Bone to Be Wild Page 11

  “And he’s been in the sack with a madam,” Tinkie said. She sighed. “The whole thing is just nuts. But nonetheless, I agree with what Sarah Booth said. The club is the perfect target for Farley’s crusade. He whips his followers into a frenzy. One of them could easily have taken matters into his own hands and decided to kill sinners.”

  Tinkie was dead-on. “Frisco Evans wanted to buy the club, but killing Koby wouldn’t bring him closer to his goal,” I said.

  “Unless he hopes to cripple Scott’s business. How many people want to go to a club where folks get shot?” Coleman said.

  “Good point. And the same could be said about Angela Bowers. She just wanted somewhere to ballroom dance. Running off Scott’s business could work to her advantage. And it’s possible the shooting was a scare tactic gone wrong.”

  “There’s a real problem with this case,” Coleman said. “We have plenty of suspects but no real evidence to prove who did it. So far we’ve run down nine new black extended cab pickups. Every single owner was somewhere other than Zinnia the evening Koby was shot.”

  “Tinkie and I will call Wilton Frasbaum tomorrow.” The day had slipped away and darkness had fallen.

  Coleman stood. “Walk me to the car, Sarah Booth.”

  Tinkie gave me a knowing look as I followed the lean, tall lawman out of the house, more aware than I should have been of the play of muscles beneath his tan patrol shirt. As Aunt Loulane would say, I was wounded but I wasn’t dead. When he turned to face me, he wore his stern expression. “What in the hell were you doing riding horses at Gertrude’s?”

  For a moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, I blurted, “The old bitch tattled on us when she said she wouldn’t.”

  “She may press charges. If she does, that’s going to put you on the defensive when you testify at the trial. Alton James will make you out to be a psycho stalker or the equivalent. I would have given you credit for more sense than to poke that snake.”

  He was right. I couldn’t even muster a thin defense. “I was hunting for the black truck.”

  Coleman sighed. “This is hard for you. Gertrude’s running around loose and may have shot Koby and been snooping in front of your property. I understand. But you can’t break the law where she’s concerned. Not now. You’re too important to the case against her.”

  “I’m sorry.” I felt like I was ten.

  “Did you find the truck?”

  “It could be hidden in the woods, but it wasn’t parked at her cottage.”

  “I’ll check the parking lots around the B&B, but don’t you go back there, Sarah Booth. I want your word.”

  “You have it.” I had learned my lesson. I’d risked a great deal. “I found a connection between Gertrude and Bijou. And Yancy Bellow paid more for The Gardens than it was appraised for. That’s strange, since he’s supposed to be such an astute businessman.”

  “When were you going to share this with me?”

  “After I’d checked it more thoroughly, because you’d ask how I got the information and I’d have to tell you.”

  Coleman’s hands gripped my shoulders. For a long moment he studied me, then stepped back when my cell phone rang. He resettled his hat. “Better answer that.” With a nod of his head, he got into his patrol car.

  I checked the ID. Harold was calling. I answered, and he launched into a frantic story of Roscoe disappearing and how he suspected Bijou was at the bottom of it. I wanted to ask how Bijou had gotten hold of Roscoe, but Harold never paused. At last he took a breath and I jumped in. “Come get me. I’ll help you find Roscoe.”

  “I’m already on the way.”

  Coleman watched me with the strangest expression.

  I felt the need to explain. “Roscoe is missing. Harold’s coming to fetch me to help hunt for the dog. Nothing dangerous.”

  “Good for Harold. He’ll keep you busy. I’m sending a couple of Scott’s security men over here to watch over the place tonight. I agree with Scott that you should move to Hilltop, but I understand about the horses. We’ll work it this way for tonight. Once Harold brings you home, stay inside. Promise me.”

  I held up my three-finger salute like the good Girl Scout I’d once been. “On my honor, I will stay in the house.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” Coleman drove away before I could even respond. I was left with my witty retort hanging unsaid and my partner hanging out the parlor window spying on us.

  8

  Harold’s emergency call came as no surprise. Roscoe, the demonic little terrier I’d given him, merged the personalities of Richard Pryor and Charles Manson. Short, wiry and with a goatee, Roscoe peed on people’s feet. He stole items from neighbors’ yards and even their bedrooms. Generally personal items he had no business grabbing. Had Harold wanted to work as a blackmailer, Roscoe was the perfect partner. He zeroed in on a person’s secrets and dragged them into the daylight. I adored him, of course.

  Knowing that Harold would arrive to serve as my keeper, Tinkie left to check on Oscar. She seldom cooked, because she had staff who loved doing it. While she might not prepare the meals, she made it a point to be at the table to share her day with her husband and to take an interest in what happened with him.

  Since I was alone, I anticipated a visit from Jitty. I was positive she’d comment on my lack of action with Coleman. And comment. And comment. I was both disappointed and relieved when she didn’t show up. But Sweetie Pie and Pluto filled the gap. The cat rubbed my legs and headbutted my knees, then bit me. Hard. He wasn’t shy about making his feelings known. Sweetie, as always, flopped on her side and let out a low moan. She was full of chicken and dumplings and happy after a long run with the horses. Her pleasure with life was audible in her deep sighs.

  I hated to do it, but I put my critters in the house—Bijou’s place wasn’t safe for them. Sweetie voiced no complaint, merely went to a corner and faced away from me. Pluto, though, would have his pound of flesh. He’d been left alone far too much in the past two days, but Bijou hated animals, and Sweetie and Pluto would instantly pick up on it and go into mayhem mode. They were safer at home.

  Harold’s new matador-red Lexus convertible whipped down the driveway. I waited on the porch. I couldn’t take the condemnation in Pluto’s glare.

  “Let’s hit it,” I said as Harold pulled to a halt. “So where is Roscoe? You said something about Bijou’s.” Harold had been circumspect on the phone. “Do you think she abducted him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Harold.” He was being deliberately evasive.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You’d better tell me or I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Bijou stopped by the house this morning before I left for work. Roscoe hates her. While she was in the house, he got in the window of her car and peed all over the driver’s seat. She was completely furious and she promised he’d pay.”

  “She should be careful. Roscoe is no one to mess with.” A hundred images flashed in my brain, all of them wonderfully amusing. If Roscoe had it in for Bijou, I wanted to be there to film it. YouTube would never be the same.

  “She’s a mean woman.”

  “Did she hurt Roscoe?”

  Harold considered his answer as he took a curve really fast. The car handled like a dream. “No, he’s fine, but someone shot him with a pellet gun. They hit his rump, and it stung him, but no permanent damage.”

  Oh, I would be happy to kick her ass. “In all fairness, Roscoe goes a lot of places he shouldn’t.” The dog seemed able to either teleport or hitchhike. He covered an amazing amount of territory in Sunflower County. He’d be sniffing the mayor’s garbage and twenty minutes later stealing jockstraps from the high school football team.

  “I found a pellet gun in Bijou’s car. I can’t prove it, but I can put two and two together. I think she parked down the street and shot him.”

  “Let’s find her and beat her senseless.”

  “I’m concerned Roscoe has taken it on himself to
exact revenge. I’ve searched everywhere and no one has seen hide nor hair of him for the past six hours. I’m afraid if Bijou trapped him, she’ll kill him and pretend to know nothing about it.”

  I almost told Harold to drive faster so I could whip her butt sooner. “You know she’s been running around with Yancy Bellow. And Gertrude had her business card.”

  “Yancy and Bijou are starting a business. B&Bs to capitalize on the new music emphasis.”

  I filled him in on the financial statements I’d seen on Gertrude’s desk. They were on my phone, but he couldn’t look and drive.

  “Yancy isn’t tight, but he also isn’t a fool. He wouldn’t overpay for The Gardens out of a generous soul. That’s suspicious. You’re right about that. I’ll examine the documents after we save Roscoe.”

  I couldn’t read Harold’s expression in the dark. “Are you interested in Bijou?”

  He shook his head. “No. She was fun the first few dates, and don’t say it. I knew she was a predator. What I didn’t expect was how possessive she became. It was like she owned me. I’m a status symbol. Someone she caught. I don’t like that. I know how you women feel when a man is only out to notch his belt.”

  “Of all the men I know, you’re the one who didn’t need to learn that lesson.”

  We were ten minutes from Bijou’s estate and the night sky was breathtaking. Stars spread across the wide-open horizon. Night or day, the Delta offered a vista that never grew old.

  “I’ve never understood Bijou,” I said. “Money abounds. She’s beautiful. Why is she such a witch? And if she would hurt a dog because she’s jealous—she has some deep psychological problems.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  “So what’s the game plan?”

  “We’ll pay a call on Bijou and determine if she’s captured Roscoe. Which means I’ll divert her while you search the premises for my boy. Once Roscoe sniffs your scent, he’ll let you know if he’s imprisoned there.”

  Rushing around the LaRoche plantation in the cold and dark wasn’t my idea of a great time, but I’d do anything for Harold and Roscoe. “You’re going to owe me a fine dinner with a lot of expensive wine,” I told him.

  “Find my dog and help me drive a stake through Bijou’s heart and I’ll fly you to Venice for dinner.”

  Harold would do it too. He was that kind of guy. “Are you telling her I’m with you?”

  “Sure. We’ll go in and have a drink. Then you step outside to smoke.”

  “Show time,” I said as we pulled up in front of the Taraesque plantation house where the LaRoches had homesteaded since before the Civil War. This operation would take some time because there were stables, barns, and the slave quarters to search. At most plantations, the small houses where slaves had once lived had been destroyed or moved. Bijou had more than a dozen of the shotgun houses intact. Bijou undoubtedly planned to turn those into rental cottages as part of the B&B movement. Dollar signs flipped in my brain. She was a vampire of romance, but she was a smart businesswoman.

  Before I could get out of the car, a big man approached my side. “What’s your business?” he asked. Harold joined me, standing slightly in front.

  “We’re here to see Bijou,” Harold said. “Have you seen a little—“

  I whacked him in the back of the heel. “Tell her Harold Erkwell and his date are here.” There was something familiar about the man, but I couldn’t see him clearly.

  “She didn’t say she was expecting company.”

  “We’re surprising her. And who are you?” I asked sweetly, doing my best to use the frisky, interested tone Tinkie managed so well.

  “None of your business,” he answered.

  Obviously I had a lot of work to do on smooth-talking men.

  “Come with me.” He led us to the front porch where the light illuminated his face. I almost gasped. I did recognize him. From Reverend Farley’s camp. He was the man who’d come out of the church and watched us.

  “What’s your name?” I asked in a less friendly tone.

  “Mason Britt, Miss Delaney,” he said, pressing the point that he knew me. “I’m Ms. LaRoche’s farm foreman.”

  I was about to ask him if he belonged to Farley’s congregation when Bijou opened the door. “Harold!” Then she caught sight of me. “And you.”

  “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by for a drink,” Harold said.

  Oh, right. Awkward, much? I could have brained Harold for not having a better excuse. Bijou loathed me and I couldn’t stand her. Stopping by for a social visit was a bit hard to swallow.

  “Fascinating,” Bijou said. She linked her arm through Harold’s and totally ignored me. “I’ll mix you a nice bourbon,” Bijou said to him. “I’m sorry, Sarah Booth, but I’m all out of drain cleaner.”

  “Bourbon is fine,” I said brightly.

  Bijou’s home was an interesting blend of the past and the modern. She had a good eye for paintings, even though I hated to admit it. While she pressed Harold into an overstuffed leather sofa, I wandered around the parlor appreciating the artwork she’d accumulated. A vase that looked as if it had been cut from a tree trunk caught my eye. The work of DeWitt Lobrano was distinctive. And highly sought after. Bijou had paid a pretty penny for his pieces.

  She had lowered her voice and was murmuring something to Harold, but I ignored them. If she wanted to suck the juices out of him and he was fool enough to sit there and let her, more power to them. Because it was clear Bijou had no intention of preparing drinks, I helped myself to her bar and also took Harold a libation. Just to show a little class, I served her one, too.

  He winked at me and put his arm around Bijou. “Isn’t she a special creature?” he asked.

  “Oh, definitely,” I agreed. “You have some nice art, Bijou.”

  “I can’t believe you recognize fine art,” she said.

  “I like good wine, too. Harold can tell you.” It wasn’t a great dig, but I had Roscoe on my mind. As soon as I could escape to search for him, I’d do so. I didn’t want to arouse Bijou’s suspicions and I also had to beware of Mason Britt lurking about in the night.

  Harold eased back from her. “Bijou, the strangest thing has happened. Roscoe has disappeared. Now I’ll be free to squire you all over the country.”

  “Really!” She sat up, victory in her eyes. “I know you loved the little guy, but he really did impede your lifestyle.”

  “He did,” Harold agreed, though I watched his grip on his drink glass turn his knuckles white.

  It was the past tense of love that had gotten to him. If Bijou had harmed Roscoe and Harold discovered it, she would suffer.

  “I just can’t believe he left by choice.” Harold put his drink down and pulled Bijou closer. “I’m so glad I have you to offer solace. I’ve come to realize, Bijou, my life is empty without you in it. I can live without Roscoe, but I’m not certain I can live without you.”

  “Though she isn’t nearly as cute or smart as the dog,” I said under my breath.

  I thought Harold might choke, but he regained control and frowned at me. “I need to tell Bijou something private. Would you mind, Sarah Booth?”

  “And I need a cigarette,” I said. “I’ll be back in,” I checked my watch, “ten minutes. Whatever it is you need to do, please be finished when I get back.”

  “Make it twenty minutes,” Bijou said. “There’s a coat in the closet by the door.”

  She wanted me out of there badly. Harold had played her like a Stradivarius.

  Because I wanted to snoop, I made a production of opening the closet door, getting the coat, and then going back to the parlor. “Maybe I could just smoke in here?” I asked. “It’s cold out there.”

  “Even a country bumpkin knows not to smoke around fine art. These paintings don’t need your vile nicotine.”

  “Okay, I guess it’s outside then.”

  I slammed the door behind me and stepped out of the front porch light. I pu
lled out a cig and lit up just in case Bijou was watching. After a few minutes, I edged farther and farther into the darkness until I’d cloaked myself in the night. Then I hauled ass to the barn.

  “Roscoe!” I whisper-hissed his name. “Roscoe?”

  Silence answered me. Bijou wasn’t the type to have horses or cows. She had no pets on the property at all. Except for Mason Britt. And he was a serious worry. But finding Roscoe was my only concern.

  I worked my way to the slave quarters. Nothing alive answered my calls as I opened doors and whistled for the dog. What I did find in the last cabin, though, was a small office set up. Desks, computers, printers, a copy machine, scanners. It was an impressive operation. A stack of flyers had been left on a desk. I picked one up.

  “Satan loves a sinner, and sinners love the blues.”

  The flyer went on to link blues music with everything from Satan to pedophilia. The most outrageous propaganda. It didn’t take a mathematician to add crazy talk with Mason Britt and come up with Jebediah Farley. I just wondered if the sophisticated Bijou knew Mason was using her equipment to spew hatred. Bijou supported the blues club. This was directly against her stated interest. She might not know what her employee was using her copiers, printers, and time to produce.

  I grabbed a few of the flyers and folded them into my jeans pocket. These deserved some study. I wanted to read the fine print. Roscoe, though, was my first priority. I headed back into the night.

  The last structure was a long low building I would have used for an equipment shed. When I got there I realized that the back of it had once kenneled hunting dogs.

  “Roscoe?”

  A whine answered me.

  “Roscoe, where are you?”

  Another whine led me deep into the interior. I couldn’t see worth a crap so I brought out my phone and used the light from it to find the little guy. Roscoe was curled, trembling and whining, in a pile of old feed sacks in the far rear of a kennel. My heart pounded with anger. He was hurt, scared, and freezing.

  I crawled into the kennel and did a quick examination of his back and legs, holding my phone in my mouth to give me light. There were no open wounds, no gashes, no gunshots, but when I touched his ribs he moaned in pain. I tried to coax him to stand, but he didn’t want to move.