Dixie Diva Blues (14 page)

He had insisted that someone was trying to kill him, and unfortunately, turned out to be right about that. It must have something to do with that storage unit. Why else would he have been trying to get into it?

I mentioned my theories and summation to my partners in crime detection. Gaynelle saw immediately where I was going with my train of thought.

“Maybe the letters on the paper represent a combination to the lock on the storage unit Larry tried to open,” she said. “It stands to reason that if he risked breaking into it, it must hold something very important to him. Perhaps even the reason he was murdered.”

Bitty took her hands off the steering wheel and clapped them together. “That’s it! And that Lee Hazen person is the killer!”

“That’s jumping to conclusions,” I said, then added, “put your hands back on the steering wheel, please. Unless you want to become closely acquainted with another tow truck driver.”

Thankfully, Bitty obliged me by returning her hands to the steering wheel before we ended up in a ditch or in someone’s house.

“We need to find this Hazen guy,” Bitty said, and looked in her rearview mirror at Gaynelle and Carolann. “Don’t you both agree?”

I noticed that she left me out. My feelings weren’t hurt at all. In fact, I was rather grateful to be left out. My nerves wouldn’t be able to handle much more before I found myself inhabiting a padded room at the Whitfield sanitarium. And I was certain Gaynelle would point out the flaws in Bitty’s plan.

To my surprise, Gaynelle said, “It would be helpful if we could locate Mr. Hazen, to be sure.”

“How can we do that?” Carolann asked, obviously counting herself among those conducting a search. I felt it necessary to remind them of Mr. Hazen’s successful hiding from diligent search efforts.

“Rob and Rayna looked for him. There’s been no trace of him, and they suspect the name and person to be fictional.”

“Whoever that was last night certainly wasn’t fictional,” Bitty retorted.

“But there’s no evidence that it was someone named Lee Hazen, either.”

My reasonable reply went unnoticed. Bitty began to make plans aloud to conduct a search of the storage units on Highway 7.

“We can go in the dead of night and find the unit Larry tried to break into. I’m sure the Clarksdale police haven’t done that yet, or we’d have heard about it. Just think, we could find the evidence needed to clear Rob ourselves, and he’d never have to go to a trial or anything! Wear dark clothes, Carolann. Oh, and I’ll have to go shopping since the outfit I usually wear for this kind of thing got ruined.”

“It got ruined,” I pointed out peevishly, “because you gained ten pounds and tried to stuff yourself into it anyway.”

“It got ruined,” Bitty retorted, “because you doused me with water and it shrunk!”

“Well . . . that, too,” I conceded. “But think about this before acting, please. Our track record isn’t so great on these kind of forays into the midnight hours.”

“All we have to do is plan better. And I’ll have my forty-five with me.”

“That’s not at all reassuring. While I admit that your aim has gotten much better, toting a big gun around is not always helpful.”

“I agree with that, Bitty,” said Gaynelle, and Bitty blew out an exasperated sigh.

“Of all people to be in favor of gun control, Gaynelle, I never expected it to be you. Why, you’re a Republican!”

“Yes, but I don’t have a death wish. Not all Republicans carry guns, you know.”

“Really?” Bitty seemed genuinely surprised. “Philip always had a pistol of some kind on him. Not that it helped him in the end since he got whacked on the head instead of shot, but he had an excellent record in Congress of helping the NRA.”

While I muttered something about karma catching up with him, Gaynelle said she believed in the right to bear arms, but didn’t consider it a mandate. “And I always voted for Philip Hollandale, you know,” she added.

“I’m sure he appreciated it, but you know he was the worst senator ever elected,” Bitty answered. “He had his hands in the till and down every blouse he could manage. I may have married him, but I never voted for him. I knew better.”

“So, is there anything else we should take with us?” Carolann asked in the brief silence that fell. “I assume that we’re going to break in instead of ask for a key?”

“Excellent assumption,” Gaynelle said. “Why do it the easy way?”

She laughed at her comment, and so did Carolann, but I couldn’t help thinking that Bitty armed with a forty-five and pair of bolt cutters equaled disaster. Sometimes I can be quite clairvoyant.

CHAPTER 7

My parents are in their seventies. Chronologically, that should exclude such embarrassing activities as sex in strange places. Alas, no one has informed them of that. After a dreadfully embarrassing encounter with them in an unexpected corner of the barn, I now phone home before I arrive, so a similar incident never, never,
never
happens again. Poor Mama and Daddy. Those screams of surprise and horror still echo in my memory. My throat was sore for a week.

At any rate, since I still refuse to purchase or accept a cell phone, I called home from Bitty’s house once we arrived back in Holly Springs. She has an antique-looking French phone on a small mosaic table in the entry. It’s a bulky thing that makes me feel very retro. I can imagine myself in a 1930s movie, looking sleek and silky in a long dress like Claudette Colbert, talking to my dashing fiancé who has called me from Morocco or some such exotic place.

My flight of imagination was abruptly grounded by the
clicka-clicka-clicka
sound of toenails on wood flooring. Luann Carey had delivered Chen Ling. I turned around to be polite, since I had my back to the front door, and instead of Luann, Jackson Lee stood just inside on a small foot mat.

“I saw y’all pass my office, so I thought I’d just bring Chen Ling on over here,” he said by way of explanation. “You doing okay, Trinket?”

I had just opened my mouth to ask him how he’d moved so fast to get out to Luann’s house and back here with the dog, when my father answered the phone. I turned my attention to Daddy, but waved at Jackson Lee to acknowledge his greeting.

“This is my twenty-minute warning call,” I said into the retro phone receiver. “If you two are getting frisky, I can wait a little longer to come home.”

Daddy laughed. “Ever since your mother let the cat out of the bag about the Viagra Dr. Williams prescribed for me, you’ve been really touchy.”

“No, I think it was when the pair of you were playing leap frog in the barn. That is not a memory I want to take to my grave, believe me. Need anything from the store?”

“Let me ask your mother—” I heard him put down the phone and call “Anna,” and in a moment he was back. “Yes, she said she needs a gallon of sweet milk and a quart of buttermilk.”

“That’s it?”

“Probably not. She’ll end up thinking of something else, so that I’ll have to get out and go the store before midnight.”

“True that,” I said, smiling.

Daddy said, “Huh?”

“It’s a phrase the college kids were using this summer.”

“What the heck does it mean, this ‘true that’ stuff?”

“Probably that they didn’t pay attention during their grammar classes. If you think of anything else you need, I’ll be here at Bitty’s for probably another fifteen minutes or so. After that—you’ll end up being the Midnight Skulker at Walmart.”

I found Bitty and Jackson Lee in the kitchen, where she had made him a roast beef sandwich and glass of sweet tea. Bitty stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a frown on her face.

“Uh-oh,” I said cheerfully, “do I detect storm clouds on the love horizon?”

Jackson Lee looked at me over the fat sandwich he held up to his mouth. “More like hurricane clouds. My girl is upset.”

“I assume you mean Bitty and not Chen ling,” I said as I went to the refrigerator cleverly hidden behind wood panels that looked like the cabinetry. “She’s easy. If you want to make her happy, just give her a sliver of roast beef.”

“Bitty?”

“No, Chen Ling. Bitty accepts diamonds, but only if they’re bigger than a speckled butter bean. Is there any more sweet tea? All I see is an empty pitcher.”

“Look on the door,” said Bitty, and I assumed she was talking to me even though she followed that advice with, “That’s ridiculous, Jackson Lee.”

“Maybe. But I’m not surprised. You must admit, you ladies have been disruptive to police investigations before.”

Uh-oh. I removed my head from the refrigerator and the tea pitcher from the door, and looked over at them. Jackson Lee leaned against the granite countertop and Bitty stood right next to him. Even though he slouched, he was still a good head or two taller than she. Not that height would intimidate Bitty. King Kong wouldn’t have intimidated Bitty.

“But to call you up and demand that you do something about us—that sounds like we’re unruly grade-schoolers!”

Jackson Lee tugged at his left earlobe, something I’ve noticed he does when he gets nervous. “Well, sugar, Sergeant Maxwell has been under a lot of pressure lately from the town council and booster clubs about the recent rise in the crime rate. Surely, you can see why he’d want to keep things quiet in Holly Springs for a while.”

Bitty “bowed up” as my daddy would say, meaning that she got pretty angry and defiant. “Oh, I see. So now Sergeant Maxwell is blaming me for—”

“Not you, honeybunch, no, not you personally.”

“It sounds pretty personal to me! But if it’s not, then he’s blaming the Divas for interfering in his crime scenes when if it wasn’t for us, those killers might have gotten away and even now be sitting in Jamaica drinking Mai Tais and getting sunburned! Has he stopped to think about that? Has he?”

Jackson Lee sighed and shook his head. “No, probably not. But you see, he looks at it differently. He considers your help more like interference, and is threatening to put the entire lot of Divas into a cell and throw away the key if you do any more snooping.”

“Really! Talk about gratitude!” Bitty stood with her hands on her hips, angry as all get out. Her face flushed nearly as bright as her peach colored blouse. “After all we did, risking our own lives, getting banged up and hospitalized—I’ve a good mind to go and talk to his mama about this. I know for a fact that she taught him better manners.”

When Jackson Lee glanced at me for help, I slowly shook my head. Although I really don’t like to disappoint him—he’s so nice, and very good for Bitty—I knew this was a battle he was going to lose. He blew out a heavy gust of air and his shoulders lifted briefly in resignation.

“I’ll talk to him, sugar,” he said, “and I’m sure he knows that you mean well.”

That didn’t exactly smooth the troubled waters. Bitty narrowed her eyes at him, which had to be pretty difficult with all that Botox injected into the frown lines.

“Don’t try to pacify me, Jackson Lee Brunetti. Mean well? We drew the killers out of hiding, and made it possible for them to be held in jail for attempted murder until the police got their act together and could charge them with something that would stick!
Mean well
, indeed! If not for Trinket and Rayna, the Holly Springs police department would still be running around like headless chickens looking for sufficient evidence.”

While that wasn’t quite true, I rather appreciated the part where she said Rayna and I were credited with being so useful. At the time I had felt more terrified than useful, but in retrospect, such harrowing moments can be character builders. Or so I had told myself later that day when I was quivering at home. If not for Brownie, I might still be hiding in my bedroom closet. Mama had sent him to find me; I have a feeling he thought he was looking for something a lot better than a woman curled into the fetal position atop a clutter of Nikes.

At any rate, I now poured myself some sweet tea in a to-go cup, murmured a few noncommittal words of encouragement to my cousin, and made my way to the front door. It was still afternoon, and I figured I had some time to myself where I could sit and go over the events in Clarksdale. I had some ideas of my own that may or may not require pursuit. If nothing else, maybe I could provide Rayna with some useful details.

My car had been closed up during our absence, and I had to roll down all the windows and let it air out before I dared get inside. I probably could have fried an egg on the hood. Even though the sun seared down, there was a quality to it that foretold autumn had almost arrived. The intensity was not as harsh as Mississippi summers can be. It’s the humidity that’s the real killer; July heat leaves me gasping for air that isn’t saturated with moisture heavy enough to dampen clothes and collapse lungs.

I stopped at the Big Star for Mama’s milk, and who should I run into but Miranda Watson. She looked a bit dressed up for the Big Star grocery store in a vibrant gold tunic top and loose slacks in a geometric gold, brown, and black. Once bordering on obese, she had lost a lot of weight lately. Apparently Miranda had changed hairdressers, too, because her dark brown hair had stylish highlights that flattered her round face. Now, it had been only a short time before that Miranda had written a rather tacky article about the Dixie Divas in her gossip column in
The South Reporter
. She has since been forgiven that particular crime, although Bitty is still incensed that Miranda bought a miniature pig, named it Chitling, and dresses it in cute little outfits like those Chen Ling wears. Minus the diamonds. Miranda doesn’t have Bitty’s budget. Still, the pig is cute, and seems to fit right in with Miranda’s cats and lifestyle.