Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  “That’s creepy and wrong.”

  “Doctors do it. Lawyers do it. Policemen, teachers, musicians, artists, and don’t forget the politicians. Why should someone who can speak with the dead be any different? There’s an old saying: Everyone has a price. For most, it’s money. Others sell out for companionship.”

  He made a good argument. Still, it depressed me. Communicating with the dead was a truly special gift. To use it to manipulate people to give up money seemed more wrong than robbing them at gunpoint.

  “You’re right.” We crossed the city limits into Zinnia. “Harold, I need a favor.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Can you call Mrs. Littlefield and tell her to demand her personal maids?”

  “Presuming I can find a number for this reclusive place, of course I will.”

  “First thing tomorrow?”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I’m worried about Mrs. Littlefield, and also I need to stay busy. If I don’t, I’ll make myself sick about Graf.”

  “I’ll take care of it as soon as the bank opens. Do you want access tomorrow around noon?”

  “Yes.” If Tinkie and I planned to continue with Delaney Detective Agency, we needed to act. If Oscar intended to make Tinkie quit, I had to know. As for Graf, if he didn’t contact me by tomorrow morning, I would be out of touch. Physically and emotionally.

  “Consider it done,” Harold said as I pulled into his driveway.

  I slowed beneath the arching limbs of the old trees that created a tunnel down his winding driveway. Once, he’d wrapped the branches of the live oaks with twinkle lights just for me. At the memory, my thumb gave a tiny little pulse.

  “Thank you, Harold.”

  “Sarah Booth, I wish you and Graf the utmost happiness, but a part of me still would like a chance to court you.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “The future is a scary place, Harold.”

  His hand grazed my chin. “Keep it in mind. I may be the only man you know who can give you the freedom you need and the support you deserve.”

  His words almost broke my heart. “Now isn’t the time, Harold. I’m wearing Graf’s ring.”

  “Life moves swiftly. If things don’t work out with Graf, I want you to know my feelings. I’ve played the field my entire life. I know what I want. And I know you, warts and all.” He picked up my hand and kissed the base of my palm. “But whatever happens, we will always be friends. That you can count on.”

  He opened the door and got out. “Come along, Roscoe,” he said as he mounted the steps to his porch.

  Sweetie gave a low groan of good-bye to Roscoe and then hopped into the front seat, where she curled up for a nap as we drove home, my thumb tingling in a way that made me feel as if I’d betrayed my fiancé.

  * * *

  “Sarah Booth, I’ll risk my life for you any day, but I will not wear that!” Tinkie walked around her desk in Delaney Detective Agency and dropped the white housekeeper smock on the floor beside the white rubber-soled shoes. “I just can’t do it.”

  “You’d leave Marjorie Littlefield to the tender mercies of the Westin women?” I fought hard to keep my giggle in check. The maid’s outfit was a tiny bit of meanness on my part. It was the ugliest uniform I could find at the local Goodwill store.

  “I’ll wear something plain. And practical. But I will not wear that … monstrosity.”

  “What about the shoes?” The devil had me by the ear.

  “No. I can’t. It would break my spirit. They’re just so … ugly!”

  “Harold went to a lot of trouble to get us access to Heart’s Desire.” I picked up the clothes from the parquet floor and put them in a plastic bag. From behind the desk I brought out another bag with khaki slacks and polo shirts, along with some beige lace-up shoes claiming to firm one’s tush as one walked.

  “I’ll speak with Harold and—” She caught sight of the other bag. “What’s that?”

  I tossed it to her. “What we really have to wear.”

  “Sarah Booth! You are pure-dee mean!”

  I laughed out loud. “No, it was just a little fun—at your expense. We need to head out to Heart’s Desire ASAP. I’ve wrangled a compact car for us. We can’t take your Caddy and we sure can’t show up in an antique Roadster.”

  I’d been a busy girl all morning, acting on the belief Harold would get through to Marjorie and make her understand the importance of demanding her “personal maids.” I’d been right to place my faith in the man who worked so strangely on my thumb.

  “I meant to ask you about the car parked at the side of the house.” Tinkie rifled through her clothes suspiciously, but they obviously met with her approval as she began to step out of her stylish Capri set.

  I went to the desk for a photo I’d printed from Google Earth. Using satellites and photography, the aerial surveillance showed Heart’s Desire, complete with the eight-foot-high solid wall around ten acres surrounded by woods. Barrack-type structures were barely visible through the dense trees, and there was an apple orchard, and what looked like an old stable and pastures a half mile from the house.

  The main house of Heart’s Desire was a U-shaped three-story mansion with a single-story outbuilding at the back and a large parking garage.

  “Holy cow.” Tinkie studied the map. “That’s a serious compound.” She tapped the page. “It’s great to know the layout of the buildings, though. There are two levels of security. The wall, which is guarded, and perimeter roads around the entire tract, which must be close to two sections of land.”

  “Exactly two sections. The property is a rectangle with two sides running two miles and the short sides only a mile.”

  She whistled. “None of it is in cotton. It’s all wooded.”

  Fertile soil that wasn’t planted might be considered a waste by some.

  “Oscar told me the Westins bought the property in foreclosure.”

  “The sad thing is that someone always profits from the misfortune of others.”

  It was a touchy point with me. I’d almost lost Dahlia House for the mortgage and back taxes. “What did Oscar say about this job?”

  “He’s pissed right now. Then he’ll be worried. But honestly, we’re going to be maids for a day, two at most. That doesn’t sound too dangerous to me.”

  Nor me, but this was how it always began—with some innocent-sounding case that should take only a day or so and involve nothing more than a report or a bit of snooping.

  “And Graf?” she asked.

  I was working hard to avoid the fact that Graf still hadn’t called. The doorbell rang, and I opened the front door to the UPS man. I signed for the flat package he gave me and then hurried back to Tinkie. She was dressed for maid work when I got back to the office.

  “A present?”

  “From Graf.” My heart sank to my shoes. He hadn’t called, but he’d sent a package clearly containing paperwork. Not a good sign in a distressed relationship.

  I tore it open, and a heavy, bound document fell out. DELTA BLUES was stamped on the cover of a movie script. I looked at Tinkie. “Graf won’t return my phone calls but he sent me a movie script.”

  “What’s it about?” Tinkie asked the logical question.

  I thumbed through it. “It’s a crime drama centered around the Mississippi Delta blues music and two private investigators, a male and female, who are tracking down the bad guy.”

  Tinkie’s teeth gleamed. “So, he won’t talk to you but he sent you a script with a role perfect for the two of you. It’s a wonderful answer. And it could be filmed right here in Mississippi, so you wouldn’t have to travel! It’s ingenious! Don’t you see, Sarah Booth, he’s trying to patch things up.”

  The relief was intense. Almost enough to make me overlook his wrongheaded approach to our relationship. “You know, it would have been so much simpler for him to pick up the phone and dial it.”

  “Simpler from the female perspective. You’re dealing with a man. They don’t ha
ve logical thought processes.”

  “And they don’t know how to say they were wrong.”

  “That, too. But for heaven’s sake, missy, this is great news! What are you going to tell him?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I’ll call a Los Angeles bakery and order a dozen homemade biscuits delivered to his trailer on the set.” Two could play this game.

  Tinkie patted the script. “What a strange engagement you two have. Movies and biscuits. Hurry up and place the order. We need to get to Heart’s Desire so we can talk to Mrs. Littlefield and get back to our men.”

  * * *

  We arrived at the compound a little after eleven. At the gate, armed guards surrounded us. Even though I’d prepared Tinkie for the security, she protested loudly as the vehicle was thoroughly searched. The security team confiscated our cell phones and her camera.

  “No electronic devices allowed,” a guard said. “Pick them up on your way out.”

  “Do they interfere with the communications with the dead?” Tinkie asked sweetly.

  I tried a few wisecracks, but the boys in black had no sense of humor. They went about their task as if Tinkie and I might be smuggling in C4 explosives. They even took the floor mats out of the car and pulled out the backseat. Thorough. To Tinkie’s dismay, they found the second cell phone she’d secreted in the spare tire of the car.

  Before they let us back in the car, they called the main house to check our credentials. Harold had done a good job, because a female voice gave permission for us to enter. The lead guard produced an electronic gizmo, which opened the gate. Feeling as if we might be shot if I sped, I let the compact roll down the drive at five miles an hour.

  “This place is beautifully landscaped,” Tinkie said. “Harold is researching the history of the property for us. The house has been empty for years.”

  “Someone did a lot of work.” Near the pool, which had a waterfall and a miniature volcano, palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze. I planted the layout firmly in my mind. It would come in handy.

  When we got to the front door, I stopped and started to exit the car.

  “Do not park that ugly car there.” A butler in full tails strode out the door. He shooed us as if we were naughty children. “The help parks in the back, where you will be accommodated. None of your personal things are allowed in the main house. You will enter the main house empty-handed each morning and you will leave the same way in the evening. Is that clear?”

  Tinkie did a slow boil. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered as I pushed her away. “I’ll move the car.”

  “Back talk is a mistake. The next incident will be your last. And I am Mr. Palk.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Palk,” I said with more enthusiasm.

  Easing the car around the drive, I found the servants’ parking lot and pulled into a slot. Tinkie had finally cooled off.

  “How dare that man speak to us in that tone.”

  “We’re maids,” I reminded her.

  “What does it matter? I don’t treat Melinda like she’s dirt. She’s family, and I want her to know it.”

  “Mr. Palk may be upset because Mrs. Littlefield is demanding her own servants. It may reflect poorly on him and his management of the staff. If that’s the case, he’ll ride our asses day and night.” An unpleasant thought.

  “Well, he’d better be careful. I’ll make him wish he was back in butler school in Merry Old England.”

  I popped the trunk so we could grab our bags. “Remember, Tink. You’re Tinkie Jones, not Mrs. Richmond. We can’t back-talk the butler.”

  “Not right this minute, but if he treats me ugly, payback will be hell, I assure you.”

  I didn’t doubt it for a minute. Tinkie treated all people fairly. The one thing she couldn’t tolerate was using position or status to suppress a subordinate.

  We found our quarters. We’d be sleeping in a bunkhouse behind the main house. Our room was comfortably appointed, but Tinkie and I needed access to the big house. Marjorie would have to ask for us to stay in her suite.

  When we were unpacked, we followed Mr. Palk through the house. It was an impressive place with a dining table that seated at least eighteen.

  “You’re not to speak with any of the guests, unless they speak to you first,” Mr. Palk said as he showed us around the library and meeting rooms where a handful of people listened to a speaker talk about global debt and the role of government.

  “Do not touch any of the glassware or artwork,” Palk continued his rant.

  “As if I would want to touch such tacky stuff,” Tinkie said under her breath.

  “Were you speaking to me?” Mr. Palk rounded on her. “Do not mumble. It’s intolerable.”

  I was standing behind Tinkie, and I pinched her as hard as I could on the back of her arm. She jerked forward, but she bit back the reply meant for Mr. Palk.

  “Mrs. Littlefield is our employer.” Tinkie was all bristle and no common sense.

  “She pays you. I direct you. Is that clearly understood?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Palk.” I’d once played a maid on off-off-Broadway, and while I’d gotten no stellar reviews, I also hadn’t been fired. Tinkie was about to get us both kicked off the property. “May we see Mrs. Littlefield? It’s close to lunch, and normally Mrs. Jones and I read to her while she dines. It’s one of the services we provide.”

  “She dines with the other guests.”

  I only arched my eyebrows.

  “Her room is this way,” he said.

  I deduced from his actions that Mrs. Littlefield hadn’t yet signed documents turning her fortune over to Heart’s Desire. If she was still getting her way, she hadn’t caved.

  We followed him up a lovely staircase that split at the second level and then continued on to the third. The house was solid, well built.

  “Mrs. Littlefield has the Periwinkle Suite.” He pointed to a door painted a pale lilac. “The bedclothes and bath towels are periwinkle blue. All of her personal spa materials are also periwinkle. It is required that guests wear the spa robes and toiletries provided for them. They are not allowed in the spa unless they are appropriately attired in the color-coordinated robes.” He leaned down, his nose inches from Tinkie’s. “Since you’ll be doing her laundry, understand that each item is counted and will be recounted once you leave for the day.”

  “You think I’d steal a towel?” Tinkie’s face slowly flooded with red.

  “Thank you, Mr. Palk.” I grabbed her shoulder and tapped lightly on the door. “If Mrs. Littlefield needs anything, I’m sure she’ll call on you.” I didn’t wait for the heiress to open the door but dragged Tinkie in behind me. She shot a death ray at the butler as I closed the door.

  “Don’t let him get under your skin,” I whispered. “Remember, we’re here for the greater good.”

  “The greater good is telling me to kick his pompous ass.”

  Tinkie seldom cursed, but I felt her pain. “When this is over.”

  I nudged her away from the door and through a foyer to a sitting area. Suite of rooms didn’t begin to describe it—elegant apartment was more accurate. The pale lilac walls were calming, and white sheers shaded the bright September sunlight but allowed plenty of illumination.

  Mrs. Littlefield reclined on a chaise longue, a lavender throw tucked around her legs and a Miranda James Cat in the Stacks mystery on her lap. Figured, since she owned the redoubtable Pluto, demon-possessed kitty.

  “Ladies,” she said, putting the book on the table beside her. She looked us up and down. “Mrs. Richmond, your haircut gives you away. Miss Delaney, you’re perfect.”

  I didn’t know whether to feel complimented or offended. Tinkie preened. “The butler is vile. What an officious oaf.”

  “Mr. Palk takes his duties seriously. If he finds out you’re pretenders, he’ll be very upset. I don’t like lying to the Westins, but Madam Tomeeka and Mr. Erkwell convinced me it was vitally important fo
r you to be here. I understand Madam Tomeeka had a dream of some sort.” She swung her legs to the floor and stepped into child-sized slippers. “At any rate, I’m glad you’re here. You’ll help to pass the time.”

  When she stood, she was no taller than Tinkie. A munchkin. A munchkin dripping in rubies and diamonds. She must have had fifty grand around her neck. And she was in a robe. I wondered what jewelry she wore out. Did women contemplating suicide bother with jewelry?

  “Would you ladies care for tea?” She faltered and nearly lost her balance.

  I gripped her elbow. “We can’t have any,” I spoke before Tinkie could accept. “You can’t ask the kitchen for a pot and three cups. We’re your maids.”

  “Of course, how thoughtless of me.” She went to the window. “A lovely day. Once upon a time, I would have gloried in the sun. I was quite the accomplished tennis player.” Her words were casual enough, but there seemed to be sadness beneath them.

  “They have a court here,” I said. “I’m sure there are other players visiting.”

  “I’m not up to the game any longer. I’m preparing for my final transition.”

  I took in her petite figure. She was only in her mid-sixties, far too young to play the geriatric. “Mrs. Littlefield, Madam Tomeeka is very worried about you. She’s afraid you’re—” Tinkie’s shoe, even though it was canvas, caught me right on the shin. The warning made me clamp my lips shut.

  Tinkie took over. “We met your cat at Madam Tomeeka’s. Tammy wanted you to know Chasley is asking too many questions about Pluto. We think you should leave this compound and see to the cat.”

  “Chasley is asking about Pluto?” She faced us, concern displacing the nostalgia. “What does he want?”

  “He wants Tammy to give up the cat,” I said. Tinkie had been correct to play this card. The cat was our ace in the hole. “Tammy fears he may want to harm Pluto. Because of the inheritance. We should help you pack so you can retrieve Pluto and keep him safe. If anything happens to the cat, wouldn’t your son inherit?”

  “Well, I’m not dead yet!” she snapped.

  “Of course not.” I felt a sudden unease. The rooms could be bugged. Sherry or her mother—or anyone—could be listening to this conversation. Tinkie and I had been extremely reckless. I waved them to silence.