Divas Are Forever Read online

  “I hope she gets the mothball smell out of them before the tour.” Bitty finished her last bite of chess pie and followed it with coffee while I scraped the final bit of banana pudding out of my bowl.

  And then, just because we both love to annoy one another and I felt reckless, I said, “I hope you still fit into your dress. It was pretty tight last year, if I remember correctly. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about my dress fitting since I won’t be needing it.”

  It was my turn to needle her about weight, since she’d been badgering me relentlessly about getting too fat to fit into my hoop skirt. I was deliriously happy I wasn’t going to have to wear it after all, so I felt a bit cocky about the whole thing.

  Sometimes I shoot myself in the foot with my big mouth.

  Bitty looked at me and smiled her Grinch smile. If she’d turned green, she could have easily posed for the Dr. Seuss book.

  “You do know that everyone who participates in the pilgrimage wears a costume, don’t you, dear?”

  “Not true,” I said. “Miranda didn’t say one word about me wearing a hoop skirt.”

  “You’ll see,” was all she said, and a feeling of dread came over me.

  “Say it ain’t so . . .”

  “Oh, it’s so.”

  Alas, the next day I discovered Bitty was right when Miranda showed up at Silk Promises, the lingerie shop where I worked. She had brought the list of those participating in the battle at the railroad depot.

  “Your dress is ready for Friday, isn’t it?” she asked.

  I felt lightheaded. Gloom enveloped me. I’d hoped, up until the last minute, that I would be spared the ignominy of appearing in public in hoop skirts and a hat.

  “Yes,” I said with a sigh. “It’s ready. Are you sure I have to wear it?”

  Miranda blinked. She reminded me of the Mimi character on the old Drew Carey Show, who’d had her blond hair all teased up and wore too much bright blue or green eye shadow. It looked like Miranda had multiple sets of eyes, so I just picked out a pair to gaze into hopefully, but to no avail. The bottom set of eyes blinked at me again.

  “Why yes, of course you have to wear it. How else will tourists know you’re one of the pilgrimage guides?”

  “Uh, I can wear a name tag?” When I get the same kind of look from someone not blood kin to me that I get from Bitty or my mother, I know I’ve crossed over the line. So I added, “But of course, I can wear the tag on my dress, I suppose.”

  Miranda nodded. “If you don’t want to ruin the material with a pin, I can get you a name tag on a cord around your neck.”

  Since I didn’t give two figs about pinholes in a dress I didn’t want to wear, I just said, “Oh, I don’t want to be a bother. Whatever you give me will be fine.”

  I didn’t mean a word of that, but Mama had always stressed courtesy in situations that I deemed uncomfortable. Good manners are one of the Top Three Things Southern Girls Learn. I think the list used to have a Top Twenty, but times being what they are, getting a more modern Southern Girl to learn the Top Three can be difficult enough.

  A lady must have good manners, on all occasions.

  A lady must never curse, chew gum, smoke, or be intoxicated in public.

  A lady must always dress appropriately and modestly.

  Needless to say, those rules have been broken countless times over the years. I was a rebellious child. I joined sit-ins, grew my hair down to my butt, and smoked those slim cigarettes popular in the ’70s. I wore bell-bottom pants and halter tops in public. I cursed when I felt it necessary, and I drank beer with my friends in public. Yet I always said “ma’am” and “sir” to my elders and wrote thank-you notes for Christmas and birthday gifts. Once I had a child of my own, however, the responsibility to rear her as I had been reared overwhelmed me, and I had reverted to the teachings of my childhood. My Michelle has excellent manners.

  I count myself fortunate not to have grown up with the same rules that Bitty had to learn in her youth. Her mama came from money. Money creates its own set of rules. There are a ton of social graces that go along with being a debutante that I never had to think about. Bitty thought about them. I can’t say she paid much attention to them unless absolutely required, though. And I’m sure she hasn’t paid attention to them since then. But she likes to remind me that she never got arrested at a sit-in.

  So knowing all the rules and adhering to all the rules are two different prospects. I was polite to Miranda the entire time I was fighting the desire to make a public scene.

  When she left the shop, I turned to look at Carolann, the owner of Silk Promises and my employer. “Damn,” I said, thereby breaking Rule Number 2.

  Carolann Barnett, a New Age adherent with hair the color of a brush fire, tie-dyed clothes, and peace signs on several chains around her neck, just laughed. “It’s not so bad, Trinket. The pilgrimage will be over before you know it. Then you’ll get to put up your feet and be happy it’s behind you.”

  “Promises, promises.” I sighed. “It’s not that I don’t like the pilgrimage. I do. I love the tours through gorgeous homes, the history of Holly Springs, and the craft fairs at the railroad depot and on the courthouse lawn. I like the reenactments and seeing all the young women and girls in beautiful dresses. I like seeing handsome young men in uniforms, whether they’re gray or blue. But I’m quite sure that something will go wrong, and I’ll be smack in the middle of it.”

  “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” Carolann asked in a reasonable tone. “If it rains, people will still be able to tour the homes and watch a reenactment from the depot. There’s the concert Saturday night and the Sunday brunch at Montrose. Our museum has great exhibits and more period clothes than the Pink Palace Museum up in Memphis. So, what could possibly go wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Something always does. There’ll be a train wreck. The depot will catch fire. Bitty will put another bullet hole in her back door.”

  “The police haven’t given her back her gun yet,” Carolann reminded me.

  “She has more. Jackson Lee makes her keep them in a gun safe, but she has a key. You’d think she’d listen to him since he’s her boyfriend as well as her attorney, but you know Bitty. And I know I sound ridiculous, but when Bitty and I are involved in anything, something always goes wrong. It’s inevitable.”

  “I think you’re worrying for nothing. The pilgrimage has always been a success.”

  I shook my head. “That’s because Bitty and I have never been involved in the planning together. We’re like lightning rods. Mark my words—there will be trouble.”

  Have I mentioned that sometimes I can be psychic?

  THE HOLLY SPRINGS Railroad Depot is a beautiful building. Sections of it date back to the 1850s, the most modern being updated in the 1940s. In recent years, the family who owns the elegant structure has gotten it on the historic register and made repairs, keeping it within historic guidelines. The ground floor with baggage room and waiting rooms have opened to the public a few times during tours and events, and renovation is complete in the dining room where William Faulkner used to sit in the restaurant and watch passengers and workmen. Back then, regular customers would often complain about the thinness of the ham. “Turn off the fan so my ham won’t fly away,” they would say. Faulkner even referred to the ham in his novel, The Reivers.

  On the second floor are rooms where passengers used to stay while waiting for the next train to take them to their destination, still outfitted with antique furniture and linens and enough unique pieces to make Bitty salivate at just the mention of them. After a visit, I thought I was going to have to revive her with antique smelling salts when she stumbled home with her eyes still glazed in rapture. She’s a true antiques devotée.

  I just like nice furniture that’s comfortable. Bitty considers me a barbarian.

  It w
as sheer pandemonium in the hours leading up to the first reenactment. While I had been given the responsibility of assigning gray or blue uniforms, there were a few protests. It’s not easy to watch grown men bicker like children over a prized toy. Seven of the participants had their own uniforms—all gray—so there wasn’t an issue with them. Bitty’s sons, Brandon and Clayton, wore their own gray uniforms. Unfortunately, those soldiers without uniforms preferred to wear the eight gray ones. None wanted to wear the eight Union blues.

  “Some of you have to wear the blue,” I said in what I thought was a reasonable tone. “But if you want to, you can die quickly in the fighting.”

  That seemed to be acceptable. I soon had eight more Rebels and eight doomed Yankees; history be damned. Three of the Confederates had horses. None of the horses required uniforms, thank heavens. I’m not sure I could have coped.

  It was a lovely Friday, I had completed my mission of organizing the uniforms, and I made sure everyone had an appropriate weapon—that was nearly as difficult as assigning the uniforms—and the reenactment went off without a hitch. Sammy Simpson was wonderful at his task. He had stationed Rebels around the depot and directed Yankees to cots near the stacked “supplies” of food, clothing, weapons, and munitions. Since the original raid had been at dawn, we had to improvise. Yankees “slept” at their posts and were routed by the Rebels. It went just splendidly. Once the smoke cleared, all the players got a rousing round of applause, especially Confederate General Van Dorn, who was played by a quite convincing Riley Powers.

  After the reenactment was over for the day, I collected all the borrowed uniforms and counted the weapons, checking them off the list before I put them all in a locked chest. Then I caught a ride back up the hill with Sammy. He was the only one with a van big enough to hold a woman in hoop skirts and a wide-brimmed hat. It was a fairly pleasant ride. Sammy was a tall, lanky man with a weather-beaten face and good manners. He was pleased that his attention to detail had gone off so well and entertained me with a few horror stories from the past.

  “One year this fool—and I won’t divulge his name—showed up on his mare that was in heat. Instead of a reenactment of Grant’s occupation, we had a sex education simulation. All the other horses were geldings, but that didn’t mean they’d forgotten what nature intended them to do. Riley Powers nearly fell out of the saddle when his horse tried to climb on top of the mare.”

  “I missed a lot in my years away,” I said, and Sammy nodded.

  “Some things are best heard and not experienced,” he observed, and I had to agree.

  All in all, it wasn’t a bad first day out of two, and I actually looked forward to the final reenactment. I can be so foolish. Saturday’s feature was an excellent example of optimism gone awry.

  As we gathered at the depot for the final performance, my positivity wavered. Right off the bat, Walter Simpson declared that he wasn’t about to wear a Yankee uniform no matter what I said. Tall, thin, wrinkled as a peach pit, he glared at me and shook a bony finger in my face.

  “I’ve always been a Confederate, and I ain’t about to change that now.”

  “But this isn’t the actual war,” I said in a vain attempt at reason. “We’re just replaying an historic event. Since you were a Rebel yesterday, and Royal Stewart got in a bar fight last night and can’t get out of jail in time, we need another Yankee. Besides him, you’re the only tall man who fits into this uniform.”

  I didn’t want to be rude and point out the obvious, that all the men who didn’t already have their own uniforms ran to fat and fatter. Since Walter’s authentic uniform had succumbed to moths years ago, I hoped he’d cooperate. But I saw how upset he was and decided it wasn’t worth hurt feelings to continue.

  Before I could say anything, Sammy came up and said, “Granddad, wear the blue so it won’t look like the Rebels are fighting each other instead of Yankees. We need to have a fair amount of enemy to shoot at, and I don’t want it to look like a massacre.”

  Walter threw his arms up in the air. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn thing. Just don’t expect me to do it again next year. Gimme the hat too. I’ll cover my face so no one knows it’s me.”

  With that vital matter settled, I gave Walter the blue uniform, and he went inside the depot to change into it, muttering to himself but more cooperative. I looked up at Sammy.

  “Thanks. I was beginning to think I’d have to wear it. It’s probably more comfortable than a corset, but I’m not sure I could stuff myself into it.”

  Sammy grinned. “He’s a hardheaded old coot. And I bet you’d look fine in Yankee blue.”

  “Maybe. I’m already wearing Confederate gray. If I could do a Rebel yell, I’d probably join the battle.”

  “I’m sure you’d do a very nice Rebel yell.”

  “Only if stuck with a hatpin. Did your grandfather bring his own weapon?”

  “I brought one from his gun collection. Period appropriate, of course.”

  “Thank heavens. I’m not eager for an argument where firearms are involved.”

  Sammy laughed, and I focused on checking off the names of those who borrowed a rifle, sword, or pistol from the supply kept just for the reenactments. Many had their own swords or rifles, but some always had to borrow. No soldier was properly dressed without a weapon.

  The temperature was perfect April weather for Holly Springs. The sun was shining, it was warm enough to wear sundresses, but not so warm I overheated in that god-awful corset, hoop, petticoats, pantaloons, gray satin dress, and a wide-brimmed hat with fresh flowers on the red band around the crown. I was pretty sure I looked like a gray mule in a straw hat.

  While Sammy Simpson coordinated the placement of soldiers, I guided tourists to the area cordoned off for them and handed out pamphlets explaining the importance of General Van Dorn’s raid on the railroad depot. It may have seemed counter-productive to the tourists, but in December 1862, it had made perfect sense. A lot of Yankee supplies and bales of cotton had been stored along the tracks at the depot. Back then the supplies were meant to be sent south to Vicksburg, and the cotton was to be sent to northern markets. Rebel soldiers had caught the entire Yankee camp by surprise, routed them from their positions, and confiscated the depot supplies. What they couldn’t use or carry had been set on fire. Because of Van Dorn’s preemptive strike, the Yankee occupation of Vicksburg had been delayed for six months, and local history was then made.

  We did our best to channel the historic raid. Shots rang out as the Yankees returned Rebel rifle-fire. Horsemen raced back and forth as tourists watched from under the front awning of the historic railroad depot. Smoke bombs went off, giving an appearance of fire, and layers billowed around the one-story brick building that was the freight depot; supplies were stacked in front of it for the reenactment. There was shouting and hollering and lots of unmistakable Rebel yells. Yankee soldiers were captured and held as prisoners, wagons of precious “supplies” were trundled away, and tourists cheered and clapped as Confederates won the day. Van Dorn had pulled off the perfect coup with little loss of life. It was a Confederate victory that still resonates in Holly Springs. It was quite impressive.

  Only a couple of “bodies” littered the ground around the railroad tracks. Conflicting tales from eyewitnesses to the original raid had been passed down as to how many or even if there had been any casualties. Some accounts say six soldiers died, some say there’d been one death, and others say none were killed. For the reenactment, four soldiers lay “dead” near the freight office for dramatic effect.

  Brandon and Clayton had participated in the raid quite enthusiastically. I saw their blond heads bobbing about among the Confederate and Union uniforms. Brandon carried an old rifle handed down on Bitty’s mother’s side of the family. It had seen action in Shiloh and at Brice’s Crossroads, but age had taken its toll on the weapon, and it was inoperable. Clayton carried an old sword,
brandishing it about his head as he forced Yankee “prisoners” to swear an oath of allegiance to the South and be paroled by signing an agreement to resign from future fighting, just as had been done in 1862.

  Tourists applauded as the reenactment came to an end, and I breathed a sigh of relief that my part in the pilgrimage was done for the year. There had been no mishaps. I congratulated myself on avoiding complete disaster.

  All re-enactors took their final bows, and the dead rose from the ground to join them.

  All but one.

  A Yankee soldier lay sprawled near the freight office, unheeding to calls that he could rise. One of the Confederate soldiers walked over to nudge him, laughing and saying the war was over. The soldier didn’t respond.

  A trickle of alarm rippled down my spine. Something wasn’t right. That quickly became apparent to the soldier who tried to rouse him, and he knelt down to peer at the still form. After a swift check, he swiveled around in obvious distress, holding up a bloodied hand.

  “He’s been hurt. I think he’s dead!”

  Chaos immediately ensued. Other re-enactors rushed forward, someone yelled for a doctor, tourists milled about in confusion, and one of the horsemen dismounted and forgot about his horse. It ran off, hooves clattering against pavement as it headed for parts unknown. I stood stock-still, staring at the scene in horror.

  Once again, I had been too quick to congratulate myself.

  Chapter 2

  HOLLY SPRINGS’ police are very efficient and thorough. Although constrained by pesky things like laws, they still manage to solve a remarkable number of crimes, including murder. I had little doubt they’d find out what happened fairly quickly.

  Brandon and Clayton stood next to me as we silently watched the coroner and police do their jobs. A white van stood ready to take away the erstwhile Yankee soldier. His name had not yet been officially divulged, although we all knew it was Walter Simpson, Sammy Simpson’s grandfather. Sammy stood by, white-faced and weeping, saying over and over to anyone who’d listen that he couldn’t believe this was happening.