Greedy Bones Page 2

  Tinkie shook her head. “Oscar knows I’m here. He’ll know if I’m gone.”

  I found my cell phone. “I’ll call Millie and get her to fix a plate.” Millie ran the local café where we often met to discuss cases or simply to gossip. She was a big part of our close-knit group. I placed an order for chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans, and dewberry cobbler.

  “Hold her up,” Cece said, waving me to take Tinkie’s arm. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hallway, her high heels efficiently smacking the linoleum tile.

  “Is there any change?” I asked Tinkie.

  “No. I saw Doc about four hours ago, before they found Gordon. Doc doesn’t know what it is or how to treat it, but it seems that all of the victims have visited one place. An old plantation. Coleman is checking that out.”

  “What treatment is Doc using?”

  “Oscar’s on the most powerful antibiotic I.V. they have. They’ve tried steroids.” Her fingers brushed across the glass window of the isolation ward. “Doc has consulted with specialists at Johns Hopkins. They considered transferring him, but until they can figure out what this is and how it’s transmitted . . .”

  I rubbed her arms. She felt cold to my touch. “Where’s Chablis?” Chablis was her dustmop of a dog that long ago was the source of our friendship—and partnership in the detective agency.

  “At home. Can you keep her for a few days?”

  “Sure. I’ll get her when I pick up your food.”

  “Make way, dahlings.” Cece returned carrying a chair and deposited it so that Tinkie could sit and monitor the window.

  “Does anyone know what happened?” I asked.

  Tinkie’s blue eyes were glassy with fatigue and near shock. We’d been home twelve hours, and she hadn’t left the hospital hallway.

  “Oscar and the bank manage the lease on the Carlisle estate,” Tinkie explained. “It’s a thousand-acre plantation Erin Carlisle and her brother, Luther, own. Luther called Oscar yesterday morning and told him he had a buyer. He wanted Oscar to make sure the house and property were in good order, so Oscar rode out there and looked around.”

  For a long moment there were only the sounds of two nurses talking at a nearby desk. At last Tinkie spoke again. “He went back to the bank, ate lunch, and about two o’clock, Margene went in to give him some papers. That’s when she found him on the floor, moaning, with those ghastly sores breaking out all over him. Doc said when Oscar got to the hospital, his temperature was . . . a hundred and five.” She covered her mouth with her hand to hold back an anguished rasp.

  “When did Regina and Luann get sick?” Cece asked.

  “That same day. Later in the evening.”

  “And Gordon?”

  Tinkie looked so lost. “He went out to the Carlisle place around six o’clock. From what I understand he checked the house, walked the area, then went home to change clothes. He called in for medical help from there. He was nearly unconscious by the time the paramedics got to him. The only strange thing he said was that the cotton at the Carlisle place was extremely high, like a late-August crop instead of newly planted. Oscar had told Margene the same thing.”

  “And Regina and Luann? Were they at the Carlisle plantation?”

  “Coleman has confirmed that. They went out, hoping to list the property.” Tinkie rubbed at her eyes.

  “High cotton,” I mused. “That would seem to be a good thing. A farmer might get two crops a year instead of one if there was a variety that developed this fast.”

  Tinkie fumbled in her pocket and brought out a tissue. “As far as we know, neither Oscar nor Gordon saw anything unusual except the cotton. Of course, they’re not talking now.”

  I relayed the news about the CDC to both of them. Cece met it with a frown. “Are we positive that it’s the Carlisle place that Oscar, Gordon, and the realtors have in common?”

  That was an excellent question, and one that needed an immediate answer.

  Cece picked up Tinkie’s hand. “You’re going to have to help us with this, Tink. We can’t do it without you.”

  The blank look she gave Cece concerned me. “It doesn’t matter where he got it, Cece. The only thing that matters is that he gets over it.”

  That wasn’t my partner talking. That was exhaustion and desperation and fear. Tinkie loved Zinnia and the people of Sunflower County. She hadn’t yet projected this illness to other residents. In her mind, it was contained within the walls of the hospital, within the room where her husband and three others lay dying.

  “I’ll get the food and Chablis,” I told them.

  “I’ll stay here,” Cece told me. “Just hurry.”

  2

  Photographs of the movie shoot of Body Heat plastered the walls of Millie’s Café and took me by surprise. There were pictures of me, Graf, the cast, and a number of stars who’d dropped by for a visit when Millie was on location in Costa Rica with us. One shot of Graf and me, obviously in lust and playing our roles to the hilt, made me blush.

  I must have looked stunned, because everyone in the place stopped eating and turned to stare at me. When the applause started, I burned with embarrassment.

  “Sarah Booth!” Millie came out from behind the counter and grasped my hands. “Our own movie star!”

  “Of a movie that no one will ever see,” I reminded her. All of the footage of the film I’d starred in had been destroyed by a crazed killer.

  “I saw it, Sarah Booth, or at least parts of it, and I’ll never forget how great you were.” She gave me another squeeze. “How’s Oscar?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to verbalize his condition.

  “And Tinkie?”

  “She can’t go on much longer.”

  “I’ve fixed her some food.” She went behind the counter. “She has to keep her strength up.”

  The plastic container she handed me must have weighed two pounds. “I’ll stop by there as soon as the café closes and see if she’ll let me sit with Oscar for an hour or so.”

  “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  “Likely not. She resembles you in that regard, Sarah Booth. Stubborn as a rock.” She took the sting out with a wry grin. “Does Coleman have any idea what’s going on?”

  “Not exactly.” I wasn’t comfortable talking about Coleman’s plans in a place bustling with customers. The fear of a serious illness could spread, which was one headache Coleman didn’t need.

  “You two will figure this out. Once Doc knows what’s wrong with Oscar, he’ll fix him right up.”

  Whether Millie believed that or not, she was the kind of friend who said it with conviction.

  “I’ll relay that to Tinkie when I deliver the food.”

  Millie checked to see who might be overly interested in our conversation, then leaned closer. “Luther Carlisle was in here earlier, Sarah Booth. He was meeting with a fellow in an expensive suit. The conversation got sort of heated.”

  My interest was piqued. “What were they talking about?” I spoke softly.

  “Every time I found a reason to go close to them, they shut up.”

  “Have you ever seen the other man before?”

  Millie considered. “No. He’s not from here. He looked like money, though, and I heard someone had made Luther an offer on the Carlisle place. Might have been him.”

  “If he comes back in, call me.”

  “Sure thing.” She put a hand on my arm. “I know you need to get that to Tinkie while it’s hot, but I thought I’d mention the stories about the Carlisle place. There’re folks who think it’s cursed.”

  There was cursed and then there was cursed. “Ghost, demon, Indian burial ground? What kind of curse?”

  “Mrs. Carlisle tripped on the stairs and fell to her death. Mr. Carlisle hanged himself in the old barn. Left two kids behind. Their boy, Luther, moved off the property, and their daughter, Erin, disappeared from the Delta. She went off to college and never came back. Just dropped off the face of the eart
h. She didn’t even show up for her parents’ funerals. The property’s been in a trust the bank manages for the past ten years.”

  I did a quick calculation. Erin Carlisle would be in her late twenties, six grades behind me. Luther, I vaguely remembered from school. He was at least seven years older than me, so our paths had crossed infrequently.

  “Does Luther still live in Sunflower County?”

  “He does, but I can’t pin down Erin. She was always a pretty girl. If I remember rightly, she disappointed her family. Went off to some art school instead of Ole Miss. Wouldn’t have a debut. Sounds like someone you might have run with, doesn’t she?”

  “Maybe. Thanks, Millie.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Even if you are awful hard on me, I still adore you.”

  She swatted my arm as I left. I had to pick up Chablis and get some nourishment into Tinkie, but the history of the Carlisle estate snagged my interest. In the South a lot of old homes get reputations as haunted, but “cursed” is a notch up the ladder. Seeing if it was warranted would be worth taking a stroll through the library archives in the morning.

  Though Cece convinced Tinkie to eat, neither of us could talk her into going home. There was a strict “no dogs allowed” hospital rule, but I smuggled Chablis in, tucked into one of Oscar’s sweatshirts. When the little pup looked through the window into the isolation ward and saw her daddy there, her soft cries nearly broke my resolve to be strong for Tinkie.

  Chablis, who was still delicate after the attack on her in Costa Rica, put her little paws to the window and moaned.

  “He’s going to get well,” Tinkie told the dog, holding her gently. “He has to. And Gordon, too. And the real estate ladies.”

  Cece had managed to finagle a cot for Tinkie, and she’d set it up smack in the middle of the hall. The hospital had prepared a room with comfortable chairs for the families of the sick, but Tinkie refused to leave the hallway.

  We did get her to lie down after she ate, but she never left the window and Oscar, only six feet away clinging to life.

  I had my horse and hound to feed, and with Chablis stashed in my shirt, I left the hospital. Cece would stay for the night and I’d return in the morning to take up watch with Tinkie.

  Doc had done everything possible, but when I got home I opted to try some Internet research, anyway. Sweetie Pie, my loyal hound, was curled at my feet. Beside her, Chablis rested on a silk cushion. The dogs were a comfort I sorely needed as I read with growing horror the medical Web sites that spoke of gruesome illnesses with symptoms matching some of the Sunflower County victims. Thank goodness Tinkie didn’t have access to a computer.

  When at last I signed out, I ached all over and felt a strange nausea. Hypochondria. Reading about all those horrible diseases had made me sick.

  “You need to take better care of yourself.” Jitty’s warm voice came from the darkened landing of the hallway. There were times when Dahlia House seemed way too big for just me and my dog. This was one of them. Jitty’s company was welcome.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You better eat somethin’. No need to worry ’bout ever’ pound now that you’re home from Hollywood.”

  “I’m not hungry.” The idea of food simply wasn’t appealing. “I’m too tired to eat. I’ll make up for it in the morning.”

  “What about a glass of milk?”

  “The dairy association hire you to boost sales?” I couldn’t see Jitty, and I only wanted to sleep. She could pick the darndest times to harangue me about things. Normally, she didn’t want me to eat. A layer of belly fat might detract from the merits of the Delaney childbearing organs.

  “You got to keep up your strength, Sarah Booth. Healthy immune system and all. Don’t you watch any television?”

  “I’ll buy some orange juice tomorrow. Remember, I’ve been gone. The larder is bare.” I trudged into my bedroom and sensed her behind me. When I turned, I saw why food might be her major obsession. She looked like a greyhound—lean and hungry. Again she wore clothes from a desperate era. “Could you please aim for the twenties or maybe even early this century? A time of opulence and greed might be nice.”

  “I show up the way you need to see me.”

  Now that was a revelation. Unfortunately I was too weary to plumb its real meaning. “I need to see you happy and healthy. Not starved and desperate.”

  “You need to take care of yourself.”

  I shed my clothes and crawled naked beneath the covers. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  Jitty tapped her foot. She disapproved, but I simply didn’t care. I couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted.

  “You can’t go gettin’ sick, Sarah Booth. That would be the last straw for Tinkie.”

  “Not to mention that it would be bad for me.” I could still toss out a zinger.

  “Good health is not a jokin’ matter.”

  “I’ll never go hungry again.” I pulled the covers over my head in case she threw something.

  “Mockin’ Scarlett O’Hara won’t save you.”

  “Tomorrow is only a day away?” I tentatively offered the line from Annie.

  “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” Jitty said, her distant voice echoing.

  Either I’d driven her away or I was tunneling into sleep so fast, not even she could catch me.

  Since I came home a year and a half ago, Mrs. Kepler at the library had mellowed. Initially, she’d been suspicious of my motives and aware that as a middle schooler I’d checked out The Wind in the Willows and lost it. Disregard for a book didn’t sit well with her, but there were extenuating circumstances in the deaths of my parents, and so she’d finally forgiven me. In recent months she’d helped me with several cases. Though she believed that rules were the fabric that held a great town together, she could occasionally bend them for someone in great need.

  Tinkie was that someone.

  Mrs. Kepler met me at the library at 7:00 a.m. and showed me to the old newspapers and local history section.

  “I’m going down to the Pig to get some coffee,” she said. “Will you be okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” I pulled some money from my pocket. “Could you get me a pack of—”

  “I will not buy you cigarettes. As smart as you are, you should know better than to smoke. Think of what you’re doing to your lungs, to your heart, to—”

  “A pack of cheese crackers,” I said solemnly. “My stomach is ready to digest my backbone and I haven’t had a chance to shop for food.”

  “Of course.” She took the money and left, and I was alone with the unlimited research abilities of the library.

  The Carlisle plantation had a fascinating history, as did most of the Mississippi land. It was settled by Anglo-Irishmen who came to America to escape—famine, religious persecution, economic servitude—and what difference did it make? They were escaping an unacceptable life and were willing to undertake a huge risk coming here.

  The Carlisles originally settled in the Carolinas, hoping to produce tobacco. Stories of the Delta land, topsoil eight feet deep, and a nation of Choctaw and Chickasaw Indians, who were a bit friendlier than the Cherokee, drew the family to the heart of Mississippi.

  The War Between the States was not even a glimmer on the horizon as the Carlisles, like many other landowners, cleared the land with slaves and convict labor from the state penitentiary not fifty miles away.

  Smart, hardworking, and determined, the family saw their holdings grow from a hundred acres to more than two thousand. When Mississippi gained statehood in 1817, James Carlisle became one of the first senators, a position he held for two terms. Though he retired from office, the Carlisles never completely left politics. They merely moved behind the scenes, a power at the rear of the throne. And then the war came.

  Carlisle roused the state legislature in a fiery speech, pointing out that secession was not a violation of federal law but a right of statehood. At his urging, Mississippi became the second state to secede from the Unio
n on January 9, 1861.

  I skimmed through the hardships and deprivations the family endured, the names of those wounded and killed at the various battlefronts that still evoke horror and loss among old Southern families.

  I came out on the other side of the war with a story of Clayton Carlisle, one of the richest planters in the South. He’d held on to half the family land through war and Reconstruction, and he’d profited.

  Moving on into current history, I read the news story of Lana Carlisle’s tumble down a flight of stairs. Not a week later, Gregory Carlisle hanged himself in the equipment barn. Lana’s death was ruled accidental, and Gregory’s a suicide, presumable because he was so bereaved by the death of his wife.

  But perhaps he died by his own hand—guilty of Lana’s death. Call me a cynic, but I’ve come to understand that people are capable of great cruelty and meanness, especially where money is involved.

  Certainly this family had had its share of tragedy, and it was no wonder rumors of a curse had spread.

  In Gregory’s obituary, his daughter, Erin, was listed as living in Jackson. I made a mental note to look her up. Gregory’s son, Luther, had opened a trailer park on the south side of town. Happy Trails. Right. After seeing the nightmare of FEMA trailer encampments on the Mississippi Gulf Coast after Katrina, I didn’t have high expectations of Happy Trails.

  I’d stop by and talk to Luther. Maybe he could shed some light on chemicals used on his family property. Tinkie said the bank had leased the land to Mississippi Agri-Team, a farming consortium. Lester Ballard, the head honcho at MAT, was also on my visiting list. I was curious about this cotton he’d planted that was two feet tall when most cotton was just breaking the soil.

  The front door rattled, unlocking, and Mrs. Kepler walked back in, her reusable grocery bag in hand. I had to admire her. She was nearly seventy and she was doing her share to keep the planet green.

  “Thank you.” I gathered my notes and crackers and prepared to leave.

  “Please tell Mrs. Richmond that I’m so sorry about Oscar. You know they made a significant donation to the library last year.”