Dixie Diva Blues by Virginia Brown

many reasons I could think of that could justify the risk of being caught. Unless he’d left something behind that might incriminate him. That was a possibility. What had he been looking for in that cabinet? Or had he even been searching the cabinet? Drawers had been opened on tables and the contents spilled across the floor. Nothing seemed to be missing, which could mean that the intruder had found what he was looking for, or that he hadn’t found it at all.
    Carolann saw me walking across the greensward toward a shack with a maid’s cart parked in front, and came over to join me. “Find out anything yet?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Really?” She perked up a bit. While she always dresses in what could be called New Age, or may be best known as Old Hippie, she looked comfortable in the simmering heat that would burn off to a bearable evening. Her ankle-length skirt was tie-dyed, her sleeveless tank was an apple-green to match one of the many colors in her skirt, and her bright red hair curled outward into unruly tangents that seemed to have a life of their own. Her attempt to corral her hair with a bright green ribbon had mostly failed; it defied her efforts and framed her face despite having been pulled into a sort of ponytail on the back of her neck. I felt quite dowdy in comparison, even though I had worn a new pair of cream-colored Capri pants—in washable cotton—and a bright-red, short-sleeved blouse.
    Of course, a peacock strutting his feathers would have probably felt dowdy next to Technicolor Carolann. Bless her heart.
    “Do you really think you have a clue to something?” she asked me excitedly.
    Carolann has one of those voices that can be heard for miles, as if she has a built-in microphone. It broadcasts widely even when she tries to whisper.
    “Shh,” I said. “Let’s not jinx it yet. I’m about to ask someone a few questions, and I want you to just watch her face and tell me if she’s being deceptive.”
    It seemed like a good compromise, I thought. While Carolann has a keen business sense, and can make lifelong friends out of acquaintances she meets at a bus stop, she’s also prone to Bitty Syndrome: only opening her mouth to change feet. It’s not that she means to stick her foot in her mouth so much, but it could be a problem in this case. So I made the motion of zipping my mouth just to be certain she got my meaning.
    She remained silent when I climbed the three steps up to the shack’s front porch and tapped on the door. It was partially open and swung a little wider at my knock.
    “Miz Carter?” I called inside. When I heard a vacuum humming, I figured she couldn’t hear me, so stepped right inside the door. “Patty Carter?”
    A slender woman with a mop of blonde hair tucked back into a bandana kerchief straightened and flicked off the machine. I could tell she was irritated by the interruption even though she put a pleasant smile on her face and her tone was polite.
    “I’m sorry. I thought this unit was vacant—would you rather I come back later and clean?”
    “Oh, I’m not a guest here. Well, I am a guest, but not in this cabin,” I amended, and when she lifted an eyebrow, I added, “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    “Any questions you have about the history of the Hopson Plantation can be asked over at The Commissary, or of one of the Cotton Gin employees,” she began, and I shook my head.
    “No, I need to speak specifically with you, please.”
    At that her eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth thinned into a suspicious line. “Who are you? Are you the cops?”
    What was it, I wondered, with people not wanting to talk to police? I put on my most ingratiating smile and shook my head again.
    “No, no, I’m not with the police. My name is—” I started to give her my real name and then recalled that very few people ever believe my name is Trinket Truevine at first. I have to convince them, explain that my brother gave me the nickname Trinket when I