Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Read online

  For Priya Bhakta—a friend beyond compare, who also happens to be smart, talented, and creative

  Acknowledgments

  A book is a long labor of inspiration and then just plain hard work. The St. Martin’s team—Kelley Ragland, Matt Martz, Sarah Melnyk, Hiro Kimura, and the dozens of sales reps, marketers, and forces that I don’t even know about that go into putting a book into the hands of the readers—has been wonderful to work with.

  I also want to acknowledge the booksellers who recommend my books. The publishing world is changing, and I’ve never been fond of radical change in any form. But I have unshakable faith that there will always be those of us who write stories, those who sell stories, and those who can’t imagine life without reading. We are bonded in a business that requires long, long hours but so much joy. So while I thank the bookstores that put my books on the shelf, I also thank the readers.

  In the past year, the folks who love my characters have talked about my books and brought new readers to the Bones series. I owe these friends a lot, and I will do my best each time I sit down to write to “build” a story that fulfills my end of this bargain.

  A year’s worth of thanks go to Marian Young. We’ve been together a long time, and I couldn’t have had a better agent along this road.

  I’ve put together a real team of talented people, including Priya, who are helping me with new ideas and ventures. Rebecca Crowley at RTC Publicity, Stephanie Ryan, graphic designer, Jennifer Williamson, business brain, and Sarah Bewley, the czar of terrific workshops/fun events—I thank them all.

  Suzann Ledbetter Ellingsworth provided the valuable service of reading this book. Few books are created without the input of friends and professionals. In my case, I’m lucky to have both helping me to make my story as good as it can be.

  The fun continues with the next installment of Sarah Booth and her friends, which I’m busy writing now. Thank you all.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by Carolyn Haines

  Copyright

  1

  Graf Milieu, my fiancé, stands in the sunlight filtering through the sheers of the bedroom window. His dark hair hangs over one eye as he drinks a cup of coffee and watches over me.

  “I love you, Sarah Booth Delaney,” he says, and he means every word.

  “Come here.” I reach for him, light winking on the diamond of my engagement ring. My hands know the contours of his body, the curve of bicep and length of thigh. Male perfection. The bed is empty without him.

  “Sleep, Sarah Booth.”

  “No, wait,” I tell him. “Don’t go. Come back to bed.”

  “Sleep,” he orders. He smiles and fades as the dream recedes and I open my eyes to a sunny morning. Graf is gone, and I’m home in the middle of the Mississippi Delta at the height of summer. Even so early in the morning, the day is already hot.

  I roll out of bed and pad barefoot down the stairs toward the kitchen and coffee. The dream has left me empty and dissatisfied.

  Wandering the rooms of Dahlia House, I have an inkling of what it must be like to be Jitty. This old house, my family dwelling, the repository of my roots and history, is empty without the warm energy of my significant other, Graf Milieu. That handsome hunk of man drove away at the crack of dawn this morning, headed to the Memphis airport and a flight to Hollywood. He’s taken the lead in a new thriller set in Louisiana. The good news is, once the location work starts, he’ll be one state away. Close enough for some “us” time.

  For now, though, I’m alone in Zinnia, Mississippi, land of my birth and place where my ancestors rest. Some easy, some not. A long list of repairs on my rambling home awaits my attention. For too long, Dahlia House has been neglected.

  “Follow the yellow brick road!”

  The voice comes from all around me. Jitty, the resident haint of Dahlia House, has arrived to badger me. I don’t have to be psychic to know she’s going to tell me I should have gone to Hollywood with Graf. I should have “stood by my man,” even though I would only distract him from his work. Jitty, who dates back to pre–War Between the States times, has been singing this particular song since I returned home two years ago—unwed and unbred, as she loves to point out.

  “Follow the yellow brick road,” she says again.

  “If you show up as a Munchkin, I’m going to kick you back to Oz,” I warn Jitty.

  I’ve miscalculated her most recent incarnation. Instead of striped socks and holding a lollipop, she appears in a puff of vile orange smoke. A black taffeta dress swirls around her slender body. When she stops spinning, I realize her lovely mocha skin is now a shade of pea green and a wart mars her nose.

  “Click your heels together three times, pick up that fancy cell phone, and charge yourself a plane ticket to your man,” Jitty orders.

  “I’m already home.” While I love Graf, I don’t want to abandon Dahlia House or Mississippi. The last few weeks—spending time in my childhood home with Graf, riding horses, making love, making breakfast, laughing with my business partner, Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, and our friends and helpers in crime solving, Cece and Millie—have shown me that the pull of acting isn’t stronger than these things. I want to act. I want to be with Graf in Hollywood. But I also want to be here, in Zinnia, with my horses, my hound, my friends, and my private investigating.

  “Dorothy didn’t necessarily want to go to The Emerald City,” Jitty says darkly. “It was her destiny.”

  “It was a dream,” I remind her.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Jitty can aggravate the hairs off a mole.

  I surveyed her with a moue of distaste. “Why the Wicked Witch of the West? I figured you’re more of a bubble kind of witch. Pink frothy gown, crystal wand—a better outfit to show off that twenty-four-inch waist.”

  “Elphaba suits my message.”

  “Message? You have a communication for me?” Jitty’s job was to devil me and highlight the error of my ways, but for one brief second I thought perhaps my departed mother had something to tell me. “From whom?”

  “Benjamin Disraeli, actually.” Jitty was smug.

  “You have got to be kidding. A nineteenth-century prime minister of England has a message for me?” Things were obviously getting out of hand in the Great Beyond.

  “‘Sweet is the voice of a sister in the season of sorrow,’” Jitty’s tone resonated, but her image began to fade before she finished.

  “Hey, you can’t leave like that.” I hated it when she tossed out a pearl and made me feel like a trampling swine because I didn’t understand it. “Jitty! Jitty!” But she was gone.

  Before I could try to track her down, the phone rang.

  “Delaney Detective Agency,” I answered, despite the fact it was up in the air if we were still in business after Tinkie’s latest brush with death. Both her husband, Oscar, and Graf wanted us to shut down the agency. The men felt we
put ourselves in the line of danger too often, a point that statistically couldn’t be argued.

  “Ms. Sarah Booth Delaney?” a cultured woman asked. “This is Monica Levert, of Briarcliff in Natchez. I’d like to hire you.”

  Instinctively I glanced around to make sure Graf wasn’t listening in. He’d have a hissy fit if he thought I was taking a case not three hours after he had driven away. Such is life.

  “What type of case?” I asked.

  “My sister, Eleanor, and I inherited a necklace. A very valuable necklace. For the past several weeks someone has tried to break into our home. Three nights ago, they succeeded. The necklace was stolen. Now the insurance company is stalling about paying the value of our policy.”

  An insurance claim! No dead bodies. No murders. No guns. A simple insurance claim. “What’s the value of the necklace?”

  “It’s been passed down in the Levert family for five generations. The jewels themselves are valuable, but it’s the reputation of the jeweler that makes it even more so. We’re afraid a thief won’t realize that and will destroy the necklace to sell the rubies individually.”

  “The value is…?”

  “Four million dollars.”

  I’d grown up in a society where valuable jewels were commonplace. The belles of the Delta, women of exceptional beauty and charm, felt good jewelry was a birthright. But a necklace with this appraisal was extraordinary. No wonder the insurance company was balking.

  “The police have verified the theft?”

  “They have, but Langley Insurance is still stonewalling. My sister and I thought bringing in reputable private investigators to reevaluate the evidence might speed things up.”

  “I doubt that.” I had to be honest.

  “Would you at least speak with Mr. Nesbitt at the insurance company? He’s aware of your reputation for honesty.”

  Nice to hear, but in the instance of a $4 million claim, I doubted the reputation of Delaney Detective Agency would matter a whit. But what did I have to lose? “Sure, if my partner agrees.”

  “Eleanor and I will await your phone call,” Monica said.

  It took less than a minute to clear the case with Tinkie, who not only agreed to take the Leverts’ job offer but jumped in her Cadillac to head for Dahlia House. She loved Oscar, but their constant togetherness in the last weeks was driving her a little nuts.

  We’d both gotten used to calling our own shots, a simpler situation for me. Tinkie had been reared in the fine tradition of a Daddy’s Girl, a woman who accomplishes much through charm and the guise of acquiescence. Tinkie was about as pliable as a titanium rod, but she knew how to appear malleable. It just required a lot of effort to do so.

  She roared down my drive like a bat out of hell and bounded out of her car on the heels of Chablis, her dustmop Yorkie terrier with the heart of a lion. Sweetie Pie, my noble red tic hound, greeted them with a tenor serenade. Ah, Placido, should you ever need a hound onstage, Sweetie’s voice could make an audience weep!

  “Have you called the Levert sisters back?” Tinkie asked, rushing up the steps.

  I held out a hand to steady her. She wore three-inch stilettos and I feared she’d topple backward and break her neck. Her sundress put me in mind of the 1960s, complete with the cutest straw sun hat. Tinkie had excellent taste and the budget to indulge it.

  “I thought I’d let you do the honors.” I led her toward our office on the first floor of Dahlia House in what was formerly a parlor. Our décor was taupe filing cabinets and cheap furniture. Tinkie had insisted on, and paid for, the frosted-glass door that said Delaney Detective Agency. Classic noir. The only classy thing about our digs.

  I gave her Monica’s number and she put the phone on speaker and dialed.

  Monica answered on the second ring.

  “We’re interested in the case,” Tinkie said. “Our fee is two grand up front and a grand a day, plus any unexpected expenses.”

  “Can you start today?” Monica asked.

  “You realize we’ll investigate and write the report of whatever we find.” Tinkie wanted to be clear no one was buying results.

  “We wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Monica said. “Eleanor and I are distraught over the theft. Yes, the necklace has a monetary value, but it’s part of our history. I’m sure you ladies can understand what that means.”

  She was stroking my weak spot. “Heritage,” “tradition”—two words I understood down to the bone.

  “Where would you like to meet?” Tinkie asked.

  “The Excelsior Tea Room. At noon?”

  “We’ll be there,” Tinkie agreed before she punched the disconnect button.

  She sat on the edge of the desk. “A new case, Sarah Booth! Isn’t it exciting?”

  Oh, exciting wouldn’t cover it when she told Oscar and I told Graf. Unless, of course, we could make the two-hour drive to Natchez, examine the evidence, come home, and write the report without anyone being the wiser. As my aunt Loulane would say, were she alive to say it, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  If we kept our mouths shut about the case, we’d spare Oscar and Graf needless worry. It could even be interpreted as an act of love.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blur of black and heard the soft rustle of taffeta. A breeze kicked up outside and I could have sworn I heard, “Beware, my pretty.”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Tinkie.

  She shook her head. “Let’s hit the road. Maybe we can get back before dark.”

  Great minds think alike. I called in the dogs, grabbed my purse, and settled into the passenger seat of her new Caddy.

  * * *

  On the drive to Natchez, I’d used Tinkie’s cute new laptop computer, complete with wireless Internet, to do some research on the Levert family. Monica and Eleanor were heiresses of an estate valued at close to $10 million, not counting the necklace and other jewels. While the assets were impressive, Briarcliff, their home, was expensive to maintain. And the Levert sisters were used to globe-trotting and the luxuries of life.

  They lived in Natchez part of the year and also spent time in Monaco, Vienna, Tuscany, and Rio during the carnival season. It was just the two of them, with nothing to tie them down.

  Tinkie crested a steep hill and pulled into a parking space on a brick-lined street. The Excelsior Tea Room was on the second floor of a downtown Natchez building that gave a view of the Mississippi River. Tinkie and I entered and scanned the room.

  “Is that them?” Tinkie whispered, pinching the fat on my upper arm.

  “Stop it!” I snatched my arm away, but my gaze never left the two women seated in a corner of the tearoom. Both had shoulder-length black hair layered in a casually elegant style called a gypsy shag in the 1970s. The cut didn’t look dated in the least. Nor did the women, who had to be close to fifty but looked younger. One wore red, the other black. Mirror images. Identical twins.

  They rose, waving us to their table. Introductions were made as we settled into our chairs. Monica was the dominant. She did most of the talking.

  “It just makes me crazy that we tried to get the police to help us, but they wouldn’t do a thing,” Monica said. Her chocolate eyes were hot with indignation. “We reported the intruder the first two nights. Officers drove out, looked around, then said we should get a dog or one of those expensive alarm systems. I couldn’t make them understand that a historic house has certain restrictions. I mean, we’ve ordered new windows, but it will take weeks. They have to be handmade to fit. It isn’t just like calling out Sears for an installation.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Tinkie requested.

  “Do you know anything about our family history?” Monica asked.

  “No.” We’d agreed to let them tell it. It’s always interesting to learn what a client reveals or hides.

  “The family dynasty started with Barthelme Levert,” Monica said.

  Eleanor leaned forward and spoke quietly. “He was a blackguard and a scoundrel. Natchez so
ciety has never forgiven us for Barthelme’s brutal ways.”

  “Posh.” Monica waved her sister to silence. “They’ve never forgiven us for hanging on to our fortune during the Civil War, the Depression, and this latest economic downturn. Jealousy is a cruel prod, Sister. And it’s only jealousy that makes the peahens so catty.”

  “Tell us about the necklace,” Tinkie said.

  “I can do better than that.” Monica reached into her designer handbag and brought out a photograph. The rubies sparkled blood red against a gold satin background. Even I gasped, and Tinkie’s finger traced the delicate craftsmanship of the exquisite necklace. The design made the rubies appear to capture the light and shoot it back in a million blades of red. I couldn’t help but notice the ruby ring on Monica’s hand as she extended the photo—another piece of exceptional craftsmanship.

  “Wow,” Tinkie said. “That’s some necklace.”

  “Barthelme was a scoundrel, but he knew jewels and good work. The necklace was created by Rodney Implace, one of—”

  “The finest jewelers in the mid to late eighteen hundreds,” Tinkie finished. “His creations were sought after by the monarchs of Europe as well as the Rockefellers, Carnegies, Vanderbilts, and others. That ring is his, too.”

  “Exactly.” Monica’s smile revealed perfect teeth. I checked Eleanor’s dental work. Also perfection. In fact, I couldn’t see a flaw in complexion, figure, or hair, which was one of the top requirements for a Daddy’s Girl—bad hair might be a dominant gene and wealthy men didn’t favor offspring with frizz or limpness.

  “So what happened the night the necklace was stolen?” I asked.

  Monica picked up the story. “As I told you, for the previous two nights, Sister and I had seen someone on the grounds of Briarcliff.”

  “Can you describe the person?” I asked.

  “Only generically. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wore dark clothing, and moved with extreme grace.” The sisters shared a look. “We have a live-in gardener, Jerome Lolly. Though he was watching out for the intruder, he never saw a thing. The thief was like a phantom. I could only catch a glimpse here, a flit of movement there.”

 
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