Bitty, who still hasn’t quite forgiven the reporter from the Memphis
Commercial Appeal
newspaper for reprinting the photo of her in a story on the fire at her house last month, muttered something under her breath. I didn’t even try to catch it. It was probably X-rated.
Instead, I smiled to myself and sucked in a deep breath of rain-washed fresh air. It was as if I couldn’t get enough of being outdoors lately. After sitting for hours in that dank, dark hole, being indoors seemed confining. Rayna had admitted to having some of the same reaction as well. We were both very aware of how lucky we were to be alive. It could have so easily ended tragically.
It did end for Cliff Wages and Dawn Jeanette Hardy. As Jackson Lee says, they’re both so far under the jail they’re having to pipe in daylight. Just as it should be. Neither one of them has the remorse of a billy goat. Killing one person for money and the other for convenience takes a coldness of character that should be incarcerated for life. I hope that’s what they both get, too, life in prison without parole. By the time they get to trial, the prosecutors will have an airtight case against them. The Holly Springs Police Department collected tons of evidence like fibers from clothes, partial prints, even DNA.
Leaning close to me, Rayna said, “I fear Bitty may explode soon if Miranda keeps on calling her pig
Precious
.”
“Well,” I replied, “it’s said that the greatest form of flattery is imitation.”
“Oh, my god. Do we really want a Bitty-clone?”
In unison we said, “NO!”
“One is more than enough,” I added fervently. “I feel like an idiot wearing this get-up she insisted we all wear, and if I wasn’t just dying to see what kind of product demonstration Rose is doing later, I’d take off this damn dress and hat and put on my tee shirt and shorts.”
Rayna giggled. “We’re all supposed to look like our favorite flowers. How’m I doing?”
I eyed her. “You’re a chrysanthemum?”
“Close. Indian Paintbrush.”
“It’s the brown and orange that threw me off. I should have looked at your hat. I can see the blossoms around the crown.”
“Your favorite flower is the red rose,” she said, and I nodded.
“I’m an easy one. Red dress, red roses stuck in my hat, voila!”
“Bitty is a forget-me-not. I only know that because she told me. I thought at first she was supposed to be a blueberry.”
We laughed at our own wit and spent a moment or two trying to figure out if Gaynelle was supposed to be a jonquil or a yellow rose. Miranda Watson had come as an entire bouquet. She said she loved them all and couldn’t choose.
Bitty had gone all out for this Diva day. She’d ordered flowers from Jennie’s and had Sharita prepare petit-fours with tiny frosting flower buds on each one, and our place settings at her dining room table each held an old-fashioned nosegay. The salad contained dandelions and pansies, and there was rose-hip tea and dandelion tea as well.
Brandon and Clayton acted as our waiters, and the boys did their jobs with a dose of wry humor.
“Mama said it would help build our character to know how to do these things,” said Clayton solemnly when he brought me another chocolate martini. “Just in case we ever have to supplement our trust funds.”
I took a sip of my delicious martini, briefly closed my eyes in ecstasy, and said, “I hope you have other avenues of employment in mind, as well. Although you could surely make a good living as a bartender. I can’t believe these things are so good.”
Beside me, Rayna agreed, “Our two favorite things at a Diva meeting: chocolate and alcohol.”
“I wonder what’s in it that makes it taste so good,” I mused.
“Crème de cacao, vodka, cocoa powder, a tiny chocolate kiss in the bottom, and some ice. Easy as pie,” Clayton said with a grin. “The white chocolate martini has Lady Godiva white chocolate liqueur, if you want to try that.”
“I don’t want to spoil myself too much all at once. Maybe after we eat,” I said. “Oh, and Clayton, I’m staying overnight, so just keep them coming, will you?”
He laughed and lowered the big silver tray loaded with chocolate martinis to the next Diva on my other side, who happened to be Cady Lee Forsythe. “Are these swizzle sticks chocolate, too?” she cooed as she helped herself. “I’m in heaven!”
There’s something deliciously decadent about sitting out on a porch in the cooler air of evening, especially dressed to the nines, wearing a big floppy hat and imbibing an exotic drink. I felt very relaxed, and very Southern.
Miranda Watson pulled a chair over closer to Rayna and me and settled into it with her pig in the billowing folds of her flowery dress. “Well, I must say, these Diva meetings are much tamer than I’ve been led to believe. Maybe I do owe you ladies a retraction, after all.”
I smiled sweetly at her. “Dear lady, if you can still say that when you leave, then you’ve left too early.”
Rayna sucked on her swizzle stick and nodded agreement. Her hat brim flapped slightly over her face. “Miranda, is your pig wearing a flower?”
“Why yes. It’s supposed to match mine, but I wasn’t paying attention and she ate part of it. That’s why it’s mostly leaves now. Do you think I should put another one in her ribbon?”
“Well, this is a tea party of sorts, and we’re supposed to be festooned with beauty, so why not? You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier pig. Really, I don’t think I have,” I said.
I meant it, too. There was something quite endearing about that little pink face, with her Miss Piggy nose and long eyelashes, and the bright blue ribbon she wore around her neck that was supposed to have flowers.
Miranda beamed happily and sucked down most of her chocolate martini. Yes, it was going quite nicely. There had been no disasters yet, although I was well aware we had plenty of time left in the day for that to happen.
It may have been the martinis, but I felt the tension and horror of the past weeks float away on the evening breeze. Sunlight still gilded the tops of the houses across the street and slanted across Bitty’s front lawn, but up there on the porch it was cooled by ceiling fans and Mother Nature. My short-sleeve red dress was a nice linen blend, and my hat was one of Mama’s old ones that I’d decorated for the occasion. The only thing missing was my emerald earrings.
Daddy had done poop duty and recovered the stone for me, but I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to have it reset yet. One day. For now, I had put it away in the top of my chest of drawers for safety from Brownie. Until he learns to push a chair up to the side and open the drawer, it should be secure.
Carolann Barnett and Rose Allgood wandered over from the other side of the porch, and when Cady Lee got up to talk to Sandra Dobson, Carolann took her place in the white wicker rocking chair. Flamboyant as ever, she wore a brilliant green dress that would have been in fashion in the 1960s, a wide-brimmed floppy hat festooned with what looked like three dozen cat turds, but I learned were pussy willow pods instead, and high-top granny boots. The hat sat atop her head at an odd angle; I figured because her mane of thick hair would not be tamed. It rioted out from under the confines of the hat like a brush fire.
Rose, on the other hand, wore a simple white sheath on her tall, angular body, and her chic cloche hat held a single peace lily. Rather classy, I thought. It was hard now to believe I’d once thought her a possible killer. She may be quiet, but her wit is dry and quite sharp at times. It still amazes me that she sells sex toys for a living. What a world.
Rayna looked up at her. “My husband Rob tells me you have your own company, and you worked your way up from the warehouse.”
Rose nodded. “It’s a novelty company. Of course, we aren’t traded yet on the stock exchange, but we will be one day.” A faint smile curved her mouth. “It’s not all about fur-lined handcuffs, you know. My company produces campaign buttons, prizes for grocery store machines, things like that. I’ve been looking for a place to build our new factory.”
“And?” Rayna prompted.
“And I think I’ve found it,” Rose said. “There’s an empty building that used to house a toy manufacturer, and it’s right on the railroad. It may suit my purposes nicely.”
“Isn’t that exciting?” Carolann put in. “A lot of new jobs in town.”
“New jobs, more employees, more families, more real estate sales, grocery store sales . . . it should help the local economy, too.”
I was fascinated. “Are you going to manufacture . . . fur-lined handcuffs, too?”
This time Rose actually grinned. “It would be cheaper to produce my own line of products, yes.”
The ladies committee at the local Methodist church would faint dead away when they learned that rubber penises, complete with vibrating speeds up to Supermax, would be manufactured right here in their own home town, I thought, and grinned back at Rose. I was beginning to like her. Hopefully, she would never find out that she’d been a key suspect in two murders. At least, among the more amateur detectives—those not paid for their opinions, nor were their conclusions actively sought or wanted. By the local police, anyway.
Late afternoon turned into twilight shades of deep purple, indigo, and crimson, and Bitty turned on the porch lights. Not regular porch lights, of course. These are lovely crystal chandeliers made for exterior sites.
Mrs. Tyree walked over from next door when we got too loud, but instead of complaining, she accepted Bitty’s invitation to join us. I wasn’t at all certain how that would work out later when the festivities really began, but fortunately, Mrs. Tyree has only a short distance to flee at the first sign of chaos. Her walker may impede her speed, but she’s been Bitty’s neighbor for a long time and no doubt can handle almost anything.
I’d gone inside to the powder room when I bumped into Deelight Tillman on my way back to the front porch. “Violets?” I guessed, and she smiled a little crookedly and nodded.
“Red roses, right?”
We clinked martini glasses in a salute to our respective homage to flowers. I was beginning to appreciate Bitty’s side-trip into the absurd. It was entertaining to guess all the different botanical representatives. Or maybe deep down I’m reverting to childhood and playing dress-up. While I’d never been that feminine as a child, I enjoyed getting in touch with my imaginative side. Bitty may be right. Playing princess is fun. Of course, she does it all the time and takes it to the extreme in even her daily life.
“A little bird told me you and Doctor Kit Coltrane are a hot and heavy item,” said Deelight.
“Bitty’s no little bird. She’s a turkey buzzard.”
Deelight laughed. “Well, is it true?”
I tried an enigmatic smile. “Maybe.”
“Um. Lucky you.”
“Aren’t I?”
“So, tell me about the arrests. I never did get all the details about who did what to whom, and why and when.”
“It’s a little complicated, so I’ll try to boil it down to the basics. Race Champion married Dawn Hardy back in 2005. They stayed together until he figured out she wasn’t going to support him and his hot rod career, and she realized he didn’t intend to give up his other hobby of collecting girlfriends—which took about ten minutes—and then split. I think he took another woman on his honeymoon. Neither one of them bothered to get a divorce.
“Fast forward a few years, and Dawn bumped into her husband again at—of all things—a hot rod race. By that time she was dating Cliff Wages, an arch-rival of Race’s. A merry time was not had by all. Apparently, racing hot rods can be very expensive. Cliff and Dawn concocted a scheme where she would inherit a lot of money. He planned to invest in his career of wrecking pricey hot rods, and she planned to invest in herself. I do not think either of them play well with others.
“At any rate, Cliff was supposed to do something to Race’s car so it would crash at an important turn on the track, and Dawn would inherit money through a life insurance policy she’d prudently purchased on her husband. That didn’t work out so well since Race survived. That’s when they went to Plan B.”
“Shooting him,” Deelight put in.
“Right. Only, how to do that without being caught was vital to their plans. That’s when Dawn came up with the idea to have Race meet her at Madewell Courts to ‘discuss’ their divorce. She’d been leaving him notes threatening to out him to Naomi as well as a couple other ladies he was engaged to—he seemed to be very flexible in his contingency plans himself—and if he didn’t want her to ruin his little games, he’d better sign papers.”
“Did she really intend to divorce him?”
“Lord, no. If she had, she’d lose her chance at collecting insurance money as his wife and beneficiary. Of course, Race had no idea she had a policy on him, or I’m sure he never would have agreed to meet her at the Madewell cottage. But he did, and to his utter surprise, who should track him down but Naomi? She was furious with him, thinking he’d continued his affair with Trina. He hadn’t. He’d started dating Trisha, but Naomi didn’t know that. And Trisha didn’t know Race had checked into the cottage, because Dawn had made the reservations under a false name. It was Dawn’s intention that Trina or Trisha be blamed for Race’s murder, but when Trina went in and surprised him with Naomi, that worked even better. Naomi and her mother both seem to have a penchant for toting around guns, and Naomi got so mad she pulled her pistol on Race.” I paused to sip my martini before continuing.
“He got it away from her, but in the process was shot in the shoulder. It was just a flesh wound, nothing major. Naomi took off like a bat, leaving behind her gun and fiancé who was very much alive. That’s when Dawn came in, picked up the pistol and shot him right between the eyes.”
“That is so cold-blooded,” said Deelight, and I agreed.
“I could have understood it more if she’d been in love with him and caught him cheating on her, but for money? There’s no excuse for that.”
Deelight nodded. “What I don’t understand, though, is why Dawn killed Naomi. I mean, the police had arrested her for the murder, so why didn’t Dawn just leave it alone?”
“Because the police are pretty clever. They figured Naomi might be a little, shall we say, intellectually challenged, but she wouldn’t go to the trouble of wiping her fingerprints off a registered gun and leaving it behind at the scene.”