Buried Bones Read online

  Sweetie put her head on my feet, sighing deeply in her sleep. “Why did he finally come back to Zinnia?”

  “Money. He ran out.” Her laugh was dry, like rustling leaves. “Lawrence attracted people with talent and money. He introduced people, sponsored young writers and artists. For many, many years he lived exactly as he wished. Then the world changed and he was forgotten. He came home.”

  Her tone had turned pensive, and so I decided to risk another question. “Would this book have put him back in the literary limelight?”

  “Undoubtedly. He was a brilliant writer. This was his final effort, the culmination of all of his years of living and writing. It would have been hailed not only as an incredible look at a specific period of literature, it would have been a work of art.”

  “Even under Brianna Rathbone’s name?” I pressed.

  “That’s exactly what I finally made him understand,” Madame said. “That’s what got him killed.” She took a deep breath. “Enough talk. This won’t bring Lawrence back. Quit diddling and find the evidence we need to put that woman behind bars. I’ll call you tomorrow and see what you’ve found.”

  The phone went dead in my ear, and I laid it on the table beside my chair. I was about to pick up my drink when the phone rang. The unexpected shrill made me jump, which caused Sweetie Pie to leap to her feet, a lanky tangle of legs and snarl that sounded vaguely like something from The Exorcist.

  “Easy, girl,” I said as I clicked the on button. “Hello.”

  “You aren’t the first woman to stand me up, Sarah Booth, but I must say you’re the fastest.” Willem’s voice was deceptively smooth and rocked by Latin rhythms.

  I sat straight up. I’d completely forgotten that I was to take him for a drive.

  “I was out of town. On business.” I offered an explanation rather than an apology until I could gauge the depth of his anger. It was a trick I’d learned from my friend Tinkie. Never overapologize.

  “I would have ridden over to Oxford with you, if you’d asked.”

  “How did—”

  I didn’t even get to finish the question before he was chuckling, a sound that reminded me of silk rubbing against silk. He was a man who stirred my imagination in tactile ways.

  “You aren’t hard to track down. Was your trip fruitful?”

  “How did you know I went to Oxford?”

  “Don’t get overwrought,” he said. “Cece told me.”

  “How did she know?”

  “I didn’t ask. I was more concerned at why you didn’t bother to call and cancel our date.”

  I should have felt guilty, but there was something about Willem that offset any tendency toward regret. He was too confident that he would ultimately win game point. It was not regret I was feeling but the thrill of the chase. “I thought it would do you good to wait and wonder.”

  His chuckle was soft and intimate, like his lips on my palm. “So often women yield to me, Sarah Booth. I quickly grow bored with them. You’re not like that, are you?”

  “Yielding isn’t one of my finer talents.” I sipped the bourbon, enjoying the verbal sparring more than I wanted to admit.

  “Shall we try for a drive tomorrow?”

  “You must want to spend time with me badly.” Aha!

  “Perhaps. Or it could be that I want a chance to return the favor.” He laughed again.

  “Tomorrow, then. At two.”

  “I’ll pick you up.” He paused. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  The phone went dead and I put it down, left with a cool feeling in the pit of my stomach. Willem was fun to play with, but I didn’t have to be told that he could cuddle and bite.

  I went to bed with the jitters and dreamed of Jitty. She was at the head of a long mahogany table, the shantung tunic shimmering in a slant of golden sunlight. White, cat-eyed sunglasses concealed her eyes, but her lips were turned up in happiness. Every seat at the table was taken by a man in a handsome business suit. Twelve sleek heads, twelve pairs of dark sunglasses. They all smoked.

  It was a dream of textures, as if I didn’t see but felt the elements. No one spoke—there was the sense of anticipation—as if some great event were on the verge of unfolding. Only Jitty seemed to know the score, and she wasn’t saying a word. As the dream faded, I awoke to a bright sun and a blanket of purest snow.

  I’d barely stretched when there was a rapping at the front door. It had been weeks, but I recognized the pitter-patter of little fists and knew that my old friend Tinkie Bellcase Richmond had come acalling. By the rhythm of her pounding I could tell she was also in a snit.

  “Hold your horses,” I called as I grabbed a robe and ran down the stairs.

  “It’s freezing,” Tinkie said as she sailed in, a small bundle of quivering fur clutched against her chest.

  “Hello, Tinkie. Hello, Chablis,” I said to the toy Yorkie who was the seed of my detective agency. In desperation, I’d dognapped Chablis and returned her for ransom. In retrospect, it seemed a low-down thing to do, but it had saved Dahlia House. Besides, I wasn’t totally responsible; Jitty made me do it.

  “Coffee,” Tinkie demanded as she sailed toward the kitchen.

  “Oh my God,” she said, stopping so abruptly that I ran into her back. Luckily she’s a bit shorter than I am, so no serious damage was done.

  She pointed at the neon. “I’ve never seen anything so tacky.”

  “Willem says it’s artistic.” I cut her short.

  She put it in high gear again and headed to the kitchen. “I’m desperate for caffeine,” she said, pushing open the swinging door. “You can’t imagine what’s been going on. Oscar is about to—” She froze.

  In the Delta young girls are trained to handle any situation. Whether it is a heart attack in the middle of a dance or a terrorist demanding your diamond Rolex, DGs don’t freeze. I peeked around her shoulder. Sweetie Pie stared back at me, tail wagging.

  “What is that?” Tinkie asked.

  There was no time to answer. Chablis leaped from her arms and scrambled across the tile, six ounces of raging fur and fury. The little spitfire was jealous!

  “No-o-o-o!” I made a dash for the furball. She wouldn’t be but a mouthful for Sweetie. That hound had eaten bigger hams.

  “Chablis!” Tinkie finally sensed the potential for real disaster and leaped after me. We landed in a tangle, just in time to see Sweetie’s mouth open and descend on Chablis.

  With five feet separating us and the dogs, there was nothing we could do but watch. Sweetie’s long pink tongue came out and licked Chablis so hard the little fluff was scooted back within my reach. I pulled her to my heaving chest.

  “Chablis,” I said, now wanting to wring her scrawny neck for frightening me nearly to death.

  Tinkie’s hands closed over the dog. We all managed to gain our feet just as Sweetie came over. Her happy tail whipped hard against Tinkie’s knees and made her dance.

  “What kind of dog is that?” Tinkie asked again.

  “Red tic hound,” I said. “Sweetie Pie is my new dog.”

  Tinkie sighed. “Oh, Sarah Booth, there’s so many other ways to show your rebellious streak.” She backed away from the dog. “She’s so ugly, I don’t want to touch her.” She looked up at me, a frown forming. “Does that make me shallow?”

  “Shallow and in danger of getting clobbered. That’s my dog you’re calling ugly.”

  “Sorry.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I’m sorry. I’m so flustered that I don’t even know how to behave.”

  “What gives?” I put on some coffee.

  “This whole thing with Lawrence Ambrose has everyone in a tizzy.” She pointed to the last of the fruitcake, wiggling a finger to let me know the need was urgent. I cut her a slab and put a coffee cup down for her. Because she was Tinkie, I used the china with the Delaney crest.

  “Back up to the beginning,” I said, eyeing the fruitcake. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. If I started now, I could probably eat six thousand fruitcake
calories before noon. It was a definite challenge.

  “You know Harold was named executor of Lawrence’s estate.”

  I didn’t, and I got up and poured our coffee, hiding my sudden shock. Madame was certainly going to be angry. I kept my coffee black and cut Tinkie another wedge of cake.

  “Oscar got a call this morning at seven. Layton Rathbone’s hired a lawyer for Brianna. She’s suing the bank!”

  “I thought he went back to Geneva or wherever he lives.”

  “They have phones in Europe, Sarah Booth. And bank transfers.”

  I wasn’t fully awake, but I was alert enough to know that at seven in the morning, no courthouse was open so no suit could be filed. And I’d never met a lawyer that prompt or efficient.

  “Lawrence’s death has created a lot of gossip. I wouldn’t jump the gun.” I stifled a yawn. This was a typical Daddy’s Girl maneuver—to get her papa to call in the hired guns.

  Tinkie shook her head emphatically. “It’s true. Just wait and see. At nine this morning, Boyd “Catfish” Harkey is going to file suit against the bank.”

  “What’s the Bank of Zinnia got to do with any of this?”

  “Brianna is claiming that Harold has Lawrence’s manuscript locked up in the vault. She’s demanding that the vault be searched—and if it isn’t found there, then every safe deposit box in the bank will be opened. Until the manuscript is found. Oscar was wild. He said this would destroy faith in the bank.”

  Such a search might cause problems. Serious problems. But I wasn’t certain even Brianna Rathbone and Boyd Harkey could force it. “How can you know all this?” I asked.

  “Boyd’s sixth wife. You remember Angela Rhee Finch, of the old Finch line. You know, some say that Harper Lee took the name for Atticus from her family. They settled the Delta back in the early eighteen—”

  “Tinkie!” I well remembered the Finch family and especially Angela Rhee. A quiet girl with navy eyes and dark secrets. “Angela married Boyd? He’s forty years older than she is.”

  “What’s your point?” Tinkie gave me an exasperated look.

  I’d forgotten the mantra of the Daddy’s Girl. Security-security-security-security. Boyd Harkey was filthy rich. Old money, new money, drug money, dirty money. He had some of all of them. But Angela, married to the lawyer who resembled nothing more than an old and cunning catfish? It was disheartening.

  “Angela called to tell you what her husband was planning?”

  “This morning. She could hardly wait until Boyd went to eliminate. She has no loyalty to him. After all, he never stays married longer than five years. She’s vested in the marriage pension now, so she doesn’t have to mind her Ps and Qs so much.”

  I let that whole worm box of marital loyalty pass right by. “Did Oscar say the manuscript was at the bank?”

  Tinkie shrugged. “No, he didn’t say one way or the other. And no one can find Harold this morning. Oscar’s frantic.”

  10

  Tinkie finished her coffee and fruitcake and finally decided that a visit to Madame Tomeeka was in order. Tomeeka, or Tammy Odom, was Zinnia’s answer to Jeane Dixon. We’d been friends in high school, though she was a few years older, and I was honored to have her granddaughter named after my home. Even as I thought of baby Dahlia I felt a twinge in that mysterious region where the womb resides. Dahlia was the kind of baby that made motherhood seem like a viable career.

  I saw Tinkie to the door and then rushed upstairs to dress. I wasn’t exactly worried about Harold. He was a capable man. That was more the area in which my concern lay. He was capable. And eligible. As well as desirable. Brianna would see all of those things as clearly as I. And few men could resist her. She was beautiful and still maintained the aura of her modeling celebrity. I was dying of curiosity, well seasoned with a sprinkling of jealousy. I left the house and drove straight to Harold’s.

  As Tinkie had said, he wasn’t home. His car wasn’t in the garage. There was no hint that he’d been home the night before—I climbed the magnolia tree in old Mrs. Hedgepeth’s yard next door and used my new binoculars to peep into his bedroom window. The bedspread was unrumpled.

  Since I was out and about, I stopped by the hospital and checked with Doc Sawyer. No official word on the autopsy, so I moseyed on down to the newspaper and took Cece some Danish. She was conducting an interview and had no time to talk. I left her pastry and decided that a visit to Tomeeka might be a good idea for me, too.

  I didn’t believe in Tammy’s powers to predict the future, but I didn’t strictly disbelieve. As a student of psychology, I understood the need to believe in such things. As a child orphaned by a tragic and senseless car wreck, I had felt the whiplash of fate. Tammy held out the slim hope of controlling fate. The appeal was enormous. Perhaps she had no line on the future, but she was the best at dream analysis that I’d ever met—a match for Jung.

  The dream about Jitty troubled me. Twelve men, sleek and stylish. Jitty at the head of the table. It was nothing like the dreams I’d had about dove fields, but I was curious to see what Tammy would make of it.

  I slowly drove through my hometown, noting that the Bank of Zinnia was doing a steady business and that Harold’s Lexus was not yet in the parking lot. I’d never known him to miss a day of work since I’d come home to Sunflower County from New York. Where could he be?

  With the swiftness of a gut-kick, I hatched a strong hunch. I swung a hard left in my little Roadster and headed north toward Memphis. I didn’t have far to go, but as I drove I tried to argue myself out of believing what I already knew.

  Rathbone House was on the outskirts of town, a two-hundred-acre estate where Brianna had hosted high school dances, tennis parties, horseback rides, shuffleboard tournaments, skeet shooting matches, and other soirees. Brianna had been the high school princess, the girl with everything and a father who doted on her every whim. Layton denied his daughter nothing, even when he should have. I remembered him in polished black boots that matched the Tennessee Walker he rode through the vast expanse of his fields. Pamela Rathbone was also a looker, but she faded beside her husband and daughter. The power of their illumination completely overshadowed her. When Brianna took her face to New York in the mid-eighties, Layton and Pamela transferred their address to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. As far as I knew they never returned to the Delta. Rathbone House had been closed until Brianna’s most recent return.

  The wrought iron gates were locked, and Brianna had neglected to give me the code to open them. No matter. I parked on the side of the road and climbed over the fence.

  The white shell drive, imported from Biloxi, showed fresh tire tracks. I scrunched down to it, not bothering to be discreet. I wasn’t going to pay a call, I only wanted a look. I was halfway to the rambling stucco house with its Mediterranean terra-cotta roof when I saw Harold’s Lexus. It was parked under a grouping of leafless walnut trees. The house, surrounded by a blanket of fresh snow, was like a postcard image of some faraway fantasy. I blinked several times, then had to accept the evidence. Harold had spent the night with Brianna.

  My thumb gave a feeble pulse, and I turned around and headed back to the road. There was absolutely nothing I could do for him. He was drinking the spider’s nectar. I knew too well the fatal appeal that Brianna had for men. But I’d always thought Harold too smart to fall for someone like her. I’d given him credit for putting the Big Head in command. It was another bitter lesson in the unreliability of men, and right on top of my disappointment with Hamilton. Yeah, Merry freakin’ Christmas.

  I made it to Tammy’s just in time for lunch. The sight of Harold’s car at Brianna’s house had effectively killed my appetite, but Tammy put a plate of barbecued ribs, cole slaw, and turnips in front of me, and my taste buds revived.

  We talked of Lawrence. Due to psychic–client privileges, she wouldn’t discuss Tinkie’s concerns with me, but Tammy was an avid fan of Lawrence’s writing. She’d never met him, but she knew his work and was far better read than I.
/>   “When I was pregnant with Claire, I read Weevil Dance about a thousand times,” she said. Her smile was sad. “There was such magic in that book, such life. It gave me comfort, to allow my fancy to be led by his words. And he made history so romantic. Sad but romantic.”

  “Rosalyn Bell believes someone murdered Lawrence.”

  “I know,” Tammy said. She got up from the table and walked to the window over the sink. The light from outside was bright, sun reflecting off the snow, which would be gone by the end of the day, melted into the gumbo of the soil. “Mrs. Bell hired you, didn’t she?”

  I didn’t see the harm in telling. “Yes.”

  “And what do you believe, Sarah Booth? You saw the body.” She still had her back turned to me, which was vaguely troubling.

  “He didn’t cut himself deliberately.” That was the only truth I knew for sure. “I don’t think it was an accident.” I shifted in the chair so I could at least glimpse her profile. She was staring studiously out at the snow, as if it might explain everything.

  “He was seventy-six and had lived quietly and alone for the past twenty years. If someone was after him, it had to be about his biography,” she said.

  “Is that a psychic revelation or a hunch?” I meant to be funny.

  “Neither.” She turned to face me. “You’re the detective. I don’t even know why I said anything. So, who’s having the big New Year’s Eve party in the circle of Daddy’s Girls?”

  I let the conversation drift, and we gossiped aimlessly for a few minutes. Brianna’s name came up, and I told her of my recent discovery of Harold’s assignation, doing my best to play it off as an amusing tidbit. As Tammy refilled the tea glasses, she didn’t bother to hide her scrutiny of me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked as she sat down across from me, finally holding my gaze. “You’re not in love with Harold. You had a chance, and you picked Hamilton.”

  True. But facts had nothing to do with this. “She’ll eat him alive.”