Dixie Diva Blues (12 page)

“Well, I know it wasn’t any of my business and all, but I’m kinda nosy, I guess,” she went on, her voice lowering as if afraid to be overheard, “so I went up to the window. It’s the one on the right side, low enough for me to look in if I stand on my toes. I saw that the big guy had a gun, and the guest was holding his hands out like he was trying to get him to stop pointing it at him. They were talking, but there was a band that night and it started up playing again and I couldn’t hear anything they said.

“Then the big guy—he hit the little guy across the face with the barrel of the gun, then stuck it right in his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I got away from the window pretty fast, I’ll tell you that. After I put my cart back up where it goes, I kinda went that way again, just to see if everything was okay. That’s when I heard the gunfire. I got really scared. I took off, got in my car, and I stopped at the first payphone I could find to call nine-one-one. I figured the guy had shot and killed him, so that’s what I told the operator. Then I hung up. I tried to help him, I really did. I just . . . didn’t want the police to ask me too many questions.”

Impulsively, I put my hand on her arm. She was shaking. “Thank you, Patty. You did all anyone could have expected you to do.”

“No. If I had went in and told somebody, maybe they would have come out and stopped it before he got shot.”

“Or maybe they would have been shot, too. In a situation like that, it’s hard to know what to do.”

She gave me a grateful look. “Thank you, Miz Hollandale.”

I cringed a little at my deception, but Bitty would never know about it, so no harm done.

“One more question, please. This big guy—could you describe him for me?”

“Um, let’s see . . . he was probably around six-two or a little over, a big build, dark hair . . . I think he had a beard. I couldn’t see well, because even though the porch light was on he was in shadow part of the time.”

She frowned a moment, then said, “Oh! I forgot—when he turned around a little bit I saw that he has some kind of scar on his face, right here—”she motioned with one hand, her finger skimming along her cheekbone to her mouth—“it looked bad, you know?”

Her description definitely left out Rob’s confrontation with Larry Whittier. While what I had found out confirmed part of Rob’s story, it wouldn’t be enough to convince the police. Finding the big guy with a beard and a scar was an option, but it wasn’t a very appealing one. I had no desire to run into him, again—or for the first time.

Something about her description told me that our intruder of the night before was a different person from this other man. What on earth had Larry Whittier gotten himself into?

CHAPTER 6

“I can’t believe you destroyed my slipper, Trinket,” Bitty complained as we packed our overnight cases. “Just look at it. Most of the feathers are gone, and the heel is battered so badly it looks like I walk on the sides of my feet.”

“You do.” I looked sadly at my torn white cotton nightie. My tussle with a Ninja had done it no favors. I rolled it up and stuffed it into my cloth overnight bag along with my dirty clothes from the day before.

“I do
not
walk on the sides of my feet,” Bitty was saying as I zipped up my bag and started toward the front room. “I’ve been told by several people that I walk just like a model.”

“Model what? Airplane? Ship? Race car?”

“
Runway
model. Oh, you’re just jealous because if you wear anything with a heel you’d be tall enough to qualify for the Harlem Globetrotters basketball team.”

“Are they still around?” Gaynelle inquired. “I used to go see them when they’d play in Memphis. That was when Meadowlark Lemon was playing. The things that man could do with a basketball were amazing.”

“You know,” I said, stopping to look at her, “I don’t know if they still play benefit games or not. I saw them once, back in the eighties. They were really good.”

“Hello?” Bitty demanded, hefting her overnight bag off the bed and following me into the main room. “I was talking about my ruined slipper?”

“Oh, were you, Bitty?” said Gaynelle. “I’m sorry. I was sure I heard you say something about a basketball team.”

“Well, I did, but it was in reference to Trinket and—oh, never mind. I can see neither one of you are very concerned with my loss.”

“I think we’re all lucky we didn’t get hurt last night,” Carolann said as she joined us in the front room. “I mean, badly hurt,” she added when Gaynelle and I turned to look at her. She flapped a hand at us. “You know, stitches, broken bones, or worse.”

Gaynelle rubbed at the purple egg smack in the middle of her forehead. “I wish I could meet that criminal in a dark alley sometime. I’d like to break a board over his head.”

My only injuries were scraped elbows and a sore neck. I’d gotten off pretty light. “Frankly, I hope I don’t run into that guy again unless he’s in a police line-up.”

“So how would you recognize him?” Bitty wanted to know. “Unless he’s the only one there in a Ninja suit that covers him from head to toe, you wouldn’t know him from Adam’s housecat.”

I thought about that a minute. “I might remember his eyes,” I said at last. “They were green, I think.”

“Oh well, that changes everything,” Bitty said with a shake of her head. “All the Clarksdale police have to do is round up every man in Coahoma County that has green eyes, and bring ’em in for you to look at.”

“You sure are in a grouchy mood this morning,” I noted. “Who peed in your Cheerios?”

“I think that’s the trouble. I haven’t had
any
Cheerios, with or without additives. I’m hungry.”

We had all been so focused earlier on our mission, that we hadn’t stopped for breakfast save for a handful of trail mix Bitty had brought. Since it wasn’t even eleven yet, Gaynelle suggested we go into town to eat.

“They have lots of places, I’m sure,” she said, digging into her purse. She brought out a piece of slick paper that had been folded over, unfolded it and said, “There’s a list of dining places on here.”

Bitty was immediately interested. “Ooh, what kind?”

“Well, it goes from
Abe’s Barbecue
to
Western Sizzlin’
. We can take our choice.”

After checking out of our cabin, and assuring the hosts that we were just fine despite all the trouble of the night before, we got back into Bitty’s muddy Mercedes and headed toward Highway 49. Within ten minutes we were in the middle of Clarksdale and looking for our destination. Our choice had been unanimous: Ground Zero, a blues club owned by actor Morgan Freeman and Bill Luckett, his attorney, friend, and partner.

I sat in the front seat next to Bitty again. That seems to be my lot most of the time. I suppose it’s because we’re always together anyway. So, to amuse myself, I said to her, “I hear Trina Madewell went shopping for a new outfit at the Dress Barn. I think she got a Vera Wang dress.”

Bitty’s mouth dropped open. “Get
out!
Really?”

“No, but wouldn’t it be nice if she did? Then you wouldn’t have anything to talk about for a while, although I’m sure you could think of something.”

“Trinket, that was mean. I thought for a second she must have looked in a mirror. Or her closet. Either would be a shock.”

“You know,” Gaynelle said from the backseat, “I think we gossip way too much lately. It is not a nice habit.”

I looked at Bitty. She didn’t say anything for a full minute. I expected her to say something in her defense, since if the truth be told, we all tend to gossip way too much, including Gaynelle. It’s one of the perks of living in a small town, that you know most of your neighbors and their personal business. But Bitty surprised me. She didn’t say a word in defense of gossip. Instead, she went straight for Gaynelle’s throat.

“I heard Bill Luckett’s going to run for governor next election,” Bitty said as she drove slowly down DeSoto Street past shotgun houses painted in bright, happy colors that contradicted some of the rundown dwellings around it. “What do you think about getting a Democrat in the governor’s mansion, Gaynelle?”

Gaynelle Bishop has been a Republican ever since the Nixon administration. She immediately rose to the bait. “I don’t think much of it at all, and if you want my opinion, we need a Republican to stay in the governor’s mansion. Haley Barbour shouldn’t go off running for Congress until he’s made sure of that.”

Carolann looked at her with the same expression one would expect on the face of a witness to the kicking of a puppy. “You can’t mean that! Oh my, Gaynelle, just think how much good a Democrat could do as governor of Miss’sippi!”

“Good? You mean, how much of other people’s money he could give away?”

“No, no, you’re looking at it all wrong. We have to pay taxes anyway, and I’d much rather my money go to help pay the health insurance for people who can’t afford it than into rich corporations’ pockets.”

Gaynelle threw her hands up in the air. “It’s those corporations that provide jobs for people so they can buy their own insurance, not be forced to take whatever the government mandates . . .”

As the backseat conversation grew more heated, I looked over at Bitty. “Way to go, Dan Rather.”

She just laughed. Sometimes Bitty can be quite devious.

By the time we parked in the lot around Ground Zero, with the Mercedes facing the railroad tracks, Carolann and Gaynelle were rehashing the 2008 presidential election. Now, I have my own opinions about politics, religion, and societal morals, and I can be coerced into sharing them with people who try to force me to believe as they do, so I am well-aware that such discussions can get heated. The two in the backseat, however, were beginning to make my jaws hurt from gritting my teeth. I turned to look at them.

“Ladies, your attention please . . . ladies?”

Ignoring me, Gaynelle protested, “But how do you know he was born in Hawaii?”

“Because he has a legal birth certificate proving it, that’s how! Don’t listen to those idiots Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh, for heaven’s sake, think for yourself! Why would the Republican Party ever allow him to even enter the primaries if they weren’t sure he’s an American citizen?!”

“Carolann, I love that you are so trusting of people, but when you get my age you learn that there are all kinds of tricks in this world. Now—”

“Ladies,” I said more loudly, and this time Gaynelle paused to look at me. I gave her a nice smile. Or at least, I thought it was nice. Maybe it looked more like I was baring my teeth at her, since she recoiled. “We are at our destination,” I said calmly. “While this topic has certainly been interesting, I find that my ears are ringing and my brain is swelling. I beg of you both—the next time Bitty plays Devil’s Advocate, please, please, ignore her. Shall we go inside now and eat?”

Thankfully, they acquiesced and peace was restored to our little party. We got out of the car and walked across the gravel parking lot toward what looked from the outside like a run-down building.

Ground Zero is certainly nothing fancy to look at. It’s a two-story brick building with a concrete front porch that was built in another century. There’s a rusted-out furnace made into a barbecue pit on one side, a broken-down flowered couch on the other side, and a couple of chairs against the front wall. The entrance is on the left side of the building, a creaky door that leads into a vast, darkened room separated by what looks like metal framing and Christmas lights. Just inside the door at the front is a pool table with big windows and plenty of room around it, and a beer lamp hanging overhead. A bar stretches part-way across the far wall, and folding tables are set up in rows that reminded me of church socials, with the same kind of chairs lined up on each side and none of them matching.

It looks just like what it is: an old-timey juke joint that’s probably seen more than its share of people passing through. I got the feeling that Ground Zero is a history lesson; those same people who used to live in the shacks where we’d spent the night no doubt came into town to share their troubles with whoever was singing the blues that night.

It being the middle of the day, the only thing playing was a boom box. No one met us at the door to seat us, so we wandered in and found a table halfway between the bar and what looked like a pick-up station for the waiters. By the time we found a place to put our purses and had argued about which side to face, a waiter showed up to give us menus. He did this with swift efficiency and that air of boredom waiters get when it’s a slow day.

Bitty sat on the side of the table facing the bar. “A vodka stinger,” she said before anyone else had a chance to even open their menus.

The waiter gave her a nod, the rest of us ordered sweet tea, and we asked for more time to look at the menus. He said he’d be back to take our orders, and disappeared. In just a few minutes, we had our drinks in hand. While the menu featured the required items like hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fried catfish and so on, it also had turnip greens, fried okra and green tomatoes, macaroni and cheese, and black-eyed peas with cornbread. We ordered a plate of each and extra plates, so that when the food came it looked like feeding time at the zoo as we dove into our buffet.