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Farrell cleared his throat. He held his hat in his hands, and his fingers gave the brim a brisk work-out. “Well, several witnesses report that you and Miss Spencer have a long-standing feud, and since Miss Spencer has suggested the police question you about her fiancé’s murder last night, Lieutenant Stone—”
    “Question me?” Bitty’s outrage made her seem even taller than her five-feet, two inches. “Is that plastic Barbie doll claiming I murdered him? This is outrageous. I’m calling my lawyer. And the chief of police!”
    “No, no,” Farrell hurried to say as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, “no one is accusing you of murder. No one official, I mean. Miss Spencer is so upset by her fiancé being killed that she said you may know something about it. We have to check out all leads, Miz Hollandale, you know we do. It seems pretty clear who killed him since—well, since he was found in a compromising position, but we’re bound by law to exclude all possibilities.”
    Bitty paused and considered the deputy for a moment. Then she smiled. That made me nervous. But I knew immediately what she was up to when she took Deputy Farrell by the arm to lead him into her living room and the uncomfortable horsehair-stuffed settee.
    “Of course you are only doing your official duty, Deputy, I understand that,” she said in a calm, reassuring tone. “It’s just the shock of hearing that the poor young man is dead. Such a pity. Here, have a seat while Trinket fetches us some sweet tea. You take lemon in yours, don’t you? Yes, I thought I remembered you did. Trinket, dear, do you mind—”
    “Bitty,” I began in a warning tone, but she flashed me a sugary smile that didn’t match her narrowed eyes and insisted that a cool glass of tea would refresh the officer while she gave him her statement.
    I gave up, went into the kitchen and fixed a silver tray with glasses, a pitcher of sweet tea, a crystal bowl of lemon wedges already cut up in the refrigerator, long-handled silver spoons, and linen napkins. When I set the tray atop the Turkish hassock that served as a table as well as ottoman, Bitty’s glance took in the three glasses. Since she didn’t voice a protest, I took my glass and sat down in an antique Louis XVI chair opposite them but close enough to hear every word. This should be theater at its best.
     

CHAPTER 3
    “So, Deputy,” Bitty said when Rodney Farrell had downed a glass of sweet tea and stopped looking quite so nervous, “feel free to ask me any questions you like. I am an open book.”
    While her smile was encouraging, I knew she was just sucking him into her web. Bitty was on a Fact Finding Mission. It’s a mission she rarely fails.
    Since Marcus Stone, Sharita’s brother and a sterling member of the Holly Springs police force, had sent Deputy Farrell to question Bitty, he obviously remembered the last time he had been sent to question her. I’m quite certain he had no desire to repeat the experience, but I had to wonder why he would throw such a lamb to the lioness. Stone must know Farrell would be putty in her hands.
    Truth was, I was just as nosy as Bitty. I wanted to know all the gory details, too, and if anyone could get them out of the hapless deputy, it would be Bitty.
    “Thank you, Miz Hollandale,” said the unsuspecting Farrell, and flipped open a small notebook. Sweat stains dampened the blank page when he ran his hand across it to smooth the rumpled paper, but he didn’t seem to notice. He had a mechanical pencil in his other hand and stuck the tip to his tongue as if to wet the lead. I watched in growing fascination.
    “Now,” he said, and cocked his head toward her, “where were you around three this morning?”
    “At home in bed, like any sensible person would be,” she replied promptly. “I suppose since Naomi Spencer has been arrested, you have proof of her involvement in his death. How tragic. Such a lovely couple.”
    “Yes. Yes, it is