Divas and Dead Rebels by Virginia Brown Page B

now she always knows it’s me. Caller ID is not the best of modern advances, in my opinion.
    “No, I just thought I’d let you know that Emerald is coming home for a visit.”
    Silence on the other end.
    “Bitty?”
    “I’m here. I’m just torn between being glad to see her again, and fear that she’ll get involved in our current . . . project.”
    Trust Bitty to whitewash murder with an innocuous name like “project.”
    “She’ll be here in three weeks. With her husband and kids.”
    “Gawd. How many kids does she have now?”
    “Six. But the oldest ones are Brandon and Clayton’s age, and the youngest ones are ten. So we don’t have to worry about diapers or tantrums.”
    “Not that I would anyway. So now we just have to worry about smoking and cussing.”
    I thought about it a moment. “Probably. You’re referring to the ten-year-olds, right?”
    “Of course. Kids today are much more precocious. I think it has something to do with all the stuff the government puts in our food to make it grow. It makes our kids grow up too fast.”
    “Bitty, have you been on the Internet again?”
    “Not this weekend. We’ve been a bit busy, if you’ll recall.”
    “Right. Okay. I have chocolate, and I’ll be there at five.”
    “Bring hard liquor.”
    She hung up before I could remind her that drinking and driving was a lot worse than doing a rolling stop at a stop sign. Officer Rodney Farrell should be glad I’m such a conscientious person about some things.
    Of course, no liquor store is open on Sundays in Holly Springs, nor are grocery stores allowed to sell anything stronger than beer. Wine is sold in grocery stores only if it’s 6% alcohol or less, and even then, the Blue Law that prohibits the sale of spirits is being stretched. Just a few years back—okay, over forty—the entire state of Mississippi prohibited the sale of any kind of liquor at all. A few of the counties are now half-dry, half-wet. There are still dry counties in our state that forbid alcohol to be sold in any form. Naturally, the citizens there go to the neighboring counties to leave their money. A blind eye is turned toward responsible drinkers in those counties, but woe be unto you if you mess up and get caught drinking and driving. Or creating a disturbance fueled by any kind of alcohol. Only politicians or judges can get by with that.
    So I wisely refrained from adding to any cache of bourbon that Bitty already had tucked away in her basement—she has a wine cellar complete with temperature controls and an index—and kept to my chocolate rule for the evening. It would probably be more than I could handle with or without the added alcohol anyway.
    Divas usually meet by the dozen. There are few rules to being a Diva, but one very important rule is that no men are allowed unless they serve a purpose such as to wait tables or as entertainment. Normally, there are twelve Divas. Due to a few changes in the past year, the number now stands at eleven. Carolann and Rose are the newest, and before them, I was the last to be inducted into the Diva membership. It’s not that we’re a fancy, exclusive club or anything, because really, the essential requirement of being a Diva is an excellent sense of humor. And a high tolerance for chocolate and spirits.
    Lately, I have also suggested keeping bail money at hand. While we have collectively developed a knack for getting involved in crimes, getting arrested is more of an individual talent.
    I blame that on the ringleaders: Bitty Hollandale, Rayna Blue, Gaynelle Bishop, and Trinket Truevine.
    Yes, I have included myself among the guilty for the simple reason that I have been guilty of leading forays into danger and disaster. It’s a latent talent that has bloomed under the tutelage of my companions. We bring out the best—some have suggested the worst—in one another.
    So it wasn’t at all surprising that once we had all the greetings out of the way and had settled into comfy chairs with