stilettos since almost every female I saw teetered on at least four inches of heel. If one of us tripped, it wouldn’t have surprised me at all to find us all toppling like dominoes.
Bitty and I flitted from tent to tent in our fancy footwear like giddy butterflies, occasionally stopping to greet someone we knew—or more likely, that Bitty knew—and sample their food and, of course, their libations.
It was a lovely autumn day with warm sunshine gilding the skies and the leaves turning colors, and seemed to be one of those perfect times in life. If I hadn’t had the worry in the back of my mind that somehow our foolish act of moving a corpse would come back to haunt us, I would have had a wonderful day. Just like Bitty.
Two and a half hours before game time, Ole Miss football players appeared under an arch that named it the Walk of Champions; they strolled down the brick pathway between all the tailgaters. The coach walked with them, and the entire crowd went crazy. Over all the hollering and Rebel yells could be heard the Ole Miss Hotty Toddy cheer:
Are you ready?
Hell yes! Damn right!
Hotty Toddy, gosh almighty,
Who the hell are we? Hey!
Flim flam, bim bam,
OLE MISS, BY DAMN!
Even though I was a little surprised I still remembered it, I fell right in with all the others and yelled so loud my throat got dry. That called for another sip from my sterling silver cup, of course. Throughout the rest of the afternoon before the big game, I heard the Hotty Toddy countless times. All it took was one person yelling “Are you ready?” for the rest of us to chime in.
Really, Bitty can be right about some things. It was a lot more fun to lose myself in the enjoyment of the camaraderie and familiar rituals than it was to think about a dead professor.
I should have known the Law of Retribution would catch up with me sooner rather than later.
Chapter 4
By the time Bitty and I returned to Holly Springs the next day, I was exhausted. Ole Miss had won their game, the boys had their new bedding, their laundry had been cleaned and returned, and no one had said anything about a dead professor.
Maybe Bitty was right. Maybe I was OCD and just worried for nothing most of the time.
It was still before noon Sunday morning when we pulled into the driveway of Six Chimneys, her sprawling antebellum home with front and side-porches. An iron railing fence encloses a small front yard, and her triple-wide driveway ends at a four car garage behind and to one side of the house. My car, a five-year-old beige Ford Taurus, sat on the concrete and brick drive where I’d left it.
Huge iron or concrete planters held pansies, purple kale and maiden grass, with tendrils of ivy trailing over the edges. Bitty has a gardening service that makes sure her home is always up to date with the current season. Her house is pink with cobalt blue shutters and white trim on the gingerbread scrolling. Crystal chandeliers hang from the porch ceiling, but they’re the outdoor kind that weather well.
Bitty also has an alarm service, but she rarely remembers to set it. This time I’d reminded her, so she opened the front door and started punching in numbers. It beeped at her a couple times until I told her the code. She entered it and then looked at me.
“How do you know my code?”
“Simple. I know you. It was easy to figure out.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “No, it’s not.”
“Really, Bitty, anyone who knows you could figure it out pretty easily. You should use something unusual, not your dog’s name.”
“I only used part of her name.”
I rolled my eyes, Bitty muttered something rude, and I set down my overnight case and asked if she had anything cool to drink.
“Mimosas sound okay?” she said as she started toward the newly remodeled kitchen.
“Only one of those for me, since I have to drive home. I see no point in giving our local police an excuse to stop me.”
“Hah. As if they need an excuse. Do you know that Rodney Farrell
Bitty and I flitted from tent to tent in our fancy footwear like giddy butterflies, occasionally stopping to greet someone we knew—or more likely, that Bitty knew—and sample their food and, of course, their libations.
It was a lovely autumn day with warm sunshine gilding the skies and the leaves turning colors, and seemed to be one of those perfect times in life. If I hadn’t had the worry in the back of my mind that somehow our foolish act of moving a corpse would come back to haunt us, I would have had a wonderful day. Just like Bitty.
Two and a half hours before game time, Ole Miss football players appeared under an arch that named it the Walk of Champions; they strolled down the brick pathway between all the tailgaters. The coach walked with them, and the entire crowd went crazy. Over all the hollering and Rebel yells could be heard the Ole Miss Hotty Toddy cheer:
Are you ready?
Hell yes! Damn right!
Hotty Toddy, gosh almighty,
Who the hell are we? Hey!
Flim flam, bim bam,
OLE MISS, BY DAMN!
Even though I was a little surprised I still remembered it, I fell right in with all the others and yelled so loud my throat got dry. That called for another sip from my sterling silver cup, of course. Throughout the rest of the afternoon before the big game, I heard the Hotty Toddy countless times. All it took was one person yelling “Are you ready?” for the rest of us to chime in.
Really, Bitty can be right about some things. It was a lot more fun to lose myself in the enjoyment of the camaraderie and familiar rituals than it was to think about a dead professor.
I should have known the Law of Retribution would catch up with me sooner rather than later.
Chapter 4
By the time Bitty and I returned to Holly Springs the next day, I was exhausted. Ole Miss had won their game, the boys had their new bedding, their laundry had been cleaned and returned, and no one had said anything about a dead professor.
Maybe Bitty was right. Maybe I was OCD and just worried for nothing most of the time.
It was still before noon Sunday morning when we pulled into the driveway of Six Chimneys, her sprawling antebellum home with front and side-porches. An iron railing fence encloses a small front yard, and her triple-wide driveway ends at a four car garage behind and to one side of the house. My car, a five-year-old beige Ford Taurus, sat on the concrete and brick drive where I’d left it.
Huge iron or concrete planters held pansies, purple kale and maiden grass, with tendrils of ivy trailing over the edges. Bitty has a gardening service that makes sure her home is always up to date with the current season. Her house is pink with cobalt blue shutters and white trim on the gingerbread scrolling. Crystal chandeliers hang from the porch ceiling, but they’re the outdoor kind that weather well.
Bitty also has an alarm service, but she rarely remembers to set it. This time I’d reminded her, so she opened the front door and started punching in numbers. It beeped at her a couple times until I told her the code. She entered it and then looked at me.
“How do you know my code?”
“Simple. I know you. It was easy to figure out.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “No, it’s not.”
“Really, Bitty, anyone who knows you could figure it out pretty easily. You should use something unusual, not your dog’s name.”
“I only used part of her name.”
I rolled my eyes, Bitty muttered something rude, and I set down my overnight case and asked if she had anything cool to drink.
“Mimosas sound okay?” she said as she started toward the newly remodeled kitchen.
“Only one of those for me, since I have to drive home. I see no point in giving our local police an excuse to stop me.”
“Hah. As if they need an excuse. Do you know that Rodney Farrell
Similar Books
