Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  “I’ve missed him!” She opened the closet doors wide, displaying a massive wardrobe. “In that case, let me get dressed. Perhaps we could take a stroll around the gardens. I’ve been told they’re lovely.”

  Tinkie gave me a knowing wink. We’d accomplished one thing—getting Marjorie to leave her room. Fresh air and exercise would do wonders for her. Pluto’s arrival would be another strong tie to this reality.

  While Tinkie escorted Marjorie on a walk in the garden, I stripped the sheets and hauled them down to the laundry. Stella, a middle-aged woman from a crossroads community west of Layland, eyed me with open curiosity.

  “You the personal maid of Mrs. Littlefield.” She snorted. “Right. I’ll bet Palk’s fit to be tied.”

  “What makes you say that?” I took a seat on a washing machine—one of four. Stella had a professional ironing board, several steam irons, a pressing machine, and a steamer for delicate fabrics. She worked as she talked.

  “Even a blind fool can see you aren’t a maid. Now the question is, what, exactly, are you?” From a refrigerator, she brought out starched shirts monogrammed with an R.A. Roger Addleson. Using an old Coke bottle with a corked sprinkler, she dampened the frozen shirt and spread it out on the board. She picked up a heavy iron with an arm defined by muscle. The wrinkles flew out of the shirt like magic.

  “I’m here to protect Mrs. Littlefield.” But I didn’t want to talk about me. “What do you know about the room down the hallway—?”

  “I know about it. That’s where they hold their spirit sessions. Palk told me never to open the door.” She didn’t miss a lick with the iron. “I don’t cotton to calling up dead things. No tellin’ which ones are gonna answer.”

  I could appreciate her attitude. “So you’ve never been inside the room?”

  “Nope. And that’s not gonna change.”

  “What’s the story on Sherry Westin? Can she really communicate with the dead?”

  “That’s the rumor.” She finished the shirt, put it on a hanger, and picked up the next one. I loved the sound of the sprinkled water hitting the cold starched shirt. When I was a child, my mother’s friend Carrie would iron in our kitchen. I’d almost forgotten the sounds and smells of a hot iron on starched cloth.

  “Do you think the Westins are on the up-and-up?”

  She put down the iron. “Marjorie Littlefield didn’t get rich by bein’ a fool. I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep on her concerns. Rich folks know how to protect their assets. They can do that when they can’t do nothin’ else.”

  She’d managed to evade my question, which was aggravating. Interesting but aggravating. I was about to ask another, but the washing machine stopped. Stella signaled me off. I slid to the ground and she transferred the wet sheets to the dryer.

  “Are there any other locals working at Heart’s Desire?”

  “You sure are a nosy girl.” She pushed the iron over a white oxford cloth shirt. “You know the old sayin’ about curiosity killin’ the cat?” She pointed the iron at me. “Some things are best left alone. Things in this house don’t like a ruckus.”

  “Things? What do you mean?”

  She bent over the ironing board, refusing even to acknowledge my question.

  “Stella, what things? Like spirits? Or—?”

  “I’ve said all I’m sayin’. Stay out of the spirit room. Folks around here aren’t what they seem. Mind your own business and get on the other side of the gate as soon as you can. And don’t go draggin’ me into trouble I don’t need.”

  “Nice chatting with you,” I said as I eased toward the exit.

  Stella only mumbled to herself, and I thought I heard “and good-bye to you, too, nosy girl.”

  The hallway was long and narrow. The basement’s configuration defied me. There should be more rooms, but I couldn’t find them. As I cogitated on the dimensions, movement at the end of the hallway was like a punch in my gut. A moment before, the hall had been empty. Now, though, a figure shifted in the dense shadows.

  My first inclination was to run back into the room and hide behind Stella. She would brook no nonsense from a ghost. But I wasn’t at Heart’s Desire to be a coward. Taking a deep breath, I eased forward. One pace, two, three. Something moved at the very end of the hall right at the door that led to the séance room.

  “Who’s there?” My voice came out a whisper.

  Inching down the hallway, I longed for the flickering sconces that had lighted the way the night before. I’d failed to find the light switch, and now my heart pounded in the dim gloom. My gut screamed at me to head for the stairs and my partner. Tinkie was diminutive but stalwart. Instead, I moved toward the shadowy door to the séance room.

  The door hung open. I would never have such an opportunity again. I slipped inside and felt for a light switch. Of course, nothing would be so simple. Stumbling over furniture, I made my way around the room, my hands groping for some means of illumination. When I found the candles and a lighter, I couldn’t believe my luck.

  With the help of the candle, I located the light switch in a recessed panel to the right of the door. The overhead lights showed me a large room with three mirrored walls. No other exit.

  Massive pieces of furniture—some large enough to hide a grown man—were in two corners. What I found made me smile. High-tech equipment that could record and filter low-level sound filled one cabinet along with a voice distorter. This would yield some unique and very personalized EVP, or electronic voice phenomena. Oh, Tinkie would flip over this!

  The equipment appeared pretty simple, and I turned it on. A low, guttural sound made me jump backwards. I gave a shaky laugh at my own spookiness. The white noise grew louder and then dimmed, and beneath the static was a voice. Even with the lights on, my skin danced along my arms in goose bumps. Yet I couldn’t walk away. Something held me transfixed.

  The garbled voice gained clarity, and I froze, paralyzed by fear. This was a recording, a past event. I couldn’t shake the sensation, though, that it had been left for me to hear. But by whom? Mariam or the Westins? Or someone else?

  “Mother!”

  The word was distinct and clear. “Mother. Beware!” A low-register laugh followed, as if it came straight from hell.

  I hit the Off button on the machine and slammed the cabinet door. Around me the dimness felt menacing. There were dark hangings, dark shadows, darkness all around.

  Stella’s warning reverberated back to me. She didn’t want to talk to the dead, because she wasn’t certain who would answer.

  Who, or what, had just spoken to me?

  I replaced the candle, snapped off the light, and made it to the door. I’d gained the hallway when footsteps descending the stairs warned me someone was coming. Likely Palk, spying around. I pulled myself together and met him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Miss Booth,” he said with distaste. “Are you doing the laundry or weaving it?”

  “Neither,” I said sweetly. “I thought I heard a big rat. Turned out it was only you.” I brushed past him as I climbed from the basement into the light-flooded main floor.

  I made a beeline for Marjorie’s suite and pulled Tinkie from the room. When I told her about the recording, she insisted we go back.

  “If it’s a warning for Marjorie, we have to tell her,” she insisted. “I need to hear it.”

  A minor disturbance in one of the meeting rooms where Brandy lectured on global opportunities claimed Palk’s attention, and Tinkie and I used the servants’ stairs and descended into the bowels of Heart’s Desire.

  Palk and the maid used the back stairs to go to the second floor, and I’d heard someone climbing them to the third floor where Brandy and Sherry’s apartments were. Tinkie had explored and discovered a door at the top of the back and main stairs that opened only with a keyed code. Entry to the third floor was a mission for the future. Tinkie was intent on hearing the recording in the spirit room. She literally dragged me to the lower floor and down the corridor.

  Once in
side, I went straight to the cabinet with the recording equipment. I played back the CD.

  “There’s nothing but static,” Tinkie said after a few minutes.

  Feeling foolish, I motioned for her to be patient.

  The whispering white noise filled the room. Like an old AM radio station when the dial has slipped. Nothing more. We waited for at least five minutes. No creepy childish voice spoke.

  “I heard it,” I insisted. “A little girl with a harsh voice said, ‘Mother. Beware!’ Just like that.”

  “There’s nothing on this CD,” Tinkie said.

  I couldn’t explain it. I knew what I’d heard. No one had had time to get into the room and change out the disk or erase it. “I did hear it, Tinkie.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” she said. The furrow between her brows deepened. “The spirit has chosen to communicate with you, Sarah Booth. If that was Mariam, and I think it must have been, she delivered her message to you. We have to protect Marjorie.”

  8

  After her investor meeting, Marjorie lunched with the Addlesons and Amaryllis. Doc’s medication appeared to have done the trick. She looked healthier than I’d ever seen her as she chatted and laughed.

  Using the downtime to full advantage, Tinkie and I checked out the spa. The facilities were exquisite, including skilled massage therapists, mud baths—spacious tubs literally filled with homeopathic mud—saunas, high-end exercise equipment, hot stone treatments, facials, anything a pampered girl could desire.

  Tinkie sighed. “My feet are throbbing. I’d kill for a pedicure and a little arch massage.”

  “Not today.” I couldn’t shake the sensation I’d touched something dark and sinister in the spirit room. My only ghostly experiences centered on Jitty, who was a family specter. She cared for me in her own way. The voice I’d heard didn’t leave me feeling warm or fuzzy. Had Sherry Westin tapped into a malignant spirit?

  “If I borrowed Marjorie’s periwinkle head wrap and robe, I could slip into that mud bath, put on her soothing mask, and no one would ever know.” Tinkie ignored my melancholy mood.

  “Except that she’s in the dining room. I think Palk would snap onto the fact that there were two Mrs. Littlefields running around the compound.” As if I’d conjured him, his voice came to me, ordering the downstairs maids about their work.

  Tinkie pointed to a laundry hamper filled with robes, towels, and hair wraps. “Seriously, what’s with all this color coordination? I mean, Amaryllis is yellow, Shimmer and Roger are ginger, Marjorie is periwinkle. The color theme is a little … juvenile.”

  “Palk uses the colors to keep count of the linens. He’ll know instantly if anyone steals anything and where it was stolen from.”

  “Sounds like one of his asinine control tactics.” Tinkie punched my arm. “Let’s grab some lunch. Otherwise we won’t have a chance to eat again until tonight.”

  “No doubt.”

  The staff ate in a dining room off the kitchen, where a long table had been set for lunch. I lost my appetite when I realized Palk ruled the table much as he ruled the house—with an iron fist. No talking. No pleasantries. No civility. My impulse was to devil him with constant questions, but I decided against it. I had bigger fish to fry.

  Amanda shot me a few smiles, but we finished a delicious grilled tuna salad in silence, Palk at the head of the table and Yumi at the foot. The meal was served buffet style, and when it was over, we took our dishes to the sink in the kitchen.

  Palk clapped his hands. “To work.” He left the kitchen.

  “Asshole,” Amanda said under her breath, and several of the maids twittered and rushed to attend their duties. To my surprise, Yumi sauntered over.

  “Amanda, be careful with Palk. Don’t push him in a corner by talking back to him.” Her musical accent softened the criticism in her words. Was she trying to look out for the young cook?

  “Yes, ma’am.” Amanda kept her gaze on the floor.

  “I don’t care what you say about Palk. But if you embarrass him in front of the staff, he’ll have to fire you.”

  “I understand.” Amanda bobbed her head and hurried away. Yumi didn’t move.

  “What brings you to the isolated Mississippi backwoods?” Tinkie asked.

  “I need a permanent chef’s job. I prefer private service over restaurant work. I was hoping to meet some influential people here who required such services.”

  Her goal was the same as Amanda’s. Maybe they had found some common ground. “Any luck so far?” I asked.

  “I haven’t been here long.” She smiled. “And you? Why are you at Heart’s Desire?”

  The way she asked the question made me wonder if she was on to us. Tinkie fielded a reply. “We’re both housewives. Divorced, boring life. Mrs. Littlefield has a glamorous life. We thought it would be fun to see how the other half lived, and the work is easy.”

  “And is it fun?”

  “No. Not really. But Mrs. Littlefield counts on us.”

  “Living in her suite can’t be easy.” Yumi’s smile revealed perfect white teeth. Somewhere along the line, she’d had expensive cosmetic dental work. “No privacy. No chance to live your own life.”

  “It’s only for a short time,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing to do at Heart’s Desire. I don’t understand why the service staff stays here. Surely on their days off they could go to Jackson or even Memphis.”

  “The Westins pay well. And the work isn’t hard.” She hopped up on the counter with ease. “The requirement is to stay on the premises. The Westins want to limit the local gossip about Heart’s Desire. There are worse places to work. Everyone here hopes to meet people of influence who can move our careers forward.”

  Amanda returned with a stack of dishes from the staff dining room and started loading the dishwasher. Yumi leaned forward. “If you have influence with Amanda, talk to her. She has a terrible attitude. She’s an adequate chef, but she doesn’t understand her place.” She jumped to the floor and left the kitchen.

  As soon as Yumi was gone, Amanda signaled us to the sink. “I just heard new guests are coming today. Two women. Country music singers. Maybe they’ll be my ticket out of here.”

  “I hope so, Amanda.” I encouraged her with a smile.

  The luncheon in the dining hall was also breaking up and the staff went into high gear. Tinkie and I carried Marjorie’s dishes to the kitchen—her appetite was greatly improved, notching my concern for her down a little more.

  As I picked up the crystal, I heard a familiar voice in the parlor. “Dahling! I’m here to interview the wonderful Westin ladies.”

  I didn’t have to see her to know that Cece Dee Falcon had arrived. God bless Doc, he made a fine messenger.

  “I haven’t been informed of any newspaper interviews.” Palk huffed as if an elephant were stepping on his toes. “The Westins would never consent to speak with you.”

  “But of course they did, dahling,” Cece said, concluding with a confident laugh. “For the Zinnia Dispatch. I spoke with Sherry Westin before lunch. She realizes she can either talk with me or I’ll dig up what I can from their past.” Cece had a way of closing on the nut of the issue.

  Cece was the society editor at the local newspaper in Zinnia, but she was so much more. Had she chosen to leave the Delta, she could have been the head honcho at any news agency. She had a nose for dirt, and in the process of getting the facts, she took no prisoners. Her beat was society, but she was a fine investigative reporter with connections all over the Southeast.

  She’d been born Cecil, but her inner woman had refused to be held back. Cece gave up her masculinity—and her place as heir to the Falcon fortune—but gained so much more. She was her own person and one of the best friends anyone could have.

  Tinkie took Marjorie up to her room for a rest, and I peeked around the corner to find Palk backed against the wall in the foyer. Cece swept past him. She wore a tailored suit in muted teal and strappy Manolos. Perched on her head was a wide-brimmed sun hat tha
t cast a shadow over her eyes but revealed her lips, colored a fantastic peach. She carried a briefcase that matched her shoes. Cece was styling.

  Thank god Jitty wasn’t around or she would compare me to the fashion goddess and I would never hear the end of it.

  “Today is not a good day. New guests are arriving.” Palk sniped at Cece’s heels, and she totally ignored him.

  She entered the dining room, her gaze sweeping over the busy staff, including me. There wasn’t a hint that she recognized me. Dang! She was cool as a cucumber.

  “Where are Brandy and Sherry?” she asked.

  “They’re busy.” Palk tried to regain control of the situation, but it was a lost cause.

  “Perhaps they should un-busy. Tell them I’m here for the interview.”

  “Madam, you can’t barge in here demanding an interview and think people will give way to you. The Westins are very busy. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for you in the future.”

  Cece pointed to her watch. “I have an appointment. Sherry Westin has agreed to an interview. I drove nearly an hour to get here. I’m not coming back. I’ll be happy to go to press with what I find with a little digging.” She lifted her chin. “Such as the fact they ran a brothel in New Orleans.”

  Palk blanched. “Please come with me to the parlor. You can wait there while I find Ms. Brandy.”

  “Find Sherry. If she’s about to communicate with the dead, I have a few questions for my grandfather. He was one of the meanest men to ever walk the face of the earth and I’ve always wanted to know why he was such a bastard.”

  “I’ll get you some refreshments.” Palk was all conciliatory. He led Cece toward the front parlor.

  Somehow, I had to eavesdrop on this interview, but if Palk caught me, I’d be neck-deep in hot water. I hid behind the parlor door as Palk settled Cece into a beautiful Victorian chair. Spying on them through a crack in the door, I had to admit that Cece looked like a queen.

  “I’ll have a maid bring you some iced tea, and I’ll find Mrs. Westin,” Palk said. Before he could finish his sentence, the doorbell rang again.