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

  The thought had never occurred to me. “Like she wasn’t abducted? Like she’s hiding in there?”

  Cece laughed. “No, like she was taken hostage but never removed from the property. Think about it. How hard would it be to snatch her, knock her out with a little chloroform, and hide her in one of the rooms?”

  She had a point. “I’ll make sure Eleanor checked the house thoroughly.”

  “A lot of these old plantation houses had cisterns, too. You might be sure someone explored the grounds.”

  “Jerome Lolly, whom you’ll meet in a moment, is in charge of the grounds, and I think he’s very capable.”

  “Except when it comes to spies hiding in bushes.” Cece was teasing, but on a certain level she was hammering a point.

  Jerome rounded the corner of the house looking as sleepless as I felt. We followed him to the front lawn, where a disturbance in the shrubs was clearly evident. In a fine old noir movie, there would be a cigarette butt, coffee cup, or sandwich wrapper—some evidence of a watcher passing time. At Briarcliff, nothing was that simple. Only a few snapped twigs indicated someone had worked their way into the dense branches of the shrubbery.

  “Tell me what you saw last night,” I said.

  “The man was crouched down. It was the moonlight glinting off the goggles he wore that caught my eye.”

  “Night-vision gear,” Cece said. “He was serious about watching the house.”

  “Damn pervert,” Jerome said, “spying on helpless women.”

  The Levert sisters were far from helpless. In the town’s perception, they were dangerous. “Have you spoken to Eleanor this morning?”

  “No. She can’t take much more of this. Aren’t you being paid to take care of these things?”

  “In a word, no!” Cece stepped in front of me. “Sarah Booth was hired to handle an insurance investigation, not a—”

  I signaled her to hush. Jerome knew Monica was missing, but he wasn’t aware it was a kidnapping and that a ransom had been demanded.

  “Hey!” She coughed and caught her breath, and her reasoning. “Anyway, Sarah Booth is doing everything she can.”

  Jerome rubbed his face. “Sorry, ladies. I was out of line.” His gaze shifted to the house. “The sisters act like they’re invincible, but they aren’t. They’ve behaved badly in Natchez, but the town brought it on itself. Folks were cruel to both sisters, because they were beautiful and had money. Jealousy and envy. That’s what’s at the root of all this.”

  “We’ve heard some harsh things about the sisters. Monica in particular,” I said.

  Color rushed into his face. “Monica hurts people. At first, she did it to strike back at those who’d hurt her. Now she does it because she can. She never wanted those men. She wanted to show everyone in town she could have them—that she can have whatever she sets her cap for. And she can. She’s powerful when she makes up her mind. But there’s another side to it. Monica is getting older. Beauty, like roses, fades. She’s more than aware her power is diminishing. It’s a sad thing to witness, like the ruin of a monarch.”

  Thunder rumbled overhead, as ominous as the house itself. “Are you in love with Monica?” I asked.

  “Monica … I understand her.” The color in his face deepened. “The sisters are two halves of a whole. Monica is the strength. Eleanor is the softer side. They’re a pair.” His hand slashed the air. “There’s no separating them. Neither man nor God can accomplish that.”

  Yet someone had.

  Jerome grasped my shoulder with firm, strong fingers. “Please don’t upset Eleanor anymore.”

  “A four-million-dollar necklace has been stolen. Eleanor—the sisters—have to deal with this.” I felt dishonest not telling Jerome about Monica’s kidnapping. He clearly cared for both women, and he would be a great asset.

  “I’m on the alert now. If that man shows up again, I’ll catch him. No need to worry Eleanor about this anymore. Just tell her it’s been resolved. I don’t want either of them afraid to walk out the door.”

  “I don’t know.” I was torn. Would this information make Eleanor more careful or more terrified?

  Lightning split the sky, and rain pelted down. Jerome motioned toward the house. “Best get inside before you drown.”

  Before I could say anything else, he jogged down the garden path, disappearing in the heavy wall of rain.

  Cece and I dashed for the front porch. The door opened, and Eleanor called us into the house. “Have you found something?” she asked.

  “Nothing definite.” I wiped the water from my face on my sleeve. “We should search the property and the grounds. Are there any cisterns at Briarcliff?”

  “There’s one behind the rose garden. It hasn’t been used in years, though.”

  “Why don’t I stay here and help Eleanor search the house?” Cece offered.

  “That would be a huge help.” I would be free to seek out Marty Diamond and his cabin in the woods.

  “Tinkie should be here soon,” Cece said. “I’ll give her a call and ask her to hurry.”

  “You’re a genius.” I gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, “Keep an eye on Eleanor. She doesn’t look good.” Worry and anxiety were eating her alive.

  “Got it.” Cece hugged me. “Be careful.”

  11

  The minute I entered the Homochitto National Forest, I felt as if I’d stepped into a scene from Tolkien’s great works. The rain had abated, but thunderheads were massing in the west. The gray skies contrasted with the summer green of the trees, giving the landscape a fantastical feel. The flat vistas of the Delta have their own charm, but the forest’s rolling hills held a haunting beauty and tantalizing possibility of a world where nymphs and sprites ruled. I had to hand it to the state of Mississippi for preserving vast stretches of wilderness.

  Cece had written copious directions. I had no trouble finding the isolated cabin where Marty Diamond supposedly hung his Stetson. It was picturesque, the kind of place a soulful singer would occupy. It would also make a terrific hostage hideaway.

  The cabin was out of sight at the end of what would be termed in the pine barrens a “logging road.” In other words, two ruts with minimal clearance on either side. It was tight, even for Cece’s little hybrid. I doubted another human being was within a five-mile radius.

  No vehicles were visible. I exited the car to examine the road. No fresh tracks. Maybe Marty had spent the night in town.

  Easing onto the front porch, I peered through a curtainless window. The interior was neat, spartan. There was no sign of Marty or anyone else. The door opened at my lightest touch, which indicated no one was being held there against her will.

  Breaking and entering isn’t a charge a private investigator can afford on her record, but I’d driven nearly an hour, and I wasn’t leaving empty handed.

  Just to be on the safe side, first I circled the cabin, peeping in every window available. Empty. If someone was inside, he was moving around to avoid me. The back of my neck tingled at the thought. Hide-and-seek had been a favorite childhood game. My friends and I had loved to play at dusk, just as the shadows gathered and the balance shifted from light to dark.

  Too many times I’d crept around the woods and fields of Dahlia House, hoping to find a hidden playmate—only for my friend to jump out and startle me. The game produced a delicious chill that was also a little unpleasant. I felt the same way as I moved around Marty Diamond’s woodland home.

  Back at the porch, I called his name loudly. No answer. Time to fish or cut bait. I stepped across the threshold and entered. The room was simple but cozy. Hand-woven tapestries—instead of the redneck’s normal décor of dead-animal heads—adorned the walls. In the far corner were several beautiful guitars and what appeared to be recording equipment. If ever a place existed for creative energy, this was the spot.

  In the kitchen a plate, a bowl, and a cup waited in a drain board. Marty Diamond used earth-friendly detergent and cloth towels. On some level, the guy had green tend
encies.

  The bathroom was clean. No prescription drugs in the medicine cabinet. The bedroom finally yielded results. A pair of thong underwear lay beneath the edge of the bed. In the search of Monica’s room, I’d seen her underwear drawer. Though I couldn’t prove the panties on Marty’s floor belonged to Monica, they matched several pairs in her drawer. My conclusion was that Monica had been in the cabin. Voluntarily or by force, I couldn’t say. Had she merely cougared Marty? Or was the explanation much darker?

  I slipped the undies in my pocket. If Monica was a prisoner, there was no evidence of restraints. Yet again, I’d uncovered a tidbit of evidence that followed no particular direction, just a revolving finger of blame, pointed at first one suspect, then another. The harder I looked, the more confused I became.

  On the trip back to Briarcliff, I called Tinkie. Cell phone reception was sketchy, but I gathered the party she’d attended had been a huge success and Oscar was back on track supporting her private investigation career. She was only a few miles from Natchez—with Sweetie Pie and Chablis in tow. She’d head straight for Briarcliff.

  I needed to put video cameras in Tinkie’s house to record how she managed her husband. She had some secret weapon to bend Oscar to her will.

  I phoned Cece, who’d just finished a search of the grounds with Jerome.

  “We found the cistern.” There was an edge to her voice I couldn’t fathom.

  “And?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s been near it for the last hundred years.”

  Again, her tone was all wrong. “Is Jerome with you?”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Meet me at the house.”

  Pressing on the accelerator, I risked a speeding ticket to get back to Briarcliff. I arrived just as Tinkie opened the back door of her Caddy and my beautiful red-spotted hound jumped from the backseat followed by the dainty Chablis. They were an odd duo, but despite the difference in size, both had enormous courage and heart.

  “Oscar has a banking convention in Memphis. It was bring the dogs or kennel them, and you know how Chablis hates to be away from us.” Whatever her rationalization might be, Tinkie’s wide grin held no remorse for bringing the canines.

  Sweetie almost knocked me down with the delight of our reunion. Chablis gnawed my shoelaces and flung her head wildly, growling with mock fierceness. “It’s good to see them.”

  “The Eola doesn’t allow dogs,” Tinkie said matter-of-factly. “You’ll have to distract the staff while I sneak them in.”

  Rules were meant to be broken, at least where Chablis and Sweetie were concerned. Tinkie normally was by-the-book with social conventions, but anti-dog policies were on her hit list. If she ever ran for office, her platform would be equal opportunities for pups.

  Eleanor, who’d witnessed the arrival of the dogs, shook her head. “You can stay here. This old house could stand the joy of a hound and a … a … a little fluffy creature.”

  I hid a smile. My first reaction to Chablis had been contempt. She was so glitzed, pampered, and fragile—she appeared to be more toy than dog. Appearances can be deceiving, and in Chablis’s case, they were. I loved her every bit as much as Tinkie and Oscar did. And they loved Sweetie with equal fervor.

  “We couldn’t intrude on your privacy,” I said to Eleanor. “It’s a kind and generous offer, but—”

  “Of course we can.” Tinkie’s face was alight. “It’s the perfect solution, and when the kidnapper calls again, we’ll be here. When an excellent offer.”

  Eleanor faced me. “Your partner is right. Having you in the house is the smartest solution. We found no sign of Monica, but someone has been inside the north wing. The problem is, I can’t say when. It could have been weeks ago or yesterday.”

  “The north wing?” Cece’s tone said it all. “How many wings are there?”

  “Two. North and south. We use the central part of the house, especially in the summer. The air-conditioning and all. Costs a fortune to cool the whole place, and there’s only the two of us. So we shut off the other wings.”

  I didn’t need the tour. I needed facts. “What did you find?”

  “The blue room bed was disturbed. Kissie cleans the rooms once a season. I called her and she said she worked there a month ago and left it in mint condition.”

  As if on cue, an old model Honda pulled down the drive. Kissie climbed out from behind the wheel. “What’s going on? I could tell by your voice, Eleanor, something’s wrong.” She looked from one to the other. “What the hell is it?”

  “When was the last time you were in the north wing?” I avoided her question with one of my own.

  “About a month ago, I oiled the furniture and changed the bed linens. I left the rooms ready for a guest.”

  Eleanor’s eyelids fluttered briefly as though she might faint. “The sheets were twisted, like someone had tossed all night.”

  Or had sex. I read the same thought on Cece’s and Tinkie’s faces. Monica could have met assignations there.

  “Any idea who might have been in the room?” Tinkie asked.

  “No clothes or personal items had been left behind,” Eleanor said.

  “I’d like to have a look.” It wasn’t that I doubted Eleanor, but there was always the chance a clue had escaped her attention—like the thong in my pocket.

  “And I need to hook this up.” Tinkie brought a recorder to attach to the phone. The next time the kidnapper called, we could at least record the man’s voice to analyze it. Phrasing or an accent could be a big help.

  I pulled Eleanor behind Tinkie’s Caddy. Kissie didn’t need to hear what I was about to ask. “Was Monica sleeping with Marty Diamond?”

  Eleanor blanched. “Kissie’s beau?”

  I pulled the panties from my pocket. “I believe these are hers.”

  She examined the label. “Yes, they probably are. She has her lingerie imported from France and this is the brand she likes. My sister is very particular about such things.”

  I took them from her and returned them to my pocket. “Monica has made a lot of enemies in town. She went out of her way to hurt people and ruin relationships. Why?” It was obvious that Eleanor was fond of Kissie. Monica had spoken of her with affection. I didn’t understand why Monica acted in a way so reckless of others’ feelings.

  Eleanor’s face sagged. “I don’t know what motivates Monica. I tried to tell her not to sleep with men who were attached. She could have had her pick of European royalty or highly successful entrepreneurs. Her conduct appalled me, but she is my sister. Even when she was wrong in her behavior, I defended her.”

  Cece and Tinkie kept Kissie occupied, while I continued to talk with Eleanor. “This gives Kissie motive to hurt Monica. I get the sense Kissie really cares for Marty. If she knew about his betrayal—and with Monica, of all people—she’d be hurt and furious. To quote my aunt Loulane, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”

  “Even so, Kissie wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t discount her. We can’t discount anyone. And I want a DNA sample. Barclay deserves an answer to his parentage. If Monica did have him and then abandon him, he has a right to know it.”

  Eleanor drew a hairbrush from her pocket. “I came to the same conclusion. Monica will never acknowledge him as a true son—she just isn’t capable. But he deserves the truth. Maybe it’ll give him some peace.” Longing flooded her face. “I wanted a child, back when I was younger. Monica loathed the idea of a baby, but I wanted one.”

  I took the brush with relief. “Don’t let us hold you up from going to see Mr. Nesbitt. We’ll take care of things here.” Eleanor was exhausted. I patted her shoulder. “Good luck with the insurance money.”

  “I fear I’m going to need a great deal of luck,” she said as she got in her car and drove away.

  I decided on a bold move. “Kissie, do you recognize these?” I brought the panties from my pocket.

  The songwriter stepped back as if I’d pu
lled a snake out. “Where did you find those?”

  “At your boyfriend’s cabin. Now why would he have a pair of sixty-dollar underwear?”

  “I left them.” Chagrin gave way to suspicion. “What were you doing at Marty’s cabin?”

  “That doesn’t matter. How did Monica’s underwear get there? Was Monica sleeping with Marty?”

  Cece and Tinkie followed the conversation like a tennis match. They focused on Kissie, who went white with anger. “How dare you say such a thing? Marty wasn’t interested in Monica. I left the panties. Monica gave them to me. As a gift.”

  She pointed to the house. “Ask her if you don’t believe me.” She put her words to action and started toward the door.

  “Monica isn’t home.” Yet again, I was convinced Kissie was telling the truth.

  “Where is she?” Kissie slowed down long enough to evaluate each of us. She must have read our worry and distress. “What’s going on? Everyone acts like … Where is Monica?”

  We couldn’t keep it from her any longer. “She’s been kidnapped.”

  “By who?”

  “We thought Marty might be involved.” I said it clearly.

  Instead of anger, her reaction was disbelief. “Marty? Take Monica? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “For four million dollars in ransom,” I said.

  Kissie put the whole business together. “The insurance money from the necklace. You think I told Marty about the money and he took Monica? But everyone in town knows about the four million. It’s all people are gossiping about.”

  “Four million would go a long way toward buying a singing career.”

  “But Marty was furious with me when I helped…” The sentence faded to a halt.

  “When you did what?” Tinkie asked gently.

  Kissie pushed her long hair back from her face. “I might as well tell you. I let Barclay spend a few nights in the north wing. Please don’t tell the sisters. I was trying to help. Really.” She spoke faster and faster. “He’s Monica’s son. I know it. And the sisters are all alone. They don’t act lonely, but they are. The only person left in the family is that terrible Millicent. I thought if Monica and Eleanor could just meet Barclay, they’d see he’s one of them. A Levert.” Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I didn’t mean to do anything harmful. I was really trying to do something good.”