Authors: Virginia Brown
Crossing my arms over my chest, I gave her a belligerent stare. “Make me.”
“Dammit, Trinket, why won’t you just cooperate?” Georgie actually sounded aggrieved, and I started to be really rude, then I saw the small pistol in her hand. That complicated things.
Going with the
Be Prepared
advice, I’d already considered the barrel stave as a possible weapon just in case Dr. No waited in the wings. I hadn’t expected treachery on my own team, however, an oversight that can be fatal. Since James Bond wasn’t likely to come to my rescue—Sean Connery is and always will be 007 to me, even if he’s bald as an egg now—I knew I was on my own.
Georgie stepped forward, pistol clutched in both hands aimed right at me. I reached for the only weapon within range, grabbing the barrel stave, but she shot me before I could swing. I spun around just like I’ve seen them do on TV, not from the force of the bullet, but the surprise.
It burned like I’d just laid a curling iron against my arm, but before my life started passing in front of my eyes, Georgie let out a shriek that drowned out the storm overhead. As she started violently shaking one leg, I took immediate advantage of her convulsion by clutching that barrel stave in both hands. In a move that would make Jackie Chan proud, I swung the stave up and out, caught Georgie right on the side of her head and laid her out like a slab of beef. The pistol went spinning across dirt and sawdust, and that’s when I saw the cause of her St. Vitus dance.
Chitling let go of Georgie’s ankle and took off after the pistol. Since I wasn’t sure which of her three teeth might actually catch on the trigger and cause damage, I dove after it like an NFL star, sliding face-first in a whirlpool of sawdust that tasted like . . . well, sawdust. Good thing I’m a lot taller than Chitling is fast, or the outcome could have been very different.
Since an ill-tempered Chitling had to mean an imminent Bitty sighting, I took hold of the pistol like I knew what I was doing just in case Georgie woke up, and backed toward the open freezer door. My arm throbbed, but apparently wasn’t fatal.
“Bitty? Bitty? Are you in there?”
The only reply was something that sounded like a cross between the Tasmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny. I told you I watch too much TV. Anyway, since Bitty hadn’t come barreling out to check on her darling Chitling, I immediately deduced that she must be incapacitated. Actually, it was such a relief to hear her making any noise at all, that I’m afraid I was much too cheerful for her liking. Almost to the point of giddiness.
“Ah, my
precioussss
,” I said as I stepped inside and saw a pink blur sitting up against a wall and glaring at me, mouth, hands and ankles bound with duct tape, “I found my
preciousss
. . . ”
Really, Bitty shouldn’t have kicked me so hard. Especially when she totes around a dog with a face just like Gollum’s. Or am I thinking of Yoda? Sometimes I get
Lord of the Rings
and
Star Wars
characters confused.
Anyway, by the time I worked the duct tape off her mouth, wrists, and ankles, then kept her from stomping Georgie to a bloody pulp like she insisted she wanted to do, the storm had finally stopped and more light came in from the hole in the wall. For a woman whose mouth had been taped up for nearly seven hours, Bitty’s healing time was remarkably swift.
“That simpering, sheep-faced little bitch,” she snarled, hovering over me like an avenging angel of death while I was still wrapping the tape I’d prudently saved around Georgie’s wrists—a precaution I felt necessary. “She had the audacity to tell me that this was all my fault! That I should have acted my age and not like some idiotic high school girl! Can you imagine her saying that to me?”
“No,” I said honestly. “She always seemed so quiet.”
“Well, Daddy always said it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.”
“Then you and I should be the most unobserved people since the dawn of time. Now go out to Gaynelle’s car and get Georgie’s cell phone, and call Jackson Lee. Please?”
Bitty got a crafty look on her face. “You go. I’ll keep an eye on Georgie.”
“Looks like we’ll be here a while, then. I’m not leaving you alone with her.”
“Really, Trinket, sometimes you can be so annoying. Look at my clothes. My hair! And I broke a heel on these shoes. Besides that, she scared poor little Chen Ling to death. She didn’t leave my side the entire time we sat there in that cold, filthy hole. If for no other reason than that, Georgie should be shot at dawn.”
“The sooner you call Jackson Lee, the sooner she might be shot at dawn,” I suggested.
Georgie should have appreciated my efforts. I’m sure she didn’t, but watching Bitty scoop up her precious dog, the three-toothed Hydra—to whom I’m very grateful, by the way—I knew I’d made the right decision not to turn Bitty loose on her.
Still lying out on the floor, breathing a little shallowly but steadily, her broken glasses lost somewhere, Georgie had a lot of explaining to do. And since I was dying to hear what on earth had gotten into her, I wasn’t about to let Bitty spoil that.
When Jackson Lee arrived with five police cars, a
Bitty, busily inspecting one of the old trolleys I’d known she’d appreciate, waved a hand. “Just that we’re at the old ice house, you’ve been shot, and we’re being held by a madwoman. He said he’d come right away.”
“You did tell him the madwoman is unconscious and tied up, didn’t you?”
Bitty looked up. “Why, I’m just certain I did. I think.”
For a few minutes it was a little dicey, what with bullhorn orders being bayed at us and sharpshooters and miniature Darth Vaders running all around the parking lot, but finally I was able to convey the facts that we were all right, that our assailant was unarmed, and in fact, taking a nap, and if they just wouldn’t shoot us, we’d like to come outside.
There was a tense moment when Bitty refused to put her arms over her head, but as she was only armed with a pug, no one shot her. Maybe they should have. I was pretty irritated by that point. It’d been a long, stressful day. And it promised to be even more stressful.
So imagine my surprise when Kit Coltrane ran interference for me, insisting that Bitty and I be seen at the hospital before the police could barrage us with questions.
“You’re welcome to go along,” he said firmly to Officer Stone, “but Trinket’s been shot and needs to be seen by a doctor.”
Marcus Stone didn’t blink. It didn’t matter that my bullet wound was just a scratch that had already stopped bleeding. “There’s an ambulance right over here. I know where to find her when we need her,” he said, obviously trying to make up for false accusations. He probably knew we understood about the arrest, but I thought it a nice gesture anyway.
Jackson Lee did the same for Bitty, of course. I walked to the ambulance, protesting that I felt silly about it, but Bitty, who’d been held hostage all day, rose to the occasion like a true belle. I fully expected her to swoon just like Aunt Pitty-Pat—another
Gone with the Wind
reference for the only person on the planet who hasn’t read the book or seen the movie—and to call for Uncle Peter and her smelling salts.
Medics swarmed around her and Jackson Lee hovered anxiously, insisting upon holding her hand. He kept patting it as if he expected her to expire at any moment, and of course, Bitty ate that up with a spoon. She loves focused attention, even when it’s undeserved.
With Bitty safely loaded onto a gurney for the three yard trip to the waiting ambulance, she stretched out her free arm dramatically, calling, “Chen Ling! Where is my darling? I must have her with me. She’s the only thing that kept me alive during that terrible time . . . . ”
“Oh yes,” I muttered rather irritably as I climbed into the back of the other ambulance on my own, “that terrible seven hour ordeal sitting on your butt in a warm freezer far outweighs a bullet wound.” I told you I can be bitchy.
Kit, who had checked over the dog and pronounced her as fit as a bow-legged, knock-kneed dog with an underbite and three front teeth can be, valiantly carried the grumpy pug to Bitty’s waiting arms. Then, with Chitling sitting on her stomach and looking like something out of
Star Wars,
Bitty was borne to the ambulance with all the pomp of Cleopatra on her barge.
I had to move my feet quickly before the attendant shut the ambulance door on them.
Then Kit showed up, demanding to be allowed to ride with me and demanding to know why my wound hadn’t already been tended. “Damn, son,” he snapped at the young man in the white coat, “don’t you know that she could go into shock?”
“But . . . but it’s just a scratch,” the young attendant protested, and the look in Kit’s eyes made him fumble for the door latch. “It’s stopped bleeding,” he added as he got the door open.
Kit was undeterred. “Are you telling me you aren’t familiar with infection? If I’d known she hadn’t already been prepped, I’d have been in here doing it myself.”
He sounded furious. The attendant looked terrified. I was fascinated. I’ve never had a man treat me like I need protection. Most men take one look at me and figure a big strapping woman like I am can take care of herself. It’s quite a novel feeling to be treated as fragile.
Anyway, I had my first ride in an ambulance, which made me suspect that I must look pretty awful, but Kit rode with me, and while that was a little awkward, he did make me feel better. In a way, it was almost romantic, even if the rose and purple sunset was only viewable by peering through those little rectangular ambulance windows, but I didn’t mind. I felt safe.
Kit held my hand. “You’re just fine,” he said.
“I’ve always known that, thank you,” I replied, and we both grinned at each other like two tenth graders. Then he kissed me. I liked it a lot.
It’s almost embarrassing to remember. Our new
Chapter Twenty
I’ve always known that Happily Ever Afters aren’t really possible. Not like in fairy tales or Disney movies. But sometimes, the next best thing is better than you ever thought it might be. As a card-carrying cynic, of course I expect it to blow up in my face at any moment, but I’ve decided that the fun of the ride is worth the price of the ticket. Whatever happens, happens. One way or the other.
Not all has been well in Fairy Land, however, at least, not for the villains. Melody Doyle, whose lawyer got her a really good deal, still has to do a year in a minimum security prison for her part in the charity funds fraud and the Class D felony of the traveling corpses. All the Divas were able to get off in exchange for their testimony—and are the newest town celebrities—and poor Gaynelle Bishop, who didn’t know anything at all about her niece’s activities, has still stood by her. We all understand that. It’s what family does. In fact, we’d be shocked if she didn’t.
Thankfully, Cindy Nelson has a concussion but no long-lasting effects from Georgie hitting her in the head after Cindy realized that Georgie had been the one to tell Melody about hiding the senator in the cemetery. And Cindy doesn’t hold any grudges against Gaynelle, either. Georgie’s another matter.
Working so often in the cemetery provided Georgie with perfect access to the senator’s frozen body, and no one thought anything about her moving things around with a furniture dolly, since she occasionally did that, too. Now Georgie’s on industrial strength anti-psychotics. I hope her reservations at Whitfield are for a lifetime residency.
Jerry Ray Dean, the former Jefferson Johnston, is on the list of Favorite To Be Extradited, so when he gets out of Parchman, no doubt Jerry Ray will become best friends with a cellmate named Bubba in Georgia. Easthaven is up for sale again, and Bitty is thinking of buying it. Bless her heart.
We discussed that very thing out on the screened porch of Six Chimneys while the ceiling fan recycled cool air over our heads and we drank tall frosted glasses of fresh lemonade.
“I swear, Sharita makes the best lemonade ever,” Bitty said, using her straw to swirl the festive sprig of mint around in the glass.
“I gave her Mama’s recipe,” I replied after a moment, feeling very lazy and relaxed for the first time in a long while. Warm days do that to me, especially when everything’s blooming and birds are singing and I have a glass of high-calorie lemonade in my hand.
“Really? I didn’t know that. What is it that Aunt Anna does different?”
“Mashes the sliced lemons up in all the sugar first to make that thick syrup, then adds ice a little at a time, stirring it until it melts. It takes a lot of ice. And a big metal bowl or pan. A couple dozen lemons. I think she used a stockpot when we were kids, we drank so much of it.”
We thought on that, probably both of us recalling long summer days, lightning bugs, and cups of lemonade. The smell of freshly cut grass, sleeping out in tents until the mosquitoes got so bad we had to come inside, then the smell of pink calamine lotion on all our bites. Nice memories.
“So, do you think I should buy Easthaven?” Bitty asked, and I said
Good Lord, no.
She craned her neck to look at me. “Why not?”
“What do you need another house for, Bitty? You’ve got this one, and it’s a wonderful house. Even with Clayton and Brandon and half of Ole Miss and Mississippi State here during their spring break, it wasn’t so bad. You don’t need anything bigger.”
“Oh, you’re right. I guess I was just thinking of the fun it’d be to work on another house. You know, fix it all up.”
“If you’re looking for another distraction, buy Chitling a set of false teeth.”
“Leave Chen Ling alone. She’s beautiful just as she is. Besides, she saved our lives.”
“I remember that a little differently,” I said rather crossly. “She was a distraction. I saved our lives by smacking Georgie in the head with that barrel stave.”
“A shame about all that. And I never even suspected. Why, that girl is just deranged. I mean, I wanted to get The Cedars on the tour and definitely on the Historical Register, but I’d never have gone to the lengths she did.”