Bonefire of the Vanities Read online

  “Now that we sort of know the location of Heart’s Desire, maybe Tammy can stop worrying about Mrs. Littlefield,” Tinkie said as I pulled into the grassless front yard and parked beside a line of old, gnarled cedars.

  Tinkie got out of the car, hitching down her skirt as we walked to the front door.

  Tammy met us on a cloud of mouthwatering smells wafting from her kitchen.

  “Fried chicken?” I swallowed and managed not to drool on myself.

  “Yes, indeed. With okra and tomatoes, corn bread, and mashed potatoes with gravy. I thought you might be hungry.”

  Millie Roberts, our friend and frequent source of gossip and rumor who ran a café in town, was the best cook I knew, but Tammy could give her a run for her money when it came to down-home Southern fare. “Lead me to it,” I said.

  “Sarah Booth, you ate your po’boy and half of mine at lunch. Are you truly hungry?” Tinkie was shocked at my appetite.

  “I wasn’t, until I caught the scent of fried chicken. Don’t get between me and Tammy’s cooking, Tinkie.”

  Tammy led the way to her kitchen, where the table was set and the food was steaming hot on it. Sighing, Tinkie settled onto a chair. “It does smell good. Can I take a plate to Oscar?”

  “Already dished one up for you.” Tammy pointed to the counter, where a plate piled high with food sat covered by plastic wrap.

  As I wolfed down a pan-fried breast and big helpings of everything else, I told Tammy about our adventures in New Orleans.

  I pushed back my plate. My pants were so tight, I almost couldn’t breathe, but if I didn’t stand up, I’d eat more. “Let’s check those recordings before I explode.”

  “If these are sex tapes the Westins made…” Tammy didn’t finish the thought. “These people are very smart, Sarah Booth. This could be more dangerous than I thought. We need to rethink your involvement in this. It could be blackmail or porn. I don’t like the turn this has taken.”

  Tinkie and I exchanged a look. Here was the moment where we either honored our deepest desire to keep our men happy, or we helped our friend Tammy.

  “So far it doesn’t seem too dangerous,” Tinkie said. “Let’s see what’s on the DVDs before we rush to make any kind of decision. If it’s something juicy, maybe you can use it to convince Marjorie to leave Heart’s Desire. She wouldn’t want to be associated with a scandal.”

  The three of us went into the living room, where Tammy inserted the first DVD in her player and turned on the TV. The quality of the video was awful. It crossed my mind that the recording could have been deliberately degraded.

  The image of a middle-aged white man with too much belly and back hair jumped onto the screen. He sat down on the bed with an attractive young brunette. In less than thirty seconds, they were engaged in grainy, perfunctory sex. The film, thank god without sound, played for the next four minutes. The man finished, stood up, and turned to face the camera.

  “Is that—?” Tinkie was aghast.

  “The well-respected federal judge,” I supplied. “Indeed. I only have to say he screws with the same creativity with which he interprets the law.”

  Tammy cackled, and even Tinkie joined in, but my partner was disturbed. “This is potential dynamite. Why would the Westins leave this stuff behind?”

  I stopped the player. “The owner of the house said she found a lot of stuff tucked in hidey-holes and crannies. Maybe the Westins overlooked these. This is damaging footage. Judge Praytor is sitting on the bench. He’s wide open to blackmail.”

  “And to think the tapes were left at the curb for the trashman.” Tammy picked up the empty disc case and examined it. “Almost like a trail of bread crumbs leading to the Westins.”

  Tinkie signaled me to start again.

  We rolled through four of the recordings, learning that the judge was a regular at the house, along with two governors we recognized, powerful senators obviously partying in New Orleans on a junket, local politicos and law officers, and two famous Hollywood celebrities who shouldn’t have to pay for sex. What they had in common was a lack of originality, a lack of foreplay, and the endurance of a gnat.

  One client we didn’t recognize was a tall, slender Caucasian man, a regular, who wore a mask, as if he knew the sessions were being recorded. Or perhaps his fetish was more sinister, since the mask was modeled after the one worn by the notorious Dr. Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs.

  “Creepy!” Tammy made the sign of the cross, the classic parody to ward off vampires, with both index fingers. “Ugh!”

  “This is awful.” Tinkie’s palms covered her eyes. “I can’t watch any more. I had my heart all set on going home, putting on the divine little pink fluff nightie I bought at Fran’s Loft, and bringing out the tiger in Oscar. Now I just want to shower! Depressing as hell.”

  “Empty sex.” Tammy held up her hands as if to ward off a blow. “That’s why the woman has to be paid. For most women, sex has to mean something. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am calls for a cash exchange. I hope these girls were handsomely paid. They don’t even look twenty years old.”

  “Turn it off.” Tinkie waved a hand at the television.

  “Let’s finish this recording. It’s the last one,” I said. Like it or not, I felt compelled to view all the DVDs, even if I did it on fast-forward. We were investigating the Westins, and this was part of the gig, as distasteful as it was.

  As the television screen fritzed and jumped, I heard a dog barking outside and shifted to look out a front window. Night had fallen and a gibbous moon reflected off the roof of a large, dark car parked across the street from Tammy’s house. A solitary figure sat behind the wheel. My gut instinct jumped to red alert. I was about to suggest a little reconnaissance when I heard Tinkie gasp.

  “Shit!” Tammy said.

  I turned back to the television, suddenly riveted by the flash of a grainy image, the ghostly face of a young girl. It was there, superimposed on top of a sex scene, and then gone. The faint image appeared on the screen again.

  In the recording, a couple in a bedroom had sex by rote, but another layer of images showed an interior hallway. There was no sound, just the fuzzy image of a staircase that curved up and up and up. It was there, then gone.

  The tape went black, filled with static. When it cleared, a young girl stood on the stairs. Water dripped from her hair and clothes. The image flashed over the mechanical sex and disappeared as on-screen snow filled the screen. It cleared once more—the girl had advanced a dozen paces toward the camera.

  “What the hell!” Tinkie stood up.

  I slid onto the sofa, my body rigid. Tammy, too, was transfixed by the girl in the film.

  Her face was a grayish blue, lifeless, her eyes haunted. She looked directly into the camera for a split second. “It’s your fault, Mommy.” Her voice was as cold and dead as her bluish face. The screen went blank.

  We were all so intently focused on the TV that when a large black pillow leaped from the sofa and landed in my lap, we all screamed, even Tammy.

  “Jesus turning cartwheels!” I yelled, reaching for the pillow. Two sharp teeth sank into the tender flesh of my girdle of Venus. “It’s a devil!” I tried to disengage from the creature.

  “Hold still, Sarah Booth.” Tammy grabbed the writhing black thing. “Stop struggling.”

  “It’s biting me.” I tried to shake loose, but now the creature’s claws dug into my wrist and wrapped around my lower arm. It weighed at least twenty pounds, but I wasn’t sure what it was. All I knew was that the videotape had somehow generated an evil black thing with sharp fangs—and it was after my ass.

  Tammy pushed me back onto the sofa. She sat beside me and clenched the creature’s scruff. In a moment, the demonic animal was sitting in her lap. Purring. The cat, for cat it was, raised golden-green eyes at me and meowed.

  “When in the hell did you adopt a cat?” I asked her.

  “Sarah Booth, this is Pluto, Mrs. Littlefield’s most precious companion.”

 
The cat who would inherit everything—it all came back to me. “Suddenly I have more sympathy for Chasley.” Pluto didn’t blink as he gave me the once-over. What is it about felines that make them feel so superior? I glanced down at my hand, oozing blood, and knew the answer: They were very smart.

  “Oh, don’t be a crybaby. You scared Pluto. He’s normally docile as a lamb.”

  “Right. And Chucky is just a cute little doll.”

  Tammy shifted so the cat could stretch across her lap. He was enormous. And he seemed to have fallen into a stupor.

  “If you’ll quit whining, Sarah Booth, we need to discuss the recording.” Tinkie tapped a stiletto heel.

  “Was the girl a ghost?” I asked Tammy. She was the authority in the room on noncorporeal beings. I had Jitty in my life, but Jitty was a special kind of haint. She was family.

  “Dripping water! And she was bluish, like someone who’d drowned.” Tinkie made the obvious connection. “What did she mean, ‘It’s your fault, Mommy’?” She hugged her arms around herself. “I hate to admit it, but I’m terrified.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I pointed out. “Those tapes were recorded at least six years ago. Mariam Littlefield has been dead for two decades or better.”

  “Do you think the girl was Mrs. Littlefield’s daughter?” Tinkie asked Tammy.

  “I can’t say. It looked … real, but video is so easily manipulated.”

  “Why would Marjorie Littlefield’s dead daughter show up in New Orleans?” I asked. “At a shut-down whorehouse? Don’t you think that’s just a tad convenient? If the ghost girl is supposed to be Mariam Littlefield. It could be anyone, you know.” The whole thing had my sixth sense grumbling like I’d been on a bean binge.

  “But how would—? Internet.” Tinkie nodded knowingly. “Let’s see if we can find some photos of Mariam Littlefield.”

  Tammy deposited Pluto on the sofa without disrupting a single snore. The cat was out cold. We went to her computer and Googled Mariam Littlefield. As the daughter of a member of the privileged class, Mariam would have been photographed at various parties and events. When Tammy clicked on the first image, I felt a chill run through me. The little girl in the recording definitely resembled the portrait of Mariam that popped up. The painting, by John Howard Sanden, depicted a preteen girl, blue eyes dancing with mischief, and the hint of a secretive smile.

  “Look at her dress.” Tinkie spoke on a whisper. “The lace is exquisite. You know lace can be traced back to the place it was created. There are whole stories woven into the patterns.”

  “Fascinating history of lace, but is it the same child?” I asked.

  “It’s impossible to tell,” Tammy said. “The … ghost was bedraggled. Mariam Littlefield is beautiful. The portrait makes her alive.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “If this is real, I can understand why Marjorie is determined to speak with her dead daughter. The accusation the child is making … imagine the guilt.”

  I had a bigger problem. “How would Sherry and her mother know that Tink and I would end up at the old Pleasure Zone or that its new owner would find the DVDs and put them at the curb just at the moment I showed up? That’s a lot of luck, all lining up in the right direction. I get a sense we’re being manipulated.” Too many opportunities for a different outcome for my taste. But who knew we’d even be in New Orleans?

  “Has Marjorie viewed a similar recording?” Tinkie asked Tammy.

  “She never mentioned it, but that might account for her abrupt decision to join the loonies at the compound and her total depression. I mean, the child in the recording is blaming her mother. Something like that is serious; I fear it might push her into suicide.” Tammy punched the remote so we could watch it again.

  “Don’t even say that, Tammy,” Tinkie admonished. “Marjorie Littlefield has managed four stupendous marriages. She isn’t a fool. She’s not the kind to buy into a suicide pact.”

  “Except where her dead daughter is concerned,” Tammy said. “Guilt and shame can drive a person to desperate measures.”

  “How did Mariam Littlefield drown?”

  “Marjorie was married to an importer of artifacts and antiques.” Tammy paused the replay. “Ramón Salazar was popular in society circles. They entertained lavishly. Marjorie’s job was to throw parties that brought the wealthy into the fold. She enjoyed the lifestyle and New Orleans.”

  Tinkie patted Tammy’s shoulder. “Mariam didn’t drown to punish Marjorie for enjoying life. That’s a crazy and very egocentric thought.”

  I waved her to silence. “Tell us what you know, Tammy.”

  “Marjorie said Ramón took an interest in Chasley. Paul la Kink died in a car accident when Chasley was young. Up until Marjorie married Ramón, the boy had no real man in his life. Ramón took Chasley to the docks to help unload and appraise the artifacts and antiques. Under Ramón’s guidance, Chasley thrived. He was just a kid, but he worked with his stepfather every day after school and even on weekends. Marjorie said Ramón’s attention changed Chasley, brought him out.”

  “What went wrong?” I asked.

  “At first, it was really good. As the weeks passed, though, Chasley became mean-spirited and secretive. It troubled Marjorie, but she and Mariam were busy fulfilling the female roles as hostesses for the gala parties, the society ladies. She said the press photographed them and remarked they were like sisters. She attributed Chasley’s dark moods to growing pains.”

  “Does Marjorie think Ramón influenced Chasley in a negative way?” I asked. Guilt was a monster that, once it began feasting, could consume a person.

  Tammy shrugged. “She’s convinced herself the seed of Chasley’s darkness crept into him at this time. Bad associations at the docks, or something worse. That’s what she said.”

  “Like he’s possessed?” Tinkie inched closer to me.

  “Whatever you want to call it, she believes that summer Chasley changed into a boy capable of killing his sister.”

  “But surely she doesn’t believe … I mean, the drowning had to be an accident.”

  Tammy aimed the remote and clicked the player on. The image of the little girl blurred across the screen. She stood on the stairs, water dripping. “That summer, Mariam came into her own. Ramón began to take an interest in her. She was a child with a lot of social graces. Marjorie thinks Chasley got jealous. He felt Mariam was taking something away from him. Late one afternoon after the stevedores were gone, Chasley convinced Mariam to go down to the docks with him. She fell in the river and drowned. There were no witnesses to the event, and Chasley was not in the habit of spending time with his sister.”

  The image of the little girl shifted on the screen. She seemed to glide forward toward the camera. Her mouth didn’t move, but I heard the words, “I await.” I couldn’t be certain anyone else had heard them, but my heart was pounding.

  Lights from a car shifted across the wall. Walking over to the front window, I looked out. I’d forgotten all about the car parked across the street. Whoever it was had packed up and left. The street was empty but for pale moonlight dancing through the oak leaves.

  * * *

  It had been a long day. I dropped Tinkie at Hilltop and fled for Dahlia House. I hoped the heaping plate of food from Tammy would be a peace offering to Oscar, but I didn’t wait around to find out. Besides, I had horses to feed and a hound to coddle.

  The barn on the grounds of Dahlia House was built back in the 1950s with six stalls and room for hay and equipment storage. With the exception of my pastures, the acreage around the house was leased to a local man, Billy Watson, who knew cotton inside and out. The lease money paid the taxes, and Billy also bush-hogged my pastures and maintained the fences.

  Reveler, Miss Scrapiron, and Lucifer were glad to see me. They whinnied softly as I scooped up their grain and dumped it into their feed buckets. The sound of their contented chewing did a lot to settle my frazzled nerves. The video of the little girl had upset me.

  After the horses fi
nished eating, I opened the stall doors and let them return to the pasture. Sweetie and I headed into the house. I fed my hound and found myself pacing the kitchen. After I made a drink, I went outside to sit on the porch, but the humidity was awful. As were the mosquitoes.

  Sweetie and I went back in. After fifteen minutes, it became clear that if I didn’t find something to do, I would worry myself sick. There were no messages from Graf. I’d thrown down the gauntlet, and he’d failed even to acknowledge it. While I might rue my ultimatum, there was no way to take it back. If he wouldn’t talk to me, I’d have to box up the engagement ring and return it. But I wasn’t going to rush. Tinkie had shown me the wisdom of waiting until Graf finished filming.

  “Jitty!” At least my haint would be some company. “Jitty!”

  There was no answer. She did have her own business to conduct, and from what I could tell, she stayed active in the social whirl of the Great Beyond. She also had an unwritten rule against answering me unless it was a dire emergency—or she wanted something from me.

  “Jitty!”

  On the third try, I called it quits. Instead, I whistled up my hound for a drive to the Sweetheart Café. Sweetie adored the soft vanilla ice cream cones.

  Once we were headed to town, I called Harold to invite him and Roscoe to join us. Harold would have some doggy misadventure to relate, and perhaps he could lift the feeling of doom hanging heavy over my head.

  “Why, Sarah Booth, Roscoe and I are charmed at your invitation. We’ll wait for you on the front porch.”

  True to his word, he and the devilish canine were ready and waiting when I pulled up in his front yard. With Harold riding shotgun and the dogs in the backseat, we headed to the burger joint. We were picking up the cones at the drive-through when Harold put a hand on my shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “That obvious?”

  “Even a blind man could see you’re upset. Oscar told me he and Graf are very unhappy with the detective agency. I assume your funk extends from that matter.”