Authors: Virginia Brown
Rayna set my cake pan on the oak counter of the check-in desk at the end of the gigantic lobby that makes up her living quarters. Pink marble forms three walls. The oak-paneled rear wall behind the desk has double doors that lead to her sleeping area. A lovely, curved staircase sweeps up the wall on the lobby’s east side, with a baggage room tucked beneath it. At the west end of the check-in desk is a single door that leads back to the former kitchen. Another door in the west wall leads to a former dining room, with the garden facing the street at the front of it.
You’d think that a hotel lobby as a living room would be cold and stark, but it’s not. It has a homey feel to it, greatly helped by gigantic houseplants in waist-high pots that sit beneath a three-story domed skylight, several plush couches and chairs, and antique cabinets that house a television,
Multi-colored aluminum streamers hung in glittery strips above a long table pulled to one side of the lobby. A row of feathered and glittered half-masks with peacock feathers lined one end, and strings of plastic beads swirled through brightly colored plates, and hung around the neck of a papier-mâché head in the table’s center. The grinning head wore a mask and a crown.
Bitty took the case of wine to the kitchen behind the lobby and put most of it in the big side-by-side refrigerator. Then she set two bottles of white zinfandel on the check-in desk, and pulled the cork on the first one.
“Here we go, ladies,” she said, and poured us each a glass.
It was a little early for me to drink wine but this was a celebration. Of something, I wasn’t quite sure yet, but the decorations gave me a hint. We all five lifted our glasses in a toast.
“To the Divas!”
By the time the others arrived, I was nearly drunk on chocolate fumes, but prudently kept the zinfandel refills at a minimum. There were ten women, ranging from thirty-year old Marcy Porter to sixty-ish Gaynelle Bishop, with a few others I didn’t recognize at all. A cardinal rule is that no men are allowed to attend Diva meetings, unless they’re delivering something or are part of the entertainment. Even then, they must take a privacy oath not to reveal what they see or hear. So far, there have been no violators of that rule, for threats of reprisal are so grim and dire most men pale at just the mention. I also learned other interesting but more flexible rules.
Membership in the Dixie Divas stays at an even dozen. No more, no less. Those who drop out, die or move are replaced by a majority of votes. Visitors are allowed to attend by permission of the hosting Diva since space and food may be a concern. Not all the meetings are held at the
Inn
. Whoever volunteers to play hostess is responsible for allotting members food to bring, but provides ice, dishes and cutlery, and decides the theme.
This month it was Mardi Gras. Appropriate since Fat Tuesday was next week. We put on the masks and Mardi Gras beads, and ate our way through chicken salad, six different kinds of crackers and bread, and a couple of casseroles. Rayna had a huge crock-pot of red beans and rice simmering, and shrimp bisque that was as good as anything available in
New Orleans
. Desserts ranged from my Mississippi Mud Cake to a huge platter of iced brownies, and filled an entire end of the check-in desk.
I was introduced to several people I didn’t know, and reacquainted with a few I’d known and forgotten. Deelight Tillman was one of the latter. Petite, with gray eyes and a shaggy mop of light brown hair, I just couldn’t place her. Over my second helping of red beans, rice, and chunks of andouille sausage, we went over the times and places in our past where we must have known each other. We weren’t having any success until we started naming siblings and their friends.
Then it came to me. “I know,” I said. “My older brother Jack dated your older sister Deevine.”
Deelight threw up her hands. “That’s it! Of course. I remember we all used to tease her by saying if she married Jack her name would be—”
“Deevine Truevine,” we chorused, both emphasizing the first syllables, and then laughed.
“With our surname of Grace,” Deelight said, “poor Deevine got a lot of teasing. It never seemed to bother her, though. I don’t know what my parents were thinking, naming her Deevine Faithann Grace, and naming me Deelight Joyann Grace.”
Lifting my brow, I said, “You’re talking to Eureka Truevine, remember? Our parents must have been tippling too much of the church communion wine.”
“You’ve gone back to your maiden name?” Deelight said in more of a question than a comment, and I nodded.
“It seemed to be the thing to do since I knew I’d be coming back home. Besides, Michelle is married, so having the same name as her is no longer important.” I paused. Maybe I’d done it just to eradicate all traces of Perry, which is foolish, since we do share a child together. I’d just been so blamed mad, at him, myself, and mostly my lack of foresight.
“Well,” Deelight said, “Rayna kept her maiden name when she married Rob. Of course, if she hadn’t, she’d be Rayna Rainey.”
“So now she’s Rayna Blue Rainey,” I said, and we both laughed.
“Any grandchildren?” Deelight asked me after a few moments.
“Not yet. Michelle’s in graduate school and her husband’s an engineer. They live in
Atlanta
.”
Deelight being several years younger than I, she still has kids at home. We talked about all the things parents discuss, our hopes and dreams versus the realities, and how none of it really matters as long as our children are happy, well-adjusted people with good futures. Money never seems to be a big factor in our hopes for them, just their self-reliance and independence.
“Trinket, come over here and listen to this,” Bitty said, appearing at my elbow and taking me by the wrist. “Gaynelle Bishop has a perfect idea.”
“About what?” I asked as I allowed myself to be escorted close to the nineteenth century pool table where three of the Divas were chalking cues and spotting the eight ball. At least, I think that’s what they were doing. I’m not up on all my pool playing rules and terms.
“Why, about Philip and Sanders, that’s what.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes must have bugged out like goose eggs. “You
told
her?”
By this time, Bitty’s Mardi Gras mask lay horizontal on top of her head, while the rest of us had removed ours. She looked at me in surprise, and peacock feathers bobbled in front of her left ear. “Of course. I can tell the Divas anything. What happens at the
Inn
, stays at the
Inn
.”
While I wasn’t as sure of that as she seemed to be, I consoled myself with the thought that since the senator wasn’t dead after all, it didn’t really matter.
Gaynelle Bishop, an older woman newly retired from teaching school for forty years, has the face of someone whom nothing can surprise. Acquired, I’m certain, from decades of dealing with children who lie, cheat, and mess their pants. Gaynelle looked at me as if I was one of the latter when I smiled and said hello.
“Don’t I know you?” she asked sharply. “Who’s your family?”
I clenched my cheeks to keep my Hanes clean. “Ed and Anna Truevine.”
Her face cleared and she smiled. “Of course. You’ve been gone a long time. Your sister comes back home quite a bit, though.”
It took a little effort to keep the smile on my face at her implied criticism. Emerald comes back only when she can’t stand another moment of listening to the incessant whine of her kids and demands of her husband. She stays a week or two, drags Mama to
Memphis
shopping, sleeps until
, and gets room service from Daddy. My usual consolation is that my sister and I didn’t come from the same egg, even if we were born six minutes apart. I came out first, eager to see the world and make myself known. Emerald had to be dragged out and woken up, and yawned all the way through the first year of her life. I, on the other hand, rarely slept, and could be usually found in any spot where I wasn’t supposed to go. Family history says my mother didn’t sleep more than ten minutes at a time for the first five years of our lives, at which point we went to kindergarten and she finally got a three-hour nap.
“That’s what I hear,” I said to Gaynelle, “but Emerald and I always seem to miss each other somehow.”
She laughed at that. “So you do.” Gaynelle isn’t stupid. She may be somewhere around sixty or sixty-five but she’s got the energy of a thirty-year old, the body of a fifty-year old—one in much better shape than I am—and the sharp mind of a scholar. She also has the sharp tongue of a lame-horse politician. Gaynelle dyes her hair light brown, wears contacts, and has a penchant for silk. This is a radical change from her days as a teacher when she had graying hair, cats-eye glasses, and sensible cotton dresses. Viva lá retirement.
“So tell Trinket your idea,” Bitty urged, and Gaynelle nodded.
“It’s very simple. We should go out there and talk to Sanders. If he doesn’t know about the senator being struck on the head, he’ll need to in case of a possible lawsuit. If he does, then we threaten him with disclosure to the police unless he goes to them with his explanation. Or his confession.”
Simple? It sounded suicidal.
“Uh, you do know that Sanders carries a shotgun, right?”
“Yes, of course I do. But since he can’t possibly maim or kill all of us, I doubt he’ll even attempt to try such a thing.”
“Safety in numbers,” Bitty piped up.
I looked at her. “Except for the tallest target. I’d just as soon not be included in this little group, if you don’t mind.”
Bitty blew out her breath in a huffing sound. “Can you think of a better idea?”
“Yes. Do nothing. If Philip Hollandale wants to file charges, let him. If he doesn’t, we need to keep our noses out of it.”
Gaynelle shook her head. “That would certainly be true if we knew the senator to still be alive. What if he’s not? Then Bitty has a duty to report it to the authorities.”
She had me there.
“It’s something to consider,” I finally said, and we all agreed on that.
“Until she does,” Gaynelle said, “it’s really best not to mention this to anyone else. Not a single soul, shall we agree?”
I agreed with that, too.
Thankfully, any further discussion of possible murder and missing bodies ended when the entertainment arrived. Since it was a Mardi Gras celebration, Rayna had hit upon the perfect idea for our festivities: A transvestite stripper. It embodies all that makes
New Orleans
unique.
Hoots, whistles, and a few tipsy proposals were shouted at the six foot version of Britney Spears. He—she?—undulated into the lobby, wearing leather, a halter top, some kind of fringe, and knee-high boots. A blond wig shimmied around his face as he mimicked what I assume to be Britney’s moves, and one of her songs played on a boom box he strategically placed on a table by the front door. Just in case we became too rowdy an audience, I’m sure. Quick getaways must be frequently required in his profession.
At first I wasn’t sure where to look. I mean, the tiny little shorts he wore made it obvious he had more external equipment than Britney, but after Bitty poured me another glass of wine and told me to get the stick out of my rear, I grew more enthusiastic in my appreciation. I may be through with men, but that certainly doesn’t mean I can’t admire—and remember—the tanned, taut packaging they come in when they’re twentyish. I’ve always been partial to a man’s belly for some unknown reason, and this Britney had toned abs and a six-pack that would make a nun sigh with pleasure. Maybe Joan Collins has the right idea but the wrong carry-through. Toy boys should be enjoyed but not married. Not that I have any intention of doing either.
None of that, however, kept me from catching his halter-top when he took it off and slung it into the air. It must have been that fourth glass of wine, but I found myself whipping it around in the air over my head and shouting things like “Yee-haw!” and “Take it all off!”
Shortly after that, Marcy Porter caught the skirt of leather strips he threw out into the room, hollered that she was going to “ride you like a stallion!” then launched herself at him. Britney’s eyes got big, he sucked in a breath that made his belly meet his spine, and before he could escape, went down in a tangle of excited, half-inebriated Divas. Gaynelle Bishop must have perfected a few karate moves, because she beat Marcy to him. I believe I heard Britney say what sounded like
“Agghh!”
but since it seemed like he was doing just fine, I assumed he was only expressing his appreciation.
Of course, I’m not allowed to say any more than that. After all, what happens at the
Inn
stays at the
Inn
.
I will say that I’ve rarely spent a more entertaining afternoon.
Chapter Four
I’ve recently realized that childhood memories and adulthood expectations are often at complete odds with reality. Especially when said adult lives far away and visits home are always, of necessity, brief.
My early childhood memories are of idyllic, Norman Rockwell years occasionally marred by one or more of my siblings’ misdeeds, of which I was always the innocent and much maligned victim.
My adult expectations before returning to Cherryhill to care for my parents were visions of a loving daughter gently easing feeble, grateful seniors into the twilight of their lives with my serene smile and a saint-like patience.