A Garland of Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  7

  After lunch and more shopping, we headed back to Columbus. Per our plan, we met up with the men for dinner and then went on to Rook’s Nest, one of the oldest homes in Columbus. It was a three-story gingerbread beauty with all of the Gothic architectural twists of the finest pre–Civil War homes in the South.

  People were coming and going, oohing and aahing over the twinkling lights and the beautiful décor. We entered and accepted a glass of wine as a server passed by. The people of Columbus had retained the grace and social niceties of a time gone by. On this one magical night when local residents opened their homes to strangers for some holiday cheer, I was reminded of a period when grace and manners marked the character of a town. I was in awe of the elaborate decorations in Rook’s Nest. To be honest, I had no idea who our hosts were—I hadn’t read the detailed itinerary Tinkie had mailed out. But I was glad that Tinkie had bullied me into taking the pilgrimage. This was something my parents would have enjoyed. They were small-scale party-givers. Except at Christmas. My mother had adored Christmas, and I knew she would have loved the huge fir tree with the hand-carved and -painted figures of rocking horses, toy soldiers, angels, elves, and other Christmas creatures. The fir smelled wonderful, and I inhaled the delicate odor, taking in all the memories that came with it. I’d come to realize that almost everything I loved was bittersweet. I felt the joy of the holidays and of being with the ones I loved, but also a tinge of sadness for the ones I had lost.

  “Sarah Booth, are you okay?” Millie had sidled up to me. She was an astute judge of character and mood. She, too, had suffered loss.

  “I am. This is a beautiful house. Would you say Victorian?”

  “Queen Anne, I think. I’m not an authority on architecture,” Millie said. “I can attest to the fact it’s beautiful and lends itself to all this decadent decoration.”

  Harold had joined us. “In the days when this house was built, you could actually order pattern books to show you how to add the recognized Queen Anne flourishes like the turrets and wraparound porches. Another identifying characteristic is that the houses are asymmetrical.”

  My home, Dahlia House, with its wide sweeping front porch and huge columns, was more formal and less fanciful. “This is just pretty. And did you see the staircase? It almost floats!” I was also a big fan of the cantilevered staircases. The one in Waverley Mansion had been astounding, and this one, on a less grand scale, was just as lovely in its own way. The staircase curved up to the second floor and then on to the third.

  “Where did Coleman, Oscar, and Jaytee get off to?” Harold asked. The men had all been with us, but now three of them had disappeared.

  “Maybe doing secret mission work,” I said wickedly. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

  “Not going to happen, Sarah Booth.” He shook his head. “But I’d like for you to try to make me talk. Maybe a few threats? I love it when you talk brash.”

  Harold was incorrigible. He would never spill the beans. It was a waste of my time, but we both enjoyed the challenge. “Tinkie might be more effective at wringing the truth out of you. After all, her daddy owns the bank.” Harold worked with Oscar at Zinnia National Bank. They were both, technically, employees of Tinkie’s father, but Avery Bellcase left the running of the bank to Oscar, and Oscar relied heavily on Harold. Avery never interfered and Harold knew that.

  “Ah, threatening my livelihood. That is a new low, Sarah Booth.”

  “Maybe I’ll just get some compromising photographs of you and … what is her name? Tulla? Bricey? Or…”—I pointed at the beautiful blond woman who was making a beeline for us—“maybe her.”

  “Watch out for her,” Coleman whispered to me, his breath tickling my ear and neck. He’d reappeared out of nowhere. “She’s a barracuda.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Years of experience with dangerous women.”

  Coleman was teasing me, up to a point. I could tell by his expression that he was genuinely wary of the woman who came up and introduced herself.

  “Hello, I’m Clarissa Olson. Welcome to Rook’s Nest. This is my home. I’m intrigued to have private investigators here”—she stared at Coleman a moment too long—“and an official member of Mississippi’s finest.”

  “What about bankers and musicians?” I asked.

  “Oh, them, too. But Sheriff Peters isn’t wearing a ring. There’s a flock of women who’ve noticed already. The same for the banker and the musician.” She eyed Jaytee and I wondered if she would actually drool. “I hear he blows a hot harmonica.”

  It was impossible to tell if she was being serious or coy. I decided to go with the latter. Some women had been raised to be the coquette; it was the only behavior they knew.

  We all offered compliments on her house and decorating skills.

  “Thank you. I’m just fortunate to have a house that allows me to indulge in these excesses of Christmas.” She waved a hand to include the tree, the garlands of greenery draped everywhere, and even the mistletoe hanging from a chandelier. She grabbed Coleman’s hand and tugged him under the batch of greenery. She stood on tiptoe, intending to plant a big kiss on my guy. I slid between them with the subtlety of an elephant stampede, pushing Clarissa backward with a bit too much verve. She was lucky Harold caught her when she stumbled and almost fell off her high heels.

  “I don’t recommend messing with Sarah Booth’s fella,” Harold said loudly enough for several bystanders to hear. A little twitter broke out among the females.

  “Oh, honestly,” Clarissa said, straightening the emerald shantung jacket she wore. “People in this town are so uptight about a little Christmas buss.”

  Before our encounter could escalate, my attention was drawn to the top of the beautiful staircase. All around me laughter and conversation bubbled, but for me, the room had gone suddenly silent. At the top of the stairs, a man teetered on the soles of his feet as his arms windmilled. Events unfolded in silent slow motion. I watched in horror as he hurtled down the steps, tumbling in a topsy-turvy heap so that I couldn’t identify who it was, only that it was a male. Sound returned with full intensity when several women screamed, and then all conversation stopped as the man made the curve in the staircase, heels over head, and sprawled to a stop right at my feet.

  The entire room drew in a collective breath. The man bleeding on the expensive Oriental carpet was George Clooney handsome and definitely injured—and one I’d seen before with Tulla Tarbutton in a restaurant. He of the angry wife. I knelt down to feel for a pulse. “He’s alive! Call an ambulance now!”

  Panic broke out as several people came over to assist with first aid. A dark-haired woman broke through the crowd and dropped to her knees beside him. “Bart! Bart!” She tried to get a response. “Tell me you’re okay.” It was the wife—the same one who’d slapped his face in the restaurant.

  But Bart wasn’t talking—and might never again. I had no idea how serious his injuries were or what had happened. As people with medical ability took over, I stepped back to the fringes of the crowd, watching as Coleman took command of the scene. He was clearing everyone away while Harold and Jaytee knelt by Bart, who was moaning and starting to show signs of wanting to get up. The woman on the floor kneeling at his head looked up into the faces of the guests. From an expression of fear, her face went to full-blown rage. She pointed at Tulla Tarbutton. “This is on you! This is your fault.”

  “I didn’t push him,” Tulla said. “I wasn’t upstairs. I was over in the corner with some others. Maybe you did it, Sunny. He’s your husband. You’re the one with a motive to kill him.”

  Sunny came off her knees like she was powered by a nuclear reactor. “How dare you! I’m going to pull every hair out of your head.” She lunged across her husband’s prone body, but Coleman captured her and held her.

  “Calm down. Just calm down. Let’s get some help for your husband before you do anything rash.” Coleman had a tiger by the tail. Sunny was almost foaming at t
he mouth.

  Movement at the top of the stairs caught my eye. I saw Bricey Presley dart down the hallway and into a bedroom. A door closed silently. My attention was drawn back to the injured man.

  “The paramedics are on their way,” Cece said, and I was glad to see she’d had the presence of mind to make the call and was now videoing everyone at the crime scene. That would prove valuable to the police when they began investigating, if an investigation was warranted.

  “Did you get any video of Bart falling?” I asked Cece, who’d come up beside me.

  “Most of it.” She leaned a little closer to me. “Rumor has it that Bart and Sunny are always at each other’s throats. He’s a notorious womanizer, and Sunny probably pushed him down the stairs. Or maybe one of his mistresses did it.”

  “You think he was pushed?” I asked. “That’s terrible. Thank goodness Tinkie and I haven’t been deeply involved in domestic cases,” I said. “Those are just the worst. They’re a no-win situation for a PI.”

  Clarissa Olson appeared at my side. “May I have a word?”

  “Sure.” I stepped away and followed Clarissa to where Tinkie was standing, a stricken look on her face.

  “This is terrible. What an awful accident,” Tinkie said.

  “I want to hire your detective agency,” Clarissa said before I could ask any questions.

  “For what?” Tinkie asked.

  “Someone is pulling a bunch of dirty tricks around here. The dump truck load of cement on Bricey’s new car. The shock to Tulla. Now Bart has been pushed down the stairs. Someone is going to be seriously hurt—if Bart isn’t already. Or even killed. I need to know who is doing this and stop it.”

  “Was Bricey Presley involved with Bart?” I asked. I’d seen her at the top of the stairs.

  Clarissa shrugged one shoulder. “That’s for you to find out. I’ll drop by the B and B later and bring a check.”

  “I’m not certain we want to be involved in this case,” I said. “We’re here on holiday and we have to leave in a few days.”

  “You don’t live on the other side of the ocean,” Clarissa said, waving a hand with a diamond ring the size of a walnut. “Surely you can manage a case in Columbus even if you live in the metropolis of Zinnia.”

  Her sarcasm wasn’t making me eager to work for her, but I had my eye on a new saddle for Coleman’s Christmas gift. A paying case would give me the extra cash for year-end expenses at Dahlia House and the saddle. “We could manage it if we wanted to,” I said. “I’m just not sure I want to get embroiled in what looks to be a cluster of serial cheaters. That’s a thankless task. Besides, no one is going to be happy with what we find out.”

  “You could save a life.” Clarissa was done with sarcasm. “This has gone from nasty warnings to dangerous pranks and now to potentially fatal attacks. Maybe you think these people don’t deserve to be saved, but that’s pretty judgy of you, Sarah Booth Delaney.”

  “Sarah Booth isn’t judging them,” Tinkie said. “She’s just making a point that she might not be keen to associate with them. This kind of case is like stepping in a cesspool. Nobody comes out of it clean.”

  “I’m sure there are other private investigators in Columbus who could do a fine job,” I said. Tinkie was right. We seldom turned down cases, but this one had the reek of bad trouble.

  “I’m not going to beg you,” Clarissa said. “If you’re afraid of a little domestic kerfuffle, then you’re afraid.”

  “We’re not afraid.” Tinkie took the bait before I could stop her. “We’ll take your case. But we need an honest answer from you.”

  “About what?” Clarissa asked.

  “Are you involved with Bart Crenshaw?”

  Clarissa chuckled. “I danced with that monkey years ago.” She swiveled her hips, “Cha, cha, cha! Bart and I burned hot and fast. Now there’s not even a glowing ember left. But I don’t want to see him murdered. He’s selling my property for me, and he’s the best real estate agent around. I’ve made a killing since we teamed up professionally.”

  “What do you know about Bricey Presley?” I asked. If Bricey had pushed Bart, and she was there with him on the second floor, it would be a simple case. Tinkie and I could collect our fee and call it a day.

  “She’s been involved with Bart, but that’s in the past. He paid her off with that Cadillac that got filled up with cement.”

  That was interesting. “So maybe Bart decided she didn’t deserve a fancy car.”

  Clarissa shook her head. “No, Bart gave her the Cadillac as a parting gift. Bart never leaves a lady with a frown on her face. This is something else.”

  “Was Tulla Tarbutton involved with Bart?” I was going to need a scorecard to keep all of these entanglements straight.

  “No clue.”

  “Was Tulla involved with anyone else?” Tinkie asked.

  Clarissa played the dumb blonde. “That’s your job to find out. I just want you to figure out who’s angry enough to nearly kill a man and then I want you to stop them. Leave me out of this completely. No one should know I’ve hired you.”

  “Why not?” I asked. What was Clarissa trying to hide?

  She put her hands on her hips. “Look, this kind of cheating thing goes on everywhere. In a small town, it’s just easier to spot. There are happily married couples and there are swingers. By day, no one knows the difference, but at night, some folks grow old in front of a television and others stay young by … scratching an itch.”

  “Are you cheating with someone?” Tinkie asked, getting right to the point. “Maybe you’re afraid someone is coming after you.”

  Clarissa laughed, and it was almost as tinkling and bell-like as Tinkie’s own signature laugh. “Tulla is my best friend. I know she’s inserted herself into more than one marriage around here. She doesn’t mean any harm—it’s just that she’s a predator. She sees a man she wants and she goes for him. When she’s done, she walks away. No harm, no foul. The problem is, someone put a water moccasin in her mailbox last week. The snake was dead, but the message was clear.”

  “That’s pretty drastic, but cheating isn’t just a game. People get hurt. Lives are ruined.” Tinkie was not a fan of deceit or lies.

  Clarissa shrugged one shoulder. “This is the real world, ladies. It happens. Spouses and fiancés stray. Women and men sleep with their boss or employees. Young girls hone their skills chasing older men. These are all passing stages. None of them should be taken seriously by any party involved.”

  Her philosophy of life wasn’t appealing to me, but what she said was at least partially true. It took all kinds to make a community.

  “Are you kidding me?” Millie had walked up for the tail end of the conversation. “That kind of crap can kill a marriage and put a person’s life in danger. It’s not just a passing moment of great sex with no cost. It has a cost. Sometimes a high one.”

  Clarissa grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and swallowed most of it. “Perhaps in your plebeian world, but those of us with some sophistication understand that man is just an animal. We have animal urges. Once you own up to it, then it frees you to enjoy life.”

  “People get hurt when someone they love cheats. Most people don’t like to be hurt. Sometimes they lash back.” Millie held her ground.

  “Sex has nothing to do with love,” Clarissa insisted. “Only a naïve fool would confuse the two.”

  I put a hand on Millie’s shoulder but spoke to Clarissa. “Maybe you should rent the movie Fatal Attraction. Oh, and if you have any rabbits, it may be best to rehome them.”

  “Pish posh,” Clarissa said, shaking her head. “I don’t care if you are judgmental about us. Your view of what we do is neither here nor there. Will you take the case?”

  “What do you want us to prove?” I asked.

  “Find out who’s behind this series of accidents and let’s get them the mental help they need. Someone is going to get hurt. I can agree with you on that. Poor Bart came down those stairs like he was a sack
of potatoes. He could have easily broken his neck.”

  “Our retainer is fifteen large,” Tinkie said, upping our normal fee and also attempting to sound like a gangster. I loved it when she got her back up.

  “I’ll have the money. Now I must see to my guests.” She walked toward the bar. “Everyone, please, refill your glasses. This has been a terrible accident, but Bart is on the way to the hospital to get the care he needs. There’s nothing else we can do for him. Please drink up.”

  “You think we can solve this before we leave Columbus?” Tinkie asked. Around us the sound of hushed talk continued. Clarissa turned the Christmas music louder.

  “If this was going on in Zinnia, it would be a snap because we would know exactly the right people to ask.” Every town had a couple of people who were up to speed on all the gossip. We just didn’t know who that might be in Columbus.

  8

  It took some effort on Clarissa’s part, but she finally got the party revved up. I wanted to leave, but the beautiful old Queen Anne house was jam-packed with potential suspects, so Tinkie and I split up to cover more ground. Cece and Millie were also helping: they walked up to groups of women and inserted themselves into conversations, eventually leading the talk back to the cement-buried Caddy and Tulla’s shocking karaoke experience. I was also interested in Sunny Crenshaw, wife of the tumbling Realtor. She hadn’t gone to the hospital with her husband but instead had remained at the party, drinking pretty hard. I also had an eye out for Bricey Presley. She was my number one suspect in Bart Crenshaw’s unfortunate “accident.”

  A group of laughing women clustered around Darla, who was recounting stories about bad B and B guests from holidays past.