Tinkie went outside to whistle up the dogs. I was about to give up on Pluto when I found him hiding in the bushes outside The Club’s business offices. “Pluto, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on. We need to make tracks.”
His answer was a low hiss. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he ducked lower in the shrubbery. I followed suit. The cat was smart. Following his lead was common sense. I crawled into the thick of some Indian hawthorn and prayed the plants covered my butt.
Someone rounded the corner. With my face pressed into the mulch and Pluto’s back, my range of vision was impaired. Peering between the thick leaves, I saw khaki slacks come into view.
“This is all your fault,” Jasper Pew fumed into a cell phone. “I handled everything exactly as you told me. Now the law and two private investigators are crawling all over The Club. I’m going to lose my job, if not worse.”
He listened for a moment. “I don’t know why that troublemaker had to come to Sunflower County. She kept people upset about things that really don’t harm anyone. Companies have been adding artificial flavors, dye, and chemicals for years. This is just ridiculous. Now the board of directors at The Club insists we switch to organic and non-GMO produce. My entire list of suppliers is disrupted.”
He paused again, then said, “I already took care of it, but I’m not doing that again. You’re on your own.” He strode back toward the door and I heard the squeak of hinges and a slam.
And not a second too soon. Sweetie Pie and Chablis bounded across the flowerbed and leaped into the bushes. All ninety sopping-wet pounds of my beautiful red tick hound jumped square on my back. I went flat to the ground, and my lungs expelled air in a gasp.
“There you are!” Tinkie said. “Those dogs were in the lake on the third hole. I almost never got them out.”
I finally caught a breath and sat up. I put a finger to my lips and crawled from the shrubs. “Jasper Pew is in this up to his ears. We have to find him.”
“Time’s a-wastin’.” Tinkie took off and left me to bumble along behind her. To my great annoyance, Sweetie and Chablis dashed for the golf course, again. I tried calling them, but my lungs hadn’t recovered enough air to shout.
When I caught up with Tinkie, she was annoyed. “Pew tore out of the parking lot before I could stop him. Where are the dogs?”
Her question was answered by man-screams coming from the golf course. I didn’t have to be psychic to know the dogs were the cause. I wasn’t a member of The Club, and Tinkie wouldn’t be for long, with our dogs creating such a hoot and holler ruckus.
I looked out toward the third hole. A speeding golf cart had hit a bump, and both occupants bounced under the cart’s canvas top. Golf clubs spilled out everywhere, but the driver didn’t slow. When the men saw us, the driver veered in our direction.
“There’s a body floating in the lake,” the driver said. “This big hound dog keeps diving over and over into the water. We tried to run her out, but the little rat-bait dog tried to bite us. Anyway, it looks like the hound may have chewed the rope that was holding down the body. It shot to the surface. Liketa scared us senseless.”
He was so excited he almost crowed. “We got us a floater right here at The Club. I guess the murderer was hoping one of the swamp gators would crawl up and have lunch, but the dogs found the corpse first.”
Tinkie and I looked at each other. “Are there really gators in the golf course lake?” I asked.
She ignored the question. “We’re commandeering this golf cart for official business.” She yanked out the driver. The passenger bailed without my assistance, and I jumped in shotgun. We careened by the first tee and headed for the lake by the third hole.
From atop a rise, we saw Sweetie and Chablis sitting by the water’s edge. Something oblong bobbed behind them. I didn’t have to be told. I whipped out my phone and called Coleman. “We have another dead body at The Club, third hole, on the lake.”
“Who is it?” Coleman asked.
“I don’t know, but I think we’ll soon find out.”
When Sweetie saw us, she swam out to the body and began dragging it to shore. By the time I was knee-deep in the freezing water of the lake, all I had to do was grab an arm and pull the man out. He floated face-up, a handsome young man, probably in his late twenties. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize him. I was just grateful it was November, and the water was bitterly cold. The body hadn’t begun to decompose.
“Pull him up on the bank,” Tinkie commanded from her position in the golf cart. “Watch out, don’t let him drift away.
“He’s heavy. How about lending a hand?”
“These are my Christian Louboutin classic boots. I can’t get them wet.”
“A good thing one of us has shoes that can actually be worn and used.” A little snarky, but the man’s deadweight was heavier than I could pull onto the shore. My feet and legs were soaked, and my teeth were chattering.
“If the rope tied to his legs was a little longer, I could help pull him up,” Tinkie said. “As it is, I’ve called for backup.” She pointed toward the clubhouse.
Jasper Pew sped toward us in an SUV. Wherever he’d gone earlier, he was back. The condition of the golf course was the last thing on his mind, as his tires churned up ruts on the fairway. He slid to a stop and jumped from the vehicle.
“He’s in this up to his ears!” I whispered to Tinkie. “Why did you call him?”
“We can watch his reaction.”
There was no time to argue. Jasper ran toward me and the body. His face contorted in anguish. “Ricky!” He waded into the water. “Tell me he isn’t dead.”
I couldn’t do that, so I asked a question. “Who is he?”
“It’s Ricky Davenport. He quit and told everyone he had a job in Memphis. I never should have hired him, but he’s like a son to an old friend. He wasn’t a great employee, but I can’t believe he’s dead. Oh, this is terrible.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Two days ago. He quit, without giving any notice.” Jasper sat down in the grass. “This is the final straw. I just can’t do this anymore.”
Coleman and DeWayne rolled up in the patrol car. I wondered if Jasper Pew realized just how drastically his life was about to change.
Ten minutes later, Tinkie and I were outside the dining room door, eavesdropping on Coleman grilling the manager. He sat across a table from Jasper, who looked like he’d been put through a wringer.
“I had nothing to do with Priya Karsan’s death,” Jasper insisted for the hundredth time. “I had no reason to harm her or Ricky. I didn’t even know Ricky was dead. When he quit, he told me he was moving to Memphis. I’ve been mad at him for quitting. All that time, he was dead.”
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Tinkie said.
“I would, too, had I not overheard his cell phone conversation.” What he’d said hadn’t been incriminating, but did suggest foul play. My interpretation was that Jasper might not have been involved in the death of Ricky Davenport, but he’d had something to do with the disposal of Ricky’s body. Jasper’s conduct at the lake had been theatric but not sincere.
“We won’t get any further here, and besides, you can ask Coleman for details. If you’ve patched things up.” The very devil danced in Tinkie’s china-blue eyes. “Let’s blow this joint and head to Bert and Betty Henderson’s. There’s something about that stolen airplane that doesn’t sit right with me. This is all connected. I just can’t see how.”
Coleman had our statements and had all but given Chablis and Sweetie Pie commendations for their body recovery work—after making sure the dogs were dry and toasty. He’d not been that concerned about my wet body parts, which amused Tinkie even more as she whispered ways he could warm me up.
Dogs and cat loaded in the car, we aimed for the Mississippi River and Stonegate, the Henderson farm producing the latest in GMO crops.
We found the couple working in a small satsuma orchard. Both were bundled
up like the Michelin Man. Bert was a hulk at over six feet. Beside him, Betty was a petite blob.
“It’s too cold for satsumas this far north,” Tinkie said. “They’re tropical.” Her opinion contradicted the heavily laden fruit trees.
“This is a new, cold-hardy type that Gyndrex is developing,” Bert said. “It’ll put the orchards in the lower part of the country out of business if they don’t convert to GMO crops. It will revolutionize the citrus business. So much of a crop is lost if there’s a freeze, and you know the weather is becoming more and more erratic. These satsumas can withstand temps in the teens for several days in a row.”
He took off his gloves and extended a hand for a shake. “Nice to have you ladies here. Sorry it’s not a happier occasion. Lots of mischief afoot in the Delta.”
I didn’t know if he was referring to the murder of Priya Karsan or Ricky Davenport, or both. “Did you know Ricky Davenport?” I asked.
“Of course we do. He’s like a son to us.” Betty removed her gloves and indicated we should walk with her and Bert to the house. “I have lemonade made with citrus from our very own tree. You’ve never tasted anything this good.”
As we walked through the grove, I was amazed by the uniformity of the fruit. It was almost as if a spell had been cast on the trees to produce only perfect orbs of citrus.
“Ricky worked here for several summers,” Betty said. “He was one of those kids who simply left home and no one looked for him. He loved cars, boats, tractors, all kinds of vehicles. Bert taught him to fly the Cessna.”
“He’s a quick learner,” Bert said from behind us. “Quick learner.”
Betty led us into the house. “We were sorry when he moved to Jackson last spring for chef’s training and a job at the Jackson Country Club. Bert and I never had children, but Ricky filled that gap. It was hard to let him go, but he’s a young man with a bright future.”
Tinkie and I exchanged glances. The Hendersons weren’t aware that Ricky was dead.
“He was hard-working and reliable?” I asked. This picture was the total opposite of the one painted by Suellen Sweeney, the Club employee who’d labeled Ricky as lazy.
“He never left a chore unfinished,” Betty said. “He was in Jackson on a scholarship. Full-ride. He promised he’d try to get a job in this area, and we were thrilled Jasper gave him an internship at The Club. It’s the perfect place for Ricky to work.”
Betty showed us into the farmhouse’s spacious den and went to the kitchen to make lemonade. While Betty was busy, Tinkie cornered Bert. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but Ricky Davenport is dead,” she said, with as much tact as possible.
“And good riddance,” Bert said. All pretenses at pleasantness fell away. “Betty has zero ability to judge character. Ricky was a handsome lout who was able to manipulate her and steal tens of thousands of dollars. She simpered around him like a dog in heat, throwing money at him. When he went off to chef school, I knew it wouldn’t last. That boy refused to work.”
Tinkie recoiled, obviously shocked by his harshness. Bert and Betty had seemed like a couple in lockstep on all thoughts. “Are you implying Betty had an affair with Ricky?”
“Lord, no. She’s old enough to be his mother. He wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole, but he sure sweet-talked her out of money.”
“Why didn’t you put your foot down?” I asked.
“It’s her money. All of it. And she never lets me forget it.”
We’d really stirred the hornet’s nest. “Why did Ricky come back to Sunflower County?” I asked.
“He told Betty he had an internship, but I swear he was undercover for Gyndrex. The company was absolutely paranoid about that young woman, Priya Karsan. They hated her, and it was mighty convenient for Ricky to show up just in time to prepare for her arrival. I think he might be involved in her murder.”
“How did you know she was dead?” I asked.
“Gyndrex knows everything, and Betty is wired in to Gyndrex. They told her, and I wouldn’t doubt they sent Ricky to spy on her.”
“Ricky had ties to Gyndrex?” This was big news.
“When he was here, he was friendly with several Gyndrex engineers and agriculture experts. Betty was all the time whispering with somebody from Gyndrex, and Ricky was her shadow.”
He glanced toward the kitchen, clearly uneasy that Betty might overhear him. “And just so you know, Betty hated that Food Guru girl, too. When we heard she was dead, Betty danced a jig in the kitchen. She said Priya Karsan was stirring up people over nothing. Folks listened to the Food Guru and were beginning to demand changes in food labeling and such. That was going to impact Betty’s bottom line and she hated it.”
All discussion was cut short when Betty returned, bearing a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and glasses filled with ice. “What are y’all huddled up discussing?”
The change in Bert was amazing. A warm smile was plastered on his face, and he looked positively blissful. “That looks delicious.”
“I drink lemonade all year ’round,” she said, pouring us each a glass. “Can’t get enough of it. Gyndrex makes it possible to always have fresh lemons right here at Stonegate.”
She and Bert drained their glasses before I’d even taken a sip. Tinkie’s eyes widened, and she shook her head at me. Neither of us drank.
“We must drink twenty glasses a day,” Bert said, refilling his. “Man, this is good.”
“Lots of vitamins,” Betty added, tipping the pitcher over her own glass. “You two drink up. There’s plenty more in the kitchen.” She told Bert, “Go get another pitcher for our guests.”
“They haven’t finished what they have.” Bert’s expression had turned mulish. I realized the small pushback was an act of bravery.
“Make yourself useful,” Betty poured another glass for herself. “Our guests want more lemonade.”
“You want more. You’re hogging it all.”
“I grow the lemons, so I guess I can drink all I want.”
Tinkie gave me the stinkeye, and we set our glasses on the table. “We’d better hustle,” I said. “The sheriff is expecting us.”
“Your Cessna 182 that went missing . . .” Tinkie frowned, as if she’d just thought of something. “You say Ricky was trained to fly it?”
“Ricky is a genius,” Betty said. “He can learn anything. And he loved lemonade, too.”
“Did Sheriff Ledbetter ever turn up any clues as to who might have taken your plane?”
“If he has, he hasn’t called us,” Betty said. “We heard a Cessna 182 crashed into Cyrus’s field. I sure hope it wasn’t our Sky Blue. That’s what we called the plane, Sky Blue, because I always loved flying straight into the blue sky.”
“Have you replaced the plane?” Tinkie asked.
“Not yet. We need to do that, Bert. Maybe you should make some calls. We need the plane now more than ever since our crops are doing so well.” Betty’s face brightened. “Maybe if Ricky is working in Zinnia we can hire him as a pilot. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
I didn’t want to be in the room when Bert told her the young man was dead. Betty continued, oblivious to Bert’s discomfort. “Ricky flew me to Memphis for shopping sprees, when Bert was too busy to help me out. We had some lovely days. I’m thrilled he’s back in Sunflower County, at least for a little while.”
“We’d better hit the road.” I wanted to clear out before they popped and splattered lemonade all over the chintz furniture.
Outside, Tinkie shuddered. “That was positively Twilight Zoneish. What the hell is in that lemonade? They’re addicts.”
“Right, and they’re a little sweet and a whole lot tart.”
Tinkie punched my arm. “You’re a real smarty-pants today. Do you think they put drugs in it?”
“I don’t want to know.” I couldn’t help myself. “What if we drank it and ended up sitting all day in the den, guzzling lemonade by the gallon and sniping at each other?”
“You have a very twisted mind,
Sarah Booth.”
When we arrived at the car, I was shocked to see the animals were all sitting obediently in the back seat. They refused to look at us—a dead giveaway that something was amiss.
“Sweetie?” Confession of sins came easier to her. She was a hound and designed to sing the blues. “What’s going on? Finding a body isn’t enough for one day?”
She moaned softly. Chablis hopped into the front seat and burrowed under Tinkie’s arm.
Pluto yawned with utter kitty contempt. Of the three, he was the one I’d never break. Cats are the terrorists of the animal kingdom. “Shall we look for mayhem?”
“Oh, no.” Tinkie was adamant. “We’re clearing out of here. I’m not hanging around for the Lemonade Lushes to break bad on us.”
Tinkie dropped me and the critters at Dahlia House. There was nothing else to be done for the day. Cyrus Angler was out of town—he’d driven down to Grand Bay, Alabama, on the Gulf Coast. The investigation into the plane crash had taken a backseat to a prisoner escape from the state prison. Since the plane wasn’t carrying any dangerous chemicals and there were no deaths, the case lost importance.
Priya Karsan’s gruesome death was downplayed on the six o’clock news. Coleman refused to be interviewed, and television reporters were left edging around rumors, careful not to get sued. There was no mention of the Food Guru, only that a body “was rumored to have been found.”
I couldn’t grasp why Coleman had embargoed the regional news media. Cece had a photo of the body. The story would break when the Zinnia Dispatch hit the streets.
I scrambled eggs for Sweetie and me and opened a can of tuna for Pluto, anticipating a long, lonely evening. The knock on the back door caught me by surprise. A short, white-haired woman stood on the steps. She looked like the perfect grandmother in a long wool coat, white hair, rimless spectacles, and cheeks rosy from the cold.
“Are you lost?” I asked her.
“Not on a bet. But a lot of people around these parts have lost their way.”
Guru Bones Page 3
