Dixie Diva Blues (39 page)

Bitty merely smiled. Then she looked at Budgie. “I’ll have cobbler with whipped cream on top, please. What’s the fruit?”

“Peaches. Extra whipped cream?”

“Please. And some for Trinket, please. Unless she’s already ordered.”

Budgie looked at me and I nodded. “Coffee, too. Extra cream.”

Between Bitty and me, I’m sure we keep the local dairies in business. While I truly think that the milk products of today taste nothing like the milk of my childhood, that doesn’t mean I’m not addicted.

While Budgie went off to see to our orders, I glanced around the nearly empty café. No one was within earshot. I leaned forward anyway. “Who are you looking for?”

“My, my, you’re so inquisitive today. Do you like my new watch? Jackson Lee got it for me since my other one was ruined in that horrible place where I was left to die.”

She held out her arm for me to see a lovely Rolex. I ignored it. I was on a quest, and I meant to succeed.

“My, my, you’re so melodramatic today. ’Fess up, Bitty. You’ve got a plan. What is it?”

Bitty leaned back in her chair to put distance between us. “You’re so impatient. I’m not sure I can share my plans with you right now. It might be better to wait until later to tell you.”

“You’re looking up Walsh and Garcia, right? No, we already did that. Hm. Let me see . . . Lee Hazen? Larry Whittier? No, I have it—Big Al.”

Bitty looked astonished. “How did you know?”

Truthfully, it was a shot in the dark. I wasn’t about to let her know that, however. I shrugged. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You better be referring to Sherlock Holmes and not Miranda,” said Bitty a little testily, and I smiled.

“Why, of course. Although it still intrigues me that she was able to give me the names of the two men responsible for killing Whittier and Hazen.”

“I already told you she’s probably in on it with them.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I think she has a contact who knows all about these murders. And I also think we should pay her a visit.”

Bitty’s eyes got really wide. “You want me to go to Miranda Watson’s house?”

“I do. I think it’s just as important as finding out about Big Al. So, what do you say we go over there after we finish our peach cobbler?”

“Only if you buy the Maalox. Seeing her so soon after I eat will probably make me nauseous.”

One thing about Bitty I can count on is her animosity toward people who have wronged her in any way. Since true malice isn’t in her nature, I usually let it pass. But this time I had to remind her, “Miranda apologized for writing those tacky things about us in her column. Maybe we should move on and give her another chance.”

Bitty thought about it a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. I’m willing. As long as she doesn’t insult Chen Ling again.”

I had to dredge through my memory bank to figure out what she meant, and the closest thing I came to was Miranda’s comment that Chen Ling and Chitling looked alike.

“I’m sure she meant that in only the best way,” I said, and Bitty looked at me.

“I don’t think there
is
a best way to tell someone their dog looks like a pig.”

I scrambled for a soothing explanation and came up with, “Well, think of it this way: she loves her pig. To her, she was giving you a compliment.”

Bitty rolled her eyes. “Okay. Go with that. I’ll be nice. Aren’t I always?”

I bit my tongue and nodded. Fortunately, the arrival of our peach cobbler with extra cream, and our coffee with extra cream, prevented me from having to comment. It’s hard enough telling the truth sometimes. White lies trip me up far too often.

When we arrived at Miranda’s house, I remembered that her doorbell didn’t work and so used the little brass doorknocker. She seemed a bit surprised to see us standing on her small front stoop, but recovered quickly.

“Trinket, Bitty—what a surprise. Come in.”

Since losing quite a bit of weight, Miranda was a lot more poised than she had been, and I wondered if it had an effect on her personality issues. She wasn’t quite as prickly-natured as she had been before. Her formerly untidy house looked spotless now, and when she waved us toward the loveseat, it was uncluttered. No newspapers, no cats.

Miranda herself wore slacks and a blouse, and while not skinny by any means, she looked very nice. My compliment was sincere: “You look fabulous, Miranda!”

“Why, thank you, Trinket. I’ve been exercising along with my diet. It’s made a big difference.”

“It certainly has. You’ve recovered very nicely from your injuries, it seems.”

Miranda nodded. “Headaches now and then are all that still bother me. And of course, I still have the scar around my neck.” She reached up to self-consciously touch her throat.

Bitty said simply, “That was a horrid night. I’m so glad you made it through.”

I smiled at Miranda. “So much has happened lately, and I think you might be able to help us answer a few questions.”

“I had a feeling that’s why you came by,” said Miranda. “I’m sorry, Trinket, but I really can’t help you. I just can’t.”

“Why not? You knew those names before anyone else. That means that either you know the criminals personally, or you know someone else who does. We need to find these men before they find us. It’s come down to a matter of life and death, Miranda. I’m asking you as a fellow citizen to please cooperate with the police. Tell
them
how you got this information if you won’t tell us.”

Miranda blew out a short breath. One of her cats took the opportunity to leap up into her lap, and she stroked it absently for a moment. Chitling was nowhere in sight, but I didn’t want to irk Bitty by asking about her.

After a short silence Miranda said, “I cannot tell you or the police how I got the names because I don’t want to endanger my source in any way,
but
—I can assure you that I don’t know those men personally. If it will help, I’ll ask my source if she can come forward to the police with information that might be helpful. Will that do?”

“I suppose it will have to do,” said Bitty. “Tell your source that Trinket and I are in danger of being attacked again by these men, and that it’d be a great relief to us to have them in police custody. As a former victim of violence yourself, I’m sure you know how it feels to be afraid.”

Miranda looked at Bitty with wide eyes, then nodded. “Really, I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. I’ll definitely encourage my source to come forward.”

I tried one more time. “Are you sure you can’t ask your source to contact us, too? It may be that we can keep her identity secret better than the police will.”

“I’ll certainly pass along that suggestion.” Miranda stood up. It was a signal that our visit had come to an end. Just as we got to the door, her tiny little pig trotted into the living room.

It really is cute. It’s a miniature pig that won’t ever grow bigger than a small dog. She’s pink and usually wears rhinestones and glitter, but today all she had on was a little pink sweater embroidered with the words
Mommy Loves Me
. I couldn’t help myself.

“Oh, she’s so cute!” I said.

Miranda smiled. “I’m crazy about her. Whoever thought I’d fall so in love with a pig? But when I saw them on Animal Planet one night, I just had to have one. They’re very intelligent, you know. And she’s housebroken.”

I couldn’t resist bending over to stroke Chitling’s soft little head. She made a low grunting sound and nuzzled my hand.

“What long eyelashes,” I said, and as if on cue, they fluttered demurely. I laughed and turned to look at Miranda. “She’s a natural southern belle. She has the eyelash thing down pretty good.”

“Better than I’ve ever been able to do,” Miranda agreed, and even Bitty had to smile. We can’t help ourselves. Show us a baby animal of almost any kind and I can guarantee we’ll be cooing and petting within seconds.

Right before I went out the front door, I turned back to say, “Big Al doesn’t have anything to do with your source’s reluctance to come forward, does he?”

Miranda looked startled. Then her brown eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe I know anyone by that name.”

“Ask your source. I bet they do. Tell them . . . tell them Big Al is dangerous and he can be put away if they go to the police with what they know. They should ask for Lieutenant Marcus Stone.”

Miranda shrugged. “I’ll pass it along.”

Once Bitty and I returned to my car and pulled away from the curb, she said, “I’m impressed, Trinket.”

“Really?” I asked cautiously. “By what?”

“How nice you were about her refusal to share information.”

“Well, it’s not like we could beat it out of her or anything. If she’s going to pass on our message to her source, she will. If not, we’ll just have to hope whoever it is goes to the police if they know where Walsh and Garcia are hiding.”

“Maybe she will.”

“You caught that, too,” I said.

“Yep. The person is female. Miranda referred to a ‘she’ when she was refusing to help.”

“Oh, Bitty, she didn’t really refuse. I think she’s just being cautious. I understand, even while it frustrates me.”

“Sometimes you’re too nice.” Bitty paused, then said, “And I always seem to be so bitchy. Am I a terrible person, Trinket?”

“No, honey, not at all! You’re just . . . opinionated, that’s all.”

“Does opinionated equal first, second, or third degree bitch?” Bitty asked dryly, and we both laughed.

“That depends on who we’re talking to or about, I guess. Where’d you leave your car?”

“In front of Booker’s.”

Booker’s Hardware is on Market Street in the court square. It’s been around since the mid-eighteen hundreds. The wide plank floors are original, as are tall wooden bins that hold various sizes of screws, bolts, and other items necessary to the proper upkeep of houses, barns, and fences. You can buy straw hats and butter churns, as well as metal washtubs. It’s also next door to the shop where Bitty gets her nails and hair done every week.

I pulled into a slanted spot right next to Bitty’s Mercedes. It’s black and sleek and powerful, a marvel of German engineering and American salesmanship. My Taurus may look rather humble right next to it, but it’s paid for and drives good with few mechanical problems, and I love it.

Before Bitty got out of my car I asked, “When do Rayna and Rob get back from Clarksdale?”

“Sometime today, I think. She sounded so down when I talked to her. Maybe we should get everyone together to cheer her up some.”

By everyone, of course, she meant all the Divas.

“Can we do that on short notice?”

“Sure. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so people don’t usually have to work. Marcy and Cindy may have to find babysitters, but other than those two, everyone else should be able to show up. Since it’s to cheer up Rayna, I know they’ll do their best to be here.”

“By here, you mean—?”

“My house will be fine. Maria came this morning. It should still be presentable tomorrow.”

“Oh wait,” I said. “I have to work. Can you believe I forgot I have a job?”

“I can believe it. I forgot, too. Hm. Maybe we could have it tomorrow evening then. Do you think you could be here?”

“Since the shop closes at six, I imagine it won’t be a problem. Carolann will want to come, too, I’m sure. And Rose.”

“I’ll do the calling. I can’t serve anything fancy since Sharita won’t have time to get stuff made up.”

“That never matters. Divas bring enough to cover your share. Chocolate and wine never go out of style.”

We waved goodbye to each other and I pulled out of the parking slot and headed toward home. A legion of creatures would be glad to see me, no doubt. As I drove out of the square and headed toward Highway 311 my “escort” pulled out right behind me. I saw the unmarked police car I’d seen earlier parked on the road outside Cherryhill. Only one officer was in the car, but I supposed it didn’t take more than that to watch and wait.

I really wished Miranda had been more forthcoming with how she’d gotten her information. While it may not help clear Rob, it would certainly explain some aspects of the two killers’ actions and perhaps point the way to where they were hiding.

Acquitting Rob Rainey of murder was going to take a lot more than circumstantial evidence. That was clear. Solid, irrefutable evidence was going to be required in the face of his indictment by a Clarksdale grand jury. When and if the case got to trial, Rob had better have an excellent defense. I knew Jackson Lee would do everything in his power to get him acquitted. But if he didn’t have evidence proving that Rob wasn’t the one who killed Larry Whittier, the outcome looked bad. There was more evidence against Rob than there was hope for him.

When I pulled my car into the driveway and parked just outside the garage, my escort parked across the street. I looked that way and waved, and the officer inside the car acknowledged my gesture with a sort of two finger salute. No doubt, he’d drawn the short straw. I was lucky I hadn’t gotten a one finger salute.