Buried Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  To quote a wise old country person, this pile was old but the stink was still on the turd.

  “What about his son, Hosea?”

  “I doubt if even his mother grieved his death. He came out to the horse ranch a few times. He was a misanthropic little sadist. It’s a blessing he wasn’t allowed to reproduce.”

  So much for epitaphs. “His murder was never solved. Did Rosalyn ever say anything about it?”

  “This isn’t an avenue you should pursue, Sarah Booth. Hosea Archer was trash. Let it go at that. No one cared when he was killed in 1940, and certainly no one cares now.”

  In the background I could hear the cats running about in another room. That reminded me of the somewhat gruesome task I needed to complete. Lillian took my momentary silence as an opportune moment to rise and indicate I should leave.

  “Thank you for bringing Apollo. I’ll take good care of him.”

  She walked me to the door, and just as I was leaving, she put a hand on my arm. “Your parents were wonderful people. I’m not so sure they would approve of your new trade.”

  “Rosalyn hired me,” I reminded her. “I’m working in her behalf.”

  She ignored my parry. “I’m glad you came home to save Dahlia House.”

  “I hope I can.”

  Her smile was sad. “I hope you can, too. You never get over losing your home, Sarah Booth. Never.”

  I went over my list of friends and realized no one would help me with my task. Putting the spade in the trunk of the car, I made sure the box was there also. Dr. Matthews was not excited by the prospect, but he’d agreed that if I would exhume Lawrence’s cat, he would do an autopsy.

  Lawrence had claimed the cat’s body from the vet’s office, so I knew it would be buried somewhere near the cottage. For the third time, I made the drive down the oak-lined drive and parked. This time I walked around the cottage to the backyard.

  It didn’t take long to find the patch of freshly turned earth. Lawrence had buried his pet beneath a wild grape arbor, and I worked carefully until I unearthed the towel-wrapped body. I moved it to the box and drove back to the veterinarian’s office.

  “It’ll take a day or two,” he said. “I have to send the tissues off to the lab.”

  I wondered if it was the same place that had evaluated Lawrence’s tissues. “Check specifically for Coumadin,” I requested.

  His eyebrows lifted. “You think someone deliberately poisoned Lawrence’s cat? Why?”

  “It’s just a hunch,” I said, not willing to say what I really thought. That someone had been poisoning Lawrence and that the cat had simply gotten into it by mistake. “Call me.”

  “How’s Sweetie Pie?” he asked.

  “Entertaining the troops. If there was a USO show for dogs, she would be the main attraction.”

  He laughed, good-humored in the midst of my dog’s hormonal woes. “Bring her in first thing next Wednesday. We’ll take care of whatever ails her.”

  “Any ideas what that might be?”

  He shook his head. “I took out two ovaries and a uterus. What’s happening with her defies logical medical explanation. Therefore I reserve comment until I check her out.”

  “Call me with the results on the cat.”

  I had just enough time to make one more stop before I had to get ready for Harold. Even though this was a business meeting, I intended to make him rue the day he’d chosen Brianna as his new playmate.

  “You want me to do what?” Coleman Peters asked, leaning against the counter so that he was only inches from my face.

  “Fingerprint the bag.” I pointed to the poison I’d brought in and deposited on his desk.

  “Why?”

  I looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on us. “To see who might have touched it.”

  “I know how fingerprinting works, Sarah Booth. The why refers to why do you want to know?”

  I didn’t want to tell him I’d taken the bag from Lawrence’s. That would justifiably make him annoyed. Coleman liked me, but not enough to forgive me for mucking up his investigation. “It’s a hunch.”

  He eyed me, and behind the blue eyes that so often held only a pleasant light, I saw the intellect of the young high school boy who’d calculated his odds and moved from football hero to sheriff. Coleman had married the head cheerleader, a perky little thing who was an asset on the campaign circuit, and from what I heard, a nag in between.

  “I hear you’ve been a mighty busy woman,” Coleman said. This time he didn’t bother to hide his accusing glare.

  “I don’t get paid to watch soap operas.”

  “There’s busy good and busybody. I hear you’ve been the latter.”

  He knew I’d been in Lawrence’s house.

  “I heard you and that artist searched Mr. Ambrose’s cottage. Did you remove evidence from a crime scene?”

  “Not a single thing.” That was true. Sort of.

  “What’s the significance of the rat poison?”

  “Coleman, I brought it to you. I could have taken it to Memphis and found a lab to do simple fingerprints. If something shows up, then I’ll tell you everything. If it doesn’t, then there’s no point starting a bunch of suspicions.”

  He didn’t budge, and his blue gaze never flinched. “Don’t put yourself in a position of working against me.”

  “That wasn’t in my game plan.” It truly wasn’t. I liked Coleman and thought he was honest.

  “I’ll run the prints for you right now.” He pushed back off the counter so fast I slumped forward. He disappeared in back and came out with a kit. In a matter of moments he had out what looked to be minuscule particles of the same stuff used in magnetic drawing boards, a dark gray powder.

  “Plastic is a pretty good surface.” He dusted the sack with what looked like a big blush brush. Magically, the dust seemed to adhere to several prints. I felt a rush of excitement.

  “Look! A print. Two of them!”

  “Uh huh.”

  I gave him a look. He was awfully blasé, but then he didn’t realize where I’d gotten the sack. Or at least he couldn’t prove it.

  He went to the back and came out with a 35 millimeter camera that had a macro lens attachment. He set up a small tripod, carefully took aim, and photographed the prints.

  “Will you match them off the photographs?” I’d seen this on television.

  “I’ll run them,” he said, lowering the camera and looking at me. “You’re forgetting one small thing, Sarah Booth. If the person these prints belong to doesn’t have a criminal record, we won’t be able to match them.”

  14

  “Damn! Damn! Double damn!” I pulled at the stocking, trying to straighten the line up the back of my leg. The stupid thing was twisted, but that wasn’t what was bothering me.

  “Why don’t you just get an ice pick and stab it?” Jitty said from the doorway of my bedroom. “You want to put a run in it, that’ll be a lot faster and easier on you.”

  I stood up and glared at her. I had ten minutes before Harold was supposed to arrive. I’d decided on secret underwear—my private weapon. Harold might not know I had on my sexy black garter belt and stockings, but I would know and it would give me feminine powers. So far, though, the stockings were more than I could contend with. How was it possible that mankind could live in outer space but couldn’t invent a silk stocking that went on without twisting?

  “You look wild-eyed,” Jitty said, plopping down on the foot of the bed. She began to rifle through the pile of clothes I’d tried on and rejected. “Anything left in the closet?”

  “Where’ve you been all day?” The only way to deal with her sarcasm was to ignore it.

  “Busy. Is Harold taking you to dinner?”

  “We’re having jerked butt, and it’s going to be mine.”

  “I’m sure you can persuade Harold to be a little forgiving.” She stood up and came to stand behind me, staring into the mirror. “I’ve seen you be highly persuasive.”

  “Har
old’s involved with Brianna. I don’t want her leftovers.”

  Jitty lowered her chin so that her eyes bored into me. “You afraid to go head-to-head with her, aren’t you?”

  For a moment I simply stared back at her. “I’m not afraid of Brianna Rathbone on any terms.”

  Jitty’s grin was sly. “Then spin a little silk, do your own sexy little spider dance, and lure him over to your web.”

  “You make him sound like an insect.” I finally got the stocking hooked to the garter. I let it go with a snap that made me jump. “I thought you were against wanton sex and into marriage and family values.”

  “Once you get ahold of him, he’ll pop the question again. Besides, I just want to see if you got what it takes.”

  “I won’t be dared into laying snares for a man.”

  Jitty chuckled. “That’s an interestin’ statement. I’ll keep that on file. So what are you gonna wear other than black lace underthings?”

  I pointed to the black wool skirt with a slit up to my hip and a white silk blouse. My black wool coat was still missing, but I had a red one that would work. “Demure, yet—”

  “More of a business slut. You musta got that in one of those secondhand shops in New York.”

  She was right on the money. “Illusions was the name of the shop. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I wish I could shop in one of those places.”

  The wistful tone in her voice made me realize that in all likelihood Jitty hadn’t been off the home place since she died. Maybe never.

  “Have you ever been out of Mississippi?” Sitting down at my dressing table, I watched her in the mirror.

  “New Orleans. Once. Right before the war. It was glorious, too. I’ve never seen a place so alive. Your great-great-grandma Alice took me with her when she went to meet the ship that brought a lot of the furniture for Dahlia House.”

  It was almost impossible for me to imagine how much effort had gone into the building and furnishing of my home. There had been no trucks. Every stick of furniture, every piece of hand-cut glass for the windows and chandeliers had been carried upriver by barge and then overland by mules and wagons.

  “We had to love every stick of that furniture to work that hard to get it home.” Jitty ran her left hand over the smooth finish of my bedstead. Her face was turned down, her attention on her hand brushing the polished wood. “Yes, indeed. Lots of hard work went into your home, Sarah Booth, and if you don’t find you a husband and start a family, it’ll all be for naught.”

  I gave her an evil glare. She’d sucked me right into the palm of her hand and then clapped. “You can leave now,” I said. “And send in my dog. I want some good company.”

  “Wear those wicked black shoes you bought for Harold’s Thanksgiving party. They put a good angle on your calf.”

  “Anything for Harold,” I said.

  “Don’t get my hopes up, Sarah Booth.” She walked back over and leaned closer. “Whenever you doubt your abilities, remember you have one thing that Brianna Rathbone can never get.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Delaney womb,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “Now that’s a deadly weapon.”

  The doorbell rang and I slipped into my clothes. The skirt was an excellent choice.

  “I’m coming,” I called down the stairs to the front door. “Just a minute.”

  There wasn’t time for any more primping. I went down to let Harold in. He was barely over the threshold when Sweetie Pie launched herself at him, nearly knocking him over.

  “What are you feeding that dog?” he asked, eyeing her critically.

  “Why?” I felt a surge of guilt at the peanut butter sandwich. Not to mention the fruitcake. I did hate to eat alone.

  “She’s put on ten pounds, at least.”

  I stepped back, unwilling to let his flesh-appraising eye dwell too critically on me. “She needed a little fattening up. Her ribs were about to poke through her skin.”

  Harold lifted an eyebrow. “She’s a hound, Sarah Booth. She’s supposed to be lean so she can run.”

  “Sweetie Pie has other uses for her energy these days.”

  “Yes, I saw the dogs when I came in. There must be fifteen of them out there. Well, it’s a warm night. They won’t freeze.”

  “Come in and I’ll make you a drink. Bourbon?”

  In the foyer mirror I saw Harold’s gaze catch on the slit in my skirt as I moved away from him. His lips tightened slightly, and I felt a tiny little thumb pulse in response. Brianna might have snared him, but he wasn’t firmly caught.

  “Perhaps we should talk before we drink,” he said, following close behind me. “What I have to say is serious.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but my Daddy’s Girl training had taught me not to disagree with a man. At least not in a head-on manner. I simply went to the sideboard and made our drinks while Harold watched. He was too well mannered to stop me. When I offered him his glass, he took it with a look of wary amusement.

  “What were you doing at Lawrence’s with Willem Arquillo?”

  “What part annoys you the most?” I sipped my drink slowly, never taking my eyes off his. “That I was at Lawrence’s or that I was with Willem?” Ah, there was a rush of color to his cheeks.

  “Both. Both of you should know better. Especially you, Sarah Booth. You claim to be a private investigator. Surely you’ve bothered to learn a few of the rules. Such as don’t disturb a crime scene.”

  “We were looking for the manuscript. Willem had agreed to turn it over to you. He just wanted to look at it.”

  “And I’m going to dance Swan Lake in downtown Zinnia tomorrow.”

  I put my hand on my heart. “Madame will be delighted. She could never find men to perform in the ballet.”

  His gripped my arm firmly. “This isn’t a game, Sarah Booth.”

  I locked gazes with him, fascinated, and a little fearful of the sudden intensity in his pale blue eyes. Harold was a man who veiled strong emotion in manners. Even when he’d proposed to me, he’d been so carefully controlled. Now I saw passion, a hint of exactly how hot the opposite of his ice control could be, and I liked it.

  “Willem’s mother is dying. He was afraid there was something in the manuscript about his family. He wanted to know so that he could prepare his mother. And if it wasn’t in there, perhaps allow her to die in peace.”

  Harold’s hand slipped down my arm, warmth sliding over the cool silk, but his gaze didn’t falter a millimeter. “You believe that?”

  “I did.” Doubt suddenly plucked at me. “I do.” Vacillation is a deadly sin in the Daddy’s Girl rulebook. To err is human. To vacillate is begging for trouble.

  “If such a thing were in the manuscript, why would Willem allow it to be printed?”

  “How could he stop it?”

  Harold’s eyes narrowed. “I always took you for a bright woman.”

  I would accept his grilling, but I wasn’t about to take an insult from a man who slept with one of the sexually undead. “Just because I don’t spend my days foreclosing on poor widows and orphans doesn’t mean that I’m soft or stupid. Willem made a promise to me. I have no reason to doubt that he would live up to it. Besides, what if he found the manuscript and took it? You’ve got that copy at the bank.” I decided to try a bluff.

  Harold went to the neon Christmas wreath, his finger touching the warm buzz of the lights. He sipped his drink and studied the neon as if he’d never seen it before. When he finally turned back to face me, his glass was empty. “There’s no copy of the manuscript at the bank.”

  “What about Lawrence’s safe deposit box?” I’d assumed there would be a copy there. It had to be there. “Maybe not the actual pages, but a computer disk?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t repeat that to anyone.” As he walked to within a few inches of me, I caught the scent of his aftershave. Whatever it was, no one else wore it like him. “I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find La
wrence’s work. I’m afraid it’s been destroyed.”

  “I didn’t—we didn’t—take the manuscript from the house.”

  He nodded. “I believe you.” He reached out and brushed his fingertips across my cheek. “I’m sorry I said you were dumb.”

  I looked down in my glass and found the decency to meet his gaze, far gentler this time. “I’m sorry I said you put widows and orphans on the street.”

  His chuckle was soft, amused. “You don’t fight like the other ladies of your group. You go straight for the ba—”

  “No need to point out my weaknesses,” I interrupted. “If we went out to the family cemetery, we’d probably discover the ground all disturbed. That would be Aunt LouLane turning in her grave.”

  “She tried, Sarah Booth.”

  “She did indeed.” And I had never felt more like a failure, at least in her eyes.

  Harold held out his glass. “So what did you and Willem find, poking through Lawrence’s things?”

  I made us both another drink while Harold lit a fire. We settled onto the sofa. I was tempted to tell him about the rat poison, but something held me back.

  “Someone had been in the cottage before us.”

  He tensed. “Are you sure?”

  “The cat, Apollo, was in the house. Rosalyn said the cats had been left outside.” If confession was good for the soul, I had more. “I went back to the house and got Apollo and took him to Lillian.” I was on a roll. “And I went back again and exhumed a dead cat.”

  By now, Harold had firm control of his expressions. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  “I think the cat was poisoned.” It was the perfect moment to tell about the rat poison, but still I held back.

  “Any suspects?”

  Oh, yeah, the woman providing the bounce in his mattress. Again, I held back. Restraint had never been my long suit. Perhaps private-eyeing was teaching me a lesson of ladyhood that Aunt LouLane had said I would never learn.