Buried Bones Read online

  “Is it ruined?” I asked. If Willem was pumping me, I decided to turn the tables.

  Willem leaned across the space and touched my hand. “Perhaps I misunderstood. Will Brianna continue with the book?”

  The touch of his hand distracted me with a flash of sensory neon, but something in his tone made me cautious. “I’m not certain what her plans are. Maybe you should ask her.”

  Willem chuckled. “You know Brianna, always so secretive.”

  I very slowly withdrew my hand. Williem had come to pump me, but I didn’t understand why. He could get better answers from Brianna. “I do know Brianna. How well do you know her?”

  “Well enough. We parted friends.”

  “How nice,” I said, wondering exactly which one had pulled the plug on the relationship. As far as I could remember, Willem had been spared the tabloid treatment. There had been no public recriminations in print. Now, at least, I knew why he wasn’t asking her questions.

  “This book, are you comfortable with Brianna writing the life of Lawrence?” He finished his drink and carefully put the glass on the table beside his chair.

  It was impossible to determine the underlying basis of his question. He and Brianna had been lovers. What were they now? Had she sent him over here? “I actually don’t have an opinion. You knew them both, what do you think?”

  I watched his reaction and caught a flicker of something I couldn’t define. “Brianna has connections in the publishing world, and perhaps the movies. I’m just not certain of her ability to get the facts straight. She has a very casual relationship with the truth.”

  “How deftly put.” Brianna was a liar and he knew it.

  “You didn’t happen to see the manuscript in his home, did you?” Willem asked.

  I was beginning to see the motivation for his visit. Disappointment has a metallic taste. “I wasn’t looking for it,” I said as I poured him another drink. “What, exactly, is your interest in Lawrence’s book?” It was time to fish or cut bait.

  He shrugged, that deliberate lifting of his shoulders that could mean almost anything. “I have my vices like all men. Curiosity is one of them. You left last night after Lawrence made his announcement.” His smile was tinted with enjoyment. “Everyone was terrified of what he might put in that book. I suppose I’ve fallen victim to the desire to know the gossip.”

  I didn’t believe that for a second, but the art of interrogation required that I resist the impulse to point it out. “I believe Lawrence was playing with everyone,” I said. “You know, having his fun at their expense.” His eyes held only mild amusement at the thought. If he feared something in the book, he knew how to cover himself. “How long will you be staying in town?” I asked, sipping my drink.

  One corner of his mouth turned down. “Who knows? Once I finish my negotiations on behalf of my country, I may stay for a while. I’m a farmer as well as an artist, Sarah Booth. The desolation of the Delta appeals to me. The land speaks to me. Perhaps I’ll paint here.”

  I hadn’t expected that response. “But your paintings are so political. I wouldn’t expect you to find inspiration in a foreign land.”

  “An artist must grow, Sarah Booth. Besides, I’ve found something else that interests me.” He stared directly into my eyes, and I felt the force of his charisma. There was no doubt he was a predator, and he was letting me know that I was the lamb of choice. At least for the moment. Though I had conflicting feelings about him, my body responded to the thrill. I shifted in my chair and saw him smile.

  I had to gain control—of myself and the conversation. “You said earlier that you’d come to Zinnia to finish some business with Lawrence. If it wasn’t the book, what was it?”

  “Are you always so …” He turned both hands out, fingers fluid. “Direct?”

  “Are you always so evasive?”

  He laughed, a full-bodied sound of enjoyment. “Ah, a woman who understands the art of conversation. I like you, Sarah Booth, so I’ll answer your question. My business with Lawrence did not originally involve his book. I didn’t know of it until I came here. My friendship with Lawrence goes back to when I was young, back to my first days as an artist. It is for that reason that I came to visit. Of course, the book intrigues me.” He finished his second drink. “Now, may we talk about other things. Why don’t you tell me about the book you’re writing?”

  Conversing with Willem was a pleasure and a challenge, but I had another obligation. “Forgive me, Willem. I have plans.” I wanted plenty of time to prepare for Harold.

  Perfectly cued, Willem rose to his feet. “It was lovely to see you, Sarah Booth. If it’s agreeable, I’d like to call tomorrow. Cece said you would be the perfect guide to show me the Delta. She said you could reveal the land’s secrets. I need to explore, to learn.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We’ll take a drive.” He made his way to the front door where he stopped, framed at the threshold of my home. “At two?”

  “Okay,” I agreed with my heart beating far too fast. Oh, the treachery of hormones.

  He walked across the porch and was halfway to the steps when he turned back. “Lawrence didn’t leave anything for me, did he? An envelope or box of some sort? He told me at dinner that he had something he wanted me to have.”

  “I don’t recall seeing anything with your name on it.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Lawrence could be a man of mystery when he chose.”

  “I’ll ask Madame. She’s the executrix of his estate.”

  “Of course,” he said, nodding. “Tomorrow at two.”

  His long legs took his tight butt down the steps and to the red car. With a languid wave of his hand he was gone. I was left standing on the porch. Sweetie Pie crept out from under the porch, her stomach groveling on the ground.

  “Sweetie!” I’d never seen her so pathetic.

  She licked the toe of my boot and whined. I knelt to console her, earning a full-fledged lick in the mouth.

  I felt a whisper of wind beside me. Jitty had arrived.

  “Better get you some new panties,” she said in a dark voice. “I get the feeling that pair you’re wearing is about ready to fall off.”

  “Nonsense,” I said with as much starch as I could muster.

  “Honey, you got the look of a woman who is seated at a banquet table after a two-week fast.”

  I tried to compose my face, knowing that if I looked in a mirror, I would see exactly what Jitty described. “He’s very handsome,” I acknowledged.

  “Handsome, charming, sophisticated, talented, yes indeed, he’s all of those things.”

  I was surprised she agreed with me. “So what’s the problem?” I turned to face her. There was a small, black, furry creature clamped on her head, undoubtedly sucking her brain out through her hair follicles. I took a swat at it, thinking of body snatchers and other podlike creatures with … fur?

  “It’s called a poodle cut,” Jitty said defensively. “It’s the latest do. Judy Holliday was wearing one in this terrific movie where she pretended to be dumb to get men to do what she wanted.”

  Tentatively I examined what was obviously a hairdo masterpiece of anal retentiveness. “Does it hurt?” Even ghost hair couldn’t endure such torture without a twinge of pain.

  “It’s the latest craze,” she said, patting it lovingly.

  “Jitty, you’re overlooking one little thing in your quest for moral stability.”

  “What?” She gave me a sideways glance.

  “The fifties weren’t exactly the best of times for women. Especially women of color.” Hah! I had her now.

  “If you’d settle down, marry, and produce an heir, I wouldn’t be forced to choose between my needs and yours.”

  With that zinger, she did a fast fade.

  Sweetie’s tail thumped the porch. She was looking perkier and had actually retrieved the shoe. I’d give her another five minutes of fetch before I got ready for Harold.

  I went into the yard and threw the shoe. �
��Fetch, girl! Get it!” To my surprise she went right after it. But instead of bringing it to me, she hauled ass under the porch. No amount of coaxing could bring her out. On my hands and knees I went after her.

  I heard her happy tail thumping and found her about ten feet under the edge of the porch nested in a pile of goodies, the shoe still in her mouth.

  “Sweetie,” I cried in dismay. She might not fetch for me but she’d been working overtime on her own acquisitions. She had a remote control—not mine—a catcher’s mitt, and several tennis shoes, mismatched but name brand. The dog was a thief. I looked around the vast expanse of under-house terrain. No telling what else the dog had hidden.

  “Sweetie,” I whispered, gathering up the stuff. “They don’t rehabilitate dogs. It’s the gas chamber.” I backed out from under the house and headed straight for the toolshed. I intended to bury the evidence before anyone else saw it.

  5

  The problem with getting dressed too early is that a woman is left with too much time on her hands. Coiffured, perfumed, made-up—there’s not a single, solitary, useful thing she can do except look good. After two hours of labor, I had no intention of risking damage to the hard-won effect, so I found myself, nails aglitter with a dazzling coat of red, sitting in my neon pulsating parlor with a glass of Jack Daniel’s. I decided to savor the moment and congratulate myself on having earned enough money to buy good bonded whiskey.

  Sweetie Pie was lounging at my feet, content with her three cans of Alpo and a half of an apple pie she’d stolen off the kitchen counter. I rubbed my stockinged foot over her belly, feeling the swell of food. She wasn’t a great dog, but she was one helluva calorie disposal unit.

  The doorbell rang and I checked my image in the mirror that hung over the mantel. Harold would be suitably impressed with my dark green velvet dress with its mandarin collar and gold frogs.

  I opened the door with a demure smile and found myself face-to-face with a short person completely covered in a black hooded cloak. The figure swept past me with a harsh command—“Shut the door! Quickly!”

  I recognized Madame’s tones and reacted as always. I obeyed and followed her into the parlor where she proceeded straight to the crystal decanter and poured herself a heaping amount of JD.

  In a move that only a dancer could achieve, she swirled to face me. As the cloak billowed about her, the hood fell back. Madame’s dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “What have you discovered?” she asked.

  Though I wasn’t much of a student of dance, drama was my love. I had to give it to her for theatrics. “It’s Christmas Day,” I reminded her gently.

  She put a small fist to her mouth as she composed herself. “Someone murdered Lawrence, and you’re only interested in a holiday!”

  I picked up my drink and took a long swallow. The image of Lawrence Ambrose on his floor was clearly etched in my memory. The sound of Madame’s sobs as she knelt beside him were also recorded in Memorex. “I’ll check tomorrow,” I assured her. “Nothing was open today.” Besides, the autopsy had to be performed, dictated, and transcribed. These were details she didn’t need to think about.

  “The manuscript is missing,” she said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “There’s no doubt Brianna stole it. We have to get it back. We can’t let her publish it.”

  This was a point that needed clarification. “How far along were they?”

  Madame shook her head. “I don’t know for certain. Lawrence had been talking to her for several months. He’d been working on the years he spent in Paris. That was what I thought the book would encompass. Those years of war and intrigue. Lawrence led a fascinating life. That would have been enough, a wonderful book.”

  She stopped, and for a moment I thought she was finished. When she resumed, her voice had lost all softness. It was as flinty as her eyes.

  “At the party, that dreadful Sam Rayburn was talking about using everything, from cradle to Magnolia Place. It was like he owned Lawrence’s life and everyone in it. And Lawrence didn’t object.”

  I’d overheard a portion of that conversation. Rayburn wouldn’t have been my producer of choice. “Lawrence wanted this opportunity,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, his plan.” Her laugh was short and bitter. “He said that flies couldn’t resist a fresh … well, you get the idea. He said the only way to sell anything was to create anticipation, a buzz, and that the best buzz came from a swarm of eager flies. He wanted everyone in that room to buzz. He knew that each of them, challenged with the possibility of revealing their dirty little secrets, couldn’t resist talking. They would swarm and buzz, and the demand for his book would be irresistible.”

  I had so heartily disliked most of the people at the party that I understood Lawrence’s motivation—on several levels.

  Revenge has its place in the gamut of human needs.

  “Surely, though, he didn’t intend to torment you?” Madame had loved Lawrence, and though they’d never married, I was certain he cared equally for her.

  “Oh, he assured me that everything was under his control. The problem with Lawrence, though, is that he underestimated the meanness and cruelty of his fellow humans. He was out of his league, and he paid with his life. And now his private journals are missing. His address book, all of his correspondence. That bitch Brianna has them and she’ll publish a book if she can.”

  Sweetie Pie had settled at my feet, emitting the sound of soft snores of contentment in direct contrast to Madame’s frenetic energy. “Can you tell me exactly what Lawrence was writing?” This was crucial. If the book was truly devastating to someone, then stopping it from being published would be a prime motive for murder.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Madame said, her voice hardly louder than a whisper. “He hadn’t been feeling well the past couple of weeks. His was pale and cold. And then the cat—he was distraught over Rasmus dying. Whenever I stopped by, Brianna was there, slipping in and out, pressing him about the past. She convinced him that her name and her connections in the publishing world would propel the book to the best-seller list. She claimed she was dating that publisher. Lawrence was completely blinded by—” She broke off abruptly and took a healthy belt of Jack Daniel’s.

  “By what?” I asked. My gut told me this was a vital point, and one that Madame didn’t want to confront.

  “By his desire to be read,” she finished, her voice trembling. “You can’t imagine what it was like for him. He was famous once, sought after, respected, consulted about literature and art. He was somebody, Sarah Booth. And the last years have just passed. He watched his contemporaries achieve great success. Tom and Truman and Nell, all of those powerful Southern voices finding people who read them again and again, while his wonderful books were forgotten, out of print.”

  I could easily understand, but there was a problem. “It would have been Brianna’s book, not his.”

  “Not really,” Madame said, finally looking at me. “Not at all. Lawrence was actually doing most of the writing. I know that for a fact. And if the book was successful, what would it matter? His books would be reprinted, his body of work revived. There would be new opportunities. He had it all figured out.”

  Perhaps. “And he really thought Brianna could deliver?”

  “He did. And in a way, I think he felt sorry for her. Her career, too, was over. In another year no one in fashion would remember her name. He saw it as an opportunity to help her.”

  “Why?” The question popped out. Brianna Rathbone wasn’t a woman who elicited my sympathy. She was a very wealthy woman, if not in her own right, then by inheritance. Layton Rathbone was a millionaire many times over.

  Madame went to the decanter and tipped a splash of liquor into her glass. “I tried to tell him that she wasn’t to be trusted. Now, if she has the manuscript, she’ll publish it. I know she will. She’ll ruin anyone who gets in her way. We have to get it back.”

  We were back at the original point. Madame had grown short of breath as she talked. I went to he
r and eased her down into a chair. What she said made just enough sense to trigger my neck-crepe reaction. The flesh at the back of my neck was prickling and drawing, a very unladylike behavior.

  The doorbell chimed and I knew it was Harold. I started to the door as Madame’s small hand caught my wrist in a grip that would have done Charles Atlas proud.

  “You have to get the manuscript back,” she said, “and then prove that Brianna Rathbone is a killer.”

  Staring into her black eyes, I could only swallow. Madame had always been demanding, rigid, passionate, and suffered no fools. But I’d never seen such iron as I did in her gaze.

  The bell chimed again and she released me, but her eyes held me firmly in place.

  “There’s a lot at stake, Sarah Booth. Whatever you do, don’t mention this to another living soul. Promise me.”

  “Not a word.” I turned to go to the door, shaken by Madame’s naked determination. Sweetie Pie almost bowled me over as she hurried forward. This time there were no growls, only a metronome tail that was as dangerous as a swinging blackjack. She whined fetchingly at the door.

  “Harold,” I said, opening the door, trying hard to sidestep Sweetie’s baton tail. No matter how many times I greeted him, I was surprised by his handsomeness. His gray wool suit was perfectly tailored, offset with a red Christmas tie that sported a blinking tree. Odd that the foolish tie clip only made him look more distinguished. And desirable.

  “Sweetie.” He swept the dog into a big bear hug. “And nice to see you, too, Sarah Booth,” he added as he stood and took my hand. His ice-blue eyes danced.

  We hadn’t made it past the doorway when Madame entered the foyer, her hood back in place, her face partially concealed.

  “Good evening, Harold,” she said before she turned to me. “Remember, Sarah Booth, I’m counting on you.” She swept past us into the night, leaving a palpable void of silence.

  “She’s upset,” I said, opting for the Daddy’s Girl tactic of obvious understatement. This would, hopefully, put Harold in the position of assuming the tower-of-strength pose, which would then make him forget to wonder about Madame’s presence in my home and her strange remark.