Free Dixie Diva Blues by Virginia Brown

it.
    “We’ve lost her now,” I said. “She’ll be sniffing out antiques for the next hour.”
    “I got her relaxed, it’s up to you to decide what to do with her,” said Gaynelle as she crossed the small main room to the plaid couch. Flopping down on it, she looked up with a smile. “So. Where was he murdered?”
    “Look under your left foot,” I said, and Gaynelle bolted up from the couch like she had sat on a hot stove.
    “What? Where? Is that . . . is that the chalk outline of his body?”
    It is a rare occasion that one catches Gaynelle Bishop off-guard like that, and I must admit that I rather enjoyed her reaction. As I’ve said before, her thirty years as a school teacher rendered her almost invulnerable to any kind of prank. She has sailed calmly and serenely through quite a few situations that had the rest of us babbling and hysterical.
    “Yep. That’s it,” I said. I pointed to the front door, which was the only entry in the front. “Rob came in through that door, saw Larry standing right about here holding a pistol in his hand—down at his side like he didn’t really want to use it—and stopped just in front of the door. Right about here, I’d say.”
    I moved to a point right beyond the swing of the door, then turned around to look behind me. There was plenty of space for someone who could have hit Rob on the head before he realized they were there. I looked at the others.
    “It happened about ten at night, so we have an hour or so to kill—excuse the pun—before we can see exactly what the killer or killers might have seen. I thought we could do this like a TV crime show re-creation.”
    Carolann clapped her hands with enthusiasm. “Great idea! I love it! Oh, shouldn’t we each be a different character or something? I can play Rob. Or the dead man.”
    A little taken aback by her zeal, I shook my head. “Uh, no. I don’t think that will be necessary. As long as we get the facts right about who was where, and what any possible witnesses might have seen or heard at the time of the murder.”
    “Don’t forget the time difference,” said Gaynelle. She stood well away from the faint vestiges of chalk. “It gets dark a little bit earlier now. Not much, but if we want to recreate this exactly—was it raining that night, too?”
    I said, “I don’t know. Does it make a big difference?”
    Carolann sounded shocked. “Of course it does! Everything must be exactly like it was the night of the murder, or it will be all off kilter.”
    “But we’re just trying to get an idea of what may have happened, and maybe find someone who saw or heard something out of the ordinary. According to Rob, no one saw or heard anything, but now, seeing how close together these shacks are, it seems pretty likely someone just doesn’t realize what they saw or heard might be important. Don’t you think . . . ?”
    I let my sentence trail off into silence.
    Carolann just stared at me as if I’d been speaking in a foreign language. Gaynelle stepped around the barely visible chalk outline to reach for her purse and cell phone.
    “I’ll call Rayna and ask if it was raining,” she said.
    I looked around for Bitty in the hope she would agree that a completely accurate re-creation was unnecessary. “Bitty?” I called when I didn’t immediately see her.
    “It looks like the pinblock is still good,” her voice said from deep behind the antique piano. “And I think the bridges are pretty sound. It’s even got the old manufacturer’s certificate.”
    I surrendered to the inevitable. Apparently we were going to stage a re-creation. I started to ask who was in charge of costumes, but stopped myself just in time. I’m sure one of my companions would have thought that a great idea, too. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy.
    “Okay,” Gaynelle said when we had lured Bitty from behind the piano and had her stationed behind the door as the killer, “you can be Larry Whittier, Trinket.”
    “Lucky me,” I