Divas Do Tell Page 2

  “They wouldn’t let you decorate your cell, either. And your Egyptian cotton sheets would have to stay behind. Besides, you’d miss all your Garden Club meetings, Daughters of the Confederacy meetings, and Diva meetings. We’d have to toast you in absentia.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind.” Bitty narrowed her blue eyes at me, and I smiled.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t mind,” I replied dutifully. “I’d have free access to your wine cellar, right?”

  “I’m not going to prison, Trinket. Even if I did do something awful to Dixie Lee—and I’m still thinking about it—Jackson Lee would get me off with probation or some community service.”

  Jackson Lee Brunetti—no kin to any of the Forsythes—is a well-known lawyer in Marshall County. His family is a respected firm of excellent attorneys. He’s also madly in love with my cousin and she with him. Both are too cautious to do more than moon around after each other and exchange syrupy sweet baby talk in front of people, but I suspect a little more goes on behind closed doors. It’s not a topic I care to dwell on too long.

  “So what are we going to do about this?” Bitty wanted to know, and I shook my head.

  “Nothing. What can we do without people thinking there’s a possibility that we are gym teachers and black widows? It’s hard to prove a negative.”

  I thought Bitty was going to have a fit right there. Her face turned red, her blue eyes turned red, and I could swear puffs of steam came out her ears. Chitling looked up at her and immediately got down from her lap and off the chair and trotted out of the parlor. That dog has great survival skills.

  “I’ll think of something,” said Bitty after a moment, and cold fear grabbed me by the throat.

  “Think of your children,” I pleaded. “Don’t do anything rash, Bitty. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Of course I won’t do anything stupid. That doesn’t mean I won’t do anything, however. Dixie Lee must be punished.”

  “Oh lord . . .”

  EVEN MY MOTHER was talking about that book when I got home. She’d read the part about me and Emerald, and she didn’t like it. She especially didn’t like the part about her and Daddy taking in hundreds of homeless cats just like the disturbed people who hoard animals.

  Mama’s eyes flashed fire when she said, “We aren’t anything like those people on TV who have a hundred cats in each room and poop in piles high as the roof. We’re responsible. We spay and neuter. We vaccinate and vet them, and we provide good food and fresh water every day.”

  I knew this was true because I was often responsible for feeding, watering, and treating the legion of cats that live in their barn. The barn has been remodeled and outfitted with ample cat corners and cat cushions. Cats roam in and out at will. I would like to report that the Marshall County rat and mouse population has been decimated, but alas, I cannot. Cats fat on expensive dry food and tins of cat tuna don’t see much need to rid the woods of vermin. An occasional offering will be left as a gift, but I’m usually the one who steps on it or in it and spends a good part of my day retching. These offerings are always left on the deck or doorsteps. Mama says I’m too sensitive.

  “Look at it this way,” I said to her, “now people will know they can drop their unwanted litters of kittens on our doorstep. You’re providing a service.”

  That did not amuse or comfort my mother. She cuddled her dog closer to her and said, “Dixie Lee should know better than to write things like that. And bringing up all that mess about things that happened over forty years ago—what was she thinking?”

  “What mess? I haven’t read the book. When did publishers start releasing books at the same time as it’s being made into a movie anyway? It takes all the anticipation out of things.”

  “Apparently Hollywood and New York are in league and recognize a blockbuster when they see one. Dixie Lee certainly has created a lot of gossip and dragged out old scandals.”

  “What scandals? What mess? What am I missing?”

  Mama cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “You’re probably too young to remember. It all happened in the sixties. Right at the height of the Civil Rights movement, too. If it’d been just a few years later maybe so much wouldn’t have been made of it, but Darcy Denton—she’s gone now—wasn’t about to let him get away with it.”

  “Let who get away with what? And while I’m thrilled there are some things left I’m too young to recall, I remember the mid-sixties fairly well. What does Dixie Lee remember that I don’t?”

  “Oh, she was too young to remember any of that. I imagine she heard about it from her parents or maybe someone who was involved. I don’t know. It was something, though, and had the entire town up in arms and taking sides for a while.”

  I felt like shrieking but managed to ask calmly enough, “And what is it that she may or may not have heard from her parents or someone else? What had the entire town taking sides?”

  “It was awful, a terrible time. Even I thought he must be guilty because there’s always fire where there’s that much smoke, and Darcy Denton wasn’t known as a liar or a person who’d accuse someone of such a thing without good reason.”

  My head got light. My blood pressure rose, and my face got hot. Sometimes my mother can take the long way around a story. At least she hadn’t tossed in any irrelevant information concerning neighbors or people I never heard of or don’t know well and don’t care to hear about.

  As usual, I congratulated myself prematurely. Mama launched into an entirely different topic.

  “Of course, as I recall, Arlene Purcell was pregnant, and we were all worried about her since she’d been having trouble. It was touch and go with that baby, and then when he was born he was just fine and fat as a little pig. You wouldn’t remember her, of course. They moved off up to Knoxville when you were still young. I’m trying to think of that baby’s name. Frank? Arnold? No, it was Jerry. I’m sure that was it. Or maybe it was Barry.”

  I saw where this was going so interrupted, “Did Arlene Purcell have anything to do with the terrible time, fire with smoke, Darcy Denton, or the whole town taking sides? I bet not.”

  My mother gave me a strange look. “Trinket, sometimes you say the oddest things. I don’t know what goes on in your head.”

  “At the moment, the only thing going on in my head is complete confusion. I still don’t know what happened that such a fuss is being made about that part of Dixie Lee’s book.”

  “Well, Billy Joe Cramer—his name is Joe Don Battles in the book—was in his mid-twenties back then. Susana Jones was maybe fourteen or fifteen. A pretty little thing. Her mama worked for the Denton family, so when Susana got old enough, she went to work for them, too. I’m not sure how Billy Joe met Susana, but he did somewhere so when he got her pregnant, there was a big to-do about it.”

  I shook my head. “She was so young. So when you say her mama worked for the Denton family, in what capacity?”

  “They were housekeepers.”

  It took a moment for me to grasp the implications. Then my eyes got big as saucers, and I gaped at my mother. “Oh. My. Are we talking about the same Cramers who live a few streets over from Bitty? The family that’s been in Holly Springs forever and were so dead set against integration? The rednecks who have Rebel battle flags hanging in their front yard and whose grandfather was once the grand wizard of the local KKK? That Billy Joe Cramer?”

  “That’s the one,” said Mama. “And I don’t think he was the grand wizard. There’s only one of those, isn’t there?”

  “Thankfully, I’m not up to date on their hierarchy details. So Billy Joe got Susana pregnant, and then what happened? Was there a shotgun wedding? A lynching?”

  “Back in those days it just wasn’t done, you know. Not like now when people fall in love and get married to whoever they want no matter what race they are. It was a big
scandal then. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so big if Darcy Denton hadn’t been so blamed mad and raised a huge fuss about it so that everyone knew. She wanted to make Billy Joe at least do right by the baby. She said the baby wouldn’t care about things like race as much as it would diapers and enough to eat.

  “But the Cramer family stuck together, said Billy Joe didn’t have anything to do with it, and Susana must have just gone and gotten pregnant by some other boy and tried to blame it on him. Not long after all that Susana and her family up and moved away. Went up north, I heard, to live with relatives. Or was it down to Jackson? I don’t remember. They never have come back, either.”

  I shook my head. “That’s really sad. I mean, I understand the times were different back then, but he could at least have supported the baby.”

  Mama nodded. “Some men have no sense of responsibility no matter what the circumstances. I don’t think the Cramer family has changed that much since then, either. Still don’t do right half the time.”

  “Do their dogs still run loose and turn over garbage cans, run through flowerbeds, and try to bite the mail carrier?”

  “They do. Poor things. They get fed enough, but I don’t think they get treated well, and it’s aggravating to the neighbors. They’re always getting the police down on the dogs because of the Cramer family.”

  “Bitty calls them white trash,” I said. “But I don’t always trust Bitty’s opinions. She’s said the same thing about anyone who wears white before Easter or after Labor Day.”

  “Bitty,” said Mama, “is sometimes right by accident.”

  “A scary thought. I wonder why she didn’t mention any of this? All she’s worried about is that Dixie Lee wrote about Philip and Naomi’s affair and hinted that Bitty was behind his murder.”

  “People do tend to focus on what affects them directly. Bitty often wears blinders.”

  That summed up Bitty nicely. A bubble-headed blonde with blinders. I liked it.

  Then Mama said, “There’s going to be trouble, mark my words.”

  “That’s almost exactly what Bitty said.” When Mama looked at me I shrugged. “In different words, of course.”

  “Bitty can be a menace,” Mama said after a minute, and I nodded.

  “Yes. I know. I have high hopes Cady Lee and Dixie Lee will be proactive in their survival. If not, we may see chaos in the streets. I shudder to think.”

  There are times when I’m really prophetic.

  Chapter 2

  BITTY AIMED HER brand new BMW convertible in the general direction of Snow Lake. It was Diva Day, and we were all meeting at Cindy Nelson’s home. Her husband had graciously taken their several children off somewhere for the day, and we’d been invited down for a celebration of Groundhog Day. It was still three weeks away, but we were optimistic the furry mammal would signal the approaching end of winter and beginning of spring. Winter can get tiresome even in the Deep South where scant snow and ice hamper our progress but is always greeted with long lines at the grocery store when the weathermen even mention the possibility of a quarter inch of white stuff.

  I was loudly bemoaning my parents’ impending departure on a Mediterranean cruise that I was certain would end with their being abducted by pirates or striking an iceberg.

  “I’d thought they would change their minds,” I whined. “But they’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Bitty expressed sympathy with a grinding of gears as we climbed a hill. Her last car had finally needed a clutch replacement, so she’d traded it in for another car that would probably end in the same shape. The new car was also a convertible, but fortunately the top was up on this brisk January day.

  “I thought they’d seen the sense in not going off so far where anything can happen,” I moaned. “I thought they’d realize that cruises often end in disaster. Look at the Titanic.”

  “For the last time, Trinket, there are no icebergs in the Mediterranean,” said Bitty a little sharply.

  “There are pirates,” I pointed out. “Fire. Electrical malfunctions. Storms. Cruises to hell.”

  “Speaking of hell, did you hear that the movie crew has already rented several houses in Holly Springs for not only movie sets but for their stars to stay in while it’s being filmed?”

  I eyed her rather petulantly. “We’re talking about my parents taking off for watery graves, not a stupid movie.”

  “Sorry. It’s just on my mind about all this craziness. And some people are acting like it’s the best thing to happen since the last movie was filmed here. Can you believe that?”

  “Those are the people who will be making lots of money,” I said. “And who were asked to rent their houses. Are you still upset they didn’t ask you to rent your house?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want a bunch of Hollywood riffraff roaming about my lovely home, tearing things up, building sets that just don’t belong? It’s enough that they’ve already begun to remodel rooms in Cady Lee’s house, and she’s letting them. Money will buy anything these days.”

  I looked down at the expensive leather seats and wood trim of the sports car, the diamond ring on Bitty’s hand that had been known to temporarily blind people when it reflected light, and I said, “Yes, money is often a curse.”

  Not a curse that I’ve ever enjoyed, I might add. Bitty may have money, but my divorce had left me with a slender 401K and a bit of savings. Bitty’s divorces earned her huge cash settlements and ample alimony until her next marriage. While she’s not a serial bride as the book claimed, she has been married and divorced four times. Since her last husband, the senator, was murdered, she’s gotten in the habit of calling herself a widow. She isn’t. He was murdered a year and a half after their divorce. Bitty tends to ignore such an obvious detail.

  “Money isn’t a curse,” said my prosperous cousin. “It’s a necessity. That doesn’t mean one should compromise their integrity, however.”

  “Heavens no,” I responded insincerely.

  Bitty can detect insincerity a mile away. “Really, Trinket, I’d think you would agree with me that selling out your heritage just for money reeks of desperation.”

  “Desperation? Cady Lee has more money than she’ll be able to spend. Her parents left all their kids well off, and she’s married to a man who owns a chain of department stores.”

  “Okay, if not selling out for the money, then selling out for the notoriety.”

  “You mean the chance to rub elbows with the famous,” I pointed out. “I hope you get over this bitterness and blame before we get to Cindy’s house. Diva Day could get a little uncomfortable if you’re not your normal charming self.”

  “I’m not bitter. And since we’re only ten miles from Snow Lake that would be an impossibility anyway. Of course, I’ll be as sweet and courteous as always.”

  “Oh my,” I said, thinking of past events. I looked out the window at the passing scenery. Kudzu draped telephone poles and trees in brown, leathery vines that would be bright green and smothering in the summer. Red, raw earth swathed recently cleared hillsides in places, and the land dipped and rose in gentle swells. Sunlight flirted with towering clouds as we rushed toward the small incorporated town on the banks of a huge lake. We reached it in a much shorter time than slower-moving cars and construction equipment.

  “I can never remember,” said Bitty as we cruised down the last hill before reaching the dam, “is it the first or second entrance?”

  “The second,” I said. “East side. They’ve remodeled the house since last time we were here.”

  The red BMW breezed across the wide dam silvered by water and sunshine and turned left into the residential area. A volunteer fire station sits on the right side, and the community center is on the left in a bend of the road. The sandy beach is fringed by a roped-off swimming area, and tennis courts have been built in the next bend of the road beyon
d a tree-shaded gazebo. Farther down the road we turned into Cindy’s long, sloped driveway. Tall trees shaded the yard, and a boathouse nudged up against the shore at the back of the house. Or the front, depending on whether you were in a car or a boat.

  “Remodeling can be horrible,” said Bitty. “That’s why I can’t believe Cady Lee is allowing that movie company to do all that ugly work to her house.”

  I rolled my eyes. Apparently everything said today was going to somehow be turned back into the movie company’s real and assumed depredations. There was no point in continued resistance. I pretended not to hear and remarked instead on the cars already in the driveway as we slowed to a halt.

  Bitty parked next to Gaynelle Bishop’s sedan. Gaynelle usually rode with us but had come earlier to help Cindy with the preparations for a Diva invasion.

  “It seems we’re early,” said Bitty. “Only Carolann, Sandra, and Rayna are here so far.”

  I knew what she meant. Cady Lee hadn’t arrived yet. I made a show out of unfastening my seatbelt, more to delay my response than because I’m safety-minded.

  “Deelight is going to be late,” I offered. “When she came into the shop yesterday she said she had to get fitted for her pilgrimage costume.”

  “You’ve already had your fitting, haven’t you?” asked Bitty as we got out of the car to unload our culinary offerings for the day.

  Since my personal nightmare involves standing in front of Bitty’s house wearing a dress down to my ankles with a dozen petticoats underneath, I’d resisted until the last moment agreeing to participate in this year’s pilgrimage. So I mumbled, “Not yet” as I reached into the car to lift my chocolate cake from the floorboard.

  Fortunately, Bitty was getting a case of wine out of the trunk and didn’t hear my response. I knew I was only postponing the inevitable. Every April Holly Springs conducts a revenue-raising Civil War era pilgrimage based on the events before, during, and after General Grant’s stay in the town. Actually, it’s more of a homage to the past graciousness of homes and life in the nineteenth century than it is to The War, which, of course, is always referred to with capital letters in the South. It’s a story of the people who lived during such a trying time and the reconstruction that followed as well. The Holly Springs Garden Club is responsible for arranging the events. This takes an enormous amount of work and expert planning. I’m glad I’m not involved in the preparations. I’d have to get a degree in business management just to take notes.