Dixie Divas (21 page)

“So,” I said when I’d dressed and gone downstairs, raising my voice to be heard over the incessant barking, “is anyone ready to take a voyage on the Delta Queen?”

Mama just laughed, and Daddy grinned. They had on coordinating clothes again, Mama in sharply creased navy pants with a navy and yellow sweater over a white turtleneck, and Daddy in navy Dockers with a yellow shirt and navy sweater. Brownie wore a navy and yellow sweater on his indignant little body, barking furiously at the suitcases sitting in the hallway.

I rolled my eyes and reached for a bottle of aspirin Mama keeps over the sink. Three cups of coffee and a cinnamon roll later, I followed them out to the car. Daddy had gone out early to feed the cats so I wouldn’t have to, and Mama fed Brownie and held him in her lap and stroked his head and told him she’d be back soon. Brownie whimpered, playing it up for all he was worth.

I felt like doing the same.

It was still early, but behind the morning fog, I saw the pale glimmer of sun that promised a nice day. Daddy opened the trunk of Mama’s car to load suitcases, and saw the big basket of muffins and jellies from Sharita’s I’d hidden in it. They were both delighted, as I’d known they would be.

Daddy stopped Mama’s big 1995 Lincoln at the curb in front of Bitty’s house. Just as I got out to go up to her door, it opened and out she came, wearing one of her elegant pantsuits and a matching fringed cape. She also wore a black canvas sling across her body.

“Did Bitty break her arm?” Mama asked, startled.

“Not yet,” I replied, giving Bitty a fierce look she totally ignored.

“Aunt Anna, Uncle Eddie,” Bitty said, sweeping toward us with a beaming smile, “aren’t you both so excited? Going to New Orleans on a river boat—that’s just so romantic!”

After the first bubbling minute or two, Bitty got into the car, and Daddy finally addressed the subject I knew he’d been dying to since she’d come waltzing down the sidewalk.

“Did you get a chimpanzee, Bitty?”

“Of course not, Eddie,” Mama said, “It’s one of those Star Wars dolls. A Wookie or Yodo or something. Isn’t it?”

“It’s a pug,” Bitty said before they could offer another insulting guess. “A very expensive dog.”

Mama squinted.” It’s alive?” She sounded doubtful and vaguely alarmed.

“Girl, someone saw you coming. Get your money back,” Daddy advised.

“I didn’t pay for Chen Ling. She belongs to someone else. I just borrowed her . . . I mean, I’m taking care of her for a few days.”

“Come to think of it,” Daddy said, glancing into the rearview mirror when he stopped at the corner, “it does look kind of like a chitling.”

Until he said that, I hadn’t realized just how much Daddy and I are alike at times.

“
Chen Ling
is her name.” Bitty pulled the canvas edges of the sling back, and Mama, who had been looking over the back of the seat, made that sound people make when they see cute babies.

“Oh, just look at her! Why, Bitty, she’s absolutely precious. Isn’t she, Trinket?”

“Precious,” I said. “Just precious.” And actually, looking at her again, I have to admit it’s the kind of face that really grows on you. There’s something about those big eyes and nose like a closed accordion. Of course, the fact that she wore a bib, and Bitty had her in some kind of outfit that I swear looked like a ballerina’s tutu, just made her look like a homely baby. On her own, she’s quite cute. In an exotic, drooling kind of way.

Bitty beamed at the praise, and I realized she’d found another distraction. I envy her that ability. I really do. My solution to a problem is to lie awake at night worrying it to death. Then I resurrect it in the morning, chew it over, approach it from different angles, and if I’m lucky, find an answer before I expire from sleep deprivation.

Bitty pretends it doesn’t exist. With other people, that solution would end in disaster. Not her. Most of the time, something happens to smooth out the difficulty, and she’s happily on her way, unaware—or pretending to be—how close she came to utter catastrophe.

So by the time we got to the river bluffs in Memphis that morning, Bitty had talked about the dog, the approaching pilgrimage, how chunky Marilee Thompson was getting since she’d hit
that time of life
, and a buffet luncheon she’s planning for April 1
^st
. Daddy and I mostly stayed out of the conversation, he no doubt from abject boredom, and I in a sort of hypnotic trance at the amazing propensities of women in our family to completely ignore the unpleasant. My twin sister Emerald has successfully ignored the unpleasant all her life. Maybe I had been found under a cabbage leaf, after all.

The Delta Queen is one of those huge, gracious river boats that truly summons the flavor of an era gone by if you overlook all the modern conveniences. The closest I’d ever been to a river boat before was the mock-up of one at
Mud
Island
, a nineteenth century reproduction of gamblers in string ties and jaunty bowlers, and elegant ladies in satins and silks.
Mud
Island
is a spit of land just off the
Wolf
Harbor
on the
Memphis
river bluffs, accessible by a tram. The name is inelegant, but the museum, and the reproduction of the
Mississippi River
all the way from its mouth near
Canada
to where it spills out into the
Gulf of Mexico
, is really nice. Kids love to walk in the flowing water that’s ankle deep, and then say they’ve walked across the
Mississippi River
.

After verifying their tickets and checking luggage, the line that had formed at the gangplank to the huge paddle-wheeler began to embark. We were allowed to go with Mama and Daddy to look at their cabins since it was a chartered cruise and we’re family. I have to say, I’ve rarely been so impressed with accommodations. Their stateroom had a window with white wooden shutters and stained glass over it, a very comfortable bed draped in what looked like an antique quilt, brass lamps with milk-glass shades, and a spacious bathroom.

I set the basket of muffins and jellies on the beautiful mahogany dresser placed against one wall as Mama went excitedly from one new discovery to the next. A brochure listing daily activities and points of interest where the river boat would be docking lay on a small silver tray next to the bed. Bitty read aloud, “‘Relax in the cozy comfort of the Betty Blake lounge—’ I wonder who she was? Anyway, it says you can sip tea in the Forward Cabin Lounge then join in rollicking fun—are you going to do that, Aunt Anna? Oh my! All their furnishings are antique.” Bitty looked up at me with glittering eyes. “A vintage calliope in the Texas Stateroom.”

“We have to stay home,” I said, “and this is a chartered cruise.”

“They’re stopping in St. Francisville. Have you ever been to St. Francisville, Trinket? They have the most gorgeous old plantation homes, dripping in Spanish moss, filled with antiques . . . . ”

Fortunately, the river boat gave a short blast of its whistle, and by the time I removed the brochure from Bitty’s hand and got her and Chitling to the stateroom door, another blast or two had sounded. There was a flurry of kisses and well-wishes, a reminder to call me when they got to New Orleans, and I hustled Bitty out of their room and down the hallway to the exit.

“Lord, Trinket, stop pushing,” Bitty said when we stood out on the old cobblestones made decades before the Civil War. “I’m going to drop Chen Ling.”

“Chitling will bounce. Besides, she’s in a sling and you’ve got a death grip on it.”

We turned with our backs to the sun to wave at Mama and Daddy, who’d come out to stand at the rail and wave. Daddy had his arm around Mama, and they both looked so sweet and familiar and excited that tears came to my eyes. I sniffled. Bitty handed me a tissue, which was surprising since I’m usually the one prepared for such situations.

“They’ll be back in a week,” she said, and I nodded.

“I know. They just look so . . . happy.”

“That’s because they are. Now come on. I have no intention of standing out here on these uneven cobblestones in my heels. It’s a wonder people don’t break a leg on these things.”

Once we were back in Mama’s car, and Bitty had the dog out of the sling and seated on her lap where she could look out the window, I said, “We can’t take that dog into The Peabody.”

“That’s ridiculous. They already have ducks in the lobby. If they allow ducks, they should allow dogs.”

“I suggest you take that up with the general manager. Unless the policy has changed since I was employed there, dogs are not allowed.”

“Oh. Do you know I’d forgotten you used to work there, Trinket? That was what, back in the eighties?”

“Right after they reopened. Then a year or so later Perry got transferred and we moved to Jackson. And after that, we moved to North Carolina. And after that, we moved to Virginia. And after that, we moved to Arkansas. I think Idaho was next—or was it Oregon? I can’t recall.”

“Perry was a serial employee when you met him. You shouldn’t have been so surprised that he didn’t change after you got married.”

I looked at her incredulously. “Are you giving me marriage advice?”

Bitty blinked in surprise. “No, not at all. Just making an observation. Oh honey, I didn’t mean anything
mean
by saying that. In fact, I’ve always thought it a shame that you got married with blinders on.”

“I’m not sure that explanation is an improvement,” I said, but I knew what she meant. It’s true. I was so gullible I didn’t suspect a thing when I married a man with a great set of abs and the work ethic of a hobo. True to her nature, Bitty married expecting things to work out in the long run. And the odd thing is, they usually did. Maybe not the way she expected, but certainly in her favor.

“So what’s with you and Jackson Lee?” I asked as I pulled out onto Riverside Drive and drove along the curving road built atop the lower bluffs. Expensive homes and apartments line the upper bluffs looking over the Mississippi River.

“Cybill Shepherd has a house right here somewhere,” Bitty said, “and so does that man who was married to Liza Minnelli—I can’t remember his name. Jackson Lee is my attorney, so what are you asking?”

“Cybill Shepherd’s house is farther down, and David Gest was married to Liza Minnelli. I just think Jackson Lee is very nice, very smart, and very protective of you.”

“He better be at five hundred dollars an hour. But he is a sweet ole thing, isn’t he? Stayed with me until the police left, made sure all the doors were locked and I felt better, then I nearly had to push him out the door. Oh Lord—do you think he was on the clock all that time?”

Sometimes I could just shake Bitty. She can be so obtuse, that I have to wonder if it’s not something she does on purpose.

“Probably not. I’d be surprised if you ever get a bill from him.”

“Don’t be silly, Trinket. I always get a nice bill from Brunetti and Brunetti. I think there’s another name in there, maybe another Brunetti, but it’s fairly new so I don’t remember. Oh, this is Beale Street. Turn left.”

Reluctantly, I turned left. Then I decided it’d be up to the management at The Peabody to inform Bitty that no animals are allowed in the lobby, and not to stress myself over it at all. Let her find out the hard way.

Of course, the lobby waitress who brought me a mimosa without the champagne and Bitty one with extra, thought Chen Ling was just “the cutest thing
ever
,” and there shouldn’t be any problem at all as long as that precious darling stayed in the sling and didn’t chase the ducks once they came down to the fountain. I wanted to ask if that was current policy, but sipped my orange juice instead. There are times it’s just best to let things go.

Even as early as it was, a little after nine-thirty, the lobby had quite a few people sitting in chairs or on couches positioned around marble top tables. At one end of the lobby is the five-star restaurant named Chez Philippe after the patriarch of the Memphis family who owns the hotel and quite a few other properties around town. At the other end, up marble steps, is another restaurant that serves a kind of blended cuisine, very modern and very delicious, with its own chef. Chez Philippe has a chef who’s been there for years and is known worldwide for his dishes. Jose was there when I worked at The Peabody back in the mid-to late eighties.

The name Chez Philippe reminded me of Bitty’s Philip.

“I don’t suppose the results of the autopsy are out yet,” I said as Bitty fed Chen Ling a piece of dog biscuit she’d apparently brought in her purse. She shook her head.

“I think they come in today or tomorrow, but I already know what killed him. General Grant. That statue is very heavy.”

I frowned. Something still tickled the back of my overloaded brain. It had to do with General Grant, but what? And how could that possibly have anything to do with Philip’s murder? Maybe everything that’s happened is getting to me and I’m becoming unhinged, I thought. It was certainly a possibility.

“Did you know Sherman Sanders has a lost love?” I asked after a minute of brain strain produced no answer and Bitty began to look like she meant to take Chen Ling out of her sling.

Bitty looked up, mouth slightly open. “He
does?
”

I nodded. “Daddy told me. It’s really a rather sad story.”

“That may be where he is, then,” Bitty said, sitting up a little straighter against the back of the upholstered loveseat we’d chosen. “He’s gone to be with her—it is a her, right?”

“From what Daddy told me, I’m pretty sure. But I don’t think he’s gone to be with her, although I admit that’s a possibility.”

“Oh Trinket, not everyone gets as soured on love as you are just because things don’t work out every time.”

A little indignantly, I said, “It’s not
that
. She lives in Japan. Or did right after the Second World War, anyway. Sanders was still enlisted in the service, and since some states had laws refusing to allow Japanese across their borders and he didn’t know where the military might send him next, he had to leave her behind. At least, that’s the way Daddy told it.”