Dixie Divas (28 page)

Patrice narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never been to Betty Ford!”

“No? I thought that was part of your plea bargain, but maybe Judge Farris modified the order from your last DUI. Sixth, wasn’t it? Of course, since you have a reputation for praying on your knees in a lot of closed chambers, I’m sure both of you benefited.”

While Bitty’s tone was pleasantly concerned, it held that unmistakable Southern belle cattiness that wouldn’t escape the attention of anyone familiar with polite social warfare. Three women within hearing stepped back a pace, but made no pretense that they weren’t listening to every word. After all, this is the kind of show that makes the tiresome rules of etiquette bearable.

Sunshine through the open chapel doors streamed inside, highlighting Patrice and Bitty in a rather surreal glow usually found only in Lifetime TV movies for women. If a stringed quartet had begun to play
Leibestrom
by Franz Liszt, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

Patrice sucked in a breath of brimstone and sulphur, and let it out in a bellow like an enraged bull. “You bitch!” Then she lunged at Bitty, who is no stranger to such maneuvers and waited until the last second to step aside. Patrice hit the christening font, a lovely and heavy slab of pink and gray marble set on discreet wheels, and then slid down it, knocking herself breathless.

That may be because I’d put my foot out at just the right moment, in case Bitty wasn’t quite quick enough. Having big feet can occasionally be an advantage.

“Oh my,” Bitty said, peering down at Patrice, “I think she’s having a fit of some kind. Due to grief, no doubt. A cool cloth on her face will help.”

Patrice made sounds like a strangling frog, very unattractive. Her hands reached up as if to choke Bitty, but lying on the chapel floor, she couldn’t reach her, of course. It took a couple of strong men to lift Patrice, since she was still making choking motions toward Bitty and gargling in unknown tongues, but they managed. The three women who’d overheard every word smiled. Nothing like a good funeral to bolster one’s spirits.

I’m happy to report that we left without further incident. But unfortunately, I didn’t see a single person attending the services who didn’t seem quite capable of killing the senator. Except maybe the preacher. And I wasn’t entirely sure about him.

* * * *

“You know,” Bitty reflected when we sat in front of her fireplace sipping bourbon and branch, “Philip wasn’t always hateful. I think he got in with the wrong sort of people and they changed him. He could be very sweet, and we had such a wonderful time the first few months we were married.”

I looked at her over the rim of my glass. “Oh Lord. You’re not going to turn him into Saint Philip now that he’s dead, are you.”

“Oh no. I still remember all the awful things he did, too, but seeing Aunt Itty today made me think of the good times as well. Too bad some of her class didn’t rub off on Parrish and Patrice, but there you have it. It’s something you’re born with or you’re not. If it could be bottled and sold like perfume, Patrice would still wear
Evening in Paris
.”

“Eeew,” I said, and we both laughed at the memory of the cheap cologne we’d once found so exotic. Of course, we were only eight. Then I asked a question that’d been on my mind for a few hours. “Why on earth do you think Philip and his sister had a physical relationship?”

Bitty took a sip of bourbon and said, “Because I caught her with her hand down his pants one night. It was right after he was first elected senator, and we’d all had a lot to drink, but I’d never drink so much I’d put my hand down my brother’s pants. I love Steven, but not that way.”

“What on earth did they say when you caught them?”

“Something stupid like she was helping him adjust his trousers. I was so shocked, I didn’t listen that closely. Anyway, Philip said I’d let my imagination run away with me, that of course he wouldn’t ever do anything like that, and I believed him because I wanted to. Ever since then, though, Patrice has hated me.” Bitty smiled. “She’s just sure I’ll tell everybody she and Philip played hide the sausage together.”

 
“Isn’t she divorced?”

Bitty nodded. “Three times. Well, technically only twice, because her first husband killed himself before their divorce was final.”

Not wanting to linger any longer in the dynamics of the Hollandale family circle, I said I had better go home. “I have to pick up Mama and Daddy at the airport tomorrow.”

“It’s been a week already? Everything just flies by, doesn’t it. Isn’t that right, precious?”

Of course, the last was directed at Chen Ling, who’d been left home alone while we went to Philip’s funeral, and demonstrated her distress by eating two pillows and an antique doorstop. My amazement didn’t stem from the dog’s dietary choices, but from Bitty’s calm acceptance of them. After all, this is a woman who values antiques so highly they became the major issue in her last divorce.

“When are you taking Chitling back to Luann Carey?” I asked, though I’d begun to feel the probability of that ever happening lessened each day.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bitty said vaguely, and broke off a piece of high-priced dog biscuit that Chen Ling sniffed at before turning her face away. “She doesn’t thrive in an atmosphere of so many other animals, I think. Lately, I’ve noticed she hasn’t been eating well.”

“You don’t think it might be because pillow stuffing and wood chips are a bit filling?”

“Chen Ling didn’t actually
eat
all that, Trinket, she just expressed her separation anxiety with a nervous reaction. She’s high-strung.”

I looked at Chen Ling, who stared back at me rather haughtily. Two lower front fangs stick out over the top of her upper lip, if a dog can be said to have lips, and her flat little nostrils flare slightly. She only has one upper tooth, that tucks in somewhere between the lower two. Drool often seeps from the space where her upper and lower jaws don’t quite meet. It saturated a bib embroidered with her name and Chinese pagodas.

“And who told you all that nonsense?” I asked Bitty in reference to the separation anxiety that I knew she wouldn’t have come up with on her own. “Luann Carey has ulterior motives, I’m sure. It’s not everyone who’ll take in an old dog with a severe underbite and bow legs.”

Bitty’s chin came up in much the same manner as when she’d faced Patrice Hollandale. “In the first place, Chen Ling is not old, she’s mature, and in the second place, her underbite only adds to her charm, her bow legs are genetic to her superior breed, and last—Luann Carey said nothing about separation anxiety. It was Dr. Coltrane.”

Mention of Dr. Coltrane made my stomach do an annoying flip. I stuck my face into my bourbon and branch even though I’d lost interest in its reviving effects.

“Which reminds me,” Bitty continued, “you two were thick as fleas on a hound dog at the St. Patrick’s Day party. What’s going on?”

“What a lovely analogy. Did you learn that phrase down at the Farmer’s Co-op?”

“Never mind that. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I found you two together all cozy and friendly. You’ve been holding out on me, Trinket.”

“No, I haven’t. Well, maybe a little bit. Only because I forgot to mention it, though.”

“Right.” Bitty rolled her eyes in disbelief. “So, how long has this been going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” I said quite firmly. “Mama’s dog sucked down my emerald earring, and I had to rush him to the clinic a few nights back. That’s all.”

I’d already decided I had no intention of telling Bitty about my scruffy clothes and straw in my hair, much less my thinking Dr. Coltrane intended to kiss me. It was just too embarrassing. I have a tendency to dwell on these things and relive them. Bitty turns her embarrassing incidents into victories or entertaining stories. I like her method better, but have never mastered it.

“And?” Bitty lifted a freshly waxed eyebrow.

I stared at her. “And what? That’s it. End of story. I’ve been pawing through dog poop the past few days in the hopes my other earring might show up, but all I’ve gotten for my efforts is nauseated.”

“Well,” Bitty said after a moment, “just tell me when you’re ready. I have some excellent edible body paint and panties, and lotion that gets really warm when you apply friction. I’ll be glad to give them to you, since I’m certainly not using them right now.”

As the words
edible, panties
, and
friction
in the same sentence conjured up images certain to haunt me, I went on the offensive. There’s no better distraction from an uncomfortable topic of conversation than to give someone an opportunity to talk about themselves.

“So how’s it going with the foot doctor? Have you talked to him since last night?”

Of course, Bitty recognized my ploy. It’s probably in the Southern Belle’s handbook. She smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have. Jefferson and I are going to dinner tonight down in Oxford.”

“Well, aren’t you just too-too.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I’ll hear all the details tomorrow, I hope. I should be back home with Mama and Daddy by noon. Unless their flight’s late.”

“Don’t they have round-trip cruises on those river boats?”

“Probably, but Mama and Daddy wanted to spend a night in New Orleans anyway, and I imagine a week away from home has exhausted them. They’ll come dragging off that plane.”

As so often happens, I was wrong. Mama and Daddy came down the long corridor of the airport to where I waited at the security gate, laughing and looking energetic. I have to admit, I felt a twinge of envy. I know; it’s terrible to envy your parents such a thing as complete love and trust in one another, that comfortable security that only good marriages have. It isn’t that I want to take that away from them or anything, it’s just that I wish I could have found that kind of magic. From my observations, it’s rare. Maybe like finding an ivory-billed woodpecker, an extinct bird that hasn’t been spotted in sixty years. There are rumors it exists, but too often prove to be false.

Anyway, all the way home they chattered and laughed about their trip, told stories about other passengers and some of Daddy’s former co-workers, then their sojourn on Bourbon Street. Mama’s eyes got big when she talked about the men dressed as women who looked better than most women, even if they were dressed up like floozies.

“Why, one of them looked just like that pretty little blond girl I see on TV all the time. She used to be so sweet, but now she wears all this leather and lets her rear end hang out of her black drawers—didn’t she used to be a Mouseketeer? I bet her mother and Mickey Mouse cringe every time that child’s on stage.”

I thought about the Britney Spears male stripper at the Diva meeting, and found it hard to keep from laughing. Mama might think it a hormone imbalance again.

As expected, Brownie was deliriously happy to see his regular caretakers return. He spun around in circles barking frantically until Mama picked him up and talked softly in his ear. Then he melted into her embrace and stared up at her with adoring eyes, one paw quivering.

Since I’d already ratted him out about the earring and our dash to the clinic, and I could now relinquish all responsibility for his care, I thought him quite endearing.

“Little horror,” I said affectionately, but he had eyes only for my parents. A defection I didn’t mind at all.

Bitty called late that afternoon to be sure my parents had made it home safely, and said she wanted to come out for a visit and hear all about their cruise. I relayed that information to my parents, who were quite pleased at the prospect of having fresh ears for their stories. Before I had a chance to ask Bitty about her date with Jefferson, she had one of her melodramatic moments.

“Are you alone?” Bitty asked, her tone lowering, and I rolled my eyes.

“Bitty, I just told Mama and Daddy that you’re coming out for a visit. You know I’m not alone.”

“For heaven’s sake, Trinket, you know what I mean. Go into another part of the house where no one can hear you.”

“Is this international espionage? I’m not up to it right now.”

“There’s been a Sanders sighting.”

“Hold on.” I took the cordless phone into the formal dining room and pulled closed the pocket doors. “Did you see him?”

“No. Melody Doyle’s cousin Serena saw him. You remember Serena? Used to be pretty until after that fourth child. Now she looks like a giant spider sucked all the blood out of her. Just skin and bone. No more life than a dead fly.”

“Bitty, sometimes you frighten me.”

“Anyway, Melody mentioned it to Cindy Nelson—they go to yard sales together—and Cindy mentioned it to me when she called to talk about us being on the evening news.”

“Who’s on the evening news, you and Cindy?”

“Of course not, Trinket. The news coverage of Philip’s funeral. As a senator, his murder has gotten national attention. Cindy saw the shots of us on the news last night and this morning. We’ll be on again tonight, too.”

My head got light, and I pulled out a dining room chair and abruptly sat down. I stared at the polished length of pecan table and saw where I’d missed a few places when dusting.

“News?
Us?
As in me and you?”

“Good Lord, Trinket, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you watch the news? I’d have thought someone would have told you by now. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day. We look quite good. Nice shots of us.”

“Tell me these shots are of us walking sedately into the chapel or out to our cars.”

“Now why would they want to show that? The newscaster starts saying how many people showed up, dignitaries and things like that, the camera shows us talking to each other, and then it goes to a shot of Patrice plowing into that marble sink.”

“Font,” I corrected distractedly, my mind immediately going to my foot stuck out to trip Patrice Hollandale and the possible ramifications of that act.

“Anyway, that’s not what I called to talk about, though you may want to watch the news in a little while. Serena Sawyer said she spotted Sherman Sanders walking down Highway 4 just yesterday, and the police are out looking for him everywhere between Holly Springs and Snow Lake. Now maybe we can get him to sign those papers.”