Buried Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “I like a woman who makes her demands clear,” he said.

  “The dog, Harold,” I said, striving for a tone of affronted dignity.

  “Oh,” he gave a silky chuckle. “Take her back up to Dr. Matthews. I’ll speak with him.”

  “I don’t want puppies.”

  “And you shall not have them. You have my word. Baxter removed her uterus, Sarah Booth. She can’t have puppies.”

  “Right.” I put down the phone and confronted the scene in the yard. Sweetie Pie had no intention of listening to any advice I had to give, so I decided to make a pot of coffee and wait until passions cooled. It had been a long, hard day.

  I didn’t hear Jitty until she pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. “That dog is creatin’ a spectacle right there in the yard. I tol’ you it was a mistake. Folks see all that goin’ on in the yard and they gone be talkin’.”

  “So what? She’s spayed.” I was banking on Harold’s seed of hope. She did have a scar on her abdomen.

  “Somethin’s wrong with her.” Jitty’s eyes widened, emphasizing the golden brown shantung of her sleeveless tunic. I gave her a closer inspection. Her attire was chic for a woman of the fifties, and it showed off her lean arms to advantage. For the first time I noticed she was wearing pants. Tight pants. Clamdiggers. And little flat black shoes that were very cool. It was a striking outfit—more movies and Bacall than tepid television. Though I thought Jitty’s interest in the decade of bomb shelters and Ike was repugnant, I wouldn’t mind borrowing those clothes.

  “Nice outfit. What happened to the whalebone corset, pointy bra, and cinched waist?”

  “I’m going out this evening,” she said. “Business. Even in the fifties a businesswoman is allowed to look good.”

  “Right, all ten of y’all.” I sighed. I would be left alone with a dog in heat and the holiday blues. I’d have no recourse except to plug in the Christmas lights and play Mother’s old albums. I was in a Garfunkel funk.

  Jitty smirked. “Don’t go feelin’ sorry for yourself, Sarah Booth. You took the dog against my advice.” She leaned closer, her dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Ask that veterinarian man to check that hound for a Delaney womb. That must be the problem. She’s been here three days and already developing the tendencies that kept this bloodline running for five generations.” She gave a hearty laugh and evaporated before I could think of an insult to hurl back at her.

  Sweetie and I sat on the porch as dusk fell over Dahlia House. Dr. Baxter Matthews had determined another surgery would be necessary to diagnose Sweetie’s sudden enchantment with reproductive activities, but we’d decided to wait until the new year. So now I held her on a leash as she softly bayed under her breath at the dozen dogs who waited patiently in the yard. She sang to them in the softest of doggy tones, a siren lure to the panting pack. Only the firecrackers I kept throwing out in the yard dampened the ardor of her new friends.

  It reminded me of old stories of Great-Aunt Cilla, who was known across five states as a tease and heartbreaker. It was family legend that she’d violated the rules of womanhood and refused to marry young. During her twenties, she’d had men lined down the driveway in cars waiting for the chance to take her for a drive. Cilla, too, had suffered from some womb disorder. Father had been kind in his diagnosis, saying she’d been a spirited woman. Aunt LouLane, who was her sister, had been more to the point. Nympho was the word she’d used, saying it through lips so tightly drawn that her mouth had looked like a coin slot.

  “Ooo-ooo-ba-ba,” Sweetie moaned softly.

  Holding my moaning hound and thinking about Harold, Hamilton, and Willem, I couldn’t help but wonder what diagnosis my family would put on me. The possibilities made me squirm.

  A pair of headlights came down the drive toward the house, and I felt a vague stirring of curiosity. I was anticipating no one. I wasn’t certain I was in the mood to entertain. Still, any company was better than my own.

  Anyone except—Brianna Rathbone.

  She got out of her car at the front steps, a tall, willowy beauty that made Sweetie Pie’s hackles rise.

  The male dog suitors took one look at her and scattered.

  “Smart move,” I called out to them. “She eats her mate.”

  “How like you, Sarah Booth, to sit on your porch all alone and talk about breeding habits with a pack of dogs. Desperate doesn’t begin to describe you, does it?”

  “What brings you here, Brianna? Cannibalized the male population of Zinnia already?”

  “If that were the case, how long would it be before you noticed? A month? I gather you don’t have a lot of male callers.”

  Ah, she was quick. But I had a trump. “Willem was here yesterday. A very amusing man. He told me about his aversion to silk. He said it reminded him of waking up in the cocoon you’d spun around him.”

  “Willem.” She sighed. “A talented man in the bedroom, but not enough substance in a conversation.”

  Brianna’s idea of substance had to do with listing the most precious jewels in order of their monetary value, or perhaps the most current stock index. “What brings you to Dahlia House?” I asked again. I wasn’t about to ask her in, even though the light was fading and it was growing too cold on the porch. I knew the rule about vampires and invitations.

  “I hear Rosalyn hired you to investigate Lawrence’s death.”

  I was surprised by her knowledge of that fact, though I was careful to show no emotion. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I thought you might want to do a little additional work, for me.”

  “Sorry, conflict of interest.”

  She looked at me, perfectly defined eyebrows crashing together. “Are you saying I’m a suspect in a murder?”

  I couldn’t stop the smug look at her use of the word “murder.” “There’s no conclusive proof that Lawrence was murdered,” I said. “But if it should prove that he was, I’d say you’re the number one suspect.”

  “Ridiculous.” She spat the word, pacing the porch.

  Sweetie growled low and throaty.

  “Shut that creature up,” Brianna snapped. “Why would I kill the golden goose? Lawrence and I were going to make a fortune on his life story. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that deal.”

  “Perhaps you can make more money alone, and have more license. Lawrence wasn’t exactly happy with you. He told me you’d lost the right … focus.” It was a small lie. A perfectly legitimate PI lie.

  She whirled. “What did he say?”

  The light in her eyes was sharp, demanding. It’s one thing to consider someone capable of murder and quite another to confront that reality. Now, with the last pink light of a winter day in her eyes, I believed it. She was the ice queen, a woman of no emotion and total greed. The cold hand of self-preservation tickled my back and warned me not to provoke her too far. We were alone and I didn’t have a witness.

  “Damn you, Sarah Booth, don’t play coy with me. What did that old man really say about me?”

  Sweetie Pie shifted into position beside my leg. She wasn’t a rottweiler, but she had teeth and a spasming womb. A match for Brianna. “Where were you on Christmas Eve, after the party?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “You don’t have an alibi.” I felt a thrill, which quickly turned to a chill when she took a step toward me.

  “That old man was my meal ticket. He was doing most of the work. All I had to do was sign my name to a lucrative book and movie contract and then go out and sign autographs. I needed him alive.” She stepped closer.

  Sweetie bared her teeth.

  “Lawrence had the power to expose you for the liar you are,” I said. Backing down was the smart thing, but then again Delaneys were known for activity in the nether region, not the brain. “You didn’t write that book. You thought you were going to take credit for it. But Lawrence lost his faith in you and changed his mind. So you killed him. What made him lose his trust, Brianna?”

 
I’d never realized how large her hands were until she lifted them. I thought she was going to punch me, but she halted the motion.

  “Lawrence was a difficult man. We had a disagreement—stupid, really—about the scope of the book. But our deal was firm. We had a legally binding contract.”

  “I’d like to take a look at that,” I said.

  “Bite my ass.” She clenched her hands and turned abruptly. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you, Sarah Booth. You’re jealous of me. I’ll find the manuscript myself, and then I’ll do exactly what I want with it. By law, it belongs to me.”

  Her words were like a slap. The clear implication was that she didn’t have the manuscript or even a copy of it. Impossible! There would certainly have been multiple copies of such a thing.

  I thought back to Christmas morning when I’d first entered Lawrence’s cottage. In the wake of the party, it was hard to tell if Lawrence’s home had been tampered with. But Madame insisted things were stolen. If Brianna didn’t have the manuscript, who did?

  “Brianna,” I called out, stopping her at the bottom step. “Are you saying you don’t have a copy of the manuscript?”

  “My, aren’t you the brain? That’s exactly what I’m saying. Lawrence insisted it was a big secret. He wanted a grand moment, when it was complete, and it was almost there.”

  “You didn’t have a copy at all?” I was incredulous, and she was dumber than I ever thought.

  “Read my lips,” she said, furious. “He wouldn’t give me a copy. I had to agree to sign my name to whatever he wrote. Or that’s what he thought.” Her smile was sly, and she lifted her chin, a gesture that a camera would have loved. “Lawrence was a cat toying with mice. You saw him, the night of the party. That book was bait. He had some scores to settle, and he was tossing out little bits of that biography, making the rats dance. If you want to find whoever killed him, find who he was tormenting.” Her full lips curled into what some would have thought a smile. “Maybe that’s why Willem is still hanging around town. Lawrence had something on him. Something juicy.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the investigator. You find out.” She opened the door of her Porsche. “I have no faith in your talents, Sarah Booth, but if you happen to find the manuscript, remember it belongs to me. That’s the law and Daddy will make you obey it. Should you feel inclined to quibble, I’ll give you thirty thousand for it. Cash. No tax forms, no questions.”

  She got in the car, slammed the door, and spun out of the drive. As soon as she was gone the male dogs came slinking back through the soft gray dusk.

  9

  Dahlia House was silent. I’d taken a hot bath, eaten a salad, and lit a fire in the front parlor. I liked the contrast between the bright burn of the neon Christmas lights and the flickering flames of the hearth.

  I sipped a little bourbon and patted Sweetie Pie’s head. She was exhausted from all the activity she’d recently been having.

  Soon the tree would have to come down. There remained great debate among the Daddy’s Girls about the proper time to de-trim, but the Delaney tradition held firm. No later than December 31. To leave the tree up would bring untold bad luck. It was a violation of superstitions almost as bad as washing clothes on New Year’s Day, which was a sure way to kill off a family member. Trouble was, you couldn’t pick the member you wanted to die.

  Tradition—a word that haunted and yet defined much of my life. I’d fought the concept tooth and nail only to discover that I held on to it even as I struggled against it. In college I’d sneered at the sororities Aunt LouLane had worked so hard to have rush me. Of course, my mother had gone me one better by becoming a socialist in her youth.

  I’d shunned traditional studies, throwing myself into the dramatic arts. Theater was far removed from the respected life of a Delta belle. One of my other distant relatives had already gotten the drop on me in that regard, too. No matter how I tried, I’d never be as untraditional as cousin Talullah. And certainly not as successful, either.

  By not marrying, I was following a long line of spinster Delaney women. Cilla, though reported to be one hot mama, had never married. The family had moved her to Atlanta, where rumors of her lovers were muffled by distance and the roar of the city.

  But I was hemmed in by one last tradition—that of bearing an heir to carry on the Delaney name. Cilla and the others could dodge that particular bullet. I could not. I am the last of the line, the end of the Delaneys. If I don’t produce a child, Jitty will have no one to haunt, and Dahlia House will certainly fall to the development mentality that is now raping the South.

  Tradition is a heavy burden on a cold December night when the fire is flickering and Bob Dylan is wailing on the record player. Brianna would never let family or tradition stand in her way. It seemed not even legal or moral issues held her back from her pursuit of whatever she wanted.

  To avoid my own gloomy thoughts, I got out a pad and began to make a list of leads to follow in my case. Brianna’s visit had unleashed another round of possibilities.

  Knowing the cunning nature of the beast, I instantly suspected that Brianna had stolen the manuscript and was only trying to throw me off the trail. Nothing was too Machiavellian for the mind of Rathbone. It would be just like her to point suspicion at Willem by implying he had some dark secret to hide. He’d dumped her. There was a score to settle there, and what better way than to sic me on him. Two birds with one stone. I toted up the evidence against her with growing pleasure.

  But there had been the lingering smell of cigarettes in the house. Willem, for certain, smoked. Brianna had smoked in high school, until she learned it could prematurely age her skin. My belief, though, was once a smoker, always a smoker. Reformed smokers were only those who hadn’t backslid yet.

  That put Brianna and Willem squarely in the zone of suspects. Joining them was Joseph Grace. Whatever Lawrence had on him, it had to be good. Tilda had tossed her own name into the hat as a suspect.

  There were countless possibilities—everyone he might have included in his book. Since I hadn’t read any of it, I had no idea how damaging it might have been. Tilda said that Lawrence was the secret keeper. I remembered the howling stink that followed on the heels of Truman Capote’s biting tell-all. Lawrence had never struck me as that kind of person, but I couldn’t swear to it.

  There was, indeed, a certain appeal to score settling in one final, conclusive book. I’d lived a short and uneventful life compared to Lawrence Ambrose, but given the opportunity to thumb my nose at my enemies as I tweaked them on their exposed asses, I knew I’d be very, very tempted. And if Brianna wasn’t lying, then Lawrence was doing exactly that—letting each person know what he was about to do to them. If she wasn’t lying … about a lot of things, including her relationship with Gustav Brecht, the publisher who’d failed to appear at the party.

  The only thing I was positive about was that Lawrence hadn’t deliberately cut his hand, as Grace had suggested. Lawrence had not committed suicide—he wasn’t the type.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Madame. “What is it?” she asked, weariness in her voice.

  “Lawrence’s manuscript covered his years in Paris, right?”

  She hesitated. “What’s this all about, Sarah Booth?”

  “If, and that hasn’t been established yet, there was foul play in Lawrence’s death, I’m trying to compile a comprehensive list of suspects.” When she didn’t respond, I continued. “The guests at the dinner party could be on the list. But he knew everyone. The rich and famous, the talented and wannabes. He could have written something about one of those people that caused them to sneak into Sunflower County and kill him.”

  “Brianna killed him.”

  There was no arguing with Madame. She’d made up her mind.

  “Don’t waste your time and my money looking for anyone else,” she commanded. “Brianna did it. You know it as well as I do. Just figure out how she did it and make her pay.”

  Beneath the commande
ering attitude was deep grief. “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I miss the old fossil.” Her voice cracked but she regained control. “The police won’t tell me anything. They’ve locked up his cottage. I can’t get in to tend to his personal affairs. Even the cats are shut out. He would be furious.”

  Madame was in a mood and subverting her was tricky. “Several people mentioned Lawrence’s 1958 return to Zinnia. Why was he denied the job at the university?”

  “Jealousy. Plain and simple. He had talent and they didn’t.”

  “But wouldn’t his talent reflect back on the school?”

  “Oh, certainly that. What you don’t understand, Sarah Booth, is that Lawrence had connections to the world of talent and glamour. He could pick up the phone and talk to Marilyn Monroe or Clark Gable, Judy Garland or Groucho Marx. He didn’t even have to call them, they called him and told him their secrets, their sorrows and joys.

  “He worked with all of the famous European film directors. That access gave Lawrence power. He would have become more powerful than the other faculty, so they all ganged up against him. They’re inferior intellects and they thrive on mediocrity. What they couldn’t stand was the idea of someone coming in and upsetting the balance of power.”

  Explained in those terms, I could see where Lawrence might stir a rebellion. “Why didn’t he push it? Why didn’t he sue?”

  “You didn’t know him, Sarah Booth.” Madame’s voice was worn and thin as onionskin. “You wouldn’t ask that question if you did. He was a proud man. He wouldn’t force his way into a job, even if he had a right to it. Times were different then. It was 1958. People didn’t go to court at the drop of a hat.”

  “He should have,” I said.

  “Today, yes. Back then, no. He did the right thing. He had another twenty years in Paris. That was where he belonged. The one thing that might have made his life here tolerable was denied him.”