Dixie Divas (38 page)

I sat up straight. So that’s what had been bothering me all this time. Sherman Sanders had said it was Grant, but it was Forrest. But then, Bitty had said it was General Grant, too, and while she may very well be as scattered as chickens in a tornado, she definitely knows General Grant from General Forrest.

Diane gave permission for me to use the telephone, and I called Bitty immediately.

“Bitty,” I said, cutting into her surprise at hearing me call from the Brunetti offices, “I’d like for you to answer a quick question for me, then I’ll tell you why I’m here. That first day we went out to Sanders, you know, when the mule ate the chicken and dumplings, do you remember looking at the statue on the small table at the foot of the staircase?”

“Well for heaven’s sake, Trinket, of course I do. It was a heavy bronze statue of General Grant. Don’t you remember Sanders getting all huffy when I just politely mentioned it?”

“Yes, I certainly do. You’re sure it was Grant.”

“I think I can tell the difference between Grant and Forrest by now. You’re not saying my eyes have gone bad, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m just trying to remember everything, that’s all. You know, for the court case.” No point in saying anything to Bitty until I talked to Jackson Lee. There may be a good explanation for General Grant having turned into General Forrest.

When I hung up after giving Bitty a promise to come right over after I left the law offices, I went back to the table and studied some of the other photographs again. I pulled a few from the Questionable stack, and focused on the one of the parlor and the mantel. A fire had been burning the day we were there. It looked cold and dead in the photo. I studied the hearth, then the mantel. Photos, candlesticks . . . and an oddly empty space. Something else had been there the day I visited, though that didn’t necessarily mean it had anything to do with the murder. Still, sometimes the smallest details make the biggest differences.

Jackson Lee came in before I’d finished studying the photographs, and while he had a bit of mud on his boots, fortunately, there was no hint of cow manure.

“So,” he said genially, sitting down in a chair at the head of the table by me, “did you find anything?”

“Yes. Or at least, I found an answer as well as some questions without answers.”

“That works.” He leaned forward as I pushed two photographs toward him. “Let’s look at it.”

“I haven’t mentioned this, because I thought maybe I was just unhinged by everything, but I’ve been really bothered since the beginning about Generals Grant and Forrest.” Jackson Lee kept his expression of polite attentiveness, and encouraged, I went on. “The first day Bitty and I were out there, we admired the statue of General Grant on this table.” I tapped the photo.

“That’s General Forrest,” Jackson Lee corrected me, and I nodded.

“I know. But it was General Grant when we were there. We did say that in our statements, I’m sure.” Jackson Lee nodded, still without a change of expression. “And now there’s an empty space on the mantel. I remember looking at the mantel that first day, there was a fire on the hearth . . . anyway, there was a bronze statue on the mantel. I recall seeing it, though I can’t say for
certain
that it was General Forrest. I didn’t look that closely. I just remember there being a bronze statue of a man on a horse. I know this may seem completely unrelated, but I don’t think it is.

“And when I went back with Bitty to wipe off her fingerprints it wasn’t Grant then, either. I was too rattled to notice, at least consciously, but the statue I wiped clean was this one, not the one Bitty says was on the floor next to Philip, or the first one we saw. The one that goes on this table. I think that the murder weapon is missing, that the statue here on the table in this crime scene photo is
not
the one used to kill Philip Hollandale.” I ended with a Perry Mason flourish, and Jackson Lee sat back with a little smile.

“This morning we got the preliminary test results back from down in Jackson. There was no blood or fingerprints on the statue taken from the crime scene. It’s not the weapon that killed Senator Hollandale.”

“Then that’s good for Bitty, right?”

“I wish I could say that, but the prosecutor is probably going to claim she killed him with something else. Since you and she both say it was a statue of General Grant, and Forrest is the only statue in evidence, it’s going to be difficult to prove she didn’t dispose of it. We need to find the murder weapon. The senator’s fatal injury is consistent with a blow to the head from a heavy object like that statue, so since Grant is missing . . . . ”

He left the sentence unfinished. I filled in the blanks. “And since Bitty had motive and the opportunity, my brilliant deduction doesn’t help at all.”

“Not much,” he agreed.

I felt deflated. All this time worrying myself to death about a tiny detail like the difference between Grant and Forrest, and it didn’t help at all when I finally figured it out. Apparently I’m more Pink Panther than Perry Mason.

“So,” I said, “Inspector Clouseau strikes again.”

Jackson laughed. “But it does help a theory that’s been forming in the back of my mind. I researched that Nissan plant you told me about, and the senator’s possible involvement, and if Sanders had been contacted by Nissan. It’s fact that Nissan has been looking in this area, and it’s fact that Sanders’ land backs up to Highway 7 and is in a good spot for a plant. Nissan denies talking to Sanders. Hollandale is known for making deals that benefit him more than landowners, unless they’re corporate donors.”

“So Sanders and Philip might have gotten into an argument, and Philip ended up dead,” I said. “Then who killed Sanders?”

“The trick is finding out who benefits most from Sanders’ death.”

I remembered what Mrs. White had told me and said, “I’ve heard he has an heir.”

“That’s interesting. I haven’t been able to find any record of one. No will was filed in the Marshall County probate court. As far as is known, he died intestate.”

“That’s not in Bitty’s favor. I mean, she doesn’t benefit from Sanders being killed at all, so doesn’t that mean she has no motive to see him dead? She’d convinced him to put his house on the tour, after all, and anyway, just who kills someone for a house that won’t be theirs?”

Jackson Lee nodded. “I think we’ve got a pretty strong defense on Sanders. It’s Philip Hollandale that worries me. And don’t share that last with Bitty. By the time this comes to court, we’ll have all the
DNA
results back and a lot more evidence than we do now. The labs might be backed up and slow, but they’re thorough.”

I sighed. “They get it done so quickly on
CSI
. Instant
DNA
results.”

“Just on TV. Not available in reality yet, but I’m betting it will be. After all, used to, it took a lot more blood evidence to get
DNA
, and now all they need is a speck.”

Because talking about blood made me a little queasy, I thanked Jackson Lee for allowing me to access the crime scene photos, and he walked me out to my car. I turned to look up at him.

“Jackson Lee, do the police already know about the statues being different?”

He nodded. “As well as the prosecutor. I just haven’t said anything since I hoped Bitty wouldn’t remember it yet. If this case does get to court, Bitty can be a lot more convincing when she’s telling the truth than when she’s trying to make folks believe she is. She’s hard to shake when she thinks she’s right.”

“And any shade of doubt that she did it—”

”Can put reasonable doubt in play. The police have blood evidence, motive, opportunity, and Bitty saying she’d like to see the senator dead. Not to mention him turning up in her cellar after you ladies hauled him around town a while first. That can be pretty damning. Believable doubt might help with a jury.”

“That’s depressing. Too many people already know about us trying to hide Philip in the cemetery anyway.” When Jackson Lee looked at me, I added, “Melody Doyle says Cindy Nelson told her about it, so I imagine most of Marshall County knows about it by now. Or will soon.”

“Unless I can get that thrown out, it’s going to look bad for her in court.” Jackson Lee blew out a heavy sigh and rocked back on his heels. “What the hell made you ladies do that in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of hysteria, I think. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Next time anything like this happens, call me before you do anything.”

“My God. I can’t imagine anything like this ever happening again. Not to us. Even Bitty hasn’t ever found one of her husbands dead and in her coat closet before.”

“Let’s hope it’s not a new phase she’s going through.”

I thought about that when I pulled up in front of Bitty’s house. Despite her exemption of loud parties and visitors, the house was once more a parking lot and way-station for college kids. Thank heavens, the music was much more subdued, however, so I went inside to find Bitty in the thick of things, as usual.

A crowd was gathered in the basement “playroom” that looks like it was decorated by Tony Soprano. Some sat at the card tables engrossed in poker, but the liveliest of the group were throwing sharp objects. Naturally, Bitty was among them. The electric dart board lit up, while I looked around for a suit of armor.

“Trip twenty!” Bitty shouted, giving one of the hops from her former cheerleading days at Ole Miss. True to form, none of the coffee in her cup sloshed out but stayed firmly in place as if held with a clear seal or magnets.

Since I wasn’t sure what a trip twenty was but thought it must be good, I said, “Excellent, Bitty” in hopes that she’d quit before hitting someone with a dart. Like me.

Turning, she came to me with a pleased smile and an offer of a drink. “We have whatever you might want, sugar. Bailey’s and coffee?”

“Thanks, but I’m considering a twelve-step program. I’m sure it’ll last as long as my diet plan, so don’t throw away any booze just yet. Any Coke?”

We ended up in the kitchen where it was quiet, or quieter than the basement. Instead of Coke, I had sweet tea, and my ice clinked against the glass as I sucked down three inches of it.

“So why were you at Jackson Lee’s office?” Bitty asked as she shoved a plate of cream cheese and pineapple mix spread atop crackers at me.

Since Jackson Lee and I had decided that Bitty would benefit most by not mentioning the statue switch, I stuffed one of the Ritz crackers into my mouth and swallowed before replying. “I just had some silly idea I’d missed something, that’s all.”

“And did you miss something?”

“Just my breakfast. And lunch. These are delicious. I’ve always loved this stuff.”

“So have I. You’re keeping something from me, Trinket. I can always tell. What is it?”

“You always say that, but I’ve kept plenty of things from you and you’ve never even suspected.”

Bitty sat up straighter. “Like what?”

“Like the time I didn’t tell you that Stewart Carmichael and Cady Lee Forsythe were stirring up more than dust in his hayloft. You didn’t know for a month after I did. And even then you didn’t hear it from me.”

“I mean secrets about
me
. You haven’t ever been able to keep secrets about me without me knowing.”

“Yes, I have. Remember your surprise birthday party? You didn’t know about that.”

“We were sixteen, and I knew about it a month before. You’re really awful at that kind of thing. You kept smiling like the Cheshire cat.”

“I did not. Wait—something’s missing from your chest. Where’s Chitling?”

“Chen Ling is having her day at the spa. Bath, nails trimmed, even a massage.”

“When I die, I hope I come back as your dog. Does Luann Carey know she’s not ever getting Chitling back?”

“Luann and I have come to an agreement. She realizes that Chen Ling is much better off here with me than with all those other dogs she has running around. I can give her more attention and see to her needs. In return, Luann’s rescue group gets a nice donation. So why were you at Jackson Lee’s office?”

Occasionally Bitty isn’t so easily distracted.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Bitty,” I said, “don’t you think if it’s something you truly need to know, I’ll tell you?”

She thought about that for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes, I know you would. And it’s not like I haven’t kept some things from you lately.”

When she got up as if to leave the kitchen, I said, “Wait. What have you kept from me?”

“Oh no, Trinket. Trust is a two-way street. If you won’t confide in me, then I should spare you details that I think may upset you. It’s probably best, anyway.”

Sometimes I just want to smack Bitty. Not hard, of course, just one of those “you drive me crazy” smacks to get her attention. But then, I have no doubt she feels the same way about me at times, too.

So I looked at her standing there in pretty pink cotton slacks and blouse, hair all done and make-up on, while I wore my favorite Lee jeans and a pull-over jersey, no make-up, my hair only slightly less scary than my bank balance, and I knew we’d have to come to some sort of a compromise. I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until I knew what she was keeping from me. And it better not be gossip about someone’s face lift or cheating husband, either.

I patted the other side of the kitchen table in invitation. “You come and upset me, and I’ll upset you, honey. It’s the least we can do for each other.”

To her credit, Bitty voiced no triumphant murmurings, but came and sat down across from me. “I’ll tell you first,” she said, “I’ve just been dying to anyway. Cindy Nelson called me, really upset with Melody Doyle. It seems that Melody has let slip quite a few things Cindy told her in strictest confidence, and Cindy doesn’t know what to do. She wants to confront her, but then, she doesn’t want to get anything started with the Divas, either. You know, it could really get uncomfortable if one won’t come if the other one’s going to be there, and if one holds it at their house, then the other won’t come—although Melody Doyle has never held it at her house, not that I can blame her, it being kind of rundown and all. Still, we all understand, and it’s not like all of us have enough money for that kind of thing. That’s not what the Divas are about. We just like to get together for some fun.