Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  “Where is Jackson Lee?” I asked when we passed his office without stopping. “He’s left his office?”

  “We’re supposed to meet him—he got a call so should already be there waiting on us. At least, I hope he is.”

  “Meet us where?”

  “In the industrial complex. I have the address written down there on that scrap of paper.”

  I looked at it, 11052 Industrial Park Drive scrawled on a torn sheet of paper. “I haven’t been over there in ages,” I said, remembering it as a rather barren part of town, railroad tracks, propane gas businesses, truck depots, and lumberyards.

  It hasn’t changed much. Tall brown weeds choke empty lots; lines of warehouses, some new with pretty green grass in front of office buildings, some old and tumbling down, like the compress building by the railroad depot. Old creosote railroad ties are piled here and there, and some of the corrugated metal walls of abandoned warehouses are rusted out and look as if a giant can opener has peeled away entire portions. Not much different than the vacated industrial area of any decent size town, I guess.

  Georgie pulled up in the front parking lot of gray gravel and stunted weeds. The building looked deserted. Long deserted. Empty windows stared out like vacant eye-sockets, a padlock on the front door and a For Sale sign in fading red paint against a peeling white background. Rain pelted the ground, spattered on the windshield, and pinged against corrugated metal roofing. The only sign of life was a dark car parked at the far end by a stack of rusted iron rebar.

  I checked the address. “This is it?”

  Georgie peered through the windshield of Gaynelle’s car. “I think so. What does it say above the door?”

  “It’s the right address,” I said after a moment, rather skeptically since it certainly didn’t look like any place Jackson Lee might ask me to meet him. “What is this place?”

  “I think it’s the old ice house and feed and supply warehouse.”

  “Ah.” That made sense. The senator and Sanders had spent some time here, so maybe a clue had been left. Then my heart started beating really hard. Or maybe Bitty was here?

  I opened the car door and Georgie said, “Don’t you want to wait on Jackson Lee?”

  “If he’s on his way, he should be here any minute. Come on.”

  Georgie followed me, keeping one hand on my arm as if for comfort. While there may be a huge chain and padlock on the front door, an entire section of clapboard wall left bare a support post. Since there was a hole big enough to drive a small car through, I was able to get in.

  It smelled musty inside, no big mystery since it was raining outside and this had been an ice house and feed supply. Straw bale remnants were scattered around, dark brown with age and humidity. A set of iron tongs big enough to lift a Volkswagen lay rusting on the floor. Long trolleys with high handles and wooden wheels slumped against a few walls. Those looked really old. Bitty would love them.

  Electrical cords with crackling, broken wire hung from the high ceilings, but none of them held light bulbs, not that I’d want to test them anyway. This place was a fire waiting for the right match, humidity or not. Sawdust and straw lay inches thick on the floor.

  “Let’s wait here,” Georgie said when I started toward a door at the far end, and I paused.

  “If Jackson Lee told us to meet him here, it can’t be too dangerous. Maybe Bitty’s here. Or maybe there’s evidence he needs me to see before he shows it to the police. Maybe we should wait on him. I don’t know.”

  Georgie’s eyes looked huge behind her glasses. The glasses slid down her nose a little, her face still damp from the rain, and she nodded as she pushed them back up. “You might be right. Jackson Lee wouldn’t tell us to meet him if he didn’t know it was safe. What kind of evidence do you think could be here?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. The police would have already checked it out pretty thoroughly, I imagine.”

  “Unless whoever took Bitty has been back here.”

  Georgie and I looked at each other. Her eyes were white-rimmed and dark in the dim light of the warehouse, as mine must have been. Another chill shivered down my back all the way to my toes. Rain beat harder against the metal roof, sounding like bullets. Or hail. For a minute, I felt rooted to the spot, unable to move, fear riveting me to the floor. Then I thought of Bitty, and I sucked in a deep breath that smelled of moldy straw, sawdust, dirt, and rain.

  “You don’t have to go with me,” I said. “Stay here. It’s safer. But I have to see if Bittye s here somewhere, maybe needing me . . . I know. It’s crazy. I just have to know. Okay?”

  Nodding, Georgie glanced toward the parking lot. “I’ll keep an eye out for them and come and get you. Just holler if you find anything.”

  “I will.”

  Resolute, terrified, and soon in need of dry jeans, I set my shoulders so I’d be taller and walked toward the door at the far end. It was one of those heavy doors with a huge handle on the outside. It reminded me of that old I Love Lucy show when she’d been locked inside a freezer, and had icicles on her brows and nose and hair when they found her. While I didn’t really expect it to be in operation, or find anyone in there, I wouldn’t rest until I knew for certain.

  Before I reached the door, I glanced back at Georgie. She stood almost where I’d left her, watching me. Another chill went through me. This was crazy. Maybe I should wait on Jackson Lee to arrive. Something wasn’t right. Georgie and I never should have come here.

  It was the weirdest thing, but I felt somehow as if I was caught in a time warp. Or in some kind of contest between good and evil. Metal roofing and loose boards rattled furiously in the rising wind. A banging sound came from somewhere deeper inside, a dull, steady thud as of a loose board. Shadows almost hid the door, yet seemed safer than the light where Georgie stood. I didn’t know why. Like I said, it was one of the strangest things I’ve ever experienced. I started to call and tell her to come with me, but hesitated. Then it didn’t matter anyway, because she came toward me, her steps a little quick as if she was frightened to be alone. I turned back to the door.

  It had one of those thick metal pull handles, the spring kind like on old refrigerators that Mama always called Frigidaires regardless of brand name. Sometimes she still does. Daddy still calls the side-by-side refrigerator with ice-maker that he bought at Sears an ice box. Old habits are hard to break.

  Anyway, I tugged on the door, but it didn’t give easily. I decided to put all my weight into it. If that doesn’t work, it’s usually not workable. Even without the extra twenty pounds, I’m no lightweight.

  Grabbing it with both hands, I gave a tremendous heave and the door came open so quick and easy it threw me off-balance. I staggered sideways a little. If not for holding on to the handle, I’d have probably fallen on my nicely cushioned rear. An old barrel stave lay up against the wall, and I used it to prop open the door. Cold dank air drifted out, but at least it wasn’t freezing.

  “Are you all right, Trinket?” I heard Georgie ask, and as I regained my balance, I nodded.

  Then realizing she probably couldn’t see me well in the thick shadows, I said, “Fine. I’m still on my feet, anyway.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  I laughed, a little shakily, but with an effort at humor. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Go into the freezer. See if she’s in there.”

  Something in her tone had changed, a subtle alteration that put me immediately on the defensive. For one thing, I’ve never really liked being bossed around that much, but especially not by someone twenty years younger. It could be a problem in the workplace, but at least there, I understand the chain of authority.

  “You first,” I said, probably more sharply than she expected.

  “I don’t think so. Get in there.”

  I turned to look at her. She was silhouetted against the gray light coming through the big hole in the front of the building. Tension radiated from her, made her seem larger than her slight size, lent her an air of menace.<
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  “What on earth’s the matter with you?” I demanded.

  “Nothing if you’ll just do what you’re told.”

  That really made me mad. “Look, you little twit, I don’t blame you if you’re scared, but I have no intention of just walking into some dark hole without a few precautions.”

  It occurred to me that Georgie had her own agenda. And I didn’t think it was going to be one I liked. While I never joined the Girl Scouts, I am familiar with the Be Prepared motto of the Boy Scouts. It never hurts.

  Georgie’s voice rose a little, a sure sign of uncertainty. “I’m not scared, you idiot, but you should be. Now walk into the freezer.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I gave her a belligerent stare. “Make me.”

  “Dammit, Trinket, why won’t you just cooperate?” Georgie actually sounded aggrieved, and I started to be really rude, then I saw the small pistol in her hand. That complicated things.

  Going with the Be Prepared advice, I’d already considered the barrel stave as a possible weapon just in case Dr. No waited in the wings. I hadn’t expected treachery on my own team, however, an oversight that can be fatal. Since James Bond wasn’t likely to come to my rescue—Sean Connery is and always will be 007 to me, even if he’s bald as an egg now—I knew I was on my own.

  Georgie stepped forward, pistol clutched in both hands aimed right at me. I reached for the only weapon within range, grabbing the barrel stave, but she shot me before I could swing. I spun around just like I’ve seen them do on TV, not from the force of the bullet, but the surprise.

  It burned like I’d just laid a curling iron against my arm, but before my life started passing in front of my eyes, Georgie let out a shriek that drowned out the storm overhead. As she started violently shaking one leg, I took immediate advantage of her convulsion by clutching that barrel stave in both hands. In a move that would make Jackie Chan proud, I swung the stave up and out, caught Georgie right on the side of her head and laid her out like a slab of beef. The pistol went spinning across dirt and sawdust, and that’s when I saw the cause of her St. Vitus dance.

  Chitling let go of Georgie’s ankle and took off after the pistol. Since I wasn’t sure which of her three teeth might actually catch on the trigger and cause damage, I dove after it like an NFL star, sliding face-first in a whirlpool of sawdust that tasted like . . . well, sawdust. Good thing I’m a lot taller than Chitling is fast, or the outcome could have been very different.

  Since an ill-tempered Chitling had to mean an imminent Bitty sighting, I took hold of the pistol like I knew what I was doing just in case Georgie woke up, and backed toward the open freezer door. My arm throbbed, but apparently wasn’t fatal.

  “Bitty? Bitty? Are you in there?”

  The only reply was something that sounded like a cross between the Tasmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny. I told you I watch too much TV. Anyway, since Bitty hadn’t come barreling out to check on her darling Chitling, I immediately deduced that she must be incapacitated. Actually, it was such a relief to hear her making any noise at all, that I’m afraid I was much too cheerful for her liking. Almost to the point of giddiness.

  “Ah, my precioussss,” I said as I stepped inside and saw a pink blur sitting up against a wall and glaring at me, mouth, hands and ankles bound with duct tape, “I found my preciousss . . . ”

  Really, Bitty shouldn’t have kicked me so hard. Especially when she totes around a dog with a face just like Gollum’s. Or am I thinking of Yoda? Sometimes I get Lord of the Rings and Star Wars characters confused.

  Anyway, by the time I worked the duct tape off her mouth, wrists, and ankles, then kept her from stomping Georgie to a bloody pulp like she insisted she wanted to do, the storm had finally stopped and more light came in from the hole in the wall. For a woman whose mouth had been taped up for nearly seven hours, Bitty’s healing time was remarkably swift.

  “That simpering, sheep-faced little bitch,” she snarled, hovering over me like an avenging angel of death while I was still wrapping the tape I’d prudently saved around Georgie’s wrists—a precaution I felt necessary. “She had the audacity to tell me that this was all my fault! That I should have acted my age and not like some idiotic high school girl! Can you imagine her saying that to me?”

  “No,” I said honestly. “She always seemed so quiet.”

  “Well, Daddy always said it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.”

  “Then you and I should be the most unobserved people since the dawn of time. Now go out to Gaynelle’s car and get Georgie’s cell phone, and call Jackson Lee. Please?”

  Bitty got a crafty look on her face. “You go. I’ll keep an eye on Georgie.”

  “Looks like we’ll be here a while, then. I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

  “Really, Trinket, sometimes you can be so annoying. Look at my clothes. My hair! And I broke a heel on these shoes. Besides that, she scared poor little Chen Ling to death. She didn’t leave my side the entire time we sat there in that cold, filthy hole. If for no other reason than that, Georgie should be shot at dawn.”

  “The sooner you call Jackson Lee, the sooner she might be shot at dawn,” I suggested.

  Georgie should have appreciated my efforts. I’m sure she didn’t, but watching Bitty scoop up her precious dog, the three-toothed Hydra—to whom I’m very grateful, by the way—I knew I’d made the right decision not to turn Bitty loose on her.

  Still lying out on the floor, breathing a little shallowly but steadily, her broken glasses lost somewhere, Georgie had a lot of explaining to do. And since I was dying to hear what on earth had gotten into her, I wasn’t about to let Bitty spoil that.

  When Jackson Lee arrived with five police cars, a TACT squad, a crime scene unit, two ambulances, and the coroner, I looked at Bitty. “Just what in the name of God did you tell him?”

  Bitty, busily inspecting one of the old trolleys I’d known she’d appreciate, waved a hand. “Just that we’re at the old ice house, you’ve been shot, and we’re being held by a madwoman. He said he’d come right away.”

  “You did tell him the madwoman is unconscious and tied up, didn’t you?”

  Bitty looked up. “Why, I’m just certain I did. I think.”

  For a few minutes it was a little dicey, what with bullhorn orders being bayed at us and sharpshooters and miniature Darth Vaders running all around the parking lot, but finally I was able to convey the facts that we were all right, that our assailant was unarmed, and in fact, taking a nap, and if they just wouldn’t shoot us, we’d like to come outside.

  There was a tense moment when Bitty refused to put her arms over her head, but as she was only armed with a pug, no one shot her. Maybe they should have. I was pretty irritated by that point. It’d been a long, stressful day. And it promised to be even more stressful.

  So imagine my surprise when Kit Coltrane ran interference for me, insisting that Bitty and I be seen at the hospital before the police could barrage us with questions.

  “You’re welcome to go along,” he said firmly to Officer Stone, “but Trinket’s been shot and needs to be seen by a doctor.”

  Marcus Stone didn’t blink. It didn’t matter that my bullet wound was just a scratch that had already stopped bleeding. “There’s an ambulance right over here. I know where to find her when we need her,” he said, obviously trying to make up for false accusations. He probably knew we understood about the arrest, but I thought it a nice gesture anyway.

  Jackson Lee did the same for Bitty, of course. I walked to the ambulance, protesting that I felt silly about it, but Bitty, who’d been held hostage all day, rose to the occasion like a true belle. I fully expected her to swoon just like Aunt Pitty-Pat—another Gone with the Wind reference for the only person on the planet who hasn’t read the book or seen the movie—and to call for Uncle Peter and her smelling salts.

  Medics swarmed around her and Jackson Lee hovered anxiously, insisting upon holding her hand. He kept patting it as if he expected her to expire
at any moment, and of course, Bitty ate that up with a spoon. She loves focused attention, even when it’s undeserved.

  With Bitty safely loaded onto a gurney for the three yard trip to the waiting ambulance, she stretched out her free arm dramatically, calling, “Chen Ling! Where is my darling? I must have her with me. She’s the only thing that kept me alive during that terrible time . . . . ”

  “Oh yes,” I muttered rather irritably as I climbed into the back of the other ambulance on my own, “that terrible seven hour ordeal sitting on your butt in a warm freezer far outweighs a bullet wound.” I told you I can be bitchy.

  Kit, who had checked over the dog and pronounced her as fit as a bow-legged, knock-kneed dog with an underbite and three front teeth can be, valiantly carried the grumpy pug to Bitty’s waiting arms. Then, with Chitling sitting on her stomach and looking like something out of Star Wars, Bitty was borne to the ambulance with all the pomp of Cleopatra on her barge.

  I had to move my feet quickly before the attendant shut the ambulance door on them.

  Then Kit showed up, demanding to be allowed to ride with me and demanding to know why my wound hadn’t already been tended. “Damn, son,” he snapped at the young man in the white coat, “don’t you know that she could go into shock?”

  “But . . . but it’s just a scratch,” the young attendant protested, and the look in Kit’s eyes made him fumble for the door latch. “It’s stopped bleeding,” he added as he got the door open.

  Kit was undeterred. “Are you telling me you aren’t familiar with infection? If I’d known she hadn’t already been prepped, I’d have been in here doing it myself.”

  He sounded furious. The attendant looked terrified. I was fascinated. I’ve never had a man treat me like I need protection. Most men take one look at me and figure a big strapping woman like I am can take care of herself. It’s quite a novel feeling to be treated as fragile.

  Anyway, I had my first ride in an ambulance, which made me suspect that I must look pretty awful, but Kit rode with me, and while that was a little awkward, he did make me feel better. In a way, it was almost romantic, even if the rose and purple sunset was only viewable by peering through those little rectangular ambulance windows, but I didn’t mind. I felt safe.