Bonefire of the Vanities Page 2

  “This is obviously a play on Marjorie’s self-image. Look at the letter. They claim she’s ‘one of a special, select group’ chosen to be part of a ‘secret society that will shape the policies and practices of the world through investment opportunities.’ Come on, Sarah Booth. This is aimed directly at the recipient’s conceit, and they could take her for a lot more than twenty grand.”

  “If pandering to the ego of a wealthy person were illegal, thousands of young women would be in jail.”

  “You are missing the point, Sarah Booth.”

  Obviously I was. “I’m sorry, Tammy. I don’t feel the need to intervene. Mrs. Littlefield is rich, ego-driven, and ripe for the plucking. Why should I interfere?”

  “She was told she’d be able to communicate with her daughter.” Tammy paced the length of the steps.

  “I wasn’t aware she has a daughter.”

  “She had two children by her first husband, Paul la Kink, the rock star.”

  “The guy the religious right went after because he claimed he deflowered a virgin in every city he played?”

  Tammy gave a rueful smile. “Bingo. He was hot. I had a huge crush on him. God! He wore those tight pants and moved across the stage like a panther. He dated a black girl before he married Marjorie. He broke down some barriers.”

  No wonder he’d figured so prominently into Tammy’s fantasy life. He’d taken a stand that most folks, at the time, were afraid to take.

  She laughed. “Oh, he had that bad-boy appeal down to an art.”

  “What happened to him?” The musician inhabited only the fringes of my childhood world.

  “La Kink died very young in a wreck. His car didn’t make a curve on Highway 1 in California. Went straight over a cliff into the Pacific. It made news for days.” She frowned as if I were deficient because I’d forgotten the death of a rock singer known more for his sexual prowess than for his music.

  “Marjorie Littlefield was married to him?”

  “She was. A stunning widow with her two kids. Tragedy stalked Marjorie. The daughter, Mariam, drowned when she was about ten. The drowning was ruled an accident, but Marjorie believes her son, Chasley, killed his sister. Marjorie and Chasley’s relationship is worse than strained. They hate each other, I think. Marjorie wants to communicate with the spirit of her dead daughter and ask if Chasley killed her. This could get really ugly, Sarah Booth, especially if my suspicions are correct and this Sherry is manipulating Marjorie for her money. Marjorie is seriously depressed. I’m worried she’ll harm herself.”

  “You think she’ll take her own life?”

  “I’m worried. The Heart’s Desire organization may not be illegal, but it’s immoral. Using grief to manipulate is just wrong. In Marjorie’s case, it could have deadly consequences.”

  I had to agree. “You’re sure Marjorie is hooked by this scam?”

  “I know for a fact. She’s already gone, and she left her cat, Pluto, for me to keep while she’s at Heart’s Desire. Sarah Booth, I don’t think she ever intends to leave. At least not alive.”

  “You’re being a little melodramatic, Tammy.”

  She hesitated for a split second. “Marjorie left her will with me, too. Pluto inherits everything.”

  “The cat?”

  She nodded. “Her son, Chasley, will be very, very angry.”

  “I gather Chasley and the cat are not … friendly?”

  “An understatement. And when he finds out the cat is the sole heir, he’ll do everything in his power to kill it.”

  I wondered if Tammy was exaggerating, but one look at her face told me no. She was genuinely upset. “This is a rich woman’s troubles, and yet you’re honestly scared for her.”

  “Marjorie is pampered and vain and all the rest, but there’s more to her. She has a good heart, and she’s been hurt. When her daughter died—” Tammy shook her head. “I can’t imagine, Sarah Booth. My daughter and grandchild are everything to me.”

  Tammy had certainly made sacrifices for Claire and little Dahlia. And god knew, Tammy had risked her life more than once to help me. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out about this organization. What are they really up to? They hint at a link to the ‘other side.’ It’s just plain crazy. I’ve tried to reach Marjorie on her cell phone, but there’s a new message on there saying she’s in deep mediation and is no longer taking calls from this plane. Like she’s gone to another dimension or something.”

  “You’re asking me to walk into a den of whackadoodles who think they’ll gain control of the world. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Tammy’s tension eased and a smile lit her face. “Lord, Sarah Booth, you’ll blend right in.”

  I had to laugh. “Where is this Heart’s Desire located?”

  “I’m not certain. Within driving distance. Marjorie dropped the cat off with me on her way there.”

  “She could have taken a private jet if it was a long distance.” I spoke aloud more to clarify my thoughts than anything else. Marjorie had the money to charter Air Force One if she really wanted it. She was worth billions.

  “She always travels by limo with a driver. She told the cat she wouldn’t be far away.”

  I flipped the letter and envelope around. “It says here to send a response to a post office box in New Orleans. I guess that’s where I’ll start.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Sarah Booth.”

  So now we were getting down to the gristle. “What’s so urgent, Madam Tomeeka?”

  “I had a dream last night. Mrs. Littlefield was being held in a white tower. Like a prisoner. Pluto, her cat, kept jumping in and out of windows and popping out of bushes. Except for the cat, everything was pure white, until a streak of bright red blood leaked out of Marjorie’s window. It scared me. I think someone means to hurt her.”

  “Sounds like if she is at that nutcase compound, she might be out of the reach of her son, Chasley.”

  Tammy wasn’t placated. “I have a bad feeling. Try to find her, and fast, Sarah Booth. Marjorie left a lot of money for me to care for Pluto. I can pay the retainer with some of that. Marjorie has agreed to hire you, and she’ll be glad to see you when you find her.”

  I waved her away. While Tammy was psychic, I wasn’t certain she had a great reading of Marjorie’s desires. “Don’t be silly. Graf won’t speak to me, and I’m at loose ends. I’ll look into this. It’ll keep me from moping around and feeling sorry for myself.”

  “You and Tinkie have to figure a way to handle these cases and keep yourselves safe.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  Tammy’s brow furrowed. “Do you think what I’m asking you to do is dangerous?”

  I caught her hand and patted it. “Absolutely not. This looks like a little bit of legwork. I’ll find Heart’s Desire and speak to Mrs. Littlefield and make sure she’s not being rooked by con artists.”

  Tammy nodded. “That doesn’t sound dangerous, but somehow I suspect all of your past cases started out simple enough.”

  “Therein lies the rub,” I agreed. “I would never deliberately put Graf’s heart in danger. Nor would Tinkie risk her husband, Oscar’s, feelings. But things happen. Beyond our control. Graf has to accept this is who I am.” I bit my lip.

  Tammy grasped my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Help me find Marjorie and make sure she isn’t being held hostage by con artists, I’ll work on Graf and Oscar.”

  It was a solution I hadn’t considered, but I knew it was a winner when I heard it. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “I should be going. You have company coming.”

  I was so used to Jitty’s wild predictions that I didn’t bat an eye. “How do you know?”

  “Because I can hear the car coming down the drive.” She pointed toward a curve in the driveway, and just then Harold Erkwell’s black Lexus came into view. Harold worked at the bank Tinkie’s father owned and her husband managed.

  I checked my watch. It was nine thirty in
the morning. Harold should be at the bank. So what was he doing cruising down my driveway with … an evil, goateed little face in the front seat with him?

  “He’s brought Roscoe!” I had actually missed the dog that once belonged to Millicent Gentry—before she embarked on a prison sentence as her reward for a life of crime. He’d been in my care only a few weeks, but the pooch had a way of stealing one’s heart, not to mention underwear, food, shoes, garbage, and secrets.

  The car stopped, the driver’s door opened, and Roscoe leaped to the ground. He ran in frenzied circles for about thirty seconds and then dashed around the house to the doggy door. He was intent on finding Sweetie Pie for a romp.

  “Ladies,” Harold said as he joined us.

  “Taking Roscoe out for a playdate?” I couldn’t help but tease Harold. The dog was vile. In the first night he was at Harold’s house, he ate the stuffing from a leather sofa, knocked over the garbage cans all up and down Harold’s street, snatched barbecue off the grill at a neighbor’s party, and chased another neighbor’s cat up a tree. Harold had done nothing but bail Roscoe out of trouble ever since the dog arrived in his life. Yet Harold adored the creature.

  “Indeed, Sarah Booth. The furniture store is delivering a new sofa, and I was hoping you could keep Roscoe for a few hours. At this point, I’m afraid he’ll bite the delivery man and the weight of his misdeeds will put him on doggy death row.”

  I had to laugh, and after days of self-pity, it felt good. “I’ll keep him.”

  “You can bring him home this evening, or I’ll stop by and get him. He adores riding in the car.”

  “And ice cream from the Sweetheart drive-through.”

  Harold wasn’t even ashamed. “Yes, he loves those soft cones of vanilla. We go every evening.”

  “Harold, if you ever have children, you’ll be a pushover.”

  “Right now, Roscoe is all I need. But I have to say, Sarah Booth, he’s brought great adventure into my life. I never thought I’d enjoy a dog, but he is so … awful! He thinks things through, and then he does the worst he can come up with.”

  “And that’s good?” Tammy was laughing with me, but she was slightly horrified.

  “It is. He’s like my alter ego. He does all the stuff I want to but can’t. Why, the other day, he peed on Mrs. Hedgepeth’s foot. It was just the best. That old bat has made life hell for everyone in town for the past forty years. Roscoe went up to her and cut loose. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Mrs. Hedgepeth was the neighborhood fun police, and once she’d tried to get Sweetie Pie sent to the pound for no reason. She wasn’t a friend to dog or child, and I’d seen Roscoe pull that same stunt on another old witch. The dog did seem to have the ability to plan out his outrageous actions. “I’m surprised she didn’t file some kind of assault charge against you and Roscoe.”

  Harold couldn’t stop laughing. “She didn’t know I owned him or she probably would have. Now I have to make certain he doesn’t run around the neighborhood loose. I’m having one of those underground fences installed tomorrow.”

  I thought to say good luck, but I didn’t. Somehow, I didn’t think Roscoe would be confined by a mere shock, but who was I to dampen Harold’s newfound love of doggyhood?

  “Well, ladies, I must be off to work. Take good care of my boy.”

  “I’m gone, too,” Tammy said.

  “And I’ll get after this post office business in New Orleans, Tammy.”

  I stood on the porch and watched as my friends drove away. I had to call Tinkie, though I didn’t want to make more trouble for her with Oscar. Still, I was curious about this mysterious New Orleans post office box and the disappearing Mrs. Littlefield. It was time to move on with my life, whether Graf spoke to me or not, and a trip to Sin City was just the ticket to get me out of the dumps.

  2

  “Drive faster, dammit!” Tinkie gripped the leather seat of my classic Mercedes Roadster. She looked back over her shoulder as if she thought the hounds of hell were on her heels. “Get out of Sunflower County before Oscar changes his mind and sends the state troopers after me. That man has been on me like white on rice for the past two weeks. I’m about to go stir-crazy. He’s even gone shoe shopping with me!”

  The sun was just coming over the horizon, and the day was dawning bright and clear. Perfect travel weather.

  “I’m surprised Oscar let you leave Hilltop with me.” I turned away from Tinkie and Oscar’s beautiful estate and onto the road leading southwest toward New Orleans.

  “When you called yesterday, I thought he would have a conniption,” Tinkie admitted. “He doesn’t blame you, Sarah Booth, but he associates you with danger.” She frowned. “Well, maybe he blames you some. He thinks you talk me into doing things, and no matter how many times I tell him that nobody talks me into anything, he wants to blame someone other than me.”

  I understood. Every time Tinkie and I got involved in a case, one or both of us ended up in a bad situation. I honestly didn’t blame Oscar for wanting to keep us apart. I also knew Tinkie well enough to know that Oscar, despite his best intentions, wouldn’t come between us. He couldn’t. In the months since I’d returned to Zinnia, Tinkie and I had grown closer than sisters. It wasn’t that she loved Oscar less, but she’d developed a new dimension of her personality. She’d become her own woman, and that woman was a bang-up private investigator and stalwart friend.

  “We’ll check on this mailbox in New Orleans, have lunch in the French Quarter, and head home.” This was the scenario I’d thought through a dozen times. Except for traffic or an unforeseen accident, there wasn’t a sign of danger.

  “Maybe we could hit a few of the little boutiques in the Quarter. There’s this fabulous lingerie store. If I find just the right thing, maybe I can jolly that frown off Oscar’s face.” Tinkie tied her scarf tighter under her chin in a very Marilyn Monroe gesture. I had no doubt she’d have Oscar eating out of the palm of her hand in the near future.

  “Sure. Lingerie would be a nice touch.”

  “We could find you something sexy, take a photo with your phone, and send it to Graf. That should knock him off his high horse.”

  I sighed. With Tinkie, I could be honest. “I don’t think it’ll be that simple, Tink. Yesterday I left him a message pretty much saying if he wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain, I’d return his ring. I can’t do this. If we can’t even talk, we don’t stand a chance.”

  I expected Tinkie to argue, but she didn’t. The miles rolled past as the wind whipped at my hair and her scarf. We were driving topless—in convertible mode—and the heat beat down on us.

  At last she broke the silence. “Graf feels out of control. He’s across the continent, and he’s working fourteen-hour days finishing his film. Don’t do anything rash, Sarah Booth. Don’t break the engagement until he has time to think this through.”

  Her advice was sound. I nodded. “Okay. It’s just so hurtful that he won’t even hear me out.”

  “Oscar behaves like that, but he’s right here in Zinnia. He can hardly avoid me. Once Graf finishes the film, you can go out there and talk to him. This has to be done face-to-face.”

  “He mailed me the engagement ring,” I reminded her.

  “It’s one thing to receive a ring by mail, and quite another to return it. Daddy’s Girl Rule number sixty-three: Never break up by letter or phone. The severing of an engagement demands a personal meeting. To do less is to dishonor what you shared. Both parties deserve a chance to fully express their feelings. Good Lord, do you realize people are breaking up by text message these days? What is the world coming to?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. The Daddy’s Girl handbook had a rule for everything. The older I grew, the more I appreciated that fact. Good manners often made bad situations more tolerable.

  I turned on the radio, and we listened to the blues as we flew along the near-empty highways of the Mississippi Delta, the triangle of rich soil that stretched from Memphis down to Vicksb
urg, bordered by the Mississippi River on the west and rolling hills on the east. The smell of earth, baking in the sun, gave me a sense of deep connection. A million different shades of green rippled out from the wild roadside grass to the darker green of the horizon. A yellow crop duster buzzed low over the fields. This was September in the South, the last of the blistering heat, the time when bolls burst with cotton.

  Tinkie and I chatted and laughed. It was good to be out of Zinnia and on an adventure, even a tiny one. Instead of the more scenic route along the river, we went south to Jackson and then crooked southwest, aiming for the City that Care Forgot. The hours passed pleasantly and we made it to the outskirts of New Orleans by lunch.

  “Shall we eat or shop first?” Tinkie asked.

  “Let’s head to the post office and see what we can find before we become ladies of leisure,” I suggested. We’d hatched a plan, and the outcome would depend on how well both Tinkie and I could act.

  “If you insist.” Tinkie pulled the letter Madam Tomeeka gave me from her pocket. “It was mailed from the French Quarter post office. Just leave the postal clerks to me,” Tinkie said with a wink. “I didn’t wear this minidress for nothing.” It was a rather eye-catching outfit.

  I pulled into the parking lot, glad the post office wasn’t too busy. “Give it your all.”

  In the lobby, we each took a different line. When I got to the counter, I asked to pick up the mail from the P.O. box number listed on the letter sent to Marjorie Littlefield. The clerk assessed me. “I don’t have any instructions to turn mail over to anyone.” She waved me away. “Next!”

  I didn’t budge. “My employer asked me to retrieve the mail. She said it would be a large bundle. She’s in town for the weekend and wants to go through it. She was supposed to make the arrangements.”

  “I’m very sorry, but unless you have something in writing…” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now, there are people waiting. Move along.”

  National security issues had changed a lot of things. Back in the good old days, I’d often picked up the mail for various neighbors. Of course, it was Zinnia and I had been known as “the Delaney child.”