Bonefire of the Vanities

by Carolyn Haines

  “Why are you here?” Coleman asked. “Are you investing with the Westins?”

  She started to answer angrily but thought better of it. “My reason for being here has nothing to do with money.” She pressed her lips together. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving today. I’m returning to D.C. I booked a flight out of Memphis for tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Dill, you can’t leave Sunflower County until I’ve completed the investigation.” Coleman’s tone made it clear he meant business.

  “Surely you don’t think I hurt the songwriter? I didn’t know her. I have no reason to harm her.”

  “Someone did, and I believe it was someone living in the main house.”

  “You can’t make me stay here.” She looked as if she might throw up.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll wrap this up as fast as possible,” Coleman said.

  She appealed to me, but there was nothing I could do. “Tell the sheriff the truth. That’s the quickest ticket out of here,” I counseled her.

  Anger flared for a moment. “I’ve told him everything I can.” She stormed away from the interview. I started to stop her, but Coleman caught my arm.

  “Let her go. We can get her any time we want her.”

  DeWayne and the techs began loading their equipment into the patrol cars, leaving me alone with Coleman. “Gretchen believes a hit was taken out on Amaryllis Dill and the wrong woman was killed.”

  “It’s possible. Amaryllis was sleeping with a married man, and she’s hinted that he’s a powerful man. His wife died in a car wreck. Amaryllis fears Linda was murdered, and she’s afraid she’ll be next.”

  “I’ll run some checks. Be careful, Sarah Booth.” His finger brushed a stray curl from the side of my face. “I’d never forgive myself if I talked Graf out of taking you to Hollywood and you got yourself hurt.”

  “I’ll keep clear of danger.” His concern touched me. Coleman had no right to order me, but he did have plenty of right to caution me. We shared too much.

  “I’ll believe that when the sun freezes.” He tugged my hair gently the way he’d done in school.

  “I promise to be cautious.” I wanted to hug him, but the line we walked was too fine. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Roger that,” he said, and followed DeWayne.

  * * *

  Finally cut loose, I made a beeline for the Lotus Suite and one handsome actor. Graf was surely pacing the room, anxious for us to celebrate our reunion. I imagined him languishing on a chaise, one leg on the floor. One naked leg, giving me a tantalizing preview of what awaited—a throw covering part of his torso, but enough of his manly chest peeking out. I knew his body so well.

  “Feets, don’t fail me now,” I whispered as I sped on my rubber-soled shoes toward the Lotus Suite. In less than a minute I’d be in Graf’s arms. In his bed. In the throes of pleasure. It had been way too long. I cleared the spa hallway and hooked right toward the foyer and stairs.

  I didn’t make it that far. When I passed the dining room, I heard loud laughter and Graf’s voice. He wasn’t in his room yearning for me; he was holding court in the dining room. I stopped to listen as he regaled the Addlesons, Mrs. Littlefield, and Brandy Westin with tales of diamond mining in Africa. I could not believe my ears. According to the anecdotes Graf was telling, he’d traveled extensively around the world, been everything from a diamond mine owner to a sunken treasure finder. He had a line of bullshit ten miles long, and everyone in the dining room was eating it up.

  “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Palk came up behind me. I was too worn down to spar with him.

  “Back off, Palk. I’ve had a rough day.”

  “You’re not paid to have good days. And you’re not paid to lurk outside rooms and snoop.”

  My fists clenched, but I gathered my temper. “Care to see how bad I can make your day?”

  “Threats don’t work with me.”

  “Maybe a good spanking … I have this very interesting hockey mask I could wear.” I was rewarded with a profound blush that swept across his face.

  “You eavesdropping little—”

  “Careful. I have your number, Palk. Either back off or I’ll make sure the entire staff knows.”

  He didn’t have time to respond. The doorbell chimed. He had indeed been saved by the bell.

  Curious, I followed Palk to the front.

  “Who might you be?” Palk asked. “And what is that creature on a leash? In all my days I’ve never seen a more demented animal.”

  “I’m Harold Erkwell, and I have urgent papers for Mr. Desmond Graf to sign immediately. The guards delayed me for over an hour. Now I need to see Desmond and obtain his signature before he loses money.”

  “Wait here and I’ll be happy to take them to him.” Palk had reached his limit—not another single person or pet would breach the walls of Heart’s Desire.

  Harold jammed a foot in the door. “I must speak with Mr. Graf. Immediately. And I must take care of this matter personally.”

  “No dogs allowed in the house.”

  “I beg to differ. This is not just a dog, this is Mr. Graf’s financial prognosticator. The dog has psychic abilities. If Mr. Graf loses money because you’ve delayed me with your foolishness, I’ll make certain the Westins are sued for the loss. Out of my way, man, or suffer the consequences.”

  Right on cue, Roscoe loosed an evil growl followed by a high-pitched whine that made my teeth grind.

  Harold pressed his advantage, entering with Roscoe at his side, actually heeling on a leash. Palk pointed toward the dining room, and the duo swept past him.

  I followed right behind, amazed at Harold’s role.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Graf, but if you’re to sell that stock before…” Harold cleared his throat. “I do apologize. I need only his signature and then I’ll be gone.”

  Graf accepted the sheaf of papers and signed with a flourish. He motioned Palk over. “Prepare refreshments for Mr. Erkwell, my banker. He’s made a long drive and I’m sure he’d like something cool to drink. And a bone from the kitchen for the noble Roscoe. The last million-dollar investment I made, Roscoe picked it.”

  “The dog?” Roger Addleson was instantly intrigued. “The dog picked a stock?”

  “He’s divinely inspired,” Graf went on. “The dog is a genius.”

  “How does he pick a stock?” Roger asked.

  “We write the names of potential buys on pieces of paper and scatter them on the floor. Roscoe then sniffs them all and pees on the one that’s going up. He is one hundred percent accurate. I’ve made millions relying on his instincts.”

  Harold leaned close to Roger and stage-whispered, “Graf believes Roscoe is Warren Buffet’s dopplegänger. Can’t you detect a tad of Warren in his face?”

  “We need paper,” Roger said. “I want to see how this works.”

  “No dog will be allowed to pee in this dining room.” Palk was appalled at such an idea. “I have never heard of such antics.”

  “I want to know if this is real,” Roger demanded. “Mrs. Westin, could we get paper.”

  Brandy considered Harold and Roscoe. “I think we’ll hold off on this.”

  “Great idea,” Harold agreed. “I could do with a bite to eat, if it’s no trouble. Maybe later we could relocate on the lawn. Roscoe loves to show off his abilities, and I wouldn’t mind one free session. Right-o, Desmond?”

  “If you insist.” Graf wasn’t pleased.

  Palk remained frozen, but Brandy Westin hopped into action. “Mr. Palk, have Yumi prepare refreshments for our new guest.”

  Palk did the sharpest pivot I’d ever seen.

  “What about the dog?” Shimmer Adleson asked. “He isn’t staying in the dining room, is he? I’m allergic.”

  “Roscoe is a snaz-a-pooty,” Harold said with aplomb. “He has hair, not fur. You simply can’t be allergic to him.”

  Shimmer’s mouth snapped shut. Contrary to everything I’d witnessed regarding Roscoe, he settled
under the table without any fuss. Harold had either sedated the damn dog or lobotomized him.

  At the first opportunity, I’d ask Harold about snaz-a-pooty. I was positive he’d invented the term. Then again, there were DNA tests available at local vet clinics to determine the different breeds mixed in a mutt. Had I guessed Roscoe’s lineage, though, I would have said imp-a-demon. It would not surprise me to learn Roscoe didn’t have a single fiber of canine DNA. I couldn’t wait to see how Harold would escape Heart’s Desire without Roscoe peeing on some paper.

  I busied myself setting the table for Harold’s snack while he and Graf talked with great gusto about the stock market and what investments were doing well. Roger Addleson was nobody’s fool, and when he joined in, I saw Brandy was surreptitiously making investments notes on a small pad in her lap. Graf would never be questioned now. He was accepted as a high roller.

  “Mr. Graf, what brings you to Heart’s Desire?” Marjorie asked.

  “The same thing as everyone else,” Graf said. “I want to participate in developing a strategy to rule the world. We must stop the wars and the strife. One world, one rule. Greed for oil resources has defined the last forty years of global history.” He refilled his wineglass. “I have it on good authority that in the next decade, we’ll be fighting a foe far more advanced than the Middle East or each other.”

  I held my breath.

  “What foe?” Brandy asked.

  “The extraterrestrials.” Graf didn’t blink. “They’re out there. Watching for the opportune moment. After we’ve depleted the water supply on this planet, we’ll be ripe for the plucking. They’ll make us their slaves.”

  A profound silence settled over the room.

  “You believe in aliens and a dog that picks stocks by peeing on them?” Roger Addleson shifted his seat away from Graf. Five minutes before, he’d hung on Graf’s every word. Now he questioned Graf’s sanity. It was a bravo performance by the man I loved.

  “Indeed, I do. I received Sherry’s letter outlining the whole plan for building a consensus of wealth and intelligence to forge better governing power. That’s why I’m here.” He smiled at Brandy. “These two ladies who founded Heart’s Desire, with their connections to the plane of the departed, have insights to benefit the rest of us. Am I right, ladies?”

  “Absolutely.” Brandy was monotone.

  Graf ignored her lack of enthusiasm. “I do believe Mr. Erkwell needs to return to the bank and make these transfers. It takes time moving large amounts of money around. I want a substantial sum available for the work we’re engaged in here,” Graf said. “Tomorrow, I’ll invite Mr. Erkwell to return with Roscoe for a demonstration of his talents. Of course, there will be a fee involved. But right now, I require a nap and utter privacy. I don’t want to hear so much as a footfall outside my doorway, is that understood?”

  At last, Graf had cleared the deck for our reunion.

  * * *

  “You’ve lost weight, Sarah Booth.” Graf’s hands grasped my waist. “I like a woman with a little meat on her bones.” We embraced at the foot of a king-sized bed in a room painted in shades of mocha and cream. Where the other rooms I’d visited were soft and feminine, this was a masculine room. Instead of sheers, the windows were covered with heavy damask, a paisley print that incorporated shades of espresso, latte, and café au lait.

  “I don’t think I’ve had a decent meal since I’ve been here. Palk hates for the staff to eat, and the head chef doesn’t approve of snacks. Why is this called the Lotus Suite when the color scheme has to do with coffee? I could use a good strong cup of coffee.” I was babbling. Nerves. Imagine, I was nervous with my own fiancé.

  “I can call for a tray of something.”

  I captured his wrist and quickly spun his arm behind his back. “Not unless you want me to hurt you.” I couldn’t turn into some simpering, virginal girl. Graf loved me because I was tough and daring.

  He laughed as he twisted free and scooped me up in his arms. In a moment, I was bouncing on the bed and he was on top of me. “We should talk,” he said. His expression was so serious, I did a double-take. Then I saw the devilment in his eyes.

  “Talk, my foot. I don’t want to talk. I want to make love. For the rest of the day. I don’t want food or drink or anything except you.” My words came straight from my heart. “I want to wallow in our love.”

  “Not exactly the sentiments for a sonnet.” Graf uttered a tsk, tsk. “I can see you need your rough edges smoothed out.”

  “A nice metaphor for getting—”

  He put a finger to my lips. “Sarah Booth, you shock me! Remember, men like to pursue a woman. The chase gets our blood up.”

  “Seems to me you don’t have any trouble in the circulatory department right now. Unless you’re carrying a gun in your boxers.”

  “Why, Sarah Booth! You make me blush.”

  “Graf Milieu, I never dreamed of you as a coy tease. After your performance today as a mega-macho millionaire, I think you should do a Dos Equis commercial.” I adopted a sultry, Latin accent. “You are the most fascinating man in the world. You enter a room, other men wilt. Ah, but women, their panties spontaneously combust.”

  Graf laughed, and I loved that he could find humor when I teased him about himself.

  “Don’t pretend to be a shy, retiring John-Boy Walton–type. I make you blush? I daresay the scenes you filmed for your new movie will make me jealous.”

  He tugged the waistband of my khakis and unbuckled my belt. Very carefully, with great attention to the art of seductive disrobing, he began to remove my clothes. “I hope so, Sarah Booth. I want you to be so jealous, you won’t let me out of your sight.”

  The truth was, I didn’t want to see Graf in bed with another woman. It was only a movie and I trusted him completely. Still, I was only human, and I’d compare myself to the actress Natasha Crowley, a brunette nuclear reactor who was a decade younger than me. What a time to hear the loud ticking of my biological clock! Jitty would be impressed with the way she’d trained me. “How intense was the scene with Natasha?”

  Graf’s answer was a crooked smile and a sliding gaze.

  “How intense?” I tried to keep it light but failed miserably.

  “You’re jealous.” Graf pulled off my slacks and set to work on the placket of my polo shirt.

  His hands slid beneath the shirt and moved over my rib cage and then higher. The warmth of his palms against my bare skin made my breath grow faster. “Maybe a little.” I hated to admit it, but I refused to lie.

  “I am thrilled.” He pulled the shirt over my head and kissed me hard. He gathered me into his arms and reminded me that nothing on earth compared to these intimate moments with him. “Knowing you’re jealous makes me love you more.”

  Men. What a crazy species.

  Graf’s kiss softened, and he gently eased me, a panting mess, onto the pillows. “Does she kiss better than I do?” I asked, hating my weakness. Where had this sudden jealousy come from? Up until this moment I hadn’t thought of Graf filming scenes with Natasha Crowley, and now I was letting some movie business make me unhappy and worried. As my aunt Loulane would say, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” I was feeling Graf’s career-induced pain. He was worried I’d be injured, and I was worried he’d found too much pleasure in the arms of an actress.

  “Nobody kisses better than you, Sarah Booth. I think there should probably be a warning label on your kisses. ‘Sample this and lose your mind.’ I can’t think about anything but how much I want you. I’ve never known another woman who makes me feel what you do. You’re my drug of choice.”

  Maybe being a little jealous wasn’t a bad thing. I was determined to please my man and let him know how much I’d missed him. My arms circled his neck and I caressed him with my lips and tongue. “I know how to bring you to your knees, Graf Milieu.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he whispered as he nuzzled my ear, sending shivers all over me. “I know your weakne
ss, Sarah Booth Delaney.”

  His fingers found the ticklish spot on the inside of my hip bone and I squealed. “You are a devil man!” I tried to wriggle away from him, but he had me pinned. Struggle as I might, I couldn’t battle his superior strength. Truth be told, I didn’t struggle too hard. My body against his body—what was to struggle away from?

  He caught my arms and pinned them above my head while he used his leg to hold my body on the bed. “Will you behave?” he asked.

  “Behave?” I laughed out loud. “What 1950s male-dominance tract have you been reading? Women don’t be-have in this century.”

  Graf’s lips trailed from my ear down my neck, inch by inch down to my collarbone, and farther south. He was driving me insane, and enjoying every second of it.

  “I’ve been reading up on my Southern menfolk, and I believe Rhett should have used a firmer hand on Scarlett.” His breath teased my breast.

  I had to fight to concentrate on the conversation. “Do I remind you of Scarlett?” No Southern girl in her right mind wouldn’t preen at a comparison to Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Oh, you do. Headstrong, willful, uncompromising, incapable of recognizing the right choice even when it’s in front of her nose—”

  Nobody was dissing my Scarlett! Not even a man who was driving me to distraction with his choreographed seduction. “Beautiful, strong, independent, brave—”

  Graf countered with “Misguided—”

  “Maligned—”

  “Selfish.” Graf gave me another goose. I squealed and squirmed, but he wasn’t going to get the last word.

  “Determined to save her heritage.”

  “My god, Sarah Booth, you are magnificent! I’ve missed—” He ended his sentence with a strangled sound, bucking and jumping like Satan had possessed him. I hadn’t seen anything like it since I slipped into the back of a Holy Roller church service when I was in the fifth grade. Graf flailed as if in the throes of either conversion or exorcism.