Irritated, maybe, but not angry. It seems to me that everyone forgets all about our efforts to find criminals, that’s all.”
“No one has forgotten our part in things, Bitty,” I said dryly. “Trust me.”
“Well, they sure act like they do,” she replied, as my meaning sailed way over her head. “Just the other day I was talking to Rose Allgood at the lingerie shop, and the only thing she really remembers about us tracking down the killers is that time when poor Chen Ling ran out the door with that vibrating toy. Can you believe that? And after all we did, too, risking our very lives to help the Holly Springs police find the people who killed Naomi—bless her heart—and Race. We’re just unappreciated, that’s all, and I’m not at all sure I should ever go out of my way to help law enforcement again.”
After that long speech, silence fell on us where we sat in the peaceful garden full to overflowing with autumn flowers, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Not to mention the dogs and cats lazing around in the warm sunshine that filtered through magnolia branches as big around as fifty-gallon drums. Hosta lilies grew under the tree, variegated leaves and solid greens, and red-and-orange flowers lit up sunny beds running parallel along the garden paths. It occurred to me that some of the perennial flowers had been in place a lot longer than I’ve been alive. It’s a rather comforting thought, the continuance of life in some form that can outlast destructive human beings and even Mother Nature.
Rayna put her head in her hands and looked down at the glass top of the wrought-iron table. “I just wish none of this had happened,” she moaned. “Why didn’t Rob just let Larry show up on his own?”
“Because Larry wouldn’t have shown up,” I said. “Rob was doing his job. He did everything he was supposed to do, but you can’t always control the unknown factor. Life is unpredictable. Who would have thought that a timid guy would hide out in some share-cropper’s shack and try to ambush Rob?”
“It’s not really a sharecropper’s home,” said Rayna, lifting her head to look at us. “I mean, it is , but it’s not. It’s out at the old Hopson Plantation about a mile or two out of Clarksdale. They’re renovated sharecropper shacks for the most part, furnished with all kinds of antiques that would have been used in the early twentieth century, you know, old cooking stoves, wagon wheels, mule harnesses turned into mirrors, that kind of thing.”
“Hm, I think I remember something about that being done,” said Bitty, “but of course, I have no intention of paying good money to stay in an outhouse. If I wanted to do that, I could just drive out in the country around Ashland.”
Rayna smiled. “Really, you ought to go see them sometime. They’re very nicely done, and people from as far as the UK and Norway make reservations to come stay in them. They’ve turned the cotton gin on the property into a really nice bar and dance club, with live bands coming in to play everything from the blues to honky-tonk. There’s even a room there above the bar that has a balcony so guests can listen to the music and go no farther than a few feet to go to bed, use the bathroom, or watch TV.”
Bitty looked unconvinced, but I was intrigued. “Really? I had no idea. I wonder if they would rent out the cabin where Larry was staying.”
Rayna looked over at me, and I could see she was thinking along the same line. “I don’t know. They might. Should I see if the police have finished with it?”
“It may be helpful to see the actual murder scene.”
“Count me out,” Bitty said. “I have no desire to stay in a shack with no running water and straw mattresses.”
“I’m sure they have put nice bathrooms in them, or they couldn’t rent them out like they do,” said Rayna.
“A shack is a shack.” Bitty adjusted Chen Ling, who had begun to wriggle now that the cookies were gone. “It probably has holes
“No one has forgotten our part in things, Bitty,” I said dryly. “Trust me.”
“Well, they sure act like they do,” she replied, as my meaning sailed way over her head. “Just the other day I was talking to Rose Allgood at the lingerie shop, and the only thing she really remembers about us tracking down the killers is that time when poor Chen Ling ran out the door with that vibrating toy. Can you believe that? And after all we did, too, risking our very lives to help the Holly Springs police find the people who killed Naomi—bless her heart—and Race. We’re just unappreciated, that’s all, and I’m not at all sure I should ever go out of my way to help law enforcement again.”
After that long speech, silence fell on us where we sat in the peaceful garden full to overflowing with autumn flowers, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Not to mention the dogs and cats lazing around in the warm sunshine that filtered through magnolia branches as big around as fifty-gallon drums. Hosta lilies grew under the tree, variegated leaves and solid greens, and red-and-orange flowers lit up sunny beds running parallel along the garden paths. It occurred to me that some of the perennial flowers had been in place a lot longer than I’ve been alive. It’s a rather comforting thought, the continuance of life in some form that can outlast destructive human beings and even Mother Nature.
Rayna put her head in her hands and looked down at the glass top of the wrought-iron table. “I just wish none of this had happened,” she moaned. “Why didn’t Rob just let Larry show up on his own?”
“Because Larry wouldn’t have shown up,” I said. “Rob was doing his job. He did everything he was supposed to do, but you can’t always control the unknown factor. Life is unpredictable. Who would have thought that a timid guy would hide out in some share-cropper’s shack and try to ambush Rob?”
“It’s not really a sharecropper’s home,” said Rayna, lifting her head to look at us. “I mean, it is , but it’s not. It’s out at the old Hopson Plantation about a mile or two out of Clarksdale. They’re renovated sharecropper shacks for the most part, furnished with all kinds of antiques that would have been used in the early twentieth century, you know, old cooking stoves, wagon wheels, mule harnesses turned into mirrors, that kind of thing.”
“Hm, I think I remember something about that being done,” said Bitty, “but of course, I have no intention of paying good money to stay in an outhouse. If I wanted to do that, I could just drive out in the country around Ashland.”
Rayna smiled. “Really, you ought to go see them sometime. They’re very nicely done, and people from as far as the UK and Norway make reservations to come stay in them. They’ve turned the cotton gin on the property into a really nice bar and dance club, with live bands coming in to play everything from the blues to honky-tonk. There’s even a room there above the bar that has a balcony so guests can listen to the music and go no farther than a few feet to go to bed, use the bathroom, or watch TV.”
Bitty looked unconvinced, but I was intrigued. “Really? I had no idea. I wonder if they would rent out the cabin where Larry was staying.”
Rayna looked over at me, and I could see she was thinking along the same line. “I don’t know. They might. Should I see if the police have finished with it?”
“It may be helpful to see the actual murder scene.”
“Count me out,” Bitty said. “I have no desire to stay in a shack with no running water and straw mattresses.”
“I’m sure they have put nice bathrooms in them, or they couldn’t rent them out like they do,” said Rayna.
“A shack is a shack.” Bitty adjusted Chen Ling, who had begun to wriggle now that the cookies were gone. “It probably has holes
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