Divas and Dead Rebels (32 page)

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“This is your only warning. Don’t be stupid.”

That was it. Whoever the caller was, they hung up before I could ask another question. Caller ID read Unknown Caller. For several moments I stood in the fuzzy light from the overhead porch lamp and thought about my options. The reasonable thing to do would be to take the caller’s advice.

That was the reasonable thing. Why would I be unreasonable?

Chapter 16

“I think you should tell the police.” Gaynelle peered at me over the rim of her tea cup. We were sitting in her living room, a cozy area decorated in a vintage style with big comfy furniture and potted plants. “You’ve obviously stepped on the murderer’s toes, and you know what can happen when you do.”

“Yes.” I sighed. “Going to the police won’t be much help, though. After all, they would probably agree with my caller since we’ve already been told to butt out of police business.”

“That might be a good idea,” Gaynelle said after a brief pause. “Y’all did find the last two victims. I worry that one of these days you’ll both end up victims.”

“It’s crossed my mind more than once,” I said. “I’m not at all sure how my life’s taken such a strange turn. It’s almost a year since I came back home, and I’ve seen more dead people in the last eleven months than I’ve seen my entire life.”

“Opportunities
have
opened up in that direction, I’ve noticed,” Gaynelle replied drolly. “Perhaps you should consider a career in law enforcement.”

“Or the mortuary business.”

“That, too,” she agreed. “Not that you’re alone. Other Divas seem to have the same problem as you and Bitty.”

Alarmed, I said, “You don’t mean—”

“No, no,” Gaynelle quickly assured me, “no more bodies have been found. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“I ran into Miranda Watson the other day,” I said after breathing a sigh of relief, “and she asked me how everyone in ‘the murder club’ is doing. I told her that was a tacky thing to say, even if it does seem to be terribly true lately.” I paused, then added, “I didn’t say that last part, of course. No point in giving her any more ideas.”

“You’re definitely right about that. Miranda comes up with enough ideas on her own without any of us giving her help.” Gaynelle took a sip of her tea and frowned.

Since I’d stopped by Gaynelle’s to discuss my mystery caller of the night before, I hoped for advice that would make me feel better. And safer.

“Since there have been no more calls,” Gaynelle said after a moment of silence, “I suppose the best thing to do is just wait and see what happens. And refrain from doing any more investigations on your own.”

“Right. That would be the reasonable thing to do. Try telling that to Bitty.”

“Does she know about your threatening call?”

I nodded. “She called me at work today about a half-dozen times, all with the same suggestion—we find out who it is. I told her I’m not that curious. I’d much rather
not
know who wants to kill me.”

Gaynelle set her cup and saucer down on the vintage coffee table. “I understand that. Still, in one way Bitty has a point—knowing who threatened you would be a great help. Are you certain you don’t want to go to the police?”

“I’m not certain about anything. On one hand, I don’t want to know who called me. Yet on the other hand, knowing who it is might be safer. The problem is, looking for the person is not only risking arrest, it’s risking my life.”

“Quite true. I have a suggestion that may or may not appeal to you, but I’d like for you to hear me out.”

“Uh oh. Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like this?”

“Probably because you won’t like it.” Gaynelle smiled primly. “There’s safety in large numbers, you know. Herd animals instinctively know this. It’s always safest in the middle of a crowd than it is to be ahead or behind.”

“I get the feeling you’re going somewhere with this line of discussion.”

“Indeed I am. To keep you safe, any further involvement should be conducted as a group.”

“As in a gaggle of Divas?”

“Geese come in gaggles. Divas come in—”

“Droves?”

Gaynelle laughed. “Most of the time. Truly, Trinket, I think you need to be very cautious. You have been personally threatened. If we all get together, we can investigate as a team instead of individually. What killer in his right mind would try to take out an entire group?”

“Bitty and I were discussing that very thing not so long ago—that someone who is capable of killing a human being cannot really be in their right mind. The act precludes the definition of sanity.”

“A good point, but hardly helpful at preserving your safety.”

I sighed. “True. Okay. Maybe we should all put our heads together and see what we can come up with to get this situation resolved. Once the murderer is caught, I’ll feel a lot safer.”

“So you don’t believe Professor Sturgis’s wife killed him.”

Gaynelle’s question caught me by surprise. I thought about it a moment, then said, “Despite Bitty’s insistence, I’m not at all sure that she’s the killer. As you pointed out, it took an act of strength to subdue and strangle Sturgis. Emily Sturgis just doesn’t look like she’s strong enough to do it.”

“I agree. Not to say she couldn’t hire a killer, of course.”

“Oh, that’s it. Throw a wrench into the works,” I said, only half-kidding. “Just when I think we can rule someone out, I can’t. So who do you think is responsible for killing not just the professor, but Catherine Moore?”

“Breck Hartford is still at the top of my suspect list. He had motive, opportunity, and means.”

“But wasn’t there friction between Hartford and Sturgis? The professor may not have allowed him close enough to put himself in danger.”

“There’s a difference between disliking someone and thinking them capable of murder. Sturgis may have been caught by surprise.”

“Catherine Moore thought Hartford more than capable,” I said. “She also said he was the man who broke into her house right before . . . before she was killed.”

I still couldn’t quite accept that she had called me for help, and I hadn’t been able to save her. If I’d known she was in Potts Camp instead of Oxford, I might have been able to get police there in time, but even then it may have been too late. The feeling that I’d failed her nudged aside any hint of satisfaction that could come from finding her killer.

“Trinket,” said Gaynelle, and leaned forward to put a hand on my arm, “you did everything you could to help Catherine. Don’t feel that you failed in any way.”

I managed a smile. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

She sat back. “Because it’s what I would be thinking if I was in your shoes. The truth is no one could have gotten there in time to save Catherine. You did your best to get her help. That’s all you could do.”

I leaned back against the soft couch cushions. “I always feel better when I talk to you, Gaynelle. You’re the only voice of reason in a crazy world.”

“Since you largely dwell in Bitty-World, I can well understand that.”

We both laughed, and some of the dark thoughts that had been haunting me grew lighter.

It was the main topic of conversation at our next Diva meeting. We met two days later at Cady Lee Forsythe’s house. She lives in a house called Magnolia Hill, a two-story white house near the cemetery. The entire yard is enclosed by a black iron fence topped with fleur-de-lis and shaded by magnolia trees over a hundred fifty years old. Those ancient trees have lived through a civil war as well as two world wars and are gnarled with age but a stately reminder of times long past.

Bitty, Gaynelle, Rayna and I had ridden together in the Franklin Benz and parked at the curb in front of the house. Morning sunshine warmed chilly temperatures and glinted off the wide, waxy leaves of the magnolias. Cady Lee’s yard service had cleaned under the trees, leaving distinctive rake marks in the black dirt.

The front porch was decorated with straw bales, pumpkins, gourds, and a couple of scarecrows. White rocking chairs flanked a small table that held a pot of overflowing ivy with glossy green leaves. A periwinkle vine added splashes of creamy color.

Cady Lee answered the doorbell’s summons herself, swinging open the solid oak door with leaded glass panes and beckoning us inside. “It’s getting cold out there. Come in!”

There was a decided bite of chill in the air. Cady Lee had crockpots full of chili, pots of navy bean soup simmering, with rounds of cornbread and crusty loaves of fresh-baked bread set upon a sideboard. The table was set with a cornucopia spilling autumn bounty over a muted gold, green, and red table runner, and expensive china waited on the antique sideboard next to the crockpots. Several bottles of wine leaned inside crystal coolers of ice. In the butler’s pantry situated between the dining room and kitchen, I saw platters of desserts on one of the narrow counters. Hello calories, goodbye waistline.

“Brain food,” Cady Lee replied breezily when I complimented her on the cheese and cold cut trays brought out and placed on the dining room table. “Helps soak up the fat and carbohydrates and promotes mental health.”

I looked at her. “Really?”

“No. But it sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“The best reason I’ve heard yet for cream cheese and onion dip. Whole-grain crackers?”

“A few. I don’t like to clutter up the trays with too many healthy things.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

While I sampled roast beef, Swiss cheese, potato chips and onion dip, Bitty and Gaynelle dipped chili over bowls of cornbread wedges. Rayna had the navy bean soup with diced carrots and a hunk of pork swimming in her bowl, and as the other Divas arrived we depleted a large portion of not only Cady Lee’s offerings but casseroles, pies, chicken salad, pimento cheese, and other goodies. Deelight Tillman had brought a Hummingbird cake that looked beautiful on the sideboard. My contribution had been a French silk pie. Bitty had brought wine—of course—and Rayna and Gaynelle each brought home-baked chocolate cakes. Rayna’s had caramel in the icing. Be still my heart. I already had my piece staked out.

By the time we’d all eaten, the table and sideboard looked like they’d been visited by a swarm of hungry locusts. We retreated to the cozy parlor where a nice fire burned in the vintage grate.

“Are you certain we can’t help you clear the mess, Cady Lee?” asked Gaynelle. “It wouldn’t take any time.”

Cady Lee flapped her hand at Gaynelle. “Heavens no. I have my help do that. It’s her kitchen, not mine. I can barely find a spoon, but Pearl knows where everything goes.”

Cady Lee has been accustomed to having help ever since she was born. Rumor has it that Ruby Mae Wilson raised Cady Lee and her sister and brother, because her mother spent all her time at committee meetings, club meetings, and on trips to the Gulf coast to spread more philanthropic cheer. The Forsythe family had morning maids, afternoon maids, and evening maids, as well as a full-time nanny. Most of the help stayed with the family for a lifetime. Ruby Mae has a small, neat bungalow over near the new grade school. I see her sometimes out in her garden, bent with age but still nimble enough to raise turnips, tomatoes, and rows of beans in her back yard. She raised Cady Lee’s mother, too. Pearl is her great-granddaughter.

Bitty—sans pug—took a chair near to the fire, and I went to sit across from her. We all had drinks, either warm or cold, and now circled our wagons, so to speak, to talk about what to do next.

“I say we get a good hold of Emily Sturgis and squeeze her until she tells us everything we want to know,” said Bitty.

I looked at my cousin. “What is this vendetta you have against Emily Sturgis? I haven’t seen or heard a thing that links her to so much as a whisper of evidence against her, Bitty. Why do you think she’s involved?”

Bitty waved a hand. “Instinct. She’s in it up to her freshwater pearls, I guarantee you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Do I detect a hint of snobbery, Miz Hollandale?”

Before Bitty could form a properly scathing reply, Rayna interrupted. “You may be right, Bitty, but Emily’s alibi for the professor’s time of death is rock solid.”

Bitty looked crestfallen, but managed to rally enough to ask, “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. A dozen or so witnesses placed her at the preparations for The Grove party. She even stayed the night with Susan Lantrip so they could get up early to take the food over.”

Never one to go down without a struggle, Bitty said, “Well, I don’t know how she did it, but I’m willing to bet she managed somehow.”

“So what is the timeline of how things happened?” Cindy Nelson wanted to know. She’s a mother of active children who participate in sports, so always must know who has to be where when.

“Between the hours of nine thirty AM and eleven thirty AM, Professor Sturgis was strangled to death,” said Rayna. “Somehow he was moved without anyone noticing, and left in Brandon and Clayton’s dorm room. As we now know, at approximately three thirty PM, the professor was discovered by Bitty and Trinket and relocated to the back of a Penske truck that was behind the Trent Lott building. From there, the truck was taken back to Jackson, Mississippi, where it had been rented by Randall Klein, a student.