Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  It’d been pulled off the night stand, and lay empty. My heart nearly stopped. My emerald earrings my daughter had given me four years before at Christmas. My watch. Gone. No sign of them. I lay flat on my stomach and searched under the bed with a flashlight, and found my watch up against the wall. There was no sign of my other earring.

  Brownie had come upstairs with me, and now he eyed the watch I’d put on the bed. Then he coughed, a choking, sputtering sound, followed by a long moan.

  “Damn,” I muttered, a word I seemed to be using more frequently lately, “I’ve got to call the vet.”

  It was near seven and the vet’s office closed at six-thirty, but I tried anyway. On the fourth ring, a man answered. Before he finished saying “Willow Bend Animal Clinic” I blurted out, “My dog ate my earrings. What do I need to do?”

  He asked the size of the dog, the size of the earrings, then my name. When I said Truevine he immediately said, “Ah, Brownie. You’d better bring him in, I’m afraid. Just to be sure. I’ll wait for you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I hung up the phone, glared at the dog still looking greedily at my jewelry jar, and stuck my bare feet into a pair of untied Keds.

  All the way to the vet’s clinic on Highway 4, I thought about having to explain to my mother that the very first night she was gone I’d let her dog kill himself. It wasn’t something I wanted to ever do. And besides, now Brownie leaned up against me with his ears drooping, his eyes all big and sorrowful, and his muzzle resting on my right arm. Every once in a while he’d let out a soft groan. I’d imagine the sharp post of the solid gold earring piercing his intestine, and then I’d press harder on the accelerator. I got there in less than fifteen minutes, which I thought was pretty good.

  A light was on inside the clinic, and I slammed my car into gear, cut it off, cradled the dog in my arms, and nearly ran down the slightly sloping concrete walk to the front door. A young girl met me and immediately led me to an examining room just off the main waiting room.

  “The doctor will be right in,” she said, and stroked Brownie’s ears back. “Poor Brownie, you sweet thing. We’ll take good care of you like always.”

  Brownie groaned pitifully. His eyes half-closed, he gave a feeble thump of his tail against the cold steel table top, and quivered so hard I heard his teeth clack together. I focused on him with something like panic. How could this have happened? What was the matter with me, that I couldn’t even care properly for a dog? I should have put my jewelry up higher. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been warned.

  The other door opened, and a man in a white coat open over a pale blue shirt and faded Levi’s stepped in briskly. He wore one of those masks doctors wear that cover their lower face.

  “What’d you do, boy?” he asked, his voice gentle yet reassuring as he took Brownie’s muzzle in one palm while his other hand moved over the abdomen. Brownie licked the heel of his hand, a lethargic stroke that alarmed me.

  “Is he dying?” I asked, and couldn’t help the emotion that clogged my throat.

  “Oh, I doubt it. Not from a little old earring. If it was the Hope Diamond, or dental work again, it’d be a lot worse. We’re going to take him back here and run an X-ray just to be sure. It depends on where it is as to whether you’ll need to leave him with us.” He lifted the dog and put him into the assistant’s arms, then pulled the mask down from his face to let it rest around his neck.

  When he looked up at me, I knew immediately this had to be Dr. Coltrane. Unless there were two drop-dead gorgeous vets working in the same clinic. The odds of that are astronomical, but not impossible. And, stupidly, I immediately became aware of my sweatshirt, paint-stained jogging pants, and untied Keds with no socks. Not to mention, my hair probably looked like hell.

  “Now, I know you’ re not the Mrs. Truevine I usually see in here,” he said.

  “I’m her daughter. They’ve gone on a short vacation. I was supposed to be taking care of their animals, but obviously, I’m not doing that good a job of it.”

  He grinned, and I noticed the way it reached his eyes, dark brown eyes with faint laugh-lines at the corners. Dark brown hair streaked with gray at the temples, a little more lightly in the rest of it, feathered over his forehead in a tousled look that was probably usually neatly combed. He had at least a good six inches of height on me, but I’m willing to bet we’re pretty close weight-wise. I have big bones. Really.

  “Brownie is one of those dogs that have a way of finding things that aren’t good for him,” he said. “Most dogs just don’t usually eat metal.”

  “It’s my opinion he’s part goat,” I said, and the grin widened.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Since we haven’t been introduced, I’m Dr. Coltrane.”

  We shook hands, then he said he’d go back and help with the X-rays and I should make myself comfortable out in the waiting room if I liked. I wandered out there, flipped through some magazines, then glanced up at a mirror hanging on the wall and nearly had a stroke.

  Good Lord! My hair looked like frayed electrical wire sticking straight out, my mascara of earlier smudged under my eyes raccoon-style, and I had a grape jelly smear on one cheek that defied logistical explanation. Cat spit stiffened one side of my hair, and I found the ejected pill stuck above my right ear. Stunned, I could only stare at my reflection. No wonder the vet had been grinning. He’d probably had to go into the back room to collapse in hysterical laughter.

  Now, I’m not usually a vain woman. But neither do I want to leave the house looking like the village idiot. When I heard footsteps, I searched frantically around the waiting room for an empty grocery bag to pull over my head. Plastic would be best, especially if I took deep breaths.

  Dr. Coltrane carried Brownie in his arms. The dog looked up at him adoringly, floppy ears flat against his head in an attitude of submissive joy.

  “Did you have to sedate him?” I asked.

  “Oh no. Brownie’s a good boy, aren’t you, fella.”

  In what alternate universe, I thought, but mindful of my frightening appearance, decided not to reinforce the impression of village idiot. It wasn’t that I wanted to impress an admittedly handsome man; it’s just that I didn’t want my parents to have to deal with whispers of inherited insanity. Honest.

  “So how is he?” I asked. “Did you find the earring?”

  “Afraid not. I’ve given him some Metamucil with an antibiotic, and Tiffany is making up some more for you to take home. If he did swallow it, the earring should pass naturally in a day or two, but if he has any problems bring him back in.”

  “By ‘pass naturally’ you mean . . . . ”

  “In his stools, yes. That shouldn’t be a problem. Put him on a leash when it’s time for his regular movement. If you notice any blood, call me immediately. Tiffany will give you my card with my home number on it as well, should it happen after hours. I’ll carry him out for you.”

  “Shouldn’t I pay the bill first?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Mrs. Truevine is a regular client and we have all her information if we need it.”

  Great. My mother has a vet on retainer. My cousin has a lawyer on retainer. And I need a psychologist on retainer. Is it psychologist or psychiatrist? I get those two confused. Not that it matters. I probably need both.

  “Thank you,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster when discussing dog poop with a handsome stranger. “I appreciate this very much.”

  “No problem. Brownie’s one of our favorites.”

  And I bet you say that to all the clients.

  I used my remote to unlock car doors, opened the passenger side for Dr. Coltrane to set Brownie inside on the front seat, and then bent to move my purse to the floor. When I straightened, Dr. Coltrane leaned closer to me. Startled, I stood there only six inches from him, inhaling an exotic mix of rubbing alcohol and shaving lotion while my heart lurched into double time and my stomach did a weird flip. My lips parted, and what little oxygen was left got stuck in my lu
ngs as he reached out, put his hand behind my head, and leaned in to kiss me. I swayed toward him.

  He put a hand on my arm to steady me, and pulled something from the hair at the back of my head. When he held it up I blinked, then recognized a wad of molded straw.

  “I hope you’re not feeding this to horses or cows,” he said, and I shook my head while I tried to find a hole in the asphalt that’d swallow a five-foot-nine-inch fool.

  Since there was no available sink hole, I said, “It must have come from the hayloft. Old barn. Used just by cats now.” Was that my voice? I sounded like a Munchkin.

  I think he said something like “That’s good,” but about that time Tiffany showed up with the Metamucil in a little plastic bag and I grabbed it and mumbled that I had to get back home, thanked the empty space right beside Dr. Coltrane for his care, then went around to the driver’s side and got into my car. I remember nothing about the drive home except that my face felt hot enough to fry eggs all the way down 311. Oh yes. And that I intended to scream vile invectives at Bitty for ever mentioning the vet to me, or anything at all about orgasms I’ve never had.

  After I got inside, locked the door, and gave Brownie a scathing look he never noticed, I stalked directly to the cordless phone and dialed Bitty.

  “Oh Trinket,” she said when she heard my voice, “I’m so glad you called. I’ve thought—”

  “If you ever,” I broke in, my voice low and shaking, “mention anything at all to me about not having an orgasm, or not wanting a man, or should be wanting a man, I will take you out in the middle of court square at noon and tell everyone who walks past that you got so drunk at your wedding reception with Franklin Kirby that you peed in your Evan Picone pantyhose.”

  Dead silence fell. I heard something humming that could have been Bitty’s brain trying to figure out if she should push me on that or not, but it was probably just static on the line.

  “All right,” she finally said. “No orgasm talk. No man talk. Not unless you start it first.”

  Since I figured donkeys would fly before that day ever came, I said, “Fine.”

  After a brief moment, she said, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  Ever flexible, Bitty said, “As I was saying before being interrupted, I’ve thought of an excellent plan.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You’re just in a pissy mood. You’re going to like this. It involves two of our favorite things.”

  That would be chocolate and champagne. My interest was piqued.

  “Go on.”

  “Dr. Johnston—he’s the new podiatrist that bought the Easthaven House—is giving an early St. Patrick’s Day party and I thought if you and I dressed up really nice—”

  “Bitty, I just warned you—”

  “Don’t get all bent out of shape, Trinket. I’m not matchmaking. If anything, I’ve got my eye on the doctor. Just think of the wonderful foot massages I’ll get. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be invited, and many of the people already on the guest list are former acquaintances or business associates of Philip. If we pay attention, we might hear something that’d relate to Philip and Sanders. What do you think?”

  It’d been a long day. I’d gone up and down the spectrum of emotions, hitting all of them pretty strongly. Even so, it sounded like a good idea.

  “I’m sure I’ll be sorry,” I said, “but it does sound like a good idea.”

  “I just knew you’d think so,” Bitty said enthusiastically. “And since I already accepted invitations for both of us, I’m so glad I went ahead and talked to you about it.”

  “As opposed to showing up at my door and abducting me?”

  “Be fair, Trinket. I only did that once, and it was a long time ago.”

  “I was in my pajamas at a party where everyone else was wearing clothes!”

  “If I’d known you hadn’t meant to dress like that, I’d have said something. It was a Come As You Are party. I thought you knew that.”

  “And if I’d known that, of course I would have worn my ratty old teddy bear pajamas with the big rip in the rear seam where everyone could—and did—see my panties.”

  “Honestly, sometimes you have the longest memory for the worst things.”

  “That’s so history won’t repeat itself.”

  Bitty sighed. “Anyway, it’ll be a chance to see Easthaven since the doctor bought it, to see if he’s done anything new. He’s very nice, and cute, in a rough, dangerous sort of way.”

  “A dangerously rough podiatrist? That has to be a professional drawback.”

  “Well, it’s only a tattoo, and I only saw it once, when he’d rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands before examining my feet.”

  “Bitty Hollandale, you have no shame. There’s not a thing wrong with your feet.”

  “Well, I know that now.”

  I rolled my eyes. No point in trying to shame Bitty. It was too exhausting and very nearly impossible.

  “I’m tired and I’m going to bed, Bitty,” I said. “It’s been a stressful day.”

  “Oh honey, I never thought of you still worrying about Aunt Anna and Uncle Eddie. You know they’ll be just fine. You should have come home and taken a nap, rested up, got your mind off it by walking the dog or something.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of the past two hours, “That’s exactly what I should have done.”

  When we hung up, I looked over at Brownie sitting on the couch beside me, and I set the cordless phone down on the end table. He looked so sweet and harmless lying there. But I knew the truth.

  “Come on, you little fraud,” I said, “it’s bedtime. And I hope you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night with a Metamucil meltdown.”

  You’d think after the day I’d had, sleep would be instant and deep, but I tossed and turned most of the night. It could have been because I wasn’t used to sharing my bed with a dog rolled up in a blanket like an enchilada, but that was only part of it. Brownie, I’m happy to say, slept through the night with no digestive emergencies. Of course, I’d put up all jewelry, small metal objects, hairbrushes, and safety razors just in case he decided to have a midnight snack.

  It was the murder and the missing Sanders that kept me awake. Most of the time. Other thoughts kept trying to sneak in, but I did a pretty good job of keeping them at bay. Still, right before I finally fell asleep, I had a brief flashback to the veterinary clinic and Dr. Coltrane. With any luck, I’d never see him again.

  * * * *

  “You look a little tired, Trinket,” Bitty said, “are you getting enough sleep?”

  We sat in Budgie’s having coffee and blueberry cobbler. Bitty was armed with a pug, so we had to sit over in the smoking section that consisted of a metal screen and two tables. No one ever sat there. They smoked wherever they liked.

  “It’s not the sleep, though more would help.” I pushed around a piece of crust and three blueberries left on my plate. Maybe I should start a diet. I already had to shop in the Tall section for clothes. Did I really want to shop in the Big and Tall section?

  Bitty sighed. “I know. It’s all this worrying about the pilgrimage. I just wish Sanders had waited until he signed those papers before killing Philip and running off.”

  I looked up at her. She was feeding Chitling a piece of pastry crust. The dog made sounds similar to those of a pig sniffing out truffles, but finally decided the crust was safe to eat.

  “Bitty, do you ever think about the possibility of being convicted of murder?”

  “Not really. Jackson Lee told me to let him think about that, so I do. Isn’t that right, you precious thing?”

  The last was directed to the dog, of course.

  “When are you taking that dog back to Luann Carey?”

  “Soon. I talked to her this morning. She called to check up on Chen Ling, make sure she’s been eating right and taking her medicine. Luann’s very particular about who she lets take one
of her dogs, you know. That girl will stand up to a two hundred pound man and give him what-for if she even thinks for a minute that any dog is being mistreated. I’ve seen her do it. Riley Simpson did, too. He kicked a skinny stray one day over by Phillips’ and Luann nearly took his head off. First time I’ve ever seen a two hundred pound man cower and run.”

  “That can’t be true. Your second husband used to cower and run all the time.”

  Bitty made a piffling sound. “That man couldn’t run. He got too fat to hardly walk. Only five-seven, and two-hundred-sixty-five pounds. It was like sleeping with Namu. Nemo? You know, the whale. And forget sex, unless I wanted to climb on top, but that was like riding a big old beach ball with a tiny little knob sticking up. Sometimes I had to turn on the light to find it.”

  “Keep talking like that and I’ll lose my cobbler.”

  “It does conjure up some awful images, doesn’t it?” Bitty looked up at me and smiled. “I still wouldn’t have divorced him if he hadn’t been so mean when he got sloshed. Bourbon seems to do that to some men. Makes their weenies limp, too. Try doing anything with that.”

  I remembered Delbert Anderson quite differently, but of course, I hadn’t been married to him or even lived in Holly Springs during that marriage. There had been enough witnesses to attest to the fact that Del tended to get loud and boisterous when drunk, and also tended to lash out at whoever came within range. I understand there were photos of Bitty with black eyes and blue bruises. She got quite a nice settlement out of that divorce not to make a big fuss about it, and Del Anderson took what was left of his inheritance and skulked back to Sunflower County.

  Desperate to change the subject, I said, “What are you wearing to the St. Patrick’s Day party?”

  “Something green, of course, though that really isn’t my color. It’s more yours. I’ve got a floaty little dress that’s rose-colored, but it does have tiny green jewels that swirl up and over one shoulder, then down the back and on the skirt. That’ll do, don’t you think?”