Dixie Diva Blues (3 page)

Rayna pulled the car over to the curb in front of a house I recognized, and hit the horn twice. Gaynelle Bishop opened the front door and scurried down the walk toward us. She’s a retired schoolteacher and long-time Diva. Now that she doesn’t have to teach children to sit still, listen, and stop cussing in class, her entire appearance has changed. She used to wear plain cotton dresses, cats-eye glasses, and short hair that was dull gray. That’s altered to silk blouses, silk-blend slacks, contact lens or designer eyeglasses, and hair cut into an inverted bob and colored a nice shade of light brown.

Once Gaynelle was in the back seat next to Bitty and the pug, Rayna turned in the driver’s seat to look at all of us.

“Rob is in Clarksdale. In jail. I have to go post bond for him.”

I gaped at her. “Rob? In jail? Dear lord, what idiotic thing happened that would put him in jail? I mean, he’s a former cop. Don’t police have some kind of silent agreement about not arresting each other? You know, as comrades in arms, so to speak?”

A faint smile curved Rayna’s mouth. “It would be nice.”

Bitty rearranged Chen Ling in her baby sling and said, “It’s not like Rob is some kind of criminal, for heaven’s sake. He’s not the kind of man to run out and break a law. Is he? I mean, if he did, he must have had a good reason for it. Was he drinking?”

I gave Bitty a reproving look meant to shut her up, then said to Rayna, “It’s just something minor, I’m sure. Right?”

“No,” said Rayna, and took a deep breath. “They’ve charged Rob with murder.”

“Murder?” I repeated. “
Murder
? Robert Rainey? Are you serious?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket,” said Bitty, “why would she kid about a thing like that? You’re not kidding, are you, Rayna?”

“No. I’m not kidding. He called about fifteen minutes ago.”

Gaynelle nodded. “I was there when he called. This is so awful. But it’s going to be fine, Rayna, you know it is. There’s been some error made, and they may even have released him by the time we get there. This is all just a big mistake.”

“God, I hope so.”

Rayna’s fervent comment sounded more like a prayer, and I added my own, as I am pretty sure Bitty and Gaynelle did, too. Chen Ling made the only sound in the sudden silence that fell, and that was a doggy sort of utterance that I generously decided to think of as her own kind of prayer on Rob’s behalf.

Turning back in her seat, Rayna squared her shoulders and started the SUV. We left Holly Springs and headed west to Clarksdale, none of us knowing quite what we would find when we got there. Whatever it was, I had the nagging feeling that it would not be good.

CHAPTER 2

Clarksdale is around ninety miles from Holly Springs. We took MS-4 Highway west across to the I-55 interstate connection at Senatobia, then south a short distance to Batesville, and from there we took MS-6 west to 161 Highway that goes right on in to the middle of town. Once off the interstate, the roads are mostly two-lane highways through cotton fields, soybean and corn fields, pick-your-own blueberry patches, and a few pecan orchards.

There’s a junction of 49 and old 61 Highways that has long been touted as the spot where the devil gave a blues player talent in exchange for his soul, but by the time we reached Clarksdale it was dark and I missed seeing the tourist signs. We were all too keyed up to pay much attention, anyway. Worry often has a way of doing that to people.

It was easy to find the new courthouse since it’s part of a major judicial complex almost completely surrounded by attorney’s offices, but in the dim light afforded by fuzzy vapor lights, it took us several passes along Court Street before we spotted the police station set on the edge of a nearly one-lane asphalt road. It’s the only building there with razor wire curled along the top of high, chain-link fencing down one side. Parking spaces are limited, so it was a good thing we got there at a fairly quiet time of day.

“My gawd,” Bitty said as she peered out the rear window, “it looks like you can’t throw a rock in this town without hitting a lawyer’s shingle.”

“Rob already called Jackson Lee,” Rayna murmured as she angled the big SUV in a slant between two painted white lines. “He’s supposed to have things arranged so all I have to do is post bail and get Rob out.”

“Jackson Lee is so efficient,” said Gaynelle with an approving nod. “It’s not very surprising that he has become one of the top attorneys in all of Mississippi.”

Bitty took the compliment personally, as if she had somehow had something to do with Jackson Lee Brunetti being so smart.

“Thank you, Gaynelle,” she said with a smile. “He is clever, isn’t he?”

Clever enough to keep
us
out of jail, I thought to myself, and that was a difficult task to achieve at times.

Rayna turned off the ignition and did a quick once-over in the dimly lit driver’s mirror before opening the car door. We all got out and stood in the parking lot, a posse of four ready to break Rob out of jail with cash and/or credit cards.

“You have enough money, don’t you?” Bitty asked Rayna. “If not . . .”

Rayna rattled her keys and nodded. “We have enough.”

Ever-practical Gaynelle said, “I assume you know how to write a bond, Rayna.”

“Yes. But Clarksdale is in Coahoma County, and I’m not sure of their protocol. Rob would know, of course.”

“Did he give you any details?” Bitty wanted to know. “About who he’s murdered, I mean.”

Rayna flinched, and I turned around just in time to see Gaynelle pinch Bitty on the arm. Bitty opened her mouth to protest, but Chen Ling protested first. For a fat old dog, she’s pretty fast, I must say. She almost nailed Gaynelle. Bitty scolded the dog, then apologized to Gaynelle, but since there was no bite and no real harm done, Gaynelle shrugged it off.

“Oh, I’m fine. Her bite could be no worse than a first-grader with a pair of blunt scissors, I’m sure. I still have scars from those occurrences.”

I looked at Bitty. Both she and Chen Ling looked back at me with suspicion. I shook my head. “You can’t take a dog into the police station, Bitty.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I can. She’s used to being carried everywhere.”

“No. What I mean is, I doubt the police will allow her inside.”

“Why, I go to the Holly Springs police station all the time with Chen Ling, and not once has anyone told me I can’t. I hope you don’t think I’ll leave her out here for just any convict to wander by and snatch!”

She sounded quite indignant, and I decided to let the Clarksdale police fend for themselves. If they didn’t want a dog inside, they could be the ones to convince Bitty.

Since it was after dark we had to push a button on the wall and identify ourselves to the small metal console screwed into bricks. Rayna’s voice quavered only slightly when she replied to the questioner. Then the door buzzed open, and we trooped inside and through a second glass entry into the waiting room.

Maybe “waiting room” isn’t the best way to describe the area. That phrase brings to mind doctor or dentist offices, none of which have bullet-proof glass for uniformed—and armed—receptionists. Nor do most dentist offices have a large corkboard filled with ads for bail bondsmen. Perhaps they should have. Prices just to clean teeth have become a form of armed robbery.

At any rate, once we were inside the concrete block area painted a soothing, pale, gray-green, Rayna went to the glass window and stated her business. The officer, a burly man with a uni-brow, rolled across the floor in his chair to peck at the computer for a moment. When he glanced up at last, his gaze moved to Bitty, who stood right next to Rayna.

“No dogs,” he said gruffly, and jerked his thumb toward the door.

Since he vindicated my earlier comments, I smiled. Bitty, however, did not. She drew herself up to the remarkable height of five-foot-two and said, “She has to stay with me.”

“Then you both can stand outside,” came the expected reply.

Bitty’s eyes narrowed. I recognized an imminent scene and took a backward step just in case there should be trouble of the arresting kind. With Bitty, one never knows quite how far she’ll take what she considers to be an injustice.

“I’ll have you know,” said Bitty, “that this is a valuable service dog.”

“Yeah? Where’s her Service Animal ID tag?”

“It spoils the look and makes too much noise.”

The officer’s eyes flicked to the pug Bitty held in a baby-sling across her ample chest. Chen Ling wore a pink, diamond-studded collar that could barely be seen beneath a pink-and-cream handmade bib tied around her neck.
I Love Mommy
was embroidered in fancy stitching on the crushed velvet material. The baby sling was of sturdier material, but edged with more velvet, and the inside was a soft chenille—pink, of course. Bitty had Chen Ling’s clothes, bibs, and slings specially sewn and/or altered to her specifications. I hope to come back in my next life as Bitty’s dog.

Needless to say, the officer did not buy Bitty’s claim that the pug was a service animal. He pointed to the double glass doors. “Out.”

Bitty stood her ground. “Officer, this dog is highly trained.”

“In what?”

“I have fits. She can tell when one is about to hit and alerts me.”

The policeman, who I assumed to be a sheriff’s deputy of some kind, looked at Bitty from under the long, dark slash of his eyebrow. The tip of a pencil he chewed on briefly stilled before he switched it to the other side of his mouth and said, “What kind of fits?”

“Oh, just the usual kind. You know. Twitching. Drooling. Flopping around on the floor.”

Obviously intrigued, the deputy leaned forward a little bit to look at Bitty through the glass. “How does the dog help?”

“She can tell when a fit is coming on and barks so I can sit down somewhere. It’s very helpful.”

Amazed by Bitty’s creativity and on-the-spot lying expertise, I did my best to keep a straight face. Rayna decided to step to one side to stare at the bail bondsman ads while Gaynelle stuck it out with me. In her years as a teacher she had become well accustomed to facile liars and inventive tales. She’s seen and heard everything, I’m sure.

The cop just looked at Bitty for a moment, then sat back in his chair and shook his head. Apparently, he wasn’t buying any of it. I realize police are a lot like teachers. They have, no doubt, seen and heard everything in the way of excuses.

Before the cop could question Bitty further, Chen Ling began to bark ferociously. Bitty looked down at her, and then said, “Oh my! I need to sit down at once. Get me a chair. Someone please . . . get me a chair. I feel . . . a fit coming on . . .”

I decided to join in this charade just to get things moving in the right direction, and so I put my arm around Bitty to take her to a row of chairs set beneath the wall of bail bondsman ads.

“What’d you do,” I murmured in her ear as I made a show out of getting her seated, “pinch Lassie to get her to bark?”

Sagging in my arms, Bitty deliberately stomped my toes as she wobbled into the chair. But while she pretended to faint, I heard her whisper,
“Timmy’s in the well,”
and it was all I could do not to laugh. Bitty and I both have a tendency to repeat lines from old TV shows. Since we spent large portions of our childhoods grounded in our respective homes, we know plenty of trivia in that area. Old sit-coms are our favorites, but we’ll quote from any source we can remember.

At any rate, with Bitty and Chen Ling safely seated, Rayna was able to continue her business with the police officer at the window. After a few minutes of trading official information, she and Gaynelle disappeared into another room just across the wide hall. Mini-blinds shut off my view. Bitty and I remained in the waiting room. Security cameras were bolted to concrete block walls, so I nudged Bitty with my elbow and whispered, “Drool. Twitch. I think we’re being watched.”

Really, I did that more for my own entertainment than for any other reason, as I was pretty sure the officer behind the glass didn’t care if Chen Ling was there as long as she stayed quiet. And didn’t leave doggy doodles on the floor.

It gave me great pleasure for Bitty to bob her head and drool from one corner of her mouth, and I rather enjoyed her frequent twitches. “You could have had a Hollywood career,” I observed after a couple minutes went by. “Your foot and hand-prints right out in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater . . . probably next to Cheetah, the chimp from the Tarzan movies.”

Bitty stopped twitching long enough to say something pithy, then let her head loll to the side again. I think she was really enjoying her performance.

One of the doors opened, and a man came out pushing a wide broom along the polished tile floors. I immediately deduced he must be an inmate since his white pants and shirt had wide green horizontal stripes; surely, he would not have deliberately chosen to wear garments that look like they stepped right out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Bitty leaned toward me and said from the side of her mouth, “Is that
The Cat in the Hat
?”

“No hat,” I replied, and we both giggled.

See what I mean about our minds running in the same direction far too often? It must be genetics. Some Truevine ancestor has a lot to answer for, in my opinion.