Buried Bones Read online

  “It’s hard to make a guess without knowing what’s in that manuscript.”

  “You really think the motive was Lawrence’s book?” For a split second, there was flint in his eyes. It disappeared in a blink, but I’d seen it and I knew that he, too, believed the motive for murder was Lawrence’s words.

  “That’s a logical assumption.” It was time to turn the tables. “Who do you suspect?”

  He got up to poke the fire. “It wouldn’t be fair for me to say, since I have no evidence.”

  My pulse increased. Harold had a suspect! I was dying to know who it was, but I also knew he’d never tell me.

  “Sarah Booth, what were you doing in Mrs. Hedgepeth’s magnolia tree the other day?”

  His question caught me by surprise and I almost choked on a swallow of bourbon. By the time I caught my breath, I was still unable to come up with a convincing answer. What was I going to do, confess that I’d been peering into his bedroom window with my binoculars? The answer was yes, because there was no other possible reply. He’d nailed me. Dang Mrs. Hedgepeth and her busybody ways. She probably had her own field glasses.

  “Tinkie was worried about you. She said you weren’t at work and Oscar was looking for you. She asked me to find you.” It was almost the truth.

  “Yes,” he said, without giving a darn thing away.

  “You weren’t at home.”

  “Yes,” he said again in that annoying fashion.

  I pulled out the big gun. “Your bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  “No.” He poked the fire again.

  “So where were you?” Let’s see how good he was at evading a direct question.

  “I had some personal business. I was away for the night.”

  I wanted to turn to him and say “I know that! And I know where you were!” Restraint. Restraint. I heard the drumbeat of Aunt LouLane’s command in my head, and I managed to force a tight smile onto my face. “I hope it was satisfying.”

  He gave me a sharp look. “We have to find that manuscript.”

  As much as I wanted to torment him about Brianna, his sudden inclusion of me as a partner stopped me dead in my tracks. There was one question that had to be asked. “Harold, have you actually seen this manuscript?”

  “There’s a nearly completed autobiography,” he said with certainty. “Even though Brianna’s name was going to be on it, Lawrence actually wrote it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He came to stand directly in front of me. “I read his will. There’s something you should know, Sarah Booth.”

  His eyes were so pale a blue that they looked like the deep, deep interior of an ice crystal. “What?”

  “The night of the dinner party, Lawrence called me back to the cottage. All of the guests had gone. He had written a new will. He gave it to me—in case something happened to him.”

  “You were there, at the cottage, after everyone else had gone?”

  “I was. He gave me the will and named me as executor.”

  “And the manuscript?”

  “He told me it was finished and that he’d decided to publish it under his own name.”

  “Where is it?” I was ready to jump out of my seat.

  “I don’t know,” Harold said so softly that I thought I’d surely misunderstood him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He handed me the will in a stack of papers and asked that I not read it, unless he died. Right then I should have picked up on his concerns. He suspected he was in danger, and I didn’t even notice.”

  “Who would have considered murder?” I said softly.

  “Lawsuits, yes. Murder, never.”

  Harold’s sad smile showed his thanks. “Lawrence said he’d made arrangements to safeguard the manuscript, and that I would know where to find it. He quoted a line of poetry—‘Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.’ ” Harold watched me intently. “I haven’t been able to make head nor tail of it.”

  “That’s it?” Though the words were chilling, they weren’t much of a clue. “There must have been something in the papers.”

  “I’ve looked through everything a dozen times. There’s no mention of where the manuscript might be.”

  “The publisher! Maybe he sent it to them.”

  “I’ve contacted Bainbridge Publishing. They don’t have the book. I spoke with Gustav Brecht. He was expecting it but it never arrived.”

  “And Brianna, did he know her?”

  “He knew her.” Harold’s gaze slipped to the floor. “I couldn’t determine what his relationship with her or Lawrence was, except that he’d been waiting for the manuscript.”

  “Could Lawrence have sent it to another publisher?”

  “I’ve called every publisher Lawrence ever worked with. No one has the book.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Brianna doesn’t have it,” he said with such deliberateness that I knew, even if I wanted to argue it would be pointless. I agreed with him anyway. If she had it, she’d be rushing to New York, not hanging around Zinnia. Unless she was interested in Harold as something other than a boy toy.

  “That’s another small complication,” he said. “Lawrence’s new will was never witnessed. There’s the possibility someone might contest it.” His hand brushed a strand of my curly hair out of my face in an unexpectedly tender gesture. Before I could say or do anything, he was on his feet. “I must be going,” he said.

  “I wanted to ask you something.” I truly did. But I also wanted to know what that touch had implied. Harold wasn’t the kind of man to hop from bed to bed.

  “It’ll have to wait.” He checked his watch. “I’m late.”

  Because Harold was not a man to pull a pout on, I rose to my feet and walked him to the door. “Your aunt Lenore,” I said. “Did she ever tell you anything about Moon Lake that might have come back to haunt Lawrence? There was a boyfriend, a fight—”

  He stopped abruptly, a move that allowed Sweetie Pie to shoot between his legs and into the pack of waiting suitors.

  “Sweetie!” I made a lunge but missed. “Primal drive,” I said. “Your aunt—”

  “I wouldn’t worry overly much about Moon Lake. That’s the distant past, and I’m certain Lawrence had no interest in writing about it. Now I must be going.” He turned and walked away. I watched for a moment as he skirted the tangle of sniffing and snorting dogs and disappeared into the night.

  15

  I went to sleep in a tangle of unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Sweetie Pie, all of her needs and urges met, snored beside my bed. The gentle whuffle of sound coming from the dog should have been comforting, but it was only a counterpoint to my own noisemaking—the incessant ticking of my biological clock.

  When I finally drifted into a restless sleep, I found myself in a long luminous hallway. It was an endless corridor of white, wide and inviting, but perfectly empty. I could go left or right, but neither direction seemed to recommend itself.

  Far in the distance was soft music, an acoustic guitar played with great skill. It was something in a minor key, sad and filled with longing. I started walking, hoping to find the musician, or anyone who could tell me where I was.

  I walked and walked for what seemed like hours, until I came to a white wooden door. The knob was crystal, glowing in the radiant light that filled the hallway. The music was still with me, no louder than before. I turned the knob and opened the door, stepping through hesitantly.

  A garden awaited me, filled with bright flowers and the sound of water running. A brick path forked in front of me. This time I took the left-hand fork and followed it to a cul-de-sac where two benches had been placed, back to back, beneath a willow tree.

  I was tired, so I took a seat on the bench with a view of the lake that suddenly appeared. I could see there were two piers leading to two different sailboats. Both were equally beautiful, their bright spinnaker sails ball
ooning in the quickening breeze. Filled with despair, I started to weep.

  I woke up slowly to sunshine streaming through my window. Not the white light of my dream, but the pale yellow sunlight of a Delta winter morning. I lay in the warm bed for a few moments, replaying the dream. I didn’t need Madame Tomeeka to interpret this one. Choice. One choice leads to another. There is no end, no final conclusion. It is only a series of decisions, moving endlessly until death. Each time we choose we leave behind untold possibilities. Each time, our path narrows. Because we cannot see further down the road, few choices are based on anything other than intuition and hope. There are no guarantees, only the grand lotto of life. Until the end.

  Perhaps I’d have a choice whether to stay dead or come back as a ghost. It was the perfect thought to shake me out of the depression of the dream and onto my feet. Wouldn’t it be exquisite to come back and haunt Jitty?

  “What you smilin’ like a mule eatin’ briars for?”

  I hadn’t realized she was in the room, but I should have been expecting her. “When I die, will I have a choice about becoming a ghost?”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Depends on whether you do your duty in this life.”

  This sounded vaguely familiar with that ring of religious fanaticism. Duty being the operative word. “Meaning?”

  “Get you a husband and produce me an heir.”

  There was the sound of sharp knocking on the front door. I closed my eyes for a split second, and in typical Jitty fashion, my haranguing ghost disappeared. I was left to rush downstairs and answer the door. The familiar rat-a-tat-tat was as insistent as ever. It was becoming a regular morning pattern—to serve as Tinkie’s chef.

  “Coffee,” she said, breezing past me. She put Chablis on the floor and followed her into the kitchen where Sweetie greeted both of them with writhing tail wags as she offered her stomach up for belly rubs. The dog was shameless in her needs.

  “Do you think we might have some costumes made for that dog?” Tinkie asked, eyeing Sweetie. “Something brocade.”

  “She isn’t a sofa.” I put the coffee on. “What are you doing here at daybreak?”

  “It’s after seven. Oscar went in early to talk to Harold. They’re having a teleconference with Boyd and Layton. Naturally, Layton is off somewhere—Tokyo, Tunisia, somewhere with a major time difference. It’s a big deal.”

  She was about to bust a gut to tell me the rest. “What kind of meeting?” I agreeably prompted. I sort of enjoyed waking up to Tinkie’s chatter.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear. Brianna has filed suit. Angela Rhee was telling the truth.” She gave me a thin-lipped look. “I told you so.”

  I shook my head. “I’m surprised at you, Tinkie. A well-brought-up Daddy’s Girl would never, ever resort to telling someone so.”

  “That’s true. I’d never do it to another DG. But you’re a fallen angel, Sarah Booth. I can do it to you and it doesn’t count.”

  “Thanks. Want an omelet?”

  “With sausage, please.” She put sugar in the coffee I put in front of her and settled in for a long chat. “There’s more.”

  As I broke the eggs with one hand, I gave her an inquiring look. “What’s going on with you, Tinkie? Normally I’d have to bribe all of this information out of you.”

  She put more sugar in her coffee. “I want to be your assistant, Sarah Booth.”

  I almost crushed the egg I was holding. “What?”

  “Oscar will never let me study hair design. You know, my dream. But he can’t stop me from picking up little tidbits of gossip. It just happens naturally, like lint in a man’s navel.”

  I was dumbfounded, but I could see by the sparkle in her eyes that she wasn’t kidding. “I’m barely hanging on to Dahlia House. I only have one client, who doesn’t really have the money to pay me.” I had a stab of guilt about Madame’s check in the pocket of my coat, which had gone missing. I was going to have to find that thing today. “I can’t afford to pay you.”

  She waved a hand. “Money doesn’t matter. Daddy and Oscar won’t ever let me realize my dreams. Heck, they won’t even let me talk about hair. But they’re generous with money.” Elbows on the table, she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and held it in front of her chin. “I need this for me, Sarah Booth. And I can be a help.”

  “Arr-rrrr.” The tiny growl came from under the table where Chablis had Sweetie’s long, silky ear and was tugging at it. Sweetie wagged her tail.

  “Me and Chablis,” Tinkie amended. “You know that little fool barks every time I go by your driveway.”

  That was it. The final element of guilt. It was the ransom money for Chablis and Tinkie’s subsequent faith in me that had gotten me started in the PI business. I simply could not deny her. “Okay, you’re hired.”

  “Oh, Sarah Booth!” She jumped to her feet and rushed me. Her hug was strong and enthusiastic. “I’ve never had a job before. I can’t believe it. I wish I could tell the other girls. They’d be green with envy.”

  I was glad that, what with her face crushed into my shoulder, she couldn’t see my expression. She’d never had a job. None of her friends had ever worked. Not a lick. Females were to be taken care of, to be guarded, protected, and totally dependent on their fathers and then their husbands. There were times, when I was desperate and afraid, that I was jealous of such cradle-to-grave safety. Then again, I could never have borne the heel of male authority on my neck.

  “Tinkie, I suggest you keep this job to yourself.” It was meant to be kind advice. One of the other Daddy’s Girls, maybe inadvertently or maybe deliberately, would spill the beans to her husband, who would then call Oscar, and that would be the end of that. Somehow, I didn’t think Oscar, or Tinkie’s father, bank president Avery Bellcase, would view private-eyeing as a suitable pastime for someone of Tinkie’s social status. They’d put the kibosh on it instantly.

  “I won’t tell a soul. I’ll be like a secret agent,” she said, sitting back down as I put a heaping plate of eggs and sausage in front of her. “What’s my first assignment?”

  Somehow I managed not to roll my eyes. “What other gossip did you overhear?”

  “Oh, Oscar and Daddy are furious with Harold. They told him if he couldn’t get Brianna to drop the suit, they were going to fire him.”

  I sat down across from Tinkie. “Why? Why are they blaming Harold? It’s Brianna who’s filing the suit.”

  Tinkie swallowed a mouthful of eggs and daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin before she spoke. “They think Harold hid the manuscript in the bank, thereby putting the bank in danger.”

  “But Harold said the manuscript wasn’t in Lawrence’s safe deposit box.”

  Tinkie nodded. “That’s true. It wasn’t. Coleman Peters was there when Harold opened the box. There were some papers, financial things, some old photographs, deeds, letters, a few pieces of jewelry. That’s all.”

  Those were the normal things kept in safe deposit boxes, as far as I knew. “No computer disks?”

  She shook her head. “Oscar had already thought of that.”

  “Did anyone check Harold’s safe deposit box?”

  Tinkie lifted an eyebrow. “He voluntarily opened it. Nothing pertaining to Lawrence.”

  “So how can they blame him?” I was a little worried for Harold. He took his job very seriously.

  “I don’t know, but they do.”

  “Can Brianna really force the bank to open safe deposit boxes of other patrons?” This sounded like a violation of privacy or civil rights or something.

  “Probably not, but the publicity itself will damage the bank. Or that’s what Daddy and Oscar say.” She finished off her eggs and pushed her plate back a little. “Personally,” she added, her eyes glittering. “I think it’s because Harold is courting Brianna.”

  I schooled my face into a bland expression. “Are you certain?”

  “He was there last night. It’s hot and heavy.”

  I got up and poured us more coffee, mos
tly to avoid her curious stare. Damn Harold. He’d left my house and gone straight to Brianna. Another appointment my butt. He had a date.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Tinkie asked.

  My appetite was effectively squelched. “I don’t have time. I’ve got some running around to do.”

  “What’s my first assignment?”

  The question irritated me. I wasn’t certain what I should do, much less Tinkie. But I had to come up with something, and there was an area where Tinkie could be far more effective than I could. “What do you know about Senator Jebediah Archer?”

  “He’s about a hundred and ten, but he still lives outside Clarksdale. There was talk that he had a child out of wedlock, a girl who takes care of him. Juicy, juicy scandal. Daddy knows him. They’ve been involved in some things together.”

  I’d hoped for some political insight, but scandal was almost as good. “How about you have lunch with your father and pump him about the senator. I’m particularly interested in what happened up at Moon Lake in 1940, the year the senator’s son was killed in a card game.”

  “Perfect,” Tinkie said, scooping Chablis into her arms. “I’ll get Daddy to meet me at The Club and we’ll have a few martinis. He’ll talk. Gin makes him gregarious.”

  “J. Edgar Hoover was at Moon Lake that summer. I want to know what brought him down to Mississippi.”

  Tinkie nodded. “Should I save my receipt? For tax purposes?”

  It was a noble question and one that made me smile. Tinkie honestly thought I’d make enough money to file a long form. “Sure,” I said. “Do that.”

  Researching the senator had been my next chore, and now I was left trying to decide how to proceed. My case was a mess. There was the distant past, the past, the book—all potential motives for the murder of a writer. There were a half dozen solid suspects, and maybe fifty more, depending on the scope of the book, which was still missing.

  If I had ever doubted that the manuscript was the motive, I no longer did. Madame, Harold, even Lillian had indicated it was the source of danger. I had to find it.

  I went upstairs, bathed and dressed, donning a peplum-cut wool jacket with a black velvet mandarin collar and some black wool slacks. The pants were tight, but I was finally over my fruitcake binge. All would be well in the end.