Rayna didn’t smile. “Well, there is. And I’d hate to see it happen to you. Stop poking your nose in places you shouldn’t and stay home, please. Good night, Bitty, Trinket.”
“Well, isn’t that the strangest thing,” Bitty said when she shut the door and locked it, “her sounding so . . . so much like a crossing guard. Warning me to be careful.”
“She’s right, Bitty. Think about it. Philip’s dead. Sanders is dead. And someone tried to kill me.”
Holding Chen Ling close, Bitty chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d hoped that maybe you just got lost, you know. Chen Ling ran so far so quickly—I mean, who’d have expected a little dog like her to be able to do that? And when I got back you were gone. At first I didn’t worry about it since you’re always so capable. And much bigger than Sanders, so I figured you’d just make him behave. Then when I realized you were really gone and Sanders wasn’t there, and I heard this banging noise and I got scared . . . Trinket, I’m so sorry. I left you out there alone with whoever did that to you.”
“You did exactly the right thing. Someone who’s killed twice won’t hesitate to kill a few more times, I think. You might have ended up in the cellar with me.”
“Do you think they meant to kill you?”
I’d been wondering about that myself. The blow on my head had been nasty, but not fatal. Was that on purpose, or was I meant to be dead? From the angle of the cut in my scalp, doctors in the emergency room said it looked as if a much shorter person had struck me. Jackson Lee and I didn’t want to alarm Bitty, but Sergeant Maxwell leaned toward the theory that Bitty had done it to me. Preposterous, of course.
But what really bothered Jackson Lee was how the prosecutors had shaped a damaging case against Bitty: wronged wife, an ex-husband determined to thwart her desire to get Sanders’ house on the register, and Sanders himself being an obstacle to her goal. As the only eye-witness, I was a liability, they seemed to think, so she might have wanted to get rid of me.
As I said, preposterous.
“I don’t know,” I finally said to Bitty, “but if they did mean to kill me, they might be irritated they didn’t succeed.”
Bitty’s eyes got wide. “You mean—they might try again?”
“Bitty, I can’t help but wonder if both of us aren’t dangerous to someone.”
I really didn’t want to frighten Bitty, but she needed to realize how vulnerable she was and how easily she could be hurt, physically as well as emotionally.
After sucking in a deep breath and apparently squeezing Chen Ling a little too hard, Bitty got up to get a cloth to clean her pants. “It’s a good thing my boys are coming home tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll make them stay here and keep us safe.”
All the air left my lungs. Now, just so you’ll know, I dearly love Clayton and Brandon. Two of the smartest, nicest, most wonderful hellions you’d ever meet. Alike as two peas in a pod, but just in appearance. Clayton is always ready for a party, gregarious and noisy. Brandon is more intellectual, but just as loud. Brandon would make an excellent attorney. Clayton would make an excellent prisoner. Brandon smokes Marlboros. Clayton smokes pot. Brandon has switched his major three times. Clayton doesn’t have a major, other than professional student. Both are very attractive to the opposite sex, and wherever they are, there are always people and beer.
So it’s understandable that the prospect of their arrival left me less than enthusiastic.
“Where on earth will they stay?” I finally squeaked as Bitty wiped pug piddle off the front of her pants.
“Heavens, Trinket, I have six bedrooms. There’s enough room. I forgot to tell Sharita about it, though, so we’ll have to run out tomorrow and get in enough food. Oh, and Jefferson is coming over for dinner tomorrow night. Did I mention that?”
“You didn’t mention any of this. Bitty, I don’t think this is a good idea at all.”
She looked surprised. “Why not?”
par There were so many reasons that I couldn’t drag just one out as the most important, so I said at random, “Too many people, frat parties, beer, cigarettes, food—does Jefferson care that you’ve been charged with the murder of your ex-husband?”
Sometimes Bitty really does focus. “I told the boys not to bring anyone home with them, that I’m not up to parties, they can’t get drunk or smoke in the house, we’re going to Carlisle’s and the Pig for food tomorrow anyway, and Jefferson is quite adamant that I’m not at all guilty so it doesn’t matter to him in the least.” She paused to take a breath, and then smiled. “See? Don’t you feel better now?”
“Oh, much.” My sarcasm went unnoticed. “Do you still have that prescription of Valium, by any chance?”
Bitty just laughed. I’m not known to take even an aspirin, so if I feel the need for any kind of medication, then the pain is unbearable or the doctor unmovable. I much prefer the medication that Mother Nature has given us: fermented grapes or barley and hops. And of course, chocolate.
I took half a bottle of wine and entire bar of dark chocolate up to my room and proceeded to self-medicate the hell out of myself. Don’t scoff until you’ve tried it.
When I woke the next morning, it was to sweet, blessed peace. No awful sound marred the morning, one of those late March days that lets you know Spring has sprung. Birds chirped merrily in the tree tops outside my window, soft golden light streamed through window glass and sheers, and I could have sworn I heard angels singing. The heady aroma of brewing coffee teased me downstairs to find a singing angel in the kitchen.
“Sharita, aren’t you here a day early?”
“Two,” she replied with a laugh. “I had a cancellation, so I let Miss Bitty talk me into coming in an extra day.”
“Has Bitty already been downstairs?”
“She drank three cups of coffee and left an hour ago.”
In the act of reaching for a coffee mug, I stopped and turned to look at Sharita. “Tell me you’re kidding. She left?”
“And took Yoda with her.”
Normally, I’d have found that amusing, but the thought of Bitty being on her own with her mouth well-oiled and primed made me nervous.
“Did she say where she was headed?”
“To see Jackson Lee.”
That made me feel a little better. I poured my coffee, and wondered if I should mention to Jackson Lee my persistent belief that General Forrest had something to do with Philip Hollandalee s death. Probably not, though it would make an excellent insanity defense if needed.
“I shouldn’t have slept so late,” I said, and sat at the kitchen table to sample one of the freshly-baked cinnamon rolls Sharita put into the biscuit warmer. “I swear, Bitty and I are taking on each other’s bad habits. She’s getting up early now, and I’ve started sleeping late.”
Sharita agreed. “Bitty certainly has changed lately. Guess I would, too, if I was the only suspect the police were looking at for two murders. I wouldn’t sleep at all.”
“That makes sense. What was that you were singing before I got down here?”
“My Lord, What A Mornin’. My grandmother used to sing it on days just like this one. It seemed appropriate.”
I had to agree. “It’s lovely. I thought I heard angels singing down here.”
“You ought to come over to our church sometime. I think you’d like it. We do a lot of singing.”
“I may do that. I love to sing.”
“You’d be most welcome. We need a new alto in our choir.”
With the new information I’d learned about Forrest, I decided to ask her a bold question. “What do you know about General Nathan Bedford Forrest?”
That surprised Sharita. She stopped stirring whatever it was she had in a big bowl that looked awful and smelled heavenly, and turned to look at me. Any fear that I’d insulted her by asking such a question disappeared when she said, “He wasn’t always the terrible man a lot of people claim he was, not according to my granny, anyway. Granny’s grandmother was born to slaves, and after the war, it was General
Forrest who gave her granddaddy a mule and enough money to buy seed corn. Times were bad for everyone back then, black and white. Except for scalawags that came in like buzzards to buy land and property out from everyone.”
“Like Sherman Sanders’ family?”
Sharita nodded. “That’s right. You know, my granny still says that her granny talked a lot about The Cedars, and how the family who owned it before and during the war lost it to Yankee carpetbaggers. One of them was a former soldier who came to Holly Springs with General Grant, a lieutenant, I think. He came back after the war ended and paid the taxes on The Cedars, and got it right out from under the family’s nose. All their men had been killed, and only the women were left. Not that they could have paid the taxes anyway. There were a lot of bitter feelings back then, and for a long time afterward. The Richmonds claimed they’d had the money to pay the taxes but the Sanders got the tax men to stall just long enough so they could take illegal possession. Put the womenfolk and kids right out, with only the clothes on their backs. Didn’t let them take a stick of furniture with them, either. Not even the kids’ doll babies.”
“Do you think the Richmonds really had the money for the taxes?”
Shrugging, Sharita said, “My granny says they did, but how could they? Confederate bills were worthless by that time, anyway. Worth more now than they were back then.”
“A shame. There are hundreds of stories like that all over the South. Probably a few up North, as well, but of course, they didn’t go through Reconstruction.”
We dwelled on that for a moment, both from our own unique perspective, then Bitty came in and all conversation halted as she launched into one of her Bitty-tales. This one had to do with the indignities and shameful conduct of certain judicial members who’d denied Jackson Lee’s petition to drop the charges against Bitty because of circumstantial evidence.
“Just what kind of evidence do they think they have?” she demanded from no one in particular. “A few specks of blood on my shoes, my fingerprints on an aluminum pot, of all things to worry about, and Philip thawing out in my wine cellar. It’s police brutality, that’s what it is, just police brutality!”
Sensitive to the fact that Sharita’s brother is Marcus Stone, the officer who arrested Bitty, I looked at her, but she only smiled. She obviously knew Bitty meant nothing personal against Officer Stone.
Sharita and I made soothing, noncommittal sounds that Bitty viewed as agreement. She sat down at the table with Chen Ling tucked under her chin, and destroyed a cinnamon roll with her fingers, shredding more than she consumed. I eyed it wistfully. I really hate to see cinnamon rolls vandalized.
“Have the police found out where Philip was hidden?” I asked when it looked like she intended to massacre another cinnamon roll, and licking icing from her fingers, Bitty shrugged.
“Probably a warehouse freezer. They’re still looking. Someone must have kept Sanders there too, though I don’t know about that. And just think, Trinket, we had that same—”
”Bitty, when are the boys due to arrive?” I interrupted before she said more than she needed to say in front of a police officer’s sister. It’s not like Marcus Stone had to already know all the details anyway, but no point in putting Sharita on the spot.
“Any time now,” she said, happily distracted. “I haven’t seen them in ages. It’s Spring Break and they’d planned on staying the whole time down in Florida, but I wish they’d stay here. They can go to Fort Lauderdale any old time.”
I brightened. The likelihood of two college boys being persuaded to stay with their drama-prone mother instead of bikini-clad college girls wasn’t great. I’d convince them they weren’t needed here yet, and promise to summon them home when they were. It sounded so perfect.
And as in so many things that sound perfect in theory, reality proved to be quite different.
Chapter Sixteen
Clayton and Brandon arrived in a whirlwind of noise and energy. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. Sometimes I wonder if that’s my age or my intolerance showing, since after about ten minutes of high-level, frenetic activity, I’m ready for a quiet, solitary corner. But then, I’ve been that way since my twenties. While I prefer to think of it as achieving maturity, Bitty has referred to it as having a stick up my rear. Or words very close to that.
From the moment Brandon pulled his gleaming black sports car into Bitty’s driveway, the walls rattled and roof shingles fluttered. Brandon is just naturally a loud speaker, which I think will be a great asset if he does go into law or becomes a carnival barker. Clayton, the younger by two minutes, is determined to be heard over his brother. The result is very similar to being caught in the middle of a volcanic eruption.
As I’ve said, Bitty’s sons are identical twins, both tall, blond-haired, with brown eyes and the general physique of their father, who’d been a jock at Ole Miss when Bitty met him. Neither of the boys have their father’s natural inclination to dishonesty, thank goodness, though I put that down to Bitty’s high expectations rather than genetics. She’s the kind of mother who expects the best from her offspring, and accepts nothing less. Her sons turn themselves inside out to please her, and while Bitty can be indulgent at times, when she says she’s had enough, she’s had enough and they toe the line.
So about the time my head began to vibrate at that high speed that shatters glass, Bitty said calmly to them, “That’s enough, boys. Your Aunt Trinket’s getting those unsightly lines between her eyebrows again.”
Blessed silence fell, though my ears still hummed a little.
I sorted through the rapid-fire things they’d said since coming in the front door, and said, “So Brandon, you’ve changed your major to pre-law classes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Properly reared Southerners always use that courtesy with older family members and complete strangers. Most of the time, you just can’t get them not to say it, it’s that deeply ingrained. “Mama says I can argue the hide off a coon hound, so I figured that might come in handy.” Brandon nudged his brother. “Besides, the way Clayton’s going, he’ll need a good lawyer in the family.”
Clayton shoved back. “Better shut up, bro.”
Bitty narrowed her eyes. “All right. What’s going on?”
It was amazing, watching the transformation from often scattered drama queen to “I mean business” mother. Just as amazing, the two young men slouching in their chairs at the kitchen table sat up straight and looked nervous.
After a hesitation, Clayton said firmly, “We didn’t want to worry you, not with all you’ve had happening lately, but I’ve gotten myself into a fix at school. I’ve been accused of cheating by one of my professors.”
Bitty just looked at him with one brow lifted, and after a moment, Clayton added in a much less confident tone, “I didn’t cheat, Mama. Not really.”
“And what, pray tell, does ‘not really’ mean?”
“Well, I’ve been making a little extra cash, you know, so I don’t have to keep asking for money.”
“How have you been doing that, by stealing and selling tests?”
“No ma’am!” both young men said at the same time. Then Brandon said, “Clayton’s just been helping out a few people with failing grades, that’s all. He feels sorry for them, because most of them have to work all the time to pay for their tuition, while we’ve got trust funds and don’t have to work, so have plenty of time for studying.”
“So you give them the tests you’ve stolen? And I’m asking Clayton, not you, Brandon. Let him speak for himself.” She trained her gaze on Clayton, who fidgeted like he was twelve.
“No ma’am, I haven’t stolen anything, I swear. I write papers for them. Most of the time the professors don’t know who we are anyway, so I write the paper and they sign their name.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart.”
Clayton’s appeasing smile faded. “No ma’am, not quite. There’s a small fee, you know, just for my time. But then they pass the class.”
“C
layton Caldwell, that’s cheating. It’s turning in work they haven’t done. Shame on you for being a part of something like that.”
There were a few uncomfortable moments during which I decided this needed to be a private family discussion, and I eased away from the table and went out to the screened porch. It was once the old kitchen, separate from the house in case of fire, connected only by a breezeway. Over the years and renovations, it’s become a nice-sized screened-in porch, accessible just off the new kitchen. It still has a fireplace on one wall, with one of the six chimneys sticking up and painted white. In cold weather, a nice fire gets the chill off the air. But I turned on the ceiling fan and sat down in a wicker lounge to reflect on the perils of motherhood. Then I had the sudden urge to call my daughter, so I did.
To my delight, she picked up her cell phone immediately. “Mama, I was just thinking about you!”
We both laughed. The miles disappeared, and it was like she was right beside me. Michelle has this laugh that makes everyone around her want to laugh with her, one of those full, joyful, from deep inside laughs. When she was little, she had a stuffed rabbit Mama gave her for Easter, with a voice box laugh almost identical to hers. She named it Thumper for the giggly rabbit in the movie Bambi. Whenever she laughs now, I think about Thumper, and I smile.
“How’s Aunt Bitty?” Michelle asked after we’d gone down the usual conversational route of her health, husband, job, and new house-hunting. “Is she holding up all right?”
“Clayton and Brandon just got here. She’s turned into Super-Mom. She’ll be fine.”
“That’s probably just what she needs, a distraction to take her mind off everything.”
“Any more distractions,” I said, “and she won’t be able to fit the murder charges into her busy schedule. She’s adopted a dog, too.”
“Aunt Bitty? A dog? Now, why didn’t I ever think of that? It’s just perfect for her. She needs something to mother. What kind of dog?”
“A pug. Looks like a small Yoda. Or one of those Muppets. The cranky one.”
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