Books by Carolyn Haines
Bones To Pick
Hallowed Bones
Crossed Bones
Splintered Bones
Buried Bones
Them Bones
Summer of the Redeemers
Touched
Fever Moon
Penumbra
Judas Burning
Nonfiction
My Mother’s Witness:
The Peggy Morgan Story
Ham Bones
Carolyn Haines
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Carolyn Haines
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Copyright Page
For Sarah Bewley, my partner in crime.
Acknowledgments
So many people are invested in the Bones books and offer advice, ideas, and suggestions, but for this one, I have to credit one of my most loyal readers, Londa Pybus of Midlothian, Virginia, for the fabulous title. It was truly inspired.
Thanks go, yet again, to the Deep South Writers Salon: Gary and Shannon Walker, Susan Tanner, Stephanie Chisholm, Aleta Boudreaux, Alice Jackson, and Renee Paul. Over the sixteen years we’ve met as a critique group, we’ve read a lot of pages. Thank you for the constant care and hard work on behalf of my stories.
Special thanks to Dr. Fred Wells, who has a mind for fictional murder and a love of the Mississippi Delta.
My agent Marian Young is top-drawer. No writer could have a better advocate. Thanks also to Audrey LaFehr and the entire Kensington staff, especially the art department.
Chapter 1
When the cold January wind blows across the empty cotton fields, it’s hard to remember the lush summer heat. Dahlia House has weathered more than a hundred and fifty winters, standing against wind and rain and war. Sitting on the porch, bundled in the new, red, polar fleece jacket that was one of my love’s many Christmas gifts, I try not to let the fading daylight leave me blue. The holidays have come and gone, another season slipped away, a new year begun.
My resolution this year is to leave the past behind. Since the death of my parents, I’ve dragged my guilt behind me like a ball and chain. No more. Coleman Peters, the sheriff of Sunflower County, is recuperating from a gunshot wound to his chest and has filed for divorce from his psycho wife. By springtime he’ll be a free man. I, too, must shed the things that bind me to a time and place that no longer exist. Divorce, a mere legal maneuver, is easy compared to severing memories.
Looking out on the brown fields that meet the gray sky on a distant horizon, I find it impossible not to think of the past. Only a year before I was in the Big Apple learning that my Big Dream wasn’t going to happen. I would never tread the boards of Broadway as a leading lady. While my talent was a blinding star in Mississippi, I was barely a fizzle in New York City. I’d come home in defeat.
“I do declare, if there’s one word that won’t be allowed on the premises of Dahlia House, it’s de-feat!”
I didn’t have to turn around to realize who was speaking. Jitty, the resident haint of Dahlia House, had come to devil me in the broadest Southern accent I’d ever heard. It wasn’t bad enough that I was suffering from SAD; now I was afflicted with SMG, sassy-mouthed ghost.
“Jitty, I’m not in the mood for your cornpone rendition of Scarlett. Can’t you see I’m sinking into a perfectly good funk?” I swiveled to take a gander at her. She had the annoying habit of skipping through the decades for her wardrobe. When last I’d seen her she was all Marie An-toinetteish. My jaw dropped several inches as I took in the layers and layers of pale pink tulle that swung on hooped petticoats. The dress was perfectly fitted to her nineteen-inch waist. With her wide-brimmed hat she looked like the unthinkable—an antebellum belle.
“Honey chile, you keep sittin’ out here on the gallery mopin’ about the past, you gone put the funk in dysfunctional.” She snapped a fan open and laughed beguilingly behind it.
I rose to my feet. “Jitty, I’ve put up with hot pants and flapper fringe, poodle skirts and Trekkie suits. I’ve even been through French Revolution garb, but I draw the line at this”—I pointed at her dress—“mockery of my heritage!”
“You’re the one who can’t let the past go.” She sashayed around the porch, her hoop skirts swinging to reveal ruffled pantaloons.
I was saved from a response by the sound of a tooting horn. Tinkie’s new Cadillac cruised down the driveway. When I turned back to Jitty, she was gone.
The Cadillac stopped and Tinkie sprang from behind the wheel, her gaze sweeping over the drying garlands of cedar and magnolia leaves I’d used to decorate the porch.
“Christmas is over, Sarah Booth. It’s bad luck to leave those decorations up.” She snatched an end of a garland and pulled. Since her visit to Dr. Larry Martin had revealed that the pecan-sized lump in her breast was completely gone—vanished!—Tinkie had been a ball of fire.
“I’ll help you with this,” she said as she tore the greenery free of the house, “but then you’ll have to help me.”
“Help you what?” I was wary of Tinkie’s deals.
She dropped the garland at her feet, her face alive with pleasure. “Finish the preparations for the cast.”
“No!” I wanted no part of it. “When I left New York, I gave up all ambitions of hanging out with actors. I don’t even like actors.”
Her bottom lip protruded slightly in a pout that brought grown men to their knees. “Don’t be that way, Sarah Booth. This is going to be wonderful. A New York production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is the biggest thing that’s ever happened in Zinnia.”
“And it wouldn’t be happening now if a hurricane hadn’t destroyed the entire Gulf Coast.” It was true. The production had been booked into the Beau Rivage Casino and a category-five hurricane had devastated the coastline of Mississippi.
“I hate to benefit from someone else’s misfortune.” She pulled another garland free of the balustrade. “They had to go somewhere, though, and we’re fortunate that The Club had a stage and auditorium.”
“Yes, what would the debutantes in town do without the facilities of The Club?” I rolled up the garlands she was destroying. Inside the door was a garbage bag for just this purpose, and I grabbed it and began stuffing. Tinkie was half-finished pulling down what had taken me two days to put up.
“You’re just upset about Graf Milieu.” She yanked a garland with such force that the tacks I’d used to secure it scattered over the porch.
“Graf is nothing to me.” If I said it often enough, it would be true. In fact, I had no romantic feelings left for him, but I did have shame. He’d seen me defeated, running home from New York with my tail between my legs because I wasn’t talented enough.
The sound of a loud bay drew both of our attention to the Cadillac. Sweetie Pie, my invincible hound, was standing on her hind feet, paws against the window, looking for Tinkie’s little dust mop, Chablis.
&nb
sp; “Where is your dog?” I asked. Tinkie seldom went anywhere without the Yorkie.
“I’m having her topknot layered and glitzed. She has a seat for opening night. Chablis, in case you’ve forgotten, is a huge fan of Tennessee Williams.”
I cast a sidelong look to see if she was teasing. Tinkie sometimes took it a little too far with Chablis, who was manicured, primped, and treated like a child prodigy. I loved the little rascal, but I didn’t believe she cared for stage productions.
“I’m only kidding,” Tinkie said as she grasped the last of the decorations. “But I am having a cocktail party at Hill Top on opening night, and I want Chablis to look her best.”
“Right.” I stuffed the last of the cedar into my trash bag and tied it shut. “So what, exactly, is it you want me to help you do?”
“The cast is due to arrive tonight. I want to have fresh flowers in the dressing rooms—”
“Dressing rooms?” I wasn’t a member of The Club, but I’d been there plenty. There weren’t any dressing rooms.
“Renata Trovaioli insisted that she must have her own dressing room, so while I was ordering new construction, I had one fixed up for Graf and Sir Alfred Bascomb. Can you believe it?” She clutched my hand. “Sir Alfred Bascomb is going to be here in Zinnia. He’s incredible. I saw him in Lolita.” She looked like she was going to swoon.
“An incredible bore.” I’d had one encounter with the Brit, and it had left me emotionally gutted. The man had looked down his hawkish nose at me and told me to get elocution lessons. “He doesn’t find Southern drawls the least bit interesting.”
“Did you see him in The Gentleman Caller? I mean ...” Her hand went to her heart. “I cried for days!”
“Yeah, boo-hoo.” The more she talked the more I knew I didn’t want any part of her plans.
“Sarah Booth, did you really sleep with Graf ? He’s probably the most handsome man I ever saw. I’ll bet—”
The question came out of the blue and struck like an arrow in my heart, bringing a kaleidoscope of images of the two of us as young lovers in the most fascinating city in the world. I held up my hand, palm toward her face. “Talk to the hand, Tinkie. My New Year’s resolution is to leave the past behind me.” I gave her a glare. “Graf is the past. No good comes of digging it up.”
“You did sleep with him!” She arched an eyebrow. “I sure hope Coleman isn’t the jealous type. Then again, he survived your fling with Hamilton Garrett V, and he is still married.”
“Not for long. His marriage is a technicality.” Coleman had filed for divorce in November. The case was slowly winding its way through the court system, and hopefully by spring he’d be shed of Connie and her insanity.
“Coleman hasn’t been sleeping over here.” She spoke fact. “The two of you haven’t consummated your relationship, have you?”
I kept my gaze on the bag of Christmas rubble. “Coleman has honor. He doesn’t want to start with me until he’s completely free of Connie.” I cleared my throat. “He was also shot in the chest, if you remember.”
She shook her head slowly, her blue gaze holding mine until I looked away. “Honor is one thing, Sarah Booth, but to leave you all alone Christmas Eve. That’s just plain stupid. He could sleep over and hold you. What’s—”
“I haven’t been alone.” In another minute my blabbering mouth would be telling Tinkie my concerns—or even worse, all about Jitty. Tinkie would call the men in white suits. “I mean Sweetie Pie was with me, and Coleman came by. We built a fire, and we exchanged our gifts.” What I didn’t say was that he’d been careful to leave before our passions sent us upstairs to my bed.
“I hope you didn’t serve him any of that fruitcake you made. After Virgie’s deadly batch, I can’t imagine ever eating fruitcake again.”
“Coleman understands tradition. And fruitcake is the only tradition I keep at Christmas.”
Tinkie’s expression shifted to something close to pity and her blue eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry, Sarah Booth. I know how much you miss your family.”
I shrugged because I didn’t trust my voice. I did miss my parents. Years hadn’t dimmed the hurt, and the best thing to do was simply not to talk about it. “I’ll help you, but only today. I’ll take my car; I want to be home before the actors arrive.”
“Don’t trust yourself with Graf?”
The devil had danced away her tears. I couldn’t help but smile. “I have no feelings for Graf except regret. I remember too well what a pompous ass he is.”
“Then why won’t you stay and welcome all of them?”
“Because I have a date with Coleman at eight.” It was a lie born of pride. The trouble was that I hadn’t seen Coleman all week. All I could do was pretend.
“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll meet you at The Club.”
I grabbed the huge vase of American Beauties and started back into The Club. My back was killing me. I’d never thought I could be exhausted by hauling flowers and fruit baskets, but Tinkie had worked me like a field hand. She was a regular Patton at cracking out orders. I had serious sympathy for the numerous employees of The Club who fell under her regime. Oscar, as president of Zinnia’s only bank and largest stockholder of The Club, wielded a big stick. Tinkie had borrowed it for this event, which had become her special baby. She was determined that Graf, Renata Trovaioli, Alfred Bascomb, and company would have every amenity a large city could provide. Zinnia would not be looked upon as a backwater.
I put the flowers on the dressing table especially crafted for Renata Trovaioli, a woman I’d once been an understudy for in a Marsha Norman play called ’Night, Mother. Renata had been the worst kind of prima donna, and there wasn’t a night that went by that I didn’t wish she’d fall into the orchestra pit and give me my chance. I’d loved the play. Renata, though, was healthy as a horse. The only thing that might kill her would be a flying house from Kansas. I couldn’t conjure one of those up, so I never had a chance to speak even a line of the play. Renata, on the other hand, won a Tony.
“Sarah Booth, quit daydreaming and put that vase down. I need someone to help me hang these pictures. They’re only reproductions, but Renata is a huge fan of Van Gogh. I thought these would be homey.” Tinkie held a painting of a vase of sunflowers with a frame that must have weighed ninety pounds.
“Could you hold it up there so I can see how it looks?” She pointed at a wall.
Hefting the painting with a small grunt, I lifted and lowered and shifted and eased until she declared perfection. “Hold it right there. I’ll be back with a nail and hammer.”
This work was far more difficult than pulling down a bit of garland. I’d make Tinkie pay.
When at last the picture was hung, I stepped back. “I’m going home, Tink. It’s after six.” I was starving and my shoulders were on fire. “Everything looks great.” And it did. She’d done a spectacular job. The space looked like the backstage area of an elegant theatre. The lighting was flattering, the area for costumes plentiful, the sofas and chairs more comfortable than what I had at home. She’d blown through a wad of cash, but her plan was to auction off everything any of the actors touched. She’d recoup her outlay and make additional money for The Club’s Hurricane Relief Fund.
“Is that—it couldn’t be Sarah Booth Delaney!”
The baritone voice froze me to the spot. I closed my eyes and swallowed while Tinkie did her best sorority squeal.
“Why, it’s Graf Milieu! Sarah Booth, turn around and look. It’s really him!”
I knew it was him. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. I’d saved phone messages from him, simply to hear that rich, sexy voice. I spun around, pasting pleasant on my face. “Why, Graf, you look marvelous.”
No hardship to say that. His dark hair was touched by gray at the temples, and there were a few additional character lines at the corners of his eyes, but the hand of time had touched additional handsomeness into perfection.
“Sarah Booth, you’ve never looked lovelier.”
; Before I could do anything, he swept me into an embrace. His lips, so warm and firm and tasting of peppermint, closed over mine. The kiss went from friendly to sexy in a nanosecond. “I’ve thought about you every day for the past year,” he whispered into my ear. “The only reason I came to this godforsaken hole was to see you.”
“Easy, Graf.” I wiggled free of his arms. My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t look at him. His words were vindication for an old, ugly wound. When I’d left New York, he hadn’t made a single attempt to stop me. Not even a please. He’d remained silent as I picked up my last suitcase and walked out into a bitter winter day. He’d watched from the window as I’d gotten into the taxi. He didn’t even wave.
Since I’d been home, he hadn’t bothered to call. Not even once. Not even to make sure I’d gotten home safely. When I left New York, I left his sphere of awareness. Or so I’d thought.
“Why, Sarah Booth, you look pure flushed.” Tinkie sucked in her bottom lip. It popped free and I heard a gasp behind me. Sir Alfred Bascomb stood only two feet away.
“I am flushed. With hunger.” I strode away from Graf and Sir Alfred, heading for the hallway that would, eventually, lead to an outside exit. I had no use for either of them. “I’m going home, Tinkie,” I called behind me. “I have plans.”
“In the arms of the great, big, handsome sheriff, who is still legally married,” she called after me, and I knew it was for Graf’s benefit. I heard her high heels tapping after me.
Betrayal stung me. “Coleman is your friend,” I whispered to her even though we were well out of earshot. “How could you?”
“Every cook knows an extra hunk of meat improves the stew.” She grinned. “Sarah Booth, Graf looked at you like a starving man would eye a T-bone.”
“How flattering. And how accurate. I’d be his next meal, and then he’d move on to dessert—if I were even slightly interested, which I’m not.” I put my hand on her arm. “Tinkie, you don’t know the history between us. He treated me poorly.”
Ham Bones Page 1
