Dixie Divas by Virginia Brown

odd.”
    “We’ll check it out,” the sergeant said after heaving another long sigh.
    “Thank you,” Bitty said and stood up. “When you contact him, please tell Mr. Sanders that I’ll make another appointment to meet with him at his earliest convenience.”
    Once we were outside on the pavement, I looked at Bitty. “You didn’t tell everything.”
    “Of course not, Trinket.” She hit the little button on her remote and the Miata started and the lights flashed. “There’s no point in alarming the police unnecessarily. You’ve obviously forgotten, but the Holly Springs police are quite sharp. They have a habit of finding out the truth even when it’s very inconvenient. You just remember that I told you so when this good citizen stuff blows up in our faces, all right?”
    “Okay,” I said, and crossed my fingers. When Bitty’s the cynic instead of me, it’s never a good sign.
    Rain changed from a light mist to a heavy downpour before we even got to Market Street , and Bitty parked right in front of Budgie’s café without asking me if I wanted to stop. My mouth was already watering for homemade cobbler anyway. We may have our differences at times, but in so many ways Bitty and I are very much alike.
    Parking spaces slant diagonal to the sidewalk. On one side of Budgie’s is a real estate office; on the other side is an attorney’s office. There’s an empty storefront by the attorney’s office, and an antique store at the end. The café is on the bottom floor of the three-story building built in 1854. It has old-fashioned ornate facings and false front, and the outside brick walls have been painted a nice bright white. Black wrought iron railings and small flower boxes that drape red petunias and cascades of verbena in the summer give it a New Orleans flair.
    Budgie’s had a nice lunchtime crowd, but we found a table in the rear that had just been vacated. Dirty dishes, wadded up napkins, and a red plastic basket still full of cornsticks cluttered the table. Such a waste of excellent cornbread.
    Since the rain had chased away the warmer temperatures, we wavered between chili and cornsticks, or hot potato soup and cornsticks. Followed, of course, by the cobbler of the day with as much vanilla ice cream on top as could fit into the bowl.
    I ended up choosing the potato, cheese, and bacon soup, and Bitty had the chili. The red plastic basket of bread and cornsticks are complimentary with every meal. We both had sweet tea instead of coffee with our meal. Coffee comes with dessert.
    “After such a wretched day,” Bitty said, licking melted butter and cornstick crumbs off her fingers just like she was at home, “we deserve two helpings of cherry cobbler.”
    “Well, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” I reflected. “And I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish one bowl of cobbler, much less two. I ate too many cornsticks.”
    “Budgie makes them just right. Not sweet, light on the top, golden brown on the bottom. I could eat a barrel of cornsticks if I didn’t have to worry about staying a size ten.”
    I looked at her. “The last time you were size ten was in sixth grade.”
    “You’re thinking of your shoe size, dear,” Bitty said without a blink, and we both smiled.
    Things were getting back to normal if we were trading casual barbs. I didn’t want to think about Sanders, or the senator, or even poor Tuck anymore. We’d done our duty.
    “What are you going to do about Uncle Eddie and Aunt Anna?” Bitty asked when we’d put away our cobbler and were sipping coffee. “Are they really going to take the Delta Queen downriver?”
    I nodded. “All the way to New Orleans . At least they’ll be confined on a boat. And they’ll only have one night and half a day in New Orleans before they fly back home. Maybe that’s not enough time to be a problem.”
    Bitty had taken her compact and lipstick out of her purse and started applying a top coat to her lips, stretching her mouth into that