Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  I exited out of the computer. Poking around in the pageant was fun, but it wasn’t a paying case, nor was anyone in trouble. Tomorrow, if I was still curious, I’d continue with my research.

  5

  I ran into Tinkie in the lobby and helped haul the load of books she’d purchased on the history of cooking back to our hotel room. At last, massage time. As the strong hands of the masseuse worked out the kinks in my back muscles, I drifted between reality and dream.

  I was in the kitchen at Dahlia House, and a slender woman wearing a long dress stood near the kitchen counter whipping a bowl of something with a wooden spoon. When she turned around, I saw it was Jitty. Instead of her usual coif, her hair was bound in a calico cloth, but the smile was unmistakable. Behind Jitty, the oven had disappeared and in its stead was a wood-burning stove.

  “Nothin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven,” she sang.

  “You’re out of era,” I told her. “That’s a slogan song from the 1960s for Pillsbury.”

  She shrugged. “How can you expect me to keep all that minutia straight? And who cares?” She put down the bowl of yellow batter, and I slipped a finger into it for a taste. She tried to whack my hand with the wooden spoon, but I was faster. “What’s cooking?” My cleverness knew no bounds.

  “Coker loves pound cake, and since you’ve set me loose in the land of dreamy dreams, I thought I’d take the opportunity to make him one.”

  Coker was Jitty’s husband, who’d died in the War Between the States with Great-Great-Grandmother Alice’s husband. But one thing I’d learned from Jitty: The rules of the Great Beyond were even more confusing in a dream state. “You’re both dead. Can’t you see him whenever you’d like?”

  She turned away and looked out the window. “It’s complicated.”

  I could see it wasn’t a happy subject, so I let it drop. “I’m healing,” I told Jitty.

  “I can see that.” She rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them on a cloth.

  “So this is what the kitchen looked like when Great-Great-Grandma Alice was alive.” The room had been modernized at least twice. Electricity had been added, running water, stainless-steel sinks. But even without modern conveniences, the room had a big, airy charm.

  “It was Alice’s favorite room.” Jitty opened a cabinet to reveal neatly lined jars, each labeled corn or tomatoes or pickles. “We put up our own food.”

  Imagining the work that had gone into simple food preparation made me tired. That generation of women worked.

  “Why are you visiting me?” I asked.

  “If I have to put a reason to it, your brain won’t get any exercise at all.”

  “Great, a cryptic ghost. Just this once, can’t you just tell me?” Soon, the dream would fade and she would vanish. If I didn’t get an answer now, I likely never would.

  “The key to being a great cook is to know what you wish to prepare,” she said. “Like any other endeavor, cookin’ requires clarity.”

  “Gee, thanks.” But she was already fading and I was back under the pummeling hands of the masseuse and the annoying ring of my cell phone. Without a word the masseuse handed me a towel and stepped from the room while I took the phone call from Cece.

  “I’ve had the most brilliant idea, dahling,” Cece drawled.

  “What?” I was excited just by her tone.

  “I’m bringing Madame Tomeeka with me tonight. She’s going to predict the winner of the pageant! I included a notice of her pending forecast in this morning’s paper.”

  “Brilliance!” Cece was a genius. That would boost readership of the paper by at least 20 percent. “Have you told Tinkie?” I asked.

  “You tell her, dahling. We’ll be there at seven for the talent competition.”

  Cece’s press credentials garnered us front-row seats. I noticed reluctance on the part of Madame Tomeeka, Zinnia’s resident psychic and my school chum, whom I knew as Tammy Odom. Tammy had a true gift, and more than once she’d shared her prophetic dreams with me, warning me of impending danger. Or heartbreak. Or both. Living with Jitty, I had no reason to doubt that messages from the other side could be sent to us. Tammy was the perfect conduit, but the drawback was she couldn’t force the spirit world to comply with my need for information. Like Jitty, the visions of Madame Tomeeka came at their own whim.

  I sat between Tinkie and Tammy, and we had a clear view of the judges, seated right in front of us. Sun-kissed and blessed by the gods with good looks, abundant hair, and a body that would inspire a sculptor, Clive whispered with Belinda and Dawn. The female judges were obviously charmed. Harley sat it out alone.

  “I’m sorry for those girls,” Madame Tomeeka said. “Dawn Gonzalez and Belinda Buck are old enough to take care of themselves, but those girls . . . Clive is irresistible, and trying to get his attention is one more way for them to short sell their value. A number of them will give away another little piece of themselves.”

  Tammy spoke from bitter experience. Maybe bringing her to this event was not Cece’s best idea, though it had certainly appealed to me, too. Nothing like handicapping a pageant with help from a psychic.

  “Hush!” Cece ordered. “We have to concentrate.”

  While I’m no advocate of pageants, I had to admit the energy generated onstage as the girls pranced out was exciting. As they performed a musical number from Hello, Dolly! they all managed to act like this was the best moment of their lives. Whatever the truth, the girls appeared to be having fun and reveling in their shared moment. Such is the illusion good theater is able to create. I had no doubt that behind the black velvet curtain, ruthlessness ruled.

  They finished the number and rushed backstage for a costume change. Mrs. Phelps took the microphone and enumerated the rules of the talent segment. Any talent or combination was acceptable as long as it was suited for a general audience. The girls had been allowed to bring their coaches, makeup artists, and backup musical accompaniment, whether recorded or live.

  Finally, the first competitor was called. Regina Jones, first in the lineup, was an accomplished pianist. But as soon as Karrie Kompton walked onto the stage, I forgot the first contestant. Karrie had presence, and when the music started and she gave a bump-and-grind medley of Broadway numbers, I was wowed.

  She had no real competition until Brook Oniado came out dressed in a grass skirt to the beat of Hawaiian drums. Before she started her number, ten waiters clad in bright island shirts rushed through the auditorium distributing grilled chicken and fruit kebabs and trays of pineapple daiquiris.

  “I made the appetizers myself,” Brook said, “honoring my father’s island heritage. My act is a tribute to him and my people.”

  She carried three fire batons—and she hulaed, twirled, and juggled simultaneously. Though she was slender, the vigorous motion of her hips could churn butter. Her act brought down the house, and I watched the judges nod and beam, marking on their pads. Brook had propelled herself into a top slot. The refreshments were not only delicious but a stroke of brilliance for someone who wanted to represent a company that specialized in cooking.

  The audience finally settled down, and Hedy walked out with a stool and a violin. She sat without fanfare or introduction and began to play. The haunting music swelled over the audience. I saw Tammy wipe a tear from her eye. Hedy demonstrated a talent worthy of a concert tour. She drew a standing ovation at the conclusion. She was definitely in the running.

  To my surprise, Amanda Payne belted out a Dolly Parton song that had the audience on its feet stomping and whistling. Who would have thought such a big voice would come from such a tiny and timid young woman. Whatever self-confidence issues Amanda had, once she hit the stage, they evaporated and she was 100 percent dazzle.

  Babs Lafitte, wearing a wig, had recovered enough to participate, and the audience welcomed her with thunderous applause. Everyone in town knew what had happened, and her “the show must go on” attitude made her a favorite. Not to mention that she could play the piano with real ta
lent. Her medley of raucous blues tunes had the audience whistling and begging for more.

  The last of the girls I’d placed in my top five, Janet Menton, did a dramatic monologue from a play I adored, called ’night, Mother. I couldn’t fault her performance, which was Broadway worthy. The level of talent made me feel sorry for the judges. How would they possibly pick?

  Cece made copious notes, and Tinkie rushed up and down the stage taking photographs. As the competition drew to a close, all of the girls came out on stage in a lineup that made me realize that each one deserved to win.

  “What did you think?” I asked Tammy. I meant it as casual conversation.

  “I think there’s bad energy in the group. I smell tragedy in the air. Someone is about to get hurt.”

  While Tammy had the gift of second sight, she wasn’t in the habit of predicting doom and gloom, at least not for people other than me. Her words stopped me short. “What did you see?”

  Tammy stood up. She moved slowly, her attention focused on the stage.

  “Tammy?” I tried to grab her hand, but she shook free. “Everyone! Get out!”

  For a moment no one paid her any attention. The judges slowly turned to frown at her.

  “Hush up,” Harley Pitts hissed.

  Tammy ignored him. She eased past my knees and stepped into the aisle. “Get those girls off the stage!”

  I scrabbled out after her. “Hey,” I said, grabbing her elbow. “What is it?”

  “We have to get out.” She started toward the exit, visibly upset. Halfway down the aisle she paused, obviously torn between leaving the auditorium and breaking up the last of the pageant. “Get off that stage!” She tried one more time.

  Two big men with scowls headed our way.

  “Tammy, what is it?” I asked.

  “I have to get out of here. Stay away from those girls, Sarah Booth. You and Tinkie both.” She pointed up at the stage. All of the contestants—except Brook Oniada—were staring at Madame Tomeeka as if she’d cursed in church.

  Something else was going on with Brook. She faltered, slowly spinning in a circle as if she’d lost her vision. She staggered, almost dropping to her knees, but she caught herself. The fire batons sputtered as her arms jerked. There was nothing I could do to help Brook. I had my hands full with Tammy.

  “Sit back down,” I whispered harshly to her.

  “Get me outside. Stay away from them.” Tammy was terrified, and her fingers dug into my arm.

  “Other than Tinkie taking photographs, we don’t have anything to do with them.” I stepped in front of her and the approaching bouncers, effectively blocking the bum’s rush she was about to get. “What did you see?”

  “I saw flames—”

  Screams erupted from the stage. Brook Oniada was on fire. The flame from her batons had ignited her clothes and hair, and she was a human torch. Instead of screaming and running, though, she stood perfectly still. She raised one hand and pointed at Hedy. “Help me.”

  Pageant contestants fled the stage, pushing, shoving, and stumbling over one another. Only Hedy remained. She held her violin in one hand and the bow in the other, and she didn’t move, mesmerized by the sight of her burning competitor.

  At last she dropped the bow and reached out her hand. So help me, it was like a moment from a nightmare. Hedy said something, but in the pandemonium I couldn’t hear.

  Clive Gladstone leaped onto the stage and wrapped his coat around Brook, effectively smothering the flames that had danced along her arms and head. Several men joined him, doing their best to help Brook and drag Hedy off the stage. The audience beat a hasty retreat. Cece and Tinkie were all over it, a journalistic double-team.

  Paramedics and police officers arrived and loaded Brook onto a stretcher. They whisked her away, leaving Mrs. Phelps to urge what remained of the audience to leave the auditorium in an orderly manner. Tammy and I filed out with the noisy crowd that hummed with whispers and sobs. Tammy was shaken, but no more than I.

  We arrived at the Cadillac, and Tammy leaned against it.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” I said softly. “You saw the flames before it happened.”

  She didn’t face me, but stared into the dark night. “I saw someone burning. And I heard screaming. I didn’t know who it was, but I knew it involved those girls.” Her breath was ragged as she inhaled. “If I were you, I’d find me another hotel to stay in. There’s someone truly evil around those girls, someone who will stop at nothing to attain the goal.”

  I mulled over the warning as Tinkie and Cece approached. They both looked shell-shocked, and I felt a rush of anger that we hadn’t been able to escape suffering and cruelty for even a week at a damn cooking school. Private investigators are often forced to confront hard things. And Cece, even though she was technically the society editor, was always in the thick of the news. But enough was enough. I’d come to Greenwood to heal, not watch a lovely young girl become a human torch. And Tammy had made it clear she thought the incident was no accident.

  “Are you okay?” Tinkie asked us. She was ashen.

  “What happened?”

  “No one knows for certain. The speculation is that the flames from the fire baton jumped and caught in her hair.” Cece tucked her notebook into her purse. “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.”

  “What are the police doing?” Tammy asked. “This didn’t just happen. Someone made that girl burn.”

  Cece, Tinkie, and I exchanged looks at Tammy’s tone. “His name is Franz Jansen, and he’s investigating,” Cece said. “Let’s hope this was just an awful accident.”

  Tammy snorted and opened the car door and sat down.

  “Tammy, this may be bad form, coming on the heels of that . . . event. But I promoed your pageant prediction in tomorrow’s paper. It’s too late to pull the story. Would you hazard a guess who’s going to win?” Cece asked.

  “I can’t be certain.” Tammy swung her legs into the car so she faced straight ahead.

  “Not even a guess?” Cece obviously didn’t relish pressing her friend, but she had readers who hung on her society column. She’d promised them something, and she had to deliver.

  “It won’t be the hula dancer,” Tammy said. “Would you mind taking me home? I’ve got a splitting headache.” She closed the door, shutting us out.

  “She saw something bad,” I told Cece and Tinkie. “She saw the fire and was about to tell me her vision when Brook ignited. She’s upset, and she thinks someone evil is behind all of this.”

  “And she may well be right,” Cece said. “Would you take us to my car at the hotel lot? I need to get Tammy home. Tinkie, e-mail me your photos, if you don’t mind.”

  __________

  As we washed the makeup off our faces and prepared for bed, Tinkie was unnaturally quiet. Cece telephoned and told us Brook died en route to the hospital. Police Chief Jansen wasn’t labeling it a homicide, Cece said, nor was he calling it an accident. In the quiet luxury of the hotel room, Tinkie and I prepared for bed in a state of shock. The horror of Brook Oniada’s death made it impossible to relax.

  “How did such an awful thing happen?” Tinkie plopped on her bed, her posture slumped. “Did you see her? She just stood there—all covered in flames. Like she couldn’t move or didn’t know enough to drop and roll.” She put a hand over her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything so awful.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.” I didn’t believe it for a minute. Tammy had sensed malevolence and doom, and she’d been right.

  “Let’s try to get some sleep.” Tinkie peeled back the covers and slid into the bed.

  “Good idea.” I was reaching up to turn off the bedside light when the hotel phone rang. Tempted to ignore it, I finally grabbed it when Tinkie started to climb out of the covers to answer. She was so short she had to use steps to get in her bed, so it was easier for me. “Hello.”

  “Miss Delaney, this is Hedy Blackledge.” Her voice shook, and I could tell she’d been crying.


  The image of her standing on the stage while Brook burned would stay with me for a long time. “What can I do for you, Hedy?”

  “I need your help.”

  Now this was a strange turn of events.

  “How?”

  “I want to hire you and your partner.”

  “For what?” I asked automatically.

  “To prove I didn’t kill Brook. The police just finished questioning me, and they let me go, but I overheard the police chief say he was going to keep an eye on me. He’s acting like Brook was murdered.”

  “But you haven’t been charged, right?” Hedy didn’t understand that everyone connected to the pageant would be questioned, even if the death was determined to be an accident. Hedy’s strange behavior, the way she’d stood reaching out to a burning woman, had likely put her at the top of the list.

  “Not yet. But I can’t be charged. I can’t have the cops poking into my past.”

  Hedy was the candidate without a Facebook page or an Internet presence. She’d listed no performance credits, not even where she’d learned to play the violin. What was she cloaking? “My advice is to calm down and see what happens. There were hundreds of witnesses who saw Brook set herself on fire. As awful as that is, I don’t think anyone is to blame.”

  “I can’t calm down. I can’t afford to wait. Will you help me or not?”

  “Hold on a minute.” I covered the phone and met Tinkie’s curious gaze. I filled her in on Hedy’s request.

  “Let’s take the case,” she said. “We can write off this whole vacation as a business expense.” She caught a glimpse of my face, though I’d tried to control my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not certain I want to continue as a private investigator.” I sure hadn’t meant to tell her this way. I hadn’t even thought it through myself.

  If I’d slapped her, I couldn’t have stunned her more. She bit her bottom lip. It popped free of her teeth in a way that weakened the most well-armored men. “What are you saying?” she finally asked. “You’re quitting the agency?”