Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 11

  His hand caught my wrist. “This is everything I ever wanted, Sarah Booth. Everything. A future with you—I couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Before the accident, this was all you wanted.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “What’s changed so drastically that you don’t want to marry me?”

  “I’m not certain that path is open to me.” He picked up his jacket. “I’m going out. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you are not going to walk out on me. What’s going on with you? I deserve to know.”

  “How can I tell you what I don’t know myself?”

  “I understand that the gunshot changed things. Changed you. But every day that passes, you withdraw a little more. You have to talk to me.”

  He put a hand on my jaw, caressing my cheek. “I make you a solemn promise, Sarah Booth. When I come to terms with things, I will tell you. I simply can’t right now. I’m going for a walk.”

  11

  I awoke with Sweetie Pie licking my face, a damp warmth that made my stomach churn. Reaching for my cell phone to check the time, my stumbling fingers encountered an empty wine bottle. The momentary bliss of amnesia the wine had given vaporized as events of the night rushed back. Graf had rejected my marriage proposal. My brilliant response was to drink myself silly.

  Now it was midnight, and Sweetie was licking me like a Dreamsicle and whining in my ear. Had I even remembered to let my loyal hound out for a bathroom break?

  “Shit.” I sat up and felt the first throb of a bodacious headache. My stomach sloshed dangerously and pain slammed into my forehead. Wine hangovers are the worst.

  Sweetie’s dash to the door reminded me of obligations I had to tend to no matter how bad I felt. “I’m coming,” I said, struggling to my feet and tripping over a second dead soldier. With a hangover, I should at least have some respite from hurt feelings, but such was not the case.

  The night had turned chill, and there wasn’t a glimmer of moonlight from the overcast sky. Throwing on a jacket, I opened the front door and followed Sweetie into the night. The hound bounded over a dune and toward the beach.

  “Sweetie,” I called, struggling through the cold sand to catch up with her. My feet felt too big and clumsy.

  When I crested the rise, I saw my hound on the beach, nose to the ground. She’d hit a scent. But of what? The memory of the man in the old fort hit me like a physical blow, dissipating the brain-fog effect of the hangover. That quickly, my mind sharpened and my senses focused.

  Sweetie’s long, bloodcurdling howl reminded me of the nemesis of the Baskervilles. And then my pup was off, down the beach like a streak. I thought fleetingly of the gun in the trunk of my old roadster, back at Dahlia House. I hadn’t brought a weapon on vacation. I’d never anticipated working while at Dauphin Island. Fate had simply handed me a puzzle to solve. There’d been no way to anticipate that asking a few questions would result in danger.

  Gun or not, I wasn’t about to let Sweetie Pie track down a potential stalker without backup. I took off at a sprint.

  Each step in the sand was answered with a pounding pressure in my forehead. Running with a hangover headache wasn’t my smartest move, but I had no choice.

  Sweetie streaked to the east, toward the more populated area of the beach. I increased my speed, barely able to match my fleet hound, who was nothing more than a dark, fast-moving blot against the white sand.

  When I was about to give up hope that I’d catch her, Sweetie stopped. Nose in the air, she sniffed the wind.

  “Criminy, Sweetie, do you want to give me a heart attack?” I grabbed her collar. “What is it?”

  Sweetie’s low whine sent a chill over me. The dog obviously sensed danger. But from where? I scanned the beach. The white sand stretched in both directions, empty of all save the crashing surf.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  Ready to turn back to the cottage and seek out water and a bottle of aspirin, I urged Sweetie toward home. Instead of her normally docile reaction, she braced her legs and stood her ground. With a quick twist, she was free and racing down the beach.

  “Dammit!” I jogged after her. “Sweetie!” My command was lost in the wind. The dog completely ignored me and kept going. My only option was to give chase.

  Sweetie ambled up a dune, and I followed, cursing under my breath. When I accessed the top, I almost tripped over my dog, who’d stopped dead in her tracks. Her body was rigid, her tail pointed straight behind her.

  “Dadgummit, Sweetie.” Movement at the bottom of the dune caught my eye.

  A man and a woman were locked in intense conversation. The woman’s beautiful blond hair blew behind her. The man, dark and lean, reached out a hand and touched her face. It was a touch so intimate, so melancholy, that I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  In a startling move, the woman rushed to him, pulling him into an embrace and a kiss. It was the stuff of every romantic song I’d ever danced to. Sand, surf, wind, lovers separated by other obligations and finally yielding to the temptations of the flesh.

  The gut kick to my heart told me the truth my eyes couldn’t discern. Graf was kissing another woman. A blonde. The slender blonde who shared the beach with us this last week of October.

  In the dim light of a bleak night sky, I couldn’t see details, but my body’s reaction told me everything I needed to know. That and the sharp cry of betrayal that came from Sweetie Pie.

  Unable to move or look away, I watched as Graf eased back from the woman, shaking his head. She reached for him, but he stepped to the side. The woman pointed up at the cottage not far away, where lights offered a warm glow against the brisk wind. Again, Graf shook his head.

  Every molecule in my body told me to turn away and go back down the beach, but I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move. The second I stopped looking, I’d have to deal with the emotional jackhammer. Now, as I watched, it was almost as if a theatrical production played out in front of me.

  Sweetie made the decision for me. With a low growl, the dog started down the dune. No doubt to tear a hole in the woman. I caught her just in time.

  “No,” I said, pulling the dog back down the beach side of the dune. “No.” I sat down in the sand and cradled my dog in my arms. “No. No. No.” I repeated the word over and over, as if denying it could make it disappear.

  Graf’s strange behavior, his reluctance to hold me or kiss me, his withdrawal—everything suddenly made sense. I’d assumed it was because of his injury, that he’d felt somehow diminished. That his ego and identity were all wound together regarding his physical perfection.

  What a joke. He’d found someone else.

  For a moment I thought I might vomit, but I held myself in check. After a few steadying breathes, I stood up and returned down the beach the way I’d come. My first instinct was to confront Graf. Now. In front of his new girl. But what would that resolve? This was definitely not the time to rush into an emotional action.

  The first thing I had to decide was what I wanted to happen. Acting out of hurt and betrayal wasn’t smart.

  I reached in my pocket for my cell phone and texted Tinkie. “Call me immediately. Betrayal.”

  I’d barely put the phone back in my pocket when it rang.

  “What’s happening?” Tinkie asked. “Who betrayed whom?”

  “What are you doing up at midnight?” I asked, unable to tell Tinkie that Graf had found a new love. I had to form the words and have them ready.

  “We were partying on Bourbon Street. Is something wrong? You sound sick.”

  “Graf is on the beach kissing another woman. A really beautiful blonde.” I paced toward the rental cottage as the silence on the other end grew.

  “You saw this with your own eyes?” Tinkie cut to the heart of my possible delusions, bad dreams, or simple misunderstandings that an eyewitness might have screwed up.

  The tears came from nowhere. I cried so hard I couldn’t see to walk. I sank to the chill sand, and I had the strangest memory of the
little turtles, climbing from their safe nest and rushing to the sea. Braving predators and the natural elements, barely able to crawl, they rushed toward their destiny. I had no such courage. I wanted to curl up and hide.

  “Sarah Booth, answer me. You’re scaring me.”

  “I just came from watching him. I proposed to him tonight, and he turned me down. He said things had changed. And then I got drunk, and when Sweetie woke me, she raced down the beach. I followed to get her, and she led me to them. She wanted me to know he had betrayed me.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow, Sarah Booth. Don’t do anything until I get there. Promise me?” No sympathy, no promises that everything would be okay. Tinkie didn’t deal in deception. She believed in revenge.

  “Okay.” It turned out not to be a hard promise to make. What other options did I have? Order him out of the cottage? Pack the car and leave him there? Not hardly.

  “Find someplace to be tomorrow morning about nine thirty. When I get there, I want to talk to Graf alone. And don’t tell him I’m coming.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Thank you, Tinkie.”

  * * *

  Graf showed up at the cottage only twenty minutes or so after I did. He turned the television on. Storm reports pierced the shroud of my tormented sleep. Like Graf, Hurricane Margene was proving to be treacherous. She swept into the Gulf and gained a notch in her belt to a Category Two storm.

  Now that she was in the warm, warm Gulf waters, all bets were off. She could double back and catch the west Florida coast, angle over to Mexico or Texas, or move north-northwest and target Dauphin Island or the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

  No one wanted the storm, but it appeared that someone would have to host her.

  When I woke up, Graf was sound asleep, the television still tuned to the weather station. I checked the storm’s progress. The forecaster indicated it would be the weekend before the storm’s course would be clear. And her strength. The longer she hovered in the Gulf waters, the stronger she could become. Or a wind sheer could knock the top out of her and reduce her growth.

  So all told, anything could happen concerning the weather. Could the same be said for my relationship?

  Graf twitched in his sleep, and the dark stubble of his beard matched the circles beneath his eyes. His appearance didn’t lie. Whatever he was up to, it was taking a toll on him, too.

  So why didn’t he just say that he’d fallen for someone else? Why not put an end to this misery and move on to the woman he wanted?

  And who the hell was she, anyway?

  Where had he met her? Hollywood, no doubt. She had that look about her. The camera would love her. But I didn’t recognize her from any film roles. Of course, I’d hardly had a good look at her. I could only remember a classic profile, that incredible cascading hair, the way she carried herself with such confidence.

  I slammed the heel of my hand into my forehead to stop the thoughts. Erosion of my self-confidence wouldn’t do a whit of good. Torturing myself with all the qualities she had and I didn’t was stupid. The smart move would be to find out about her. And as soon as Tinkie got here, we’d do exactly that.

  Picking up my shoes, I waved Sweetie and Pluto out the door and down to the car. We’d take a little drive on the island. Maybe go for breakfast. It was closing in on nine o’clock. Tinkie would be here any minute, and I had explicit orders to be out of the house.

  I didn’t feel bad at all taking the car and leaving Graf without transportation. He could just trot down the beach and ride in his honey’s red Jaguar parked beneath her beachhouse if he needed to go somewhere.

  On that thought, I spun sand and headed to town. I’d seen a diner that might be open for breakfast. Instead, I ended up with a sack of “to go” breakfast biscuits and parked in the library lot. Sweetie wolfed down her biscuit and most of mine, and Pluto nibbled at the rasher of bacon I’d purchased for him. It wasn’t really up to his standards, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  The day was overcast and blustery, and I left the windows down while I ducked in to do a little research. Sweetie and Pluto might explore around the library, but they wouldn’t go far. My brain could hardly focus because I was waiting for Tinkie to call, but I did what I could.

  At one time, Dauphin Island had a small tabloid newspaper, and I found an interesting article about John Trotter written by a female reporter he’d apparently charmed. The longish story recounted several of his seafaring adventures with great white sharks, sunken galleons, treasures that insurance companies stole from him—tales of high adventure and near misses of great wealth.

  John Trotter told his stories with flare and gusto. I could see where a woman might find him very appealing.

  Beside the article on Trotter, another featuring Dr. Phyllis Norris and her work to protect the loggerhead turtles of Dauphin Island shared the page. She made a point that the real wealth of the island was natural resources, not development. I happened to share her view.

  The library archives held some interesting historical documents. I had time to kill, so I spooled through microfiche, wishing it had all been converted to digital.

  A document caught my eye. SLAVE AUCTION in big letters topped the sheet. YOUNG FEMALE. CERTIFIED HEALTHY. GOOD FOR FIELD LABOR. SPEAKS FRENCH. LUANN. The location was on the beach right about where my rental cottage sat, just as Terrance Snill had advised.

  I had no doubt this was Armand Couteau’s widow, the African princess who’d found her freedom only to be sold into slavery for a second time. A hard ending to her brief years of love and freedom.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I left the past behind and confronted my future. Tinkie had texted me to return to the cottage.

  When I arrived, I found Tinkie and Graf sitting across from each other in the living room of the cottage. The chill in the air told me things had not gone well, but I hadn’t a clue what doors Tinkie had opened. I looked from one to the other. Graf stood. “I should go to Mobile and do some shopping. Or else we should pack to leave. That storm is moving closer, but no one can say where it will hit.”

  “New Orleans is in a tear,” Tinkie said. “Cece is beside herself. The storm might ruin the Black and Orange Ball. People are calling to cancel their reservations. They tell her to keep the money because it’s for charity, but she’ll be destroyed if no one comes to enjoy the party she’s planned.”

  Such an ordinary, everyday concern prompted a million solutions. “We can bring people from shelters to enjoy the food and music. We can bus in people from other places. High school students—”

  Tinkie’s look was as effective as a slap.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to solve a problem. Any problem.” I looked at Graf. “Since I can’t solve my own.”

  He picked up the car keys from where I’d put them on the counter and walked out without another word.

  “Did you ask him about the blonde?” I asked Tinkie.

  She shook her head. “We didn’t get that far. He shut me down the minute I tried to talk to him. Told me he respected our friendship and my loyalty, but this wasn’t a topic where I should trespass.”

  “And you let that stop you?” Tinkie was not easily deterred.

  “Only because I love you, and I don’t want to push Graf into doing something he’ll regret. Men have to be handled carefully, Sarah Booth. There’s pride and the male desire to be seen as strong and in control. Graf isn’t in control of his life or his future, and he doesn’t need me to point that out. He’d never forgive me. Or you. Because I’m your friend, my actions would reflect back on you.”

  She was right, dammit. While my gut instinct told me to pin Graf in a corner and demand answers, I knew it was the wrong way to proceed. What if the blonde was an old friend? What if she was a colleague? What if—screw that line of rationalization. If those were the facts, why wouldn’t he invite her around for a drink with me?

  The answer didn’t have to be written in ten-foot letters painted on the wall. My heart knew it.

  Tinkie’s fin
gers snapping in front of my face brought me back to the moment. “Shit.”

  She frowned. “What happened to your creative cursing? You know, all that saint foolishness and biblical references?”

  “I don’t have time to curse creatively. I just don’t have the heart for it.” I slumped onto the sofa. “He’s leaving me, Tinkie. And I feel like it’s my fault, though I’ve done nothing.”

  She examined the floor.

  “Do you think my work as a private investigator justifies Graf betraying me?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I most assuredly do not. This isn’t your fault, Sarah Booth. You’re innocent. But so is Graf. Don’t you see—he’s been irrevocably changed. The man he was before that bitch Gertrude Strom got hold of him is not the man he is today.”

  “He can go back. He can.” Sorrow laced my voice because I didn’t even believe my own words.

  Tinkie’s bejeweled fingers clutched mine. “No, he can’t. And neither can you.”

  “I’m not different.” I’d made certain to maintain my normal behavior. “I’ve been so careful not to tromp on his feelings or push him. I’ve been chipper and charming and the best support on the planet.”

  She gave a crooked smile and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Exactly my point. You’re like a bulldozer. The real Sarah Booth would have kicked his ass from here to next March.”

  “Are you saying I’m wrong to try to support him?”

  She sat down beside me, still holding tight to my hands. “What I’m trying to say, and doing a poor job of it, is that there is no right or wrong. You are both doing the best you can. But this is a life-changing event. For me as well as for the two of you. And for Oscar. And Cece.”

  “If we’re all so right and correct, why is he kissing another woman on the beach?” Anger fueled my words, and I snatched my hands away from her.

  “None of that matters, Sarah Booth. It’s a reaction to a set of circumstances that are fact. The only thing that matters is that you find your way back to each other.”