Jingle Bones

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  Jingle Bones

  A thick ribbon of pink lazed in the sky as the sun edged toward the horizon, casting the bare cotton fields in a warm light. The third week of December hit Sunflower County, Mississippi, with a whammy of freezing temperatures. My fingers were so cold, I fumbled with the loppers as I wrestled with the cedar tree. I only needed a few more branches.

  Reveler stamped his hoof with impatience, his snort condensing in the cold air, as I worked. The delicious smell of fresh cedar wafted up to me and I stuffed the limber branches into the large cloth sack I’d found in the barn.

  Christmas was just around the corner. I’d make garlands when I got back to Dahlia House. I’d bind the cedar branches together and twist them with colored lights and popcorn-cranberry strings to decorate the balustrades on the front porch and the stair rail inside. My mother had done this every Christmas for the first twelve years of my life. It was the opening salvo of the holiday madness that I loved beyond measure.

  I’d hang the garlands while my fruitcakes baked. Definitely fruitcakes. And cornbread stuffing. And sweet potato fluff. And pumpkin pies. And green bean casserole, and Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, and dirty rice with sausage, and—I had to go to the Pig to pick up the groceries I needed just to get started on the feast.

  So much to do to prepare for the first annual Dahlia House Christmas Eve fete. I had begun a new tradition.

  When I survived The Black and Orange Ball in New Orleans this past Halloween, I made a vow. I would not allow my breakup with Graf Milieu to ruin the holiday season. I had much to celebrate. First and foremost, Cece Dee Falcon, my most stalwart friend, who had endured pain beyond measure to be the person she was born to be, had fallen in love. And Jaytee, a hot and rocking harmonica player for a terrific blues band, was a guy that I thought matched my friend perfectly. On this Christmas, Cece would have a special friend to kiss under the mistletoe. My Christmas wish for her was that she’d never again be alone for a holiday season.

  With a last clack of the loppers, I finally had enough cedar for the garlands. I mounted Reveler and headed back across the fields to Dahlia House, the sack of boughs bouncing behind me.

  The sky burned peachy gold, and clouds of fuchsia climbed high. A windrow of trees stood silhouetted against the magnificent sky, and a gentle breeze rattled the dying leaves, reminding me of the rustle of widow’s weeds. As I cleared a small creek and the land opened up to reveal the big white house on a slight rise, I slowed Reveler and took in the vista I loved so much. The fields were bare—the cotton all picked, pressed into round bales, and loaded onto flatbeds for transport. White tufts, like lost snowflakes, had scattered around the edges of the fields. Next spring, they’d be plowed under and the new crop planted. The cycle of life: planting, growth, harvest, and rest. Christmas brought family and the fallow period of winter. While I loved the holidays, it was also the time I missed my family more than ever.

  The sycamore trees that lined the driveway were bare, their pale branches dancing lazily in an erratic December breeze. Reveler’s mane lifted on the wind and he stamped a foot, eager for a hot mash, and the company of Miss Scrapiron and Lucifer. Reveler loved me, but he loved his herd, too, and I had kept him busy all afternoon.

  I whistled up Sweetie Pie, who’d taken off down the branch. For a dog who hated a bath, she didn’t mind running through the icy water of a creek in pursuit of some delicious smell. There would be plenty of tantalizing aromas coming from the Dahlia House kitchen in the next few days. Millie Roberts, the best cook in the county, had offered to help me prepare our Christmas Eve feast.

  As I drew close to the house, I caught sight of a black sedan traveling fast down the driveway. Something sleek and expensive, like a Jaguar. Who the heck was coming to visit me? When I finally recognized the driver, I was more than a bit surprised.

  I met Theodora Prince at the front of the house. As I jumped from the saddle, I couldn’t wait to hear why she had called. As far as I knew, Theodora was of the mindset that I was headed straight to hell. Merely being in my presence put her squeaky clean little soul at risk.

  “Sarah Booth,” she said, getting out of the car. Theodora was a beautiful woman, but somewhere along the line she had decided that dressing to emphasize her looks insulted the man upstairs. Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail so tight it lifted her eyebrows almost to her hairline. If the rubber band popped, her face might shoot to Texas.

  “Theodora, what can I do for you?” We’d gone to high school together, and when I left for Ole Miss, Theodora had gone to a place that trained women to be good wives and mothers. She had certainly gone forth and multiplied, with six kids to her credit. Her husband, Perry Prince, was the minister of the Final Harvest Church, a place I’d never visited. The name, so Stephen Kingish, was enough to keep me away. Another reason I was destined to burn in the fiery lake.

  “I’m desperate or I wouldn’t come to you.”

  No news there. “So what can I help you with?”

  “It’s the Christmas pageant. There are forces at work to make a mockery of it. I want you to stop them.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, so I slowed down the conversation. “We’re talking about a Christmas pageant with the birth of baby Jesus, where all the Wise Men wear bathrobes and mumble their lines?”

  “Exactly. Under my direction, Final Harvest’s pageant will be the best in the state. We have real farm animals, and this year we’ve rented a llama.” She was triumphant. “A camel is just too big, but the llama works perfectly and lends a real Bethlehem aura to the pageant. The other churches will be envious.”

  The only thing I knew about llamas was that they could spit a really long distance. And it was stinky, slimy spit. I side stepped her envious comment. “What can I do?”

  “Marjorie Rush is determined that her children participate in the pageant this year. Those children are heathens. They’re too old and completely out of control. Heck, they may be cannibals for all I know.”

  Okay. Cannibals. I hadn’t expected that. “So what is it you think I can do? You’re the pageant director. Kick them out.”

  “I can’t. Not without cause. My husband won’t allow it. I want you to investigate the Rush family. Last year, someone stole the baby Jesus from the crèche, and I know it was those Rush hellions. If I can prove they did it, I can ban them from the pageant. It’s my only hope. Perry says it’s unchristian to prevent children from participating in the birth story of baby Jesus.”

  “This sounds like something you should take up with your husband.”

  Theodora looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “The Rushes are the biggest tithers in the church. Perry is naïve. He has no idea what those two little bas … boys can do. Last year, one of them had a whoopee cushion and every time the Angel of the Lord tried to speak, the little monster made this horrific farting sound. It tore up the whole pageant. Mary started crying and the angel got so frustrate
d she cursed in the church!”

  I patted Reveler’s shoulder to keep from laughing. When the spasm passed, I said, “Theodora, don’t you think hiring a private investigator is a little extreme? They’re kids. It’s one night. Wouldn’t you really prefer to just dig in and get through it?”

  “Those children are possessed. They’ll ruin everything and their half-wit parents won’t lift a finger to stop it.” She leaned forward. “They’re downright gleeful about the mayhem those kids generate. Marjorie and her absentee husband think concocting mischief shows intelligence. That’s what I’m up against. Now will you take the case or not?”

  “I’m not sure I can prove they stole a baby doll from the Christmas crèche a full twelve months ago. I’m afraid it would be wasting your money.”

  “You take the case and let me worry about my money.” She pulled a roll of greenbacks held by a rubber band from her purse and tossed them at me. “Just don’t tell Perry what I’m doing. He says the church is the best place for those kids. He believes he can work some godly influence on those unevolved monkeys.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I say Hell is where they need to be. Not in the middle of my pageant. Thanks for your help, Sarah Booth. Maybe this will be a mark in your favor when the day of judgment is upon you. Based on your church attendance, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  She sped off in her expensive car and I was left holding a wad of money big enough to choke my horse. Okay, then, my Christmas gala was in the black, and I was on the trail of a missing baby doll. From twelve months before. This might be the first case I couldn’t solve.

  * * *

  Once Reveler was untacked, groomed, and all three horses slurping a hot bran mash, I started across the lawn to the house. The last sliver of the sun sank beneath the horizon, and Dahlia House beckoned with warmth and light as the blue hour settled over me. Clear as a bell, I heard a sultry voice belting out, “Merry Christmas, baby, I heard you was doin’ fine.”

  I recognized a version of the Hop Wilson song that turned me inside out. Jitty, the resident haint of Dahlia House, was singing the blues. But who was that on harmonica? Jitty was free to invite whomever she wished to visit, but mostly the dead weren’t all that eager to socialize with me. Jitty was the exception, sent by my dead parents to watch over me—and boss me as much as possible.

  When I opened the front door, I halted in my tracks. Cece and her boyfriend Jaytee were stringing popcorn and cranberries and singing away. “Wow, Cece, you can belt that song.” My friend never ceased to amaze me.

  “Jaytee and I thought we’d perform at your Christmas bash. If you want us to.”

  “I would love it.” Jaytee played with Bad to the Bone, Scott Hampton’s house band at the blues club located at the crossroads. “Have you seen Tinkie?”

  “She’s in the office.” Cece waved me toward another wing of the house where Delaney Detective Agency had desks, files, phones, computers, and the many things necessary to man a small office.

  “Thanks. Carry on with the rehearsal, please.” I left them to it and sauntered forward to share the new case with my partner. Tinkie wouldn’t be thrilled, but she was pragmatic enough to know cash in the hand was a great incentive.

  I was halfway to the office when I heard, “Pssssst!”

  Jitty, in the cutest elf suit I’d ever seen, accosted me. She was the only person I knew who could make green fishnet hose look sexy. “Already dressed for the holidays?” I teased her.

  “This house is so full of your friends I can’t find a minute to tell you somethin’.”

  “Just think how it would be if I had children.” Jitty was forever gigging me to get married and spawn. She wanted an heir to haunt and so far, I was the last of the Delaneys.

  “If it was my young’uns, it wouldn’t bother me a lick.”

  What was mine was Jitty’s and what was Jitty’s was Jitty’s. Waste of breath to point that out. “What do you have to tell me?”

  “Don’t tie yourself up with Theodora Prince. That woman’s got a bad Christmas mojo.”

  “Very helpful, Jitty. You should have flown across the porch and scared her away before she assaulted me with this big chunk o’ change that is going to keep me in cranberries and Jack Daniel’s.”

  “She’s messed up in the head, Sarah Booth. Your mama once quit the PTA because of Theodora whining about the dress lengths of the teenage girls. It was a regular Harper Valley moment.”

  Jitty referred to an older country song by Jeannie C. Riley where a local mother goes off on the hypocrites in a small town. My mom was known to be a firebrand when it came to injustice, hypocrisy, or cruelty. “Okay, she’s an unpleasant woman.” I pulled out the cash and flashed it at Jitty. “But this will keep the lights on at Dahlia House. And it’s an easy case that doesn’t involve murder or guns or death.”

  “What does it involve?” Jitty’s grin told me she already knew.

  “Finding the person who stole the baby Jesus from the crèche at Final Harvest Church last year.”

  “Your case is a missing doll?”

  I refused to dignify her sarcasm with an answer. “It’s a case. It’s a diversion for me.” I shooed her away. “Take a powder. I have work to do.”

  In front of my very eyes, she vanished. And Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, my partner, yahooed to me. “Sarah Booth, who are you talking to?”

  “Myself,” I answered. “Some days I need to have an intelligent conversation.”

  Tinkie came down the hallway, her high heels tapping. She was only five-two, and she could run faster in five-inch stilettos than I could in my PF Flyers. Tinkie was a woman of many talents and excellent taste in accessories. Today she wore umber corduroy slacks, a forest green sweater, and a scarf of fall colors. Even her tawny hair matched, as did her wonderful little dog, Chablis.

  The Yorkie launched herself full tilt, trusting that I would catch her in my arms. Of course, I did. Chablis and I had a long history of learning to trust each other. The chatter brought Sweetie Pie, my hound, out of the kitchen, and Pluto, my huge black cat, from his nap on the horsehair sofa in the front parlor.

  Tinkie put her hands on her hips. “One day, Sarah Booth, you’ll quit lying to me about the phantom you chitchat with.”

  A change of subject was overdue. “We have a new client. Theodora Prince.” Instead of waiting for her to pick up her jaw and ask, I filled her in on our case.

  “We are actually going to track down that ratty doll that was in the crèche last year? Did you see it? It looked like an escapee from a doll mental institution. Someone had pulled most of the hair out of its ugly little head and one glassy blue eye was cockeyed. I ask again, did you see that repugnant thing?”

  I had to tread lightly. Tinkie was righteously upset. “Can’t say that I did. Doesn’t matter. We’ve been hired to find the people or persons who stole it. What desperate momma is rocking that little ugly doll?”

  “Stop it! You are mocking me.”

  “Only a little.” I couldn’t stop the grin as I pulled out the money. “Paid in advance. The only answer she’ll be happy with is the Rush boys. And they are a handful.”

  “Theodora doesn’t part with money easily.” She rolled her eyes. “Did I mention that she’d squeeze a penny until old Abe yelled? This must be really important to her.”

  “This is”— I counted through the bills—“five grand. Now where does a church lady come up with that kind of cash? To find a baby-doll thief?”

  “Make sure it isn’t counterfeit.”

  “Let’s go pay a visit to the Rush family.” The Case of the Baby-doll Thief was growing on me.

  “I’m staying in the car,” Tinkie warned. “This could wait until tomorrow, you know. Cece and Jaytee are decorating your parlor.”

  “I brought a sack of cedar boughs to them. They’re making popcorn-and-cranberry strings. They’re happy as pigs in mud. They have liquor and that wonderful chicken salad Millie made. And they have each other.”


  “I should have a drink before we go. You do know the Rush family, don’t you? Remember the year those boys set the Santa float on fire? The boys said if he came down the chimney he should be fire retardant. Or the time they stole Mayor Havard’s brand-new Dodge Ram dually and drove it into the Sunflower River? To see if it would float. They were only eight years old and knew how to drive.”

  The Rush boys were notorious. The family had plenty of money and therefore the kids had never been punished for their misconduct. With each year, their pranks escalated. Now the boys were in fifth grade. I doubted their mother could control them even if she’d had a belated motherly instinct to instill some self-discipline.

  Tinkie tossed me the keys to her Cadillac. “You drive. I intend to drink. Heavily.”

  She picked up a bottle of Stoli, a jar of olives, and the ice bucket on her way out the door.

  Who was I to argue with Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, queen bee socialite of Zinnia, Mississippi.

  * * *

  The soft December night spangled stars across the sky. A waxing moon illuminated the white shell drive as the car crunched toward the road, “Joy to the World” playing softly on the radio. Sweetie Pie and Chablis were in the backseat. They loved the cold. The night beyond the headlights of the car was a rich black. Not a streetlight or any other form of human habitation polluted the perfection.

  Tinkie mixed a martini or, more accurately, straight vodka on the rocks with olives, and kicked back in the passenger seat. “You know those boys will never give up the baby doll.” She swigged her drink. “I can’t think what they may have done with it. Remember when they stole Frances Roberts’s lacy bra-and-panty sets and ran them up the flagpole at the high school? That was her first year teaching. It almost broke her spirit, and those naughty high schoolers wolf whistled at her the rest of the year.”

  “We don’t want that wretched baby doll back. We want a confession so Theodora can boost them from the Christmas pageant.”

 
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