Behind me I heard the rustle of many petticoats. Jitty. In antebellum attire, no doubt. I wanted to hide in my quilt. Maybe even my guilt, because for some reason I had just taken a heaping helping of starch-laden guilt, compliments of Connie.
“I hear Connie’s cleared the infield and thrown you a touchdown pass.”
I whipped around. Jitty hated football. And no one wearing an azure dancing gown of silk should ever talk sports. “You’ve been eavesdropping. How come you can’t do that when I need help solving a case?”
She glided into the room with a movement that sent her hoop skirts swinging. “So Connie’s leaving town? Do you believe it?”
“More to the point, what do you believe?” I often let my heart lead me astray, but Jitty was more of a skeptic.
“Why would she call you, Sarah Booth? Connie doesn’t owe you anything.” One eyebrow arched. “It’s something to ponder.”
“Thank you, Jitty.” I couldn’t stop the laugh. Trust Jitty to put things in perspective. Connie didn’t have a noble bone in her body. She’d almost accomplished exactly what she intended—which was to make me feel bad.
“Why don’t you call Coleman?”
I couldn’t believe those words were coming from Jitty’s mouth. “Why?”
She fingered a beautiful pearl necklace at her throat. Apparently the jewels in the afterlife were better, too. “He should know about Connie’s call, and you can bet she won’t tell him.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to Coleman. It might taint his murder case against me.”
Jitty laughed. “Before you go riding with Mr. Hollywood Britches, give the lawman a call. Sarah Booth, you’ve always been an all-or-nothing kind of woman. You’re making decisions about your future without all the facts. Truth be told, you might be lining yourself up with a killer.”
Jitty wasn’t trying to aggravate me. She was serious.
“You think Graf killed Renata?” I truly hadn’t given it serious thought. I knew him. He was a convenient liar and a self-centered bastard at time, but not a killer.
“I don’t know if Graf killed her or not. But I do know that you didn’t. If you didn’t, someone else did, and he’s high on the suspect list.”
Suddenly my afternoon plan for a ride seemed impulsive. Jitty was making sense. I needed a hot shower and some time to gather my emotions. “Thank you, Jitty.”
“I only want your happiness, Sarah Booth.” Her voice became an echo as she began to fade. “Only your happiness.”
I was left sitting in my room cocooned in a quilt made by the hands of one of my ancestors. I jumped to my feet. I had places to go and things to do before the morning was gone.
I picked up the phone and called Tinkie. She answered sounding sleepy and content, though it was nearly nine.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Oscar and I had a late night.” I could hear the satisfaction in her voice. Though they’d had their ups and downs, as all couples do, there was still the spark of passion in their marriage. I stamped down the flare of envy. I didn’t begrudge Tinkie a single moment of marital bliss. I just wanted to sample a good relationship for myself.
“I’m going to get dressed and head over to the hospital to talk to Doc Sawyer about Renata’s autopsy,” I said. “Want to join me?”
“Sure.” Tinkie sounded suddenly wary. “I talked to Coleman yesterday, too. He’s going to try to get Renata’s medical records from Dr. Abraham Samen on Sunset Boulevard. Cece came through for us.”
I’d never doubted that Cece could get whatever information she set her sights on. She was persuasive. “Did Renata have plastic surgery?”
There was a moment’s pause. “No. And I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”
Tinkie was sensitive about medical information, and I didn’t blame her. “Let’s meet at the hospital. I’ll pick up some coffee and pastries on the way.” We both knew better than to attempt Doc’s brew. There was the possibility that it multiplied on its own regenerative power.
“Thirty minutes,” Tinkie said before she hung up.
Chapter 15
Doc Sawyer had been trying to retire for the past year, but folks in Sunflower County just wouldn’t let him. He maintained an office beside the emergency room in the hospital—allegedly a part-time office—but Doc was there from six A.M. until his work was done.
When I knocked on his door, he opened it and let a smile move over his face. “Sarah Booth, you look more like your mother each time I see you.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Congratulations on your acting success. You’re a smash!”
“Thanks, Doc. Few people in town are brave enough to kiss an accused murderer.”
“Ah, the stupidity of the masses. Remember, these are the same people who push down trees to lay asphalt. What can you expect?”
I held out the bag of pastries. “Tinkie’s on her way. We need a pow-wow.”
“Fate is kind to an old country doctor.” He took the bag and rummaged until he found a cheese Danish. Doc had the metabolism of a fourteen-year-old basketball player. He could—and did—eat whatever he wanted without gaining an ounce. He’d been my childhood doctor, so I figured him to be in his sixties, at least. Except for the untidy cloud of white hair, he looked younger than that.
“Tinkie got the basic autopsy report on Renata, but I need to ask a few questions.”
He nodded. “I knew Coleman would share the facts, but I thought you might be by. I made a copy of the report for you.”
“That’s great.” I checked my watch. Tinkie was never late. I retrieved a cup of coffee from the second bag I’d brought. I offered Doc a cup, but he shook his head and got a cup of black syrup from his own pot.
“Have you tested that coffee for medicinal properties?” To my knowledge, Doc had never been sick a day in his life.
He only laughed. “My coffee isn’t for the faint of heart.”
There was a light knock on the door and Tinkie stepped inside. She took the coffee I offered and after a brief investigation of the pastry bag, settled on a cinnamon roll.
“Now that we’re all having breakfast,” I said, “I need to ask a few questions about Renata.”
“Shoot.” Doc ate the last bite of his Danish and reached for the bag to get another.
“How did the poison get into the lipstick?” I asked. “Has anyone figured that part out? Was the tube dipped in poison?”
Doc’s face showed concern. “Yes, a highly potent solution. Whoever did this wanted the person who applied the lipstick to die. It was very clever of them to use a cosmetic scented with almonds to cover up the cyanide. I caught a whiff of it when I did the autopsy, but I couldn’t be certain until the tests came back.”
“Could this have been an accident?” Tinkie asked.
Doc shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could say otherwise.”
“It looks bad for me because traces of cyanide were found in the trunk of my car. I’ve never bought or used cyanide in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to get it.” Whoever killed Renata had set a perfect snare for me.
“It’s not something you can buy over the counter.” Doc considered. “If I had to guess, I’d say whoever tampered with Renata’s lipstick understands poisons and reactions. Someone with some medical training. That’s where I’d start looking.”
“Thanks, Doc. That’s a good lead. We’ll check it out.” I sat back and thought.
“And someone who had access to Renata’s things. Whoever did this had to get the lipstick from Renata after Sarah Booth gave it to her.”
“I didn’t give it to her. I gave it to Graf to give to her.” I met Tinkie’s gaze without flinching.
“Sarah Booth—” She bit her bottom lip.
“He could have opened it and poisoned it. I know.” It looked bad for Graf, but I wasn’t willing to believe he killed Renata. Not yet.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Tinkie’s cheeks were pink with anger. “These incriminating tidbits involvi
ng Graf just keep popping up.”
“I know what it feels like to have someone jump the gun and make an accusation based on circumstantial evidence. These things look bad in one light, but they don’t make Graf guilty.” So many things were pointing directly at Graf. He knew Renata better than anyone. He knew her intimately. Yet there was something else niggling at my brain. “Doc, had Renata had any plastic surgery?”
He consulted the chart. “She had a mammoplasty, saline implants. Why do you ask?”
“She went to a doctor in Los Angeles about eight months ago. She made repeated visits. Could you see any reason why?”
Doc frowned. “To be honest, Sarah Booth, I didn’t look for cosmetic surgeries other than injections with toxins, such as Botox. The cyanide was obviously the cause of death ...”
“What are you thinking?” Tinkie asked me.
“I’m not sure. There’s just something I can’t quite catch hold of here.” I stood up. “I want to go to the sheriff’s office and see if Dewayne or Gordon can help me pull together a picture of the old man who sold me the lipstick. I think it may be the same man Bobbe Renshaw saw arguing with Renata in Reno. He sold me the lipstick, and he may be the one who poisoned it. If Bobbe can identify him, then we’ll have something solid to go on.”
“Great idea!” Tinkie was on her feet, too.
We both gave Doc a hug and hurried out of his office and into the hallway beside the emergency room. I was in such a hurry that I barely noticed a large, dark shadow before I bumped into the solid chest of a well-built man. My brain registered the brown uniform, the badge, and as I looked up, the blue eyes of Coleman Peters. He looked as if he’d been gaffed.
“I’m sorry.” I stepped back quickly. In that brief moment I caught a whiff of his distinctive aftershave and the starch in his uniform. Coleman managed to look crisp and polished even in the worst of Delta weather. My heart took a painful lurch.
“Sarah Booth.” He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”
His question had nothing to do with our bump in the hall. “As well as can be expected. For a murderess.” The sharp words leapt from my mouth. “And tell your wife to stop calling me. I’m not stupid, and she can play the victim for you, Coleman, but not for me. Brain tumor my ass.”
I stepped past him and headed out the door, my back so straight my breasts projected like the prow of a ship.
“She’s really hurt,” Tinkie said to Coleman as she followed me out.
“Don’t make excuses for me,” I told her once we stood in the weak January sunshine. “He’s the one who should be making excuses for his behavior. He and Connie deserve each other.”
“Did she really call you?”
I filled her in on the brief conversation I’d had with Coleman’s wife. Tinkie’s assessment was the same as mine.
“She’s conniving again. I just lost all sympathy for her.” Tinkie opened the door of her Caddy. “Want me to go to the sheriff’s office with you?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
She slammed the door. “Good. I’m going to see if Doc can’t manage to get some medical records on a dead woman. As county coroner, he might be able to get the same thing Coleman can. That way we can circumvent the whole sheriff’s department thing.”
Connie’s behavior had riled her, too. I gave her a big hug. “You got all the brains in this operation.”
“Not true. But call me when you get the sketch finished. And you need to take a nap, Sarah Booth. This is your last performance. When I talked to Keith Watley last night, he said several important people will be in the audience.”
Keith hadn’t said a word to me. “What kind of important people?”
She sighed. “From a couple of movie studios. Graf has been on the phone about you. They’ve come to look for themselves.” She slid her sunglasses on so I couldn’t see her eyes.
“It’s so nice to be the last one to know.”
“They didn’t want you to get nervous, but I felt you deserved to know. So take a nap. You need to be rested and ready to wow them.”
She walked through the gravel, her tiny red high heels making a scrunching sound that reminded me, for some reason, of the first day of grammar school and the sense of being alone in a large world.
“This computer program isn’t as good as a sketch artist, but it’s better than nothing.” Gordon manipulated the mouse as he talked. “How about these sideburns?”
I sat beside him, trying hard to remember the old codger who’d sold me the lipstick. “Wider at the base. Really tufty.”
Gordon cursed softly as he struggled with manipulating the program.
“That’s it!” I said, patting his shoulder. “The eyebrows were a little bushier, though.”
He worked and I waited. Detail by detail, we created an image of the old man at La Burnisco.
“Do you think this guy was wearing a costume?” Gordon asked.
The question stopped me dead in my tracks. It was so painfully obvious, and yet I hadn’t thought about it. Here I was dealing with an actress and a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Dickens novel, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might be made-up.
“Well, damn.” I sat back, defeated.
Gordon saved the image and turned to look at me. “Even if the whiskers and all are part of a disguise, we’ll still have a likeness of the guy.”
“And how will that help?” I’d just wasted an hour of my precious freedom. Lunchtime had passed, and I had a date for a horseback ride at two.
“Keep working with me, and I’ll show you.” Gordon turned his attention back to the computer screen.
I wasn’t certain that I liked the kinder-gentler-Gordon, but I wasn’t about to complain when someone offered help. We worked on the mouth and chin until finally we had a likeness of the old gent that was very close to the real thing.
“That’s him.”
Gordon hit print and in a moment we had the black and white sketch in our hands.
“Now watch this,” he said. With a few clicks of the mouse, the white hair was close-cropped black, the whiskers and moustache gone. The image on the screen was a man in his forties—a rather handsome man who bore no resemblance to anyone I knew.
“Never seen him,” I said.
“Perhaps not. But maybe someone else has. I’ll circulate both pictures and see if I get any hits. We’ll even fax them to the television stations in Memphis. The media has been all over Renata’s murder, so we might as well get some use out of them. I’ll put this out as a witness wanted in Renata’s death. That might generate some calls.”
“Thanks.” I rose to go. “I appreciate all you’re doing, Gordon.”
“No problem, Sarah Booth. I know you’re innocent. It’s just a matter of time before we catch the real killer. I’ll take one of the pictures by and see if Ms. Renshaw can make a positive identification on the old gent.”
“Thanks.”
I walked out of the courthouse and stood for a moment in the midday sun. It was nearly sixty, a warm, bright day. I heard a laugh behind me, and Booter walked out onto the steps.
“Tonight’s your last performance, Sarah Booth,” she said. “I’ll bet you’ll be a smash star in the women’s prison. Once the play is over, Coleman can’t continue to let you run free.” Her eyes were cold. “No matter how much he doesn’t want to lock up his paramour.”
“Booter, why do you have it in for me?” I decided to confront her. My impulse was to smack her hard, but if I got in any trouble my bail would be revoked. Words were the only weapons I had.
The question startled her, at least for a second. “I don’t have it in for you, Sarah Booth. I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“That’s good to know. I was beginning to think you’d followed me here. Like your life is so pathetic you have to follow me to get some excitement.”
“Follow you?” She looked around as if I had to be talking to someone else. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“That’s w
hat I’d like to know.” Suddenly my gut told me that I’d hit the nail right on the head. Booter had followed me. To what purpose, I couldn’t say. “You’ve been in the café, at The Club, now here at the courthouse. You are following me.”
“You’re paranoid.” She skipped down the steps, leaving me to wonder why I didn’t believe a word out of her mouth.
Graf showed up at two on the dot wearing tan breeches, riding boots, and a burgundy sweater that perfectly offset his olive good looks. The wind ruffled his dark hair as he groomed Miss Scrapiron while I readied Reveler.
Lee had been smart enough to leave a saddle and bridle for the bay mare, and Graf tacked her up without any assistance from me.
“She’s a lovely animal,” he said as he swung into the saddle.
“She is.” I watched her move out, so eager. In a matter of moments we were trotting around the barren cotton fields side by side. Reveler occasionally nuzzled the mare beside him, a gentlemanly attempt at paying court. Miss Scrapiron was too much of a lady to acknowledge his passes.
When we left Dahlia House behind, Graf settled his horse to a walk. “Sarah Booth, have you told the law about my adventures in Mexico?”
“No.” I hadn’t, yet I didn’t know why I hadn’t.
“Do you believe me?”
It wasn’t the right question for a perfect afternoon, but I knew I had to answer it honestly. “I do, Graf. You’ve always been impulsive. You’ve always thought that looks counted more than anything else. I believe you could be that foolish.”
“You can call me a moron as long as you don’t believe I was smuggling drugs for a profit. I just wanted to stay alive, to not be hurt.”
I did believe him. Fool that I was. “Okay, but I think it would be in your best interest to go to the police with this yourself.”
“So your boyfriend can pop me in jail? No, thanks. He already looks at me like he wants to snap my head off. I don’t really want to give him a reason to put me behind bars.”
“Coleman can’t arrest you for something that happened in Mexico. He can’t do anything about whatever deal you made with Mexican authorities. To be honest, it won’t interest him. That’s not his jurisdiction.”
Ham Bones Page 14
