Free Dixie Diva Blues by Virginia Brown Page A

said, but dutifully took a position in the approximate spot where he must have stood. I felt a little queasy knowing that he must have seen it all coming and been powerless to prevent it. Or had he hoped to escape alive?
    “Do I look vicious?” asked Bitty from her position behind the door.
    She had a stick in one hand and her face scrunched up as far as Botox would allow. It gave her a curious expression, but not what I considered particularly vicious.
    “No, you look constipated. Cancel your next Botox appointment. You’ve had more than enough,” I said.
    “There can never be too much,” she replied serenely.
    “Pay attention now,” Gaynelle said sharply in her best teacher-voice, and we gave her our immediate attention. “Carolann is Rob. When she knocks at the door, Trinket, you as Larry will tell her to go away. I believe that is what the victim said first. Rob, of course, gave him another warning before he entered the shack. That is when you, Bitty, as the killer, will allow Rob to get inside before you strike.”
    “Is she going to hit me with that stick?” Carolann inquired somewhat anxiously.
    “Of course not. She’s going to pretend to hit you. I want you to pretend not to know there’s anyone behind the door when you come in. Trinket, you as Larry do what he must have done after Rob was hit from behind.”
    “I don’t have a gun,” I said.
    “Here. Use this.” Gaynelle shoved a banana into my hand, then stepped back to survey the scene. “Hm. Trinket, move back a bit. If Rob actually hit you with a bullet, you should be standing behind the chalk outline.”
    When I moved, I came up short against the plaid couch. It hit me right behind the knees, and I had difficulty staying upright.
    “This won’t work,” I said. “Maybe the couch was moved over.”
    “No room. This has to work. At least, according to Rob’s story. So just stay there and let’s see how this works out.”
    Carolann knocked loudly on the door, then demanded in a gruff tone that Larry open it. I, as Larry, refused. “Go away,” I said as commanded by our director.
    “She doesn’t sound very mean,” Bitty complained. “Shouldn’t she sound mean?”
    I looked at Bitty. “I imagine Larry was terrified if there was a killer with a gun right behind the door. Why would he sound mean?”
    “Okay, then sound terrified.”
    “Are we on TV? Because unless we are, I don’t think this has to be that accurate.”
    Carolann banged on the door again and demanded to be let inside. She sounded very determined.
    “Carolann’s playing her part the way she should,” said Bitty. “The least you can do is try, Trinket.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll be terrified.” Using my best Minnie Mouse voice—I’ve always thought she sounds just like a squeaky mouse would sound if it could talk—I said again, “Go away!”
    The door knob rattled. “What? I can’t hear through this door. Did someone tell me to go away?”
    This time Gaynelle took charge and said loudly, “Go away!”
    Carolann obliged by grasping the door knob and shoving open the door. She did so quite vigorously, and Bitty shrieked.
    “My toes! You’ve scraped my toes with that door—and look! My pedicure is all ruined. Darn it, Carolann.”
    “Stay in character, Bitty,” I said from my position by the couch, and she glared at me as she held on to her right foot and hopped in place.
    Gaynelle sighed. “Bitty, why don’t you put on some shoes, and we’ll try this again.”
    It was obvious to me that our re-creation of the moment right before Larry’s death was doing little more than providing us with an excellent idea of how it could not have happened. As I stood there waiting for Bitty to put on shoes and Carolann to go back out onto the porch with her gun—actually a cell phone—it occurred to me that something in all of this was really wrong. It couldn’t have happened like Rob said. Could it? I puzzled over that for several minutes while Bitty