Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  Kit held my hand. “You’re just fine,” he said.

  “I’ve always known that, thank you,” I replied, and we both grinned at each other like two tenth graders. Then he kissed me. I liked it a lot.

  It’s almost embarrassing to remember. Our new EMT made funny noises in the back of his throat, but springtime always brings out people’s allergies.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’ve always known that Happily Ever Afters aren’t really possible. Not like in fairy tales or Disney movies. But sometimes, the next best thing is better than you ever thought it might be. As a card-carrying cynic, of course I expect it to blow up in my face at any moment, but I’ve decided that the fun of the ride is worth the price of the ticket. Whatever happens, happens. One way or the other.

  Not all has been well in Fairy Land, however, at least, not for the villains. Melody Doyle, whose lawyer got her a really good deal, still has to do a year in a minimum security prison for her part in the charity funds fraud and the Class D felony of the traveling corpses. All the Divas were able to get off in exchange for their testimony—and are the newest town celebrities—and poor Gaynelle Bishop, who didn’t know anything at all about her niece’s activities, has still stood by her. We all understand that. It’s what family does. In fact, we’d be shocked if she didn’t.

  Thankfully, Cindy Nelson has a concussion but no long-lasting effects from Georgie hitting her in the head after Cindy realized that Georgie had been the one to tell Melody about hiding the senator in the cemetery. And Cindy doesn’t hold any grudges against Gaynelle, either. Georgie’s another matter.

  Working so often in the cemetery provided Georgie with perfect access to the senator’s frozen body, and no one thought anything about her moving things around with a furniture dolly, since she occasionally did that, too. Now Georgie’s on industrial strength anti-psychotics. I hope her reservations at Whitfield are for a lifetime residency.

  Jerry Ray Dean, the former Jefferson Johnston, is on the list of Favorite To Be Extradited, so when he gets out of Parchman, no doubt Jerry Ray will become best friends with a cellmate named Bubba in Georgia. Easthaven is up for sale again, and Bitty is thinking of buying it. Bless her heart.

  We discussed that very thing out on the screened porch of Six Chimneys while the ceiling fan recycled cool air over our heads and we drank tall frosted glasses of fresh lemonade.

  “I swear, Sharita makes the best lemonade ever,” Bitty said, using her straw to swirl the festive sprig of mint around in the glass.

  “I gave her Mama’s recipe,” I replied after a moment, feeling very lazy and relaxed for the first time in a long while. Warm days do that to me, especially when everything’s blooming and birds are singing and I have a glass of high-calorie lemonade in my hand.

  “Really? I didn’t know that. What is it that Aunt Anna does different?”

  “Mashes the sliced lemons up in all the sugar first to make that thick syrup, then adds ice a little at a time, stirring it until it melts. It takes a lot of ice. And a big metal bowl or pan. A couple dozen lemons. I think she used a stockpot when we were kids, we drank so much of it.”

  We thought on that, probably both of us recalling long summer days, lightning bugs, and cups of lemonade. The smell of freshly cut grass, sleeping out in tents until the mosquitoes got so bad we had to come inside, then the smell of pink calamine lotion on all our bites. Nice memories.

  “So, do you think I should buy Easthaven?” Bitty asked, and I said Good Lord, no. She craned her neck to look at me. “Why not?”

  “What do you need another house for, Bitty? You’ve got this one, and it’s a wonderful house. Even with Clayton and Brandon and half of Ole Miss and Mississippi State here during their spring break, it wasn’t so bad. You don’t need anything bigger.”

  “Oh, you’re right. I guess I was just thinking of the fun it’d be to work on another house. You know, fix it all up.”

  “If you’re looking for another distraction, buy Chitling a set of false teeth.”

  “Leave Chen Ling alone. She’s beautiful just as she is. Besides, she saved our lives.”

  “I remember that a little differently,” I said rather crossly. “She was a distraction. I saved our lives by smacking Georgie in the head with that barrel stave.”

  “A shame about all that. And I never even suspected. Why, that girl is just deranged. I mean, I wanted to get The Cedars on the tour and definitely on the Historical Register, but I’d never have gone to the lengths she did.”

  “Certainly not. I’d have had you a room at Whitfield long before that,” I said. “Maybe I should make reservations for you, anyway. Getting into the car with Georgie just because she said Jackson Lee had been kicked in the head by a cow and was at the hospital. You knew he was at his office with me, waiting for you to get there.”

  “Well, I just didn’t think, Trinket. I mean, when she said that, all I could think about was Jackson Lee laid out like a big old tree on some hospital bed.”

  “Once she passed up the hospital, you should have jumped out of the car.”

  “And risk hurting Chen Ling? I couldn’t do that. You know I couldn’t.”

  I looked at the pug cuddled up next to Bitty and wearing a pretty lace bib that said, “My Mommy Loves Me,” and recognized the truth in that.

  Bitty turned over on the lounge to look at me, uprooting Chitling, who gave her a sour look and disgruntled growl, then got down to waddle over to her empty food bowl. Diets are hell.

  “Besides, you got in the car with her,” Bitty pointed out.

  I’d been hoping she wouldn’t remember that. I sighed. “Yeah, I know. Good thing for you I did or you’d have frozen to death.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. The generator ran out of gas. Thank God.”

  We both said our silent prayers of gratitude again.

  “What do you think set Georgie off?” Bitty asked.

  “Well, according to her deposition, it was right after Sanders killed Philip. She got there in time to see Melody take off, and then saw what Sanders had done. She helped him drag Philip into the closet, clean things up a little bit. It’s not that she cared so much that he killed Philip, but then Sanders said he intended to sell The Cedars to Nissan anyway. That’s what set her off.”

  “That was stupid,” Bitty observed. “Nissan never even seriously considered his land.”

  “We know that now. It was part of Philip’s pork barrel promise. A pay-back to one of his big donors. He teased Sanders with promises he never intended to keep, just to get him to sign an agreement or waiver for that land. One thing about Philip, he always had a much higher opinion of his intelligence than he did of anyone else’s. But Sherman Sanders knew enough to recognize a smooth-talking politician with a promise in his eyes and a lie in his mouth.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to rub in the fact that I married Philip,” Bitty said. “Anyway, she should never have believed Sanders. He used to say all kinds of mean things to me. But I think he might have liked me a little, too. You know, since I used to take him all those goodies. And he knew I admired The Cedars and his work on it. Such a lovely old house.”

  She said that last a little wistfully. The fate of The Cedars was in the air. Hollandale had designated the land facing Highway 7 for the sewage project, so it’d probably be appropriated by imminent domain, but no one knew what Sanders’ heirs might do with the house and the remaining two acres it sat on.

  “Maybe it’ll be on the pilgrimage next year,” I said to be nice, though it didn’t seem likely to happen. People get greedy, and if money could be made by selling the house, then that’s what would happen. “It wasn’t even missed this year, you had so many wonderful houses.”

  “This year’s pilgrimage went very nicely, don’t you think?” Bitty said, and I was glad she didn’t look sad anymore.

  “The best one yet. The weather was perfect, and attendance was up, and all the houses were beautiful. Clayton and Brandon looked so handsome in their unifor
ms, too. And of course, you were gorgeous as always.”

  Bitty smiled. She does love to hear that.

  “You should have worn a costume,” she said. “I could have had one altered to fit you.”

  “In what parallel universe? I’d have looked like a drag queen, or that Britney Spears guy we had at the Mardi Gras Diva day.”

  “You should know, Trinket, that I submitted your name to the Divas for membership. It was unanimous. You’re now a Dixie Diva.”

  My head got a little light and I considered switching my lemonade for Jack Daniel’s. But then I reconsidered. After all, it’s my civic duty as a Holly Springs resident to belong to local groups formed for the betterment of society, and certainly, the Divas make things better. Entire wine and chocolate industries enjoy record sales since the forming of the group.

  “I’m so proud,” I said, and Bitty smiled as we lifted our glasses of lemonade in a toast.

  “Good. We’re having it at your house this month. Rayna’s got to get the Inn in shape for the inspectors’ visit. It’s almost certain it’s going to be on the Historical Register, so it’ll qualify for state funding. Isn’t that nice?”

  “The third Saturday, right?” I managed to get out, wondering just how this had suddenly gone so wrong. “That’s my birthday.”

  “I know! Won’t that be fun? Don’t worry about the entertainment. I’ve already lined up a huge birthday cake with just the right kind of filling. Six-two, hard abs, and wearing a thong.”

  “Urk,” I said. “My parents,” I said. “My mother,” I said, then, with horror, “my father!”

  “I thought they’re going to be gone on their next trip.”

  “God.” I closed my eyes and sighed. “They have pamphlets on backpacking across the Yucatan. I suggested the cruise to Cancún.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that they suggest those outrageous things just so you’ll happily agree to the trip they really want to take?”

  I opened my eyes. “My God. I’ve been so blind. And it’s working—I’m so glad to get them to do something sensible, I commit myself to caring for their deranged dog and crazy cats.”

  “Well, you didn’t think they got to their age without learning something from their kids, did you,” Bitty said, and I looked at her thoughtfully. Sometimes, she’s a lot sharper than she pretends to be.

  While I mulled over my lack of suspicion of two sweet, elderly parents who’d seemed so guileless and been so treacherous, Bitty leaped to a former topic of discussion.

  “Speaking of deranged, Georgie Marshall needs to be in jail instead of Whitfield. Why, she killed Sanders and almost killed Cindy, and would have killed you and me.”

  “Yes, but she is unbalanced.”

  “Not so unbalanced she couldn’t figure out exactly where that gold was hidden, when no one else was able to do it for a hundred and forty years.”

  “Apparently,” I pointed out, “the Sanders family was able to find it. They spent enough of it over the years.”

  “Still, I think it was pretty smart of her, figuring out that the clue to where the gold was hidden was carved on Elijah Richmond’s tombstone. ‘Money is the root of all evil.’ And so he buried all that Richmond gold in the root cellar.”

  “And Sherman Sanders kept rotten potatoes on top of it just to discourage anyone who might come looking. That’s probably why she buried Grant’s statue next to the gold.” I shuddered. “It’d certainly discourage me. I don’t care how much he has down there, I wouldn’t go digging for it. No wonder Melody and Jefferson never found it.”

  “Well,” Bitty said practically, “now the state of Mississippi is taking care of it. Along with the estate. Such a shame. The Cedars would be really wonderful on our tour. All those beautiful old things, and the attic—I do hope they get those clothes out of plastic bags before they go to ruin.”

  Bitty really can be single-minded.

  “I’m sure they will, Bitty. You know, if Georgie hadn’t gone off the deep end like she did and kept hitting people in the head with General Grant, you might have ended up convicted of murder. Do you ever think about that?”

  “Not much. I mean, it didn’t happen, so why should I worry about it? It’s a shame about General Grant, though. Even if it’s Grant, it’s a really nice statue. I hope the police return it. And I definitely want my carpet back. Jackson Lee said he’d make sure it’s cleaned and returned. Aren’t happy endings nice?”

  After a moment, I said, “I’d love to live in Bitty World. It must be so nice there. Blue skies, rainbows, golden streets—”

  Bitty said something rude and threw a pillow at me. I managed to deflect it before it made me spill my lemonade.

  “Well, that was childish, Bitty. And you almost fifty-two years old.”

  “No, you’re almost fifty-two years old. I’m nearly fifty.”

  “I know, I know, fifty-one is just as close to fifty as forty-nine. God, you’re vain. And in just a few months, you’ll be fifty-two.”

  “You’re calling me vain? Just who put a henna rinse on their hair last week to cover the gray?”

  “I just did that so Mama’s dog will stop barking at me every time he sees my hair,” I said in my defense. “Brownie thinks it’s a squirrel on my head.”

  “Then stop wearing it with that little squirrel tail hanging down your neck. Wear it loose. It makes you look years younger.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. I’m happy being fifty-one, fifty-two this month. I earned the right to get here. It’s been a journey with a lot of interesting sights along the way. Some not so good, but just when I think things can’t get any worse, they do. That’s how I know I’m alive. If I lived in Bitty World, I’d feel like every day was a walk with Willy Wonka. No thanks. Bitty’s good at handling her world, I’m satisfied with handling mine. The occasional overlap creates havoc, but we’re working on that.

  Bitty said thoughtfully, “You know, I’ve been thinking of buying a house in Florida.”

  “Hurricanes, senior drivers, alligators, Donald Trump, OJ Simpson . . . . ”

  “Or California.”

  “Earthquakes, mudslides, brush fires, Michael Jackson, Arnold Schwarzenegger . . . ”

  “Canada?”

  “Canadians.”

  I meant that in jest, since I think Canadians are a lot smarter than most Americans. They have socialized health care, cheaper medications than in America, and a monarchy they mostly ignore. Politicians there aren’t much different than here, however. It’s a universal virus that turns sweet infants into crafty, double-dealing, double-talking criminals thinly disguised as honest, upright citizens who have only their countries’ best interests at heart. If scientists can find a cure for that virus, they’ve found the key to world peace.

  “What’s the matter with Canadians?” Bitty asked in surprise.

  “Nothing. But they’d probably put you in a strait-jacket an hour after you got there. Stay here, Bitty. You’re much safer. And so are they. Let’s keep international relations peaceful.”

  Whatever Bitty might have said to that went unsaid, thankfully, since Chitling started barking at the arrival of visitors. She makes an excellent doorbell, if you don’t mind the puddles.

  “Hope you don’t mind, sugar,” Jackson Lee said as he came down the steps, “but I just let myself in since I figured you couldn’t hear the doorbell out here.”

  Bitty sat up, going into instant belle-mode. “Why Jackson Lee, you sweet thing, I don’t mind at all.”

  With Bitty, The Scarlett sounds perfectly natural. If I said something like that, I’d get another ride in an ambulance. Or to Whitfield.

  But then I found myself on the verge of breaking into a belle myself as I saw Kit Coltrane right behind Jackson Lee, looking straight at me and smiling. Sometimes it’s hard to remember I’m not sixteen anymore.

  “Just thought you ladies might like to hear some good news,” Jackson Lee said, grinning at Bitty like she’d just given him a new pair of boots. She patt
ed the lounge in an invitation, and he settled himself on the end of it, looking a little awkward and much too big, but determined to perch there if it killed him. It might. Bitty’s been known to be devastating.

  “We sure would, honey,” Bitty cooed, “good news is always welcome.”

  “Oh, you’ll like this, sugar,” he said to her, and I rolled my eyes.

  “With all this sugar and honey being slopped around, I might go into insulin shock before you get around to telling us anything, Jackson Lee,” I said, and heard Kit laugh.

  Jackson Lee’s face got a little red, but he got over it pretty quickly. “All right, here it is. I just heard that Sherman Sanders left The Cedars to the Holly Springs Historical Society, and—”

  Bitty gasped and clasped her hands together when he paused, then he finished:

  “He stipulated that Mrs. Elisabeth Truevine Hollandale be designated caretaker—in his own words, ‘Because she worried the life out of me about that house and I know she’ll take good care of it.’”

  “I can’t believe it,” Bitty breathed. “The Cedars is saved! Oh, Sanders must have wanted to atone for all those years of hate and bitterness brought about by his ancestor’s actions.”

  “More than likely,” I pointed out, “he was just hoping for a ticket into heaven.”

  “Oh, Trinket, you can be such a cynic.” Bitty turned back to look at Jackson Lee. “This is really true? The Cedars will be on the Historic Register?”

  Jackson Lee nodded. “Not only that, sug—Bitty, but Sanders gave instructions on where to find the gold buried in the cellar. Said it was too big a temptation to some folks, and it should be used for the upkeep of the house. He did leave a couple other bequests, one to some Japanese woman he knew years ago, and even some things to the Richmond heirs. Photos of their kin, that statue of Forrest—and a solid gold bar with Elijah Richmond’s name stamped on it.”