The Devil's Bones Page 2

  “I know,” I whispered back. “I hate she had to stay at the café, but her head cook was in the hospital. Next time.” I tuned back in to the conversation Cece was having with the handsome television host.

  “Are you doing a story on the miniature Holy Land and the surrounding gardens?” Tinkie asked Hans. “The exotic plants in the gardens rival any locale in the Deep South. And the curator of the gardens, aside from being a master of miniature construction, is a respected biblical scholar.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here. I’m curious about all of the above. The plantings of natural flora in the Garden of Bones is one of the best kept secrets of the state of Mississippi. Because the proprietor has also included even poisonous plants that are native, the local nickname for the gardens is the Devil’s Bones.”

  “You have gotten the scoop, haven’t you, Hans? I’m looking forward to seeing it all in a couple of hours.” Cece motioned for Hans to take a seat at our table.

  Donna Dickerson arrived with a platter of hot croissants filled with scrambled eggs and bacon. We each grabbed one. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but the flaky crust called to me.

  “Have you ladies heard that Bruce Springsteen is going to play a concert in Mississippi?” Hans had the latest celebrity scoop and it would be fun to listen to his gossip and stories.

  “No.” We all spoke in unison. “Tell us,” I said.

  “He’s teamed up with several other stars. It’s going to be a mega fundraiser for hurricane victims.”

  “We haven’t had a really bad hurricane in a while.” Cece was quick to point out the obvious. “It would be terrific if they could build up a fund and have something to fall back on when disaster does strike, because we all know it’s an inevitability. And the hurricanes are so big and destructive now.”

  “That’s the plan,” Hans said. “The fund will be used for future storms, and not just in Mississippi but all over the nation. The casinos along the Mississippi Gulf Coast are hosting the event and offering a lot of incentives to performers. The tentative lineup is pretty impressive. It’s going to be really, really big.” He tilted his head and studied Cece. “I could get backstage passes for you and your friends if you’d help me do some interviews.” He tsk-tsked. “Your reputation as a fine journalist precedes you, Cece. I know all about the work you do.”

  “She’ll do it!” Tinkie said. “And we’ll need four passes. We can’t leave Millie out.”

  “For sure,” Cece said. “Thank you, Hans.”

  I tapped my watch—it was time to go. I wanted to get to the destination with some time to learn the lay of the land. I’d heard about the miniature Holy Land for most of my life but had never had a chance to explore the area. From the brochure I’d read, the key cities and events portrayed in the New Testament of the Bible had been crafted in miniature by several biblical scholars. The Holy Land was built to scale; one yard equaled a mile. A walking tour gave attendees a chance to see the geography of the Middle East and the travels of Jesus of Nazareth. I was eager to take the tour.

  Cece chose to ride with Hans—they had a lot to discuss. If he was offering her a chance to interview for a television show, it was an opportunity she needed to explore. Tinkie settled in the front seat and strapped on her seat belt without me nagging at her. She had become very conscious of protecting her baby.

  “Hans is very handsome,” she said.

  “And a good stepping-stone for Cece to get into TV. Not that she wants to leave Zinnia or the Dispatch. It could be good for Millie, too. Maybe Hans can use her on camera. She would love that.”

  “She’d die.” Tinkie shook her head and laughed at the thought. “She would die and love it at the same time.”

  Hans and Cece took off before us, and I was in no hurry to catch up. The crisp Easter morning, without humidity, felt like silk sliding over my skin as I drove with the top down. It was one of life’s simple pleasures. “We turn here to the right,” I said as we topped a hill. I almost slammed on the brakes. Some neon monstrosity blinked gold, green, and purple at the top of the next hill.

  “What is that?” Tinkie asked.

  “Mardi Gras is over. I have no idea. It’s an advertisement of some sort.”

  As we drew closer, it was clear that it was, indeed, an advertisement that had been programmed with blinking, zipping, dancing lights.

  “Oh my goodness. I’ve never seen a billboard that big,” Tinkie said. “Ewww. Look at that tacky thing.”

  It was pretty tacky. I slowed so I could read the copy. THE MISSISSIPPI MALLET GETS THINGS DONE. ACCIDENT, DIVORCE, THE SWEET TASTE OF REVENGE—CALL PERRY SLAY, SOUTH MISSISSIPPI’S FOREMOST INJURY LAWYER. IF WE DON’T GET YOU MONEY, YOU DON’T PAY.

  “This lawyer advertising is getting out of hand,” Tinkie said.

  I pressed the gas pedal to move along. No point causing an accident because we were staring at a god-awful sign.

  “Drive faster. It looks like a pawn shop advertisement, not a lawyer. Your daddy would spin in his grave, Sarah Booth.”

  That was true. James Franklin Delaney had viewed the right to practice law as sacred. Those in the legal profession were called upon to act with ethics and integrity, always. Advertising for personal injury was not my daddy’s style, though he had certainly had clients who’d been injured by accidents or corporations. Getting justice for those without power was a big part of who he’d been.

  We made the turn and left the sign behind. The first tinge of dawn peeked on the eastern horizon and I increased our speed. While it was called sunrise, the service started at six o’clock. We had twenty minutes to make it.

  Jitty’s nocturnal visit came back to me. I never mentioned Jitty to anyone, not even my partner and best friend. Jitty was private, and I didn’t want to jinx her continued residency at Dahlia House. But I could relay Jitty’s message—as my own.

  “Tinkie, don’t ever worry that you and Oscar won’t be great parents.”

  “This is such a privilege, Sarah Booth. We have been entrusted with caring for and teaching a new soul. Our child might cure cancer or save the planet.”

  “Or he or she may be a soybean farmer and marry the person he or she loves and raise a passel of children that you can pamper and adore.” I didn’t want her to put that kind of pressure on herself or her child. “The only thing that matters is that the child is whole, happy, and lives in joy. That’s the only important lesson to teach.”

  “Do you think I shouldn’t explore religions?”

  “I think you should do whatever makes you happy. Just don’t overburden yourself with expectations one way or the other.”

  “Good advice.” She pointed to a big sign—this one tasteful—that marked the entrance to the Garden of Bones.

  “Why do they call it a garden of bones?” I asked Tinkie.

  “The literature says that the land was originally bought for a Confederate cemetery. That’s how the gardens were started. There were plans to make a national cemetery, like they have in Vicksburg, but it never happened. Native and exotic plants from all over the South were brought in to create the gardens, paid for by donations from people who wanted to honor the dead. This was long before the concept of the miniature Holy Land was created. When Dr. Daniel Reynolds, theologian and Ph.D., saw the gardens and the lay of the land, he had a dream where he envisioned the entire concept. He and his wife started work, building first the City of Bethlehem and laying out the travels that Jesus made, according to the record of his life.”

  “That’s some undertaking.” I couldn’t help but be impressed with just the idea, not to mention the execution.

  “I want my child to know people who are dedicated to principles and values. People who believe in something bigger than themselves. I thought this would be a good place to start.” She grinned. “And I really wanted to see the miniature Holy Land for myself. I’ve heard about it all my life.”

  “I’m on board for all of the above.” We’d arrived at a parking lot that was beginning to
fill up. I found a place beside Hans’s SUV and Tinkie and I made our way to an outdoor amphitheater just as the sun broke through the morning mist. Golden light filled the area. No matter what happened after that, I would feel like something special had been sent to me.

  A tall man with a huge one-eyed dog at his side stepped to the center of the stage. “Welcome to the Garden of Bones and the replica of the Holy Land. We’re here to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ on this Easter Sunday. When the service is over, you’re welcome to tour the gardens and the grounds. I’ll be leading a tour, as will my wife, Paulette.” He pointed to a young woman who stood at the edge of the amphitheater. “Or you can go on your own. For those familiar with the travels of Jesus through the Middle East, the tour is self-explanatory. Some of you come every year. We thank you for your support.”

  “That’s Daniel Reynolds,” Tinkie said. “He has a doctorate in history but he never tells anyone that.”

  I nodded. Reynolds was a fit and strong man. His daily hours of toiling in the gardens had sculpted him to sinew and bone. The dog who’d taken the stage with him sat lovingly at his feet. I settled into my seat and simply enjoyed the familiar story I’d heard all of my childhood.

  3

  Reynolds focused his talk on the crucifixion and resurrection as the sun moved higher in the sky. It glittered through the thick pine boughs, warming the wooden benches and my body. A deep peace settled over me, and I looked from Tinkie to Cece and said thanks for the wonderful friends I’d been given. This was not the Easter of my childhood, the days I longed to recover, even briefly. This was my grown-up life, with friends who would show up for me no matter what.

  Lulled into a place of real contentment as Dr. Reynolds moved into the benediction, I sat bolt upright in shock when a handsome man in a T-shirt, jeans, and work boots stepped onto the stage. “You have to stop this!” He stormed up onto the platform, sending a gasp through the audience. “For the sake of future generations, you have to stop this madness.”

  Reynolds frowned, but kept talking.

  “Who is that man?” Tinkie asked. “He is very rude.” She was pissed. She had no use for interlopers spoiling a perfectly good Easter sermon.

  “I don’t know,” Cece said, “but I smell a story.” She nodded at Hans, who’d taken a seat two rows behind us. They both slipped from their seats and headed around the edge of the amphitheater toward the stage.

  “Cosmo, you should leave.” Reynolds was calm and collected. In fact, there was a hint of sadness in his stance and voice. “You’re only going to get in trouble again. Now go take a seat for me, please.”

  I watched as Cosmo squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He was prepared to hold his ground, whatever that was. He reminded me a bit of the underdog hero in a movie.

  “You have to stop people from tromping all over the woods,” Cosmo said. “The egg hunt! Those screaming children running all over the place. The damage they’ll do to an already precarious ecosystem. Please, I’m begging you to stop it.” He turned to the audience. “Get out of here. Leave. This has to stop.”

  Cosmo was passionate in what he was saying, but I took note of the crowd. Most people were ignoring him. I leaned over to a woman who heaved a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes.

  “Who is that?”

  “Cosmo Constantine. He’s an entomologist. He says humans are killing all the beneficial insects. He’s been writing letters to the editor of the local paper for months now about how the gardens here are dangerous to the future of the planet. He’s always been a little … different, but lately he’s looking deranged. Daniel is going to have to press charges, though he doesn’t want to.”

  A very handsome man in a tailored suit stepped up on the stage. He spoke quietly to the bug boy, and with a nod at Dr. Reynolds, the new man led Cosmo away.

  “Thank goodness someone is able to get that Cosmo fellow off the stage,” I said to our talkative neighbor. I was relieved that an altercation had been avoided. Sparring at a sunrise service was not what we’d come to the area to see.

  “That’s Erik Ward.” The woman sighed, but this time with satisfaction. “He’s a dreamboat. And he’s single. Never married. He’s going to be a catch for someone.”

  Clearly she hoped it would be her. “He must be friends with Cosmo.”

  “I think Cosmo and Erik went to high school together. Erik runs the local pharmacy, Best Buy Drugs. He’s a good guy and kind of like Cosmo’s guardian angel. He tries to keep him out of trouble. Erik loves cats and old people. When some of his older clients can’t afford to pay for their medicine, Erik just lowers the charge. He eats the loss.”

  He did sound like a nice guy, and he was certainly handsome enough to draw the attention of the ladies, young and old.

  With a little maneuvering, Erik moved Cosmo away from the amphitheater and the two men disappeared down the trail and into the miniature Holy Land.

  Reynolds picked up where he left off and continued with a history lesson, some geography, and a fascinating recounting of the political situation that led to the strong resistance to Christianity.

  Reynolds’s lecture ran long, but I was enthralled. When the service was over, most of the congregation went to sign up for the tours with Dr. Reynolds or his wife. We got in line and another half hour passed as I listened to the gossip around me. A lot of people didn’t hold back on their opinion that Cosmo was half a bubble off plumb. The talk, though, was not malicious. Whatever his mental state, he was part of the community and folks seemed to suggest that ignoring him was the best route for Dr. Reynolds to take.

  Finally, the younger children, wild with excitement, were led to another part of the gardens where eggs had been hidden for them to find. I gathered this had become Easter tradition for many locals. We went to watch for a few minutes as the little hellions scoured the area like locusts. There were squeals of delight when an egg or chocolate was found. The acreage for the hunt was vast, and the field had been broken down by age groups so all the kids had a fair chance.

  “Let’s get ahead of the crowd and tour the Holy Land by ourselves,” I said to Tinkie and Cece. They both nodded, and we slipped away from the festivities and found a cart trail through the woods. I was selfish, but I wanted to view the miniature cities without the hubbub of lots of other people. There were wonderful plaques that detailed the biblical significance of each place.

  “Look at the River Jordan!” Tinkie exclaimed as we came upon a winding stream that had been carefully engineered to traverse the sites. The locations of so many Bible stories I’d been told as a child came to life.

  “Oh, look at those little houses and that temple, and that looks like a plaza!” Tinkie was beside herself.

  We were talking when we came upon the first miniature town. I was stunned by the amazing detail as the city of Bethlehem spread out before me. Dr. Reynolds had created a detailed city, complete with temples and plazas and walls with little plastic centurions and foot soldiers. The buildings ranged from the more modest six-inch adobes to palatial luxury homes with a series of levels, mosaic-tile courtyards, wells, and stables where livestock looked out from tiny stalls. Some buildings were designed on terraces, as I’d seen in photos of the Middle East. The affluent adobe houses, temples, and other buildings of the wealthy had domed roofs. The entire city of Jerusalem spread across an area the size of a very large backyard. The care that had gone into the making of this world had me awestruck.

  “This is wonderful.” Cece was busy snapping photos. “This will make a great spread for the Sunday section. So many people have never heard of this place.”

  “Look! Look at the little donkey and the sheep. And there’s a manger! This is the stable where Jesus was born.” Tinkie was thrilled.

  “How did you think to come here for Easter, Tinkie?” I asked.

  “A friend of mine in the garden club grew up down here and she said she loved this place. She promised that the Easter service was the most special of the year. And she was
right.”

  Far in the distance I heard the squeals and screams of young children as they continued to scour the land for prizes. They were closing in on the last moments of the egg hunt. I looked over at Tinkie’s abdomen in sudden sympathy. Her life was about to change forever. And possibly her hearing, too. Jitty was all over me to have a little one, but I wasn’t certain that was the path for me. I’d see how it went with Tinkie. Godmother might fit me better.

  “I can’t wait to get back to the B and B for one of those Bloody Marys,” Cece said. “Breakfast was delicious, but it’s time for a libation, don’t you think?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Coffee is fine for me.” Tinkie was being really stalwart about the fact she could no longer drink. Bad for the baby.

  “And we can have another massage,” Cece said. “That won’t hurt the baby.”

  “Right.” We walked across the dam of a pond that was bordered by an incredible wall of bamboo. There were plants I’d never seen, vibrant lilies and azaleas. The Garden of Bones was a beautiful place, even without the exquisite work of the miniature towns and villages.

  None of us knew the order of the travels of Jesus, but we could enjoy the scope of this creation and the care for detail. We came upon Jerusalem as the sun topped the pine trees and brought the entire area into sharp focus. I put a hand out and stopped my friends in their tracks.

  “What?” Tinkie asked.