Buried Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Rosalyn moved toward him, leading me beside her. “Willem Arquillo, this is the woman I promised to introduce you to. Sarah Booth Delaney, Señor Arquillo.”

  He came toward me with two long strides, his hand capturing mine. He lifted it, then turned it over and bent back my fingers lightly to expose the palm. Very deliberately he kissed it. In the cold Delta night, his lips were very, very warm.

  “You’re even more beautiful than Rosalyn told me,” he said. He continued to hold my hand as he turned to Madame Bell. “Exquisite,” he whispered.

  “I saw your paintings in Memphis,” I said, beginning to see real value in cultivating artsy-fartsy acquaintances. Aside from the fact that he was a magnificent painter, combining primitive images with controversial politics, he was gorgeous. Lawrence had said an artist would be at dinner, but he hadn’t said which artist. “What brings you to Zinnia?” I’d heard gossip, from Cece, naturally, that he was working to establish a trade partnership between Mississippi and Nicaragua—both Third World countries, as he so aptly put it. But that type of negotiation would take place in Jackson, the state capital, not little ol’ Zinnia.

  “Business and pleasure,” he said smoothly. “Lawrence and I have some unfinished business. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  Willem’s melodious voice made my spine tingle. “I understand Lawrence collects art. Does he have some of your paintings?”

  His gaze was sharp, but his voice was as warm as a caress. “Probably more than he realizes. But I’m bored talking about myself. I hear you’re a writer. Are you helping Lawrence with his big project, his grand revelation of his life? He tells me he’s going to zoom to the top of the best-seller list. I wonder how many bones will crack beneath his shoes.”

  The back door opened before I could ask him what he meant or answer his pointed question. Brianna stepped into the night. “So this is where you’ve stashed Willem,” she said. “I should have known if there was a single man, Sarah Booth would have him out in the dark.”

  Before I could say a word, Willem cut in. “You flatter me, Brianna, but I came outside to have a cigarette. Now I must excuse myself. Lawrence promised to give me a brief education on the Southern baroque era.”

  He gave my hand a suggestive squeeze before he let it go. Moving with complete poise, he took Madame’s arm. Brianna and I were left in the yard that was suddenly much colder.

  “Too bad he’s interested in Southern baroque,” I said to Brianna. “If he liked Southern slut, he might want to talk to you.” I headed for the back door, knowing that the battle lines were now clear. We’d each drawn blood.

  Just as I reached for the door, it opened and a tall, slender man stepped into the night. He was backlit, his features hidden. “Sarah Booth,” he said warmly, taking my hand and patting it. “How nice to see you. It’s been years. I’m looking for my daughter.”

  He turned so that the light fell across his face. “Mr. Rathbone,” I said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were in Zinnia.” Layton Rathbone and his wife seldom came home. He had extensive business holdings in Europe. Word around town was that Pamela Rathbone had gotten too good for her roots and preferred the rarefied air of “The Continent.” It was beyond me how a man as nice as Layton had married Pamela and spawned Brianna.

  “Just a pop-in visit to see my little girl.” He patted my hand and dropped it. “Publishing is a new game for her. It always concerns a father when his baby takes on a new challenge, especially if you have a daughter like Brianna.”

  Layton Rathbone was a business genius, turning soybeans into gold, but when it came to his daughter, he was putty—to be molded by her every whim. Still, it wasn’t up to me to point out that the idea of Brianna writing anything was laughable.

  “My girl’s out here somewhere, I believe,” he said, looking beyond me into the shadows.

  “Ummm,” I said. “It was good to see you.” And I darted into the house. I found a wall and eased around the cottage, scoping out the other attendees while admiring Lawrence’s home—a place filled with art and objects of fancy. Every square inch of wall was hung with a sketch or painting. Books were everywhere, jammed in glass cases that also held sculptures and figurines, a mixture of fine and gaudy. A waiter took my empty wineglass and handed me a full one. I sampled a tray of hors d’oeuvres, delighting in the unexpected surprise of steamed collards stuffed with ground pork and pine nuts. Excellent.

  Cece had arrived in a white dress that was simply dazzling: sleek, slinky, and sophisticated. I gave her a thumbs-up from across the room and indicated I wanted to talk to her when she had a moment. She’d have the lowdown on every guest. She was snared immediately by Dean Joseph Grace. He stood eye-to-nipple, continually smoothing back his silver-streaked dark hair as he talked.

  Within seconds, their conversation grew heated. They both glanced across the room at Lawrence before they set to at each other again. To my surprise, Grace poked Cece in the chest with his little finger. Face red with anger, Cece drew back a fist, halted as if frozen, then abruptly walked away.

  I was getting ready to check on Cece when I heard Madame’s voice, raised high, from a corner of the room. She was arguing with a tall man whose silvery hair was badly in need of a cut.

  Madame was clearly furious. She had to crane her neck to look at the tall man, and her expression was one of tight hatred. Even as I considered intervening, a hand on my arm pulled me up short.

  “Sarah Booth, I need to speak with you.”

  Harold’s gaze was intense, but there was the hint of amusement in his eyes. I felt a throb in my left thumb, the one Harold had suggestively sucked one cold November night in the magically lighted driveway of his home.

  “Can we meet?” he asked.

  “When?” I glanced over at Madame, whose face was beet-red. Lawrence had joined the group and was waving his hands, actually stepping between Madame and the tall man. Brianna and her father had also walked up. Layton held Brianna’s shoulders, and I saw that he was no longer the dashing forty-year-old I remembered from my childhood. But he still looked good. Damn Brianna, she even had genetic advantages.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas,” Harold said. “Have dinner with me. I’m cooking a tur-duck-en. It’s a turkey stuffed with duck and hen. Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’m even making sugarplums.”

  “Fine,” I agreed, anxious to see what vile thing Brianna was doing to Madame. In our little outdoor tête-à-tête, Madame had actually given me something to worry about. To my knowledge, Brianna had never written a word. But she did give interviews—to tabloids. And in them she took obvious pleasure in dissecting her past lovers. There was a cruel streak in her a mile wide, and if Lawrence was foolish enough to reveal secrets to her, she’d delight in telling them.

  “Shall I pick you up?” Harold asked.

  I surprised myself with the sudden anticipation I felt. “That would be wonderful, Harold. Now I have to check on something.”

  “Private eye business?” he asked, a worried gaze straying toward the arguing group. “Madame’s upset. This whole book idea worries me. Lawrence’s behavior worries me.”

  “I’ll try and find out what’s happening,” I hedged, not wanting to admit to anything.

  “You’ll have to give me all the details tomorrow evening.”

  “We’ll trade,” I promised, slinking toward the arguing group until I was in eavesdropping position.

  “Lawrence, tell them they can’t do it,” Madame was saying. She placed her tiny hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. “Please. You promised me that the book would be about the Paris years. There’s no point in going back to our youth.”

  “Cinematically speaking, the Delta era was the formative time for his character,” the thin man said, nostrils flaring wide. “Those years must be included in the movie. As will the war years. Of course there may be cuts, but I will decide when and what to delete. Brianna has assured me that I will have complete artistic control. I demand that.” His gaze seemed to dare Madame to
resist.

  Brianna clasped her hands in front of her hungry hipbones. She didn’t need food; she fed on the suffering of others. “I’ve worked my tail off to get Sam to even consider this project, Lawrence. Gustav is expecting a movie deal. Don’t be difficult.”

  “Artistic control isn’t the same as good judgment,” Lawrence said with the most reasonable tone I’d ever heard in the face of such bullying. “To stretch the story so long will only be tedious to the reader, or the audience, in the case of a movie. It’s the heart of the story that deserves attention. Ramone Gilliard knew this instinctively. Look at his work.”

  “Gilliard is a pauper who couldn’t get backing to make a film if he had a script written by God,” the thin man replied. “And let me remind you, Lawrence, that you’re far from a salable commodity. It’s Brianna’s name on the book and my reputation as a filmmaker that will pull this off. And so we don’t have to have this conversation again, remember that in your day, when film was unsophisticated, there were restraints. We have cinemagraphic techniques, Lawrence.” He patted the author’s shoulder. “Leave it to the professionals. Now I need to freshen my drink.” He walked away as if he were a captain who just dismissed his troops. Brianna was right on his heels.

  “Lawrence,” Madame said, her whispery voice shaking. “What have you done? What did you tell Brianna? Surely you remember we agreed that the past—”

  “It’s okay. Rosalyn, dahling, you know how those people are.” He put a hand on her small waist. “Don’t worry for a moment. I’m totally in charge.” He took Madame’s arm but it was Layton Rathbone he looked at. Brianna’s father was standing beside a piano. He turned away abruptly and went after Brianna.

  Lawrence’s gaze swept the room and stopped on me. “Look, Rosalyn, you’ve caught the attention of our budding author.”

  “Is something wrong?” It would have been pointless to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “A trifle,” Lawrence said. “But how wonderful to see you, dahling. Red is your color. I made a very special treat for you. Stuffed okra. Let me help you with a plate. These modern women today, too thin. When I was in France working with Deneuve, we almost had to force the child to eat. Of course the director loved that ethereal look, those huge eyes. But I was always more of a Gina Lollobrigida fan. Rubens was right! A woman, not a twig. Fashion is so fickle, my dear.”

  His grip on my arm was firm but his hand was freezing as he led me away from Madame and in the opposite direction Brianna had taken. “Who is that self-centered bastard?” I asked him.

  “Oh, a Hollywood type. Sam Rayburn. We want to bring out a movie simultaneously with the book. A big splash. That’s the way it’s done these days, or so I’ve been told.”

  I almost stumbled as the name hit me. “The Sam Rayburn? Producer of Marilyn Goes Blonde?” It was the blockbuster conspiracy movie about Marilyn Monroe and her alleged murder with the use of Thorazine suppositories.

  “Brianna assures me that he isn’t an impostor. Very touchy breed. But don’t take anything he says too seriously. Hollywood, dahling. Interest is like heat lightning, gone before you’re even sure you saw it.”

  “What exactly will your biography cover?” I asked.

  “Now if I told you, there would be no suspense. Look around. Everyone here wants to know what I’m including in my book. Tell me something, Sarah Booth. What’s the most important element in writing?” he asked.

  I realized he was talking to me as if I were actually writing a book. Now my lie would snap me on the butt. Still, I had to make a stab at it. “In nonfiction, the truth would be important. In fiction, I suppose it would be in creating a believable story.”

  “Dean Grace, our authority on everything, would give you an A for that answer.”

  “And you?” I was curious to hear his answer.

  “Think a little harder. Why would I be motivated to publish my life history now?” He didn’t wait for me to guess. “Revenge, malice, money. Or possibly truth.” He let that sink in. “Good fiction is life laid bare, the actual emotional truth. Nonfiction is the illusion of truth. In nonfiction, detail is boiled down to a fine syrup. Truth is no longer a raw substance but a by-product of a process. The individual telling the story determines the process based on his own particular pathology. Right?”

  I nodded, captivated by him and what he was saying.

  “This by-product, labeled truth, has many uses. To sweeten, to flavor, to soothe, to tempt. To extract revenge.” He waved an elegant hand around the room in a grand gesture. “They’re all concerned what my truth will be.” He laughed. “After two decades of being forgotten, it’s wonderful to again feel the power of commanding attention.” He selected a pickled mushroom and held it to my lips. “And for all of this fun, remember to savor the tiny pleasures, Sarah Booth. They’re the only ones that truly count. Excuse me.” He stepped back slightly and announced that dinner was served.

  To my dismay, I was seated between a graduate student and the dean. They’d obviously come to the party together and chatted—over and through me—about books, authors, and Mississippi’s place in the world of the literati. Of course they both knew everything about each subject. And what they didn’t know, the bookstore owner across the table was glad to fill in.

  During the delicious pumpkin soup, I learned of their importance in Mississippi in particular and the universe in general. The Chicken Muriel Spark was a treat, and I had a respite from the Ego Bowl while Lawrence explained briefly how he’d come to acquire the recipe. As the hired help served the chicken accompanied by beautiful crystal dishes of cranberry salad, Bailey Bronson, the bookstore owner, rose unsteadily.

  “To Lawrence!” He raised his glass. “Underappreciated and now in the catbird seat.” He swayed dangerously. “Renowned for his international Epicurean flair and his parties, at which too many people drank too much and spilled their guts. May he take his secrets to the grave. The sooner the better.”

  Madame’s gasp was the only sound. Even the cutlery stilled.

  “My death would benefit no one,” Lawrence said as casually as if he were ordering coffee. “All pertinent information is already in writing. As a vessel of secrets, I’ve been drained. But what abomination do you fear, Bronson? We’d love to know. I could hazard a guess if you’d like.”

  At that moment the waiters burst out of the kitchen with the cheese course. As they served, the tension grew. Only Lawrence seemed oblivious to it all.

  When the waiters left, Lawrence smiled and nodded. “You’re still not worried about that literary contest you organized. Some dazzling talent. I judged it, but the winner …” He arched his eyebrows. “There was some confusion, as I recall.”

  Bailey Bronson tried to rise but sat back down heavily in his chair. His hand trembled as he reached for his wine.

  Time seemed to flat-line and stretch. I’d spent a few awkward weeks in a sorority house back in my younger days, but I’d never been in a room where the air seemed to itch as if it had been lightly salted. Everyone at the table focused on his or her food, except for Brianna. She blew a kiss across the table to her father. His smile was both tolerant and proud.

  The kitchen door opened again and the waiters returned.

  “Ah, the salad,” Lawrence said, once again breaching an awkward silence. “Don’t expect iceberg lettuce and pallid tomatoes. This is a fence row salad made from weeds gathered along the roadways and a hint of that wonderful plant that smells like an angel’s armpit.”

  Beneath the clatter of china, individual conversations once again sprang up. I sat back in my chair and sipped my wine, examining the faces of my fellow diners. They were all practiced at the art of facade. Only Madame and Willem Arquillo made no attempt to hide their discomfort.

  At last dessert was served, a persimmon parfait made from fruit Lawrence had gathered “at the Shelby hog farm. I had to fight the sows back.” With the serving of the sweet, and last, course, the momentum of the party seemed to escalate.

  C
onversation rose in pitch and volume, and I was still left wondering why a man as charming as Lawrence Ambrose would choose to spend an evening with these tedious people. The purpose of the evening—the real purpose—and my role in it remained unclear.

  Still, Lawrence’s reputation as a chef was indisputable. I was captivated by the parfait, savoring the hint of Cointreau in the rich dessert. It was after my second spoonful that my tenure of boredom with my table companions paid off. The Dean dropped a blob of parfait on his lap and in the conversational lull that ensued as he tried to wipe it off, I heard Willem Arquillo talking about a new coffee bean he was developing on his finca in Nicaragua.

  “So tell us, Arquillo, are you testing the new blend on the hapless Nicaraguan campesinos?” Bailey Bronson asked in a slur that was clear enough to stop all conversation at the table. “Isn’t that what your father did? Some sort of testing on the Jews. Human genetics, I believe. Was it Auschwitz or Dachau? I hear Lawrence intends to spill his guts about your family in his book. That’ll put the knife in your new political career as Nicaraguan Minister of Agriculture.”

  In the silence that followed, a thin woman I’d completely overlooked let out a choked cry. “Stop it! Just stop it!” The only color in the woman’s face was a harsh flush that ran up her neck and into her cheeks. “This is enough stabbing and cutting. We all bleed!”

  Beside me Grace expelled a burst of air, a sound of disgust.

  “Bailey Bronson, you fool.” Lillian Sparks rose to her feet. “You’d repeat any rumor that belittled someone else, hoping, I presume, to increase your own stature. You’re pathetic.” She reached over to the other woman. “It’s okay, Tilda. Don’t let them upset you. He’s just a drunk, and Willem is far too cultured to even acknowledge him.”