Divas and Dead Rebels (21 page)

“I won’t. Heavens, you make it sound like espionage.”

“It’s worse than that. See you tomorrow.”

Before I could ask her anything else she hung up. I looked at my cell phone, and out of curiosity, thumbed back the Caller ID to see her number. It came up unlisted. How strange.

I didn’t get much sleep that night, wondering what on earth was so urgent that Catherine Moore had to meet with me in such secrecy. Surely she hadn’t found out who killed the professor? If she had that kind of information, she should go to the police, and I’d tell her just that very thing if it turned out she’d learned the killer’s identity. It wasn’t safe to keep that kind of knowledge to yourself, I knew that much.

Chapter 10

Finding the restaurant was easy. Waiting for Catherine was annoying. Truth be told, I’ve never been very good at waiting. I’m an impatient person. Oh, I try not to let it show, but I get fidgety when forced to wait for someone to arrive, or for the other shoe to fall. When I get too fidgety, I tend to do unwise things.

“Another drink, ma’am?” my server asked in a solicitous tone, and I nodded.

“Please.”

Normally I stop at two drinks, especially when driving. I figured that food would soak up the alcohol, however, once Catherine arrived and we ordered. I checked my watch a couple times, then verified it was still working by asking a lady at the next table if she had the correct time. I drummed my fingers against the table, sipped my spritzer slowly—surely the amount of alcohol in a wine spritzer was negligible—and huffed big sighs a few more times before I decided to call her.

The number I had been given for her was apparently wrong. It rang several times with no answer, not even a canned voice offering to take a message. How odd. Maybe it was her home number, not her cell phone. But the cell phone she’d called me on the night before was unlisted. How was I supposed to reach her?

I did the unthinkable. I called Bitty.

“Do you have a cell phone number for Catherine Moore?” I asked when she answered.

“For Cat? I’m sure I have it somewhere—why?”

“Because I want to write it on a wall in the men’s bathroom, of course,” I said rather testily. “Why do you think I want it?”

“Well, aren’t you the little ray of sunshine today,” said Bitty calmly. “You’ve interrupted me in a garden club meeting, you know. But I’ll be the bigger person. I have her number in my address book if you’ll wait just a minute.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just . . .” My voice trailed off as I remembered that our meeting was supposed to be private. Secrecy is not my best talent. I try, but far too often find myself blurting out things best left unsaid.

Bitty gave me the number, then said, “You’re just what?”

I sighed. “I’m just supposed to call her. That’s all I can say for now. Okay?”

“Are you snooping around without me?”

“Would I do that?”

“Aha! You are,” Bitty accused.

“Not really. Frankly, I’m not at all sure what this is about. It may be something completely different than—” I paused, looked around me to be sure no one could hear me and finished in a low tone, “—murder.”

“But you don’t really think so.”

“I’m not sure what I think.”

“Hunh. I could tell you what to think.”

“I’m sure you could. Oh, never mind. I think I see her coming now. Talk to you in a little while.”

I hung up before Bitty could ask more questions or give more unwanted advice. To my profound relief, Catherine Moore wound her way through tables and joined me, dragging out a chair and sinking down into it with feline grace.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Gawd, I need a drink.”

She lifted her chin, and a waiter appeared at her elbow. “Vodka martini, dry, two olives,” she said as she pulled off a pair of expensive leather gloves. She tossed them carelessly into her open purse, removed expensive sunglasses to toss them inside as well, then set the designer bag on the empty chair next to her. I recognized it as a Jimmy Choo tote bag only because Bitty had one very similar. They start at a thousand dollars.

I watched in total fascination. Catherine Moore was one of those women who had the presence of a Hollywood star, and would even if she wore clothes from Walmart instead of designer duds. Her movements were casual yet graceful, her air one of utter boredom with her surroundings. If not for the faint frown lines that tucked her waxed—and probably Botoxed—eyebrows together, one would have thought her without a care in the world. Her husky voice reminded me once again of Anne Bancroft when she leaned forward and said, “You didn’t tell anyone about meeting me here, did you?”

“No,” I said, because it was true. I’d only asked Bitty for her cell phone number and not given any other information.

“Good. People have a nasty way of putting two and two together and coming up with five. Do you mind if I smoke?”

Without waiting for me to reply, she pulled a small case out of her bag and extracted a slim brown cigarette. While I anticipated choking to death on the second-hand smoke, she lit it with a practiced snap of her lighter and blew out a long stream of smoke that smelled like cloves. A rather pleasant surprise.

The waiter brought her drink and an ashtray, so I figured we must be in the smoking section. She took the glass in her free hand and swapped back and forth between drinking and smoking as she began telling me why she had asked to meet.

“You know I have no love for Emily Sturgis, nor did I like her boorish husband. It doesn’t bother me that he’s dead, but I don’t want all of Ole Miss to suffer because of his idiocy.” She blew out another stream of clove-scented smoke. “Too much negative attention can be bad for a university. We already had that controversy over Colonel Reb, and just barely got that settled when Spencer had to go and get himself murdered.”

Despite her outward calm, I noticed that her left eye had started to twitch a little, and the hand holding her drink trembled ever so slightly when she lifted it to her lips. I waited for her to continue. She drained half her martini before doing so.

“After meeting you at that farcical commiseration with the grieving widow, I got the feeling you and I are kindred spirits of a kind.”

Rather astonished, I gaped at her, and her lips curved with wry humor.

“
Of a kind
, I said. Of course, I’m much more cynical than you, but I could tell that you weren’t all that impressed by the show Emily put on.”

While I wasn’t at all sure I knew what she was talking about, I nodded as if I did and agreed.

Catherine took a deep drag of her skinny cigarette. “Even a legally blind person could tell exactly what Breck Hartford was up to, and neither he nor Emily fooled any of us for a second.”

Now I was really confused. Did she mean Breck and Emily were . . . intimate? Or partners in crime? I didn’t especially want to display my ignorance to someone who had assumed I was smarter than I was, but neither did I want to miss out on any possible clue that might point in the direction of the killer.

“They were having an affair?” I asked.

“More like a competition, I’d say. A ‘who can get away with what for how long’ kind of thing.”

That sounded promising. So I said, “Breck’s wife—does she know?”

Catherine lifted her brows. “I doubt Victoria knows that gravity is a law, but she can’t be so stupid as not to know her husband plays around on her. She pretends not to notice. Not that I blame her. If I had to live with a man as dedicated to drama as he is to wearing women’s panties, I’d play stupid, too.”

My confusion only deepened. What were we talking about here? A cross-dressing Romeo or a devious killer?

Maybe my expression registered my confusion, because Cat leaned forward and said, “You do realize, don’t you, that Breck and Emily have been having an affair almost since the time she and Spencer showed up in Oxford? It’s one of those things that everyone knows but no one wants to admit, just in case the police start poking into their own affairs a little too closely. Now
that
would be theater at its best.”

She sat back and took another drag off her cigarette, again spicing the air with the scent of cloves. After a moment, she said, “Breck Hartford hated Spencer. They had a history, though, even before Sturgis got to Ole Miss.”

“So you think Breck is responsible for killing the professor?” I asked.

“I do. He’s not the only one with a motive, but he’s the only one I know who’s capable of committing murder. I just can’t prove it.”

I was already fascinated, but now I felt she was finally edging around the reason for our “lunch” date in Tupelo. I tried to sound as nonchalant as she did. “So how do you think I can help?”

Catherine blew out another stream of smoke and smiled. “Breck is smarter than to leave an obvious trail of evidence. I think he’s covered up as much as he can, but there’s always something that’s overlooked. There really isn’t such a thing as a perfect murder. I need someone who isn’t too close to the situation, and whom Breck would never suspect, to get to the truth and find the evidence. It’s there. We just have to dig it up.”

When she said “we” I knew exactly who she had in mind. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be involved, however.

“I can’t imagine what kind of reason would be enough to commit murder,” I said. “
Why
would he kill Professor Sturgis?”

A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. “It’s been my observation that the main reasons people become killers involve love, fear and/or personal gain. The last can be either money or advancement of some kind. Love is the silliest reason for murder, in my opinion, but people do get overwrought about it. Now, fear . . . fear is a huge motivator for murder. Fear of being found guilty of something, fear of losing your job, your home, your freedom, or even fear of failure. Fear of—dying.”

She paused to take another drag from her cigarette, then leaned forward slightly to crush it into a glass ashtray. “I think you know where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

I wanted to say yes. I really did. But to be honest, I hadn’t a clue. I was torn between being honest and looking foolish, and pretending I knew what she was talking about and probably ending up looking foolish anyway.

Fortunately, she saved me.

Catherine’s hand shook slightly, and her eyes widened as she made eye contact. “Breck Hartford knows how to manipulate people. He may seem charming, but he is a barracuda, believe me. Once, we were lovers. Now I’m his enemy. And he seems to have recently cultivated a habit of eliminating people he considers his enemies.”

Catherine had kept her tone low, and I noticed the twitch was back at the corner of her eye. Still, what she suggested sounded preposterous.

“But you’re talking about multiple murders. Is he a serial killer?” I asked.

She leaned back in her chair and shrugged. “He certainly has the right personality for it. Breck has no conscience whatsoever. He could kill someone and then go to dinner without turning a hair. He could manipulate a student, who would never commit a crime, into covering up a murder. Do you see what I mean?”

After a brief pause, I shook my head. “No. Not really. It’s unimaginable to me that anyone would do something totally against their nature just because it was suggested by another person.”

It occurred to me as soon as I said it that I did things totally against my nature all the time. If not for Bitty, I would never have moved corpses. Or maybe even met corpses.

“But it’s happened before,” said Catherine. “An
accident
that was really a murder, and there was a cover-up.”

“I had no idea,” I said. “When did this happen?”

“A couple years ago. Another student’s murder was ruled an accidental death. I know Breck Hartford was responsible for it, however.”

“Then . . . shouldn’t Breck have been arrested?”

“In a perfect world, yes. There was no proof. Police concluded the investigation and ruled it an accident. But I know better. The witness intended to go to the police with what he knew, but he didn’t have a chance. Then it was too late.”

“So it could be possible that Breck Hartford was innocent, right?”

Catherine sounded slightly impatient. “Possible. Not probable.”

I remembered Gaynelle saying the same kind of thing. It had made sense when she’d said it, but with Catherine Moore, I just didn’t know whether or not to believe her.

“This witness to a murder was the student you mentioned, right? Is he still attending Ole Miss?” I asked.

Catherine shook her head. “No. He’s dead.”

“Dead! What happened to him?”

“Suicide. Or that’s what it was ruled. I don’t believe that for a second, either.”

“But you obviously knew the witness. Wouldn’t the police listen to you if you told them what he said?” I asked.

“Apparently not. They thought I was . . . overwrought.” Her lips twisted in a bitter grimace. “Sometimes living in a small-town atmosphere can be a disadvantage. Too many people know your private business and are willing to share the information.”