Divas Do Tell (33 page)

“Good lord. You’re a lot better at starting fires. Besides, I like being alone.”

Bitty smiled and patted my arm with her gloved hand. “This is no trouble at all, so you go put on warm clothes. I’ll take care of everything down here. Look, Precious, there’s your favorite playmate,” she said as she set her pug on the floor.

I don’t often feel sorry for Chitling, but I have to say that sympathy welled at the sight of her in a little pink snowsuit with matching boots and a pom-pom atop her head. It was decorated with a scattering of rhinestones or diamonds. I was willing to bet on the latter.

Brownie backed away, staring suspiciously at the pink blob with the underbite. I left them to sort it out and went upstairs to put on warm clothes. When I came back downstairs Bitty had unwrapped the dog from her snowsuit.

“Isn’t she going with us?” I asked, incredulous that Bitty would leave her behind.

“Not this time. She’ll be much happier here with . . . with . . . Aunt Anna’s little dog.”

“Brownie,” I helpfully supplied his name.

“Yes. I’m not sure her delicate constitution can handle the cold, even though we’re in a warm car. She shivered all the way over here.”

“Delicate constitution? In what universe?”

“There, Precious,” Bitty said as she handed Chitling a treat and then gave Brownie one. “Mama will be back very soon. You be good here with your little cousin.”

I rolled my eyes as I followed her to the door. I know. I could have told her I’d rather have a root canal without Novocain than get in her car to slip and slide in the snow, but why disappoint her on her mission of mercy? I was confident the airbags would cushion any ditch we might land in on our way to wherever it was she was taking me. Besides, the ice seemed to be melting a little, drops plinking from tree branches to land on the ground.

Within a few minutes we were on our way down the slippery slope of the driveway and onto the road. There was a brief moment when I thought the car was going to keep going straight out of the driveway instead of turning onto the road, but Bitty masterfully got it onto the blacktop with only a few cuss words and a lot of maneuvering. I was so proud. I also dug my fingers into the nice leather upholstery so deeply it took me a half mile to get them unclenched. Good thing I was wearing gloves.

The three miles in to Holly Springs had rarely seemed to take so long. I’m not sure how we got there without sliding off the road, but we did. It was no surprise to find the court square deserted. Ice frosted tree limbs and slicked over power lines, and our half inch of snow was a light dusting that didn’t even cover the grass. When Bitty skidded to a halt in front of the Court Square Inn, I knew our destination had been reached.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were coming to visit Sandra?” I asked rather irritably. “I look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in this outfit.” It was warm clothing, but bulky.

Bitty ground a few gears as she parked the lightweight car next to the curb. Well, within calling distance of the curb. If Rodney Farrell was out on patrol, she was liable to get a ticket.

“Don’t be silly, Trinket. Sandra doesn’t care what you wear.”

“Maybe not, but I do.” I fumbled with the door handle. “What if those paparazzi are still around? I’m getting a little tired of all these horrible photos of me floating all over town.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Not here, anyway. Just don’t travel very far if you don’t want to be recognized.”

A cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather slid down my spine. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, there’s a photo of you in the paper again. Somebody must have come by your house to get you walking out for the morning paper, because you’re wearing your fuzzy slippers. I do wish you’d let me buy you some decent things.”

As it turned out, that photo wasn’t the only one. There were pictures of me and Bitty and Allison that day in front of Montrose, and pictures of us with Sandra, and of course, the ubiquitous photos of us standing in front of the house Buck Prentiss had rented. Apparently there were more of those than I’d thought. Sandra had a nice little stack of weekly papers like the
Enquirer
and
The Sun
.

“I thought that was a British paper,” I said, refolding it and tossing it back to the table in front of the window.

Sandra laughed. “It is. My agent makes sure I see everything that has me in it, and it looks like that’s a lot of papers these days. I must say, coming here has boosted my career more than I thought it would.”

“As if it needs boosting,” said Bitty with a smile. “At least we aren’t recognized in most of them. ‘Unidentified companions’ doesn’t count.” She took the glass of wine Sandra held out to her. I flinched.

“Don’t drink anything if you want me to ride on icy roads with you,” I warned. “I’m not up for waiting on a tow truck to get us out of a ditch.”

“My driver can get you home,” Sandra said. “He’s from New York, and they have a lot of experience with driving on snow and ice. This little snow isn’t going to deter him in the least.”

“It’s not experienced drivers that concern me,” I said. “It’s the rest of us. Mississippi folk just don’t drive well on even a quarter inch of snow. Except for all the local good-ole-boys that get out on their four-wheelers or four-wheel drives hoping to use their winch to pull someone out of a ditch. Most of the time they’re already more fueled up than their trucks. It’s not exactly a situation to instill confidence in those stranded.”

Laughing, Sandra sank down in an elegant antique chair by the window. We sat at a small carved table with mismatched chairs that somehow looked just right in the room. Oil paintings hung on the wall, and in the next room stood a four-poster with crisp linens; it was a nice bed-and-breakfast refuge.

Sandra wore a deep red velvet dressing gown that looked absolutely fabulous on her svelte body. Her dark brown hair gleamed, caught up on one side with a ribbon that matched her gown. Even with only a minimum of makeup she was gorgeous. Daylight illuminated tiny flaws like lines at the corners of her eyes, but did nothing to detract from her beauty. She had what I’ve heard referred to as a “star quality” about her. It’s a presence more than it is appearance.

Sandra leaned forward, lowering her voice to a dramatic intensity: “So, who do you think killed Buck?”

Bitty shook her head. “I’ve been told not to mention Dixie Lee again, so I won’t say what I think.”

I rolled my eyes. “The police are still investigating,” I said.

“Yes, but you ladies are known to solve a few crimes, so I’m asking you,” said Sandra. “Who do you suspect?”

After a hesitation I said, “We’re still trying to work through it, but Mira Waller is at the top of more than one list.”

Sandra’s eyes got huge. “Mira? Really? I can’t say I’m too surprised, but it seems like such a waste for her to be a killer. Yet, there are unknown depths in all of us, I suppose. Who else is on the list?”

“That’s the trouble—it could be anyone on the crew, bit players, or even spectators. We just don’t have enough information to make a final decision. We’re still trying to gather evidence on a few people. Rayna has wonderful search engines on Rob’s computer. It can get information on anyone.”

Bitty said, “I’m still not convinced Dixie Lee is innocent. It’s just too big a coincidence that she’s been involved in some way with all three victims.”

“How do you mean?” asked Sandra with a puzzled frown. “I thought the only person Dixie Lee had any history with was the first death, Billy Joe Cramer.”

“She was acquainted with Abby, of course,” said Bitty. “And naturally she’s met Buck, especially since he was renting a house only two doors down from Cady Lee’s house where Dixie Lee is staying.”

“Really?” Sandra looked fascinated. “I had no idea he stayed so close to them. But I have to say I don’t think Dixie Lee is the type to commit murder. She just doesn’t seem like she has a strong personality in that direction, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean she doesn’t have the courage,” Bitty suggested. “But sometimes desperation takes over.”

“Bitty, how would she be desperate enough to go to Billy Joe’s house and shoot him? Or brain Abby with a baseball bat? Or bash Buck in the head? That’s not desperation. That’s a serial killer,” I said rather irritably.

Sandra looked startled. “A serial killer? Isn’t that a strong term?”

“The way I understand the definition,” I replied, “is that two victims of the same person is a spree and three is a serial killer.”

“Oh,” she said. “I suppose that’s plausible. Unless perhaps there’s another reason for the killer to go after them.”

“Do you mean if they happened to witness something they shouldn’t?” I asked. “It’s a good possibility. In fact, Bitty has suggested that perhaps Dixie Lee or Abby had seen the killer go into Billy Joe’s house.”

“It’s a possibility,” said Sandra. “Has anyone come forward saying they saw someone who didn’t belong there going into the Cramer house?”

“Just Mrs. Whitworth across the street,” replied Bitty. “But the police already questioned her, and she never saw the person’s face, just their back and what they wore.”

“Really? Well, there’s a good clue,” Sandra exclaimed. “What if Mrs. Whitworth saw more than she realized? I mean, if the right questions are asked, perhaps she can recall little details she didn’t think of before.”

I saw the light bulb flash over Bitty’s head. Her eyes gleamed. She just loves to be a part of crime solving. “You’re right. We need to talk to Mrs. Whitworth again.”

“Bitty,” I said, “you know the police have already talked to her. There’s no point in going over there bothering her again.”

Bitty turned to look at me. “But Trinket, what if we think of questions the police didn’t?”

“That would be a first and a monumental surprise,” I replied. “The police are always a few steps ahead of us in solving murders. Or at least dead even. Pardon the pun.”

Sandra said, “I think we should go talk to Mrs. Whitworth. Are you two game?”

“
Now
?” I couldn’t help asking in astonishment. “Why, she’d think we’re all crazy going out in this weather. Besides, she’d probably be so intimidated by the presence of a movie star like you in her house she’d forget any and everything she ever knew.”

Even though Sandra laughed, I could tell she was determined to interview Mrs. Whitworth. I couldn’t hope to resist both Sandra and Bitty, so I gave in as they went to her closet to pick out her best sleuth clothes. At least, that’s what I assumed they were doing. Since I had dressed as the Pillsbury Doughboy in a white parka with blue trim, white ski pants, and fake fur-trimmed boots, maybe I was just jealous. It had seemed like an appropriate choice when getting in a car with Bitty, but all the extra padding didn’t exactly create a slender silhouette. I felt like Chen Ling stuffed into her pink snowsuit.

When Sandra and Bitty came out of the bedroom they both looked like they’d stepped out of a poster for the last
Charlie’s Angels
movie. I looked like I’d stepped out of a poster for the
Abominable Snowman
movie that had been on cable’s Syfy channel.

Sandra wore a smart pair of wool slacks, a flattering sweater, rhinestone-studded cowboy boots with low heels, and a billowing cape that probably cost more than I earned in a year.

“Is that a new scarf?” I asked Bitty as she adjusted a large silk swathe around her neck.

“Oh, just a little thing I thought she might like,” Sandra answered instead of Bitty. “It seems to fit her, don’t you think?”

It was hot pink with a vivid blue, deep red, and gray design that looked like a Mayan god of some kind. Bitty twisted it into an expert coil that would have taken me an hour to imitate, and Sandra smoothed the ends.

“Anything expensive suits Bitty,” I replied. “Hermés, I presume?”

“Why, Trinket,” said Bitty, “you’re getting much better at recognizing
haute couture
.”

“Not really. It’s just the only scarf designer I remember.” I shrugged back into my puffy white coat, a relic from my Colorado days, and joined the two fashion mavens on our probably futile mission.

When we exited Court Square Inn a black car waited at the curb; it was the rented vehicle and driver Sandra had been using since arriving. First we had to run the gauntlet of paparazzi that had been lurking god-only-knew where but popped up without warning, flashes going off. We made it to the car without mishap, and the three of us sat in the rear of the roomy SUV with extra everything. Apparently movie budgets extended to luxury cars for its stars.

Since the streets were virtually empty we reached Mrs. Whitworth’s house in less than five minutes. Sandra’s driver, a broad-shouldered man who looked like a retired wrestler, got out and opened our door. It was obvious Sandra Brady had been caught up in a crime-solving fever no doubt fueled by my clueless cousin, and now Mrs. Whitworth would reap the benefits. All I had to do was sit quietly and hope it was over quickly.

As I’d predicted, Mrs. Whitworth was thrilled to bits to see a famous movie star at her door. She invited us in, went through the Southern ritual of offering food, drink, and asking after Bitty’s family and then mine before we got down to business.