Drop Dead Divas Read Online Free Page B

to Brett Kincade, whose family owns a chain of department stores, is a member of the Divas as well. A short explanation may be in order here for those unfamiliar with the Dixie Divas.
    Sometime in the late 1990s, a group of Holly Springs’ female residents formed a club of sorts. It’s nothing like the Ya-Yas or Sweet Potato Queens or Red Hat Ladies, but more an informal group of women from thirty to sixty-ish who get together every month to celebrate being alive. Chocolate is a menu staple, as is champagne and/or wine, along with casseroles, and whatever covered dish anyone wants to bring. Membership in the Divas remains at twelve full-time members, with guests allowed on occasion as long as said guest is female. No men are allowed to attend our meetings other than as a deliveryman or form of entertainment. While I shall not go into too much detail about what forms of entertainment they may provide, suffice it to say I still have in my possession a black leather halter top from a transvestite stripper. It was a Mardi Gras celebration, and if you haven’t been to one, don’t scoff. 
    At any rate, Divas are doggedly loyal to one another, most recently proven by their belief in Bitty when her ex-husband’s body was found in her coat closet. Divas rallied to her cause without question, albeit with the assurance that she had nothing to do with his demise. The aftermath caused quite a few moments of disquiet, to say the least, but nothing that wasn’t taken in stride by the members. I’m proud to say I’ve been officially inducted into the membership of the Dixie Divas. While there is no uniform or gold pin to wear, there is great pride in being among those chosen.
    After Bitty called Cady Lee, we sat back and waited for her phone to ring. Within ten minutes, three Divas had called, and the call waiting had beeped in so often Bitty said it sounded like she was in a Roadrunner cartoon. All we needed was Wile E. Coyote.
    ****
    Within an hour, Wile E. Coyote showed up in the form of Deputy Rodney Farrell, a rather nervous young man with a bristle of reddish hair, freckles, and the efficiency of a Barney Fife. If you are unfamiliar with the bumbling Deputy Barney Fife, watch a few Andy Griffith Show reruns, and you’ll catch my drift.
    “Miz Hollandale?” he said in a questioning tone, although he knew very well who she was since he’d sat on her horsehair-stuffed settee and drank tea and ate cake for a good half-hour a few months before. He shuffled his feet on the porch doormat a couple times and cleared his throat when Bitty nodded pleasantly and agreed that she was Miz Hollandale. “I’m here to . . .  uh . . .  ask you a few questions. If you don’t mind.”
    “Do I have unpaid parking tickets?” Bitty asked as she opened the front door wider and he paused on the threshold. “Or are you selling tickets to a police benefit?”
    Despite her encouraging tone and gesture to enter, the deputy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and stammered a negative. “No, ma’am. Not any of that.”
    Now I was intrigued. I’d already formed a pretty good guess as to why he was here, so I wasn’t surprised when he finally got out in a single rushed sentence that he had come to ask her a few questions about her relationship with Naomi Spencer.
    At that, Bitty’s innate southern hospitality took on an edge. She drew herself up into a posture of offended female. As she was just about eye-level with the deputy, even in her bare feet, her glare made him shrink back against the door frame.
    Poor man. He hadn’t even made it fully into the house yet, and Bitty had him cornered. This was not going to be pretty.
    “ Relationship with Naomi Spencer? Young man, you must be out of your mind. I have no relationship whatsoever with that woman. Why would you even ask me such a foolish question?”
    Now sweating profusely, and since Bitty’s house was much cooler than it was outside, I was certain it wasn’t from the heat, Deputy