Drop Dead Divas Read Online Free PDF Page B

“He was thirty-one.”
    “Yep. Twenty years younger. Way too young for you. He’d never be interested.”
    “I’ll have you know men much younger than that have asked me out, Trinket Truevine. It’s not like I’m an old crone.”
    “No, you’re just twenty years older than he was.”
    Bitty doesn’t like being reminded of her age. I have no idea what imp of mischief prompted me to bring it out at that particular moment. It just seemed necessary to establish distance between her and the dead man.
    Unfortunately, Bitty managed to destroy my effort.
    She put her hand on one hip and said, “For your information, Race Champion asked me to go with him to one of his races last year! He said he would see to it that I got a seat on the front row and free beer while I watched him win the cup. Of course, I took my own wine, but he was quite, quite taken with me!”
    I sighed. So much for establishing distance between Bitty and the dead man.
    Deputy Farrell began writing feverishly in his little book, and I could almost see the wheels spinning in his brain. Maybe Marcus Stone had sent the right man to interview Bitty, after all.
    Wile E. Coyote had neatly managed to ferret out incriminating information.
    ****
    “Well, really, Trinket, how was I to know what you were trying to do?”
    Bitty lay back on the chaise longue in her sunroom with a cool, damp cloth on her forehead and a pug on her lap. The ceiling fan whirred cool air down on us, and outside the screened-in windows crickets chirped and frogs burped. Dusk was settling around Six Chimneys and Holly Springs. It is usually a peaceful time that I like to hold close around me like a favorite garment.
    Not this evening.
    Six Chimneys was built in 1845 and has probably seen more human foibles than many other old houses. It was owned by the same family for generations, and until a few decades ago held that distinction. Then the last of the family died out and the younger generation wanted nothing to do with an old house that needed more than a few modern conveniences and upkeep. Enter Bitty, who outbid rivals and took the house under her loving wing and restored it to beauty and dignity. Now the house presides like a grand old belle on Walthal Street and in the annual Holly Springs Pilgrimage every April.
    During the pilgrimage, tourists come from all over to view the antebellum homes that graciously open to welcome visitors. Men and boys dress up in ancient Confederate uniforms or costumes, and women and girls wear hoop skirts, corsets, and pantalettes.
    Even Cherryhill, my ancestral home, is on the tour, although it had the misfortune to suffer a fire during the War Between the States. Since the fire’s cause was a patrol of Yankees, Cherryhill instantly qualified as an attraction on the pilgrimage. There are few things die-hard Southerners appreciate more than rising from any destruction caused by Yankees. At any rate, Cherryhill was rebuilt upon the original footings of the first house right after the war, then completely renovated in 1898. There are still char marks on some of the foundation stones that are pointed out to tourists every year.
    None of this, however, was foremost in our minds or conversation.
    “It’s all right, Bitty,” I comforted my cousin. “I’m sure the deputy would have found all that out elsewhere sooner or later.”
    “Probably. People do love to gossip.”
    I did not point out that we were among those people who love to gossip. It didn’t seem prudent.
    “Why didn’t you tell me you went out with Naomi’s fiancé?” I asked instead, and Bitty immediately lifted up a corner of the wet bath rag draped over her eyes to look at me.
    “Well for heaven’s sake, Trinket, it was last year. And I’ve hardly seen you since you started not dating Kit Coltrane.”
    Bitty definitely sounded peevish. It seemed best not to encourage her along those lines, so I merely nodded. “So Race must have gotten engaged to Naomi quite recently, then. What