Drop dead divas, p.23
Drop Dead Divas, page 23
“But . . . Rose Allgood? I mean, she hardly seems the type of woman Race would go for, does she?”
“Rumor also has it that she’s very well off. Old money family. Carolann was delighted to get her as a partner.”
“Oh, that changes things. Race did seem to follow the money, didn’t he?”
“That’s another thing. He was deeply in debt and desperate to get sponsors for his races. After Cliff Wages caused the accident that wrecked his car, he needed new money in to keep him in the game. Apparently, he thought marrying it would be the best solution.”
“Huh.” I pondered this new information for a few moments. “I suppose Rose has motive, but how about opportunity and means?”
“You cannot expect me to do everything. I figured out who, so it’s up to you and Rayna to find out how.”
“I note you’re leaving Bitty out of the equation. Good call.”
“Yes, she has enough to think about these days, and besides, she can be a very disruptive complication.”
True enough.
When we hung up, I immediately called Rayna. It took her several rings to answer and she sounded out of breath.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Not really. Merlin found a mouse, and I had to rescue it from him.”
“Eew.”
“Not that I want mice in the house, I just don’t want mice portions all over the lobby. What’s up?”
“Gaynelle has an important lead.”
“Did she give it to the police?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Rayna sighed. “Never mind. I keep forgetting they don’t want to hear from us again.”
“Sergeant Maxwell made it quite clear we are to stay out of police business and take up needlework.”
“I wonder if Linda Maxwell knows her husband thinks women should stick to needlework and cooking instead of using their brains?” Rayna mused. “It would be most interesting to hear her take on that topic.”
“Do we really need to heckle the police? Think of the fall-out. We wouldn’t be able to drive down the street without being stopped for something. Men can be quite vindictive when there’s trouble at home.”
“True. So, what’s the lead and just how much trouble is it going to cause us?”
“Rose Allgood.” Since Rayna was just as surprised as I’d been, I gave her a quick recap of Gaynelle's theory. “She just doesn’t seem Race’s type, but as Gaynelle pointed out, his type seemed to have money.”
“Then explain to me why he dated both Madewell sisters. They don’t have a spare dime. Not that they weren’t well off years ago, but bad investments took a toll.”
“Hm. Maybe Race didn’t know they were broke? After all, Trina especially puts on a show of having more money than Wall Street. Trisha isn’t so showy, and he dated her as well, though.”
“That could explain it, I suppose. If you consider that his reasons for dating certain women depended upon the size of their bank accounts. It happens,” Rayna said.
“Still, I find it very difficult to visualize Race Champion—a redneck stock car driver and admitted booze-hound—romancing the Rubber Penis Lady. But come to think of it, maybe there’s a lot of fire under that icy exterior.”
“You never know,” said Rayna, and we both got quiet for a minute, our minds probably drifting in a parallel direction. Any woman who sells dildoes and crotchless panties must know quite a lot of things that would make a man happy. And she was attractive, albeit far too cool and reserved for a woman in her line of work. But what did I know?
“And then there’s Naomi,” I said after banishing the image of rubber dildoes and silk panties sans a crotch from my over-burdened mind. “She obviously had no money, but expected to gain from Philip Hollandale's will. Maybe he heard about it and asked her to marry him.”
“Naomi wasn’t exactly a person who kept her thoughts—such as they were—to herself,” Rayna agreed. “I imagine she’d told anyone who’d listen that she was coming into money. Which leads me to the question, Why didn’t any of us hear about it?”
“It’s not exactly like we traveled in the same circles.”
“Yes, but this was gossip. Good gossip. It should have gotten to everyone within a fifty mile radius within twenty-four hours.”
“Someone along the line squashed it. I wonder who and why?”
After another moment of silence, Rayna said, “I think I may know who, but I’m not at all sure about why.”
“Who?”
“Miranda Watson.”
“Miranda—the gossip columnist from The South Reporter?”
“You do remember what she did, right?”
I did. “How could I forget? Bitty was fit to be tied and threatened to sue the paper for slander.”
“Since it was basically the truth, I don’t think even Jackson Lee could have pulled that one off. Anyway, Miranda generally knows all the gossip around here. And I mean all the gossip. If anyone knew about it, she would. So why wouldn’t she pass along the info she got from Naomi, or Sukey, or whoever her sources were? This was good stuff. Yet not even a hint of it got around town. Why not?”
Rayna had some good points, but I wasn’t so sure. Naomi definitely had been the type to tell all, but even Jackson Lee hadn’t been aware of the late senator leaving money to a girlfriend. And he was usually up on all the attorney gossip.
“So where do we start asking questions?” I foolishly inquired.
Before the day was out, I found myself standing next to Rayna at Miranda Watson's front door.
I met Rayna at her house first. Rob was there, and he didn’t look at all happy about his wife poking into official police business.
“You could get arrested,” he said with a warning shake of his head. “Police tend to get territorial about a case, and don’t usually appreciate amateurs messing with possible witnesses or tampering with evidence. Remember what happened last time.”
“How could I forget?” Rayna continued looking through her purse for car keys. “I thought you’d never let me go to the cemetery again.”
Rob, a tall, handsome man with silver-frosted black hair, shook his head again. “I won’t bail you out this time,” he threatened, and Rayna just laughed.
“Yes you will. You don’t like cleaning cat boxes.”
Rob sighed. “Just don’t do anything illegal, okay? It doesn’t look good for a bail bondsman to have to post bail for his wife too many times.”
Having found her elusive car keys, Rayna slung her purse on her shoulder and gave him a quick kiss. “We aren’t meddling in anything dangerous or liable to prosecution. We’re simply going to talk to the village chatterbox.”
“And yet, I sense possible complications,” he said as we went out the door, calling after us, “Don’t get arrested!”
That rather worried me. In the twilight of my years, I’ve discovered an aversion to being arrested or in police custody of any sort. I’m funny that way. In the days of my public protests, getting arrested for misdemeanors was a badge of honor, a signal that I had achieved my purpose. While my parents were certain my purpose was to embarrass them, I had a more noble goal in mind. Calling attention to injustices, for example. I still feel that way, but prefer now to adhere to caution in the pursuit of justice.
Or so I told myself.
Anyway, once Rayna and I were standing on Miranda Watson’s front porch and ringing her bell, I began to question our methods.
“Are you sure she’ll tell us anything?” I whispered.
“Of course. She won’t be able to help herself. She’s a gossip. She does it for fun as well as money.”
Since Rayna seemed so certain, I smothered my doubts. And almost swallowed my gum when the front door suddenly swung open with a vengeance.
Miranda Watson—or who I assumed to be her since we had never met—barred the entrance with a thunderous voice and bulky body.
“Just what are you doing skulking around on my front porch?” she boomed so loudly several mockingbirds in the magnolia tree on her front lawn took flight with startled squawks. “I should call the police!”
“Calm down, Miranda,” said Rayna. “We rang your bell. Didn’t you hear it?”
“It’s broken. Has been for years.” Miranda stared at us suspiciously. While she is quite overweight, she has a lovely face. Her complexion is flawless, and her large brown eyes are slightly tilted, giving her an exotic appearance. It was rather offset by her flowery cotton muumuu, however. “What do you want?”
“Information,” Rayna said bluntly. “Everyone in town knows you’re always up to date on the latest events, public and private.”
“What on earth makes you think I’d tell you even if I had any information you might want?”
That sounded just like what I’d expected, and I took a backward step to return to our car sitting at the curb.
But Rayna had an answer for that, too: “Because you’re dying to get in on the action.”
Miranda lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m not already working with someone else?”
“Because the only someone ‘else’ there is working, is the police. And I happen to know for a fact they do not want your help. Or ours, for that matter.”
Maybe it was the last admission that swung Miranda around, since she opened the door wider and stepped aside. I followed Rayna inside.
Cool air blew from a window air unit, ruffling a stack of papers teetering on a flat surface. We had apparently interrupted Miranda at her desk; her laptop sat open with some kind of word processing program blinking until she moved to close the lid. Blocking the view of the desk with her body, Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. I recognized her body language as resistant to suggestion. Rayna may have gotten us inside, but she still had to work to bring Miranda around.
“So, just what do you want to know?” Miranda asked abruptly. “Not that I’ll give you an answer. It depends.”
“May we?” Rayna said, gesturing to a loveseat nearly covered by newspapers and cats. Without waiting for consent, she proceeded to pick up a cat and take its place on the furniture. I, however, hesitated. Two cats occupied the other cushion, and looked at me with eyes narrowed malevolently. I sensed retribution if I tried to move them. Rayna took charge and swept them from the cushion with her free arm. The two cats hissed and fluffed out their tails as they darted in opposite directions. I sat down immediately.
Miranda plodded to a nearby overstuffed chair and eased into it, taking her time to think, no doubt. She must have a pretty good idea of the questions we wanted answered. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Divas were snooping around town trying to find out who had killed Race and Naomi; and in particular, who had tried to kill Rayna, Bitty, and me.
Eying us for a moment, Miranda smiled. “You want to know if I talked to Naomi before she died, don’t you.” She said it more as a statement than a question, and we both nodded.
“Yes, that would be a good place to start,” Rayna said. “Someone killed that poor girl, and they must have had what they thought was a good reason for it. If Naomi said anything that might give you an idea who hated her—and Race—enough to kill them, it would definitely help if you would tell us.”
Miranda shrugged. “I already told the police everything I know, or heard. They’re competent enough to find the killer, I’m sure.”
“Then if the police already know, telling us won’t hurt anything.”
“It might. After all, I seem to recall dangerous blunders the last time Divas got too involved in things they should stay out of. And from what I hear, someone has already tried to kill you this time, too.”
Her gaze shifted to me, and she lifted a brow.
“I take that rather personally,” I spoke up. “I didn’t appreciate being run off the road into a gully.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Miranda paused, then said, “Bitty Hollandale made a few enemies when she divorced Philip, you know. All the nastiness, the scandal, the possible legal complications . . . .”
“Philip caused the nastiness with his public affairs, especially with Naomi since she was still underage when he first started messing with her,” I defended Bitty, “and he caused his own legal difficulties by his underhanded business dealings. Bitty had nothing to do with any of that.”
Miranda steepled her hands and gazed at us over the tips of her fingers, which I noticed had long, curved nails painted a bright blood-red. How did she type on that little laptop with those talons?
“True,” she said. “But it’s not like she was the only woman hurt in that affair. For all her youth and—well, shortage of intellect, Naomi was a sweet girl. There were so few people she could really talk to, people who wouldn’t judge her.”
I got a little mad at her sanctimonious tone. Was this the same woman who had written scathing snippets of gossip about us in her weekly column? All without asking us if any of it was true? The same woman who’d said, quite literally, “Drop dead, Divas”?
As I opened my mouth, Rayna grabbed my wrist and said quickly, “I’m glad you were able to be there for her. But she was happy at last, wasn’t she? I mean, Philip may be gone, but she was engaged to Race and really loved him, right?”
“Yes, I believe she did,” Miranda replied slowly, as if thinking it over. “Or at least, she’d convinced herself that she did. She was very lonely, you know.”
I knew what Bitty would have said to that, but kept my mouth closed since that seemed to be the wisest course at this time. If Miranda was going to share with us, I should just shut up and let her.
Rayna clucked sympathy. “I’m sure we all know how it feels to be lonely that way.”
Miranda nodded. “For someone like Naomi, being without a man in her life made her panicky.”
While Rayna nodded in agreement, I thought about my life without a man. Lonely? No, I didn’t feel that way at all. Liberated was more like it. Until meeting Kit, I’d decided never to rely on the company of a man again, for anything in my life. Not that I relied on Kit now, but it was nice to have male companionship without a feeling of dependence in any way, whether financial or emotional. Very nice.
Besides, I had Bitty and my parents to worry about. Not to mention the zoo in my parents’ barn. When did I have time to get lonely?
Miranda leaned forward in her chair. Her full lips twitched and her eyes dilated. Her voice was low. “Naomi was afraid of more than being alone, poor thing. She came by to see me right before . . . before she was killed, you know.”
Rayna made all the appropriate replies to that bit of information to encourage her to continue. I just sat quietly and tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. Prying good gossip out of someone was not really my strong suit. Apparently, I had a lot to learn.
Miranda Watson rattled on about how Naomi confided in her quite a lot during the past two years. Miranda was the “only one in the world” who Naomi had felt would understand why she clung to Philip Hollandale for so long. That part was a bit intriguing to me, but since Miranda chose not to embellish on Naomi’s motives, I had to listen instead to how people might think Miranda gossipy and mean at times, but really, she was more of a free psychiatric therapist.
Rayna was right. Miranda Watson couldn’t resist gossiping. It was a personality characteristic that came in very, very handy.
Finally she came back around to a big reason Naomi was afraid before she died.
With her tone lowered theatrically, Miranda said, “Someone had threatened her life!”
Rayna retained her composure, but I got pretty fidgety. This wasn’t going to be one more accusation against Bitty, I hoped, because I might just ruin everything and give Miss Miranda Watson a piece of my mind.
“Whoever would have done that?” asked Rayna, her voice lowered to match the theatric tone.
“Well . . . let me just say that this certain someone claimed to be engaged to Race Champion instead of Naomi, and not only that—she moved to Holly Springs to be closer to him!”
It was like pulling teeth from an alligator, but Rayna persisted politely and quite skillfully, to draw the entire story from Miranda. Then Rayna sat back on the loveseat and drummed her fingers on the cushioned arm.
“Let me try to put this into perspective, and you tell me if I have it right, okay?” she said to Miranda, who also leaned back in her chair.
After a moment’s hesitation, Miranda nodded. I wondered if she already regretted her lapse of confidentiality.
“So, Naomi confided in you that she was being followed and was afraid. Also, that someone was following her and leaving notes not only on her car, but also on Race’s truck. That right so far?”
Miranda nodded again.
“And Naomi was certain it was a woman stalker who left those notes?”
Miranda looked a little surprised by Rayna's question. “Well . . . no, she never said she was certain it was a woman. We both just assumed—you know, that the notes were left by—by her.”
“And she had no idea who ‘her’ was.”
Here Miranda pursed her lips, then shook her head. “Well, yes. She thought she knew who it was, but as a legitimate journalist I don’t like making false accusations without proof, you know. It’s unethical.”
I could not contain myself. I blurted out, “Too bad you didn’t feel that way when you wrote that article about the Divas! You made wild allegations without knowing all the facts then. What’s the difference now?”
Rayna's elbow in my ribs indicated I had made my point and should shut up now. So I did. It was difficult, but I clamped my lips together so I probably looked like I had just bit into a lemon.
Miranda’s face had gone an interesting shade of purple, and her lips opened and closed a couple of times as she apparently fished for just the right curse words. I braced myself for it.
But then she surprised me by saying, “You’re right. I should have checked all the facts. My editor said almost the same thing after receiving several phone calls defending y’all. I intend to say so in my weekly column.”
