have to be called, of course. Since we were now in Benton County instead of Marshall County, the nearest sheriff would be from the county seat of Ashland.
Dazed, Bitty just nodded to everything that was suggested. That was how I knew she must be in shock.
“Should I make her some coffee?” I asked, but Gaynelle quickly said for me not to touch anything in the cabin.
“Fingerprints or evidence, you know. I don’t have any coffee with me, but I do have something in the car for emergencies.” She headed for her car, picking her way carefully down the rather steep slope covered in pine needles.
We were all out on the front porch, not really knowing where to sit or look or not look—it seemed incredible that Naomi Spencer was dead. Deelight echoed my thoughts.
“It’s a Sunday,” she observed in a soft voice as if afraid to disturb anyone. “It’s not even noon yet. She can’t be dead. Why, she’s . . . she’s so young.”
I don’t know what Cindy must have been thinking, especially with Bitty sitting right there on the porch with us and all, but the moment Cindy started to say, “Well, the good always die young,” Bitty leaped up from the porch with an angry shriek.
“Good? Good?! That little harpy shouldn’t even know about this place, much less come here to be killed! Ohhhhh!”
The last was uttered with a frustrated, furious gritting of her teeth. She looked and sounded like a mad cat. If she had fur, it would be standing straight out. As it was, she stomped a foot and clenched her fists.
“Damn Philip Hollandale! This is all his fault!”
Thankfully, Gaynelle returned about that time with her emergency “coffee” and unscrewed the top. “Here. This should help.”
Bitty took the bottle she held out and downed a healthy swig, then gave it back. I recognized the familiar scent of Jack Daniel’s. Gaynelle took a drink then passed it to the rest of us. It’s amazing what just a tiny bit of whiskey can do to calm the nerves.
Since Bitty seemed much calmer, I couldn’t help asking, “How is this all Philip Hollandale’s fault, Bitty?”
She sat back down on the porch, this time picking a bent-willow rocker despite the cushion being dirty and strewn with leaves. “Philip must have brought her here. She wouldn’t know about it any other way, I’m sure.”
“This is—was—his cabin, then?”
“No. This is my cabin. I had it built right before Philip and I married. It was where he and I could ‘get away from it all’ when we wanted to be alone. It was supposed to be our hideaway, and no one else was to know about it. This is where we spent our . . . our wedding night.”
I remembered what Mama had said about Bitty grieving over Philip. If she loved him, this must be terribly painful for her. Although I was sitting on the porch floor with my legs hung over the side, I reached up to put a hand on her foot. It was the only part of her I could reach to offer comfort.
“And now those lovely memories have been ruined for you.”
“Lovely? Hardly. The man was drunk as a sailor on leave and about as romantic. I had to hold his head while he puked in a bucket. And after I’d gone to so much trouble, too, with candles, and champagne, fresh flowers and silk sheets—good god! I hope those aren’t my silk sheets on that bed!”
Ah. Bitty must be feeling better.
It was a good thing, since about the time we heard Rayna's SUV coming back up the goat track road, distant sirens could be heard as well. Ashland police were certainly on the ball.
Ashland, Mississippi is the only town in Benton County that has a traffic light. It’s not a large town. It has a lovely old court house with a clock that doesn’t work, a small library, a grocery store, a dollar store, a motel/Laundromat built sometime back in the 1940s, and various other small businesses scattered here and there. Since this is the South, and we believe strongly in salvation, there are several churches in town, of course.
Brunetti
Dazed, Bitty just nodded to everything that was suggested. That was how I knew she must be in shock.
“Should I make her some coffee?” I asked, but Gaynelle quickly said for me not to touch anything in the cabin.
“Fingerprints or evidence, you know. I don’t have any coffee with me, but I do have something in the car for emergencies.” She headed for her car, picking her way carefully down the rather steep slope covered in pine needles.
We were all out on the front porch, not really knowing where to sit or look or not look—it seemed incredible that Naomi Spencer was dead. Deelight echoed my thoughts.
“It’s a Sunday,” she observed in a soft voice as if afraid to disturb anyone. “It’s not even noon yet. She can’t be dead. Why, she’s . . . she’s so young.”
I don’t know what Cindy must have been thinking, especially with Bitty sitting right there on the porch with us and all, but the moment Cindy started to say, “Well, the good always die young,” Bitty leaped up from the porch with an angry shriek.
“Good? Good?! That little harpy shouldn’t even know about this place, much less come here to be killed! Ohhhhh!”
The last was uttered with a frustrated, furious gritting of her teeth. She looked and sounded like a mad cat. If she had fur, it would be standing straight out. As it was, she stomped a foot and clenched her fists.
“Damn Philip Hollandale! This is all his fault!”
Thankfully, Gaynelle returned about that time with her emergency “coffee” and unscrewed the top. “Here. This should help.”
Bitty took the bottle she held out and downed a healthy swig, then gave it back. I recognized the familiar scent of Jack Daniel’s. Gaynelle took a drink then passed it to the rest of us. It’s amazing what just a tiny bit of whiskey can do to calm the nerves.
Since Bitty seemed much calmer, I couldn’t help asking, “How is this all Philip Hollandale’s fault, Bitty?”
She sat back down on the porch, this time picking a bent-willow rocker despite the cushion being dirty and strewn with leaves. “Philip must have brought her here. She wouldn’t know about it any other way, I’m sure.”
“This is—was—his cabin, then?”
“No. This is my cabin. I had it built right before Philip and I married. It was where he and I could ‘get away from it all’ when we wanted to be alone. It was supposed to be our hideaway, and no one else was to know about it. This is where we spent our . . . our wedding night.”
I remembered what Mama had said about Bitty grieving over Philip. If she loved him, this must be terribly painful for her. Although I was sitting on the porch floor with my legs hung over the side, I reached up to put a hand on her foot. It was the only part of her I could reach to offer comfort.
“And now those lovely memories have been ruined for you.”
“Lovely? Hardly. The man was drunk as a sailor on leave and about as romantic. I had to hold his head while he puked in a bucket. And after I’d gone to so much trouble, too, with candles, and champagne, fresh flowers and silk sheets—good god! I hope those aren’t my silk sheets on that bed!”
Ah. Bitty must be feeling better.
It was a good thing, since about the time we heard Rayna's SUV coming back up the goat track road, distant sirens could be heard as well. Ashland police were certainly on the ball.
Ashland, Mississippi is the only town in Benton County that has a traffic light. It’s not a large town. It has a lovely old court house with a clock that doesn’t work, a small library, a grocery store, a dollar store, a motel/Laundromat built sometime back in the 1940s, and various other small businesses scattered here and there. Since this is the South, and we believe strongly in salvation, there are several churches in town, of course.
Brunetti
Similar Books
