Dixie Diva Blues (40 page)

Since I had some time before beginning my round of afternoon cat chores, I tidied up the house, rearranged my shoes in the bottom of my closet, and called my parents. They were in Colorado Springs. Or more precisely, ten minutes outside the city at a place named Seven Falls. I could barely hear them over the rush of wind and waterfalls.

“These are so beautiful,” my father shouted into his cell phone. “We’re coming back tonight when they’re all lit up.”

“Don’t be out too late,” I said, then had to repeat it when Daddy said he couldn’t hear me. He just laughed at my warning.

“Oh, we intend to be out late. After we get back to our hotel, we plan on going out dancing.”

I tried to remember why I had ever thought my parents needed me to come home and care for them in their old age. They had more energy than most five-year-olds.

Mama got on the phone and reminded me to check in on the kitten, and then we hung up after Daddy said he wanted to check out the Segway Tours. That alone made my blood run cold. I envisioned hip and knee replacements. They envisioned wind in their hair. I had survived the growing pains of my daughter without all this angst. But then, she had never wanted to ride a two-wheeled motorized device that defies gravity through the mountains, either. Thank heavens. I was quite sure that my parents would eventually bungee jump over the side of the Royal Gorge. After all, it’s only twelve hundred feet down.

Thinking about my daughter inspired me to call her. She and I had experienced a lot of different towns and states in our earlier years, and both of us had come away with a pretty good appreciation of stability. It was the one thing we hadn’t had much of during my marriage. Not that Perry is a bad person or was a bad father. He just has happy feet. I always imagine that he’s somewhere in between jobs and states at any given time.

So imagine my surprise when Michelle answered the phone and a few minutes into our conversation told me that her father was staying with her.

“Now?” I asked rather stupidly. “He’s there now?”

Michelle laughed. “Yes, at this moment, as we speak, he is sitting outside on the patio and drinking a beer.”

While drinking beer has always been one of Perry’s favorite pastimes, I didn’t say the slightly tacky things that were on the tip of my tongue. Truthfully, he doesn’t have a problem with alcohol. Much.

“Well,” I said when I recovered from my surprise, “that’s nice. I hope you two are enjoying one another.”

“As much as we can with me working so much. Daddy takes care of Ranger when I’m at work, though, so that helps.” Ranger is Michelle and her husband’s small dog. “Has anything else happened since we talked last week?”

When Michelle had called me, I’d just been through a great deal of trauma and I had no idea what all I might have said. So I replied cautiously. “No more than usual.”

“Uh oh,” she said. “That sounds ambiguous. How do you mean that? In a good way, I hope?”

“What other kind is there?” I said as cheerfully as I could. “I just got off the phone with Granna and Granddaddy. They’re having a great time in Colorado.”

To distinguish between the two sets of grandparents, Michelle had early on in life settled it in her own way. My mother is called Granna—a blending of Grandma and Anna—and Perry’s mother is called Nanna. Then there’s Granddaddy and Poppa.

“I know. Granna sent a pic to my cell phone of them at Seven Falls.”

“Really? I wonder why I didn’t get one.”

“Maybe because they love me best,” she teased, and we laughed.

“Just think,” I said, “one day I’ll be the one in Colorado and you’ll be the one at home waiting for the sheriff or hospital’s call.”

“You underestimate them and overestimate me,” she retorted. “I’m not getting left behind. I’d be right along with you.”

“All right, now that we have the rules clear I’ll know to make my plans inclusive. We’ll have a ball.”

For a few minutes we chatted aimlessly, then I heard Perry in the background ask where to find the church key. I rolled my eyes while Michelle got it for him. I carefully didn’t mention it when she returned to the phone, but I could tell she was distracted and we hung up before I was really ready to let her go.

Now, I know that the best way to deal with your adult children is to let them live their own lives and try to stay neutral about sensitive issues unless asked for your opinion. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally—I wanted to call back and ask if she was all right, or if her father was drinking too much and stressing her. I didn’t. I wanted to, but I restrained myself with great difficulty.

Sometimes it’s hard being a mom.

It’s
always
hard being a caretaker for a cat colony. I waded through cats of many colors and sizes to get out their clean metal pans and fill them with dry food. I cleaned out water bowls and refilled them, and checked cubby holes to make sure no cats were ill or left out. By the time I was through with cat duty the sun was going down and I poured a tall glass of sweet tea and sat out on the back deck to just enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes.

I tried not to fret about Michelle and Perry, and instead focused on the few details I’d learned from Miranda Watson. Obviously, someone she knew fairly well had contact with Walsh and/or Garcia. I kicked around the idea of doing my own surveillance of her place to see if she went to visit them, or if they came to her house, then dismissed it. Not only did I have an escort that would wonder what I was doing—or know what I was doing and report me—but the thought of spending hours alone in my car scoping out a house was definitely unappealing. So I did the next best thing.

I called Jake.

It was not a decision I made lightly. After all, he had really botched the take-down of Walsh and Garcia. At least Bitty hadn’t been hurt or killed, but it could so easily have turned out much, much worse. Still . . . Jake may not be able to call upon reinforcements, but he could still learn information from officers working the case. It was a tough call. I didn’t want to get Miranda in trouble with the police, but since Jake wasn’t on the case anymore, this would be the next best thing.

Jake agreed. “I’m glad you called with this, Trinket. You don’t know how glad. I’ll check it out and get back to you with what I find out, okay? You haven’t told anyone else about this, right?”

“No, just Bitty, of course. Look, I don’t want to get Miranda in trouble.”

“She won’t be in trouble. I’ll keep it quiet, I promise you that.”

Relieved, I said, “Thanks, Jake. I really appreciate your help. I wasn’t at all sure you’d keep your word about sharing information with us, you know.”

“And now? You still think that?”

“No, not anymore. You’ve been pretty good about keeping me updated. When we were kids, you always made promises you never kept, so you’ll have to forgive me for thinking you’d still be that way.”

We both laughed, then Jake said, “Hey, give me some credit for growing up since then, Trinket, will ya?”

“Lord, I hope both of us have done some growing up. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned much in the past thirty or so years.”

“Yeah, me either. There have been a lot of changes since we were kids, though.”

“Ain’t it the truth! Not all of them for the better.”

“You and Bitty seem to be doing okay, anyway.”

“We have our moments,” I agreed. “Of course, Bitty has a lot more moments than I do, but that’s okay. Now that I have an actual job, things ought to look up for me.”

“You have a job?”

“Yep, selling ladies underwear on the square.”

Jake laughed. “You must be working at Silk Promises then.”

“Where?”

“Carolann Barnett’s shop.”

“Why . . . yes, I am. Is that the name of it?”

“That’s the name on the shop license. Everybody just calls it Carolann’s, I think.”

“Well, I do. I thought that was the name.”

“It’s the same thing as Budgie’s café. It has another name but no locals use it.”

“True. The French Market Café just sounds wrong.”

We talked for a moment or two about other shops that had different names no one used, then I heard Brownie barking in the kitchen.

“I’m being paged by Mama’s dog,” I said. “It’s past his dinnertime.”

“Right. Thanks for the info, hear?”

“And you’ll take care of everything quietly, right?” I asked

“You can count on it, cupcake.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks a lot.”

When I went into the house, Brownie sat on the rug where his dinner bowl goes. He looked from me to the refrigerator, and then back again. He was as subtle as a tank. I dragged the chicken and rice with vitamins and veggies out of the fridge and proceeded to load up his dinner bowl. Thirty seconds in the microwave, some expensive dry food on top, and voila! Doggie dinner was served.

That left only me to feed. I’m a lot easier. I rummaged through the pantry first, then I sorted through packages in the freezer. I ended up eating canned refried beans wrapped in a flour tortilla with melted cheese on top. Delicious. Really. I ate three of them.

Carolann called me right after I got out of the shower, and I was still dripping as I picked up my cell phone.

“Hey, Trinket, did you know your house phone is out of order?” she asked when I managed to hit the answer button.

“Yes, but I’m trying to forget it. I hate scheduling a repairman and then sitting here waiting all day for him to show up, spend three minutes, then leave. It seems like such a waste of time, you know?”

“I sure do. I’ve spent a major portion of my life waiting on repairmen of some kind to show up. Most of the time, they call and say they can’t get here until the next day. Very annoying! Are you going to be able to come in to work in the morning?”

“Sure. Do you want me in early?”

“No, just come on in at nine. If you need the time off to recuperate from what all happened yesterday, that’s okay. You can tell me.”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I am. I think I’m so used to trauma that my recovery time is down to about forty-five minutes. It’s becoming a weekly occurrence. Just think, by this time next year I should have worked up to trauma and drama about every hour and a half. It’ll be old hat by then.”

Carolann laughed. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d be terrified to go anywhere or do anything.”

“Oh, I am. I just hide it well.”

“I may close up shop a little early tomorrow since we’re going to Bitty’s for a Diva meeting. Poor Rayna. I hope this helps. What are you taking?”

“I haven’t even thought about it. Something chocolate, of course. I’ll probably run by the Pig and buy a cake. I’m wavering between white zinfandel or rosé with chocolate. What do you think?”

“Both.”

“I love the way you think. Both it is.”

“See you in the morning, Trinket.”

While I
can
cook, I’m not the master at it that my mother is; my cakes often fall or crumble into tiny pieces, and truthfully—I don’t have the patience I should. I’d much rather buy something than bake it myself. The Pig—our affectionate name for the Piggly Wiggly—has an entire department there with people who know tons of baking secrets. I bow to their expertise.

Since the weather had finally gotten a little cooler—instead of boiling in the heat, I only steamed—I chose a nice pair of navy slacks and a pin-striped blouse to wear to work the next day. My most comfy flats come in three colors, tan, black, and navy, and I just happen to have all three colors. I chose the navy and put them atop my dresser out of the reach of Mighty Mouth. That dog can leap tall tables at a single bound to get KFC, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to manage my tallboy dresser unless he got a ladder.

All in all, it was an uneventful night for me, and I turned in early after talking to Kit for a half hour. While Brownie snuggled up beside me, rolled up in his blanket like an enchilada, I drifted off to sleep secure in the knowledge that my parents would be back home in two days. Unless they decided to homestead a mountain peak or return by way of Morocco. Don’t laugh. It’s entirely possible.

CHAPTER 19

By the time I got to work at ten ’til nine the next morning, I had fed and cleaned up after one demanding dog and dozens of feral cats. My shower of the night before wore off quickly, so I showered again, dressed, slapped on just enough make-up to keep from frightening small children, and drove like a maniac into town. I parked my car behind the shop in what’s really more of an alley than a parking lot, and met Carolann at the back door.

My constant escort halted at the mouth of the alley for a moment, watching as I went inside. I waggled my fingers at him to acknowledge his existence.

“Who’s that?” Carolann asked, peering beyond me at the unmarked white car.

“My bodyguard.”

She looked startled. “You have a bodyguard?”

“My cousin Jake insisted. He’s worried about me and Bitty.”

“Does Bitty have one, too?”

“Probably. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, though, okay?”