Bone to Be Wild

by Carolyn Haines

  “We’ll start our investigation with those three.” As I picked up dishes and put them in the sink, I filled Tinkie in on the truck lurking outside Dahlia House. “Nothing happened, but we have to be careful,” I reminded both of them.

  “Get dressed,” Tinkie said. “I’ll make some calls and set up some appointments for us. We’ll knock a few suspects off this list. Let’s start with Frisco. He’ll be the easiest to pin down.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to my world,” the tall cowboy sang admittance to his office at Frisco’s Fine Autos. “You two ladies come on in,” he said with a smile.

  Frisco Evans looked like he’d stepped right out of the Wild West. He wore a snap-button shirt and jeans with a big bronc-riding silver belt buckle. His dark hair was shot with gray and he wore it long but neatly trimmed. A cowboy hat, battered and worn, graced his desktop.

  The tidy office of the high-end classic car dealership told me a lot about the man we’d come to question. Frisco Evans spent his youth on the rodeo circuit and had the belt buckles to prove it hanging on the wall. He’d been a champion more than a dozen times. A gun cabinet on the far wall displayed two nice shotguns, several expensive rifles, and four handguns. Hunting and shooting trophies lined two shelves.

  Frisco played to win at bulls and guns. And now he rode fast cars instead of bulls. Porsches were his specialty. He was a man’s man.

  Tinkie gave him a high-wattage smile and he sang another line of Jim Reeves’s classic song. Frisco Evans had a thing for classic.

  “Well, who do you purport to be, Gene Autry?” Tinkie asked. She hit her stride in daddy’s girl mode before she even cleared the doorway. “Honey, you can lasso me any day. You’ve got an impressive baritone.”

  “Down, tiger!” I grabbed the back of her flannel shirt. Frisco Evans, the cowboy in question, was eyeing her like a bear views a honeycomb.

  “Turn the little lady loose,” Frisco said in a downhome drawl. “I won’t bite her, unless she bites me first.”

  Tinkie had slayed another dragon, and I feared this one might fall right on top of her. “Mr. Evans, I’m Sarah Booth Delaney and this is my partner, Mrs. Oscar Richmond.”

  The jocularity fled his face. “You’re married to the banker?”

  “I am,” Tinkie said, “but that’s no reason we can’t be friends.”

  “Get out.” He pointed to the door. “Your husband’s bank screwed me out of my future, so you two can take yourselves right out the door and straight to hell.”

  “Mr. Evans!” Tinkie was all feminine outrage. “I can’t believe you blame me for my husband’s bank decisions. I have nothing to do with how Oscar runs his business.” She pulled her bottom lip in with her teeth and then let it pop out. Frisco Evans was a goner.

  “Now, now, Mrs. Bellcase. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Frisco was flustered, exactly where my partner wanted him.

  “Call me Tinkie, please,” she said on a deep sigh. “Oscar is my husband, but I don’t always agree with what he does. You shouldn’t blame me for something I can’t help.”

  “True enough. True enough,” Frisco said. He was a man’s man who had one weakness—a helpless woman. Tinkie had homed in on that the minute she saw him, and now he was wet clay for her to mold. I could only sit back and admire my partner’s technique.

  “Mr. Evans—”

  “Frisco,” he said. His attitude had changed even toward me.

  “Frisco,” I began again, “Those are some nice weapons. Looks like you’re something of a skeet shooter.”

  “I enjoy competitive shooting.” He grinned. “Boys and their toys.”

  “The bartender at Playin’ the Bones was shot and killed last night.”

  He bristled like a porcupine facing a cougar. “And what is it you think I know about it?”

  Tinkie put a hand on his forearm. “Please don’t be so mean. We just need to talk.”

  He backed down immediately and patted her shoulder. “Okay. Let’s palaver.” He waved us into chairs and went behind his desk and sat down. “I heard the bartender was shot. I can’t say I wasn’t rooting for the opening to be a disaster, but I never wanted anyone hurt.”

  “We have a few questions, because of your interest in the bar.” I was not the smooth operator Tinkie was. I got straight to business. “Where were you last night?”

  Belligerence crossed his face. “I don’t need an alibi, but I will tell you I was out with a lady friend.”

  I pulled out my pad and pen. “We’ll have to verify that.” When he started to bristle, I said, “It’s us or the sheriff. I’m sure he’ll be happy to take you down to the courthouse.”

  “I have nothing to hide. I was with Angela Bowers, if you must know. She had planned on teaching line dancing in my country bar until that Yankee musician bought the club out from under me. Seeing as how I don’t have a bar, Angela and I decided to have dinner. We were at the Gardens for drinks and dinner.”

  Talk about a major sidetrack. The Gardens B&B was owned by none other than Gertrude Strom. “You were at The Gardens? Did you see Gertrude?”

  “We were there late. I almost choked when she walked in, just like she’d never been gone a day. Greeted all the customers then went behind the bar and mixed herself some kinda concoction that looked like it would kick like a mule.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Tinkie asked. “We’re interested in her whereabouts, too.”

  “She spoke to everyone, sashaying around like the Queen of Sheba.”

  My hand started trembling and I put my pen down.

  “Did she say anything?” Tinkie asked. She was as shaken up as I was, but she was better at concealing it.

  “Made sort of a general speech to everyone. Said she was back and planned to stay in Zinnia for a good long while.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  Frisco thought. “Like I said, we were dining late. She came in when I ordered and left when the waiter brought dessert, so about eleven o’clock. Angela and I went to Greenwood to Loco Boots bar and danced the night away.”

  It would be easy to check Frisco’s and Angela’s alibi at The Gardens, but after leaving there, the two would have had plenty of time and opportunity to drive by Playin’ the Bones, which was on the way to Loco Boots. “Can you give us the names of anyone at the bar to verify your alibi?”

  “I was dancing with Angela, not everyone at the bar. Ask around. Surely someone saw us.”

  “We’ll be sure to do that. Thanks for your help,” Tinkie said, rising. “Where can we find Angela?”

  “Probably at the dance studio.”

  We took our leave but Tinkie caught my wrist in the parking lot. “Sarah Booth, I know this Gertrude thing is intolerable. She almost killed Graf, and she’s out prancing around like nothing happened.” Tinkie opened the passenger door for me. “Gertrude has a lot to answer for.”

  “I can’t believe she’s really out.” I sounded like a broken record.

  “Not for long.” Tinkie stepped on the gas and squealed out of the parking lot. “Not for long. I promise you.”

  6

  The dance studio had undergone a vast change of direction since the former prima ballerina and instructor known to every young Sunflower County girl as Madame had sold out to Angela. The emphasis was on social dance now, not ballet, jazz, or modern.

  As Tinkie and I approached the Dance Salon, toe-tapping country music filtered into the street. We pushed open the door to find children of all ages engrossed in learning the Watermelon Slide. At the front of the room, wearing a wireless mic and calling out the dance steps, Angela Bowers did her best in boots and jeans to outshine Beyoncé. It didn’t matter that her moves were blurred, her rhythm just a little off—the kids loved her, and she enjoyed them. This dance studio was about fun, not form.

  Frisco had provided Angela an alibi for the past evening, and judging by her personality, I didn’t see the first indication that she could harm anyone. But, I’d learned the hard way never to j
udge a book by its cover.

  When the song was over, she waved the youngsters into the hallway for a drink of water. “What can I do for you ladies?” she asked, sizing us up. “You,” she pointed at me, “might go for line dancing. The other,” she indicated Tinkie, “I can’t say. Tap maybe? No! It’s ballroom. I’ll bet you’d sizzle in the fox-trot.”

  “Ginger Rogers was always my idol,” Tinkie said.

  “I have two wonderful male instructors. Mr. Gable and Mr. Aucoin. I could sign you up for private lessons this evening.”

  “We’re here on business,” I cut in.

  Angela frowned. She was a slender girl with beautiful legs and glossy chestnut hair. “What kind of business?”

  “Koby Shavers, the bartender at Playin’ the Bones, was killed last night.”

  She put a hand over her mouth, and for a split second, shock filled her gray eyes. It was quickly replaced with guilt and then suspicion. “I hadn’t heard. So why are you talking to me about it? I only met the guy once, at the drugstore. I never went out with him.”

  “It’s come to our attention you made some statements about the blues club.” I put it on the line. Tinkie’s source, the beautician at Glitz and Glamour, said Angela was in the shop mouthing off.

  “Sure, I have an opinion about that club. I said we didn’t need another place for men to go and get drunk and screw around on their wives and girlfriends.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Why not a dinner club with great music and dancing that requires two people to work together?”

  “Is that what you said?” I grilled her. “Because I heard you made some threats against the club. That maybe someone should burn it down.”

  She paled and then straightened her shoulders. “Yeah, I said it. So what? It’s a free country. I can say what I like.”

  “Not so free if you acted on your threat.” Tinkie nodded to the hallway where the whole herd of children watched, eyes wide.

  She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m sorry someone was hurt. I really am. I talked to Koby one time, while I was waiting for a prescription. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I considered saying yes to his offer for dinner, but I had started seeing someone else.” She twisted a strand of her shiny hair. “I don’t really object to a juke joint, but I’d prefer a place where my students could demonstrate their dance moves, and I think Frisco Evans was cheated out of the club.”

  “Do you know anyone who might take action against the club or the band?”

  “There are still some folks around here who think the blues is Satan’s music. I don’t hold with such thinking, but I’ve heard talk. Not about this Playin’ the Bones specifically, but in general. People think it’s sex music or black music or music inspired by the devil. Ridiculous.”

  “Any names you’d like to offer?” I asked.

  “Put your ear to the ground. You’ll hear the gossip.”

  “My advice to you,” Tinkie said, “is not to make any more threats.”

  I followed with a question—a tactic that kept our quarry off balance. “After your dinner at The Gardens, where did you and Frisco go?”

  “We … uh … we went for a walk around the grounds at the B&B. Such lovely gardens.”

  “How long were you walking?” I asked.

  “It was such a beautiful night, we walked for a while.”

  They were grown-ups with houses and beds—because I had no doubt that walking was just a euphemism for something else. Why have sex on the freezing ground at a B&B where someone could stumble over them? “And after your walk?”

  “We stopped at a country bar for a drink.”

  “What time would that be?” Tinkie asked.

  “We made a late night of it. Around two.”

  First, Frisco had lied to us, omitting the time he’d spent canoodling with Angela in the foliage of The Gardens. Second, there was plenty of time between the Gardens and the country bar for them to have killed Koby—and while they were walking, they had no alibi.

  “This doesn’t look good for the two of you,” Tinkie said, applying more pressure.

  “I don’t have to talk to you. You don’t have any authority to ask me questions.” Her mouth tightened into a thin, stubborn line.

  “We can either be your best friend or your worst enemy,” Tinkie said softly. “Go with friend. We can help you if you’re telling the truth.”

  Angela leaned closer. “We made love. Okay? Frisco likes to see the stars. He’s a cowboy at heart. And if you want to know who was talking against the blues club, it was Bijou LaRoche. She said the club would only bring in riffraff and that a ballroom dance and dinner place would have been much better for her business.”

  “Thanks.” I had what I’d come for. Frisco and Angela weren’t off the suspect list, but Angela had given us a more promising lead. “We’ll be on our way.”

  Angela waved the children back into formation. “And I have to get back to work.” She took her position in front of the group. “Now let’s try the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. Who remembers the steps?”

  Tinkie and I headed for the door. When we were outside, Tinkie asked, “Do you want to talk to Reverend Farley or let it go?”

  “Let’s get it over with.” I knew Reverend Farley by reputation. He didn’t believe in dancing, the blues, drinking alcohol, women holding public office or even a job, blacks and whites living peacefully together, gay marriage, or that anyone except for the twenty people in his congregation would ascend into Heaven. He wasn’t affiliated with any of the major Protestant churches, but had declared himself free and independent. His church was the Foundation Rock, the theology picked and culled from the parts of the Bible that suited him. I looked forward to wrangling with him about as much as a toothache.

  There are pockets of primitive belief Christian churches all over the world. Most deal with living a life based on a strict interpretation of the Bible, but some, like Foundation Rock and Reverend Farley, had moved from Sunday services to taking action against those they labeled sinners. Picketing, protesting, and other legal forms of expressing an opinion were too soft for Farley.

  Congregation members had been caught throwing rocks through store windows of people who were “ungodly,” and a few had gone so far as to deface tombstones in Zinnia’s main cemetery. They’d burned effigies of politicians and movie stars they disagreed with. Such events were sporadic and committed mostly by underage members of the group.

  While I respected civil disobedience, there was an edge of danger to the Foundation Rock group. Coleman kept an eye on them, and for the most part they remained cloistered on their compound. As far as I knew, they’d never crossed the line from property damage to harming a person.

  If I understood the things Foundation Rock opposed, Scott would be high on Farley’s list of top ten sinners. Playin’ the Bones violated any number of Farley’s strict mores. Because blues music delved into the pain of lost love, the primal pull of sexual desires, hard times, and loss some people called it the devil’s music. Reverend Farley had been outspoken on the subject, insisting the blues ignited the sex drive and the desire to do bad.

  I didn’t doubt Farley was a kook, but was he off-center enough to shoot a man in cold blood? I intended to find out.

  The church was north of town down a long dirt road that would be treacherous during a good rain. I hadn’t expected such a depressing situation, but that was exactly what we found. The tin church, an ugly rusted hull with window slits that made it look more like a fortress than a place of worship, was surrounded by small motor homes and even a few tents where the members of the congregation lived.

  A couple of Porta-Potties were set up by the edge of the woods beside four abandoned vehicles. Several cook fires burned unattended. The place looked depressingly abandoned.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Tinkie said the minute she saw the terrain.

  “Too late.”

  A man wearing a black suit, starched white shirt, and black hat and carrying a book came toward t
he car. There was no other sign of a human being. If the RVs and tents were occupied, the inhabitants stayed inside. I thought of a prison yard, empty of inmates, everyone locked away in cells.

  “This is private property,” the man, who I took to be Jebediah Farley, said as he neared Tinkie’s rolled-down window.

  “Are you Reverend Farley?” I asked.

  “I am and this is my property.” He reminded me of a lightning rod, eager for a bolt from the heavens to prove his worthiness.

  “I thought this was a church,” Tinkie responded.

  “You don’t look like a believer to me,” he said pointedly staring at our jeans. “God doesn’t hold with women wearing pants.”

  “Can you show me where the Bible says women can’t wear pants?” Tinkie asked.

  Heat jumped in his neck and cheeks. Jebediah Farley had a bad temper, but today he managed to keep it in check. “Please leave before I call the sheriff.”

  “Please do,” Tinkie said. She was tiny but she was tough. She opened the car door with enough force that she would have hurt him had it struck him. She stepped out and stretched. “Actually we’re here at the sheriff’s behest.”

  “You are indecent! Showing off your woman parts in those tight britches. Now get in your car and leave!”

  Farley’s raised voice drew another man out the door of the church. He was tall, lean, and rugged. His arms bulged with muscles, and his black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. He didn’t approach, but he focused on us in a way that was threatening.

  “Where were you last night?” Tinkie pressed.

  I got out on the passenger side of the car, ready for action. I’d picked up a flashlight, intending to use it as a club if Farley or his minion tried to lay a finger on Tinkie. She was provoking him, which I wished she’d stop doing, but he wasn’t going to hurt her as long as I was there to protect her.

  “We’re in the middle of the fall revival,” Farley said. “I was preaching a sermon. I don’t owe you an explanation, woman, but I’m giving you one so you’ll take your sinful attire away from this temple of the Lord.”