He gently hooked his thumb beneath my jaw and tilted my face so that we looked at each other. “Tell me you don’t.”
It was a dare, a challenge. “You’re ... interesting,” I admitted, stepping away from him.
He chuckled. “You’re too honest for your own good.”
“Perhaps.” I freshened my drink and made him another. “You’re a handsome man, Humphrey. There aren’t many women alive who don’t enjoy the attentions of a handsome man.”
“I’m good in bed.” He took the drink, his fingers brushing mine.
“You’re also too modest.”
My sarcasm only made him laugh. “Why did you come back to Zinnia, Sarah Booth? You could have stayed in New York. You could have married well and had the perfect life.”
I was surprised to discover that I wanted to answer him honestly. “This is my home. This is where I belong.”
“That kind of attitude will only get you into trouble.”
Beneath his glib remark, I saw a flicker of something. “You love Tatum’s Corner, don’t you?” I saw I’d hit my mark.
“I have fond memories of the town. It’s dying, you know. We need jobs and industry. We—” He realized how passionate he sounded. “I didn’t realize I brought my soapbox inside with me. I apologize.”
“Quentin’s money would have come in handy.”
He nodded. “Yes, it would. But that’s a moot issue.”
“Who will inherit?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “If the death certificate reads that she died after she turned twenty-five, then I presume she has a will.”
“You don’t know for certain?” I found that hard to believe.
“Okay, she has a will, but no one knows the terms.”
“No one?”
He finished his drink. “You’re a born schemer, aren’t you? The will is to be read Thursday morning, but enough about money. I’m going to further shock polite society by skipping the wake tonight. Why don’t we step out for dinner?”
I wasn’t a fool. Humphrey was in town because of the will. I wondered what he hoped to gain, and if the help he’d extended to Allison was a bid for managing her money, should she inherit. “If I go to dinner with you, I’m not changing clothes.”
“Heaven forbid that you should make an effort on a man’s behalf,” he said as he crooked his arm for me to take. “I’ll take you somewhere dark and low class. It’ll be a perfect evening for you.”
9
I had to wonder about my baser motives as I let Humphrey Tatum drive me through the brisk November night. My partner was working a wake, and I was going to dinner with a man who touted his kinkiness. Somewhere, my life had gone terribly awry.
Humphrey pulled into the parking lot of Playin’ the Bones, a nightclub run by an old client of mine.
“This is high class, not low,” I said. Patrons of the blues club might show up in jeans and work boots, but it still reeked of class. The music was hot, and the barbecue, which was smoked out back on an open pit, was tart. It fit my mood perfectly.
“I understand you know the owners,” he said, grasping my wrist to prevent me from getting out of the car. “Please, Sarah Booth, give me a chance to be the gentleman.”
He walked around, opened my door, and helped me out. “Thank you, Humphrey.” I did a royal curtsey. “I just don’t know how I could have managed to open that heavy ole door all by myself. A big, strong man like you”—I squeezed his bicep for good effect—“well, you just make me glad I’m a helpless little woman.”
His laughter was rich. “When you were in New York, they obviously failed to offer you the role of Betsy Iron Magnolia. What a shame.”
I was surprised that he knew about my former client list as well as my failed acting career. Humphrey had done his homework, which told me his romantic maneuvers were calculated.
Inside the club, we found a table against the back wall. He ordered our drinks, naming my preference without asking. Once the drinks arrived, he ordered our dinners. My job, apparently, was to sit still and be quiet.
“I took Quentin out once,” he said. “She was insulted by the way I ordered for her.”
“It is insulting.” I sipped my drink.
“Did I get it wrong?”
“It’s not about the menu. I’m not a mute; I can speak for myself.”
“But”—he stopped himself—“the world is changing.”
He looked so lost that I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He’d been raised to inhabit a world that no longer existed. For the second time that evening, I thought of Ashley Wilkes and his attempts to hold together his family heritage. He’d loved Scarlett, yet he’d married Melanie. That choice had destroyed both of them.
“What will become of Tatum’s Corner if Allison doesn’t inherit, or if she’s sent to prison?”
“I’ll marry well.”
“That simple?”
“For me, it is.” He finished his drink and signaled the waiter for another one. Percy Sledge was playing on the juke box, and I couldn’t help but contrast the lyrics of his classic song “When a Man Loves a Woman” with the reality that Humphrey faced.
“How old are you, Humphrey?”
“Thirty-nine.” He tipped the waitress a ten. He might be on the edge of financial ruin, but he was going down as a man who knew how to live well. “My birthday is December fifth. I’ll be forty.”
“And Allison is twenty-five?”
“Yes. Her birthday was last April.” He swallowed half his drink and signaled for another. Though he showed none of the affects, he was drinking hard. “Allison was still in diapers when I went to Livingston Academy in Richmond, Virginia. She was in fifth grade by the time I returned to Tatum’s Corner. We never had a chance to be close.”
“Were you ever friends?”
“No.” He rattled the ice in his glass. “Allison stayed in her room. She read a lot. She wanted to be a writer.”
That was news. “Yet Quentin wrote the book.”
“My parents ignored Allison. I was the apple of their eye, and there was no room for her. Whenever she told them about her dreams, they were amused. I remember one Thanksgiving dinner when she wanted to read a poem aloud. They shushed her.” He leaned toward me. “They literally shushed her. I don’t think she ever said another word about writing. If they’d ever taken the time to encourage her, things would be a lot different.”
The waitress brought his drink and our food just as a lone guitarist walked onto the stage and strummed his guitar. The club gradually quieted. The young man adjusted the mike, shifting from foot to foot as he did so.
“Hi, folks. I’m Adam Sinclair. I’m glad to be here at Ida Mae’s club. I have some exciting news. I just signed a record contract with Bristol Studios.”
He waited for the applause to die down. “I owe this to Rutherford Clark.” He pointed to a table at the front of the stage where a balding man sat surrounded by three beautiful young women and thousands of dollars worth of silicon. “Stand up, Rutherford,” Adam said.
The balding man beamed a smile around the club as he stood to applause. The young women at his table all but hung on his arms.
The singer spoke again. “Mr. Clark heard my songs, and he made some phone calls. He got me this chance, and this first song is for him.” He sat back on the stool that had been provided for him and began to play.
“Sarah Booth, what’s wrong?” Humphrey asked.
I was staring at Rutherford Clark, husband of Umbria McGee. The man who was supposed to be in Russia. Instead of attending his sister-in-law’s wake, Rutherford was in a blues club with a bevy of buxom women.
“Do you know Rutherford Clark?” I asked.
“We’ve met before.” He made a mock-surprise face. “You’re shocked that he’s here instead of at the wake.”
“Yes,” I said. “Quentin was his sister-in-law. I would think he’d be with his wife.”
“Have you met Umbria?”
“Not yet, but
what’s that—”
“Wait until you meet her. As every good warrior knows, never face the dragon head on.”
“Is she that bad?”
“Only if you’re sober, and Rutherford has found that the McGee money is adequate compensation.” He nodded toward the girls. “They don’t last long, but there’s always a new one to take the empty place. I think Rutherford must go to Memphis to pick them out.”
“And Umbria? Does she have her little flings?”
“What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, or so the saying goes.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any names of the men she sees, would you?”
“I can supply you with a list if you’re really interested.” He studied me without a qualm.
“I am interested. Very.” My gaze rested on Rutherford. He sipped champagne from the blonde’s glass while one brunette fed him pieces of barbecue she tore into bite-sized chunks. I provided that kind of service only for my hound.
“Rutherford better enjoy it while he can,” Humphrey said.
“Why is that?”
“Once the family accepts the time of death, and Quentin is posthumously crowned heir apparent to the McGee fortunes, I have a funny feeling his life will change dramatically.”
All the more reason for him to want Quentin dead before her birthday, I thought. It was another lead to investigate. We’d finished our barbecue, and I rose from the table. “Will you excuse me?”
“Headed for trouble, I see. I’ll pay the tab just in case we need to leave in a hurry.”
I walked over to Rutherford’s table. He ordered another bottle of bubbly and ignored me. “Mr. Clark,” I said.
“Who are you?” He was annoyed by my interruption. “Can’t you see someone is singing?”
I introduced myself and leaned down. “How was Russia?”
“You’re that private investigator,” he accused. “What do you want?” He took another bite of barbecue.
“Where were you on Sunday night?” I asked. “Don’t bother with the whole Russian lie. It won’t take me any time to check the airports.”
“He was with me,” the blonde said. She laced her arm through his. “We had a wonderful time. What’s it to you?”
“And your name?” I asked, pulling a notebook from the back pocket of my jeans.
“Brittany Spears.” She didn’t bat an eye.
“Very amusing, but you’re a little long in the tooth to pretend to be Brittany.”
She stood up, her chest heaving in indignation. “You bitch!” She swung hard, but she was slow. I ducked and the force of her swing tipped her off balance. She fell across the table, sending champagne flying.
“Catfight! Catfight!” The cry echoed throughout the club. Before I could do anything, one of the brunettes jumped on me. She was tugging my hair and trying to bite my ears as I stumbled into the stage. The singer stopped, putting aside his guitar so that he could jump into the middle of it.
I felt the screeching brunette pulled off my back, and Leo, Ida Mae’s bouncer, appeared at my elbow.
“Ida Mae told me to get you outside,” he whispered just before he bodily lifted me and carried me toward the door. Behind me I could hear the sound of chairs being smashed, fists thunking into flesh, and loud cursing.
As we slipped through the door, we passed two women coming in. They wore the Carrington uniform and carried themselves with the attitude of proper debs. They disappeared inside as Leo set me on my feet.
“You were just about to get your ass whipped, Miss Delaney,” Leo said. “Don’t you know better?”
“I didn’t start it.” I was already laying the groundwork for my defense. “That blond bimbo jumped me.”
Humphrey sallied out the door, his face wide in a grin. “Sarah Booth, I didn’t realize you were a woman of so many talents. That was one helluva bar fight you started.”
“I didn’t start it,” I protested.
“I doubt Rutherford Clark will ever forget you. The last I saw of him, he was calling his lawyer. I think he may sue you. Leo, Ida Mae needs your services inside.”
The bouncer went back in, and I sat down on the bumper of a pickup and put my face in my hands. My ears were ringing. My head throbbed. I felt Humphrey’s hand on my elbow as he lifted me to my feet. Before I knew it, I was seated in his car and riding through the night toward Dahlia House.
To my surprise, Humphrey left the motor running when he helped me out of the car and walked me to the door. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” He kissed my cheek and walked across the porch. On the top step, he turned. “You may think I’m shallow and a game player, but just understand, Sarah Booth, I like my opponents worthy and prepared to play. I’ll see you again when you’re at your best.”
I watched as he roared down the driveway, beneath the bare white limbs of the sycamores, and turned onto the main road.
“I’d like to see that one in knee breeches and a codpiece.”
Jitty had joined me on the porch. I didn’t have a ready answer, because I was conflicted where Humphrey was concerned. Just when I thought he was too shallow to hold rainwater, he surprised me. “What do you make of Humphrey?” I asked.
“He’s a gentleman out of time.”
She was right, dang her. “What are his motivations in hiring me to help his sister?”
She opened a fan and whipped it rapidly in front of her face even though I was freezing. “If Allison inherits, he needs to be in her good favor. If she doesn’t, he can appear to be the loyal brother. It’s a good place to be, whichever way it plays out.”
Jitty was the ultimate pragmatist. “You find Humphrey insincere?”
“No.” She slapped her fan closed in her palm. She’d added a beauty mark to the corner of her mouth. “The fate of his home rests in his hands.” She pointed the fan at me. “Much like Dahlia House rests on you.” Her lips lifted just a fraction. “I remember when you stole Chablis.”
She could have hit me in the head with an axe and not delivered such an effective blow. In my life I’d done things I wasn’t proud of, but stealing Tinkie’s dog was the worst. I sat on the steps, ignoring the icy bite of the wood on my butt. “I did a terrible thing.”
She sat beside me, her skirts rustling in the night like the whisper of dying leaves. “You saved your home.”
“I stole my friend’s dog.”
“Life isn’t simple, Sarah Booth.”
“I should tell Tinkie what I did.”
She shook her head. “Never. You owe it to her to keep that information to yourself. That’s part of the bargain of friendship. Tinkie looks up to you. That’s your penance.” She stood up. “Sorry to rush off, but I’ve got a date.”
“Jitty—” But it was too late. She was gone. Evaporating after a zinger was her specialty.
I sat alone on the steps, thinking about the past. I might want to clear my conscience by telling Tinkie the truth, but Jitty was right. I owed it to Tinkie to keep my mouth shut. There was nothing for it but to get to bed and face the prospects of Quentin McGee’s funeral service the next morning.
Tinkie was waiting in the parking lot of Rideout Funeral Home, wearing a perfect navy “uniform” and a frown. “I tried to call you three times last night, and you didn’t answer.” She didn’t tap her toe at me, but she wanted to.
“I was having dinner with Humphrey.”
Her entire demeanor changed. “That’s great, Sarah Booth. And to think I was afraid you were holed up in bed, pining for Coleman.” She looked me over from head to toe. “You look perfect. So where did you and Humphrey go?”
I told her about my dinner date and my run-in with Rutherford and his chicks.
“A bar fight!” She was about to give her Daddy’s Girl squeal when I grasped her arm.
“I didn’t start it.”
“Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “While I’m working the case, you’re going out to dinner with Harold and then Humphrey, and you’re starting bar fights. Let’s see.
I got to stand beside a spray of roses while wearing sensible shoes. Someone is getting the best end of this case.”
“Tinkie!” I was shamed. “I apologize. I—”
Her laugh was mischievous. “I’m only pulling your leg, Sarah Booth. I learned a lot at the wake. Umbria was there all night, lurking in the back of the room. There was no family receiving line.” She adjusted her veil. “There wasn’t even a picture of Quentin. It was like a bad cocktail party where all the guests hate each other. I hear Gordon is allowing Allison to attend the service.”
Tinkie steered me up the steps. The service was going to be in the chapel of the funeral home. A man in a dark suit with a boutonniere opened the door, and the scent of carnations floated out on air conditioning. Tinkie steadied my elbow as we walked in together and found a seat at the back of the chapel.
“Virgie’s picking up the cost of the funeral. The McGees refused to pay for the cremation or the burial,” Tinkie whispered.
“She told you that?”
“No, I overheard her talking with the funeral director. The body was finally released last night. He had to take it to Memphis for the cremation, and Virgie was writing him a check.”
Tinkie had become very good at eavesdropping. I nudged her shoulder. “What else?”
Tinkie didn’t get a chance to answer. A gaggle of gray-suited women came down the center aisle. Their heads were covered, and their faces hidden by veils. To a woman, they were wonderfully groomed, physically fit, and elegantly coiffed. Even if my mother had sent me to the Carrington School for Well-Bred Ladies, I would never have been able to live up to the standard of dress. As I sat on the bench, I had a sudden urge to snatch off my panty hose and throw them.
“Look.” Tinkie nodded toward the front of the chapel.
Allison, escorted by Gordon, entered the chapel from a side door. To my surprise, she wore a carnelian red suit with matching lipstick. She took her place on the first pew, the one reserved for family.
“Umbria is going to love this,” Tinkie said. “All last night she was spewing vitriol about how Allison corrupted Quentin and virtually forced her to write the book.”
Bones To Pick Page 9
