Dixie Diva Blues (5 page)

Rob grinned at her. “You might not be so grateful after a few days of my enforced company. I can’t leave the hotel grounds. Holly Springs’ police agreed to keep a watch on me. One of the terms of my bonding out. Any other lawyer and I guess I’d be waiting for trial on the Coahoma County nickel.”

“Now see,” Bitty spoke up brightly, “there’s a silver lining, Rayna. You can get all that stuff done around the house that you’ve been wanting Rob to do.”

Rayna laughed wryly. “That would be nice, but we’ve got to pay for a lawyer. I’m glad it’s Jackson Lee, but he’s not cheap, you know.”

“Oh, Jackson Lee won’t charge you what he charges everyone else; you know that, don’t you? You’re a friend.”

“Friend or not, he makes his living by representing people accused of crimes. I won’t take charity from him,” Rob said quite firmly. “I pay my own way.”

“But, Rob, think about it—how are you going to be able to afford an investigator to find the real killer? It’s silly not to let Jackson Lee give you the friend’s discount.”

“Bitty, I know you mean well, but I won’t take freebies.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bitty said sharply. “You posted bail for me and others enough times, so isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.” Rob laughed softly. “I charged you for it.”

“Well . . . not a lot.”

“That’s different.”

Bitty huffed and puffed, but Rob was adamant about it, and by the time we got to Bitty’s house I was just glad to get out of the car. One more mile with those two stubborn mules and
I
would have demanded a gag order.

I pushed open her iron gate and walked up to the porch, waiting on her as she got in a last few words that I’m quite certain made no difference to Rob Rainey at all. In our hurry to leave earlier we had forgotten to turn on any lights inside, but the outside porch chandeliers had one of those electric eye things that automatically turn on at dusk so I decided to sit down in one of the wicker chairs to wait for Bitty to finish harassing Rob. Said wicker chair creaked under my weight as if alive and about to expire. I sighed.

My last doctor visit had been dismaying, to say the least. While I had lost some weight, I was still nearly twenty pounds over the limit for my height. Which is to say, I weighed as much as a small delivery van. Of course, I’m sure none of the champagne and chocolate I ingest has anything at all to do with my failure to lose weight. I’m just big-boned. Really. It runs in my family. Kinda—okay, my twin sister is not big-boned.

But other than our once sharing a womb and a room, she and I have very little in common. Emerald May Truevine is petite and blonde like our mother. I am a shade over five foot nine with brown hair now benefiting from an auburn wash I bought at Walmart. The name on my birth certificate reads Eureka May Truevine, hence the more pronounceable name Trinket that one of our older brothers gave me as a baby. I suppose Jack thought it in the same general family as an emerald, and had no way of knowing that a trinket is the much less valuable version. Still, it beats people asking me to repeat my name a few times when I first meet them.

Emerald lives in the Pacific Northwest with a husband and a half dozen or so of their progeny, and rarely comes home for a visit. When she does return, it’s usually with no notice other than a cab arriving at Cherryhill and Daddy having to pay the tab. Then Emerald sleeps for a day or so before rising to come down and go shopping. No husband and children ever come with her. Not that I blame my sister for leaving them behind. That many kids must require the stamina of a grizzly bear, minus the sweet temperament. Still, that is what Emerald chose, so I imagine she likes it most of the time.

I would rather have a root canal without Novocain than be subjected to that many children at one time. That’s why even when I lived a couple hundred miles away from her I always suggested we meet halfway, just the two of us. She always seemed happy to agree.

At any rate, while I sat on the front porch mulling over the genetic quirks that left Emerald with a high metabolism so she can eat any and everything and never gain an ounce, and left me with a metabolism that ignores its proper function, Bitty finished her discussion with Rob and slammed through the iron gate. With my usual keen perception, I sensed from the way she stomped up the bricked walkway that their conversation did not end as she wished.

“Trouble?” I inquired sweetly when she reached the porch, and Bitty gave me a sour look.

“I swear, that is the most stubborn man I have ever met in my life! I don’t know how Rayna ever gets anything done if he’s set on doing it another way, I honestly don’t.”

“Sure you do. The same way any woman gets things done. And I don’t mean nag them into it, either.”

Bitty stuck her key into the front door lock and twisted it, almost snarling at me, “If you mean what it sounds like you mean, the only thing that man would be doing in
my
bed is sleeping!”

“Well, that’s not what I meant. Remember, you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

“Well, who wants a bunch of flies? Vinegar is more likely to kill them . . . ah, got it.”

Bitty’s front door swung open and she stepped inside and punched her code into the alarm system. It beeped a long beep, and she tried again. I looked over her shoulder.

“You forgot to set it before we left,” I said. “Again.”

“Well, I can’t always remember the blamed thing. It’s a nuisance most of the time. I don’t know why Jackson Lee insisted I upgrade when it doesn’t work like it should.”

“It only works if you set it. Jackson Lee insisted you upgrade after the fire so we don’t have to stand outside in wet tee shirts and panties while firemen ogle us.”

“That was you, not me. I had sense enough to wear a robe and slippers.”

“I would have, too, if I’d known you were going to try and burn down the house. Warn me next time you plan to cook, okay?”

I followed Bitty from the entry hall through the front room and dining room, into the kitchen. She flipped a switch and granite counters gleamed under the cup lights installed beneath the upper cabinets. Chen Ling blinked and curled her pink tongue out in a yawn.

“Poor precious,” Bitty muttered, “I know you must be starving. Here. Mommy will fix you something to eat.”

“Will Mommy let me fix something to eat, too?” I asked, not really expecting a reply. “All that drama has made me hungry.”

While Bitty prepared the dog a meal, I dragged out cold cuts, condiments, and a couple jars of pickles. By the time Chen Ling had sucked down her microwaved food, I had me and Bitty a platter of sandwiches to carry into what she refers to as her parlor. It is really more of a former butler’s pantry that she had renovated by combining a breakfast room with it to create a cozy nook with two huge chairs that make into beds in a pinch. Wooden shutters, a couple lamps, an expensive rug on the refinished original hardwood floors, and it really does make a nice area to sit and talk.

“It’s pretty late,” Bitty said around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich. “Why don’t you just stay the night?”

“I might. I’ll call home first to make sure Mama and Daddy don’t need me.”

Bitty shook her head. “When do they ever need you? Just for rides to the airport. Or to the river. For people in their seventies, they sure do get around well.”

“They get around well for people in their fifties,” I said, thinking of how difficult I find it to keep up with my parents most of the time. “I found them dancing in the kitchen the other night. I don’t mean slow-dancing, either. They were ‘cutting a rug’ or something like that. It looked a little bit like swing dancing, but it may have been the Charleston or Jitterbug for all I know. Mama can still kick her legs pretty high. Higher than I can, anyway.”

“We need to start going to the gym, Trinket. Really. If we worked out just think of what all we could get done.”

I gave her a pained look. “You gotta be kidding me. I don’t want to get a lot done. I want to sit and think about the days when I
had
to get a lot done.”

“Are you still looking for a job?”

“Not very hard.”

“What’s the matter—afraid you’ll find one and won’t be able to do it?”

I looked at Bitty. Sometimes she really is astute.

“Well, if you’ll remember, I didn’t exactly get hired at Carolann’s lingerie shop,” I said. “Of course, that turned out for the best since I’m afraid I’d have a difficult time selling items in the Blue Velvet Room.”

“What do you have against French panties and the
Kama Sutra
?”

We both started laughing. It’s amazing the things we find funny. We’re still just adolescents at heart, I think. Rather strange, coming from fifty-something women, but it does make life more fun.

“So,” Bitty said after a moment or two, “what do you think about Rob’s chances of getting acquitted if this case goes to trial?”

I thought about it. “Well,” I finally said, “it all depends on if the evidence they have against him stands up in court. Once all the tests come back, if that guy was shot with Rob’s gun, it’s going to look pretty bad for him. The same caliber bullet is one thing. The marks on the bullet they took out of the dead man will define just how serious it is.”

Bitty blew out a long breath. “I know. We really should stop watching so many forensic TV shows. Too much information isn’t always good. Truly, Trinket, it doesn’t look very good for him. Not if things happened like he said. How does he prove he didn’t do it if the man was shot with his gun and there are no other fingerprints on it? We’ll just have to cross our fingers and pray they find other prints on the gun besides Rob’s.”

“I imagine he and Rayna are doing pretty much the same thing,” I said.

“Of course, it would be much more practical if we did more than pray, don’t you think? I mean, like put our detecting skills to work?”

“Bitty Hollandale, don’t start that with me. Take it up with Rob. I don’t intend to get caught in the middle.”

Bitty just smiled. I had a sinking feeling she hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

CHAPTER 3

For two days after Rob came home from Clarksdale, we didn’t see or hear from Rayna. That isn’t so unusual, since when involved in one of her creative projects, she frequently forgets the outside world exists. It is our job as her friends to drag her back into the present every once in a while. This time, however, we waited. Maybe she and Rob needed some alone time; and it was entirely possible that they were struggling to come to grips with everything. After all, being arrested for murder is rather frightening—for most people. Bitty is an exception. But then, Bitty lives such a charmed life she could probably shoot someone at high noon in the court square and get away with it.

On the third day after bailing Rob Rainey out of jail I got a phone call at home. This is the family home I share with my parents: Cherryhill, a lovely, rambling old place with lots of character—that means expensive repairs in case you didn’t know. Still, my daddy keeps the old house up as well as he can, and all the familiar nooks and crannies of my childhood are still mostly cobweb free. Mama wouldn’t dream of calling hired help to do housework. That means I’m unpaid help, of course. Not that I mind.

Anyway, I was right in the middle of dusting off the transoms over the dining room doors when Daddy brought me the cordless phone.

“It’s for you, punkin. I think it’s Rayna.”

“Oh good.” I grabbed hold of the folding step stool that I was using just in case it decided to scoot out from under me, and descended down the two metal steps with all the grace of a water buffalo. As I took the phone from Daddy I felt a sneeze building up and paused. It tickled my nose, the weeks of dust that coated the stained-glass transom panes happily moving from wood and glass to the vicinity of my sinuses. After a few seconds and no sneeze, I said into the receiver, “Hey, Rayna—
achoo!
”

“Are you sick, Trinket?”

I sniffed a couple times. “No, just dusting. Sorry about sneezing in your ear.”

“That’s okay. It’s probably the nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.”

She sounded really dejected, and I sniffed back another threatening sneeze to say, “Welcome to my world. Nice things happen to other people, not to me. So what’s going on in your world?”

“Skip-tracing. Rob and I have done all the searching we can by computer, but still don’t have a clue who else might be involved with Larry Whittier. He always paid his own bond, and listed only two casual friends as contacts. Right now, the only person with any hint of a motive for shooting him is Rob.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous, since Rob wouldn’t shoot him just for jumping bail. Or for any other reason,” I added when I realized it sounded as if I thought Rob prone to murder.

Fortunately, Rayna laughed. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said wryly. “Rob was pretty mad about having to hunt him down again.”

“Again? So what was he arrested for in the first place?”

“Vandalism.”

“What? That’s all? No armed robbery or murder charge? And he ran out on how big of a bail bond?”

Rayna sounded as dumbfounded as me when she said, “I know. Only a hundred dollars, isn’t that crazy? He’d already been FTA twice on the same charge, and—”