Buried Bones Read online

  “And that long only for someone who really, really interests me,” I replied. She was about to hurt my feelings.

  “You can do it, Sarah Booth. I’ve been giving it some thought, and if that Nicaraguan artist isn’t a murderer, maybe you should go after him.” She was staring at herself in the bathroom mirror and batting her eyes. I wanted to smack her, but she was talking to her image in the mirror.

  “Willem Arquillo is handsome and single. After listenin’ to Ricky Ricardo, I’ve developed a yen for that Latin accent. Very sexy.”

  She had a point. Willem could seduce the petals off a flower just by talking to it. I slipped out of my clothes and got into the bath. The water felt delicious and I sank beneath it. When I came up, Jitty was still standing there.

  “Maybe you should add a little comedy to your datin’ routine,” she said, finally pulling her gaze away from herself and over to me.

  “Comedy?” Maybe my ears had clogged with water.

  “Pranks, pratfalls, the lighter side of life. You’re terribly serious, Sarah Booth. Men like a woman who makes ’em laugh. They want to be the hero. It doesn’t hurt for a woman to be a little silly, a little foolish, and let the man come to the rescue. I’ve been watchin’ these old shows, and—”

  “Jitty, those shows are idealizations of a time that never existed, except in Hollywood. It’s a television show.” I thought I’d pop with frustration.

  “You ever listen to the news? Everybody’s torn up today about the violence on television affectin’ children. If that’s true, if watchin’ violence can make children violent, then why can’t watchin’ these old shows make families happy?”

  “Because it’s television! TV doesn’t make anything happen. Even if I were willing to suck up to a man to make him feel like a hero, it wouldn’t last. I’d be pretending!”

  “What’s wrong with that? Seems to me like a little nice pretendin’ would go a long way in this old world.”

  “Jitty, those shows are all about what a man needs. Don’t you see? The women look good, fix dinner, keep the house clean, and are always there with a smile when someone needs nurturing or a kiss.”

  “That don’t sound too hard.”

  I could feel my righteous indignation heating the water. I climbed out and began to dry off. “I’m not interested in that kind of life.”

  “But what if being loved was the payoff?”

  Give the devil her due—Jitty had a way of defending her side of an argument. I pulled on my jeans and the black sweatshirt that gave me an artist look. “I don’t know that being loved is enough. I want to be respected and valued as a person.”

  “You think I been brainwashed by TV—who you been talkin’ to?”

  I finally saw the humor in the situation and began to laugh. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to find Harold.”

  Jitty’s eyes brightened. “Harold’s good. Stable, local, a man with a secure future. Now you’re talkin’. But put on a dress. Men like dresses. You gone pry him out of the clutches of that female barracuda, you better use everything you got in your arsenal, includin’ that black garter belt.”

  “This is business,” I told her.

  “The wise woman makes an opportunity where none exists.”

  “Is that a Lucille Ball quote?”

  “It’s a Jitty quote. And don’t you forget it.” She viewed me up and down. “It’s almost New Year’s Eve, and you don’t have a date, yet you’re goin’ into town dressed like a derelict.”

  “I may have to move fast,” I replied.

  “Yeah, ’cause the fashion police gone come and put you under the jail.”

  “Later.” I took the stairs two at a time, halting in the foyer when I saw the red light of the answering machine blinking in the parlor. There were four messages.

  I rewound the tape and listened.

  The first was from Dr. Matthews. “Sarah Booth, stop by the office, please. The results are in on Rasmus. The cat was poisoned. Looks like some form of Coumadin. Could be he got into some rat poison, but not at Lawrence’s house. You know he wouldn’t even use flea spray, much less rat poison. When you come, I think you should bring Coleman with you.”

  I stopped the tape and replayed it just to be certain I heard correctly. After hearing it again, I let the machine continue to the second call.

  “Sarah Booth, I just don’t think you should go off and leave that dog again. She’s ugly as homemade sin, but she still has feelings. Why, she was so excited to see me and Chablis, I thought she was going to wag herself to death. Why are all those other dogs in the yard? There were at least twenty of them. My God, Sarah Booth, you haven’t become one of those humane society ladies, have you? You know if you start bringing home all those strays you’ll end up with some man who looks just like one of them. But it’s in your blood, isn’t it? Oh, Sarah Booth! Folks will think you’re craz—eccentric like your aunt Elizabeth. How many cats was it? Fifty-four? We’ll have to discuss this when you get home. Think how bad it would be for business. People won’t hire our agency to solve mysteries if they think you’re a kook. Maybe we can get someone to help with a shelter for those dogs. I’ll ask Daddy. You know, Daddy can be a little uptight about things. But don’t worry, I’ll handle it. By the way, I hear Harold’s taken a vacation! Can you imagine? He hasn’t gone anywhere in years. Call me.”

  My stomach was in a complete knot. Harold was gone! I set the tape in motion again. The next call was from Cece.

  “The photographs you took at the wake are fabulous, Sarah Booth. Marvelous. New assignment, dahling. Very you. Call.”

  It took me a moment to recognize the voice of the final caller. The remnants of her German accent gave her away, and I checked the time of the call—two o’clock this morning.

  “Ms. Delaney, my husband has been missing for two days. I’d like to hire you to look for him. Please call me at 601-555-3434. This is Tilda Grace.”

  22

  I called Tinkie first and made a valiant attempt to cut her off before she could get started. “No time to explain. Find out where Harold’s gone. That’s your assignment.”

  “Where have you been? Those dogs! I’m positive there’s some kind of law against letting your dog run wild. People draw parallels between dogs and their owners.”

  “Tinkie, just find out about Harold. Find out where he is and if Brianna’s with him.” Things were coming to a head in this case, and fast.

  “Okay. I’ll get it out of Oscar.” The momentum of her words slowed. “It’s going to take some work. I could invite him home for lunch.” There was a pause that hinted at her sacrifice, then her voice perked up. “He only takes an hour for lunch. Those are the rules at the bank, you know. I suppose I could tempt, tantalize, and then delay on delivery.”

  “Whatever it takes, do it.”

  “Sarah Booth! You aren’t married to him.”

  “This is a tough business, Tinkie. Sometimes a private investigator has to lay it on the line.” The tactics she used on her husband were up to her. “I’ll call you after lunch. Right now I’ve got to go.”

  My next call was to Cece, who wanted me to photograph the New Year’s Eve bash at The Club.

  “Kincaid was going to have it, dahling, but after that awful country theme party when she pulled the costume bit at the very last minute, no one wanted her to host the biggest party of the season. Then Angela Rhee Finch said she and Boyd would be delighted to have it at their country home. Very elegant, you know. But Boyd said absolutely, positively never. He’s afraid someone might get drunk, have a wreck on the way home, and sue him. Only Boyd would think of that. Probably because he’s considered doing it to someone.”

  Cece was in rare form, already moving on from Lawrence’s funeral to the next big story. I’d begun to see her emotional hardness as the coping mechanism reporters had to learn. They couldn’t afford to linger in a tragedy. It might dull their lust for the facts.

  “I have a small complication,” I said, thinking of J
oseph Grace’s disappearance.

  “You couldn’t possibly have a date,” she continued. She wasn’t being malicious, but it still stung.

  “No date,” I admitted.

  “Good, dahling. One can’t focus on work when one is focused on a man. I know.”

  “Right.” Even if I drove over to Oxford, I could be back in plenty of time for New Year’s Eve. And working for Cece as a photographer was a lot more appealing than singing “Auld Lang Syne” with Jitty and Sweetie Pie. “I’ve got to do some running about this afternoon, but I’ll make the party.”

  “No problem, stop by the office.”

  “Do you have the photographs from the wake?”

  “Right on my desk. Dahling, you sound awfully rushed. Is something going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you,” I promised, once again cutting off the connection.

  Dr. Matthews was easier. I told him I’d be there in fifteen minutes, and he said he’d call the sheriff to meet us. The next call I made was to Tilda Grace.

  I let the phone ring twelve times before I accepted that she wasn’t going to answer. Or couldn’t.

  I headed out to the vet’s office with a sense of dread. Coleman was already there when I arrived. The look he shot me let me know he was angry, but I followed him and the veterinarian into the back, hoping the cat’s body wasn’t going to be our focal point. I was in luck. We went into an empty exam room, and Dr. Matthews closed the door.

  “As I told both of you, the cat was poisoned,” he said. “A dose of Coumadin. There’s no way to tell if it was accidental or deliberate.”

  “I’d like a copy of the lab reports.” Coleman cut his eyes at me as if he expected some statement. I bit my lip in Tinkie fashion, showing what I hoped was wide-eyed innocence.

  Oblivious to the undercurrent, Dr. Matthews nodded, easing one hip up on the edge of an exam table. “Lawrence loved those cats like his children. I hope you find out who did this.”

  “I hope so, too,” Coleman said, giving me another look. “Thanks, Dr. Matthews.” His hand clamped around my arm, and he escorted me out into the parking lot.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to shake him loose.

  “You can talk to me now or you can talk to me through the bars of a cell,” he said, maneuvering me toward the patrol car.

  “What?” I tried for innocence but found it hard to reach. Coleman was not a fool, and he wasn’t buying my dumb brunette routine.

  “That bag of rat poison. Where did you find it?” His blue eyes narrowed. “I just want to hear you say it, Sarah Booth.”

  “In Lawrence’s pantry.”

  “You violated a crime scene.” He reached toward the back of his belt, and I thought he was going for the cuffs. Instead he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. He studied a page for a moment, then he looked at me again. “I searched that cottage. There was no poison there.”

  “I didn’t see it either when Willem and I searched. I found it when I went back to get Apollo. Lillian Sparks asked me to pick the cat up and deliver him to her.”

  My response mollified him somewhat because he flipped the notebook shut and put that hand on his hip. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I matched the prints on the bag.”

  Instead of arresting me, he was going to give me information. My eyebrows rose in anticipation. “Whose?”

  He stared directly into my eyes, and my opinion of Coleman rose another notch. He was determining how much to tell me, evaluating how much I could be trusted. I suddenly felt a rush of anxiety. Those prints belonged to someone I knew. “Tell me,” I said, this time not bothering to hide the dread I felt. “It’s someone I care about, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know where Harold Erkwell might be?”

  The implication was more than clear. “Not Harold.” My reaction was instant and sincere. I wasn’t defending Harold because I liked him. He simply wasn’t a murderer. Out of the darker regions of my brain I suddenly heard Willem’s parting shot about the whereabouts of the manuscript and Harold. I knew I should tell Coleman, but I had no proof, only Willem’s accusation.

  “Harold’s and another set.”

  “Brianna?” I breathed the name. She’d finally done it. She’d pulled him down the rat hole with her.

  His mouth tightened as if he thought about refusing to answer. “Not Brianna. But she and Harold are both missing. I’ll ask again—do you know their whereabouts? And this time, Sarah Booth, I won’t sit still for your interfering.”

  Coleman was a fair man, and one with a slow temper. A fool could see that I’d lit the fuse. “Tinkie just told me Harold had gone on a vacation. She’s supposed to find out from her husband where he went.”

  “And you’ll call me right away?” His hand was still on my arm, and he made me aware of it.

  “I can’t believe Harold would have anything to do with hurting Lawrence. Or anyone else.” But he might protect someone he cared about.

  “Money is a great motivator. Folks will do a lot of things you wouldn’t expect.” His fingers gentled on my arm. “In a lot of ways, Sarah Booth, you’re pretty naive. I think it works for you in some instances. Not this time, though. Whoever is behind this has killed once already. Don’t think they won’t do it again, and let me just be frank and say that you can aggravate a person to the point of wanting to do something rash.”

  I ignored his insult because I recognized the seed of truth in it. “Who did the other set of prints belong to?”

  Once again his mouth drew into a thin line. “You’re going to like this even less.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The second prints belong to Rosalyn Bell.”

  Once, when I was about five, my parents took me to the beach at Gulf Shores, Alabama. Wading out into the water with my father, we were caught by an unexpectedly big wave. The water crashed over me in a dizzying whirl. My hand slipped from my father’s grip, and for one horrifying instant, I felt the primal force of the water grab hold of me. I felt that same sensation as I stared into Coleman’s eyes.

  “Easy there,” he said, and this time his hand on my arm was as sure and steady as my father’s had been when he pulled me from the frothing water. “Take a breath.”

  I did and felt better—and a little ashamed of my weakness. A private investigator doesn’t get lightheaded. “I’m okay.” I looked down at my shoes, noting the toes needed a good polish. Jitty was right. I looked like a derelict.

  “Sure,” he said, but he didn’t let me go. “When you hear from Tinkie, you call me,” he said, his hand sliding down my arm until the contact was broken. “I want a promise.”

  “I’ll call,” I said, and meant it. “There’s something I should tell you.” Coleman had been more than forthcoming. I was, after all, a woman of honor. If he was going to share with me, I owed him. “If there’s someone in the sheriff’s office over at Oxford, you might want to check and see if a missing person report has been filed on Joseph Grace, the dean of Arts and Sciences at Ole Miss. His wife left me a message saying he’d disappeared. She sounded upset, and to be honest, I had him figured as a possible suspect in Lawrence’s murder.”

  “Would you mind telling me why?”

  There was no condescension in Coleman’s tone, so I told him everything I’d learned on my trip to the senator’s house and to Moon Lake. And my suspicions of Grace’s role in the academic politics of Lawrence’s past. I told him everything except about Willem’s unexpected visit.

  “Would it do any good if I asked you to go home and stay there?” His fingers strayed to the handle of his gun.

  “Rosalyn paid me—” I halted. “Damn, I’ve got to find that check. I can’t remember where I put my coat.”

  Amusement touched his mouth. “Tinkie might make you a good business partner,” he said. “I’ll bet Oscar taught her how to account for every penny.”

  I needed his humor, and I knew that he was trying hard to ease me over the shock I’d suffered. He’d also put my mind on another
issue. “So, you’ve heard about Tinkie?”

  “It’s all over town,” he said. “Folks at Millie’s Café were buzzing. It’s not every day that two society women decide to become sleuths.”

  “I’m not a society woman,” I protested.

  “Ex,” he amended. “Though you always were a little different than the others.” He finally gave me a full grin. “That’s a compliment, Sarah Booth.”

  “Thanks, I think.” But my mind was on the case. “What are you going to do about Harold?” I was finally able to look that fact straight in the face. “And Madame?”

  “I’m on my way to pick up Rosalyn and bring her in for questioning.”

  “Coleman …” I stopped because I didn’t know what I wanted to say. “Are you sure?”

  “They matched the prints on the wineglasses you brought in. Unless you made a mistake …”

  I’d been careful, snatching the glasses and then marking the base with lipstick before I turned them over to Tinkie. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to, he read my face.

  “Maybe there’s a good explanation,” he said slowly. “The only way to find out is to ask.”

  “Madame will have a good explanation.” This was spoken more for myself than Coleman.

  “I’m sure she will,” he said, no longer meeting my gaze. “Tell me, Sarah Booth, what exactly is Harold’s relationship with Brianna Rathbone?”

  I couldn’t tell if he wasn’t looking at me because he’d heard of my interest in Harold and was trying to spare me, or if he was concealing his own thoughts. “I believe they’re involved. Romantically.” I said it as if it didn’t bother me.

  “So you wouldn’t be concerned that she’s disappeared at the same time that he’s gone on vacation?”

  I wanted to take his face in my hands and force him to look at me, but I restrained myself. “The only thing odd about it is the timing. Harold has to execute Lawrence’s estate, and with all of this business about …” I faded to a stop. “Are you saying I should be concerned about Harold? That maybe Brianna has done something to him?”