“Obviously, they’re very angry with Quentin.”
Tinkie nodded. “I have to wonder if the whole book wasn’t written just to get even with Franklin and Caledonia.”
I picked up a pen and scribbled a few notes for future reference. “Do you know the McGees?” In a strange twist of fate, Tinkie hadn’t gone to the Carrington School. Her family had certainly had the bucks to pay the tuition, but Tinkie’s father had intervened, saying he wanted Tinkie to establish roots in the place she would live, Sunflower County. He was a smart man.
“We’re not really friends of the McGees. Daddy and mother have socialized with them in Memphis and Jackson.” She tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “They’re sort of clannish.”
She knew something. Tinkie had the best network of gossip in the Southeast. “So what’s the story?”
“If what I’m hearing is true, Quentin had a reason to be angry with her family.”
I settled onto the edge of my desk, my desire for information even stronger than my need for caffeine. “What have you heard?”
“Umbria, the older daughter, has always been the favorite. To the point that when Quentin was born, her mother put her in the arms of a nanny and almost never touched her. She was too busy dressing Umbria and fixing her hair. Umbria was the hope of the family.” Tinkie leaned forward to lower her voice. “There’s talk that Caledonia groomed Umbria to marry Prince William.”
“Are you serious?” My own childhood had been so different. Thank God my parents hadn’t tried to squeeze me into some preconceived mold.
“Dead serious. Umbria spent her sixteenth on the continent, attending parties and functions in the hope of catching the young prince’s eye.”
“I gather it didn’t work. Isn’t Umbria married now?”
“Her husband is a real estate developer with his eye on the McGee land. From what I understand, Franklin and Caledonia are bitterly disappointed in her. And it wasn’t until Umbria made her matrimonial choice that Caledonia even acknowledged she had another daughter. That’s when they started applying the heat to Quentin.”
“Who totally rebelled.” No plot twist there.
“Not only rebelled, but began to exact revenge. The venom in her book is a clear indication of how much she was hurt by them.”
Tinkie had become quite the psychologist. “What a shame,” I said and meant it.
“Yes.” She stood up and yawned. “Why don’t we go to Millie’s Café and get some breakfast. I’m starving.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I looked around. “Where’s Chablis?” Tinkie always brought the dust mop.
“She’s having her nails done and her teeth whitened. Shall we take Sweetie Pie down to stay with her at the Cut and Curl?”
“Sure. But no beauty treatments.” Tinkie had once dyed my red tick hound a shade called Ravishing Redbone. It was not, and it had taken months for her to shed out.
“Whatever you say. I don’t know why you have this block against cosmetic treatments,” she said as she preceded me out of the house. “The idea that someone figured out how to use a deadly poison to kill wrinkles is a sign that God wants us to look better.”
“If you’re so eager to see a doctor with a needle, why don’t you get that lump biopsied?” I asked as I opened the back door of the Cadillac for Sweetie.
“Because it isn’t necessary. End of topic.”
Oh, but it was. Though I would remain silent, for the moment, I hadn’t given up on making Tinkie take care of her health. I had the best partner in the world, and I didn’t intend to let anything happen to her.
4
Millie set the platter of eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits down in front of me and then sat down herself. The breakfast rush at the café was over, and she had a moment to talk with us. She was a pretty woman somewhere in her forties who wore her life experiences—happy and sad—on her face without shame or make-up. She was also an avid reader of the tabloid papers who had an impressive memory.
“Back several years ago, I found a picture in the Globe of Umbria at one of the royal parties at Buckingham Palace. She was hanging all over some dark-haired man who definitely was not Prince William.” Millie pushed the maple syrup over to Tinkie for her stack of pancakes. “Mrs. McGee had high expectations for her girls, but apparently, neither of them wanted to cooperate.”
“Did Umbria go to the Carrington School?” I asked.
“She did. Graduated with highest honors, too.” She frowned. “There was some trouble with Quentin, though. What I heard from Chapel Brentworth’s nanny was that Quentin ‘didn’t fit the school.’ There was no explanation, but I guess now I know what it was.”
“The whole purpose of the Carrington School is to instruct young women in the art of marrying with purpose,” Tinkie said. “Quentin and Allison couldn’t marry. It isn’t legal.”
“So two money magnets were suddenly useless,” I agreed. “What a tragedy for both families.”
My sarcasm was ignored as Tinkie ate her breakfast and Millie got up to serve another round of coffee to her customers. I watched her work, her quick smile at the ready. No wonder Millie’s was the most popular Zinnia place to dine for all classes of Sunflower Countians.
When Millie returned to our table, she had another interesting tidbit. “Several of the graduates of the Carrington School were in here earlier this morning.”
“Earlier?” I asked in mock horror.
“Who were they?” Tinkie asked more sensibly.
“I didn’t get their names, but they were wearing the uniform.”
“I didn’t realize the school had a uniform dress code.”
“It doesn’t, but there is a code for girls of that ilk. The uniform,” Tinkie said, “is a black or navy dress or suit, hose, sensible pumps, and pearls.”
“That’s it,” Millie said. She patted my shoulder. “You can recognize one of the Carrington girls from half a mile away.”
“That’ll make it easier.” I picked up the check over Tinkie’s protest, placed an order for two sausage biscuits to go, and went to cash out.
Since we were already in town, I suggested we take the biscuits to Cece, our friend at the local newspaper. Cece had helped us more than once on dangerous cases, and since she was the society editor, I knew she’d have lots of scoop on what was happening with Quentin McGee’s murder.
Her office was in the back of the newspaper, behind a wall of file cabinets. She was at her desk, typing furiously on her computer. I tapped on her open door, dangling the bag of biscuits.
“So you two come with a peace offering,” she said, waving us inside. “Close the door, please.”
As always, I admired Cece’s style. She wore a hunter green sweater dress that hugged her slim hips and emphasized her bosom. There wasn’t a scrap of fat on her frame, and her make-up, showcasing the latest muted colors of fall, was flawless. I shook my head. “You look marvelous, darling.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all your transsexual friends.” She took a bite of a biscuit with her perfect white teeth.
It was true. Cece had once been Cecil, but a trip to Sweden had made her dreams come true. Now she was a sought-after journalist who’d just turned down a dream job in New Orleans to stay in Zinnia. I had to wonder about this sudden rootedness displayed by Cece, Harold, and myself. Had we lost our marbles?
“What’s the scoop on Quentin?” Tinkie asked, moving a stack of books to find a chair.
“Virgie Carrington is at the funeral home now. She got in late last night,” Cece said. “I’m trying to get an interview with her, but Gertrude Stromm is guarding her like a one-eyed dog on a gut wagon.”
Cece’s colorful descriptions were one of her best traits. I could see Gertrude, red hair standing on end, snarling at anyone who dared approach her prize.
“Why won’t the McGees step forward and make the arrangements for Quentin?” I still found it a little too harsh to believe. “She’s their daughter.”
“The
re’s the issue of the trust,” Cece said.
“What trust?” Tinkie and I asked in unison.
“Quentin was due to inherit the bulk of the McGee estate.”
“Quentin?” Tinkie and I sounded like surround sound.
“A small matter in the way the McGee monies were originally set up,” Cece said, her perfect teeth looking wolfish. “According to the trust, the estate could only be inherited by a single female on the occasion of her twenty-fifth birthday.”
While we processed that information, Cece continued. “Quentin was due to turn twenty-five yesterday.”
The implication wasn’t lost on us. Tinkie looked at me before she spoke. “So someone who didn’t want Quentin to inherit could have killed her only hours before her birthday.”
“Too true,” Cece said. “And it gets better. Doc Sawyer ruled that she’d been killed after midnight.”
“So she did inherit.” I felt like I was volleying in a Wimbledon match.
“The McGee family has asked that the body be removed to Memphis for a second autopsy,” Cece said.
“I thought they’d yielded the body to Virgie Carrington.”
“It would seem they’ve reneged, or at least they’re trying to.”
“What does Gordon say?”
“What he says off the record is that he can’t wait for Coleman to get back to town.”
“Coleman is coming back to town?” I couldn’t help that I sounded breathless and sixteen.
Realizing her mistake, Cece shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sarah Booth. I didn’t know you’d take it literally. No, he isn’t. Or at least no one knows if he is or isn’t. Gordon hasn’t heard from him in over a week. No one has.”
I looked at the floor before the tears spilled down my face and made me look even more foolish than I felt. For one second, I’d believed Coleman was coming home. Until then, I hadn’t realized how much he still meant to me. Now I was suffering bitter disappointment, and it was just as unpleasant as I remembered.
“Do you know when the services are set for?” Tinkie asked Cece. They were both trying to give me time to recover. They might not approve of my passion for a married man, but they hated the fact that I was hurting.
“That’s a little up in the air. If the McGees regain control of the body and send it to Memphis, there may not be a service at all. Or it could be a week or more.”
“And if Virgie Carrington gets her?” I asked.
“Funeral etiquette requires a certain amount of time for a wake. Say two days. And the funeral on the third day. So if that’s the case, there should be visitation tonight.”
“Do you think they’ll hold the services here in Zinnia?”
“What’s the point of moving her somewhere else?” Cece noted. “Quentin is, effectively, a woman without a country. The women of the Carrington School are gathering here in Zinnia as we speak. I think this will be where the funeral is held if Virgie gets her way. Probably burial in the local cemetery.”
It was something to ponder as Tinkie and I headed back to the jail for another word with Allison.
Deputy Dewayne Dattilo was in charge of the sheriff’s office when we got there. He was greener than Gordon, and I was tempted to pump him for details about Coleman, but Tinkie kept a watchful eye on me.
He led us back to Allison, who looked more tired than she had the day before.
“Humphrey was just here,” she said. “They’re fighting over Quentin’s body. She would hate this!” Tears hung on her bottom lashes, but they didn’t spill.
“What did Quentin tell you about her trust?” I asked. There was no point beating around the bush.
“She was due to inherit the bulk of the McGee estate.” A faint smile crossed her face. “I guess Quentin and I really messed up the game plan for everyone.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Her folks had her lined up to marry Talbert LaRue, a lawyer in Baton Rouge. They’d planned to make the announcement last year, with the wedding to be held just after her twenty-fifth birthday. Sometime this week, I guess it would have been.” She wiped a tear away. “But Quentin and I fell in love, and that screwed my family’s plans.”
“Which were?”
“To have Humphrey woo Quentin and marry her—after she’d inherited—thereby securing the future of Tatum’s Corner.”
“The best laid plans of mice and mamas,” Tinkie said softly.
“Can you do something for me?” she asked.
“We can try.” I’d learned to be hesitant in granting wishes.
“Have some kind of court order issued so that no one gets Quentin’s body. I’d like to make the arrangements myself. I know what she’d want, and it wouldn’t be this nightmare.” She gripped the bars. “Is Virgie Carrington in town?”
“I’ve heard she’s here.”
Allison swallowed dryly. “We were a big disappointment to her. I can’t believe she’s actually here.”
“Once a Carrington girl, always—” Tinkie started.
“A Carrington girl,” Allison finished. “Right. That was the motto. But the truth of the matter is that neither Quentin nor I was really a Carrington girl. We didn’t live up to the image. We weren’t the only ones, but we were the ones who became celebrities, and that was our greatest sin.”
I had another matter to take up with Allison. “We found the threatening note sent to Quentin. It was printed out on a laser printer. Do you have any idea where the envelope might be?”
“Quentin had a journal. Maybe in there. She got other notes, too. Some may be in the house in Oxford.”
“We’ll check it out.” I touched her hand on the bar. “Do you have any idea who might have sent the notes? Who knew the content of the book?”
“Quentin wasn’t bashful about letting folks know she was getting ready to bloody them in print. She told at least two dozen people.”
This was going to increase our legwork, but I was never one to complain about too many suspects. “Can you make us a list?”
“Talk to the owner of Booking It. A lot of the customers who were there yesterday were furious. Quentin’s sister was the angriest of all. I still believe she was the one who bought all the books and burned them.”
“Umbria,” I said, looking at Tinkie. It was almost time for a visit to the McGee family. “Did anyone see Umbria burn the books?”
Allison shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“But you said it was her.”
“Maybe I’m guilty of the same thing everyone else is. I jumped to the conclusion based on what Quentin told me.”
“Which was?” Tinkie asked.
“That Umbria hated her and had vowed to spend her entire inheritance buying the books and burning them.”
“Pretty strong circumstantial evidence,” Tinkie said.
“Thanks, Allison. We’ll be in touch.”
“Will they let me go to Quentin’s funeral?”
If Coleman had been in charge, the answer would have been yes. He’d allowed Lee McBride to attend her scoundrel husband’s funeral, and I felt certain he wouldn’t view Allison as a great flight risk. Hell, where would she go? There was no one to help her. The jail docket had showed she hadn’t had a single visitor except her brother. “Maybe. We’ll have to see,” I said.
Tinkie and I said our good-byes and were almost out of the jail when Allison stopped me.
“Humphrey was asking about you,” she said. “He’s interested.”
Tinkie grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “He recognizes another deviant.”
I pulled free of her. “He’s my client,” I said a little stiffly. “I don’t date clients.”
“That’s a new rule,” Tinkie said drolly, and as we left the jail, I could hear Allison’s laugh. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she might laugh again.
Booking It was a quaint shop on a side street not far from The Gardens B&B. Pots of yellow and orange mums accented the gray steps that led to the fr
ont porch of the old house that had been converted into a bookshop. Pumpkins were lined up in the front window, along with a display of cookbooks featuring Thanksgiving recipes.
The store owner, Jasmine Paul, was a slender blonde with an amazing knowledge of books and a keen ability to see the bottom line. She wasn’t a native of Zinnia, but she’d managed to become an indispensable part of the town, matching book and reader with a skill that bordered on psychic talent.
“Sarah Booth,” she said when I walked in. “How did you enjoy that Dean James book?”
“It was perfect,” I said. The book’s clever plot and unique humor had gotten me through the first few days of Coleman’s disappearance and Hamilton’s return to Paris.
“What can I do for you today?” She included Tinkie in her question.
“We need a copy of King Cotton Bleeds,” Tinkie said.
“You’re in luck. The publisher just overnighted fifty copies, and they arrived about ten minutes ago.” She bent behind the counter and pulled out a box, which she opened with a sharp knife.
The book she handed Tinkie was heavy, with a photograph of a cotton field, computer enhanced so that the plants dripped blood. Effective and grim.
“I heard you ran out of books for the signing Saturday,” I said.
“Umbria McGee bought every copy I had.” She frowned. “I had mixed feelings about selling them to her. Had I known she was going to burn them, I wouldn’t have.”
“Did she actually burn them?”
Jasmine nodded. “It had to be her. She came in and paid by credit card for all seven cases of books. That was about an hour before the official signing. She said she wanted to surprise her sister.” She rolled her eyes. “Now that’s an understatement.”
“So she left with the books?” Tinkie asked.
“She had her own dolly. I thought she was going to take them out and then return at the book signing, like a surprise.”
“But she never returned.”
“She never left. She carted them down to the end of the driveway and dumped them in a pile. She poured gasoline over them and set the fire.”
Bones To Pick Page 4
