Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  Looking up at me, he added, “It might be good if you stayed pretty close to her, Trinket, since you’re more cautious.”

  That was a nice, lawyerly way of saying that I’m a distrustful cynic, but since he went to all that trouble to phrase it so tactfully, I heard myself say, “I’ll stay close.”

  “I know you can be counted on to move in with her for a while, just until the police find the real killer. I bet you two ladies will enjoy each other’s company anyway.”

  My head buzzed. I’d been neatly trapped. I could refuse, of course, but then Bitty would think I’m a heartless relative, and if anything happened because she’s a loose cannon, I’d always blame myself. Damn that Jackson Lee. No wonder he’s got such an excellent reputation.

  So that’s how I found myself staying in Bitty’s upstairs guest room where the expensive carpet that was once a debating point in divorce court, then used to hide a corpse, had left a very faint square outline on the bare wood floors. The transition from babysitting elderly parents to babysitting a cousin accused of murder really isn’t that difficult. Both jobs hold a certain amount of surprise and an element of danger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Living in Bitty World has taught me the value of silence. When her phone isn’t ringing or she isn’t talking to Chitling or a neighbor, there’s someone in her kitchen or tending to her yard, or the entire Historical Society is sitting in her living room drinking sweet tea and planning a ruthless coup to bring some run-down old house under their protective and loving wings. It’s quite a change even from Mama and Daddy, who’ve taken to giggling a lot and making noises behind the closed door of their bedroom that I refuse to try and decipher.

  Since Bitty decided on a self-imposed house arrest—which really only meant that she’d taken to dramatically reigning over a variety of visitors like some Queen of the Damned—I’d been kept busy monitoring her mouth. That’s not an easy or enviable task, believe me.

  I’ve figured out Bitty’s secret to ignoring a crisis. As I’d suspected, she simply surrounds herself with so many distractions she has no time at all to think of what may, or will probably, happen. It’s efficient but exhausting. Especially for those who prefer introspection and rehashing every action, past, present, and future. That would be me.

  While Bitty hired Sharita’s teenage cousin to pour sweet tea and serve angel food cake and peach ice cream to whoever stopped by, I gnashed my teeth and tried to focus on when and where I’d gone wrong. And of course, the teeny tiny little worm at the back of my brain that kept telling me I’d forgotten something important kept popping up at the most inconvenient times.

  Again, it was the Nathan Bedford Forrest thing. I had no idea why I kept thinking about him, or about General Grant, but I did. Like Brownie fixated on squirrels, I fixated on Forrest. It was just the dumbest thing ever when there was so much else to worry about, like why Philip had been at The Cedars, and who had killed him if it wasn’t Sanders, and why Sanders had been killed at just about the same time, and who had run over poor old Tuck. But did I focus on those concerns? No. Every time I’d start thinking about them, my stubborn brain would go right back to Forrest and Grant. There was only one thing to do, I decided after three days of nerve-racking hours spent in the queen’s court. I’d reacquaint myself with both gentlemen and see why I just couldn’t get them out of my mind.

  Now, I know they’re both dead. Grant is buried in Grant’s Tomb, and General Forrest is buried in Forrest Park. But there had to be some reason I kept thinking about them in connection with the senator and Sanders. Until I’d satisfied myself they weren’t at all important, I’d keep having internal arguments that made me gibber to myself in corners.

  “But I’m not ready to go out and face everyone yet, Trinket,” Bitty said when I told her we were going to the museum right down the street. “I mean, everyone knows I was arrested, and that Sergeant Maxwell is mean enough to say I killed Philip, and even Sherman Sanders, when I never would have lifted a hand to either one of them. Or Sanders, anyway, though I wouldn’t have minded bashing Philip in the head.”

  “Now, see, Bitty, that’s exactly why I can’t leave you here by yourself. You say these things that some people might misinterpret.”

  Clutching Chen Ling to her chest, Bitty looked at me with resolution in her eyes. “Well, anyone I invite into my home is not going to be a traitor!”

  “Bitty, you let in that reporter from the Memphis paper. Who knows what he could say in print?”

  “It’s unkind of you to even think that, Trinket. Why, Michael has been my friend for years and years, even before he bought that old house in Red Banks. He would never betray me. And I just don’t allow anyone in my home that would, you should know that.”

  I sighed. “Just remember what Jackson Lee said, Bitty. Trust no one but him and me. And besides, you wouldn’t want to put someone else in the position of having to testify against you or go to jail, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Now, you can introduce me to people at the museum while I look up some things, can’t you?”

  Bitty smiled. “I’m just so glad you’re developing an interest in our local history. I knew if you stayed around me long enough, I’d rub off on you.”

  As traumatized as I was at that thought, I managed a smile.

  The Marshall County Historical Museum is located in an old buff brick school building at the corner of College Avenue and Randolph Street, just a short drive or decent walk from Bitty’s house. It has a brick and iron picket fence around it that suffered some damage from a car mishap a few years back, but has since been repaired. Currently, however, it’s under renovation, so one-fourth of the museum’s items have been moved to The Square Museum on West Van Dorn until the renovations are completed.

  Bitty introduced me to several people working there, and volunteers, like Cindy Nelson and Melody Doyle, two of the Divas. Cindy, you may recall, had been part of the team to bag the frozen senator, but didn’t stay for the graveside relocation. Nor had she gone with us to retrieve him. Except for Georgie, only the older generation had been foolhardy enough to continue, and since Georgie is Gaynelle’s niece, she’d probably felt an obligation to help. I’m glad to say all charges against participating Divas were dropped upon their complete cooperation with the police, by the way, which is really good since there’s something called a Class D felony applied to the unauthorized toting of corpses around town.

  Anyway, Cindy and Melody helped me research Generals Forrest and Grant, and both men’s connection to Holly Springs and different houses here. Of course, I didn’t share reasons for my sudden interest, just a desire to reacquaint myself with our history.

  After Cindy showed me where to look, I thanked her and Melody, and said Bitty could help me with the rest of it. A tactful dismissal, I thought, since I had no wish to try to focus on a clue to my own distraction while keeping an ear out for Bitty’s chatter.

  Both of them seemed glad to leave us with the stacks of carefully logged newspaper clippings and journal ledgers and handwritten histories.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Smythe wouldn’t like anything on the clippings,” Bitty said before I so much as touched one of the books, and handed me cotton gloves. “Wear these. It keeps oil from your fingers damaging the old books.”

  “I’d never have thought of that.”

  “Oh, poor precious! You shouldn’t be here at all.”

  Chen Ling sneezed at the dust stirred up, but since I’d told Bitty not to bring her anyway, I didn’t even listen to her fussing at me for dragging them out.

  After nearly an hour of reading fascinating and often heart-wrenching accounts of Civil War exploits, I’d learned that Holly Springs had endured sixty-two raids during those years, and that afterward, Vicksburg, Jackson, and Holly Springs were the only nineteenth century towns to ever be federally occupied, and that Holly Springs was federally occupied for ten years during Reconstruction. While there were accounts of savagery on both si
des, there were also accounts of men like Hiram Revels, who had been the very first black senator.

  As for Grant and Forrest, I read about Grant’s stay at Walter Place during his occupation of Holly Springs, and how the Govan women having been once burned out of their house by the Yankees, had already buried their family silver beneath the Walter Place’s front walkway by the time the Union general got to town. An excellent example of foresight.

  “Listen to this, Bitty,” I said, even though she’d ignored my other gems of information, “‘When Grant occupied Holly Springs, the Govan women who were staying at Walter Place by the owner’s permission, shared the house with Grant’s wife and son, as well as Mrs. Grant’s slave, a gift from her father when she was born. The Govan ladies took much pleasure out of watching Yankee sentries walk over their family silver every day without so much as a hint of what lay buried beneath their feet.’ Isn’t that something?”

  “Yes,” Bitty said, nodding, “but I already knew that. Then Forrest chased Grant out of Holly Springs, and he left his wife Julie, their son Jesse, and their slave named Jule behind.”

  “Well, you’ve got part of that right. Van Dorn, along with a large troop of Confederate soldiers, chased Grant out of town. Then they took what they needed from Union supplies at the railroad depot, and burned the rest. One report says as much as four million dollars worth, but a more conservative estimate puts it at a million and a half. Whichever, it set General Grant back in his march to Vicksburg by several months.”

  “Did you get to the part yet where General Van Dorn sent a squad of Confederates to Walter Place to search for General Grant?”

  “I did. And the Govan ladies barred the gates and wouldn’t let them in, afraid they might try to take Mrs. Grant hostage.”

  Bitty smiled. “I love that story. And because Van Dorn was such a gentleman and did nothing to harm Mrs. Grant or the other ladies, General Grant returned the favor when he got to Port Gibson, Van Dorn’s home town, and so spared it from being destroyed.”

  I read and reread the accounts, some by witnesses, some by more contemporary historians from stories handed down by family members who’d been there, but something eluded me. Some small fact that should be obvious. What on earth could it be?

  “Well,” I mused aloud, more to myself than Bitty, “Forrest was born in Bedford County, Tennessee, the name of which was later changed to Marshall County, not in Ashland, Mississippi like you and Rayna said.”

  “I said Salem. Or maybe it was New Salem. Not that it matters that much. He lived here as a little boy and grew up here, and that’s what counts. Besides, Benton County was part of Tippah County first, I think. So, have you found out what you wanted to know yet?”

  “No.” I decided not to challenge her newest version of history. “I mean, I’ve found out a lot of new things, like Forrest wasn’t at all the racist I always thought. After the war ended he spent all his pension money on soldiers who came home to nothing, both black and white soldiers.”

  Bitty stood up. “Now that we have the life history of Forrest memorized, may I leave?”

  “I suppose.”

  Maybe I should have focused more on Grant than Forrest. Whatever it was I’d thought I’d find still eluded me. And yet I just knew I’d read the key somewhere in all that historical data and anecdote. It left me frustrated and unsettled, even after we got back to Six Chimneys.

  I certainly wasn’t in a mood to deal with legions of Bitty fans, or the people who came to try and dig out some nugget of information that could be passed along to others. The last gave me heartburn. I had to be especially attentive, and not get sidetracked by one person while another one waylaid Bitty.

  So we compromised, Bitty agreeing to an evening of near isolation with only a few Divas as company. Gaynelle, Georgie, Rayna, and Melody played court to Bitty’s tragic queen façade. Since it was the Divas, I didn’t have to hover over Bitty like an avenging angel as most of them had taken part in our lunacy. Only Melody remained ignorant—or hopefully so—of the depths of our depredations.

  “Let’s get comfortable,” Bitty said, and wearing a sour-faced Chen Ling against her chest like some kind of malignant growth, she led the way from the kitchen where we’d first gathered to stock up on food and drink.

  Thankfully, she led us to the parlor, known less formally as the den, where the furniture is comfortable and we could kick off our shoes without feeling as if we’d committed sacrilege. Rayna stretched out on a plush chair and ottoman, her painted toenails a bright splash of color against the pale cream upholstery.

  “This has all been such a mess,” she said, and no one had to ask what she meant. “Who’d have thought Philip Hollandale would end up murdered?”

  “I always did,” Bitty said, and ignored my dirty look. “Someone was bound to do it. After all, look how many people lost their jobs when he voted against that tax bill that would have kept the bicycle plant in business. Over four hundred, wasn’t it?”

  “Hollandale wasn’t the only one who voted against it,” Gaynelle pointed out.

  “No,” Georgie said, “but his was the deciding vote. If he’d listened to the offers made by plant employees and CEO’s, Roger would still be in Mississippi, not off in Arizona.”

  “Roger was Georgette’s companion,” Gaynelle said primly, and Georgie flushed.

  “Just a friend,” she said quickly, “a good friend. He went nearly a year without finding a job that’d pay near what he’d been making as a line supervisor at the bicycle plant.”

  “See?” Bitty said, waving a hand toward Georgie, “even her friend Roger has a motive for killing Philip. Not that he did, of course.”

  “Well,” Melody said, “we all know no matter what you felt like doing, you’d never harm anyone, Bitty, even your ex-husband.”

  “Thank you, Melody, it’s nice to know who my true friends are during this terrible time.” Bitty smiled. Chen Ling sulked. Then Bitty looked over at me as she fed the pug a cracker spread with goose liver pâté and said, “Some people think I talk too much.”

  I sucked down an inch of white zinfandel and smiled. Agreement would be rude, but even a polite lie would sound too false.

  After a moment, Rayna said, “Goose liver pâté is really bad for dogs, you know. Too rich. I had to stop, and poor Redd is just really upset about it. She loves pâté. Dr. Coltrane advised that I stick to dog food, so I started making it. Boiled chicken and long grain rice. It’s very good for them and they love it.”

  “Oh my, poor Chen Ling,” Bitty said, looking stricken. “Do you think I’ve poisoned her?”

  “Lord no, Bitty. But it’s not good for her. If you want, I’ll give you the recipe for dog food that I got from Aunt Anna. I bet she loves it.”

  “So,” I said, more a statement than a question,” you’ve decided to keep Chitling.”

  Bitty made a face. “Trinket’s being mean. She wants me to give Chen Ling back to Luann Carey, but I think she’ll be much happier here. Unless . . . unless I go to prison, of course. Then I’ll have to make sure she’s cared for while I’m . . . while I’m gone.”

  The tears that suddenly welled up in Bitty’s eyes were genuine, and I felt as mean as she said I was. “Oh honey, you know I want you to have what makes you happy,” I said immediately. “I just don’t want you to get attached to an older dog, that’s all. It’s devastating when they die.”

  Before I knew it, we were hugging each other, with Chen Ling squashed between us and growling. “I know, Trinket,” Bitty said, sniffling a little, “but I’d rather have months of joy than years of just okay.”

  Since she’d made me cry, too, the horrible wretch, I said, “That’s the worst paraphrase of Shelby I’ve ever heard,” and we both laughed.

  Gaynelle explained to a perplexed Melody, “Steel Magnolias. It’s a movie, and Shelby is the character who dies. One of our favorites.”

  “Oh,” Melody said as if she understood, but I could tell she didn’t. Ah well. She was too young yet.
Give her another decade or two, a marriage and-or child, and no one would have to explain it at all. “So, Bitty,” Melody said next, “it’s probably best y’all didn’t get caught moving the senator’s body around. That’d only make all this worse.”

  A brief silence fell, and we must have all looked a little surprised, since the only ones who knew about that were the Divas involved and the police. It was one of the many facts being withheld for the moment. Melody blinked when no one responded.

  “Don’t you think?” she asked a little tentatively.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?” Gaynelle demanded, using her schoolteacher voice, and Melody seemed to jump a foot off the couch.

  “Cindy said . . . well, I just heard . . . should I not have said anything?”

  Leaning forward, Gaynelle put her hand on Melody’s arm, “No, you should not. It’s not something that needs to be said, and I’m quite surprised at Cynthia Nelson for being so foolish as to share such gossip. I’ll have a word with her about this.”

  “Oh no! Please don’t—I’ll just die. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say anything to you all, and Cindy and I are getting to be such good friends. I’d hate to ruin that with my big mouth.”

  Melody looked so upset, and kept apologizing, and finally Gaynelle agreed not to chastise Cindy for speaking out of turn. “But do not say a word to another living soul about anything like that,” she added. “It could be very detrimental not only to Bitty, but to all of us.”

  I noted that Gaynelle neither denied nor confirmed Melody’s information. She’s good.

  Since the festive air had dissipated, they left one by one, with Rayna being the last to leave. She took Bitty’s hand in hers.

  “Call me for that dog food recipe. And just be careful, okay?”

  “Good heavens, Rayna,” Bitty said with a little laugh, “I’m not at all sure there’s anything bad left to happen.”