Buried Bones Page 22

  “There are some scrapbooks upstairs. Want me to get them?”

  I could have fallen out of my chair. “That would be perfect.”

  We’d finished the main course and were waiting on bread pudding for dessert. “Come on,” she said. “Take a look around.”

  I needed no second invitation. We climbed the stairs to the second level, which featured a huge wraparound room, all golden wood that glowed in the circles of illumination cast by the antique lamps she turned on to light our way.

  “Back when the casino was in full swing, the band would set up at this end,” she pointed, “and the dance floor was here. I think the front was open, but somewhere along the line it was walled in. I guess when air-conditioning came along.”

  She motioned to the wall behind us where a series of closed doors caught my eye. There were name plates on the doors, and I walked closer. Jungle Room, Flapper Room, Yukon Room. I stopped there. “In 1940 a young man was murdered in this room,” I said.

  “Yeah, a senator’s son.” She nodded as if she’d finally caught on to the real thread of my interest. “That was the summer the nest of troublemakers worked here.”

  “Troublemakers?”

  She laughed out loud at my reaction. “The way the story came down to me was that Tennessee was always busy writing, but that Ambrose, he was always stirring up trouble with the wealthy guests, talking politics and civil dissent. It must have been something. From what I’ve been able to tell about Mississippi politics, these kids must have been extremely unusual. One time they did a benefit show to collect money for the starving children in Europe.”

  She led me to a framed photograph on the wall that clearly showed Lawrence and Madame in costume performing before a hand-lettered banner that said “Dimes for War Children.”

  “That crowd was way ahead of its time. A foreshadowing of the sixties.”

  The photograph captured Lawrence as alive and vibrant as I remembered him. Madame was stunning, a curvaceous package of verve and bounce. Several things clicked into place. Jebediah Archer’s spleen was still bitter on my tongue. He’d avoided calling them communists, but he’d hinted strongly. And Lawrence had left the United States after the summer he spent here—the summer France fell and Europe was ground into hamburger.

  When Lawrence had tried to come home and work at Ole Miss, he’d left without putting up much of a fight. His life had been threatened and no one had bothered to investigate. Now I knew why. He’d been tarred with the red brush—and Senator Jebediah Archer had either wielded that brush or put it in the hand of Joseph Grace. Anger isolated me from my surroundings, but in a few seconds it burned away. Edy was still talking.

  “Ambrose was the ringleader. Hell, you know communism was more of an intellectual calling than political. From what I’ve been able to tell, only a handful of people in the entire state had a clue what communism or any other political philosophy might be.”

  She was correct. Up until the eighties, the South had voted straight-line Democratic. No questions asked; no ideology discussed. Deputy Dawg could have been on the ballot and he would have been voted in if he was a Democrat.

  Edy walked to a coffee table filled with old scrapbooks. She dug through them, pulling one from near the bottom. “You’ll like this,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of free time to go through these things. I guess in the back of my mind I’ve been trying to decide what to do with all of this stuff when I have to sell the place.”

  “These could be valuable.” I took the book she offered, sat down in a chair, and began to turn the pages.

  The Crescent casino captured in the black and white photographs was a place of glamour and luxury. “Is that—?”

  “Clark Gable, yes.” Edy laughed, flopping into a chair.

  We both looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The little boy peeked around the corner. “There’s a car out front, Mama.”

  “Are they coming in?”

  He shook his head.

  “You want some bread pudding?” she asked him.

  His smile was answer enough.

  “Would you be a big boy and ask Cecil to serve us up here, with some coffee? Tell him to bring some for all of us and we’ll talk. If he doesn’t have to go straight home, he can join us, too.” The look she gave me was direct, completely devoid of self-pity. “He’s the best chef in this part of the state. Cecil’s become like family to us, but he won’t be able to stay on much longer.”

  “What about the man?” the little boy asked.

  “What man, darling?”

  “The one out front in the car. Can he have bread pudding with us?”

  “If he comes inside he can,” she answered.

  I gave her a questioning look.

  “There’s a buzzer on the door. It’ll ring up here. A lot of times people stop in the parking lot to look at the lake. We have the best view.”

  I turned my attention back to the scrapbook. It was a fascinating glimpse into the past. There were photos of Madame dancing and Beverly McGrath, a beautiful young woman singing to handsome movie stars. An excellent photograph of Lawrence and Tennessee Williams had them in conference at a table, the sunlight filtering in an open window behind them as they focused on whatever plans were in front of them.

  There was a vaguely familiar photo of Lawrence, his bright eyes alive as he held a string of trout. The background of the picture had been cut out, but I remembered it had contained a clench. My gut told me I had stumbled on something significant. “What happened?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Edy examined the book. Several additional photos had also been cut. “I don’t remember this. Dammit, I’m afraid I’m going to have to have a talk with Johnny. These old albums aren’t paper dolls.”

  The book was magic. Time was forgotten as I leafed through the pages. The casino was even more wonderful than Beverly had described it. I could see how such a summer would capture the hearts of four young people. I’d lived in New York, hoping for just such a life. Now I saw that with the passing of the forties, true glamour had disappeared from this country. I had missed my era.

  “That’s my great-aunt,” Edy said, pointing to a dark-haired woman in an exquisite gown. She had her arms around Lawrence and Tennessee. “That’s how I knew about the communist thing. She joined up, too. It almost got the casino shut down, and she was sent out to Missouri, along with her younger sister. They met and married brothers, and that’s how my branch of the family got there.”

  “Sisters marrying brothers. It sounds terribly romantic.”

  “A double ceremony, yeah. It was romantic, except both of their husbands were drafted and killed in the war. They were both left widows with a kid in the oven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think Aunt Kate even knew what a communist was. After her husband was killed, she became more politically active. And more radical.”

  There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and we paused as a short, wiry man brought up a tray of desserts and coffee. As soon as he set the tray down, Edy poured us all a cup and we sat back. The bread pudding was delicious. Johnny squeezed into the chair with his mother and we ate in silence.

  “Delicious,” I said. “Bourbon sauce made with George Dickel?”

  Cecil smiled. “Maker’s Mark. Similar in a sauce.”

  We all laughed and I felt the tension begin to drain from my neck and shoulders. Outside night had fallen, but in the glow of the old lamps that gave the wooden walls a warmth, I felt that time had stopped. Still, I needed to go home. I had only a few more questions.

  “Did your family stories include any other activities of Lawrence and his friends. Anything that might make someone want to silence him?” It was a hard question to phrase delicately.

  “Is it a book or a murder you’re working on?”

  She was one smart cookie, and I liked her chutzpah. “Both.”

  She shook her head. “The whole communism thing became a joke, you know. America, hom
e of the free. In the forties it was a crime to be red, but not today. So what? And they were kids. I’m not certain they were anything except opposed to the concept of human beings slaughtering each other.”

  She put her finger on Lawrence’s picture. “He was a great writer. We have a collection of his books here. He sent them even when he was in Europe. Sometimes we have a literate hunter who wants something to read, and I loan him a book.”

  I had a terrific thought. “Why don’t you turn this place into a museum?” I sat forward with a flush of excitement. “Look at it.” I swept my arm around. “Everything is perfect. You could still keep it a lodge, but it could also be a museum. You could get state and federal grants.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you think?”

  “I’m not certain, but it wouldn’t cost anything to check it out. And all of this could be preserved. This is a page from the past, a place where people could come and see what it was like. You could hire young people to bring it to life.”

  I saw the idea catch fire in her eyes. She leaned forward and gripped my hands. “Thank you,” she said. “Dinner is on the house.”

  Though I tried repeatedly to pay for the meal, Edy adamantly refused. She and Johnny and Cecil hugged me and walked me to my car. They watched as I started to leave. Except the car wouldn’t start. It didn’t even make a sound. It was as if the spark of life had been stolen from it.

  Cecil opened the hood and looked at the engine, then closed it again. “Fancy motor. I wouldn’t even begin to tamper with it. I’d do more damage than good.”

  “It was running fine.” Stomping my foot, which is what I wanted to do, wouldn’t do a bit of good. I was stranded.

  “Johnny and I heard a car.” Cecil’s face was thoughtful. “Kids come to the parking lot to look at the lake, usually they’re up to romance, not making trouble.”

  Great. Vandals. That was all I needed. At nine o’clock in the evening, there wouldn’t be a garage open anywhere nearby. Chances were I’d have to go to Clarksdale to find a Mercedes dealer.

  “You’ll have to stay the night,” Edy said, more delighted than disturbed by the turn of events. “As it happens, we have a vacancy.”

  I shook my head as I got out of the car. “I don’t have any clothes or anything.”

  “You can borrow some from me. We’ll call the Clarksdale dealer in the morning and have it towed to the shop.”

  There was nothing else to do. I had to give in gracefully. At the desk I made a call to Tinkie, who agreed to check on Sweetie Pie. My hound had a doggy door, but she needed food, water, and human companionship.

  Edy and Johnny had an apartment downstairs, but my room was on the third floor. It, too, looked as if it had been created in the forties and left untouched.

  “Sorry about the lack of television,” Edy said as she brought fresh towels and a nightgown designed for a sex goddess. There was nothing kittenish about this piece of lingerie.

  “It’s an antique,” she said, laughing at my look. “I thought you’d enjoy the whole experience. Maybe someone famous like Lana Turner left that gown here.”

  My fingers slid over the rippling coral silk, and I knew it was possible that it had once graced a famous body. What fun.

  “How about a good book?” Edy asked. “Not exactly the right companion for that gown, but the best I can do on short notice.”

  I accepted the collection of Tennessee Williams’s plays she held out to me. “Thanks. Can I look through the scrapbooks some more?”

  “Help yourself. I hate to do it, but I’d better turn in. We start breakfast at five, and that’s our moneymaker. Cecil doesn’t come in until lunch, so I have to cook.”

  It was a long day for her, and it was already late. “Get some rest, I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s an old record player on the second floor. We can’t hear a thing in the apartment. Feel free to enjoy.” She went to the door. “One more thing.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “I didn’t tell you about the ghost.”

  I had an image of Jitty, waiting at Dahlia House for me to return, and smiled. “What ghost?”

  “Old man Rutledge. You’ll know him. He drags a leg. He was shot in a card game by a deputy sheriff. They say he was cheating.”

  “And he haunts the third floor?”

  “They hid him up in one of the bedrooms for a week before he died. He was only shot in the leg. If they’d gotten the doctor, he would have lived.”

  “Why didn’t they get a doctor?”

  “He didn’t have any money left to pay for one. That’s why he’s so pissed off.”

  She was having a good time with me. I nodded wisely. “I’ll be on the lookout for him.”

  She was gone, and I was left with a book, a bed stacked with throw pillows, and my own thoughts about Lawrence and his friends. Communists. It had been an age of innocence.

  I wandered around the third floor, peeping into the other empty rooms. It was a big place, and very dark. The lodge itself was secluded, and Moon Lake had passed from the fancy of the rich and famous. I examined the scrapbooks on the second floor by the light of the old antique lamps. And finally, I went to bed. I had to get home to Dahlia House. I had a few questions for Madame. She should have mentioned the communist thing. It was no big deal. Lots of artists had dabbled in different political systems—and still did.

  I shut off the space heater and crawled between the thick comforter into a bed heated by an electric blanket. I was going to be warm and toasty all night. When sleep finally claimed me, I was dancing a waltz with a handsome man who reminded me of Matt Dillon, the actor, not the marshal. He was quite a good dancer. Moon Lake glittered in the background as he held me and we spun around the room. We were going so fast that I grew dizzy, finally tumbling into the blackness of deep sleep.

  Step, step, step, pause. Step, pause.

  I awoke with a start, my heart pounding at the noise outside my room. Edy’s little ghost story came back to me with a vengeance, and I grasped the heavy comforter and pulled it to my chin. I’d turned off the room’s space heater before I went to sleep. Now I could see my breath condensing in the air, a halo of silver caught in a shaft of moonlight. The storm had passed and a beautiful crescent moon hung just outside my lacy curtains. In the distance, Moon Lake glittered through the furry limbs of the cypress trees.

  Step, step, step, pause.

  The sound was distinctive. Someone was walking outside the bedroom doors—walking and then stopping to listen. I, who lived with a ghost, was suddenly terrified. Edy had said that in her apartment, two floors away, she couldn’t hear a thing. Even if I screamed, no one would hear. And along with no television, the rooms didn’t have a phone.

  I tensed my body, willing myself deeper into the bed. The sounds of the steps came again, stopping one door to the left of me. Through my terror, I realized that the thing outside my door was not limping. It wasn’t old man Rutledge come to spook me. Unless, of course, wounds were healed in the afterlife. That was something I’d failed to consult Jitty about.

  Step, step, pause. He was right outside my door. I pulled the covers up to my nose, praying that this was all a dream.

  The tap at the door was so soft I almost didn’t hear it over the pounding of my heart. Tap, tap, tap. It came again.

  Damn! He knew I was there.

  “Sarah Booth.”

  Double damn! He knew my name! The whisper seemed to seep through the thick wooden door, which I had taken the precaution of locking. But what did that mean to a ghost?

  “Sarah Booth, let me in.”

  This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. All I had to do was click my heels together three times and wake up.

  “Open the damn door.”

  Would Mr. Rutledge speak with an accent? Suddenly I was out of the bed and at the door. “Who is it?”

  “Willem. Let me in. Quickly.”

  I recognized his voice then and slid the thumb bolt free. I cracked the door, catching only the silhouette of a tall, well-
built man. “Willem?”

  “Who did you think it was, James Bond? Let me in.”

  I opened the door. In the soft moonlight, he was breathtakingly handsome. Not exactly Sean Connery, but a nice second choice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hunting for you,” he said. “I found the manuscript.”

  20

  The breath squeezed out of my lungs, making my heart pound harder than ever. I didn’t know whether this was a result of his words or his hands on my bare shoulders as he grasped me and moved me away from the door so he could enter. He closed and locked the door behind him, as if he expected the hounds of hell to come bounding up the stairs after him.

  “Where?” I asked, my mind wrapped firmly around the location of the manuscript.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he rushed to the window and peered outside. “You’re safe here, I think.”

  “Where’s the manuscript?” I asked again, at last getting my pulse rate under control.

  “It’s safe. That’s all I can tell you.”

  It was anger this time that made my heart pound harder. “Willem, I’m not in the mood for games. You burst into my room and—”

  He stood in shadow, but as I began to talk, he stepped forward to join me. In the soft glow of the moonlight I saw his face shift. His gaze swept over me, lingering and moving on, then shifting back for another taste.

  “Sarah Booth,” he said, a low rumble in his voice. “My God, you look like a movie star.”

  Ah, the power of great lingerie. Although I’m a private investigator by choice, I’m a woman by birth. I couldn’t help but respond. Vanity slipped to the forefront—the low, revealing forefront—and I wished I’d had time to put up my hair in one of those loose, rumpled looks where a few tendrils slipped free. I could just imagine Willem removing the pins and allowing the weight of it to tumble down to my shoulders. Juvenile fantasy, perhaps. Inappropriate, definitely. Irresistible daydream, without a doubt.

  With great reluctance I stepped out of the moonlight and into the shadows. Playing with fire was fun, but Willem claimed to have found the manuscript and now he was holding out on me.