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

  “Footprints?” I asked.

  “The lawn is thick around the house. There was no trace to support our complaint. That’s one reason the police never took us seriously.”

  “And Jerome Lolly saw nothing,” Tinkie said.

  “Not a thing.” Eleanor’s tone softened. “But he believed us. He’s worked at Briarcliff for more than three decades and has run off a lot of curiosity seekers and treasure hunters. Briarcliff is a … part of the local lore.”

  “We don’t live there year round,” Monica said. “When we’re absent, the mice come out to play.”

  They were very feline women—elegant, graceful, and nobody’s fools. “Has anything ever been stolen before?” I asked.

  “Statuary from the gardens, furnishings in the gazebo or porches, tack from the old stables. Nothing of real value. I think the young people have scavenger hunts that require a tiny bit of Briarcliff.”

  Tinkie put us back on track. “So you saw an intruder two nights before the necklace was stolen.”

  “Exactly.” Monica squared her shoulders. “The third evening, Sister and I took something to help us relax. We were exhausted from the past two sleepless nights. I guess we finally accepted the police’s opinion, that the intruder was either a prankster or a figment of our overactive imaginations.”

  “You both saw him?” I wasn’t clear on this point.

  “Only me,” Monica said. “By the time I roused Sister, he was gone.”

  “And the night the necklace was stolen,” Tinkie said, “did you see or hear anything?”

  “No. I’d taken the sleeping pill. I didn’t wake up. And neither did Eleanor.”

  “How did the thief enter your home?” I asked.

  “The front-parlor window. The latch was old.” Monica bit her lip. “Briarcliff needs a complete overhaul. New windows are being built, as I mentioned. The police don’t understand that these things take time.”

  I understood. Dahlia House needed work, too, but I wasn’t loaded like the Levert gals. Old homes are a money pit, and some updates, unless carefully orchestrated, can destroy the historic integrity.

  “The latch was already broken?” Tinkie pressed.

  “Not exactly broken, but antique,” Monica said. “It didn’t take much to pressure it off.”

  “How would a thief know to go to that particular window?” I asked.

  “These are the same questions Mr. Nesbitt at Langley Insurance asked,” Monica said. “I suppose it might be one of the first windows an intruder would try. It’s on the front of the house, and our bedrooms are in the back wing. And it’s a walk-through window. The house was designed to capture the breezes off the river.”

  Most antebellum homes were built with a thought for cooling. Prior to air-conditioning houses made the most of wind and shade, to combat Mississippi’s oppressive summer heat.

  “Were any of the other windows even tried?” Tinkie asked.

  Monica’s brow furrowed, but it was Eleanor who answered. “How would we be able to tell? Chief Randall dusted, but there were no prints other than ours or Kissie’s, our housekeeper. The police deduced the thief wore gloves.”

  “And the necklace was kept in a safe?” I asked.

  “Normally, that would be the case. Old Barthelme installed an indestructible vault in the basement. It survived the Yankees and god knows how many attempts by robbers. Barthelme knew the tactics of highwaymen and pirates, and he built a safe no one could crack.” Monica rolled her eyes. “He was thorough in keeping out his brethren.”

  I’d found a few references to Barthelme’s illegal activities on the Internet. He was something of a bluebeard. His first five wives died after a few years of marriage, and none bore offspring. I was curious to hear what the Levert sisters would admit.

  “Was Barthelme really a highwayman?”

  “And worse,” Monica said. Eleanor’s disapproving look was ignored. “If he weren’t our family, you know it would be delicious,” she told Eleanor. “And it’s such past history. What’s the harm? A lot of people back then did what they had to do to survive and build a fortune. Do you think the railroad magnates were any less ruthless? Just ask the American Indians if you do.”

  “So he robbed people on the Natchez Trace?” Tinkie asked.

  “Robbed, tortured, and murdered. I suppose old Barthelme might be termed a serial killer today. He had a very clever scheme. He’d ferry folks up and down the Mississippi River on his boat, the Lillith. His crewmen searched their bags for anything of value, then Barthelme would stage a robbery either along the Natchez Trace or in New Orleans, depending on whether passengers were heading north or south.”

  “He acquired a great deal of wealth,” Eleanor said.

  “And he stole slaves upriver and took them down to work the cane plantations in Louisiana,” Monica threw in. “Made a very handsome profit, too. If he’d been caught, he’d surely have been lynched. He tricked the slaves into believing he was taking them to freedom. They’d run away and board the Lillith. Barthelme sold them in New Orleans. Pure profit.”

  Tinkie’s face registered distaste, and I figured mine was about the same.

  “He was awful.” Eleanor put a hand over her eyes. “It shames me to know Briarcliff was built on blood money. Monica finds it much more entertaining than I do.”

  Monica didn’t try to hide her amusement. “Eleanor is so straitlaced and proper. She’d like to pretend the Levert money came from something benevolent, but the truth is, great fortunes are always built on the bones of someone. Great-great-great-grandpapa Levert killed other well-off people and sold runaway slaves. It could be worse. No child pornography or prostitutes or toxic chemical production or even weapons, for that matter. He simply executed the wealthy and took what they had.”

  “Please, Monica.” Eleanor held up her hand. “Enough. It’s a fact, but I don’t enjoy having my nose rubbed in it.”

  Monica’s laughter was musical and feminine, yet I heard a note of cruelty dancing beneath it. She enjoyed tormenting her sister.

  “I haven’t even told them about the other ruby necklaces and the five dead wives.” Monica raised her eyebrows. “Some say Barthelme quickly tired of his young brides and poisoned them. Each dead wife is buried with an exact replica of the stolen necklace.”

  “Get out!” Tinkie leaned back in her chair. “A necklace like that in a grave? How awful.”

  “That’s twenty million dollars.” Even I could do the math. “Locked away in coffins.”

  “What would you have me do, dig them up?” Monica was enjoying this way too much.

  “When we were in Italy last winter, someone tried.” Eleanor paled at the memory. “It was awful. We came home unexpectedly late on a February evening. It was storming—”

  Monica cut in, “And we arrived to find mounds of dirt in the family cemetery where someone had been digging. Jerome ran them off before they could remove the cement slabs, but it—”

  “Was completely disgusting,” Eleanor finished.

  “The jewels were safe?” I asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. “As far as we know. Monica wanted to look, but I wouldn’t budge. The Leverts have been called everything else, but I refuse to give Natchez ammunition to call us grave robbers.” Eleanor’s spine was straight, and her lips a compressed line.

  “Sis stood firm on that issue,” Monica said, acting bored. “We could have done a two-year world tour with the money.”

  “We have the necklace we inherited from our mother. That’s all we’re entitled to, and all I want.” Eleanor was visibly upset.

  Monica stifled a yawn. “So now you know the family dirty laundry. Are you ready to start your investigation? The sooner you finish, the quicker we’ll get our insurance check.”

  2

  We followed the Levert sisters down the streets of Natchez, a small but bustling town that had once played a vital role in the history of the Old South. During the War Between the States, the two river towns of Vicksburg and Natchez o
ffered control of the Mississippi River, a waterway vital to the survival of the Confederacy. Thousands of lives, both Union and Confederate, were lost in battles to take the mighty Mississippi.

  Prior to the war, more millionaires lived in Natchez than any other Southern town, save New Orleans.

  We left the business district and drove through a residential area, where the homes of the affluent graced huge lots. Victorian houses with gingerbread trim were tucked back on gracious lawns landscaped with huge camellias and azaleas. Time had not forgotten Natchez, but it had kissed it gently. The grace and charm of a lost era hung just out of reach.

  The road curved and wound up a high bluff. At the crest was Briarcliff, a dark and brooding stone triple-decker with a widow’s walk. Barthelme Levert had made his fortune on the water, so it stood to reason his home would have the architectural trappings of a seaman’s abode, yet something about Briarcliff made me think of the moors and a tragic lord.

  The cliff was a sheer drop down to Natchez and the Mississippi River. Even on a hot summer day, a breeze off the river was brisk enough to cool my sweaty face as I climbed out of Tinkie’s Caddy.

  “Briarcliff is something else,” Tinkie said. “I wonder if the ghost-hunting teams for those televisions shows have been told about it. A village of lost spirits could be here.”

  I agreed. A haint might comfortably take up residence. For Jitty, it would be a move to upscale digs. The thought made me smile.

  The sisters pulled under a portico on the side of the house. I pictured Monica as the hunter of the pride. Eleanor … I wasn’t sure about her. My aunt Loulane, who raised me after my parents’ untimely deaths in an auto accident, might say “still waters run deep.” How deep was Eleanor?

  “Come in,” she said. “I realize we never had tea. Let me put on a kettle.”

  We entered the house via a mudroom that fed into a spacious kitchen. Natural-wood cabinets gleamed from oil and care. It reminded me how I’d neglected the maintenance at Dahlia House. How had Jitty failed to nag me about it?

  “Oolong?” Eleanor asked as she turned on the gas stove.

  “Perfect,” Tinkie said, using her spike heel to bring me back to the present.

  “Perfect,” I agreed, trying not to wince from Tinkie’s assault on my foot. “Where’s the window the burglar used?”

  “I’ll show you while Eleanor makes tea.” Monica led the way through a well-appointed dining room and a hallway filled with portraits of women, all beautiful, young, and smiling. “Barthelme’s wives,” Monica said, waving a hand dismissively. “All too delicate or too dumb, depending on which story you want to believe.”

  “They all died before they had children,” Tinkie said carefully.

  “Folks thought Barthelme was cursed,” Monica said. “Some said he was sterile and blamed his wives.”

  “And that he murdered them?” I said. That had been broadly hinted on Internet Web sites.

  “Then he met Terrant Cassio, the daughter of a Boston banker. She was his sixth and last wife. Terrant bore twin daughters within the first year of their marriage.” Monica’s smile was smug. “Twins run in the family.”

  “But the Levert name? How do you have it if the only heirs were girls?”

  “In each generation, the heir of Briarcliff takes the Levert name. It’s tradition.”

  “What happened to Terrant’s children?” Tinkie asked.

  “Barthelme died not long after the babies were born. He fell from the cliff, delirious with a fever.” Monica pushed open the door to a parlor. She stopped in her tracks. Gauzy drapes covering the windows danced and capered on the breeze as if possessed.

  Goose bumps marched along my arms, and Tinkie’s eyes were huge.

  Monica froze for only a few seconds. She rushed forward and slammed the windows shut. “This has to end. I closed that damn window and locked it yesterday,” she said. “File your report as soon as possible. Once the insurance pays out, Eleanor and I are leaving. We’ll go to Geneva or maybe Dublin. We don’t have to stay here and let someone terrorize us.”

  “Call the police,” I said. “At least now you have Tinkie and me to alibi your whereabouts and to verify your story.” Though I realized she could have left the window open before she met us in town.

  “And what a shame such is required,” Monica said. “This is our home, the place where we grew up. Yet no one believes us. I’m sick of it.” She pivoted on her heel and left the room, her footsteps echoing on the beautiful hardwood floors. In a moment I heard her say, “There’s been another break-in at Briarcliff. Yes, thank you.”

  When she returned, she was calmer. “A squad car is on the way.”

  I examined the window lock, careful not to touch anything. The burglar hadn’t left prints before, so it was unlikely he’d return and be sloppy. Still, I didn’t want to contaminate potential evidence.

  The lock was old and loose in the wood. Someone jostling the window could wiggle it enough to dislodge the latch. “When will the replacement windows arrive?”

  “I’ll ask Jerome,” Monica said. “He handles the repairs.”

  Eleanor approached from the rear of the house. “Tea is read—” She broke off, staring at the window and then at us, reading the distress on her sister’s face. “He came back, didn’t he? He knew we were gone and came in broad daylight.” A hand covered her mouth and her complexion paled. “He stole the most valuable thing we had, so what does he want now?”

  That was a question neither Tinkie nor I had an answer for.

  * * *

  Whatever the Leverts’ standing in the community, their call brought Natchez Police Chief Albert “Gunny” Randall. The nickname said it all. An ex-marine, he deployed crime-scene investigators to dust and collect evidence, but his attitude told me he knew it would all be for nothing.

  At my request, Tinkie ushered the Levert sisters to the kitchen so I could have a moment alone with Gunny, the name he insisted I use.

  “The Leverts have hired me and my partner to write a report for the insurance company,” I told him.

  He wasn’t surprised. “Four million is some kind of windfall. The sisters are doing what they can to make sure the insurance company pays out.”

  I couldn’t deny it and didn’t want to. “Was there any evidence to counter the Leverts’ claim?”

  “Nope, but there was nothing to back up the claim, either. Not a footprint or fingerprint or pry mark on the window. Nothing else was tampered with in the house. The burglar—if there was one—went straight to the necklace.”

  I ignored the implication. “How did he, or she, open the safe?”

  He cleared his throat. “The necklace wasn’t in the safe.”

  “What?” The word was out before I could stop it. I remembered Monica’s earlier statement that the necklace would normally be in the vault. I hadn’t followed up.

  “Now you understand my skepticism,” he said. “The sisters had the necklace out. For a new appraisal. Yes, I checked with Davidas’s Jewelry. The necklace was due in the store the next morning for the appraisal.”

  “So the sisters weren’t lying.”

  “No, but that’s easy enough to set up, isn’t it? Why didn’t they leave the necklace in a secure vault until time to transport it? Why leave it on top of a secretary? I’m having a hard time with this, and so is Mr. Nesbitt at the insurance company. The necklace should have been secured.”

  “What’s the point of owning something so valuable if you can’t wear it and enjoy it?” I countered. I wasn’t defending the sisters, but I also wasn’t ready to believe they’d staged a robbery. They seemed to have plenty of ready cash. “If it were a Lamborghini parked on the street and it was stolen, you wouldn’t assume they’d planned it.”

  He frowned. “True enough.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Chief Gunny Randall saw my point. “What about the previous break-ins?”

  “Same story. The sisters called, we came out. They say they’re replacing the windows, b
ut until they do, a middle-school kid could get into the house. Last year, someone dug around in the family cemetery. Nothing was taken. I thought, and still think, it was kids. Nothing like a spooky legend to kick up mischief.”

  “What about the gardener, Jerome Lolly?”

  “He has a small cottage at the back of the property. He didn’t see or hear anything. Not this time. Not anytime.”

  “Could he be behind this?” Lolly had easy access and knowledge of the sisters’ habits. He also had intimate knowledge of the layout of the house.

  “He’s a person of interest.”

  “And the housekeeper, Kissie something?”

  “Kissie McClain. She’s interesting. She has a record of B&E and theft. She did a stretch in the Adams County Jail. Six months. For breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s place and stealing a guitar. She said it was hers but had no way to prove it. The boyfriend, also with a record, testified the guitar was his. She was convicted.”

  “The Leverts know about her record?”

  He nodded. “They picked her up when she finished her time and gave her a job.”

  “Drugs?”

  “The boyfriend, certainly. Kissie … we never saw it, but it’s not improbable.”

  From everything I could see, Gunny was a professional lawman. “What kind of training did you have in the marines, Gunny?”

  “The best.” His smile told me he enjoyed a verbal one-up as much as anyone else. “My specialty was surveillance.”

  “I’ll bet you were good at it. You’ll let me know if your team finds anything here?”

  “Okay. Can I get a copy of your report?”

  Technically, my report belonged to my employer. “I can’t see why the sisters would object. If they agree, I’m happy to make you a copy.”

  He nodded. “Are you staying in town?”

  Tinkie and I had hoped to get back to Zinnia by nightfall, but just in case I’d asked my friend Lee to feed Reveler and Miss Scrapiron, the two horses at Dahlia House, and the dogs. “I’m not sure,” I told him.