His reply stopped me dead in my tracks.
“You’d be surprised which Zinnians have indulged in such decadence,” he added, eyes a wicked blue. “It’s the most interesting thing, how something so wonderful at the time can end up being the source of such anxiety. I’ve lately become quite the expert on secret anxieties. And secrets in general.” His smile was pure delight.
“I’ll get us some. Coffee and fruitcake,” I said, excusing myself and heading into the kitchen. Lawrence Ambrose intrigued me, but he’d also caught me completely off guard. What in the world was the writer doing at my house now? My mother had adored him. She had collected signed copies of all of his work. She even had a photograph of him as Rita Hayworth’s escort at the Academy Awards. Mother had loved his writing.
Years back, there had been rumors about his parties—bacchanalia with Maypole dances, original plays acted out in elaborate costumes on the lawn. There was even a story that he’d hung and burned an effigy of one of Mississippi’s more infamous governors, Cliff Finch, and ended up in a fistfight with Zinnia’s volunteer fire marshal. That was before he’d become something of a recluse. But he didn’t seem at all reclusive. Just another example of how rumors spread in a small town.
I waited for the coffee to perk, pondering why he’d come visiting me. When the tray was prepared, I hurried back to the parlor with it. Lawrence accepted his coffee and cake with the ease of a man comfortable in a parlor.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I’m here. It’s a rather long story, and boring, as most long stories are. And naturally, it involves money. And secrets.”
He was a verbal tease, hinting and dangling little tidbits. But he did it with such style and humor that I found myself intrigued rather than annoyed. “I love secrets,” I said. “Generally they pay well.”
“Ah-ha, I knew you were part monkey. Clever little thing. Facts first and then secrets. My last books were financial failures. No publisher will touch my work. They say my numbers are down and no one remembers or cares about what I used to be.”
He took a bite of cake. “Heavenly, Sarah Booth. Who would have thought a pigtailed hellion would grow up to bake such divine fruitcake.” Hardly taking a breath he continued. “I’ve now decided to publish my memoirs. Would you have a bit of brandy to liven up the coffee? Caffeine is bad for your liver, my child. Brandy counteracts the acids.”
At first I’d thought Lawrence had reached the age where rambling and conversational rabbit trails were unavoidable, but his blue eyes belied such a judgment. He was in expert control of his faculties and the conversation. “Certainly,” I said as I found the proper decanter and splashed a good dollop into his cup.
“Finding new talent is one of my greatest pleasures. I’m having a small gathering at my home Christmas Eve,” he said. “There’ll be some writers, publishers, a few movie people, an artist, and the usual suspects in the Sunflower County literati. Since you’re writing a book, I thought you might enjoy the gathering.”
“But I’m not—” I stopped my confession. The lie that I was writing a book had launched my career as a private investigator. As my mother once told me, sometimes it’s too late for the truth. Besides, the party sounded interesting, especially based on Lawrence’s past history of fetes. “It sounds lovely,” I said.
“I’m reintroducing my biographer to her native soil. I believe you know her. Brianna Rathbone.” Lawrence stamped his cane on the floor. “A dazzling young woman. She’s been living in New York, but has now returned to the Delta to work on my book. My memoirs. This will signal a new era for me. Brianna is an international celebrity, yet Southern. I think the combination of my story and her celebrity status will push this book right to the top of the best-seller list. You remember her, don’t you?”
The thwack of the cane combined with Brianna’s name was like tiny little jolts of electricity in the reptilian lobe of my brain. I had the strongest urge to coil and strike.
“Yes.” The word was a croak. My reptilian lobe was still in control. I remembered her perfectly. “I didn’t realize Brianna had an interest in writing,” I said, floundering for something to say. “She’s a model. A jet-setter. One of the beautiful people.”
“Brianna, as a former model and jet-setter, is the perfect person to add that zest to my story.” Lawrence arched his eyebrows. “Don’t you agree?”
“Can Brianna write?” I asked before I could stop myself. A better question would have been if she could read.
“I’m not in need of eloquence,” Lawrence said. He sat taller in his chair. “The truth of the matter is that my light has faded. What I need is a biographer who can regenerate that spark. Like it or not, the world lusts for celebrity, not art. Miss Rathbone has been on the cover of Vogue. She’s dating Gustav Brecht, the publishing magnate. She has the élan to capture the public’s attention. She has a reputation.”
No doubt about the reputation part. She’d slept with half the men in New York. And now she was dating a publisher. Was that a good thing? Brianna had always reminded me of a black widow. Mate-eater. Or at least maimer. I could see the benefits of a biographer who was in bed with the publisher, but what would happen when she gnawed off his leg? But I held my tongue.
“Can I expect you for dinner?” Lawrence asked.
As fascinating as the evening sounded, I’d rather spend an hour in a snake pit than sit through dinner with Brianna Rathbone. I was on the verge of declining when he pulled another directional shift in the conversation.
“I have two reasons for having this dinner, Sarah Booth. I found my favorite cat, Rasmus, dead yesterday. He was twenty years old. He must have died of old age. He loved my entertainments and would frequently perform kitty yoga on top of the guests. My only regret is that I didn’t have one sooner, for him, but I’m having one now in his honor.”
There was a hint of sudden desperation and sadness in Lawrence’s voice that tugged on my heartstrings. He shivered then, even though he still wore his coat and the fire was hot. I had the sinking feeling that he was masterfully playing me, but I didn’t have the heart to resist him. I got up and added another log to the fire. “What’s the other reason?” I asked.
His eyebrows rose and the glitter in his blue eyes was both mischief and excitement. “Secrets. The second reason is that everyone there will have a secret. And I know them all.”
“What time is dinner?” I asked, caught up in his spirit of devilment. Secrets were, indeed, good fun.
“I told everyone six, which means they’ll arrive at seven because they all want to make a grand entrance. Seven would be lovely. Bring your opera glasses, dahling, the peacocks will be parading.” The eyebrows rose slowly and held. “I intend to make them stampede. It will be great fun.”
“It sounds wonderful, but why are you inviting me?” I had to ask.
“To bear witness, darling. You’re the perfect choice—a writer and a detective.”
2
“Leave it up,” Jitty said, standing behind me as I poked a jeweled hair comb into my unruly mop of brown curls. I liked the casual elegance of the upswept do, but I was afraid it wouldn’t withstand the rigors of the evening.
“It feels … unsecured.”
“You’re worried about hair? Take a look at your chest.”
Jitty was opposed to the red-glitter cocktail dress that I’d bought at a tony little shop in Memphis during a shopping spree with Cece. True to her word, Cece Dee Falcon had provided entertainment during the trip—a nonstop babble of gossip and factoids she ferreted out and catalogued in her newspaper work. She also tossed out expert fashion advice. But trying on clothes with Cece was an experience I hadn’t bargained for. More often than not, I forgot that Cece had once been a man. Long gone was the lanky, twitchy high school boy Cecil Falcon. In his place, an elegant, sexy, and very feminine woman emerged thanks to a talented team of Swedish surgeons. A cramped dressing room was an interesting place to play before-and-after.
Even as I fastened a diamond lock
et around my throat, I reassessed my image. Cece, with her lean hips and angular collarbone, could wear anything. But she was truly expert in dressing others, too. My dress was Parisian cool. Low-cut in front and daringly backless. The style did a lot to emphasize my décolletage, more defined since my fruitcake binge. Play your assets, my mother always said. My makeup was subtle, emphasizing the green of my eyes.
Jitty stepped back from me. “Honey, those fruitcakes are gangin’ up on your waistline and looks like they’re preparin’ to claim squatter’s rights.”
Where I’d discarded binding bras and underwire, she was girded, girdled, heart-crossed, and granny-panted against even the tiniest jiggle. God forbid that she might be able to draw a deep breath. A little oxygen to her brain might allow her to think for herself.
“There’s nothing in the detective handbooks that says I can’t be plump,” I offered, anticipating the explosion.
“Girl, you better pull yourself together! You talkin’ like an old maid.”
“I am an old maid,” I reminded her. “But I have a good personality and I can make my own clothes,” I added, to ward off the sting.
“Just keep makin’ jokes,” Jitty said. “Life has a way of followin’ after the words we cast out in front of us.”
Her philosophical statement caused a small cavalry of goose bumps to gallop up my arm. “Don’t wait up,” I said, picking up my purse and keys. I took off down the stairs and into the night.
It was perfect weather for a Christmas Eve bash. The barren cotton fields were coated in frost, a tundra of silvery white that reached into the dark blue and starspangled Delta sky. Though the night was clear, snow was predicted. I remembered a long-ago white Christmas. Dahlia House, decorated like a storybook home, had seemed to be a place where only happiness could live. I was four.
Still, a blanket of cold, white stuff would soften even the heart of a cynic. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. I kept the mantra going so that I wouldn’t think about what was missing from the evening—a date—as I drove to the party.
Lawrence Ambrose lived in a cottage on Magnolia Place, one of the few estates that still functioned as a producing cotton plantation. The Vardaman Caldwells owned the property, but they traveled extensively and were often out of the country. Set back from the main house about half a mile, the spacious guest cottage was a perfect location for a writer, elegant and secluded—far enough from the main road not to draw attention should Lawrence decided to engage in one of his famous parties.
The drive was lined with live oaks. Huge and gnarled, they were probably two hundred years old. I pulled into a parking space beside a number of nice autos, and one silver Porsche, probably belonging to Brianna, since it was just like her—fast and high-maintenance.
The chatter of the party spilled out onto the wide gallery where several cats reclined in rocking chairs. Bottles of opened wine and clean glasses were on small tables beside huge brass planters filled with fresh spices. I recognized basil, dill, and rosemary. There were dozens of other plants I knew but couldn’t name.
I helped myself to a glass of merlot, stroked a friendly yellow tabby, and listened to the mélange of voices within. Brianna’s throaty laugh was hard to miss.
Ah, Brianna.
I opened the door and she was the first person I saw. Honeyed blond hair to her shoulders, black sheath, sharp hipbones—hungry. A walk like a caged panther, headed directly at me. For a few seconds I was back in tenth grade, staring at the perfect face that would grace magazine covers around the world.
“Sarah Booth Delaney,” she said, coming forward to take my hand. “I never dreamed I’d see you here.”
Interpretation—what’s someone like you doing among these star-kissed people? Her tone made it clear that I didn’t belong.
“Lawrence is interested in my book,” I said. The lie rolled off my tongue like quicksilver. “He thinks I have talent.”
“Amazing. But then, isn’t everyone convinced that their pathetic little lives are of interest?” She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I had no idea you could write.”
“It’s a skill I acquired in high school, while you were busy on your knees soliciting an A from the—”
Harold Erkwell appeared at my side, a striking figure in a black wool suit that emphasized his salt-and-pepper hair. “Stunning dress, Sarah Booth,” he said, hands on my bare shoulders. “Luscious.”
“Lush-us,” Brianna said, mouthing the word with her collagen-plumped lips. “Another ten pounds, Sarah Booth, and you’ll qualify as dumpling cute.” She walked away and only Harold’s hands on my shoulders saved her.
“I’m going to tear her throat out,” I said sweetly.
“Too messy,” Harold said, turning me in the opposite direction and giving me a gentle push.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, instantly realizing that he belonged here much more than I did. Harold was a huge supporter of the arts—in literature, visual, music, and drama. It was perfectly logical that he’d be among Lawrence’s friends.
“I’m here to keep an eye on Lawrence. He’s up to something.” Worry furrowed his brow.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Before he could reply he was captured by Lillian Sparks and her campaign to outfit the first New Year’s baby born in Sunflower County with a year’s supply of cotton diapers. Homegrown cotton, of course.
The party swept over me and I found myself talking to a New York literary agent and a handsome actor who was hoping for his Hollywood break. Both were busy looking beyond me for a better connection. We were joined by a short, posturing man who enjoyed name-dropping and commandeering conversations. I thought at first his name was Dean, realizing only later that it was his title, which he’d soldered onto his identity by ceaseless repetition.
“Of course Joyce was never a social man,” Dean Joseph Grace droned. “I once had lunch with William Burroughs, and it occurred to me that there were similarities between Joyce and Burroughs that no one had ever before connected. I thought instantly what a wonderful thesis that would make for some young scholar at the university. That’s the problem these days, our students have no originality. No spark of creativity.”
There was no doubt that he referred to the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, the Sacred Hunting Ground for Daddy’s Girls to find suitable mates. I could have informed him that there was plenty of originality among the students when it came to snaring the suitable mate.
“You’ve read both Burroughs and Joyce?” His narrow brown gaze pinned me as a possible troglodyte.
“Who hasn’t?” I replied gamely. To my horror the agent and actor fled, obviously better at self-preservation than I was.
Rescue arrived not a moment too soon. Madame Rosalyn Bell, former prima ballerina and Nazi dance mistress, took my arm. “Pull your shoulders back. It makes your breasts perky,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I didn’t want to imagine who that might be. So far the guest list, with the exception of Harold and Mrs. Sparks, seemed pretentious and fed on malice.
“Come along, dear. He’s outside, smoking. Cultural thing, you know.”
Before I could protest, her tiny fingers dug deeply into my arm and she pushed me out into the cold night. “Are you really a private investigator?” she said as she pulled me to face her, just as she’d done in dance class twenty years before.
“I’ve concluded one—”
“No prevarication, Sarah Booth. Either you are or aren’t.”
“I am.” One thing about Madame—she didn’t allow for waffling.
“You have a sharp eye for people. You must, if you’re in the PI business. What do you make of Brianna’s desire to write Lawrence’s life story?”
Brianna had also been one of Rosalyn’s students. She’d been a beautiful dancer with a superior attitude and the habit of never letting Madame forget that she was her employee. I had a vivid memory of the petite dance mistress lifting her hand to sla
p Brianna’s face for an especially cruel remark she’d made to one of the chubbier girls in the dance class. But something had restrained Madame. She’d lowered her hand and walked away.
“I never knew Brianna had an interest in writing. She certainly never did in high school.”
“You’re hedging again, Sarah Booth. An unattractive habit I would have thought you’d outgrow. Brianna isn’t interested in writing, she’s interested in recapturing the limelight. Any. Way. She. Can.”
The emphasis was clear, and the hair on the back of my neck quivered. Rosalyn was so tense she was almost vibrating. “Writing a book doesn’t seem all that glamorous,” I said, hoping to calm her.
“Lawrence has the goods on half the well-known writers alive today. During his Paris years, he knew everyone who was anyone. There are some secrets better left in the past, Sarah Booth. Some damaging secrets. Brianna is hunting for those secrets. Lawrence won’t believe it, but she’s been snooping in his house, plundering through his things. I’ve caught her twice. If she finds— The past is never dead. Lawrence doesn’t realize how damaging, or how dangerous, it can be.”
I remembered Lawrence’s broad hints. Brianna would enjoy nothing better than digging up dirt on others and watching them twist in the wind. Still, I had doubts that Brianna would have the discipline to finish a book even if she started. Writing required solitude, and Brianna never liked her own company—for obvious reasons. “I wouldn’t worry too much. I doubt Brianna can write anything, much less a book. Even if by some miracle she finished, it probably won’t get published.” That conclusion gave me a jolt of satisfaction.
“Layton Rathbone will buy his daughter a publishing company if that’s what it takes,” Rosalyn insisted. “Or at least that’s what Lawrence believes. He thinks he’s going to use Brianna, but there’s one small problem. No one uses a Rathbone and gets away with it.”
The sound of deep, sensual laughter was a perfect contrast to the chill of Rosalyn’s words. We both turned our heads. I saw him standing at the edge of the light, a striking silhouette against the backyard torches—a tall man, slender, in an Italian-cut suit that emphasized his long torso and legs, lean hips, and broad shoulders. When he turned, I stopped dead in my tracks. Light from a dozen blazing lanterns caught in his golden blond curls, intensifying his hazel eyes.
Buried Bones Page 2
