Divas Do Tell (35 page)

As a result, none of them appeared at the glass doors beneath the airline clearly labeled on signs above the exits. By the sixth circle around I was getting pretty testy. I wanted to pull over to call Bitty’s cell phone, but the vigilant security guards zeroed in on me like magnetic forces. Finally I found a safe spot to stop and dial my clueless cousin on my cell phone.

She answered after only three rings. “Are you sure they’re coming in today?” she asked instead of saying “Hello.” “American Airlines has no record of passengers named Truevine.”

“Perhaps that’s because they’re on Continental,” I replied more calmly than I felt. “Go to one of those kiosks and look at the electronic boards. One of them should list arriving flights.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Trinket, don’t you think I’ve done that?”

“It will work better if you look for the correct airline. Try it. It’s much faster.”

After we hung up I started around to make the loop again, going slowly in the hope I’d see my parents waiting at the curb with their luggage. When I reached the Continental door I slowed down to a crawl. Then I saw them wheeling their big suitcases toward the exit. I parked, opened my trunk door, got out and waited. When the security guard slowed down to look at me suspiciously, I pointed to the approaching senior citizens. He cruised slowly past, and I went inside to help my parents.

We hugged, kissed, and then got down to the business of loading suitcases and babbling about their trip. Daddy helped Mama into the back seat, and he got into the front seat. He’s more comfortable when he can stretch out his legs. Despite age he’s still pretty tall. I got behind the wheel and checked to see if any cars were coming, then pulled out into the line of vehicles going slowly past the exits.

I was all the way past the turn onto west Winchester Road before I realized I’d forgotten something. Interrupting Mama’s description of Italy and Pompeii, I said, “We forgot Bitty.”

“Bitty?” Daddy echoed. “We forgot her?”

“Yes, she came with me.” Daddy looked at me, and I explained, “She went inside to find you, against my better judgment, I might add.”

Mama said, “Bitty has such good intentions.”

“And we all know where that road leads,” I muttered as I turned off the interstate loop onto Democrat Road. It would be a lengthy process to get back to the airport. I was surprised I hadn’t heard from Bitty. Surely she realized by now she’d missed greeting them.

It took two more cruises around the airport and a third cell phone call before Bitty came out of the airport terminal. She was on the top level, having somehow missed baggage claim and the arrival of my parents’ plane, but I didn’t ask any questions. It was a forty-five minute drive back to Holly Springs, and I had no intention of listening to her excuses on the way.

Mama and Daddy were just full of stories about their trip; it made me want to go to Italy as well, if nothing else to get away from the madness of movie people and murder.

Then, just as we passed the Byhalia exit, Mama asked, “So what’s this I hear about you two being in all the tabloids?”

Since the question was directed at me, I pretended not to have heard, but Bitty was only too happy to oblige.

“Oh, it’s been terribly exciting and awful at the same time, Aunt Anna. How did you hear about it?”

I heard the rustling of paper, and if I hadn’t been doing seventy miles an hour I would have closed my eyes while I cringed. Mama pulled a tabloid out of her huge purse. “I can’t read Italian,” she said, pronouncing Italian as Eye-talian, “but I can see from the pictures that there’s been more than excitement at home.”

“Three murders,” said Bitty promptly. “The entire town is talking about it. May I see that paper?”

Mama passed it over to her while I tried to avoid my father’s gaze. I felt it focused on my face but kept my eyes on the road. If possible, I intended to stay out of this conversation.

“Well,” said Bitty in the breathless kind of tone suitable for gossip, “it all started out with Dixie Lee’s book, as you know. After y’all left, Billy Joe Cramer stormed into Budgie’s café and yelled at her so loud you could have heard it over in Benton County. Then the next thing you know he turns up dead. The police thought it was suicide at first, but then found out it’s murder. I tell you, Aunt Anna, it’s been a mess here while y’all were gone.”

“Sounds like it,” said my father in a dry tone, while my mother pressed Bitty for more details.

By the time we reached Holly Springs she’d progressed to the last murder and our group suspicion of the murderer’s identity. Finally she finished, “I still think it’s either Dixie Lee or Mira Waller. There’s a possibility it’s a man, though, and that’s what we’re going to try and find out.”

“We?” Mama echoed. “As in you and Trinket?”

“Along with Gaynelle, Rayna, and Sandra,” said Bitty.

“Sandra?”

“Sandra Brady, the movie star.”

Mama was suitably impressed while Daddy just groaned and leaned his head against the window. He’s more adept at recognizing approaching disaster.

When I pulled up in front of Bitty’s house, she said her goodbyes, got out and then leaned back into the car to say, “Oh, did I tell you who I saw in the airport? Bruce Wallace. He had a whole bunch of people around him, so I couldn’t get too close, but I followed them until he got into a black limo. I wonder where he’s staying.”

“If he’s smart, anyplace but Holly Springs,” my daddy said, and I had to agree.

Bitty looked disappointed at even the thought. “Well,” she said, “I’m sure we’ll find out soon. All we have to do is follow the paparazzi. They always seem to know where to find the stars.”

“Apparently you two know where to find the bodies,” Daddy said rather grumpily. “One of these days it’s going to catch up to you. Be careful. Better yet, stop snooping. It’s a lot safer.”

Again, I found myself silently agreeing with my father.

Of course, it went right past Bitty. I’m sure she pretends not to understand just so she can do whatever it is she wants to do. It’s a trick she learned in early childhood: It’s much easier to ask forgiveness than it is permission.

“Oh, we’re perfectly safe,” she assured Daddy. “The police gave me back my pistol, and I promised to stay out of dangerous situations.”

When we pulled away from the curb Mama said, “Who among us believes that she can keep that promise?”

There were no takers. We all pretty much knew that Bitty and dangerous situations are par for the course. The trouble was, I was almost always her sidekick.

As I had predicted, the minute Brownie saw Mama he went into an immediate decline. If he’d been a nineteenth century lady he’d have swooned on the fainting couch. Since he’s just a dog, he lifted one paw, put back his ears, and put on his pitiful face. I could swear he sucked in his gut so he’d look skinny, but maybe it was a trick of light.

Mama instantly fussed him, picking him up and holding him like a baby, cooing to him as if he could understand a word she said, and I rolled my eyes and carried their suitcases into their bedroom. The house felt full again, and an overwhelming sense of
home
swamped me. When my parents are there it feels like home. I hadn’t realized it, but when they’re away it felt different, a sense of something missing. Now it felt familiar, comfortable, and welcoming. I was really glad they were back, and not just so they could take over the zoo schedule.

It was while they were showing me all the photos they’d taken, explaining them, adding little details about the day or how they’d come to take that particular photo, that it hit me that I had family, but Bitty had almost none. Except for Jackson Lee, her only close family was her boys, and they were away at college in the winter, traveling in the summers. Her only brother lived down in Jackson and never came back our way. She had me, of course, and my parents, but all her immediate family was gone. Maybe that’s why she found so many different activities, to keep from being lonely.

I resolved to spend more time with her in constructive ways instead of risking our necks irritating policemen and careening from one murder hypothesis to another. It’d be—different.

Before I had a chance to impart my new found compassion to my cousin she called me at five forty-five in the morning. Bleary eyed, fumbling for my cell phone, I finally got it turned in the right direction just in time to hear her say, “And so I invited them to my house for wine. You have to be here by six. Trinket?”

I’d obviously missed something important. I tried to think what it could be.

“Trinket, are you there?”

“Um hm. Who is going to be at your house by six, and why do I have to be there?”

“Honestly, you never listen. Bruce Wallace is coming over this evening for wine. Don’t you remember me telling you I saw him at the airport yesterday?”

I squinted into the still dark shadows in my bedroom and plumbed the depths of my memory. “Uh, kinda. But you didn’t talk to him—did you?”

“Not then. Weren’t you paying any attention at all?”

Apparently not. I sighed. “Please fill in the gaps of my memory loss.”

“Well, I left you a message on your cell phone last night, but since you’re having trouble remembering, I ran into Sandra and Bruce at the inn. I had gone over to tell Sandra I’d seen him at the airport, and voila! There he was. So I invited both of them to have wine and hors d’oeuvres with us this evening. They’ll be here at seven. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Delightful. Call me back when it’s daylight, and we can talk about it some more.”

“I can’t believe you aren’t more excited. I’ve been up all night just planning which wine and what to serve.”

“Go to bed. Get some sleep. Call me in a few hours.”

I hung up before she could share more exciting news with me. As the light on my phone faded out I welcomed the lovely soft darkness. It was cool, I had a pile of blankets on top of me, and no dog. The quiet was lovely. I’d deal with Bitty when I woke up in a few hours.

Of course, going back to sleep turned out to be impossible. Irritable after lying there waiting on sleep for over an hour, I finally gave in and got up. I wrapped myself in a terrycloth robe and stomped downstairs in my fuzzy slippers to put on coffee. To my surprise, my mother was already awake and up, and the fragrance of brewing coffee greeted me.

“Well, hello, sleepyhead,” she said with a smile. “You’re up early.”

“And yet not as early as Bitty.” I yawned and reached for a coffee cup.

“Oh lord. Do I want to know what that means?”

“She called and woke me up. Be grateful for cell phones. Otherwise she’d have woken you and Daddy up, too.”

“It’s not like Bitty to be up so early. Is she sick?”

“No, just insane. She invited Sandra and Bruce Wallace over for wine tonight.”

Mama looked astonished. “How on earth—?”

“He was visiting Sandra Brady when Bitty showed up. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. She’d have figured out a way to bump into him somehow. Is the coffee ready?”

Two cups later I felt a lot better. I considered calling Bitty, then reconsidered. She’d call me when she woke up or had another brainstorm. Meanwhile I needed to work on being more compassionate. She was making it pretty difficult. I’m best at new emotions when I’m fully awake.

It was nearly noon by the time Bitty called again, and she picked up our conversation as if we’d still been in the middle of it. “So what do you think?” she asked when I took her call. “I can pick you up or you can drive over, whichever is best for you, but you have to let me know pretty quickly since I’m still planning the menu.”

I tried to catch up and then decided to just start at the end. “What menu? I thought this was wine and cheese, not a formal dinner.”

“It is, but you cannot serve just any ole thing to movie stars, Trinket.”

She sounded aghast. I rolled my eyes. “He’s American. Bruce probably drinks domestic beer and eats those ginormous pretzels filled with cheese.”

“An unnerving thought.”

“Isn’t it? So what gastronomic delights have you decided upon for the evening’s soirée?”

“It’s not a soirée. It’s just wine and a few people in to mingle.”

“That’s the definition of soirée. Just add some music. Who are the few people? Divas and the garden club?”

“Heavens, no. That’s far too many people on this short a notice, Trinket. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking of going back to bed, if you must know. Is Mr. Wallace aware he’s going to be ambushed by a house full of salivating females?”

“Oh, Sandra told him he really must join us for wine, that I have a delightful cellar. And he seemed quite pleased.”

“I’m sure he was,” I said dryly, mainly because I had a sneaking suspicion that Sandra Brady wasn’t above sending her ex-husband to his conversational doom. It’d be a lovely form of revenge for his dumping her for a younger woman.

By the time I got to Bitty’s that evening it was right before six and already dark outside. I hoped for an early spring. I’m not really a winter person. While I do like the change of seasons, I tire quickly after a couple months of cold or heat. I’m fickle.

I’d worn my nicest navy slacks and pale blue twin-set, but Miss Got-rocks informed me I still wasn’t up to par.