Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  Oh, I knew. Old New Orleans money. Power. Prestige. Sugarcane plantation. Did I say money? Lots of women, and men, put up with connubial hell to be attached to financial security. According to Jitty, I should be so smart. My haint’s priorities were womb first, 401(k) second, but a man who could tend both areas was certainly preferred.

  “What else did she say?”

  “She sang Anna’s praises to the moon, and was forthcoming”—Tinkie was about to pop—“until I said I needed to find a governess and asked how to get in touch with Anna. Then she clammed up.”

  “Why?” Tinkie’s energy was contagious. My partner may have stumbled on to the mother lode of information that would solve this case.

  “It was odd. She was all about praising Anna, then she went cold. Said she had to get off the phone.”

  Tinkie was killing me with anticipation. “But you pressed her.”

  Tinkie rattled the ice in her glass. “I did. I wouldn’t hang up, and she’s too polite to slam the phone down. I kept talking. Finally, I got back to Anna Lock.”

  “And?”

  “She said she thought Anna had gone back to the Northeast, her home.”

  “Surely she knows Anna is working for the Wellingtons. Marcus told Hedy that he’d gotten references from the Bronsills.”

  “He didn’t and she didn’t. She was shocked to find it out. She never gave Marcus a reference for Anna Lock.”

  “Then how did Marcus find out . . .” I saw it clearly: Anna. Anna had manipulated Marcus. “What else did she say?”

  “After Latham went off to school, Anna left the Bronsills’ employ. She moved to the French Quarter and taught piano lessons. Melissa said about nine years ago something happened to Anna. Like a nervous breakdown of some kind. She was in a botanica and went nuts. She was hospitalized for a while, and that’s when she moved back to the Northeast. As far as Melissa knew, Anna had never returned South.”

  “What caused the breakdown?” The hairs on my arms stood in a slight breeze.

  “This is where it gets really good. Anna was interested in the occult. Melissa said Anna had lost someone very dear to her, someone she grieved for. She never said who, but Melissa assumed it was a child, because she was so good with kids, so patient.”

  “This isn’t good.” I had an image of little Vivian in Anna’s arms—and Anna thinking she’d somehow found her own dead child. “Surely Marcus can’t be that stupid. . . .” But he could. He was besotted with Anna’s teaching abilities, her sophistication and education. She’d worked for one of Louisiana’s most prominent families. I doubted he’d checked further than that.

  “We have to figure this out. Was she institutionalized?”

  “I’ve tried to find out, but so far, no results. Medical records are private. There’s no way we can get our hands on Anna’s file. She’s a nonentity on the Internet. Other than Melissa, I can’t find anyone who knows Anna Lock.”

  “Maybe Doc can help us.”

  “Good idea,” Tinkie said. She used her cell phone to call him. When he didn’t answer, she left a message on his voice mail.

  When I checked my messages, I found one from Belinda Buck saying she was riding at Clive Gladstone’s plantation. She didn’t have time to talk to Tinkie and me today.

  The thing Belinda didn’t understand was time was running out.

  Tinkie drove the thirty miles to Clive’s manicured estate. Horses grazed and frolicked in lush pastures bordered by white fences. Even from a distance I recognized the graceful movements of Clive’s Thoroughbreds and the power and strength of what appeared to be warmblood crosses.

  “Clive may make it to the Olympic team in cross-country eventing,” Tinkie informed me. “He’s a fine rider.”

  “And Belinda?”

  “I have no idea what kind of horsewoman she is.”

  “Didn’t she guest once on a Western where she had a great chase scene on horseback?”

  Tinkie pushed my shoulder. “Strut your Hollywood trivia knowledge. I’m just a country girl with no connections to the celluloid world of the gods.”

  Before she could duck, I thumped her head. “Let’s not mention my movie career,” I said. “It seems like another lifetime.”

  The Gladstone house, where Clive lived alone, bore a striking resemblance to the fictional Tara. An older butler answered our knock, and I thought of Jitty’s insistence that I hire a butler when I first got home. Finances dictated otherwise. If I had money to hire personal staff, I needed a fence builder, not someone to answer a door I was perfectly capable of opening.

  “Mr. Clive is out in the barn,” the butler informed us.

  I was eager to see Clive’s barn and horses. Tinkie, who had on stiletto heels, was not so enthused. The barn was a good three hundred yards from the house and we were halfway there when Tinkie stopped, huffing.

  “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll talk to Clive and Belinda.”

  “Just run off and leave me.” She hobbled down the gravel path. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Her heels slipped on the rocks and sank in the lush grass.

  “You could take off your shoes and go barefoot.” The day was hot. “The cool grass would feel lovely.”

  “My foot is a size five, triple A, because I never went barefoot.” She was cranky as a cat in a kennel. “A lady knows gamboling around without shoes makes the feet widen. Going barefoot is why you wear a size nine.”

  We made it past a ring set up with stadium jumps that looked Olympic level. Off in the distance a rider took a horse over a cross-country jump. I couldn’t identify the rider, but I watched in awe as the horse cleared what appeared to be a huge table.

  “If that’s Clive, he sure can ride,” I said.

  “If that’s Clive, he doesn’t have the sense God gave a flea,” Tinkie said. “That’s a quick way to a broken neck. The jump is bigger than the horse.”

  The horse and rider took a water jump with perfect ease.

  “The only way you’d get me to jump a horse would be if Satan was chasing me and Trigger was the only means of escape.” Tinkie had worked up a sweat on her forehead. I stopped in the shade of a mimosa tree to let her catch her breath. Hobbling did not become her.

  “Before you go any farther, let me see if Clive is in the barn, okay?” We were only fifty yards away, but it could be a painful distance for Tinkie.

  “I’ll wait here,” she conceded. “Signal me if he’s in there.”

  I trotted down the gravel path, glad comfort ruled my wardrobe choices. At the barn, I slowed. Horses can be excitable. It’s never good to run or yell around them.

  After the bright sun, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the barn’s darkness. Forty stalls, twenty on each side of the wide aisle, contained a number of snuffling horses. Soft whinnies greeted me, and large bodies shifted as the equine population registered my arrival.

  Far in the distance was the soft murmur of voices.

  I eased forward.

  A man and a woman talked in hushed, secretive tones. It drew me like honey lures a fly. The noises of intimate communication were undeniable. Belinda had come out for a ride, but it wasn’t on a horse. Was she in there with Clive?

  I’m generally not a sneak or voyeur, but Clive and Belinda could determine who won the title of Miss Viking Range. And Clive was Marcus’s best friend. It could be another deck stacked against Hedy.

  At the door of a tack room, I smelled fresh coffee and heard the murmur of a television in the background. My ears were turned to something else, though. A male voice.

  “Oh, baby, that’s the way.”

  I had no visual, but my brain supplied several. The ring of iron hooves on the cement aisle of the barn sent me scurrying away from the door.

  “Sarah Booth?” Clive called out to me as he led a magnificent bay toward me. “What are you doing here?”

  I looked from Clive to the tack room. Who the hell was in the tack room? “I came to talk to you and Belinda.” The sounds had stopped in the
tack room. Obviously, whoever was in there had heard us.

  “She’s around here somewhere,” he said. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “About . . . about the competition.”

  “You know the judges can’t discuss this matter.”

  “You do whatever you like, Clive. That’s the motto you and Marcus live by.”

  At the mention of Marcus’s name, Clive’s gaze shot to the tack room. I knew then who was in there, but I didn’t know the woman’s identity.

  Clive had no intention of letting me find out. He cupped my elbow in a gentlemanly grip. “Let’s go up to the house and get Paul to make us some lemonade. Or maybe something a little stronger.”

  He handed off the horse to a groom, and Clive ushered me out of the barn. When we stepped into the bright sunshine, I shielded my eyes and searched for Tinkie.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  18

  “Is something wrong, Sarah Booth?” Clive asked as he led me like an errant puppy up to the big house.

  “No.” I wasn’t about to tell him that Tinkie, in a pair of stilettos that could aerate his lawn, had disappeared. I didn’t suspect foul play, except on Tinkie’s part. What had possessed her and what was she up to?

  “You’re distracted,” he said as he assisted me into the house and took me into a sunroom that framed the beauty of well-tended pastures stretching to the horizon. Horses grazed peacefully in a scene that could have been the subject of a master painter. Indicating a comfy chair, he sat across from me.

  The butler appeared with a silver tray, pitcher, and two glasses filled with icy Lynchburg Lemonade. Clive handed me a glass. I inhaled half of it. I was hot and nervous, never a good combo when mixed with potent beverages. If I didn’t slow down, I’d be crocked.

  Clive arched his eyebrows, inviting me to explain.

  “Why are you involved in this contest?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Marcus asked me to do it.” A furrow etched its way between his eyebrows. “That’s been one of the downfalls of my life, going along with Marcus. I wish I hadn’t gotten involved. These young girls dying . . . it bothers me.”

  Ya think? I wanted to say but didn’t. Clive struck me as someone unfamiliar with feelings, his or anyone else’s. “It is terrible. What do you think is going on?”

  He swirled the liquid in his glass and gazed out at his estate. “Marcus wants me to believe Hedy Blackledge is a killer.”

  The phrasing gave me hope. “But you don’t believe it?”

  “No.” He sighed. “I’ve tried to, for the sake of my friendship with Marcus. He has a real burn on for that young woman and for the life of me, I can’t figure why. He wants her behind bars.”

  Okay, Clive was handsome, wealthy, and a talented equestrian. So he wasn’t bright enough to put two and two together and get “former relationship.” “Marcus has never said why he dislik . . . suspects her?”

  “No, he hasn’t.” Something outdoors caught his attention. If Tinkie showed up now, he’d wonder why I hadn’t mentioned her presence. Instead of my partner, a pair of peacocks crossed the lawn, their iridescent “eyes” fanned out behind them.

  “Why so interested in my thoughts all of a sudden?” Clive asked.

  “Because my client is one of the participants in the beauty contest. If the judges think she’s a murderess, it might hurt her chances of getting the title. Miss Viking Range wearing black and white ringarounds in Parchman prison wouldn’t be much good to the sponsoring company.”

  “I don’t think Hedy is guilty.” He offered to refill my glass, but I waved him away.

  “So who do you think is?”

  “Isn’t that your job? To find the bad guy?”

  “Or gal.” I let that float for a moment. “But maybe you’ve seen something I missed. Your opinion might enlighten me.”

  He only smiled.

  I tried a change of subject. “Where did you say Ms. Buck had gone?”

  “I don’t recall saying.”

  I was weary of Clive’s reticence. “I’d like to speak with her before I leave. Where is she?”

  “She took Rowdy out for a ride.” He checked his watch. “She’ll be back soon. The judges have a meeting here shortly.”

  It was time to cut to the chase. “Is it possible someone is leaking information to a contestant? Or to someone else affiliated with the pageant who has a vested interest in the outcome?”

  “Anything is possible, Sarah Booth. You might even get married one day. Some stranger, unaware of your reputation, could come to Zinnia and you could snare him before he wises up.”

  Instead of stinging me, Clive only made me tired. “Ha, ha. Clever, Clive. Your repartee is as sparkling as I remember. But I’m serious. If the murderer is a contestant bumping off the competition, it might be wise to figure this out—and fast!”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t talked to any of the contestants. If there’s a leak, it isn’t me.”

  “Have you talked to Marcus?”

  He started to rise, but sank back into the chair. “He’s in love with one of the girls, but he wouldn’t harm the other contestants. Ever since Vivian came into his life, he’s changed. She’s softened him, made him mature.”

  “Actions speak louder than words, and he’s done everything in his power to harm my client.”

  “I don’t understand why he dislikes Miss Blackledge so much, but I haven’t revealed any confidential discussions with him.”

  “Who’s rated the highest, as of tonight?”

  He gave a weary sigh. “I gather you aren’t leaving until you know this.”

  “A young woman’s life may be at stake. If this is the motive for the murders, at least give me a chance to protect her. Tinkie and I believe the top-rated girl is the killer’s target.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am. There are seven girls left. Someone else will die tonight if I’m correct.”

  The fake weariness dropped away and left a seriousness that heightened his good looks. “Brook Oniada had moved into the top position the night she died. The chicken kebabs and pineapple daiquiris had sealed the deal for her. Janet Menton was in second place. Each of those girls stepped out from the crowd by their own efforts.”

  “And Babs?”

  “Her ‘the show must go on’ attitude had swayed us in her direction. I mean, she lost her hair, but she didn’t stop trying. That’s the attitude of a competitor. The judges agreed she’d moved into the lead position.”

  Clive had just bolstered my theory. “So who’s the likely winner now?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this.” He topped off my glass, and I didn’t stop him.

  “Hedy is my client. I’m hired to prove her innocence. Of course Tinkie and I want her to win, but that isn’t our focus. What you tell me will be used only to assist in protecting the next potential victim.”

  “The judges’ opinions change after almost every single event, and sometimes in between. We confer often. Our thinking shifts.”

  “Just tell me.” I had to find Tinkie and get out of there before the other judges arrived. While Tinkie and I were legitimately working, it could seem we were pleading Hedy’s case to Clive.

  “Amanda Payne,” he said. “When she sang at the barbecue, she got our attention. She’s a package of dynamite, and her songs are chart worthy.”

  I put down my glass. “Thank you, Clive. For the record, you’re an exceptional horseman.”

  “I have a wonderful horse. Bellacanter deserves all the credit.”

  I was surprised by his modesty, which wasn’t false. At last I’d found an area where Clive and I could meet halfway.

  I suspected Tinkie had made it to the barn. If she insisted on walking in those idiotic shoes, there she’d remain until I showed up with a horse, a wheelbarrow, or a tractor to haul her back to the big house.

  I carefully drove her Caddy down the gravel path to the barn. If someone stopped me, I’d plead ignorance, since
I was pretty sure Clive would not appreciate tread marks on his manicured property.

  The barn’s interior was dark and cool, and the groom who’d taken Bellacanter had put him away and disappeared.

  “Tinkie!” I stage-whispered. “Tinkie! If you’re in here, come out now. We need to beat a retreat.”

  Blond hair, coiffed and glitzed, rose from behind a stack of hay. She hobbled toward me with as much dignity as she could muster. “Did you talk to Clive?”

  “I did. Belinda Buck may be here any minute. We need to leave before she returns from her ride. Clive doesn’t know you’re with me.”

  We hurried to the barn door, peeped around the corner, and, with the coast clear, jumped into the Caddy with me behind the wheel.

  “Guess who was having a tête-à-tête in the tack room?”

  “Who?” I had the car started and the air blowing hard and cold.

  “Marcus and Karrie. My lord a’mighty, Sarah Booth, I didn’t think Marcus broke a sweat at anything, but that man has some hip action. He had Karrie squalling like a hungry cat in a fish market. And the only thing I can say about her is, she’s no lady.”

  In the tragedy of the deaths of two young women and the poisoning of a third, I’d almost forgotten my dislike for Karrie Kompton. It all came flooding back. “Surely there must be something in the rule book about screwing a judge’s best friend.”

  “Doubtful. And she didn’t just screw him, she turned him inside out.” Tinkie motioned to someone on horseback riding our way. “Is that Ms. Buck?” If Belinda saw us, she’d definitely mention Tinkie to Clive.

  I pushed Tinkie down in the seat, put the car in reverse, and started a slow crawl along the gravel back to the circular drive. I didn’t relax until the rubber met the asphalt driveway and the car was nosed north toward home. Clive’s lovely horse ranch disappeared in the rearview mirror.

  I found Karrie and Marcus’s actions confusing. “Why would Karrie and Marcus meet here? This compromises Clive, which could greatly work against Karrie.”

  “Why meet in a tack room, no matter how nice it is, when you could have the Wellington staff of servants at your beck and call? I mean, Marcus’s house has at least fifteen bedrooms. Surely he could find an empty one for his trysts.”