Dixie Divas (9 page)

“Out here on a strip of asphalt road frequented only by stray dogs, tractors, and slightly hysterical women? Come on, Bitty. The only thing they’d put up here is a Beware of Mule sign.”

Bitty stuck out her chin, looking very much like the mule I’d just mentioned. “This land backs up to Highway 7. They could build a Wal-Mart on it.”

I rolled my eyes. “They just opened a new Wal-Mart right off 78 Highway. I hardly think they’d build another one a mile or two down the road. We have to involve the police. If you don’t want to, I completely understand. I’ll leave your name out of it, but I think we should at the very least report Sanders missing.”

“Fine.” She looked at me crossly, and then sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Don’t worry,” I comforted her as we left the kitchen and went back to her car, “I’m not right very often.”

“I know,” Bitty said.

* * * *

Sergeant Maxwell looked at us with an expression that gave nothing away except an air of resignation. A hefty man, with skin the color of polished mahogany, he has black eyes and a broad, strong nose, high cheekbones, and full lips that he kept pressed together a little bit too long before he shook his head and said, “Repeat that, please.”

“You see,” Bitty began again, “I’ve been talking to Mr. Sanders about putting his house on our historical registry and permitting it to be on the annual pilgrimage. We’ve come to a tentative agreement, but when I went out to take him another pot of chicken and dumplings—I did mention those already, didn’t I?—he wasn’t there. He’s still not there. His dog is dead in the chicken coop and the pot of chicken and dumplings are on the kitchen stove. Uneaten.”

I nudged Bitty. This version as well as the last one had left out any mention of the senator lying on the floor or a pool of blood.

She elbowed me back quite sharply in the ribs, and smiled at the sergeant. “So I thought perhaps something dreadful has happened to him and it should be checked out by the authorities. Just in case he’s met with an accident on the road.”

Maxwell cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, tapping a pencil atop a yellow pad of paper. “Mrs. Hollandale, there could be a dozen explanations for his absence. He could be visiting relatives or on vacation. What I find curious is that you broke into his home.”

Bitty gave me an
I told you so
look and shook her head. “There was no breaking into anything, Sergeant. The door was left open. Only the screen door is shut, and it’s not locked. Out of concern, we investigated to see if he’d hurt himself. Sanders isn’t the kind of person to go off and leave his house open, but we didn’t notice any sign of burglary. It’s just odd.”

“We’ll check it out,” the sergeant said after heaving another long sigh.

“Thank you,” Bitty said and stood up. “When you contact him, please tell Mr. Sanders that I’ll make another appointment to meet with him at his earliest convenience.”

Once we were outside on the pavement, I looked at Bitty. “You didn’t tell everything.”

“Of course not, Trinket.” She hit the little button on her remote and the Miata started and the lights flashed. “There’s no point in alarming the police unnecessarily. You’ve obviously forgotten, but the
Holly
Springs
police are quite sharp. They have a habit of finding out the truth even when it’s very inconvenient. You just remember that I told you so when this good citizen stuff blows up in our faces, all right?”

“Okay,” I said, and crossed my fingers. When Bitty’s the cynic instead of me, it’s never a good sign.

Rain changed from a light mist to a heavy downpour before we even got to
Market Street
, and Bitty parked right in front of Budgie’s café without asking me if I wanted to stop. My mouth was already watering for homemade cobbler anyway. We may have our differences at times, but in so many ways Bitty and I are very much alike.

Parking spaces slant diagonal to the sidewalk. On one side of Budgie’s is a real estate office; on the other side is an attorney’s office. There’s an empty storefront by the attorney’s office, and an antique store at the end. The café is on the bottom floor of the three-story building built in 1854. It has old-fashioned ornate facings and false front, and the outside brick walls have been painted a nice bright white. Black wrought iron railings and small flower boxes that drape red petunias and cascades of verbena in the summer give it a
New Orleans
flair.

Budgie’s had a nice lunchtime crowd, but we found a table in the rear that had just been vacated. Dirty dishes, wadded up napkins, and a red plastic basket still full of cornsticks cluttered the table. Such a waste of excellent cornbread.

Since the rain had chased away the warmer temperatures, we wavered between chili and cornsticks, or hot potato soup and cornsticks. Followed, of course, by the cobbler of the day with as much vanilla ice cream on top as could fit into the bowl.

I ended up choosing the potato, cheese, and bacon soup, and Bitty had the chili. The red plastic basket of bread and cornsticks are complimentary with every meal. We both had sweet tea instead of coffee with our meal. Coffee comes with dessert.

“After such a wretched day,” Bitty said, licking melted butter and cornstick crumbs off her fingers just like she was at home, “we deserve two helpings of cherry cobbler.”

“Well, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” I reflected. “And I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish one bowl of cobbler, much less two. I ate too many cornsticks.”

“Budgie makes them just right. Not sweet, light on the top, golden brown on the bottom. I could eat a barrel of cornsticks if I didn’t have to worry about staying a size ten.”

I looked at her. “The last time you were size ten was in sixth grade.”

“You’re thinking of your shoe size, dear,” Bitty said without a blink, and we both smiled.

Things were getting back to normal if we were trading casual barbs. I didn’t want to think about Sanders, or the senator, or even poor Tuck anymore. We’d done our duty.

“What are you going to do about Uncle Eddie and Aunt Anna?” Bitty asked when we’d put away our cobbler and were sipping coffee. “Are they really going to take the Delta Queen downriver?”

I nodded. “All the way to
New Orleans
. At least they’ll be confined on a boat. And they’ll only have one night and half a day in New
Orleans
before they fly back home. Maybe that’s not enough time to be a problem.”

Bitty had taken her compact and lipstick out of her purse and started applying a top coat to her lips, stretching her mouth into that odd-looking “O” women always make. Since I hadn’t put on any lipstick in the first place, I felt no compunction to follow suit. Unlike Bitty, who’s had a face-lift, injected Botox and collagen and whatever else costs a lot of money and doesn’t last, I’d decided to face old age
au naturel
. It has nothing to do with lack of money. Okay, maybe a little, but I’ve never been one to fuss with my hair or make-up a lot, and figure there’s only so much plastic surgery that can be done before a woman begins to look freakish. Bitty’s probably a decade or two away from qualifying for the circus. I’m sure I’ll be the first one to tell her when it’s time to put away her checkbook and let the wrinkles win.

“I think it’s good for them,” Bitty said, using her forefinger to touch up the corners of her mouth. “This is the first time they’ve really been free to go anywhere. And of course, they never had the money when they were young, or even after Uncle Eddie got back from the war. It’s got to spice up their sex life to travel a bit.”

“Please,” I said with a shudder, “I’d rather not have that vision in my mind while they’re gone. I’d rather think of Mama playing five-card-draw with a cigar hanging out one corner of her mouth than visualize them playing leapfrog in a single bunk.”

Bitty laughed. “You can be such a prude. How do you think you got here?”

“I have it on good authority that I was found under a cabbage leaf.”

“Then it’s amazing that you have even one child.”

“And apathy about gardening,” I mused. “Perry never could figure out that some kinds of plowing take time and attention. When I realized all he cared about was his own harvest, I took up reading instead. Much less frustration, and always a happy ending.”

Bitty snapped her mirrored compact closed and stuck it back in her purse. “Honey, you just need a master gardener instead of a field hand in bed, and you’ll forget all about reading.”

I doubted it, but since Gaynelle Bishop was bearing down on us like a ship at full sail, I saved my argument for another time.

“Bitty Hollandale,” Gaynelle said abruptly, “I think it’s just awful what’s happened. I know that even though there was all that trouble and nastiness, it’s got to be hard for you. Do let me know the first time you get any news, you hear?”

“Excuse me?” Bitty said with a puzzled look on her face. “What’s happened?”

Gaynelle put a hand to her chest. “You mean you don’t
know?
It’s all over town—I thought for sure you’d have heard by now.”

“Know what?” She inhaled sharply and half-rose to her feet. “My boys? Has something happened to Clayton and Brandon?”

My stomach thumped, and the undigested cobbler shifted uncomfortably.

“Good heavens no,” Gaynelle said and put out her hand as if warding off even the thought of it. “It’s your ex-husband. The last one. You know, Senator Hollandale.”

Since Bitty sat down hard and just stared at her, it was up to me to ask the obvious.

“What about him?”

“He’s missing. Kidnapped or car jacked, I suspect. The police found his car in the river over by a Tunica casino, and no one’s heard from him for three days. It’s on all the local and national news stations. CNN even reported it.”

To Bitty’s credit, she never turned a hair. “Philip always has loved publicity,” she said. “I imagine he’s off somewhere with the flavor of the month, and will turn up with an explanation that won’t fool anyone but the idiots who voted for him.”

Gaynelle lifted a brow. “I voted for him.”

“And I married him.” Bitty’s smile took any sting out of the implication that Gaynelle was an idiot, or at least, alone in her idiocy.

“Did they say anything about Philip being inside the car?” I asked.

“The car was empty, but they have divers in the river right now to see if perhaps he might be . . . he must have been hurt badly, after all.
You
know. It’s so awful, isn’t it?”

We all agreed that it was, and Bitty stood up and said she should probably go home since her ex-mother-in-law might be trying to call. I knew that was a whopper of a lie. Bitty’s ex-mother-in-law had once accused her of marrying Philip only for his money. As that accusation was only partially true, Bitty had taken offense and called the senior Mrs. Hollandale a dragon of a mother who’d spoiled her son rotten and turned him into a pervert. Things degenerated from there, and their already cool relationship never recovered. Rumor has it that when Bitty’s divorce from Philip was final, Mrs. Hollandale celebrated with a ten thousand dollar garden party.

Rain had slacked off when we went outside. The Miata lit up at the punch of the remote and we got into the car and sat in brief silence. Then Bitty looked over at me.

“I always knew that he’d do something like this to me.”

“Don’t take it personally,” I said. “I’m sure he didn’t plan to get murdered just for spite.”

“Heavens, Trinket, don’t be naïve. Philip’s not dead. He just wants me to think he is. It’s part of some plot to get out of paying alimony. It wouldn’t surprise me if his mother thought up this scheme. She’s a lot smarter than Philip, even if she is a vicious crone who’s turned out a son with an Oedipus complex and a narcissistic daughter that has all the finesse of a black widow spider.”

“Try not to be so tactful. Say what you really mean.”

Bitty grinned. “If I did, your ears would burn to a crisp. Come home with me. I may need someone to hold me back while I watch CNN.”

It always amazes me just how quickly Bitty recovers from disasters.

Chapter Six

“Did you hear about Philip Hollandale?” Mama asked me within seconds of my return home. She cornered me in the kitchen right next to the laundry room, eyes bright with curiosity.

“It’s been mentioned.”

I’d come in the back way, hoping for a respite before having to even think about him again after the last hour and twenty-three minutes spent listening to Bitty fuss and fume that it didn’t matter what he did, he wasn’t going to get out of paying her every penny he owed her for the years of suffering he’d caused. While six years may not sound like a lifetime to some people, I can tell you from my own personal experience that three minutes in the company of someone whose very name causes an agonizing migraine should earn some kind of compensation, whether personal, monetary, or legal.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Mama whispered with an avid interest she’d never have displayed when I was a child. Gossip was frowned upon then.

My mother is one of those people who’s come to enjoy many activities in life she’d once eschewed as improper. It’s as if reaching a certain age entitles one to so many degrees of vice. Forty earns the right to talk about current music trends as “noise” while speaking admiringly of the musical artists in your era that have
real
talent. Fifty earns the right to go without make-up and not be considered slovenly. Sixty qualifies for pretending you can’t hear annoying relatives, and seventy obviously earns a second adolescence, with sexual adventures in unexpected places. I hope I never reach eighty. I don’t even want to think about what vice is acceptable then.

“It’s possible he’s dead,” I said, and Mama nodded wisely.

“Philip Hollandale never was a very nice man. Of course, Bitty knew that when she went off and married him. Bless her heart, she just never thinks beyond next week.”

For the unfamiliar, the phrase “bless her heart” is used often in the South to soften criticism. I’m sure it’s used elsewhere, too, though perhaps not with the same intent.