Them Bones Read online

  I started to ask Jitty about those visits, but when I looked up she was gone. “Jitty?” I said softly.

  There was the distant jangle of her bracelets, but I was alone in the house. Perhaps it was evening in ghostville and she had gone on to her party.

  I thought about Hamilton Garrett the Fourth and his music, the way the lively piano tunes had drifted up the staircase to my room. The time I was thinking of, it had been hot weather, the windows and doors open throughout the house. I could remember the laughter, and then my mother came up to check on me, and my father and Mr. Garrett talked. It was the summer I was thirteen, the year my parents died, the year Guy Garrett was murdered.

  Were his visits about more than a love of music? My father had been a circuit court judge. A lot of people sought advice, or help, from him.

  Those tiny thoughts darted through my brain like frightened minnows. I had a lot of loose ends and no conclusions, and I was out of ideas about how to find the truth. I decided to nap off the lunch I’d eaten at Millie’s.

  I awoke with the slanting rays of late afternoon sun filtering through the parlor windows. At first I was disoriented, waking downstairs in the cold. I roused myself from the sofa and retrieved the mail, flipping through bills and catalogs without much interest. My brain felt fuzzy and my heart unsettled. The quality of light just before dusk on a clear winter day is loaded with poignancy. My mother had called it “the blue hour,” when melancholy slips into a room unnoticed and touches everything with a sprinkling of pain.

  I saw the heavy, square envelope and flipped it over. My name and address were written in elaborate calligraphy. I recognized it instantly as an invitation and tore it open with some relief—an antidote to my blue yearnings.

  It was the last-minute details of the summons to Kincaid’s charity do. It outlined in great detail that this year was a theme party with “country” being the operative word. Costumes required.

  How like Kincaid to demand costumes at the very last minute. She’d probably had hers planned for months, and deliberately saved this little fillip to make everyone else crazy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have intervened on her behalf and sent Isaac to retrieve her check.

  But even as I steamed over the last-minute rules Kincaid had dictated, I remembered a long-ago party my parents had attended. They had gone as Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton, reigning royalty of country music during the early seventies. Perhaps I could give Kincaid a run for her money. I seemed to recall a lot of rhinestones and fringe.

  The attic was a part of the house I seldom visited. Jitty seemed to love it, going through the stacks of old magazines and the wardrobe trunks that contained crinolines and bustles, whalebone corsets and real silk stockings. The Delaney women had always been sharp dressers. I hustled up the three flights of stairs and pushed open the door that led to the vast attic.

  As I stepped into the twilit room, I considered waiting until morning to hunt through the trunks and wardrobes, but time was pressing. The costume would have to be cleaned, possibly altered, all by eleven o’clock tomorrow. It would be better to find it now and get the show on the road.

  There were lights in the attic, and I turned them on, but still the room was eerie. The bare overhead bulbs cast strange shadows, and as I looked out the west window, the last pink warmth of the sun disappeared. It was cold and getting colder fast now that the sun was down.

  I chose a corner and began opening trunks, pushing aside material that smelled old and yet feminine. I remembered the costume as white, sexy, and crusted in glittering faux diamonds with spangles that ran down each arm. There had even been a blond wig.

  I found the outfit in the fifth trunk. Pulling it from the tissue paper, I caught the scent of White Shoulders and for one brief instant, I thought perhaps my mother had come up behind me. I held the heavy dress and inhaled.

  The wig was beneath the dress, along with some pointy-toed white boots in tooled leather with rhinestone insets. Hot stuff. I gathered my spoils and headed down to my room to try it all on.

  It’s difficult to live in the shadow of the past and not compare oneself, and as I stepped into the form-fitting dress that had been made for my mother, I realized that time had led me to a shape that closely duplicated hers. I put the wig on and matched what I saw in the mirror with the past.

  Almost, but not quite, Elizabeth Marie Booth Delaney gave me a hesitant smile. My eyes were Delaney, as were my lips, but the shape of my face was Booth. My size was Mother’s, and my chestnut hair could have come from either of them. My mother had been close to my age when she’d worn this dress, but she had been married with a child. I wondered if she watched me now, and worried that I would forever be alone.

  I cocked half an ear for Jitty, realizing that I missed her company. She’d be able to bring the past into sharper focus.

  It was full dark outside, and though it didn’t seem possible, my stomach was grumbling about an evening meal. I checked the mirror one last time. The dress zipped in the back, and I reached behind to find the tab, pulling it down slowly, watching the paste jewels catch the bedroom light and glitter as the material fell away. It was a lovely dress, low-cut and sexy.

  I felt an electric chill on my back as the dress slipped apart. Looking deep into the mirror, I found that I was staring into the green eyes of Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. He was leaning against the doorway of my bedroom, watching me as I undressed.

  I did not freeze. That phrase doesn’t begin to convey the breathless second that seemed to stretch for an eternity as I took in his intense gaze, the sensual mouth that hesitated between desire and challenge, the dark hair, unbound and brushing his collar. In that stretched second, I was aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the casual athleticism of his stance, hands hanging at his side. I wanted to turn to confront him, but I honestly couldn’t move.

  It wasn’t until the dress moved that I recovered my faculties. Released by the zipper, the bodice slipped down my unfettered breasts. I caught at the material and held it against me, whirling to confront him.

  “What are you doing here?” It was a lame question and not up to my usual abilities, but I was flustered. I attempted to make up in dramatic delivery what it lacked in originality.

  “You’re a little old for playing dress-up, aren’t you?” He stepped into the room. “But then again, I can see the appeal of the game.” Even his voice was dark. I felt like a black icicle was moving slowly down the small of my back, deliciously chilling every nerve in my spinal column.

  “Get out.” I spoke calmly, or as calmly as a half-dressed Dolly Parton can.

  “I never thought of you as the kind of woman who dressed in front of a mirror. I like that.”

  “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the sheriff,” I threatened.

  “Coleman Peters is in Jackson, but I’m sure Deputy Walters will come on the run. In fact, that’s who I’ve come to talk to you about.” He walked to my bed and took a seat in the chaise lounge beside it. “Take your time getting dressed,” he said.

  I picked up my jeans and a blouse and stomped off to the bathroom. I slammed the door as hard as I could for good measure. The man had broken into my house, invaded the privacy of my bedroom, and caught a free peep show without bothering to make his presence known. So why was my heart racing with exhilaration? Perhaps I needed to take a moment and go through my old psychology texts. I was sure I could find myself under “foolish women who seek the thrills of dangerous men.”

  While I was in the bathroom I brushed my hair, applied some lipstick, and pinched color into my pale cheeks. I slipped into the more modest clothes and went to confront the beast.

  The sight of him, in my chaise lounge, with my underwear dangling off the back not inches from his head, almost made me reel. Jitty had warned me about leaving my personal items strewn about the room. A woman who did not pick up her “delicates” deserved what she got. I would never hear the end of this.

  Hamilton sat up and patted the edge of the bed. “Have a sea
t,” he said, as if he were in his own home instead of mine.

  “I didn’t think you’d lower yourself to converse with a parasite like me.” What a pathetic return.

  “You’re up to something, and it isn’t writing for a newspaper or working on a novel,” he said, pleased that he’d ferreted out that information.

  “Maybe I’m just nosy,” I answered hotly. “Maybe I’m fascinated by your business because I have none of my own.”

  “You’re not in a financial position to indulge being nosy. That’s for people who have everything, or those who never intend to have anything. You’re playing an angle.”

  I wish I could say that I was completely focused on his accusations, that I was angry at his intrusion into my home, or that his harsh tone made me realize the potential danger I was in. Those emotions were the melody, but there was also something else happening, a base beat of raw chemistry that was dangerous and exciting. Hamilton was not two feet away. I could reach out and touch him, place my palm along that straight, determined jaw. I was a private investigator, but I was also a woman. And, unfortunately, a woman with a womb that was dictating orders.

  “I heard you visited my sister.” There was both question and demand in his statement, the stern master grilling his staff for an infraction of his rules.

  “What if I did?” I threw the challenge back. The delicate glass bottle Sylvia had given me for him was down in the parlor, safely tucked on the sideboard.

  Though he appeared relaxed, I saw the turmoil in his eyes. “My sister isn’t well. You can’t rely on anything she said. You certainly shouldn’t trust her. She could get you in trouble.”

  “She’s very angry. I think it’s directed at you.” I held my breath, wondering if he’d suspect that his sister had pointed the finger of blame at him.

  He didn’t take the bait. “Sylvia has always been … different. She has the strongest will.” He looked at me as if I might have an answer. “Even as a child she made choices and never wavered. My father thought the sun rose and set in her. It only made a bad situation worse.”

  The softening of his tone caught me off guard. “What was she doing in Delo Wiley’s cornfield?” I caught the slightest movement of his foot inside his shoe. He was balling up his toes and releasing them, an unconscious gesture. I watched the polished leather swell slightly, then relax.

  “She believes some money is buried there.” He leaned toward me as if he would touch me. “Sarah Booth, whatever she told you, don’t listen to her.”

  “She said the gun used to kill Delo Wiley is hers. I was wondering who else had access to that gun.”

  “Damn her!” he said, his brow furrowing. He recovered and straightened up. “Tell me the truth. Did you help her leave Glen Oaks?”

  I realized I hadn’t figured out how she’d gotten from Friars Point to Zinnia. In a nightgown. She didn’t have a car. “No. It wasn’t me.”

  Hamilton gave me a speculative look. “Did she say anything about Mother?”

  I wasn’t a suspect, and he wasn’t Jack Webb. I decided to ask him a question. “Why did you leave her there, Hamilton? There were never formal charges filed against her. She could have left at any time—if someone had been willing to take her. Obviously you could have afforded to care for her.”

  A slap would not have been more shocking to him. His face paled, then flushed. “You seem to have decided to make a career of poking into my family’s past. The problem is you dig up only half-truths. I’m sure there’s money in this somewhere for you, but it won’t come from me. No matter what you think you can unearth.”

  I was tired of his cavalier attitude toward my reputation. And I was tired of the conflicting impulses I felt. Hamilton Garrett was close enough to touch, and even while he hurled accusations at me, I couldn’t help but register the dark stubble of beard, the weariness at the corners of his eyes. I wanted him, and yet he was there to accuse me of all sorts of odious acts. I’d had enough. “So you think I’m a blackmailer, and I think you’re a—” The word stuck in my throat.

  “Say it,” he demanded in a harsh whisper. He sat up straighter and bored into me with that cold green stare. “Be the one person in this town who’ll actually say it to my face.”

  He leaned forward, and we were only inches apart. I realized how foolish it was of me to have this man in my bedroom, or any room of the house. No one knew he was here. He could kill me, and unless Tinkie came to see if I’d learned anything new, my body might lie around for days. And what would become of Jitty? I didn’t want to find out if she really could follow me into eternity.

  But as I looked into his eyes and caught the rhythm of his breathing, none of it mattered. Or not as much as it should have.

  “Say it, Sarah Booth,” he demanded, this time with a roughness to his voice that made my skin flush.

  “I can’t,” I admitted.

  “Everyone in this town wants to believe that I killed my mother. It’s the perfect bone of gossip, the ideal story to gnaw and chew over a glass of wine or a lunch with friends. I’ve walked into restaurants and heard conversations grind to a halt. I’ve heard the whispers as I turned to leave a room. I know what people say, but if you’re going to be the one to put all of this in print, then at least be strong enough to say out loud what everyone whispers.” He reached across the short distance and caught my hand firmly in his. “Say it!”

  I felt my jaw tightening. “Maybe if you’d defend yourself, people would quit talking. You’re not above giving an explanation. You left the country, and you left your sister in a mental institution.” I tried to remove my hand, but he tightened his grip.

  “People want proof that I didn’t kill my own mother. And I don’t have any for them. I gave up a long time ago caring what people said.” His voice softened, and his thumb made a slow, circular motion on the back of my hand. “But I do care what you think. Right at this moment, I care a lot. What would it take to convince you, Sarah Booth?”

  He brought his other hand up to enfold mine in both of his. “Tell me what you need to believe I’m innocent.” He sighed. “Or tell me that you believe I’m a murderer. Say it, and I’ll walk out the door.”

  My brain had fallen silent. Only my heart had something to say, and there was a strange murmuring from behind my navel, something like a Gregorian chant. “I can’t say it,” I answered.

  “Why not?” His gaze held mine and demanded an answer.

  “There’s no real evidence.” I could have lied and said that I didn’t think he was capable of murder, but I’d already accepted that everyone is capable of almost anything.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I had nothing to do with my mother’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I can’t say you’re innocent, either. There’s no proof either way. That’s the problem.”

  I was surprised at his smile. “Who taught you to speak the truth?” he asked. “You’ve managed to escape the Delta training of your peers.”

  “My mother was a socialist,” I replied and was rewarded with his laugh.

  “I always heard the Delaneys were peculiar.” He seemed to search my face. “Why did you visit my sister?”

  “I need to find out the truth about the past.”

  “Why? Can’t you simply leave it alone? What could it possibly matter to you?”

  Desperation was creeping back into his tone, but he held my hand gently, his strong fingers beginning to knead the tender flesh between my thumb and fingers. He moved on to the firm base of my thumb, and his touch became increasingly erotic. My thumb gave one weak pulse in memory of Harold, which I squashed.

  I could not tell him about Tinkie. She was my client, and I had an obligation to protect her. I captured his massaging hand with my free one and slowly turned it over. I bent to examine the palm. Tammy had said he was marked with trouble. He held his hand open, fingers slightly curled, like a trusting child. I brushed my fingertips across his palm and was surprised when I felt him tremble. I knew
then that swooning was not something Margaret Mitchell had invented for her feckless Southern women. That I had the power to make him tremble was almost my undoing.

  I focused on his palm. The base of his thumb was full and developed, and in the center of his palm, an unusual pattern of lines created an M. I could not see the tragedy that Tammy read, but I could feel his tension and pain. “I wish I could read the future here,” I said.

  “I wish I could change the past,” he said.

  I suppose that what happened next was inevitable. His hand moved around my head and then drew me gently toward him. My arms went to his shoulders and then slid around his neck. We rose together and stepped into an embrace.

  With the first kiss, I was lost. Hamilton practiced no restraint. His kiss was consuming and alive with lust and pleasure and the strong, deep river of passion that is not a place for wading. We dove into that desire and swam straight for the bottom.

  Silk is not an easy fabric to tear, but my blouse parted and fell. There was no time for buttons, no time for talk. He pushed me back onto the bed, and as he leaned over me, I remembered Jitty’s description of Hamilton as the “dark master.” She had been righter than she knew. In that secret core of myself that I had always guarded, I felt myself yielding to him in a way I had fought against my entire life.

  Even as I caught his thick, heavy hair in both of my hands and pulled his face down to me, I realized how extreme my danger was. And I didn’t care.

  22

  I wish I could report that my madness was fleeting, but it wasn’t. Lying tangled in the sheets with Hamilton’s head cradled on my breast, I thought about the bad choices I’d made in the past. I allowed myself to visualize their faces, and then to bid them good-bye. I forgave myself for being foolish and naive and needy and, sometimes, giving and strong. Though I hadn’t honestly known what I was searching for, I accepted that I had found it.