I opted for a quick shower and shampoo instead of long bath and tied a plastic bag around my ankle and foot before getting in the tub. It’s one of those old-fashioned clawfoot tubs, and the shower apparatus is rigged to the faucet, and the curtain is hung on metal rods dangling by hooks and chains from the ceiling. It wobbles a bit unless you know just how to manage it. Old houses refitted with bathrooms that were once bedrooms have to make concessions.
After wrapping my wet hair in a towel, I put on a cotton robe over light pajamas and went downstairs for a glass of sweet tea. It was still daylight outside, and as I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard Mama in the kitchen talking to Daddy. I decided to join the conversation.
“Hello, gorgeous,” said the man of my dreams, grinning at me from across the kitchen table as I came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. “New slippers?”
I blinked, then remembered the plastic bag I still wore on one foot. “Yes. It’s all the rage in flood zones, I hear. I’m surprised to see you.”
A glance at my mother was filled with reproach for her not warning me Kit was there, but she ignored me. “Dr. Coltrane came out to bring me the litter of kittens someone left here a few days ago. They got a clean bill of health and should be adoptable soon,” she said.
Brownie stood staring into a cat carrier, nose pushed against the wire door. One of the kittens popped him on the nose, and he yelped and jumped back. I smiled. Mama picked him up immediately, of course, and I took the opportunity to walk around the table to the refrigerator. I noticed Kit already had a glass of tea and slice of pie.
It rattled me anytime I saw Kit, but especially when I wasn’t at my best, like wearing pajamas and a plastic bag on my foot.
I took my tea and pie to the table and sat down across from Kit. “I hope Brownie’s shots are up to date,” I said. He grinned.
“Always up to date. Your mother tells me he bit you earlier.”
“Gnawed on me like I was a pig’s ear. He didn’t break the skin, but he did leave marks. I’m scarred for life.”
My mother rolled her eyes at me. I smiled and cut into my chess pie. Kit laughed, and Daddy chuckled.
“You’re fine, princess. Why are you wearing a plastic bag?”
“I wanted to keep my scratches dry and not wash off the antibiotic in the shower. I can probably take it off now.”
I bent to remove the bag, and when I straightened, my pie was gone from my plate. It was clean as a whistle, although I shudder to think about how dirty whistles can get. At any rate, I inspected the three innocent faces gazing solemnly at me. Then Daddy visibly swallowed, and I said, “Aha! Thief!”
We all laughed, and good humor ignited family stories that had Kit laughing at some of the antics Bitty and I used to commit on a regular basis. After I went upstairs and made myself more presentable, I joined my parents and Kit out on the back deck. Daddy had gotten the lawn furniture from the barn and cleaned it the week before, and Mama put out the good cushions. A nice breeze kept the bugs at bay as we drank sweet tea and watched the sun go down behind the trees. I could almost feel the family unit draw close around me, a secure, lovely feeling. As dusk fell, Mama lit citronella candles; the fragrance mixed with the scent of privet hedge and roses. It was a nice, peaceful evening.
I walked Kit to his truck when he left, and we stood chatting in the glow of the outdoor light on what used to be the stable and is now the garage where my parents keep their car. My car was still parked out front. We chatted for a few minutes more, then I kissed him goodnight and watched as he pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. I thought about moving my car, but I’d have to go upstairs and get my keys, so just left it. It’d be safe until tomorrow.
After such a nice afternoon and evening, I ate leftovers from the light supper Mama had fixed, then went to bed and slept quite soundly, not even stirring until morning. Maybe I would have slept even later, but about nine thirty Daddy called up the stairs that I needed to come down and see about my car. Confused, I opened my eyes in the shadowy confines of my room, loathe to leave the comfort of my bed. My car? When he called the second time, I gave up any thoughts of more sleep and got up. I grabbed my car keys and robe, then stuffed my feet into slippers.
Yawning, I met Daddy in the kitchen. “Is my car blocking you?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“Just go look.”
That was a strange reply, but I dutifully stumbled outside and around the house to look at my car. It would have been easier to go out the front door, but for some reason, I never think of that. I always use the back door. I’m a creature of habit.
My bunny slippers made crunching noises on gravel as I rounded the corner of the house, then came to a dead stop. All four of my tires were flat. Someone had spray-painted figures and words on my car. Nasty words.
“At least they could have bothered to spell them right,” I said as I tilted my head to read, and Daddy muttered something under his breath.
“What have you and Bitty really been up to?” he asked after a moment.
“Nothing. Much. Just trying to find her rifle.”
“Uh huh. You seem to have upset someone. What’s a—” He cocked his head to one side. “Snope?”
“I think they mean snoop. Obviously, didn’t graduate at the top of their class. I may have to get a new paint job. This one looks permanent.”
My lovely beige Taurus had red paint all over it: on the windows, the hood, the trunk, doors—the paint had dripped in places so the words looked bloody.
“I’ll call the insurance company,” I said after a moment. “They’ll send someone out to fix the flats. I hope I don’t have to get new tires.”
“I’ll try my air compressor first. If that doesn’t work, you’ll have to get new tires,” Daddy said, and I sighed.
Mama met me on the back deck before I went in to dress and call the insurance company. “Who would do such a thing?”
I had my ideas, but there was no way I intended to confess participating in Bitty’s scheme until I absolutely had to. “There are a lot of crazy people out there,” was all I said and went inside and upstairs to escape.
When I came back downstairs, a package with familiar lettering lay on the kitchen table. It was my phone from AT&T. Mama sat at the table. She had a look of determination on her face that warned me she intended to ask questions.
“I need to call my insurance agent,” I said, but she motioned for me to sit down.
“Daddy saw your car when he went out to get the mail,” she said. “This was done while we slept. Who have you upset?”
I sighed. Confession was about to be committed. If I were Catholic, I’d have crossed myself and asked for mercy. Since we’re Methodist, I winged it. “Remember how I told you that Bitty and I were looking for her rifle and drove out to a cabin to see if the people had it?”
“Yes, Trinket. Since that was just yesterday, my feeble mind can recall it.”
When Mama is sarcastic, I know she’s annoyed. I nodded.
“No reflection on your abilities, just a reminder that I told you most of it. I didn’t add that we suspect the person who might have it of also killing Walter Simpson.”
Mama’s eyes got big. She was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Why would he keep the murder weapon if he’s a suspect?”
“He’s our suspect. As far as I know, the police aren’t investigating him. And the rifle that belonged to Bitty’s mother isn’t the murder weapon. It hasn’t been publicly announced yet.”
“Oh. It’s that rifle. I don’t know why I thought you meant the other antique rifle.”
I looked at her, blinking. “What other antique rifle?”
“It belonged to the Truevine family. Your father can tell you more about it than I can. I thought perhaps Tommy had given it to Bitty instead of Steven. Of course, it’s supposed to g
o to the eldest son, but since Eddie got the house and land, Tommy got the rifle.”
Thomas Truevine was Bitty’s father. He’d died years earlier of complications from a stroke. This was the first I ever recalled about him having a rifle, but it also explained why Bitty was so determined to retrieve her heirloom, besides just being Bitty. If her brother had the other rifle, she’d be even more determined to hold onto the Jordan rifle that had belonged to her mother’s family.
“Steven doesn’t care anything about antiques or heirlooms,” I said after a moment. “His wife considers anything more than two years old to be obsolete and worthless.”
Mama shook her head. “She sold some of the lovely things Sarah left Steven, and it caused quite a rift at the time. You were living in New York then, I think. Or maybe it was out in Oregon. One of those states with mountains.”
“There’s a little difference between the Cascades and the Catskills,” I said, but let it go. I wondered if Bitty knew what Steven had done with the rifle. Was it like the other one? Did it even matter? It could be one of those weird coincidences despite what Jung said.
After I called my insurance agent, I called Bitty. I used the cordless kitchen phone and let my new cell phone stay in the box. It was safer there.
Bitty answered on the second ring. She sounded breathless.
“Is this a bad time to talk?” I asked.
“Oh, Trinket! I’m glad you called. Do you know what someone did? And I can just bet it was that Skip Whalen, for only he would do something so nasty.”
“Spray painted your car?” I hazarded, and there was shocked silence on the other end.
“How did you know?” she recovered enough to ask.
“Mine, too. Red paint all over my Taurus.”
“White paint all over the Benz. I’m beginning to think the car is cursed.”
“Insurance will cover it,” I said, then asked, “What do you know about the Truevine rifle that your daddy had?”
“Oh, he left that to Steven. I don’t know why. He never gave a hoot about heirlooms. It’s probably still in a trunk somewhere. That’s why Mama left me all the Jordan stuff. She knew Steven wouldn’t appreciate the sentimental value, just the cash value.”
“Does it look like your mama’s rifle?”
“It’s an Enfield, so probably. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it. I remember Daddy getting mad at Steven when we were kids, after he—oh, Trinket! Steven took a hammer to the lock plate when he was about nine so it’d look like Mama’s rifle. They were hung on the wall, and he said they didn’t match. I never even thought of that!”
“I wonder if Steven still has that rifle,” I said, and Bitty made a rude noise.
“Probably not. That may be why both those rifles look so alike. I’m going to call him and ask if his peasant bride got rid of it. I’ll bet she did.”
Bitty doesn’t like her sister-in-law that much. She puts on airs, Bitty always says. I left that in Bitty’s capable hands and went outside to find my father. He had a noisy compressor hooked up and was putting air in my tires. Two were fat and full again.
I studied my car for a moment. It looked awful.
“I wonder if I could scrape the worst words off with a paint scraper,” I said, and Daddy looked up at me.
“Better wait on the insurance company to look at it first. I think your tires are okay. Good thing I had some extra valve caps in my shop. They took the other ones with them.”
I asked Daddy about the Truevine rifle, and he confirmed all that Mama and Bitty had said. “I sure hope Steven didn’t sell it. It belonged in my family, too, and that’d be an insult,” he added.
“Well, if he did, I think I know who may have bought it,” I said and reflected on the probability of the Whalen family owning two former Truevine possessions: Bitty’s cabin and now the Truevine rifle. It just seemed too fantastic.
In my opinion, Carl Jung has a lot to answer for.
I STUDIED BITTY’S car, noting the misspelled words. “They left out the T,” I said, and Bitty nodded.
“Bich just doesn’t sound as awful, so I don’t mind. And they used a K instead of a C on that four-letter word. My adjuster is due shortly, but I just need it repainted. Oh, and the tires aired up again.”
When we went inside, I said, “Okay, tell me what Steven said.”
Bitty smiled. “Wine or tea?”
“You tell me.”
She poured wine, and I thought I must be wrong. Then we settled in the parlor, and I prepared to hear that Steven still had the rifle, and my theory was shot.
“Tammy the Twit sold it,” Bitty said, and I paused with the wine barely touching my lips.
“She sold it?”
“Yep. Steven doesn’t even care. He told her she could. I’ll have words with him later. I told Tammy to find the receipt, because she can’t recall the name. After all, it was four months since she sold it because it doesn’t really go with her décor, and it’s just taking up room—she has no soul.”
My hand trembled in my eagerness as I asked, “She got a receipt? That’s amazing! If she has the receipt and it’s Skip Whalen . . .”
“She said it was a woman who bought it. I’m wondering if Jenna or his mother got it for him. Or if he sent them after it. After all, it’s all the way down in Jackson.”
“His mother, maybe. She seemed very protective of him.”
“I can understand that. I’m protective of my sons, and if they wanted a rifle, I’d get them one, too.”
I nodded in satisfaction. Whether there was a receipt or not, surely Tammy would be able to describe the woman who bought it. That might be enough to get the police to investigate Skip. It struck me that perhaps Jackson Lee should be made aware of all this.
“Have you told Jackson Lee what you learned?”
“Not yet. He’s not in, and his secretary said he’s either in court or in a meeting, and she’d have him call me.”
“He’ll be the one to get the police involved. Then we can step back and let them handle everything,” I said.
Bitty readjusted Chitling in her lap and sipped her wine. When she didn’t answer, I said, “Right?”
“Right what?”
“We’ll let the police take it from here?”
“That would probably be the easiest thing to do,” Bitty agreed, and I got a funny feeling she wasn’t going to be cooperative.
“Tell me it’s what you plan on doing,” I demanded.
Bitty lifted her brow. “Why, Trinket, you know I will do what is best. Don’t I always?”
I wanted to groan. Instead, I said, “My my, it’s so vairy vairy wahm in heah,” and we both laughed. Although I signaled an end to the conversational quagmire, there was no way I would let Bitty do something stupid and dangerous. Not this time. We’d had enough close calls.
I just wouldn’t tell her that. I had a terrible feeling that Skip Whalen was too dangerous to cross. And yet there was something that didn’t quite fit. I didn’t know what it was, but it had all come together too smoothly to feel entirely comfortable. Some niggling piece of information kept rattling around in my brain. I didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good.
Really, I should trust my instincts more.
Chapter 17
RAYNA AND GAYNELLE showed up before I left to see my insurance adjustor, and we all sat out on the front porch chatting. Of course, we shared what we knew with Rayna, who already knew a lot anyway, but poor Gaynelle was astounded by it all. Her eyes got big.
“Any more wine, Bitty?” she asked, and our hostess graciously complied. I refrained from refills. One glass of wine was more than enough when about to meet my insurance adjustor.
After Gaynelle was amply fortified, she listened to my theory and then Bitty’s and let it all soak in for a f
ew minutes. Being a retired school teacher, Gaynelle is able to quickly get to the heart of a matter and cut through the clutter. She summarized concisely: “So Skip Whalen is the likely culprit, he has the gun originally thought to be the murder weapon, purchased the actual murder weapon, yet the police do not regard him as a suspect, is that it?”
Bitty blinked. “That’s about it.”
“Well then, the answer is to direct attention to him so the police investigate.”
Rayna and I exchanged glances. I figured this could go one of two ways: Bitty would allow Jackson Lee or even Catfish to take our suspicions to the police in any form they chose, or she would do something insane herself to move things along. My money was on the latter.
“And your suggestion on how to do that?” Bitty asked before I could interject a warning to Gaynelle.
“Let Jackson Lee do it,” Gaynelle replied promptly.
Relieved, I looked at Rayna and smiled. Perhaps the emergency was over.
Since it was almost time to meet the adjustor, I said goodbye, bent close to Rayna, and said in her ear, “Keep an eye on her.”
Rayna nodded. She knew who I meant and why. Once Bitty decided something should be done, it was difficult to dissuade her. Only a harsh dose of reality worked.
I drove up to the shopping center close to 78 Highway and met the adjustor. He seemed rather startled by the extent of paint covering my car, but at least the tires weren’t ruined. He took photos, wrote in his book, inspected it inside and out, then got on his computer. Within fifteen minutes, he handed me a check. I was stunned.
“That’s it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Unless there’s something else, damage done to any contents?”
“No, I didn’t have anything left inside.” I looked at the check. It was more than enough to repaint it, I was pretty sure. “What do I do what what’s left over? Send it back to you?”
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