Bones and Arrows
A Sarah Booth Delaney Short Mystery
Carolyn Haines
KaliOka Press
Contents
Bones and Arrows
About the Author
Also by Carolyn Haines
Copyright © 2017 by Carolyn Haines
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Bones and Arrows
“Sarah Booth Delaney, don’t you dare try to circumvent my Valentine’s Party. Just because you’re the Eris of romance doesn’t mean you can skip-out of my toga party.”
Tinkie Bellcase Richmond stood in the middle of her extravagant tents, bonfires, lighted torches, and party gala, arms akimbo. Even though she wore a gold-trimmed slave toga, she tapped the toe of her five-inch stiletto in anger. Tinkie disdained the idea of bare feet or flat sandals, no matter the attire. She’d gone to great lengths to find gold-strapped stilettos and I had to admit, they set off her legs beautifully.
“My head’s not in the right place for this,” I said, pulling the shoulder strap of my toga to a less revealing position. It wasn’t that I didn’t like toga parties or the wonderfully wild lyre, cithara, tibia, and panpipes that tempted me with the thought of dancing like no one was watching. Instead, a blue mood had me by the short hairs. “I just want to go home and curl up with a book.”
“A book? You’d trade a party for a book? Even if you don’t have a date you should mingle and laugh and celebrate the occasion. Besides, it’s not even eight o’clock.”
Only my petite partner in the Delaney Detective Agency would throw a Roman god and goddess party as part of her celebration of Saint Valentine’s Day. She’d even hired someone to play the role of Cupid, the Roman god of love. “Who is playing Cupid? Tell me and I’ll stay a little longer.”
“You’re hoping it’s Coleman. That he’s come home from Quantico.”
I didn’t bother denying it. The sheriff of Sunflower County, a man I had unresolved feelings for, was away for the month of February to attain FBI training in profiling. I heartily approved of the training, but I’d give a lot to see him in a diaper. Just the idea sent a flush up my cheeks.
Tinkie grinned knowingly. “I’m not telling you who Cupid is. He’ll be here soon enough. The party just got started. You’re turning into a real killjoy, Sarah Booth. I say that as your best friend.”
She was correct. The long winter days had infected me with the virus of Gloomy Gus. I wouldn’t label myself depressed—just melancholy. Either way, I couldn’t push myself into the party spirit. I’d helped string the garlands of ivy with fake lotus flowers. I’d conspired with Tinkie to plan the menu. I’d admired the three beautiful singers, dressed as sirens, who were doing a damn good job of luring men to their sides. Tinkie had pulled out all the stops for this party, complete with musicians, actors, and a catering staff of at least twenty people.
She’d even managed to get me into a short, slave-style toga. All of my friends were costumed to the nines. Even Oscar, Tinkie’s husband, was resplendent in a gold and purple trimmed long tunic. Like Jupiter, he carried a lightning bolt with great aplomb. He’d somehow applied a fake gray beard that looked real. Or it was possible Tinkie had driven him gray with her party planning.
“It’s a wonderful party. Perfection. We could be in Athens celebrating the gods. It’s not the party, it’s me. I’m blahhed out.” In truth, I had no idea how I’d pass Valentine’s evening at Dahlia House, my home. I couldn’t say why I felt the need to flee the festivities. I only knew my heart was heavy.
“You’re missing Cece too,” Tinkie said. Our journalistic friend, who was frequently the life of the party, had taken a romantic cruise from New Orleans up the Mississippi River with her musical squeeze, Jaytee.
“I do miss her.”
“And you feel like you’re the only person here stag.”
I nodded. Tinkie read me like a book. “I’m just out of sorts.”
“Stay until midnight.” Tinkie was adept at compromise.
“Sure.” I pasted on a smile. My friend and partner in Delaney Detective Agency had put a lot of effort into this event. The least I could do was give myself a chance to have fun. “More punch! Maybe I’ll drown the blues.”
“That’s the spirit.” Tinkie winked. “Be careful, though, I upped the ante with some Everclear. All of my friends need a boost and a bit of relaxation. Allow yourself to enjoy.”
Was I preventing myself from enjoyment in some crazy self-punishment? I didn’t think so, but just in case I picked up a glass of punch and took a big swallow. If I was going to stay for the party, then I was going to be an asset instead of a sad sack.
I took another swig of the punch.
“Bottoms up.”
The voice came from behind me. Millie Roberts, owner of Millie’s Café and the best cook in the Southeast, looked fetching in a royal blue toga with a cluster of grapes at the shoulder. She wore a crown made from scuppernong vines, which she’d laced with grapes and tiny silver bells that chimed lightly whenever she moved. She gave me a big squeeze.
“You look lovely, Sarah Booth. Though a little grim. Is something wrong? Maybe you’re upset because Coleman is at Quantico for that special profiling class.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “And Scott is working. Harold is here, but he brought a date.” I was a little distressed that my male friends were otherwise occupied. I was spoiled with on-demand male attention.
“Harold isn’t dancing attendance, eh?” Millie was astute.
“No. He isn’t.” Harold, who worked at the Bank of Zinnia as Oscar’s right hand man, was also one of the best catches in the Mississippi Delta. “And I don’t want him to. I can’t help it. I’m not ready so Harold should date anyone he wants.”
Millie put her arm around me. “Take your time. Love isn’t something you can make yourself participate in. You have to seek it, Sarah Booth, but only when you’re ready. To quote one of my very favorite tabloid people, ‘You can’t hurry love.’” She nudged me lightly. “But there are dozens of good looking men here. You might not be in love, but what about a fling?”
I followed Millie’s gaze and had to agree. Tinkie had invited the entire Delta. Beautiful women and handsome men danced, chatted, drank, and generally did the fun things required to make a good party. Roman soldiers, senators, and gods danced with nymphs, goddesses, and harpies. It was a helluva party and everyone was having a great time, except for me.
“Look at that hunk in the scarlet toga,” Millie said.
“Great legs. Who is it?”
“Ronald O’Gorman from Greenwood. He’s a doctor. And that beautiful woman beside him is his wife, Susie. They’re real party animals. Hey, there’s Harold.”
As we watched, Harold handed his date, Prentiss Luce, a drink of the potent punch. She was a beautiful woman with honey-colored hair that cascaded halfway down her back in a series of intricate braids. I suffered a moment of real hair jealousy because my hair was so short. The bodice of her outfit was a metallic corselet, and the skirt was short pleats bound by a leather girdle. Very sexy.
“Prentiss looks terrific.” Millie wasn’t being mean. She just called them like she saw them.
“She does, sort of a female gladiator, right? I haven’t seen her in forever.”
“She’s not as pretty as you are.” Millie gave me a squeeze before she released me. “For those of us who are
single, Valentine’s Day can be difficult.” She leaned into my wig of beautifully braided tresses—a necessity since I’d accidentally burned most of my hair off while working a case— and whispered, “Who is that handsome man talking with Harold?”
I examined the helmeted centurion but couldn’t begin to guess who he might be. He wore the costume well, though. Good posture, nice legs, tantalizingly displayed by his short, pleated skirt. “I don’t recognize him. Tinkie said she was bringing in some ringers. Professional party people to keep the action rolling. It’s all part of her fun. Do you know who she hired to play Cupid?”
“I tried to weasel it out of her, without any luck.” Millie rolled her eyes. “Tinkie cannot be managed. All I know is that Cupid is so handsome Tinkie said he would make our wombs do the Macarena.”
“Tinkie said Macarena?” That was shocking.
Millie gave me a look. Before she could respond, gasps erupted from a group of gods and slaves. A light scream was followed by a loud burst of laughter. Millie and I went to investigate. When we pushed through the crowd, we discovered that Cupid, in all his splendor, stood before us, bow and arrow in hand.
He was no Coleman.
Cupid was a short, hairy little man with a beer gut. I instantly checked to see if he might have hooves, because he looked far more like Pan than Cupid.
“Clear the way! Clear the way!” he yelled as he tried to move the wall of humans surrounding him. “I’m on official business of love. Let me through.”
His demand was met with laughter.
“All right, asshats, let me pass.”
The crowd parted, and Cupid made a beeline for me. I had no idea what Tinkie had put him up to, but I backed away, fearing he might butt me like a goat. His piercing gaze by- passed me. He zeroed in on Millie.
“You’re a hot babe and you need some action. This arrow of love is meant for you.” He pulled back his bow and shot an arrow straight at her heart. I tried to push her aside, but my reactions were too slow. Time seemed to stop. The arrow slow-moed it’s way across the space and struck its target. Millie cried out and fell back into the arms of the very centurion she’d been admiring. She looked up at him, and I swear, little hearts with wings flew between them.
The Roman soldier grasped the arrow and removed it—revealing the rubber suction tip. It was a toy—I’d played with those arrows as a child. Millie was unharmed, except her heart had been rendered asunder. I could tell by the way she looked up at the soldier.
He assisted her to her feet, then removed his helmet. He was a handsome man with chestnut hair flecked with gray. “Claude Wilmon, at your service.” He nodded his head in a formal little bow.
“Millie Roberts,” she said. “Thank you for catching me.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He pulled her into an embrace. “I’ve been searching all my life for a woman like you, you goddess of fantasy and desire.”
“Kiss me, my fool.” Millie consumed tabloid news and adored old movies. She had the Theda Bara man-stealing line accurate to the pronoun.
Claude needed no urging. He laid one on her with a searing passion that left my panties smoking. And left me wondering if this had somehow been staged. Tinkie was capable of a little drama, but Millie was never duplicitous.
“Shoot me! Shoot me!” Women began calling out to the furry little cupid.
“For god’s sake, shoot my wife. She lost her sizzle years ago!” Tildon Switzer pushed Bette forward. But not even Tildon’s ignoble behavior could distract me from Claude and Millie. The clench went on and on and on. Was he pulling a Hannibal and eating her face? Should I intervene?
At last I tore my gaze from the dance of amore going on between the smoochers. Cupid had shot my friend in the heart with a rubber suction-tipped arrow and...what? Made her fall in love with a Roman centurion named Claude who might be an ax murderer for all I knew? Such a thing was preposterous. Where was that hairy little bugger?
He’d vanished from the vicinity, but the proof of his existence was clutched in Claude’s hand. The little red arrow.
“What the hell just happened here?” Harold asked. He looked as worried as I felt.
Of all of my friends, Millie was the most practical. Though she wasn’t much older than the rest of us, she had assumed the maternal role, mother-henning us with food and common sense advice. Now she’d kicked over those traces. “I wish I knew.”
“Who the hell is that Cupid? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more unattractive man in a diaper. Did you see his legs and chest? He has fur!”
“I saw.” Not even Clorox could cleanse that image from my brain. “Where is he?” Harold asked.
“He couldn’t have vanished.” Only Jitty, the Civil War ghost who haunted Dahlia House and bossed me around, had the power to truly vanish. Cupid wasn’t a ghost. He was a flesh and blood—and hair—a human male.
Harold adjusted the crimson stola he wore over a white tunic and we set off in search of the little god of love. “Prentiss is around here somewhere. I hope that little cupid hasn’t abducted her.”
“There she is,” I said, pointing to the crowd around the punch bowl. “She’s fine.”
“I’ll ask Tinkie who the little arrow-shooter is,” Harold offered. “She told me she’d hired some Adonis to play the part. Either Tinkie’s vision is going or she doesn’t know her mythology.”
“Here she comes.” I nodded toward the house where Tinkie steamed toward us like a runaway locomotive.
She was almost hyperventilating. “Where is that varmint wearing a diaper and shooting my guests with arrows? Have you seen Millie and Claude? They are in heat. I’m going to have to rent them a room.”
“Who did you hire to play Cupid?” Harold asked. “Did you find him in the catalogue for demented archery beasts?”
Tinkie whipped around and shook a finger at Harold. “I did not hire that person to be my Cupid. I hired Gregory Lent, a very handsome young man. Where that little satyr came from, I have no idea. He is ruining my party. Everyone is buzzing about him, and Millie has regressed to a sixteen-year-old hormonal girl. When I get my hands on him he’ll regret crashing this party.”
Although Cupid was minus the horns and hoofs, he did bear a strange resemblance to a lustful satyr. “Where is Gregory Lent?” It seemed obvious to me that the person who could clear all of this up was the cupid Tinkie had hired. It didn’t take a Stephen Hawking to calculate that Gregory had to know something about the guy who’d assumed his role. It wasn’t as if an arrow-shooting, diaper-clad man roamed the fields around Hilltop, Tinkie’s home, waiting for a party to crash.
“I don’t know where Gregory is,” Tinkie said, and a sliver of worry flashed across her face. “He didn’t show up early, like he was supposed to do. He isn’t answering his phone. It just rings and rings. The last time I talked to him he was forty minutes early and he said he was pulling into my driveway.”
“Harold and I’ll look for him. Go take care of your guests.”
“What about Prentiss?” Tinkie asked with a glint of mischief. “She’ll be hunting for you, Harold. After all, she’s your date, not Sarah Booth.”
In all things, Harold was a gentleman. “Excuse me, Sarah Booth. I’ll meet you at the front steps. Tinkie is absolutely correct. Let me explain to Prentiss.”
When he was gone, Tinkie shook her head. “Prentiss is a nice girl. Loaded, and she earned it on her own. Her paintings are beginning to sell. She just opened a gallery in New Orleans. Harold could go a long way and do a lot worse.”
“I didn’t urge him to search with me.” I sounded defensive.
“No, you didn’t.” Tinkie touched my face. “Be careful. Of yourself and others.”
“Give me your cell phone,” I said. “I’ll keep trying to call Gregory.”
She handed it over. “Tell him if he sent that little man to do his job, he’s going to be in big trouble with me.” “Try to get the short cupid’s name. That’ll put us a step ahead in figuring this out.”
Flashlight in hand, Harold joined me on the front porch and we set out to check the shrubbery. Cupid had to be hiding nearby, unless he could fly. He was a short little devil and could easily duck under and crawl around the heritage camellias that Tinkie nurtured. The flowers bloomed in delicious reds, pinks, variegated, and the pale pink carnation camellias. They were the perfect flower for this February holiday.
“Cupid!” Harold called. “Suey, suey, Cupid!”
“Stop it,” I said sternly but I couldn’t hold back the giggle. “He’s a satyr, not a pig.”
“How does one call a satyr? I fear my farm experience runs to cows and pigs.”
“Cupid!” I called. “Where are you?”
Harold charged into a thick bank of camellias that towered over his head. Tinkie’s yard sloped gently, and the landscaper years ago had created thickets of the evergreen shrubs that produced showy flowers during the cold winter months.
Because I was wearing a short toga and knew too well the clutching limbs of a camellia cluster, I chose to stand in the driveway and dial Gregory Lent on Tinkie’s phone. Harold could chase the satyr--I’d pursue the man responsible for sending the satyr.
I hit the redial button on Tinkie’s phone. Somewhere in the camellia thicket, a phone rang with the song “Ride.” Somebody had the heart of a stripper.
“Harold, is that your phone?” I yelled into the camellias.
The phone stopped ringing, and the phone in my hand went to voicemail. “Hey, Baby, this is Gregory. Tell me what you need and I’ll bring it to you,” was the message. From deep within the shrugs Harold spoke. “Sarah Booth, I was almost on top of the phone when it stopped. It’s hard as hell to see anything in these bushes.”
Bones and Arrows: A Sarah Booth Delaney Short Mystery Page 1
