Wishbones

by Carolyn Haines

  “We’ll be ready to eat in a flash,” I told him. This cooking was so different from the way I’d grown up. I was still getting the hang of it, but I was a quick study when I wanted to be.

  The tuna was marinating, and I had begun chopping fresh artichoke hearts for the salad when I heard Sweetie Pie baying on the porch. She had a lovely voice, all deep throat and warble. There is nothing better than the song of a hound, and I paused in my dicing to listen. Her cry went from lovely to aggressive, and I heard the scrabble of claws on the floor.

  “Hey! Sweetie! Come back.”

  Graf burst into the kitchen. “Sweetie just took off outside. I’m afraid she’s headed down into the canyon.”

  I’d never considered the coyotes a real threat—until I saw Graf’s face. He was worried. “Let me get a light.”

  I turned off the stove, picked up a flashlight and Windbreaker, and headed outside with Graf. The night was brisk, the wind cutting through the canyon from the beach with the speed of a runaway train.

  Beyond us, somewhere along the trail that led down into the darkness, I heard Sweetie Pie’s baying mixed with an angry bark.

  “We’ll break our necks trying to get down that cliff at night,” I told Graf.

  “She’s on the trail of something. I can hear her going deeper into the canyon.”

  Standing beside Graf on the lip of the cliff, I felt him tense. “What is it?” I couldn’t see anything.

  “Do you smell that?” he asked.

  I inhaled and caught the tang of something burning. Wildfire! I’d heard about the California fires fed by the brisk Pacific breezes. The stories had always terrified me. There was nothing more frightening than the images of hungry flames raging up the ravines and over the mountains of the western states.

  “Look!” Graf pointed down into the canyon. A dancing flame devil leaped up a hillside, shooting high in the pitch-black ravine.

  “I’ll call the sheriff.” I dashed inside and placed the 911 emergency call, then hurried back out to Graf, who was frantically calling Sweetie.

  The smell of burning brush and trees was distinctive on the wind, and far in the distance, I could hear my hound baying as she chased something. It sounded as if she was heading straight into the fire.

  “Sweetie Pie!” I put all of my heart into the call for her. As I started down the trail, Graf pulled me back.

  “She’s a smart dog. She’ll be okay.” He put his arm around me, offering the comfort of his body and his words.

  “She’s a Mississippi dog. She doesn’t know about wildfires and mountain lions.” My heart was pounding while I could only stand helplessly by.

  “Dogs are a lot smarter than people give them credit. Especially Sweetie Pie. And remember, wild creatures are afraid of fire. I’d say the only danger she faces now is the threat of being trapped by the blaze. She knows the way back up the trail. She’ll be along any minute.”

  He was trying to comfort me, and I tried not to cry as I watched the flames build into a tower and begin to creep toward us.

  A local fire station was only a mile below us on the main road. I knew because I’d driven past and seen the firefighters, all buff and tanned, playing volleyball in a court beside the station. I heard their siren as they came to the house. There was really no other place to take a stand and fight the fire. We were in an isolated area with no other houses around for at least five miles.

  The truck pulled in along with a green and white patrol car marked with the sheriff’s insignia and a van with a TV camera crew. I spoke with the reporters while Graf told the fire inspector what we knew.

  While the firemen worked to stage a fire barrier down the ravine from the house, I answered the reporter’s repeated questions in a monotone. I no longer heard Sweetie’s bark or bay, and a hole the size of Kansas was opening in my heart. I should never have brought Sweetie to Hollywood. I should’ve left her with Tinkie and Chablis, the little dustmop Yorkie who was Sweetie’s best friend.

  The camera crew packed up and left, and I rejoined Graf and the fire chief.

  “Why don’t you folks go back in?” the fire chief suggested. “The smoke is getting thick here, and if there’s any danger, we’ll let you know in plenty of time to evacuate. It looks like we’ve found a good natural barrier to corral the blaze, though.”

  Graf took my hand and led me inside, where we stood on the porch, supper forgotten, and listened to the shouts of the firemen and watched the blaze draw ever closer.

  “She’s okay,” Graf said, knowing that my thoughts were on my hound. “Sweetie knows how much you love her. She wouldn’t risk herself.”

  I wanted to ask him why it was that everything I loved died, but I knew how terribly melodramatic such a question would sound. “Sweetie is smart.” I said it aloud. Once again I was confronted with my own fears, and I was determined to master them. “She’s plenty smart, and she’ll be here any minute.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw her, framed in the darkness by the orange blaze.

  “Sweetie! Sweetie Pie!” I dashed out onto the lawn, causing several firemen to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. I didn’t care. “Sweetie!” She ran into my arms, a scrap of blue material in her mouth.

  “What is that?” I took it from her and recognized it as the type of material used in athletic apparel.

  Graf had followed me out and he bent to examine it. “Someone must have lost a jacket or something down in the ravine.” He gave Sweetie’s ears a rumple. “What say I finish cooking dinner and we can eat and keep an eye on the fire?”

  Clutching my hound’s collar, I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” Together the three of us walked into the house where we watched until an hour later, when the firemen finished extinguishing the flames.

  Sweetie slept in the next morning while Graf and I went to work. Moviemaking can be a tedious affair. Except for the brief times when I was needed in a scene, I was free to roam the sound stage and explore costume potential with Dallas Brown, the designer. I’d been dreading the fitting sessions, but though Dallas tut-tutted at the size of my waist, she was congenial and merry and filled with wisecracks and fun.

  Everyone at the studio had heard about the wildfire, and after I repeated my personal experience with it about six times, I’d begun to forget the terror of it and think what a great tale it made. I was beginning to really enjoy my place in the community of moviemakers when my cell phone rang.

  “Ms. Delaney?” the male voice was clipped and businesslike.

  “This is she.” Aunt Loulane had taught me impeccable telephone manners.

  “This is Sheriff Grady King. I’ve just received the fire report on the Lettohatchie Canyon blaze. It was arson. I’d like a word with you and Mr. Milieu.”

  “The blaze was set?” Who in his right mind would start a blaze in the tinder land of California? Thousands of acres could have been burned, homes destroyed, wildlife killed.

  “That’s right. It’s definitely arson.”

  “Graf and I have no idea who would do such a thing. We’ve only been staying at Bobby Joe Taylor’s house a few days. We’re guests.”

  “I’ll drop by about five this evening.”

  “But—” I didn’t get a chance to protest. He’d hung up. And it was only after he’d done so that I remembered the lipstick message on the mirror. I should have reported it. As it was, I hadn’t even mentioned it to Graf.

  “Are you okay, Sarah Booth?” Dallas asked. She was holding a slender, short skirt and a pair of spike heels that looked to be my size.

  “Apparently the fire last night was an arson.”

  “Oh, my.” She frowned. “Surely they don’t think the fire was meant to harm you.” Her face brightened. “I’ll bet some gal went after Bobby Joe Taylor. He’s got a bad reputation with the women. Likes to love ’em and leave ’em, or so I’ve heard.”

  Sweet relief swept over me. The message on the mirror could as easily have been for Bobby Joe, calling him a hick and
telling him to get out of town. He was from Alabama, and the hick title fit him as well as me. Even better, perhaps, if Dallas was right and he made a habit of rolling over people’s feelings.

  That thought sustained me through the rest of the work day. When Graf and I drove up the mountain to the house that afternoon, we found Sheriff Grady King waiting for us.

  He was a handsome man—no surprise in a county where looks are part of a person’s résumé. Tall, lean, with an elegant mustache, King’s sharp gray eyes took in every relevant detail. His gaze shifted from Graf to me to our left hands to the house and Sweetie Pie’s nose poking up at a window.

  “You say you’re visiting here?” he asked without even an introduction.

  Graf went through the whole spiel about how we were borrowing Bobby Joe Taylor’s house while we were getting ready to film. King didn’t make a single note but listened with full attention. There were things about him that brought Coleman to mind, and I snuffed out the attending emotions that came up.

  Graf gave him Bobby Joe’s contact number, and we were about to walk inside when I turned back.

  “Someone broke into the house two days ago, while we were at the studio. They left a message in red lipstick.” I repeated the words exactly. “I was so angry I cleaned them up before I even thought.”

  I found myself caught between dual looks of concern and consternation.

  “You didn’t mention this,” Graf said without even an attempt to hide the accusation in his tone.

  “I figured the message was for Bobby Joe. I mean someone who had a key to the house.” I shrugged. “I just assumed it was one of his ex-girlfriends who was mad. Bobby Joe is from Alabama and a reputed rounder. He could be called a hick as easily as me.”

  Sheriff King was strangely quiet, another habit that reminded me of a Mississippi sheriff. “Would anyone leave such a message for you?” he asked me at last.

  I was about to answer that Suzy Dutton might be a little pissed that I’d gotten the role of Matty, but Graf beat me to the punch.

  “Everyone in town adores Sarah Booth. There isn’t anyone who would leave such a note or even refer to her as a hick. Just because she’s Southern doesn’t mean she’s a hayseed. She’s sophisticated.”

  “Thanks, Graf.” It was nice to have someone rush to my defense, even if it wasn’t the complete and total truth.

  “If you think of anything, give me a call.” The sheriff pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Graf. “I’d get the locks on the house changed. If Mr. Taylor has a harem of distressed women chasing him down, you don’t want to get caught in the crosshairs.”

  “You think a woman started that blaze?” Graf asked. “Arson doesn’t seem to be a female crime.”

  King tilted his head as if he were considering. “I thought you were an actor, Mr. Milieu. I didn’t realize you were also a criminal profiler.”

  Graf didn’t react instantly. He thought it through. “I gather you have some issues with actors,” he said softly.

  “No, no, that’s not it at all. I enjoy the picture shows as much as the next one. What I have an issue with is a person who thinks they’re so special they don’t have to obey the law, a person who feels like celebrity is a ticket to any kind of bad or illegal conduct. That’s what I have trouble with, Mr. Milieu.”

  “And what makes you think Sarah Booth and I are that kind of people?”

  He nodded slowly. “Could be the report I pulled up on the two of you before I came up here. Let’s see if I can remember it right. Ms. Delaney was charged with first-degree murder, and you were involved in a high-speed chase that resulted in a death. Ms. Delaney runs her own PI agency, no doubt aggravating every law officer in the vicinity. Am I leaving something out?”

  “Sarah was innocent. The death was a suicide. If you’d done your homework, you would know that. Renata Trovaioli took her own life. Sarah Booth wasn’t involved at all.”

  King only smiled. “You two have a good day, now. I hope your stay here is productive and short.”

  He walked away, never looking back.

  “What a prick,” Graf said.

  I didn’t respond. King was certainly unpleasant, but I had the feeling that he was also very good at his job. Why had he personally come out to talk to us? It was an interesting question and one without a ready answer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Graf put his arm around my shoulders as we walked into the house. “I’ll be glad when we leave for location,” I said.

  “Don’t let King get to you. Sometimes our fellow thespians make poor decisions in negotiating the legal byways.”

  “I wonder.” I took a seat in the kitchen and watched Graf prepare coffee beans for a fresh pot. It was only five-thirty, too early for supper, and I didn’t feel like a glass of wine.

  He put the water on to boil for the coffee press and leaned on the counter, studying me.

  “What?”

  “I thought maybe my feelings for you were echoes from the past still sounding.” He stopped and I felt my heart thud. “But you’re not the same person you were in New York. You’re different, Sarah Booth. All of the tentativeness is gone. You own the ground you stand on. I find that a little intimidating but also very attractive.”

  “If you add that I cast a big shadow, I’m going to deck you.” The words came out nervous and silly.

  “Don’t play this for a joke, because I’m not kidding.” His direct look said that this time he wouldn’t allow me to escape with humor.

  I held up a hand. “You promised when I said I’d come out here that you wouldn’t press.” Panic was rising in me. My emotions were in complete turmoil, and I didn’t know what I wanted.

  “I’m not going to press you to respond or reciprocate my feelings, but I am going to tell you the truth. It’s taken me a long time to figure out what I want and what I feel. If I can’t have you, if I lose you, I want it to be for a reason, not because I didn’t try.”

  Giving myself a moment to think, I looked out the doorway. Wildflowers in vivid hues bobbled on a light breeze, and in the distance a wild mountainside rose up from the canyon floor, rocky and rough. This was terrain I’d never grow tired of seeing. As much as I loved Mississippi, I had to admit that California called to me.

  “I won’t say that I don’t have feelings for you, Graf. I do. Strong feelings. But I’m not sure if what I feel is part of the past or for right now. I was so hurt when I left New York. You didn’t even call me.”

  He looked down at the counter. “Because I knew you were leaving, and I knew there was nothing I could do to convince you to stay. You gave up on yourself, and the only thing you could do was go home.”

  “And lick my wounds?” I wasn’t bitter. He was simply telling the truth. “I had to make some money or else I would have lost Dahlia House, and I was sinking in New York. I spent every penny I had trying to stay in the city long enough to get a role. I worked at it, hard, and it didn’t happen for me.”

  He came around the counter and gently rubbed my shoulders. “I should have been more compassionate. I should have shown you what I was feeling. Instead, I let you walk away, and I let my pride dictate my conduct. I was hurting, but I didn’t want you to see it.”

  How was it possible that I hadn’t noticed? I’d waited for him to rush out the door and stop me, beg me to stay, give me some lifeline to hold on to while my career wobbled. “I was proud, too.”

  Another case of two reasonably intelligent adults making a train wreck of a relationship. “I don’t want to screw this up again, Graf. If we have a second chance, I don’t want to find myself in your arms and thinking about—”

  “Coleman Peters.”

  I put my hands on the counter to steady myself. “I want to be sure the past is dead and buried.”

  “And I think that’s the right thing to do. But I’m falling in love with you, Sarah Booth. Whatever I felt before, this is deeper and stronger. I never realized I could feel this way.”

  I swallowed.
Honesty was not easy, but I owed Graf complete truthfulness. “I don’t know what I feel for you, other than an immense sexual attraction, which I don’t want to act on yet.” Liar! What a liar I’d become. I wanted to jump his bones right then and there and damn the consequences. I needed the weight and warmth of another human body to block out the emptiness I felt. But this was the classic mistake of the re-bounder.

  “Christ, Sarah Booth, you make it hard on a guy.”

  “No pun intended?” I had to get this conversation on a less serious track.

  He groaned. “Please, we left high school years ago.”

  “You did, maybe. I feel I was gypped out of a real high school experience, so I’m going to go through it now.”

  His hands tightened on my shoulders and he leaned down and kissed my earlobe. “You can play it for humor all you want, but I know you feel something for me. That’s enough for right now.”

  I turned my head and saw his lips. Before I could think it through, I was leaning toward them, hungry for his kiss.

  The ringing of my cell phone brought me up sharp. “Shit.” I answered with a gruff hello.

  “Well, hello to you, too. By the tone of your voice, I gather you’re still sexually frustrated,” Tinkie said. In the background was a babble of voices and clinking dishes. She was in Millie’s Café. I had a sudden hankering for a slice of Millie’s homemade apple pie.

  “What’s going on?” I was hit with a wave of homesickness that made me almost gasp. Graf kissed my cheek and went onto the porch to give me privacy for my call. I kept finding new depth in him.

  “Not so much here, but I see you’ve narrowly escaped a wildfire. You could have given us a call, you know.”

  Too late I remembered the reporters from the night before. The fire hadn’t threatened us, but no telling what kind of story it had turned into. “We’re fine. The blaze was contained before it got dangerously close.”

  “That’s not what the story in Hollywood Gossip says.”