderful man.”

Emily Sturgis inclined her head slightly to acknowledge my condolences. “Thank you. His loss is . . . well, dreadful. Please forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name?”

“Trinket Truevine,” I supplied as we released our brief clasp of each other’s hand. “I’m Bitty Hollandale’s cousin.”