Drop dead divas, p.12
Drop Dead Divas, page 12
“So what we have to do,” Gaynelle said matter-of-factly, “is help the police find the real killer.”
Most of the Divas sat in Gaynelle's living room, a rather small space decorated in cottage chic. It surprised me a bit, since I’d always figured Gaynelle for the minimalist kind of person, but it was a pleasant surprise since this was the first time I’d been inside Gaynelle's home. I appreciate the comfort and at-home kind of decorating much more than those modern homes that are all sleek lines and hard surfaces.
Anyway, there we were drinking sweet tea and eating chips and dip, and trying to figure out a way to get Bitty off the hook. I personally thought Gaynelle's plan unlikely to work and said so.
“It has come to my attention that police aren’t necessarily grateful for help,” I pointed out. “In fact, they tend to tell you to butt out if you offer suggestions.”
Gaynelle gave me a stern look. “I never suggested going to the police, Trinket. I said we will have to find who killed Race, and that will most likely be the person who also killed Naomi.”
Since I couldn’t figure out how to say what was on my mind tactfully, I just said it bluntly: “I realize you feel you have to make it up to Bitty for what happened a few months ago, but you had nothing to do with killing the senator or Sanders.”
“I know that. But I should have guessed what was happening instead of being so blind.”
“We all should have, for that matter.” Rayna leaned forward to pat Gaynelle on the arm. “Unfortunately, none of us are psychics.”
Bitty sat up straighter in the big arm chair. “Oh! That’s a great idea, Rayna! We’ll go to a psychic!”
Sandra Dobson laughed, then apparently realized Bitty was serious and reached for the tortilla chips and cheese dip instead of saying what obviously had come to her mind.
To forestall Bitty’s enthusiasm, I said quickly, “No, Bitty. No psychics. Maybe Gaynelle's right. Maybe we can figure out who killed Race and Naomi, but I want to make one thing clear: I will not be a part of it unless any information we get we turn over to the police at some point. If there’s a deranged killer on the loose, I certainly don’t want to end up alone with him somewhere.”
“Now that’s an angle I hadn’t really considered,” said Rayna. “I just assumed it was a woman who killed Race. You know, the whole love triangle thing. What if it was a man? Someone in Naomi’s past who was angry because she got engaged to Race?”
“Then why would he kill her after Race was out of the way?” asked Deelight. She shook her head slowly. “That would defeat the whole purpose of killing Race.”
“What if Naomi was there and saw him kill Race? She’d be a witness against him. Maybe she told him she was going to the police so he killed her.” Cindy leaned forward. She sat on the comfortable sofa next to me, and I felt her tension as she gestured with a half-eaten chip. “He lured her out to the cabin with a promise of a night of passion, maybe, or to tell her he would leave, or wanted to beg her forgiveness—whatever excuse he used, she went out there and he strangled her!”
“You watch too many soaps,” Cady Lee observed. “If Naomi knew he was a killer she’d be stupid to meet him anywhere.”
“Well,” said Bitty, “she was stupid.” When we all looked at her she said, “What? Just because she’s dead doesn’t change the fact she was dumb as dirt. Bless her heart.”
“Cady Lee’s right,” Gaynelle said after a moment. “Naomi wouldn’t have gone to meet someone in such a deserted location if she was afraid of them. Fear trumps stupid every time.”
“So either she went out there to be alone and hide, or she trusted this person.” I thought about that a second and then added, “Or he followed her and surprised her.”
“Yes, that last part makes the best sense, I think,” Gaynelle said. “Whoever killed her must have snuck up on her and surprised her.”
We all went silent for a few minutes, mulling over the options and no doubt thinking about how horrible Naomi’s last minutes must have been. In something like this, it didn’t really matter what kind of person she’d been; no one deserves to be murdered.
“Well,” Bitty said after a moment, “she didn’t put up much of a fight. I mean, the cabin looked pretty clean. Nothing broken, no chairs overturned, or anything like that. She was just lying on the bed with her face to the wall like she was asleep. It wasn’t until I grabbed her shoulder to turn her toward me that I saw . . . saw she was dead.”
To keep Bitty from dwelling on what must have been a horrible shock, no matter how she felt about Naomi, I said quickly, “Then she obviously didn’t feel threatened by this person. Or they killed her while she was asleep.”
Rayna leaned forward. “Bitty, think a minute. Did it look as if she’d tried to fight off anyone? I mean, were her nails broken or did she have cuts or bruises?”
Bitty gave Rayna a blank look, so it was Sandra who answered. “When I checked for a pulse, all I noticed was that she had a couple broken fingernails. She was lying atop the blankets, and if I remember correctly, she had on a nightgown. Not lingerie, but a plain cotton one, like you buy at Wal-Mart. It was sleeveless, I remember that.”
“Wal-Mart sells clothes?”
Bitty’s question let me know that she wasn’t as traumatized as I’d feared. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, dear. If you’re a good girl, one day I’ll take you there.”
“Oh, I’ve been in Wal-Mart,” Bitty lied. “Lots of times.”
“Not shopping for clothes, I bet,” Deelight said, and we all nodded in agreement. Even Bitty.
“Back to the murders, please.” Gaynelle is really good at keeping us on track. “I’ve thought this over, and I have some ideas on how to proceed.”
“Wait. Let me get some more tea,” I said.
My conversational detour to the kitchen took us all in there, where we refilled tall glasses with sweet tea, replenished the chip bowl and dips, then returned to the cozy living room. White slipcovers drape over big comfy chairs, and the long sofa is one you just sink into so that it’s hard to get up if you’re pregnant or just have a big tummy. Thankfully, my stomach isn’t quite that big yet, or I would have had to homestead Gaynelle's sofa. Blue and yellow are her predominant colors in the room, with wainscoting painted white and a soft yellow on the walls. Since it’s an antebellum cottage, it has wonderful wood trim, also painted white, and dentil-detailed molding at the ceiling. Very clean and fresh looking, and not at all what I’d imagined Gaynelle would like. Just goes to show you, you cannot judge people by their appearances.
Gaynelle sat in one of the fat chairs with white slipcovers and blue toile pillows. She crossed her legs at the ankles, looking very much the prim and proper school teacher in her loose silk blouse, straight fitted skirt, and snazzy espadrilles. Well, maybe not so prim.
“Here is what I think we should do,” she said. “We’ll divide into groups of two or three. Each group should focus on one area of investigation only. Once a day we’ll compare notes. Whatever has been discovered will be discussed and dissected, then we’ll decide what’s important and what’s not.”
She looked at me, and I knew what was coming.
“Trinket, you and Rayna will be with Bitty. Your plan is to talk to Trina or Trisha Madewell and see what you can find out about their relationships with Race Champion.”
“Good god!” Bitty burst out. “Are you nuts? Trina Madewell? After what she did? I would rather just shoot her than have to talk to her.”
Gaynelle pursed her lips disapprovingly. “That is one reason I decided you’re to remain in the company of Rayna or Trinket most of the time. You have a lamentable tendency to act upon emotion rather than reason. You and Trina have a history. She’ll most likely talk to you, and perhaps betray herself in the process.”
Bitty muttered under her breath Who died and left you in charge? But I ignored it, as I‘m glad anyone else who heard her did, too.
“Cindy,” Gaynelle went on, “you and Deelight and Sandra live fairly close to one another, so I think you three should find out what you can from Naomi’s family. If she had any ex-boyfriends with a temper who might stalk her, that sort of thing. Sometimes people will tell friends or neighbors what they would never tell police, so listen for any kind of off-the-wall comment that might be important.”
“What do you consider an off-the-wall comment?” Deelight asked in between licking cheese dip off her fingers. It does have a tendency to drip, and no one wants to waste good cheese dip, especially when it’s Pancho’s.
“Oh, something along the lines of, ‘Well, I told her not to date Leroy or whoever, but she didn’t listen.’ That sort of thing.”
“So that leaves you, Cady Lee, and Marcy Porter,” Bitty said. “What are you all going to do?”
“We will talk to Race Champion’s family and current—or ex—girlfriends. That should keep us pretty busy. By the way, does anyone know how Marcy is doing? She’s missed the last two Diva meetings. Not counting Sunday’s excursion. Is she all right?”
“Yes and no,” said Cindy. “Morning sickness.”
“Ohhhh,” most of us said in unison, but from different perspectives, I’m sure. My perspective is more like Thank god it’s not me. I’m pretty sure Cindy and Deelight think it’s sweet, but they’ve still got kids at home and haven’t yet experienced the heady taste of freedom that comes with knowing you don’t have to wipe dirty bottoms or deal with surly teenagers. Not that my daughter was ever surly. Well, not for long, anyway.
Gaynelle, ever the mistress of any and all situations, merely said, “I’ll make sure I have plastic bags in the car.”
“So when do we start this?” Rayna asked. “Some of us work or volunteer.”
“We start tomorrow. Each team will choose their own times, but at ten each night we should be able to phone in our reports. Just write down things that you find out, and one of you call it in.”
It sounded too much like high school to me. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted anything to do with written reports. But when Rayna stood up and said, “Everyone agree?” we all stood up and lifted our tea glasses at the same time, bumping them together.
“Agreed!” I heard myself say in unison with the Divas.
It occurred to me that we may have all just agreed to put ourselves in danger of being run out of town on a rail. After all, some people get belligerent when asked nosy questions. Guns are prevalent in Mississippi. A lot of people carry, whether in their purse, pocket, or a rack in the back of their truck. Maybe Sherman Sanders had loaded his shotgun with rock salt pellets, but most people use live ammunition. Did I really want to go around knocking on doors and asking rude questions?
I would just have to do a Scarlett, I told myself, and worry about that tomorrow.
****
It didn’t take Rayna, Bitty and me long to find out that Trina and Trisha Madewell did not regard our visit as polite. Or necessary.
We stood in the lobby of the large house turned bed and breakfast and did our best to appear non-threatening.
“Really,” Rayna said, “we just wanted to correct the impression you must have gotten of us at Six Chimneys. We feel terrible you were frightened. It was all just a big misunderstanding. Wasn’t it, Bitty. Bitty?”
A little belatedly, Bitty muttered, “Yes. Terrible. Misunderstanding.”
I just stood there with a big fake smile on my face since I could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like a lie or ridiculous. Not that white lies and silliness have ever slowed me down before, but this was important. I didn’t want to screw it up.
Trina Madewell looked at us with suspicion. Without all that make-up she’d worn to Six Chimneys, she was much nicer looking. She’d reminded me of Mimi, the overweight, over-made-up secretary on the Drew Carey show. I told you I watch a lot of TV, right? Anyway, with just the barest of foundation on her face, the wrinkles were less apparent, and she didn’t look quite so . . . hard. Trisha must be “the pretty one” in the family. Every family of more than one child has one of those, it seems. The one who is prettiest, or smartest, or more athletic. Emerald’s the one in my family who always stood out. Maybe that’s why I felt I had to outdo her in other ways; not always the best ways, mind you, but I felt it my duty to be noticed. I had usually succeeded, much to my mother’s dismay.
But I digress again.
There we were, standing in the lobby of Madewell Courts trying to schmooze bits of information out of the sisters. Surprisingly, it was Trisha who helped the most.
“If you’re here to talk about the murder, just ask me what you want to know. I’ve already told the police everything that matters.”
Since that was indeed why we were there, I appreciated her bluntness. Apparently her sister did not.
“Be quiet, Trisha!”
Trisha shrugged. She was about the same height as Trina, somewhere around five-four, I’d say, but much slimmer. And her hair hadn’t been dyed lifeless, but was a soft brown, shiny, and cut in a flattering style around her face. She wore jeans and a pretty blouse and looked stylish, whereas poor Trina in her overdone silk dress seemed like a dollar store mannequin. It was a startling contrast in a way, because my understanding was that the Madewell family had money. At least, once upon a time. I know the house is antebellum and probably costs a pretty penny for the upkeep, as old houses often do, and I’d heard the whispers about the Madewells turning it into a bed and breakfast because of necessity, not choice. But hadn’t someone recently said that Trina Madewell had lots of money? I’d have to ask Bitty and Rayna later.
“It’s not like it won’t soon be public information anyway,” Trisha said to Trina. “I just want all this over with.”
“It won’t ever be over with!” The ferocity in Trina’s voice was shocking.
I looked over at Rayna. As usual, she appeared calm. Bitty just looked annoyed.
Trisha ignored her sister’s fury and said, “Race was supposed to meet me in the cottage. We’d been seeing each other for a while. I had no idea Naomi claimed to be engaged to him until I heard about the scuffle at Budgie’s café. I was furious with him and intended to have it out. But when I got down to the cottage he was already dead.”
“I heard Trina and Race were still seeing each other,” Rayna said boldly. “Is that true?”
Trina’s chin jutted into the air and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Not after I found out he was dating my sister, it wasn’t!”
“Bet that made you mad when you found out,” Bitty put in. “It would make me pretty damn mad.”
Trina’s dark eyes narrowed. “Yes, it made me mad. Trisha and I had a big fight over it. I was angry enough to kill both of them at that moment. But I didn’t. Now. Are you happy?”
“No. But I am satisfied. Thank you.”
That seemed to take Trina back, and she just looked at Bitty. Then she said, “You dated Race. Did you kill him?”
“Of course not. I thought he was an obnoxious drunk. Not at first, of course, or I wouldn’t have agreed to go out with him, but he quickly proved that he was a womanizer of the worst kind. Having been recently divorced from one of those, I had no desire to get tangled up with another one.”
Bitty’s frankness silenced Trina, and she nodded. When she looked at me as if to ask if I had any questions, the only thing I said was, “May we look at the cottage?”
It wasn’t what I had intended to ask. Looking at the murder scene was the last thing I wanted, so I have no idea why I said it. Sometimes my mouth comes out with things my brain has no part in.
After a moment of stunned silence, Trisha said, “Why not? It’s not as if the police haven’t been over every inch of it already. Help yourself. I’ll get the key.”
She went behind a small desk and reached under the counter, then held out a key attached to a small disk printed with the words ‘Cottage One’ in a very fancy script. No one else moved, so I stepped forward and took the key from her.
“Don’t you want to go with us?”
Trisha shuddered. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to step in there again without seeing . . .no. I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll bring it back,” I said, and turned to look at Bitty and Rayna. They stared at me with widened eyes. Maybe they felt like I did about it, but we had the key and should not let this opportunity pass.
Madewell Courts is rather plain on the front, with only a small portico and narrow white columns, but the back yard is a jewel. It’s obvious someone here loves gardening. The original structure built in the early 1800s has been added on to, and a Victorian style sunroom looks out over sunny stretches of green lawn bordered with flowerbeds. Every kind of flower imaginable fills sun-drenched beds. Beyond those, magnolia trees spread out like gigantic umbrellas, some with their branches all the way to the ground, some trimmed to reveal shaded flowerbeds beneath. Tall ash and spruce trees strategically form a windbreak at one side of the house and lawn.
Four structures form a semi-circle at the far side of the lawn. They look a lot like quaint English cottages. They’re small, and perhaps had been sheds or servants’ quarters at one time in the past, but each is unique and has a tiny courtyard in front. Paving stones lead from the main house out to each cottage.
The remodeling alone must have cost a fortune, I thought as we made our way to Cottage One. It was at the far left of the lawn, shaded by a magnolia, and with flowers foaming over the low bricked courtyard walls.
Rayna sounded impressed when she remarked that the gardens were gorgeous. “I cannot imagine how much money all this cost,” she added.
We were obviously thinking along the same lines.
“And they have rooms inside the house they rent out, too,” Bitty said. “Wonder how much they charge and if they can really make any money way out here?”
“It’s not so far from Cherryhill,” I said, “and very close to Strawberry Plains. You know how many tourists show up every year to see the hummingbirds come to fuel up on their way to South America. People show up in just as many droves as the birds.”
“Flocks,” said Rayna. “Birds fly in flocks. Except geese. They gather in gaggles.”
