Divas and Dead Rebels (16 page)

“You counted the steps?” I asked as I squinted out the window at the driving rain.

“Yes. I vote we take the lesser of two evils.”

“Did you bring an umbrella?”

Bitty looked at me. “No. Let’s just make a run for it.”

“Is your sunroom door unlocked?”

“Good lord, Trinket, you can sit out here all day and ask questions if you want to, but I’m going inside. Are you coming?”

“I’ll wait until you get the door unlocked.”

“Fine. You can carry Chen Ling, then, so she doesn’t get too wet.”

I looked at the little dog, who stared back at me with suspicion in her dark brown bug-eyes. Even without the tulle bow she looked imperious, a queen to be cosseted and kept dry. Easy decision. I held out my hand.

“I’ll unlock the door. Give me your keys.”

“Are you sure?”

I looked at the dog again. “Very sure. Chitling is ready to either bite me or pee on me, and I’d rather get rain-wet than endure either of those doggy activities.”

Bitty handed me the keys. “It’s the one with the square head. Marker, I think. It’ll open the security door, and I don’t ever lock the wooden one.”

“No wonder Jackson Lee insisted on updating your security system. He just didn’t take into account the fact that you refuse to lock doors.”

“Well, it’s hard to get used to it when we never locked doors growing up. Times have changed, I guess, but I don’t like it.”

I put my hand on the door handle. “Neither do I, but there’s no point in inviting trouble. We get into enough uninvited trouble as it is.”

Bitty’s sunroom used to be the kitchen way back when it was dangerous to have kitchens attached to the main house. Fire was always a huge concern. Now it’s a large sunroom that was attached to the house during renovations about a hundred years ago. It probably should have remained unattached since Bitty made the mistake of trying to cook breakfast not so long ago and nearly burned down the entire house, but it serves its purpose as a sunroom very well in cold weather. In warm weather, Bitty opens the glass windows so it’s a screened porch.

Six Chimneys is renovated Victorian in style, with cupolas and curlicues and old shingles that make it very appealing. What it lacks, however, are decent rain gutters. Once I got out of the car and dashed across the driveway and up the bricked path to the wrought-iron security door, I had to stand beneath a steady drip of rain off the first floor roof. I said a few awful things under my breath, finally got the key into the lock and turned, and then had to use all my strength to open the heavy door. Damn that Jackson Lee. He must have had the door reinforced with ninety pounds of iron! I think I strained something pulling it open.

If I hadn’t paused to see if I’d pulled a muscle, I wouldn’t have been run over by a short blonde female with a fat brown pug running to get out of the rain. As it was, she propelled herself through the door like a torpedo, spinning me around so that I ended up outside again. More gutter-free rain dumped on my head.

“You could have waited,” I grumbled once I regained my balance and staggered through the door into the shelter of the sunroom. “I barely got the door open.”

“I declare, Trinket, you’ve been really whiny lately. You’re upsetting Chen Ling.”

“Nothing upsets Chitling. Unless you’re out of food.” I stuck my fingers in my hair and tried to shake it free of rainwater. It felt sticky.

Bitty looked up at me, and her eyes widened a little. “What?” I said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you do something
different
to your hair?”

“Just color. Why? What’s the matter with it?”

“Oh . . . nothing. It just looks a bit—fried.”

“Fried?” I remembered I’d used a new hair gel earlier. “Oh, it’s a new product I tried. I guess it’s not compatible with water.”

“Oh no, it’d be fine if you plan to never wash your hair again. Honestly, I wish you’d let me treat you to a day at the spa.”

As I followed her up the shallow stairs to the kitchen door I said, “There is no spa in Holly Springs. We’d have to go up to Memphis or Collierville.”

“Or Olive Branch or Southaven. They have spas.” Bitty turned the doorknob and pushed open the kitchen door, and we entered a world of heavenly fragrances. “Sharita must be here,” said Bitty. “I’d forgotten she switched days this week. I guess I didn’t see her car at the curb.”

“Neither did I. Does Sharita have a key?” I wondered aloud.

“Of course. So does Jackson Lee, the pest control company and Maria. Of course she comes so early to clean everything I’m always here anyway.”

“Who doesn’t have a key to your house?” I asked. “And probably knows your alarm code, too? Not that you ever set it.”

“Don’t be tacky, Trinket. It’s an unpleasant habit.”

“My, my,” I drawled, “it’s so vairy vairy wahm in heah . . .”

My retort was an old one; we use it whenever we don’t want to continue the topic under discussion—or to get out of conversational quicksand. It worked. We both smiled.

Chen Ling began to struggle, and Bitty set her down on the floor. The prissy pug immediately headed for the origin of the delicious smells. She knows a good thing when she smells it. We peeled off our outer layer of wet clothes in Bitty’s laundry room and changed into thick terry cloth robes fresh from the dryer before following the pug.

Sharita Stone is in her late twenties, I’d say, and already has her own business. She owns a small bakery that provides muffins and homemade jams to customers, as well as a clientele who pay her to come to their homes and prepare a week’s worth of food at a time. She also caters parties and banquets, and on occasion, Diva meetings. Bitty would starve to death if not for Sharita.

I’d weigh three hundred pounds if I could afford her. It was bad enough that my mother had been on a cooking marathon the past few days. I could almost feel my thighs growing more cellulite every time I stepped into our kitchen.

Chitling beat us to Sharita, but we weren’t too far behind. Bitty caught up the dog and pulled off her wet doggy dress, then took it to the laundry room. I got to the kitchen first. Sharita stood at the granite counter in a professional looking white apron, her curly black hair pulled on top of her head and secured with a rainbow of elastic bands.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious,” I said in a shameless attempt to get a taste. When she looked at me, I waggled my eyebrows.

Sharita’s dark eyes lit up with amusement. “You’ll have to wait until it’s ready. I thought Miss Bitty might like some cold weather food now that the weather’s turned.”

“Italian,” I guessed, and she laughed.

“Some of it. And some of it’s just good plain food like Miss Sarah used to cook.”

Miss Sarah was Bitty’s mother. She’d left a legacy of recipes that might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics for all the good they’d do Bitty, but Sharita made good use of them.

“I smell pot roast,” said Bitty on her return from the laundry room, sniffing the air just like her dog would do. “Veal Parmigiana? Beef Stroganoff?”

“Very good, Miss Bitty, and if you want me to finish up here before I have to go to my next appointment, you’ll scoot out of the way and leave me be.”

We’re accustomed to Sharita’s scolds. She’s forced to do that a lot. Otherwise, we’d both be under her feet in the kitchen while she prepares meals.

“I’d forgotten you changed days,” said Bitty, stalling as she eyed the rich tomato sauce Sharita was stirring. “I didn’t see your car out front.”

“My car’s in the shop over at Brewster’s. My brother gave me a ride here, and he’ll pick me up. Don’t even try that, Miss Bitty. I see your spoon. You know I don’t allow no double-dippin’.”

“Just
one
teeny-weeny taste?” Bitty begged, and Sharita rolled her dark eyes. I stayed close just in case. After some more wheedling, Sharita gave in, and we managed to wrangle a taste of Parmigiana sauce before she shooed us out of the kitchen.

“She’s good,” I commented, still licking my lips as we headed for Bitty’s small parlor off the front hall. “I thought for a minute there she was going to smack your hand with that big wooden spoon.”

“So did I. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

I didn’t doubt it. Sharita has a no-nonsense way about her, although she’s usually smiling and cheerful.

“Everyone says she’s an excellent businesswoman and is doing quite well,” Bitty added as we reached the parlor. “Her catering and shop haven’t suffered much at all in this economic decline.”

“That’s because she sells delicious foods at fair prices. Just like Budgie. Turn on a lamp,” I said when I stepped into the parlor. Gray light seeped through wooden window shutters, barely illuminating the room. “It’s dark as a tomb in here.”

“That’s a ghoulish thought,” muttered Bitty. “Especially after everything that’s happened lately.” She reached across an overstuffed chair under the window and turned on the antique brass lamp on the table at one side. Then she flopped onto the snowy white chair cushions.

“You haven’t changed your slipcovers from summer yet?” I asked as I mimicked her actions by flopping onto the matching chair across the room. “It’s November.”

“I know, I know. My other slipcovers were too frayed, so I’m having new ones made, and it’s taking longer than expected. When did you become the designer police?”

“What a testy little thing you are,” I said mildly. “It’s just that I know how you are about having things done at the proper times.”

“Sorry.” Bitty folded her right arm over her face in a dramatic gesture that made me roll my eyes while she couldn’t see me. “It’s all this worry about my precious sons, and if they’ll end up arrested for a murder they didn’t commit—I tell you, Trinket, my life will just
end
if something happens to them, I swear it will!”

“Oh Bitty, nothing is going to happen to them, it just can’t. You know they’re not mixed up in the professor’s murder, so I doubt that anything at all comes out of Clayton being one of his many students who didn’t like him.”

Her arm dropped from over her face, and her expression was so genuinely anxious that I couldn’t tease her when she said, “You think so, Trinket, you truly do?”

“Of course, I do, honey.”

Bitty looked relieved, and I felt a twinge of concern that I wasn’t quite as sure as I pretended. Oh, I didn’t think either boy was guilty of anything like murder, but there was always the chance that they’d cover up for a friend.

So to change the subject I asked, “Where’s the ornament you usually have around your neck? You know, the furry queen of flatulence?”

“Don’t be tacky, Trinket,” Bitty reproved. “Chen Ling has digestive issues. It’s quite a worry to Dr. Coltrane.”

Just the mention of Kit’s name gave me one of those stomach flutters that often accompany heat flashes when in his presence. There should be a law against men who can cause such reactions by long distance.

“I’m sure her digestive problems have nothing at all to do with her scarfing down half a platter of cocktail weenies whenever possible,” I said. “Toothpicks and all.”

Bitty looked indignant. “She did not. I got to her before she could. Although that tacky Catherine Moore said dogs belong outside, not in nice company, she behaved very well after that, too.”

Catherine Moore . . . “How well do you know her?” I asked Bitty. “And how does she fit into the Ole Miss academic circle?”

“I imagine she fits in horizontally with all the male professors,” Bitty replied with a twitch of her brows. Botox doesn’t allow much more than twitching these days. “She’s in Admin and thinks she runs the entire school single-handed.”

“What does Admin do?”

“Administration. You know, in charge of all the pesky details that go with such a large campus. She says she coordinates everything from landscaping to library.”

“Hm. Would she really be the one to order books for the library?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket,
I
don’t know! All I know is that she thinks she’s the queen of Ole Miss when she really isn’t anything more than a toady. Let’s talk about something besides that wretched woman, okay?”

“Truthfully,” I said, “I’m a mite chilled.”

“I can light a fire, if you want.”

“That’s all right. This bathrobe is warm. I’m just damp from our run in the rain.”

“Well,” said Bitty, “you do look rather like a half-drowned rat.”

I don’t know why it is, but when she makes a comment like that, my hand goes automatically to my hair. It was wet and stringy. Earlier it had been brushed into a soft curve against my face; now it felt matted and sticky. I flexed my toes and then grabbed a plush chenille throw draped over the back of the matching overstuffed chair where I sat. “Thank you,” I said in reply to her comparing me to a half-drowned rat. “A pity we can’t all be impervious to the rain like you. I assume you spray all that lacquer on your hair to keep your brain dry? Can’t have it getting through all those holes in your head.”

Bitty patted her hair. I thought I heard some of it break, but she merely said, “It works, and that’s all I expect of my hair spray. If you had a style, I’d suggest you use it as well.”