Divas Are Forever Read online

  He wasn’t alone.

  While most of the tourists had been herded to another area until police could question them as to what they’d seen, those of us involved in the re-creation of the raid had been grouped in a different area. Stunned to silence, we stood beneath the overhang of the railroad depot right outside the former baggage room, close enough to see what was going on, yet far enough away to remain ignorant of what was being said. Yellow crime tape had been strung from a former hitching post to a sawhorse provided to cordon off the area and back to another post, forming a large triangle of sorts along the tracks.

  Police kept spectators at bay while plainclothes officers questioned all the participants. There were so many witnesses, uniformed officers conducted interviews as well. Those being questioned were taken into the dining room. Cardboard cutouts of Rebel and Yankee soldiers watched over the scene like silent witnesses.

  “Miz Truevine,” officer Rodney Farrell said politely as he took me aside, “what can you tell me about the events?”

  “Very little. Like all the others, I was watching the battle. It was confusing with soldiers firing everywhere and the smoke from those bombs burning my eyes. I didn’t even know anyone was hurt until afterward.”

  “Yes, ma’am. So you didn’t see who was firing what weapon?”

  “Is that what killed him? He was shot? Who would put real bullets into their gun?”

  I hadn’t really expected the deputy to reply to my question and he didn’t. It’d been more of an observation than a question anyway. It was inconceivable to me that someone wouldn’t know better than to load a real bullet.

  “Who was responsible for assigning the weapons?” Farrell asked next.

  I gulped. “That would be me. I have my list right here.”

  When I handed my clipboard to him he scanned it and nodded, then said he was taking it as evidence. “What else do you know about these weapons, Miz Truevine?”

  “Not much.” When Deputy Farrell looked up at me with a frown I shrugged. “Sorry. These are the props used for reenactments. That’s all I know.”

  “Where are they kept when not being used?”

  “In that locked chest.” I indicated a battered old Army chest against the depot wall. “I put them in it last night and locked it. I got the key and unlocked it this morning.”

  “And who holds the key?”

  “Sammy Simpson. He’s in charge of this particular reenactment.”

  “Is he the only one with a key?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I would imagine not, since he’s not the only one who conducts reenactments. There are probably several keys, but you’d have to check with Sammy or maybe members of the Garden Club.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me about these firearms, Miz Truevine?”

  “Yes, pretty sure. I’m not well-acquainted with guns.”

  What I know about firearms can be condensed to one word: dangerous. While I realize the weapon itself isn’t dangerous, but the person holding it, in my experience, the two were not always conducive to safety when inadvisably coupled. Like Bitty.

  Since Bitty wasn’t anywhere near the scene of this shooting, I was relieved that our future involvement in the investigation was limited to concern instead of active participation. It’s very wearing on my nerves to find myself in the middle of criminal enterprise.

  “Did you happen to see the victim fall?” asked the deputy, still pursuing any leads he might glean from me, and again, I shook my head.

  “No, I was watching General Van Dorn. Riley Powers did very well. I could almost believe he was a real general, shouting orders.”

  As I talked to the deputy I saw one of the officers collecting all rifles, pistols, swords, and bayonets used in the reenactment. Each weapon was tagged, identified by the owner’s name and contact information. I heard Brandon protest that his rifle belonged to his mama’s family and she’d be fit to be tied if anything happened to it. He was right. Bitty is a firm believer in holding on to family heirlooms, even those that are for show more than purpose.

  The officer assured him that the rifle would be returned as soon as it’d been through a ballistic test to rule it out as the weapon that killed Walter Simpson. That left me to wonder why they’d also seized the swords and bayonets, but as I didn’t want to participate in the questioning any longer than necessary, I said nothing. We watched as an officer tagged the rifle so that Brandon was satisfied it’d been properly marked.

  Farrell asked me a few more questions; where I’d been standing in relation to the victim, if I heard him say anything or anyone say anything to him, then he moved on to the next witness, my nephew. Clayton is younger by five minutes than Brandon. The identical twins had been born to Bitty and her first husband, Frank Caldwell, who was now serving a fifteen-to twenty-five-year sentence in a Federal prison.

  Apparently, the government has little tolerance for Ponzi schemes that tend to rob the poor to give to the rich. Who knew?

  Clayton told basically the same story as I had, except he repeated that Walter complained that he’d had to play a Yankee, and next year he wanted to be on the right side. “He said it wasn’t fair that he had to play a Yankee, and he was pretty mad about it,” added Clayton.

  “Did he say he was angry with anyone in particular?” Farrell looked up from writing notes in his little book.

  Clayton hesitated, then said, “Not really, sir. He just mostly said he didn’t want to be a Yankee ’cause they stole his family’s home, and he wasn’t about to forget that.”

  I remembered the story. The Simpson family had been in the Holly Springs area since 1835 and had their house first occupied, looted, then burned down by Yankees. After The War, the carpetbaggers stole their land. It took over a decade for them to get it all back, and they’d had no intention of parting with it again. It’d stayed in the Simpson family since 1878. Apparently, Walter Simpson had inherited their resentment along with the house and land.

  “What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Farrell asked Clayton. “Who was Walter Simpson angry with?”

  Clayton glanced over at me, and I nodded encouragement. Then he said, “Just my aunt. He said she made him wear the blue, and he should have just gone on home right then.”

  I blinked. Well, it was true, but it did sound bad. Rodney Farrell looked over at me. “Did you know he was angry with you, Miz Truevine?”

  “Walter didn’t make it a secret, Deputy,” I said dryly. “He stomped around muttering for a good half hour before the reenactment began.”

  “Why did you make him wear the blue uniform?”

  “He was the only one who’d fit into it, and we needed one more Yankee to even out the participating sides.”

  Farrell nodded. “I see. And where were you standing when he was shot?”

  “Unarmed, in full view of about fifty tourists, as well as everyone else. Just ask anyone.”

  “I will.”

  Officer Farrell moved on to question Brandon, who stood on my other side. He asked basically the same questions, and Brandon answered much the same as we had, with one minor exception. “Our rifle hasn’t worked right for years. I just use it for show.”

  Farrell scribbled in his notebook. “You gave that rifle to one of our officers?”

  “Yessir. It’s about as useless as Clayton’s sword, though.”

  “When was the last time you fired the weapon?”

  Brandon repeated, “It hasn’t worked right for years. I’d say it hasn’t fired properly since General Forrest whipped the Yankees at Brice’s Crossroads.”

  Farrell smiled. “Most of these old weapons are like that. So it’s genuine and not one of those reproductions?”

  “Yessir. Still has the paper cartridges. It’s an Enfield and fires the .58 caliber bullets. Or it would
, if it worked. You’re not going to keep it, are you? Mama will be pretty upset.”

  “Once ballistics is done, it’ll be returned to you. Be sure to tell your mama that so she doesn’t come down to the station all het up and ready for war.”

  Brandon grinned. “I will. Mama can get riled up, that’s for sure.”

  That was an understatement. I was surprised she wasn’t already down at the depot raising Cain about her boys being in harm’s way. Officer Farrell moved on, and those of us still clustered by the depot discussed our various theories.

  Most of us came to the conclusion that someone had accidentally left real bullets in their rifle or pistol instead of the blanks always used in reenactments. It happened, although not once in the seventy-five years of pilgrimage history had anyone been killed at a reenactment.

  It was a good thing the reenactment had been early in the day, because it took the whole day for them to talk to all the witnesses. Tourists were allowed to leave at last, and finally only the locals were left to wander off toward home.

  With the questioning over for the moment, those of us involved in the reenactment were all dismissed, with the caveat that we go down to the police station within twenty-four hours to be fingerprinted. As the Holly Springs police already had my prints due to an unfortunate event the previous year, I was exempt. So I headed straight for Bitty’s house with Brandon and Clayton right behind me.

  She was pacing her entrance hall and looking anxiously out the front door. When she saw us pull up in our cars, the door flew open, and she met us on the porch, her long pale skirts whirling around her ankles as she came to a stop.

  “It’s about time y’all got here. That awful Lieutenant Stone made me stay away,” she fumed. “I was on my way as soon as I heard about it, but he met me at the stop sign and told me to go on back home until they got things sorted out. He said he figured I’d be down there in everybody’s way so wanted to head me off, and unless I felt like spending the night in jail, I’d just better keep myself home. Can you believe that?”

  I could, but I wasn’t about to say that to Bitty. It’d been a trying enough day. Instead of saying anything that could be misunderstood, I said, “I hope you have some sweet tea left. I’m parched.”

  Bitty always has sweet tea, as do most Southern households. The methods for brewing it may be different, the amount of sweetness may vary, additives may differ, but there’s a cold pitcher of tea in pretty much every Southerner’s home. In my family, we like our tea sweet and strong. Sugar has to be added while the brewed tea is still hot or it doesn’t dissolve properly. It never tastes right if added to cold tea. Of course, iced tea without sugar is almost sacrilege.

  The boys took their tea upstairs, but I drank mine standing close to the refrigerator in case I wanted more. The horror of a sudden death hovered too close, and I craved normalcy, or what passed for normalcy around Bitty. She fussed around the kitchen, mostly complaining about being left out of the excitement, and after my second glass of tea, I felt more human. I still wore the hoop skirt, corset, and bloomers and was dying to get out of them before they melded into my skin. I don’t know how our ancestors managed. The corset alone is torture. Add long cotton bloomers and a hoop petticoat under the yards of skirt material, and it should be banned by Geneva Convention standards.

  Bitty was still wearing her dress, too. It was a lovely cream color with delicate rosebuds sewn into the scoop neckline, off the shoulder, a rose-colored sash cinching her small waist. She has a Barbie doll figure—incredibly large bosom, impossibly small waist, and hips like a twelve-year-old boy. She’s also five-two in her stocking feet, five-six in the stilettos she likes to wear.

  My dress had been chosen by my cousin and was gray satin. It did have a red sash that gave it some color, but I looked like a rocky volcanic island in the blasted thing. Bitty claimed the dark material hid my extra twenty pounds. I’m only fifteen pounds overweight and told her she just didn’t want my outfit to compete with her dress. She can be very competitive.

  “I’m going home to change clothes,” I said after my third glass of sweet tea. “I feel fat as a tick in this thing.”

  Bitty looked surprised. “You can’t go home yet. The pilgrimage has to continue despite everything. We’re supposed to hand out programs at the music concert being held at Montrose tonight.”

  I flapped my arms in the air. “Why do you always obligate me to things without asking me first? I want to go home. I don’t want to go hand out programs.”

  “My, my, you’re a bit overwrought. It’s been a terrible day. Here. I have just the thing to calm you.”

  I wasn’t a bit surprised when she got out the Jack Daniel’s. I shook my head. “No way. If I drink that, I may be testy to tourists. If I’m going to be drafted into service, the least I can do is be sober.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. However, I consider it a public service if we’re in a good mood.”

  I thought about it a moment. She had a point. A little bit of mood elevator could be a good thing. By our third tipple, I was very relaxed and even jovial.

  “Maybe handing out programs will be fun,” I said with a giggle. “Where’s our limo?”

  Bitty looked a bit alarmed. “Have you eaten today?” she asked me, and when I shook my head, she said I should eat a sandwich. “I think you’re a bit too happy. Pimento cheese okay?”

  “That’ll be just fine. Is our limo on the way?”

  “Brandon or Clayton will be our limo.”

  I pictured us all three in the boys’ small sports car and started laughing. “I can sit on the trunk,” I offered. “The two of you in the front . . . good thing I lost my hat. I don’t think it’d make it to Montrose. Anyway, I look like Sally Field in The Flying Nun in that stupid thing. If a good wind came up, off I’d go into the wild blue yonder . . .”

  Bitty added extra pimento cheese to white bread and put it on a plate. “Eat all of it,” she commanded. “I’m going to freshen up. You’ll eat it, right?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” I saluted her rather smartly, I thought, but somehow poked a finger into my right eye. It made me wince. Bitty insisted I sit at the table to eat, but since it was too hard to squeeze my hoop skirt between chair and table, I ended up just hovering. The sandwich was delicious. I’ve always loved Aunt Sarah’s pimento cheese. The recipe has been a guarded secret, known only by a few. My mother has a copy of it that she’s never shared with me or anyone that I know of; she insists Aunt Sarah left out an ingredient when she gave it to her since it doesn’t taste quite like hers. Sharita Stone, who cooks all Bitty’s meals once a week and freezes them, uses the original recipe. I think Bitty asked her to sign a confidentiality clause before giving her the recipe card. She needn’t have bothered. Sharita’s very trustworthy.

  Her brother is Lieutenant Marcus Stone of the Holly Springs police. He’s not as nice to us as he used to be, probably because we only see him in moments of extreme stress. Murder is always stressful.

  I ate most of my sandwich before I noticed Chen Ling watching me. Bitty got her from a rescue on a temporary basis, but since it was a match made in doggy heaven, she’s never returned her. They have a symbiotic relationship: Bitty waits on Chen Ling hand and foot, and Chen Ling likes it. While the pug may not care about the cute clothes and diamond collars, I would like for someone to be so generous to me.

  “Here,” I said to the grumpy geriatric gremlin at my feet. “Have some sandwich.”

  Chitling loves people food, in particular Aunt Sarah’s pimento cheese. Since Dr. Kit Coltrane is her vet, he’s warned Bitty about the pitfalls of feeding her unhealthy food. Bitty tries her best to avoid it and has put the pug on a diet. Said pug does her best to wheedle, charm, or steal food, and pimento cheese is her weakness. Because I felt generous, I gave her a small bite. She reciprocated by trying to grab the rest of it from my hand. She only h
as three front fangs, but she’s really good at using them to her advantage. I barely got my hand back in one piece.

  “Are you feeding her people food?” a voice demanded, and I looked around to see Bitty right behind me.

  “No,” I lied. “She stole it.”

  “Honestly, Trinket, you’re going to be useless tonight, I can just tell. If we didn’t have to be there in fifteen minutes, I’d make you a pot of coffee. They’ll have some there. Don’t talk to anyone until I can get you a large cup of black coffee, you hear?”

  I smiled. Then I hiccupped. Bitty rolled her eyes.

  Brandon ended up driving us to Montrose in Bitty’s Franklin Benz. It was back from the repair shop where it’d undergone major cosmetic surgery for a fender bender a couple months before. We call it the Franklin Benz because her second ex-husband Franklin’s alimony payment and big settlement had bought it. It’s really just a regular Mercedes sedan.

  Montrose was lit up for the night like a gorgeous lady at a grand ball. The antebellum red brick house is Classic Greek Revival with four white columns and a graceful curved staircase to the second floor. The parlor was set up for a concert, with elegant Queen Anne chairs for the guests. I heard the unmistakable sound of strings tuning up. Bitty grabbed me by the arm.

  “Stay right here,” she said. “I’m fixing to get you some coffee.”

  “Will do,” I replied with another salute. This time my finger stayed out of my eye.

  I felt much better, actually. The sandwich had done its work and soaked up some of the Jack Daniel’s. But it obviously made Bitty happy to tend to me, so I just nodded and smiled as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. A tufted velvet bench sat to one side, and I went to sit on it to wait for my little caretaker’s return.

  Just as I reached the bench the front door opened again, and a throng of people entered the hall. It was getting crowded, so I sat down.