Drop Dead Divas (5 page)

“Well for heaven’s sake, Trinket, it was last year. And I’ve hardly seen you since you started
not dating
Kit Coltrane.”

Bitty definitely sounded peevish. It seemed best not to encourage her along those lines, so I merely nodded. “So Race must have gotten engaged to Naomi quite recently, then. What was it—Monday, when we ran into her at Budgie’s?”

“I should have run
over
her at Budgie’s,” Bitty muttered, and let the edge of the wet cloth flop back over her eyes. “The spiteful thing. Telling the police that I probably had something to do with his murder. Especially after all that unpleasantness with Philip. I bet she just smiled like a cat when she said it, too, hoping they’d suspect me instead of her.”

“Well,” I pointed out, “they arrested her, not you. So they couldn’t have believed her very much.”

“I should hope not. That girl tells a lie every time her mouth opens. She can’t help it, I suppose. Her family never has been known for honesty. Why, her brother Billy Don just got out of jail around Easter after he did a two-year stretch in Parchman for selling cars he didn’t own. And her mother is barred from every department store between here and Tupelo because she shoplifts.”

Bitty lifted a corner of the bath cloth again and flopped on her side to look at me. “Sukey tried to wedge a microwave oven into her cloth shopping bag at the old Wal-Mart store, can you believe that? Stupid woman. Although if it hadn’t been for her forgetting to tuck the electrical cord into the bag, not a one of those clueless cashiers would have noticed. Sukey just sailed on out of Wal-Mart without a soul stopping her. If not for Trina Madewell accidentally stepping on the electrical cord so that the microwave fell out of the bag and everybody turned to look, she might have gotten away with it.”

While I tried to envision a shopping bag large enough to hold a microwave, Bitty abruptly sat up and swung her feet to the floor. A smile curled up the sides of her mouth so that she looked just like the Grinch in that Christmas cartoon that comes on TV every year. I figure a lot more people than just me recognize a Grinch smile, because they even made a movie out of it several years back with an actor playing the part of the Grinch.

But I digress.

There sat Bitty with a Grinch smile, ideas churning in her fertile little brain. I didn’t know quite what to expect next, but I certainly didn’t expect to hear her say, “I must invite Trina Madewell over here for tea.”

Stunned, it took me a moment to respond. “But Bitty, you hate Trina Madewell. You call her the Barracuda of Barbecues, the Swamp Thing, and numerous other names I refuse to repeat. Why on earth would you want to invite her anywhere, much less over here for tea?”

“Because, dearest cousin, her family owns Madewell Courts.”

When I just stared at her blankly, Bitty sighed. “The motel where Race Champion was shot last night. Trina’s family has owned that run-down old ruin since God was a baby. She’ll know all kinds of things that the police haven’t told.”

“Bitty,” I said calmly, “forget it. Let the police handle the murder without you.”

“Don’t be silly, Trinket. I’m not getting involved with the murder. I just want to know all the juicy details. Don’t you? Be honest.”

Now she’d put me on the spot. To be honest, sure I wanted to know all the juicy details. Curiosity and nosiness demanded it. However, I did my best to rise above such character flaws.

“Remember the old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” I said instead of giving her the pleasure of being right.

“Yes, but satisfaction brought it back,” Bitty replied promptly.

“Trina Madewell will never accept your invitation,” I countered. “You two have been feuding forever. Even the dumbest woman would know you’re up to something.”

Bitty tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured nail for a moment. Then she smiled. “I’ll tell her the Divas are getting together. There’s no way she could resist
that
invitation. She’s been dying to attend a Diva meeting ever since our very first one.”

I was shocked. “You’re going to defile a Diva meeting?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll just tell her a few Divas are getting together, and ask if she’d like to join us.”

Immediately suspicious, I said, “Who is included in
us
?”

“Me, of course, and you. I’m sure Rayna will agree to come. After all, she’s the one who called me, so she’ll want to hear all the details, too.”

“I hardly think two Divas will qualify as a Diva meeting.”

“Three.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “
Two
. You and Rayna. I refuse to be a party to this.”

“Really. Very well. I’ll call Gaynelle, then. She knows a good thing when she hears it.”

Silence fell between us. Bitty waited patiently, as if she knew I couldn’t stand being replaced. After watching her examine her fingernails for a few minutes, I gave in.

“All right. I’ll come. But just to keep you from doing anything too foolish.”

To her credit, Bitty didn’t gloat. Instead she clapped her hands together and said, “Oh, I’m so glad. What should we serve?”

“Dragon’s blood and snake venom soup.”

Bitty looked slightly startled at my rather bitchy suggestion, but shrugged it off and said, “I was thinking more along the lines of an English tea, you know, with hot tea served in my Limoges teapot that I bought on my first trip to France . . . with tiny little pastry puffs arranged on that gorgeous matching platter. What do you think?”

“That you’re wasting pastry puffs. Trina Madewell is going to see right through you, Bitty Hollandale. You know she is. Once she realizes it’s not an official Diva Day, she’ll know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Of course she will. She may look like the south end of a northbound cow, but she’s not stupid. Still, she’ll get what she wants out of it, I’m sure.”

“And what on earth would that be?”

“Well, an invitation to Six Chimneys for one thing. Since I outbid her for it, she hasn’t set foot in this house. She told everyone in her Sunday School class that I have atrocious taste in interior decorating, and that a blind mule wouldn’t have chosen the antiques I bought. And she also told the entire Holly Springs Garden Club that I cheated her out of her just due for getting The Cedars on the pilgrimage tour.”

“Did she ever even meet Sherman Sanders?” I couldn’t help asking, thinking back to the rather crotchety old man who had owned The Cedars and had a penchant for greeting visitors with a shotgun loaded with rock salt.

Bitty’s smile was a bit smug. “Just once. Briefly. He took a shot at her when she told him he
owed
the town since his ancestors had basically stolen The Cedars anyway. I don’t think Mr. Sanders liked her very much.”

“Did the shot hit her?”

“Unfortunately, no. Trina’s pretty quick on her feet. Must be all that running she does.”

“She jogs?”

“Hardly. She runs around from one bar to the next looking for a new husband to replace the last one.”

My head started to hurt. This was too much information to absorb all at once. The day had been far too long already, and getting tangled up in Bitty’s schemes tends to make time stand still. Or unexpectedly shoot to warp speed. Neither is desirable.

“I’m going home, Bitty. Call me when you have all the details worked out.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“I can hardly wait,” I lied shamelessly.

It wasn’t until much later that night, when I was lying in my bed staring up at the twelve foot ceilings of my parents’ old bedroom, that I convinced myself Trina Madewell would be smart enough to refuse Bitty’s invitation. That made me feel much better. After all, the woman would have to be a complete idiot not to suspect something was up if she got a lunch invitation out of the blue from an arch-enemy. At the very least, she would have to wonder what would be in her teacup besides orange pekoe or Earl Grey.

My memory of Trina Madewell was rather sketchy. I’d gone to school with her, but she had hung out with another set of friends. Even small southern towns can have their own cliques, and can be just as snobby as elite Ivy League communities. Maybe more so in some ways, since the advantage—or disadvantage—of a small town is that it’s very easy to know too many incriminating things about your neighbors. Not that the group of friends I hung out with during my formative years were anything close to
elite
, because it didn’t matter to any of us who had money and who didn’t. What mattered most was who was the most fun to be around. We just naturally gravitated toward those who shared similar interests.

My twin sister Emerald and I hung out in different groups. People tend to think twins are just alike, but Emerald is petite like my mother, blond, dainty, and quiet. I am not. To say the least. I was always the bull in the china shop. Emerald was always the china. In truth, I was much more like our older brothers. Jack and Luke made our old farmhouse rock when we were young. They were loud, boisterous, and so full of life and plans for the future that the military men who came to our house to tell my parents they had both been killed within days of each other could have been speaking Greek for all we could comprehend in that awful moment. I recall my daddy just staring at them without speaking for a long time, his expression disbelieving. It was only when my mother began to cry that we all understood.

Tragedy irrevocably changes some people. My daddy’s hair turned gray almost overnight, and my mother didn’t come downstairs for nearly a year after their funerals. Emerald and I reacted opposite of one another. Predictably, I suppose. Emerald withdrew into herself, created her own world peopled by fantasies and books.

I threw myself into a frenzy of activity, playing softball, visiting friends, joining school clubs, and as I grew older, even activist causes to protest whatever inequity I considered important at the time. Save the whales, civil rights, stop the war, gay rights, Native American rights—whatever the cause, I protested for or against it. While the 1970s were hardly the same as the turbulent 1960s, it had its moments.

All of which should have prepared me for this time in my life when my cousin Bitty sucked me into her sticky web of insanity. And yet, despite my varied experiences, I still found myself traumatized and, yes, fascinated by just how quickly she can turn the most mundane moments into sheer chaos.

CHAPTER 4

Trina Madewell perched tentatively upon the silk seat of the Louis XVI antique chair in Bitty’s living room. She had really dressed up for the occasion; her watered silk two-piece suit was a pale mauve that matched her dyed alligator shoes and handbag. While she was a little younger than Bitty and me, she had not . . . worn . . . well. It could have been that her hair, dyed a harsh shade of black, washed out her complexion, or that she wore enough mascara to lubricate the entire chassis of a medium size sedan.  But I think it was more along the lines that she has a hard, brittle look to her despite all her efforts. It was easy to see why she and Bitty have been in competition with one another, and even easier for me to see why Bitty has managed to out-do her. Ruthless people usually step on too many toes.

In her element, Bitty smiled brightly and held up a lovely antique Limoges teapot that must have set her back at least a thousand dollars, even twenty years ago.

“More tea, Trina?”

“Why yes, Bitty, thank you.”

A noise to my right sounded something like a snort, but I ignored it. Rayna Blue and I felt much the same way about this latest ploy, but like lemmings, we tagged along behind Bitty toward some distant cliff.

“Another sandwich?” Bitty cooed, and held out a lovely white platter with dainty gilt trim that matched the Limoges teapot, cups, saucers, and small plates. Tiny finger sandwiches were stacked high upon the platter, and Trina chose one delicately. I recognized Sharita’s handiwork. Only a talented cook with the patience of Job would be able to pull off twenty cucumber sandwiches, each shaped like a fleur-de-lis.

“I understand that your family property has undergone extensive renovations recently,” Bitty said once Trina’s mouth was full of bread and cucumber. “I’ve been just dying to see them. Someone told me your parents turned that lovely old home into a bed-and-breakfast, is that right?”

While Trina could only politely nod affirmation with her mouth full, Bitty went on, “Whatever made you think of such a clever thing? I’ve been considering doing that with Six Chimneys. Why, I’ve got all these bedrooms here, and Brandon and Clayton only come home to change clothes during their summer recess from Ole Miss, so it would be just a perfect opportunity, don’t you agree?”

I nearly fell out of my chair. Bitty would no more allow tourists free rein of her house than she would invite in a platoon of army ants. Rayna choked on a sip of tea, then wiped her mouth with an edge of damask napkin. Once she was choke-free, Rayna looked over at me.

“Are there any more petit-fours, by chance?”

I knew immediately that what she really wanted was a whiff of sanity, not a dessert cake, so I nodded. “In the kitchen. I’ll get them.”

Rayna stood up. “I’ll help.”

“Really,” I heard Trina say as I led the way to the kitchen, “it was all my sister’s idea. There are specific rules you must follow in order to comply with codes, however.”

Rayna said under her breath, “If Bitty opens up Six Chimneys to tourists, I swear I’ll book the first room for her ex-mother-in-law. That would teach her a lesson.”

“Don’t worry,” I said when we were safely in the kitchen and out of earshot, “I doubt Bitty would ever risk a single washcloth, much less her Egyptian cotton sheets with complete strangers.”

Rayna flicked a strand of her long dark hair back over one shoulder. The motion made her turquoise and silver earrings clink softly. The earrings matched a belt she wore around her turquoise tunic top. An artist, Rayna usually wears trendy clothes with flair, but it doesn’t matter what she wears. She looks good in anything. She has one of those slender figures that would make a shapeless potato sack look good. I’m not envious. Much.