Dixie Divas (13 page)
Authors: Virginia Brown
I shut the door and stood there, poncho in my hand, heart racing and mind darting to and fro like a scared rabbit. What should I do? There’s a dead man in the closet. The dead man is Bitty’s ex-husband. Their divorce was loud and nasty. He’s known to have been missing for the past few days. Not only that, but Bitty swears she saw him lying in Sherman Sanders’ foyer. And Sanders is now missing, too. Bitty is the only obvious common denominator.
But a dead man is in her closet, and that’s not something that can be ignored for long.
I’m not sure how long I stood there with all that going round and round in my mind and Bitty’s vampire cape in my hand, but the voices from the living room finally seeped into my stupefied brain and I hung the crocheted cape on the doorknob and went into the kitchen.
The police would have to be notified, of course. Dead bodies are their purview. I’ve very little experience with dead bodies, nor is it one of my ambitions to cultivate that interest. And, sadly, it occurred to me that Bitty might have some knowledge about her ex-husband being in her coat closet that she hadn’t yet shared with me. If so, I couldn’t imagine her reasoning, but then, there are times when Bitty and I have very different viewpoints on things.
It’d only be fair to ask her before I came to any conclusions on my own.
I went into the kitchen, found a silver tray, an already prepared pitcher of tea and a bowl of lemon wedges in the refrigerator, and somehow put together glasses, ice, napkins and long-handled silver teaspoons to take into the living room.
Seated precariously and obviously uncomfortably on the 1850’s horsehair-stuffed couch, the two officers appeared grateful for a diversion when I set the tray down on the antique Turkish hassock serving as a coffee table. Bitty had produced a linen handkerchief from somewhere in her black ensemble, and dabbed daintily at what I was certain were crocodile tears at the corners of her eyes.
“Bitty,” I said while the officers reached for the tea and lemon wedges, “would you mind stepping into the kitchen with me for just a moment? I can’t find another clean glass.”
Something in my voice must have alerted her, for she gave me a startled glance and promptly excused herself. Neither officer protested.
Before Bitty could launch into a tale of mistreatment by local officials, I said bluntly, “I found Philip.”
With her mouth still open, Bitty looked at me. Then she said, “Well, I suppose that’s good news. For him, anyway. Where is the philandering Philip? Mexico? Paris? Rome? A Motel Six in Tupelo?”
“In your coat closet.”
For a moment she just stared at me, then her brows snapped down over her eyes and she turned toward the kitchen door. “That
no-good, dirty pervert
—”
“He’s dead, Bitty,” I said, cleverly deducing she hadn’t stuffed him in between her taupe Evan Picone raincoat and Elvira’s black cape, after all.
Silence. It didn’t seem to register with her. I completely understood.
After a moment I said gently, “We have to decide how to tell the police.”
Bitty grabbed my arm in what can only be described as a Vulcan death grip that’s certain to be in the Secret Service Training Manual for presidential bodyguards.
“Oh no we don’t!”
“Bitty—”
“You listen to me, Eureka May Truevine, you are
not
going to tell the police anything! Do you hear me? Philip’s already dead. It’s not like rushing around yelling our heads off is going to accomplish anything more than getting me arrested. You see that, don’t you? We had a knock-down-drag-out divorce and have been mortal enemies, and if the police find him in my coat closet they’re going to automatically think the worst.”
“It seems likely.”
“How dead is he?”
“Very. But I’m not an expert on these things. Shall I go ask him?” I was a little perturbed that Bitty didn’t seem to realize how much worse it would look if the police discovered Philip in her closet for themselves.
“No. Let me think a minute,” she said.
My jibe apparently went over Bitty’s head, evidence that she was much more focused on her own solutions than the inevitable outcome.
“Bitty, there’s only one thing we can do. You have to know that. If you didn’t put him in the closet, someone did, and the sooner the police can start looking for the killer, the better off you’ll be. After all, he wasn’t killed in your coat closet; he was moved here from Sanders’ foyer.”
We’d been talking in low tones. One of the officers called from the living room to ask if Mrs. Hollandale needed assistance. Bitty’s resilience took her to the living room door where she looked in on them and said she’d be right back after cutting them each a piece of angel food cake.
“I’m just famished, and this is such an exhausting conversation, I think we all need a bit of nourishment.” Returning to the kitchen, she hissed, “See if there’s any angel food cake left in the cupboard. I think I have some raspberry sauce to go over it.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked as I went to the cupboard she indicated with a wave of her hand.
“I’m calling the Divas. We need some help getting Philip out of here.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious,” Bitty said. “Listen, he was killed somewhere else anyway. I didn’t put him in the closet, and it’s not like it’s the crime scene. Let someone else find his body. Naomi Spencer, maybe. She liked riding him. We’ll put him in her car. Or her bed. Anywhere but in my house.”
Actually, it had a bizarre kind of logic. I mean, I was certain Bitty hadn’t killed him—or almost certain—and if the police found him in her house they’d immediately arrest her. Like she said, it wasn’t as if Philip had been killed in her coat closet. I could vouch for her that he hadn’t been in there when she’d taken out her poncho before we went over to the hotel. And we hadn’t been separated the entire time until we got back, so really, Bitty couldn’t have had anything at all to do with Philip’s sudden and mysterious appearance in her closet.
Which brought up the immediate question—
who did?
That question, however, would have to wait until later. Right now, Bitty was calling in the Divas and I was cutting angel food cake and drizzling raspberry sauce over it to feed the two young and hungry police officers sitting in the living room. Priorities, I told myself, priorities.
After what seemed like an eternity but was really only another thirty minutes or so, the two young officers left with a promise to inform Mrs. Hollandale immediately when the senator turned up.
Bitty stood at the door smiling tearfully and dabbing her eyes with an artful sniffle or two just for good measure, and thanked them from the bottom of her heart for their kindness and the magnificent job they were doing.
“Philip and I may have had our differences,” she said, “but the love we once felt for each other never completely faded away. It’s just so hard for politicians to balance their dedication to keeping our country safe with their private lives. But I’ve always understood that Philip’s first duty is to his country, of course, even if it cost us our marriage. Why, both of you gentlemen must surely understand that, since you place your lives on the line every day for all of us.”
The youngest officer, the pale young man with a buzz-cut, earnest eyes and rapt expression, nodded. “Times are hard for a lot of us now, what with terrorists on the loose.”
I wondered what part of Holly Springs terrorists would target first, the defunct toy factory or the aluminum siding plant. Apparently, so did the senior officer, a young man with a stoic face and sharp eyes. He gave his partner a quelling glance, thanked us both politely, and accompanied his companion down the sidewalk to the patrol car at the curb.
Bitty shut the door and leaned against it. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I thought you were about to break into a chorus of
God Bless America
.”
“Not that. Do you think they suspect anything?”
“The young one doesn’t even suspect gravity is a law. He’s got to be Barney Fife’s son.”
“Farrell. His name is Rodney Farrell and he graduated from Marshall Academy three years ago. His daddy works at the brick factory.”
“Uh hunh. Watch your step around the other one. He’s more like Andy Griffith.”
“Marcus Stone. He graduated at the top of his class from Holly Springs High School, then took two years of college at Mississippi State. His mother used to work three jobs just to put food on the table, and his grandmother draws disability. Heart, I think.”
I stared at her. “It amazes me that you know so many details about other people’s lives, but could never remember your third husband’s middle name.”
Bitty pushed away from the door. “Rayna is calling as many Divas as she can get, and they’ll be here within a half hour.” She looked toward the closet. “While we wait, I’ll take a look at Philip.”
She strode purposefully toward the closed closet door, hesitated, took a deep breath, and pulled it open. I wasn’t sure what she’d do, so I hovered close just in case she had hysterics or assaulted the senator with an umbrella.
But Bitty tilted her head to one side and studied him curiously, almost dispassionately.
Clad in dark pants, an expensive Italian shirt, and no coat, Philip Hollandale was propped up by wool coats, windbreakers, and raincoats. His eyes were open and sightless, his lips curled back in what looked to be a slight snarl, and his hands clenched in loose fists. A bath towel had been wrapped around his head like a turban. A dark, reddish brown stain discolored its right side.
“Good thing I keep my furs in cold storage,” Bitty finally said. “I think some blood came off on my new windbreaker.”
She sounded oddly detached. I wasn’t certain if that was a good sign or not. In fact, the line between good and bad was getting awfully fuzzy. It felt like what we used to call Backwards Day when we were kids. Left was right, up was down, good was bad—you get the picture.
That feeling didn’t go away when trusted Divas descended
en masse
on the scene. Gaynelle Bishop, who had voted for the senator, supervised the stuffing of him into black plastic Leaf and Garden bags. Rayna Blue grabbed Bitty’s stained windbreaker from the closet and stuck it into a garbage bag. She looked up when Cindy Nelson asked what on earth she was doing to a brand new Land’s End windbreaker.
“It has to go. I watch
There had been a brief, if not detailed, explanation when the Divas arrived concerning the urgent necessity of removing Philip Hollandale from Bitty’s closet, along with firm assurances that Bitty nor me had any hand in putting him there or shortening his lifespan. That was all it took to enlist the Divas’ aid. I wondered if they took some kind of loyalty oath when becoming a member that might involve sacrificial rituals, but since most are avid animal lovers, I suspect the only kind of sacrifice entails bottles of wine to the California Grape Gods.
Cindy—whom I’d last seen riding behind Marcy Porter on the sweaty back of a Britney Spears-like stripper doggedly crawling toward the hotel doors wearing only thong underwear and one leather boot—and Georgie Marshall, to whom I’d not yet been officially introduced, helped stuff the senator into black plastic. Both are younger women in their early thirties. Sandra Dobson, solid, sensible, with short brown hair and a pretty face, and with whom I’d only briefly spoken at the Diva meeting, estimated the senator’s time of death—
“He’s obviously been kept in cold storage,” Sandra said, and since she’s a nurse, we were all inclined to take her word for it. “He’s still pretty stiff, though rigor doesn’t seem to be the cause. I’m not an ME, but it looks to me like he’s been frozen. See here on his head where the blood is beginning to thaw?”
Bitty peered at Philip. “He does have some little ice crystals on his eye brows and in his hair. I didn’t even notice. Of course, alive he wasn’t much warmer than this unless some hottie happened along to thaw out his wiener. I don’t know why he was always so proud of that thing. I’ve seen much better lying on a barbecue grill.”
We all got quiet, and of course, you know where we all had to immediately look, even if it was covered up with black plastic. Some of us were no doubt imagining Polish sausage and bratwurst compared to Philip when Gaynelle said, “Pull the end of the bag over his head. I can’t stand him looking at me with those frozen fish eyes.”
Voter loyalty is often fickle. Diva loyalty is apparently steadfast.
“Where are we taking him?” I asked, obviously having subconsciously committed myself to an active participation in this lunacy.
That question stopped everyone for a moment, and we all looked hopefully at each other. No one spoke for about ten seconds, and then Bitty’s grandfather clock chimed the hour. Some of the Divas jumped at the unexpected sound, and so did I.
“It’s three o’clock,” Cindy Nelson said in a quavering voice, “and I have to pick up my kids. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No,” Gaynelle said, “we can manage. Just do be discreet, dear, and don’t mention this to anyone quite yet.”
Cindy promised, and then fled with what I can only describe as a mixture of terror, relief, and a determination to get as far away as possible. The rest of us looked at each other silently.
“It’s still daylight,” Rayna said at last, “but if we can put him somewhere until later tonight, I have a key to the old ice house and feed supply. It’s not like he isn’t already frozen. We can keep him there until we figure out what to do.”
“Isn’t there a dog food packing plant close by?” Bitty asked, and we all recoiled.
“No!” some of us said simultaneously.
“Jeez, I was just kidding,” Bitty muttered, but I had the feeling that wasn’t quite true.
“He’s wrapped up pretty well,” Sandra said, “so we could put him in your cellar, Bitty.”
Bitty staggered sideways as if physically struck. “I’d rather be stripped naked and left on the church steps on Sunday morning,” she said vehemently. She sounded pretty positive about it.