Buried Bones Page 19

  I closed my eyes. “Where’s Madame?” This was going to be bad. Really bad. I should have called and warned her.

  “She went to make sure the grave diggers had the right plot.”

  “I’ll go there now.” I checked my watch. I had enough time before my appointment with Cece.

  “Who would do something so cruel?” Lillian asked.

  Who indeed. It was a guilt-laden drive to the cottage. I found Madame sitting on Lawrence’s front porch, the crime tape broken and fluttering in the breeze. She wore a solid black dress with a hat and veil, an interesting effect so that her expression was somewhat hidden from me. Her posture told me the degree of her distress. There was no point trying to soften the blow. “I dug up the cat and took him to Dr. Matthews for an autopsy.”

  She rose slowly to her feet. “You? You took Rasmus?”

  “You said yourself the cat didn’t die of old age. I’m sorry, I should have called you.”

  She sat down heavily. “I thought it was vandals. What did the autopsy show?”

  “I’ll know tomorrow.”

  “If Lawrence had only listened to me.” She looked down the drive as if she saw him somewhere in the distance. “I never understood when someone said they were ready to die. Now I do.”

  I was shocked. Madame was indomitable. She was unstoppable. In the eight years I took ballet classes from her, she’d never accepted an excuse or a whine. Quitting was anathema to her.

  “I miss him,” she said, her eyes dry. “We shared so much of the past, even when he was in Paris. I went to visit him often. He made my life here bearable.”

  “Lawrence wouldn’t want you to give up,” I said as gently as I could.

  She gave a half snort of agreement. “He would loathe the idea of me sitting out here, whining. But here I sit. He’s gone and left me, Sarah Booth. He promised he would never do that.”

  I took a seat in another rocker beside her. There was bourbon in the house, and both of us could use a shot, but I resisted the idea. I didn’t want to fall into the private investigator stereotype by drinking at noon. I also didn’t want to shake Madame’s faith in me. She had enough on her plate.

  “Tell me about Moon Lake. About Hoover and the murder of Hosea Archer. Was Lawrence going to include it in his book?”

  “If he’d put in everything he said, the book would have been a five-volume set.”

  “What really happened?”

  “Hosea was a little monster. A bully and quite stupid. He was killed for cheating at cards. His death isn’t an issue.”

  “It might be,” I insisted. “His murderer was never brought to justice. If Lawrence knew the real murderer—”

  “Lawrence knew nothing. We had no interest in the secret conversations that buzzed about that casino. There were many powerful and wealthy men there during the summer. I was sixteen and I wanted to dance. Lawrence was performing. We were artists. Nothing more.”

  “But Hoover was there. A man was killed right under the nose of the head of the FBI and nothing was ever done about it.”

  “I don’t know.” Her mouth hardened. “Perhaps no one cared because they knew how horrible Hosea could be.” She checked her wristwatch. “We should be going. I’m disappointed in you, Sarah Booth. You’re wasting all of this time and effort on something that’s unimportant. Brianna killed Lawrence. Forget the past and focus on her. If you’re not willing to do that, then perhaps I should hire someone else.”

  The coldness of her voice, her refusal to look at me, touched off my temper. “I haven’t deposited your check. If I don’t solve Lawrence’s murder, I’ll give it back to you.” I knew it was my pride speaking, but I didn’t care.

  She rose to her feet and walked to the railing of the porch. She was old, but she was still lithe. She leaned against the railing with a grace that reminded me of her routine of limbering up before a dance class. “I have to get ready for the funeral service.” She walked off the porch and got into her car without ever looking back.

  The rocking chair creaked as I moved slowly. I was ten minutes late to meet Cece, and Madame had taken the wind out of my sails.

  Cece was furious when I finally arrived at the funeral home. When she handed me the camera, it was abundantly clear that I’d never used such a sophisticated piece of equipment. The photography class I’d taken in college had come under the heading of Art. The cameras we’d been told to use were basic—to give us the latitude for artistic expression. This camera had more bells and whistles than a computer.

  “You said you could do this,” she hissed at me, pulling me behind a stand of fake fronds that the funeral parlor used for a setting. The smell of the place made me dizzy.

  “I can do it,” I said, tugging the camera from her hands. “Just give me a minute to look at the damn thing.”

  “I’m calling Ralphie,” she said angrily. “You’re fired.”

  “Cece!” I caught the sleeve of her alpaca sweater and held firmly enough so that she’d stop. Cece was careful with her expensive clothes. When she finally turned back to face me, I stared her dead in the eye. “I can do this. Don’t panic.”

  “If you mess this up, it could ruin the biggest story … Look.” She nodded toward a man with a pad who was being followed by another man with several fancy cameras hanging off his neck. “That’s Allan List from People magazine, and his photographer. Look at the television camera crews. I can’t afford not to have photos of this in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  “I can do it.” I made the vow even though my stomach was curdling. Cece knew how to put the heat on an imposter.

  It was, luckily, a moot issue at this point. The funeral director asked everyone to take a seat. Cece cast me one black look and moved to the front. I joined the other photographers moving about and snapping photos of the rich and famous.

  Harold sat in the front pew with Brianna at his side. She, too, wore a black veil that hid her face. Sniffles, no doubt fake, issued forth from behind the veil.

  Madame arrived and sat on the other side of Harold. The small chapel was filled with other faces I recognized from magazine covers and television. Everyone from the town of Zinnia was trying to cram into the chapel, but one of the funeral home employees was holding them back.

  An old man got up and went to the podium. Ramone Gilliard. I was shocked. He had none of the joie de vivre that had been so much a part of Lawrence’s charm. He was a thin man, exuding almost the same attitude of the academic aesthetes who’d taken over the third pew of the chapel.

  “Lawrence was my friend.”

  With those first words and the ones that followed, I changed my mind. Appearances aside, this man had heart.

  I forced myself to take pictures though I wanted only to sit and listen to the eulogy that brought Lawrence’s Paris years to life. Ramone Gilliard described a young man whose door was always open to other writers and artists. He spoke of the magic that Lawrence could create with a cheap bottle of wine, fresh bread, olive oil, and his lively intellect and humor—“a repast for all of the senses.” He spoke of Lawrence’s passion for creativity and his eye for talent, his involvement with politics and the human condition. Before he finished, I was blinking back tears while others were openly sobbing. Someone remarkable had passed from this earth.

  Ramone gripped the edge of the podium as he concluded. “It is an irony that in first coming to Paris, Lawrence felt that he had chosen the city out of desperation. He had come to the place where others like him had found a haven. I remember our first meeting. He’d left behind the land and all he loved—all except his belief in the trinity of art, political involvement, and truth. He was so passionately in love with his country, so despairing of the horrors of the war. And so afraid for his friends. But it was not long before I realized that Lawrence had not chosen the City of Light for his home. Paris had chosen him. I honor him as an artist of the world. I miss him as a friend. I remember him as a man of great talent.”

  It was over. The casket was wheeled ou
t to the car, and the funeral procession formed for the short ride to the cemetery. Madame, followed by Harold and Brianna, led the way.

  At the grave side I assured Cece that I had the photos under control. The techniques that I’d studied at Ole Miss came back to me with surprising ease once I’d adjusted to the new camera. I continued to snap away as the final words were spoken by Father McGuire.

  It was a crisp winter day and the cemetery plot at Magnolia Place was surrounded by the leafless trees of a pecan orchard. The scene was bleak—perfect for the photos of the black-clad procession. I did my job, watching carefully for an expression or look that might give the murderer away. In truth, though, I saw only sadness on the faces of those in attendance.

  Madame placed a rose on the coffin, followed by others, and the small crowd slowly walked away as the grave diggers prepared to lower the coffin and fill in the dirt. Harold glanced at me, a speculative look. I suffered a tiny stab of pain when he put his arm around Brianna and escorted her to the waiting car.

  I lingered a moment, struck by the sense of a time long past in the worn faces of the two black men who waited beneath a pecan tree with shovels.

  As soon as everyone was gone, they came forward and began their work. They seemed not to notice me, but I should have been warned that we weren’t alone when I saw them look up and then at each other. They tucked their heads lower and dug faster.

  The grip on my shoulders was unexpected and made me gasp.

  “What do you know about that missing manuscript?”

  I recognized the planter tones of Boyd Harkey before I even turned around. I had to crane my neck to look up at him. He did, indeed, bear a strange resemblance to the creature from which his nickname derived. I suddenly wondered if he enjoyed the fact that everyone called him Catfish. His bristly mustache played to the name.

  “Mr. Harkey,” I said with wide-eyed surprise. “What makes you think I’d know anything about a manuscript?”

  “Don’t play the ingenue with me, Sarah Booth. I know you’ve been plundering Ambrose’s home. Rumor has it that you and that filthy Nicaraguan took off with the book.”

  “Rumor is seldom accurate.” I didn’t like him. He was probably the most famous lawyer in the Delta. Rumor had it that only his poor clients found a new home in Parchman State Prison. Rumor had it that Boyd Harkey would get a client as much justice as he could pay for.

  “Let me make this very clear. That book belongs to Brianna Rathbone. If you have it, you’re a thief. If you have it and don’t return it immediately, I’ll see that you’re prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Then I’ll buy Dahlia House and see that it’s bulldozed to the ground.”

  His threat made me breathless with fury, but Aunt LouLane’s rigorous training saved me. “Brianna must have paid you handsomely. If I liked her more, I’d warn her against wasting her money on a third-rate lawyer.”

  His lips stretched into a smile, and I no longer thought of a catfish. He was definitely more shark. “Listen to me, you little fool. I’m trying to give you a chance to return the manuscript. Give it back and no charges will be filed.”

  “I wouldn’t give you spit,” I said, stepping back from him.

  “Willem Arquillo is a man with a past. Don’t let your hormones overrule your brain, Sarah Booth. You’ll regret it. You don’t have a clue what’s at stake here.”

  My DG training was running short. I wanted to say something crass and vulgar, fortified with a hand gesture. Instead, I turned away and went to my car. Cece was expecting me at Harold’s gathering.

  Boyd Harkey yelled after me. “This isn’t about celebrity or a few scandals. You’re in over your head on this one.”

  17

  As usual, Harold’s reception was beautifully elegant. The front porch was filled with pale yellow baskets of blooming calla lilies, and inside there were a dozen arrangements of red roses. In a masterful touch, Harold had put out his collection of Lawrence’s work. I found myself examining the books, paintings, and several smaller sculptures with renewed respect. I’d been aware of Lawrence’s diversity, but I’d never been confronted with the sheer weight of it. He’d written four cookbooks on Southern cuisine, a how- to on puppets, several plays, music—comic and serious—six volumes of poems and the novels. Not to mention the magical figures he’d created from stone and clay.

  I looked up from a particularly witty poem about a young woman who was famous for her charm and deception to find Cece headed for me like the Titanic toward an iceberg.

  “Put the books down and circulate,” she commanded while maintaining a smile. “How much film do you have left?

  “Four rolls. I’ve shot ten, and I’m getting great shots.”

  “You’re late. Where were you?”

  “Boyd Harkey and I had a tête-à-tête at the cemetery.”

  Her interest was immediate. “And?”

  “He said I couldn’t be president of his fan club.”

  She gave me an exasperated look.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I promised. “Did you see anything unusual?”

  She quirked her mouth. “We’ll talk later. I need photos of everyone at the party.”

  “Sure.” I lifted the camera and began to drift around the room. I saw Joseph Grace and the bookstore owner, Bailey Bronson, over in a corner. In their absorption with each other, I was able to snatch their empty wineglasses and store them in my camera bag, per Coleman’s request.

  I eavesdropped on their conversation, which centered around themselves, of course. Joseph’s wife, Tilda, was noticeably absent, as was Willem. The artist had missed the service and now the reception. Something else to check on.

  Brianna was stuck to Harold like glue. I captured them on film just before I added their wineglasses to my collection for Coleman. The reception would have to be rated flawless, and Brianna was laying a languid hand on Harold’s arm and trilling as if she were at her Pulitzer acceptance party. I moved on, aware that watching them together only made me feel more alone.

  Tinkie was at the hors d’oeuvres table, and she lifted one eyebrow and winked. I eased in that direction, and together we slipped into Harold’s spacious kitchen. The catering staff ignored us as we maneuvered in the lee of the big refrigerator.

  “What did your father say?” I asked.

  Tinkie rolled her eyes. “He went ballistic. I’ve never seen him so overwrought.”

  Tinkie’s news took me by surprise. Avery Bellcase wasn’t a man who was known as a regular gossip, but what Tinkie was asking was old, old news.

  “He told me to mind my own business and that if he heard I was annoying old man Archer, he’d cut off my trust.”

  “Did you act like you were going to visit the senator?”

  Tinkie shook her head slowly. She bit her bottom lip, and finally let it pop out. “I just said that I was reading some stuff about Lawrence, and that the summer at Moon Lake had come up and what about Jebediah Archer and his son. I was cool, Sarah Booth. I didn’t botch this, I swear.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. Tinkie couldn’t take both her father and me chewing on her in one day. “It’s okay. I wonder what set him off.”

  She shook her head, her blue eyes wide.

  “He won’t cut off your trust.” He wouldn’t either. He might get mad at Tinkie, but she was his only child. In his own way, he adored her. Tinkie had lived up to every expectation. She was beautiful, well groomed, a tempting bauble for any man to have at his side, and she’d married well, never causing gossip or a scandal by dating bad boys. Her only flaw was that she hadn’t produced a child, which I suspected was Oscar’s doing. Oscar was so tight he’d squeeze a nickel until the buffalo screamed. A child, what with private schools and college, would be an incredible expense.

  “It’s not my trust. Daddy won’t disown me. He can’t. I’m all he’s got,” Tinkie said slowly. “I saw his eyes, Sarah Booth. He knew something. And that scares me.” Her bottom lip disappeared into her mouth as she sucked it in conc
entration. “What really went on up at that lake?”

  I’d talked to everyone I could who’d been at Moon Lake that summer and was still alive. Everyone except Jebediah Archer and the people who ran the Crescent casino. It was time for a road trip.

  “I intend to find out, Tinkie.”

  “Sarah Booth! She squeezed my arm. “Behind you.”

  I turned to find myself face-to-face with Brianna. She wore a black designer gown and five-inch heels, which put her at six-four. She had the height advantage, but I had the moral low ground.

  “So, you decided to lurk in the kitchen with the help. How appropriate,” she said. “Harold thought he saw you sneak off, and he asked me to come and see what you were up to. I think he was afraid you might be trying to steal the silver.”

  I was collecting the crystal, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “If Harold’s so concerned about what I’m doing, maybe he should come and check himself. It was a pitiful rebuttal, but the best I could do with my head full of Moon Lake.

  “Harold’s too busy to be bothered with the likes of you.” She turned to Tinkie. “And I’m shocked at you, cowering back in a kitchen corner. What’s Sarah Booth doing, blackmailing you?”

  “Sarah Booth is my friend.” Tinkie stepped forward, and for a split second I was reminded of Chablis. They were both petite, and they both had a lot of heart.

  “You always did take up for the underdog.” Brianna’s lip curled. “One day you’re going to get bitten, Tinkie. Remember the old saying, ‘Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.’ ”

  “Fleas are curable, Brianna. Stupidity isn’t.”

  Score one for Tinkie!

  “If you can drag yourselves out of the corner, Harold’s going to make a toast. I’d like this particular photo to be on the society page.” She looked at me. “Chop chop, Sarah Booth. You are working, you know.”

  “I’d like to plant my shoe right up her butt,” Tinkie said as Brianna pushed through the door into the dining room.

  I held up my hand for a high-five. “But you were terrific.”