Buried Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Like I said, I was outside the door when the alarm went off. I could just hear it through the closed door. There was the gunshot, and when I opened the door, Hosea was lying on the floor.”

  “What about everyone else in the room?”

  “They went out the window and down the back stairs.”

  “Who was in the room?”

  She shook her head. “I never saw them.”

  “But there had to have been talk. A man was killed.”

  She looked down at the floor. “There was talk. But that’s all it was.”

  My heart rate began to increase. “Who was supposed to be in that room?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “Try me.”

  She met my gaze. “J. Edgar Hoover.”

  “The head of the FBI?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  I didn’t disbelieve her, it was just that Hoover was almost a mythic figure. The control freak head of the FBI who cross-dressed. It was almost too much. And now he was involved, or at least a witness, in a gambling murder in Mississippi. “Did you ever see him in the hotel?”

  She put her coffee cup down abruptly. “You’d think one day I’d learn. No matter how many times I’ve been looked at like a fool or a liar, I still open my mouth. If you have to know, I did see Hoover at the Crescent. He was there on at least two occasions that summer. Fishing in Moon Lake. Lawrence took him out in the boat and paddled him to all the fishing holes.”

  “I’m sorry, Beverly,” I said, reaching over and grasping her hand. “Hoover is almost like a joke to someone my age. I didn’t doubt you, it’s just that he’s almost like a fictional character to me.”

  She gave me a long look. “Lawrence said that exact thing. He said he could never write a character like Hoover because no one would believe it.”

  “You honestly think he was in the room when Hosea was killed?”

  She cleared her throat. “I believe that and more. I think Hoover may have shot him. Or at least he knew who did.”

  That got my attention. “Why?”

  “I don’t think the shooting had anything to do with gambling or money. There was something else going on. Look, the sheriff was in the casino. He came up, questioned me to see if I’d seen anything, which I hadn’t. They loaded up the body and hauled it away. That was the end of it.”

  “Where was Lawrence when all of this was going on? Did he see anything?” Perhaps he’d witnessed the shooting. It was possible that someone from far in the past had a lot of reason to fear what Lawrence might write.

  “No, Lawrence didn’t see a thing. He was too busy with Lenore’s boyfriend. He was outside on the front porch, playing the role of big brother. Or trying to. Lenore was … involved with a man. There was serious trouble brewing.”

  “And Lenore?”

  “She was outside, chasing that man like white trash. It was quite a scene. Lawrence got into a terrible fight with the man. A bloody fight.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen a woman more obsessed.”

  “You’re positive neither of them saw the murder?”

  “Positive,” she said firmly.

  “Mrs. McGrath, Beverly, you’ve helped me more than you can know,” I told her as I prepared to leave. “A million thanks.”

  “Tell Millie to come by more often. And be careful. If someone hurt Lawrence for poking into the past, they might not think twice about hurting you.”

  13

  All the way home I pondered the questions Bev’s conversation raised. Sweetie Pie, drowsy from her beauty nap, enjoyed the wind through her ears as we sped across the flat reaches of the Delta.

  The scenario Bev had created with Hoover, whether accurate or not, had begun to color my own thoughts. Lawrence had not written about the murder at Moon Lake—at least not in any factual way. But there were parallels between the facts and Weevil Dance. It was possible that someone powerful was afraid Lawrence might write the truth about that long-ago murder. A wealthy and powerful person might have hired a killer to make certain that Lawrence never published a whisper about the incident.

  The flaw in that scenario was the time frame Doc Sawyer had imposed. Lawrence had been given small doses of Coumadin for at least two weeks. Not a technique a gun-for-hire would use. I still believed he was killed by someone he knew.

  Bev McGrath’s recounting of history made it clear to me that Lawrence was more than capable of playing with facts—and doing it with great literary skill. Using the magic of imagination and talent, he’d woven his own tapestry out of the tragedy at Moon Lake. But it was also clear to me that Lawrence had known the true story. It was very possible someone hadn’t wanted to see what pictures Lawrence could paint if he published his autobiography.

  Hoover’s presence at Moon Lake was both fascinating and horrifying. He was obviously the character Donald Bathos in Weevil Dance, a man of great power who provides the cloak of protection for the murder to take place, a political necessity. So Hoover had visited Moon Lake and the Crescent casino. Gambling at that time was illegal. Though Prohibition as a national event had ended, liquor was still illegal in Mississippi. Hoover enjoyed every vice the average American was denied, and based on my limited knowledge of his predilections, perhaps a few more.

  Hoover, in his time, was incredibly powerful. His vindictiveness was legendary. He was not a snake I’d want to poke with a short stick. Had Lawrence decided to reveal the Moon Lake incident in his biography? That would put a whole new spin on people who might want to stop publication of the book.

  But Hoover was dead, and his reputation already tarnished by revelations of corruption, perversion, and criminal behavior. Moon Lake was a long time in the past, and a book now wouldn’t exactly blow the cover off his past.

  Still, it would be interesting to see if any official documentation of Hoover’s Mississippi visit existed. I knew better than to think I could waltz into the records department of the FBI and turn up a travel voucher for such a trip. From what I knew of politics, powerful men always thought they were above the law. They made sure to leave no official tracks.

  No, if I dug around this story, I’d have to start with Hosea Archer and his father. There should be plenty of local print on the honorable Jebediah Archer, U.S. senator from Clarksdale, Mississippi. My state, like most others, had a long record of electing crooks and ne’er-do-wells. Many prominent Mississippi politicians, unfortunately, were also stupid. Statesmanship hasn’t always been a high priority, in the past or present.

  Bits and pieces of my limited memory of Senator Archer were coming back. He’d retired before I was born, but my parents had mentioned him. It was not in a flattering light. I just couldn’t remember if he was simply a crook, stupid, a racist, or all of the above. It would come back to me after a little brain food.

  Although I’d eaten two servings of plum pudding, I was starving when I pulled into the driveway of Dahlia House. It was late afternoon, and soon I would have to deal with Harold. I hadn’t really given a lot of thought to what I was going to tell him. Or how I was going to hide the fact that I was on to him and Brianna. He’d hardly had time to recover from Sylvia Garrett throwing him over and going to Paris and he was already bedding Miss Most Photogenic Succubus.

  As much as I didn’t want to talk to Harold about my visit to Lawrence’s cottage, I had some questions about his aunt Lenore. Strong-willed and yet a suicide. The character trait seemed to defy the fact, but then again maybe it was only strong-willed people who were capable of taking fate into their own hands. It wasn’t an issue I’d given a lot of thought, but I was certain that if I brushed off my psychology texts, I’d be able to find theory and case studies. Just another lead to follow in this already complex case.

  Winding down the drive, I dodged the stag line of dogs and parked. In her Connie Francis disguise, Sweetie slipped by them, and we went into the kitchen and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Since I was knife deep in the nut-butter, I made Swee
tie one, too. We stood at the kitchen sink and dined together. Sweetie was totally absorbed in her food, but I kept a wary eye out for Jitty. Eating at the counter was “white trashy.” Jitty had nailed me on it several times, pointing out that it was a convenient excuse for me to eat: too fast, too much, and without satisfaction. She was right—therefore I gobbled faster before I got caught. I didn’t have time for the niceties.

  The red light on my answering machine blinked like a tiny little pulse of possibility. I didn’t catch Lillian Sparks’s voice at first, but when she started talking about Lawrence’s cats, I knew who it was.

  “Apollo is still at the house,” she was saying. “He must be brought to me immediately. Rosalyn has paid for your services; bring me the cat. I shall be home this afternoon and expect you to do your duty.”

  I rolled my eyes. Lillian was like a blackberry briar. Once you were in it, there was no way to get out without losing a little skin. The good news was that she wanted Apollo. Or at least she was willing to assume the responsibility for him. I had Sweetie, and that was enough, especially since, lately, she was the most popular bitch in town, outshining even Brianna.

  Seeing as how I was already in Dutch with Harold about visiting Lawrence’s cottage, one more trip wouldn’t hurt. Although Sweetie whined pitifully to go, I left her home in deference to Apollo. It took fifteen minutes for me to drive to Magnolia Place. I slowed under the trees, caught by a sense of loss that, for some reason, made me think of my parents.

  The crime tape was still up, the door still unlocked, and Apollo cried from within the house. I hurried to the kitchen and began to open the cabinets, looking for cat food. The poor animal had to be close to starvation.

  “Kitty, kitty,” I called as I searched. There had been some Seafood Delight in a cabinet. I remembered it from my and Willem’s search. I cursed myself for not being thoughtful enough to open a can and leave it for the cat the day before.

  “Aha!” I saw the can in the back of the pantry and reached for it. A three-can stack of tinned smoked oysters toppled over. I halted in mid-reach. A brown plastic-coated bag of rat poison was sitting right beside the cat food.

  I picked up the food and opened the can. Apollo magically appeared at my ankles, winding back and forth between them. I put the food on a plate and put him in the sunroom where I could easily shut the door. Then I went back to the pantry. I’d searched the damn thing myself, looking for the manuscript. The poison had not been there the day before. I would have seen it. I couldn’t have overlooked it. Yet there it was.

  Lawrence kept a stack of brown paper sacks beside his cabinet and I used salad tongs to put the rat poison in a bag. I put it in the trunk of the car and retrieved the cardboard box I’d thought to bring. I didn’t mind holding Apollo, but cats are not always rational when it comes to cars. He would be safer in the box than in my arms.

  Apollo was surprisingly agreeable. I made sure to cover my tracks, taking the cat food can and plate with me. I was about to start the car when I was struck with a terrible thought.

  One of Lawrence’s cats had recently died. I vividly remembered Lawrence sitting in my parlor, insisting that the cat had died of natural causes. My instincts told me there was another, uglier possibility. I was deep in thought as I drove to Lillian Sparks’s to deliver Apollo.

  True to her word, Lillian was sitting in her parlor window, one eye on the street and one eye on a German novel. She opened her front door and urged me to bring Apollo into his new home.

  Lillian had grown up on a horse farm east of Zinnia on the Tallahatchie River. Her family had once been very wealthy, and Lillian had studied languages at the Sorbonne. As a child she’d followed her father around the world, buying such exotic horses as Akhal-Teke, Paso Finos, Connemaras, Belgian warm bloods, and big Irish Drafts. Vernon Sparks had hoped to breed the perfect sports horse.

  He’d gone bankrupt in the process, and Lillian had clung to the only bit of real estate that wasn’t encumbered by debt, the family house in Zinnia. I’d visited her in the past with my father, and as soon as I stepped into the room, I remembered the bookcases that stretched floor to ceiling around a huge stone fireplace.

  For a time Lillian had worked for the World Health Organization, traveling through Third World countries as if they were the familiar roads of her home state. And then she’d come home to Zinnia and begun a twenty-year crusade to preserve, protect, and cherish the history and culture of her hometown. My mother, the socialist Peace Corps worker, had loved her.

  Lawrence was part of that history and culture, and so were his cats.

  “Ah, Apollo,” she said, lifting the cat out of the box and cuddling him, though he didn’t seem particularly interested in affection. After a moment she put him down and watched as he examined the room. As if by magic the other three cats appeared in the open doorway to the huge central hall. Apollo never looked back as he took off to be with them. “He’ll adjust,” she said. “They miss Lawrence, but they have each other.”

  For a woman who’d held children dying of diphtheria, she’d amazingly managed to retain her soft side.

  I bent down to pick up the box. I didn’t want to appear to be rude, but I wanted to talk to the veterinarian. The business about Lawrence’s dead cat was worrying me.

  “Have you found any conclusive evidence to bring Brianna to justice?” Lillian asked.

  Her question startled me, but then I remembered that she and Rosalyn were good friends. It was an odd alliance, the poor dance teacher and the very sophisticated woman who’d once had great wealth.

  “Nothing conclusive.”

  She motioned me to a chair and sat back in her own. I noticed then that her feet were terribly swollen. Having known her as an indomitable force, I’d failed to see the changes time had wrought.

  “I’m worried about Rosalyn,” she said. “She’s obsessed with proving Brianna guilty.”

  I didn’t say anything. Client–investigator code of ethics. The best I could hope was that escape would come sooner rather than later.

  “Tell me, Sarah Booth, do you believe Lawrence was murdered?”

  The answer was yes, but I’d learned that a nonresponse often triggers more reaction. “There’s nothing conclusive.”

  “What have you learned about the missing manuscript?”

  Obviously the gossip was all over town. “I’m following some leads,” I hedged.

  “I hope it’s gone. Nothing good could come of it.”

  I was surprised. Lillian was the strongest supporter of the arts in Sunflower County. She’d always been an advocate of Lawrence’s work. This book, whatever else it was, would be of literary interest since Lawrence had written most of it.

  “Did Lawrence tell you what he was writing?” I asked. If she knew what the book contained, it would certainly help me focus my investigation.

  “I didn’t know a thing about it until his dinner party. When I heard he was going to let Brianna Rathbone take credit for writing it, I was horrified. Now that he’s dead, I hope the wretched thing has vanished forever.”

  “Why?”

  “Only a young person can ask such a question. Imagine, if you can, what it might feel like to have the follies of your youth in black and white for everyone to read.”

  “Are we talking about your follies, or Rosalyn’s?” I asked. Though she covered well, I could tell I’d hit a nerve.

  “You’re smarter than I thought, Sarah Booth, but I won’t be drawn into this discussion. No one lives without regrets.”

  “Then may I ask another question?” I hadn’t anticipated that Lillian might have information that would bear on the case. Now I thought she might.

  “I reserve the right not to answer.”

  “Why did Rosalyn stay here in Zinnia, teaching dance to untalented and ungrateful young girls?”

  She considered a moment before she answered. “Rosalyn changed that summer up at Moon Lake. She went up there a young girl with dreams of dancing across Europe. She came back
to Zinnia a different young woman, much subdued. Of course she did a stint in New York, but I believe she’d lost the heart to really reach. Of all the arts, dance is the most demanding mistress. Time is so brief. She came back to Zinnia because it was home.”

  Her answer had been carefully phrased. “What about Lawrence?”

  “Oh, he was a talented boy.”

  “That’s not exactly an insight, Lillian.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Did Lawrence change that summer? Was it possible he witnessed something … dangerous?”

  “He was thrust into a world of gambling and powerful men. The rest of the world was engaged in war. France fell to the Germans that summer, Sarah Booth. The world as we knew it was changing. Lawrence was fully aware. He changed, undoubtedly. After that summer he went to Paris, a correspondent for a national magazine. He was there when he wrote his first novel. That summer at Moon Lake was the turning point for a lot of things. It was the last idyll of youth, I believe, for all four of those young people.”

  She was a foxy old lady who knew how to dance. “I wouldn’t exactly call the scene of a murder idyllic,” I said flatly.

  “Yes, the murder of Hosea Archer in a card game. You’ve dug that up, have you? The common sentiment around the Delta was that he got what he deserved.”

  Lillian had shown far more compassion for Lawrence’s cats. The reference to Hosea Archer had hardened her mouth. It made me decide to press.

  “Do you remember Senator Archer?”

  Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair, a reflex she wasn’t even aware of. “Too well. You’re too young to remember, but my father had dealings with him.”

  “I understand Archer was something of a high roller.”

  “Indeed. He rolled over anyone who got in his way. My father had this idea of creating a national stud service in Mississippi. Along the lines of the Irish stud. Senator Archer was supposed to help him.” Her face was well schooled, but it was her voice that gave her away. She hated the man. “The senator decided at the last minute that he couldn’t support the idea. Father had been counting on his help. Without it, the entire plan collapsed. We lost everything except this house.”