Daddy leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek before he left the kitchen. He still had Brownie in his arms, and the dog took the opportunity to lick the make-up off my chin before I could jerk away.
“ACK!” I said out loud. Wretched beast. Payback for some of the things I said about him, probably. He actually grinned at me over Daddy’s arm as they left the room.
I went upstairs and scrubbed my face before taking a bubble bath. While soaking, I had a horrible thought. Bitty might decide to attend Naomi’s funeral. That horrible thought was quickly followed by my determined vow not to be anywhere in the state of Mississippi when Naomi Spencer was buried. And to take Bitty with me. Otherwise, the funeral might be like the splitting of the atom—instant and deafening annihilation.
CHAPTER 16
“I figured it out,” Gaynelle said, and before I could ask what she’d figured out, she added, “I think I know who murdered Race.”
That was pretty astounding. Especially since I had no clue.
“Are you sure?” I asked. I held the phone tightly to my ear as if afraid someone would overhear us.
“Well, of course I’m not
certain
about it, but all indications are that she did it.”
“She?”
“Rose Allgood.”
“Rose All—good lord! You don’t mean the penis merchant?”
Gaynelle laughed. “Yes, the very one. It seems that she came here from Biloxi not long ago, and rumor has it she followed a man here, but he dumped her. She’s pretty bitter, I understand.”
“But . . . Rose Allgood? I mean, she hardly seems the type of woman Race would go for, does she?”
“Rumor also has it that she’s very well off. Old money family. Carolann was delighted to get her as a partner.”
“Oh, that changes things. Race did seem to follow the money, didn’t he?”
“That’s another thing. He was deeply in debt and desperate to get sponsors for his races. After Cliff Wages caused the accident that wrecked his car, he needed new money in to keep him in the game. Apparently, he thought marrying it would be the best solution.”
“Huh.” I pondered this new information for a few moments. “I suppose Rose has motive, but how about opportunity and means?”
“You cannot expect me to do everything. I figured out who, so it’s up to you and Rayna to find out how.”
“I note you’re leaving Bitty out of the equation. Good call.”
“Yes, she has enough to think about these days, and besides, she can be a very disruptive complication.”
True enough.
When we hung up, I immediately called Rayna. It took her several rings to answer and she sounded out of breath.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Not really. Merlin found a mouse, and I had to rescue it from him.”
“Eew.”
“Not that I want mice in the house, I just don’t want mice portions all over the lobby. What’s up?”
“Gaynelle has an important lead.”
“Did she give it to the police?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Rayna sighed. “Never mind. I keep forgetting they don’t want to hear from us again.”
“Sergeant Maxwell made it quite clear we are to stay out of police business and take up needlework.”
“I wonder if Linda Maxwell knows her husband thinks women should stick to needlework and cooking instead of using their brains?” Rayna mused. “It would be most interesting to hear
her
take on that topic.”
“Do we really need to heckle the police? Think of the fall-out. We wouldn’t be able to drive down the street without being stopped for something. Men can be quite vindictive when there’s trouble at home.”
“True. So, what’s the lead and just how much trouble is it going to cause us?”
“Rose Allgood.” Since Rayna was just as surprised as I’d been, I gave her a quick recap of Gaynelle's theory. “She just doesn’t seem Race’s type, but as Gaynelle pointed out, his type seemed to have money.”
“Then explain to me why he dated both Madewell sisters. They don’t have a spare dime. Not that they weren’t well off years ago, but bad investments took a toll.”
“Hm. Maybe Race didn’t know they were broke? After all, Trina especially puts on a show of having more money than Wall Street. Trisha isn’t so showy, and he dated her as well, though.”
“That could explain it, I suppose. If you consider that his reasons for dating certain women depended upon the size of their bank accounts. It happens,” Rayna said.
“Still, I find it very difficult to visualize Race Champion—a redneck stock car driver and admitted booze-hound—romancing the Rubber Penis Lady. But come to think of it, maybe there’s a lot of fire under that icy exterior.”
“You never know,” said Rayna, and we both got quiet for a minute, our minds probably drifting in a parallel direction. Any woman who sells dildoes and crotchless panties must know quite a lot of things that would make a man happy. And she was attractive, albeit far too cool and reserved for a woman in her line of work. But what did I know?
“And then there’s Naomi,” I said after banishing the image of rubber dildoes and silk panties sans a crotch from my over-burdened mind. “She obviously had no money, but expected to gain from Philip Hollandale's will. Maybe he heard about it and asked her to marry him.”
“Naomi wasn’t exactly a person who kept her thoughts—such as they were—to herself,” Rayna agreed. “I imagine she’d told anyone who’d listen that she was coming into money. Which leads me to the question, Why didn’t any of us hear about it?”
“It’s not exactly like we traveled in the same circles.”
“Yes, but this was gossip.
Good
gossip. It should have gotten to everyone within a fifty mile radius within twenty-four hours.”
“Someone along the line squashed it. I wonder who and why?”
After another moment of silence, Rayna said, “I think I may know who, but I’m not at all sure about why.”
“Who?”
“Miranda Watson.”
“Miranda—the gossip columnist from
The South Reporter
?”
“You do remember what she did, right?”
I did. “How could I forget? Bitty was fit to be tied and threatened to sue the paper for slander.”
“Since it was basically the truth, I don’t think even Jackson Lee could have pulled that one off. Anyway, Miranda generally knows all the gossip around here. And I mean
all
the gossip. If anyone knew about it, she would. So why wouldn’t she pass along the info she got from Naomi, or Sukey, or whoever her sources were? This was good stuff. Yet not even a hint of it got around town. Why not?”
Rayna had some good points, but I wasn’t so sure. Naomi definitely had been the type to tell all, but even Jackson Lee hadn’t been aware of the late senator leaving money to a girlfriend. And he was usually up on all the attorney gossip.
“So where do we start asking questions?” I foolishly inquired.
Before the day was out, I found myself standing next to Rayna at Miranda Watson's front door.
I met Rayna at her house first. Rob was there, and he didn’t look at all happy about his wife poking into official police business.
“You could get arrested,” he said with a warning shake of his head. “Police tend to get territorial about a case, and don’t usually appreciate amateurs messing with possible witnesses or tampering with evidence. Remember what happened last time.”
“How could I forget?” Rayna continued looking through her purse for car keys. “I thought you’d never let me go to the cemetery again.”
Rob, a tall, handsome man with silver-frosted black hair, shook his head again. “I won’t bail you out this time,” he threatened, and Rayna just laughed.
“Yes you will. You don’t like cleaning cat boxes.”
Rob sighed. “Just don’t do anything illegal, okay? It doesn’t look good for a bail bondsman to have to post bail for his wife too many times.”
Having found her elusive car keys, Rayna slung her purse on her shoulder and gave him a quick kiss. “We aren’t meddling in anything dangerous or liable to prosecution. We’re simply going to talk to the village chatterbox.”
“And yet, I sense possible complications,” he said as we went out the door, calling after us, “Don’t get arrested!”
That rather worried me. In the twilight of my years, I’ve discovered an aversion to being arrested or in police custody of any sort. I’m funny that way. In the days of my public protests, getting arrested for misdemeanors was a badge of honor, a signal that I had achieved my purpose. While my parents were certain my purpose was to embarrass them, I had a more noble goal in mind. Calling attention to injustices, for example. I still feel that way, but prefer now to adhere to caution in the pursuit of justice.
Or so I told myself.
Anyway, once Rayna and I were standing on Miranda Watson’s front porch and ringing her bell, I began to question our methods.
“Are you sure she’ll tell us anything?” I whispered.
“Of course. She won’t be able to help herself. She’s a gossip. She does it for fun as well as money.”
Since Rayna seemed so certain, I smothered my doubts. And almost swallowed my gum when the front door suddenly swung open with a vengeance.
Miranda Watson—or who I assumed to be her since we had never met—barred the entrance with a thunderous voice and bulky body.
“Just what are you doing skulking around on my front porch?” she boomed so loudly several mockingbirds in the magnolia tree on her front lawn took flight with startled squawks. “I should call the police!”
“Calm down, Miranda,” said Rayna. “We rang your bell. Didn’t you hear it?”
“It’s broken. Has been for years.” Miranda stared at us suspiciously. While she is quite overweight, she has a lovely face. Her complexion is flawless, and her large brown eyes are slightly tilted, giving her an exotic appearance. It was rather offset by her flowery cotton muumuu, however. “What do you want?”
“Information,” Rayna said bluntly. “Everyone in town knows you’re always up to date on the latest events, public and private.”
“What on earth makes you think I’d tell you even if I had any information you might want?”
That sounded just like what I’d expected, and I took a backward step to return to our car sitting at the curb.
But Rayna had an answer for that, too: “Because you’re dying to get in on the action.”
Miranda lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m not already working with someone else?”
“Because the only someone ‘else’ there is working, is the police. And I happen to know for a fact they do not want your help. Or ours, for that matter.”
Maybe it was the last admission that swung Miranda around, since she opened the door wider and stepped aside. I followed Rayna inside.
Cool air blew from a window air unit, ruffling a stack of papers teetering on a flat surface. We had apparently interrupted Miranda at her desk; her laptop sat open with some kind of word processing program blinking until she moved to close the lid. Blocking the view of the desk with her body, Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. I recognized her body language as resistant to suggestion. Rayna may have gotten us inside, but she still had to work to bring Miranda around.
“So, just what do you want to know?” Miranda asked abruptly. “Not that I’ll give you an answer. It depends.”
“May we?” Rayna said, gesturing to a loveseat nearly covered by newspapers and cats. Without waiting for consent, she proceeded to pick up a cat and take its place on the furniture. I, however, hesitated. Two cats occupied the other cushion, and looked at me with eyes narrowed malevolently. I sensed retribution if I tried to move them. Rayna took charge and swept them from the cushion with her free arm. The two cats hissed and fluffed out their tails as they darted in opposite directions. I sat down immediately.
Miranda plodded to a nearby overstuffed chair and eased into it, taking her time to think, no doubt. She must have a pretty good idea of the questions we wanted answered. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Divas were snooping around town trying to find out who had killed Race and Naomi; and in particular, who had tried to kill Rayna, Bitty, and me.
Eying us for a moment, Miranda smiled. “You want to know if I talked to Naomi before she died, don’t you.” She said it more as a statement than a question, and we both nodded.
“Yes, that would be a good place to start,” Rayna said. “Someone killed that poor girl, and they must have had what they thought was a good reason for it. If Naomi said anything that might give you an idea who hated her—and Race—enough to kill them, it would definitely help if you would tell us.”
Miranda shrugged. “I already told the police everything I know, or heard. They’re competent enough to find the killer, I’m sure.”
“Then if the police already know, telling us won’t hurt anything.”
“It might. After all, I seem to recall dangerous blunders the last time Divas got too involved in things they should stay out of. And from what I hear, someone has already tried to kill you this time, too.”
Her gaze shifted to me, and she lifted a brow.
“I take that rather personally,” I spoke up. “I didn’t appreciate being run off the road into a gully.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Miranda paused, then said, “Bitty Hollandale made a few enemies when she divorced Philip, you know. All the nastiness, the scandal, the possible legal complications . . . .”
“Philip caused the nastiness with his public affairs, especially with Naomi since she was still underage when he first started messing with her,” I defended Bitty, “and he caused his own legal difficulties by his underhanded business dealings. Bitty had
nothing
to do with any of that.”
Miranda steepled her hands and gazed at us over the tips of her fingers, which I noticed had long, curved nails painted a bright blood-red. How did she type on that little laptop with those talons?
“True,” she said. “But it’s not like she was the only woman hurt in that affair. For all her youth and—well, shortage of intellect, Naomi was a sweet girl. There were so few people she could really talk to, people who wouldn’t
judge
her.”
I got a little mad at her sanctimonious tone. Was this the same woman who had written scathing snippets of gossip about us in her weekly column? All without asking us if any of it was true? The same woman who’d said, quite literally, “Drop dead, Divas”?