Ham Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Did you ever hear anyone threaten Renata?”

  “Only everyone in the cast and crew at some point. Most of it behind her back. She and Graf were going at it like cats and dogs most of the time.” She paused. “Keith Watley almost stroked out last week about something she said to him. He told her he was going to kill her with his bare hands.”

  Renata made people dislike her. Whether it was deliberate or not, she certainly brought it on herself. “Did you notice any strangers hanging around?”

  “There was a man in Reno, but she frightened him away with one of her temper fits.”

  “A name?”

  “Buster Long. He was a cute, older man with these amazing muttonchop whiskers. I thought at first they were fake, but they were real. He let me tug on them.”

  I couldn’t help my expression. Bobbe scratched to a verbal halt. “What’s wrong?”

  “How old was this guy?”

  “He looked to be in his sixties, but he had to be younger. I saw him picking up some suitcases, and he was pretty spry.”

  “He showed up in Reno?”

  “That’s right. But she ran him off before we came down here.”

  “You don’t remember where he was from?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wrote him off as a chump, one of those guys who fall for a stage star and live in a fantasy.”

  “Bobbe, is there any of the original tube of Almond Mocha Retreat left in Renata’s makeup?”

  “That’s what was so strange. I’d been doing her makeup for the whole show and suddenly she has to have this particular lipstick in that particular shade.” She threw up her hands. “What a bitch. She’d done all the shows before without it. I’d never heard of the stuff.”

  I took a deep breath. A lot of things continued to add up—to a very well-planned murder.

  While I was at The Club, I went to the bar to talk to the barkeep, Bernard, until I could find Sir Alfred Bascomb. I thought he might be in the dining room for lunch. It was a well-known fact that Sir Alfred liked his vittles, and the chef at The Club was renowned.

  “You don’t look good, Sarah Booth.” Bernard put an icy glass of diet drink in front of me. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay. How’s Molly?” Bernard’s wife, Molly, was an old family friend and the exceptional seamstress for my gown for the Black and Orange Ball. She’d also been pressed into service to make alterations and repair costumes for the play.

  “She’s backstage, mending something right now. She saw the play last night.” His smile was radiant. “We both did. Sarah Booth, your mama would be so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Bernard. Do you really think?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do. Your mama had a little bit of the actress in her. She could be dramatic when the need arose. I remember, when you were still in diapers, she taught you to sing and dance. You’d perform these little numbers ...” His laughter was like a warm kiss. “Folks couldn’t help but smile when they saw them. And you loved it! Your mama encouraged you, Sarah Booth. If she were alive, she’d be in the front row every night, clapping herself silly with your daddy right beside her.”

  The gift Bernard gave me was greater than he’d ever know. I was so young when my parents were killed that I had no real idea how they might view my adult activities. Bernard made me believe they would approve, and God knows I craved their approval. “Thank you, Bernard.” I stood on the rungs of my stool and leaned across the bar to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “You take care, Sarah Booth. That mean woman put you in a fine pickle. I heard her in here on her cell phone, planning and plotting.”

  I eased back down in my seat. “Plotting what?”

  “She hated you. She was talking on her cell phone, laughing about her plan. I didn’t realize at the time that her plan was to make folks believe you’d killed her.” His gray eyebrows drew together in a frown. “She was talking to someone about lipstick and how she’d make sure you picked it up.”

  I didn’t really have to ask, but I did anyway. “Bernard, if it comes to it, would you testify to that?”

  “On a stack of Bibles. I already told the sheriff.”

  “Any idea who she was talking to?”

  “It was a man. I was serving her a drink, and I heard him laughing.”

  “Thanks.” I put a five on the bar for the cola and headed toward the dining room.

  Sir Alfred was already ensconced in a table with a view of the garden. The camellias had just begun to bud out, vibrant pinks and variegated blossoms against the dark green of the leaves. These are the winter flowers that grace the lawn of every old plantation home in the South. From the small, pale pinks to the lush, tropical blooms, they mark the closing of winter.

  “Amazing that they bloom even in the cold,” Sir Alfred said, waving me into a seat. “Ms. Delaney, I’m glad to see you. I’ve wanted to tell you how greatly I admire your talent.”

  Sir Alfred wasn’t known for his generosity with a compliment, and I couldn’t help preening just a little. “Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure to work with you.” I meant every word. The part of Big Daddy was written for him, and though Sir Alfred could be exceptionally difficult, I’d seen none of it during this performance.

  “How was it to work with Renata?” I asked.

  “She was a terrible bitch, but it’s a tough job, performing the same part for years. We were all tired, simply exhausted. The petty bickering that’s always a part of a cast and crew had reached gargantuan proportions. We were all looking forward to the conclusion, and none more than Renata. I was honestly amazed when she urged all of us to accept the week here in Zinnia.”

  “Your contract would have ended in Reno, due to the destruction of the Gulf Coast?”

  He nodded as he signaled a waiter. “Bloody Marys for both of us, please.” He turned back to me, his thin, aristocratic face puzzled. “It was Renata who insisted we come here. Demanded, actually.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  “None whatsoever. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that she came here to be murdered, and you got the chance to prove yourself a star.”

  Ironic didn’t begin to describe it. “Sir Alfred, did Renata ever mention my name?”

  “In fact she did. Not directly to me, but to Graf. Those two seemed to hate each other, and she told him that once we got to Zinnia he could start up his affair with his country bumpkin, that would be you, once again.”

  “What was Graf’s reaction?” I didn’t ask for the case but for my own ego.

  “He walked away. She called after him, something to the effect that both of you would pay in ways you’d never see coming. How right she was about that.”

  “Too right to be merely a coincidence,” I muttered.

  The drinks arrived, and I sipped mine while Sir Alfred ordered roasted pheasant soup and dill salad for lunch. My appetite was gone. Besides, I was due to meet the girls at Dahlia House.

  Millie spread the articles she’d clipped across the kitchen table as Tinkie brewed a pot of coffee and put cream and sugar on the table.

  “This is twelve months ago.” She pointed at a photograph of Renata coming out of a plastic surgeon’s office in Beverly Hills. The tabloid story speculated on the aspect of a face lift or some other procedure. But that’s all it was, speculation. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, though, the article mentioned the doctor’s name and with directory assistance, I had his number. Cece placed the call.

  “Hello, Dr. Drake, this is Cece Dee Falcon with the Zinnia Dispatch.” She made it sound like the London Times. “I’m doing a story on the lately deceased Renata Trovaioli. The coroner’s report suggests some problem with the use of Botox in Ms. Trovaioli’s body, a type of toxic shock that may have come from cosmetic injections and—”

  I could hear the doctor shouting.

  “When was the last time you saw Ms. Trovaioli?” She wrote in her notepad. “You’re certain of that? She never asked for Botox? Never had a pro
cedure? Doctor, I have to warn you, if you’re leading me astray, I’ll make it my life’s goal to document your stellar career to the stars. I’m sure most of your clientele would prefer to remain anonymous.”

  Cece knew how to threaten, and she had no qualms about doing it.

  “I see.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Thanks, Dr. Drake.”

  She replaced the phone. “Renata never had surgery or Botox, at least from Drake. But he was hiding something, I just couldn’t figure out what.”

  “Too bad we can’t get his medical records.” I slumped in my chair.

  “I’m good, Sarah Booth, but I’m not that good.” Cece slumped, too.

  “Coleman could order them,” Tinkie said.

  Her comment fell into a total void of silence. No one looked at me. I got up and poured coffee, trying hard to hide the sudden wash of tears that threatened to ruin my perfect mascara.

  Chapter 13

  We’d finished our second pot of coffee, and I’d avoided an emotional meltdown in front of my friends. I looked around the kitchen table at the faces of the three women who’d become my family.

  Tinkie’s petite face glowed with all the health money could buy. It wasn’t all creams and unguents, though. She had an inner beauty that came through. Somehow in the days since Halloween, Tinkie had found a belief in her own self pure and strong enough to dissolve a breast lump. She’d confronted her anger with Oscar and healed her past. She seemed happy and carefree. Her life had turned around.

  Beside her was Millie. Maybe ten years older than the rest of us, Millie’s face showed the years of hard work she’d put into the café and the terrible loss of her sister. Mixed with the lines were happiness and the knowledge that Millie’s Café was the most thriving diner in the Delta. The tables and booths were occupied from dawn until nine P.M., when she closed the doors. Two women couldn’t be more different than Tinkie and Millie, yet they were close friends. Tinkie had grown up with the proverbial silver spoon; Millie had been in the kitchen polishing it. Yet such a thing as class would never come between them, because neither woman acknowledged that it existed.

  And Cece. Perhaps the most beautiful of all of us, yet born a man. She’d overcome obstacles that would have stopped a lesser person. She’d triumphed over a body that betrayed her, a family that disowned her, and a town that feared her power in the press yet viewed her as an abnormal outsider. Radiant didn’t begin to describe her looks, and her taste was impeccable.

  “Are you going to work, or are you going to stare into space like a stoned cowgirl?” Cece asked.

  “I was thinking how fortunate I am to have such good friends. Such a wonderful family.”

  My words brought tears to Millie’s eyes. “You girls are my family, too.”

  “Yes,” Cece drawled, determined not to get sentimental. “Dahlia House is where I come when all the bars kick me out.”

  “Thank you all for standing by me.” I held their gazes, unwilling to let the moment pass.

  “Sounds to me like a farewell,” Cece said. “Is Hollywood beckoning?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t know what to do about that. It’s sort of moot, since I can’t leave the county.”

  “Coleman will let you go.” Tinkie was so positive. She got up and began to rummage through the refrigerator. “Don’t you have anything sweet to eat? There’s nothing in the fridge but molded cheese and something in a bread wrapper that’s moving on the bottom shelf.”

  “Nine-grain. I knew that stuff had life.” I laughed at her expression and went to the cabinet to find my last fruitcake from Christmas. I’d preserved it with Jack, so there was no danger it would be spoiled. I opened it and cut thick slices for all of us. The kitchen filled with the pleasant aroma of coffee and Jack Daniel’s, the clatter of cutlery on glass, and the laughter of my friends. Could I leave this? I closed my eyes, no closer to an answer than I’d been the night before.

  “Gabriel told me some very, very interesting things about Renata.” Cece had the floor. “When they were children, they were abandoned by their parents. Renata stole food for them for almost six months before DHR finally got wind of them. They were destined to be split apart and sent to different foster homes, and Renata convinced the people who were taking her to take Gabriel, too.”

  It sounded almost as if Renata had once had a heart. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear more. It was easier to view her as unloving and unloved.

  “She really was his big sister,” Millie said, caught up in Cece’s story.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Cece’s eyes sparked humor. “The foster parents were determined Renata would become a secretary. Gabriel they had lined up for a job at the state docks.”

  Both were good, solid jobs, but neither took into account the aspirations of the two children.

  “When Renata hit sixteen, she didn’t come home from school one day. She just walked out of their life. Gabriel wasn’t allowed to say her name in the house. His foster parents told him she’d been killed on the streets. In effect, Gabriel lost his sister.”

  After Renata’s selfless act in saving Gabriel, she’d shown her true colors and left him to fend for himself while she struggled with her own life. What could a sixteen-year-old do, though? I stopped my own thoughts and listened to Cece.

  “Gabriel was nearly twenty when he realized Renata was still alive. He, too, had run away from home. He’d moved to Los Angeles, apprenticed to an architect, and was putting himself through college. He went to a play one night with a friend and saw a woman on the stage who bore a remarkable resemblance to his dead sister. Renata was using the name Selena Zafon at the time, but he recognized her and waited backstage to confront her.”

  Cece’s story had us enthralled. “That must have been hard for him,” Tinkie said.

  “It was. He was furious. They had a terrible scene, and Renata told him to get lost. He said it took them a decade to get to the point where they could be civil to each other. When Renata hit it big on Broadway, she tried to patch up the relationship with Gabriel. He said it wasn’t until just this past year, though, when he felt as if she cared about him. Prior to that, he felt he was an obligation.”

  “Did he say what changed in the past year?” I asked.

  Cece considered. “Renata flew out to LA to see him. She had appointments with other people. Not movie people. Someone in a medical center on Sunset Boulevard. He assumed she was having some work done, but she never did. She went to half a dozen appointments and then flew back out to New York to conclude Cat.”

  “Maybe she was making future appointments for Botox treatments?” Tinkie posed the possibility.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. Renata was certainly vain enough, but she really was only thirty-six or so. Surely that was too young for Botox? “Did Gabriel remember what the doctor’s name was on Sunset Boulevard? Since it wasn’t Drake, maybe she used someone else.”

  Cece shook her head. “She wouldn’t really talk about it with him, and since he thought it was vanity work, he didn’t ask.”

  “I need a listing of medical practices there.” It wasn’t a great lead, but I was literally clutching at straws. I had to find out who’d really killed Renata and why. Maybe she was suing a doctor, and he’d sent a hit man to Mississippi. Doctors would know all about poisons.

  “Right. Why not ask for all the Chins listed in a Chinese directory.” Cece was always droll.

  “Cece, you can get that for me, can’t you? You have contacts at the LA Times,” I wheedled.

  “Or you could look it up on the Internet.” She arched an eyebrow.

  “It would be much faster to go the regular phone book route.” I wasn’t going to let Cece off so easily.

  “Okay. I’ll try to get a more specific address from Gabriel. There could be a thousand doctors on Sunset Boulevard, and for all we know Renata was seeing a podiatrist or even a chiropractor.”

  She was right, but I was determined.

  Tinkie cleared her throat. “The toxicology report o
n Renata was very interesting.” She had our attention.

  “Renata died of cyanide poisoning. The poison was found in the lipstick and around her lips. She obviously licked her lips and ingested it. There’s no doubt she was deliberately poisoned. The lipstick had been dipped into a solution of the poison. Anyone could have done it.”

  I got up to make more coffee, afraid everyone would see my fear. The noose was tightening.

  “There’s more.” Tinkie grasped my wrist as I walked by and pulled me back to the table.

  “Do tell?” Cece was devouring every word, along with the last slice of fruitcake.

  “I did a bit of checking on Graf Milieu. His finances are fascinating. For a man who makes a lot of money, he’s so far in the red he won’t ever see daylight, unless this movie deal comes off.”

  “Graf never could manage money.” At the time I was with him in New York, I didn’t let it worry me. I didn’t have any money to mismanage. We were both poor and in love. But Graf had become a star in the last year. He was making six, maybe seven, figures. How could he still be so far behind the eight ball?

  “It would seem Graf Milieu developed a fondness for Bolivian marching powder.” Tinkie watched me closely.

  “Drugs?” I couldn’t believe it. Graf was too vain to mess with something that might negatively affect his looks. It would be more likely that he’d invested poorly.

  “Serious drugs.”

  Tinkie’s words stopped me. “That’s nuts.”

  “I’m not saying he was using them. He was transporting them across the Mexican border and got caught.”

  “Graf?” He was an idiot about things. He thought he could bluff his way out of serious trouble, and he couldn’t. He was just foolhardy enough to do something like try to smuggle drugs. “How in the hell did he get out of prison?”

  Tinkie had been waiting for that question. “Renata. She paid off the Federales, got Graf back across the border, and she’s been lording it over him ever since.”