Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  “I love you, Sarah Booth,” he said, and his voice was wide awake. “I love you exactly the way you are.”

  “The pageant concludes tomorrow. Once your movie is done, can we make that trip to Ireland?”

  “Only if you want to make me the happiest man alive.”

  “Oh, I think I could enjoy doing that.”

  “Can I ask where this revelation came from?”

  Crediting Jitty was out of the question—at least for now. Maybe one day I could tell him about the Ghost of Delaney Women Past. “A good friend turned on a lightbulb for me.”

  “Thank her, for you and for me, because this conversation also points out some things I need to consider. I thought I knew what you needed, because it’s what I need. My focus was on my needs, not yours. While I might not fully understand your needs, I should honor them.”

  What planet had this man dropped from? “Go back to sleep,” I said. “We’ll talk soon, when it isn’t late and we both have time to really dig in.”

  “Where are you, Sarah Booth?”

  I’d driven halfway home. On either side of the road spread the vast fields of cotton. “Right where I need to be,” I said, almost laughing. “I’m in the middle of a cotton field.”

  “Now I have an image I can take into my dreams.”

  “Good night.” I blew him a kiss and closed the phone with a smile. In another five minutes I’d be home, where Chablis and Sweetie Pie waited for me. Oscar had dropped them off and headed toward Greenwood even as I drove north toward home.

  When I turned down the drive, I saw the lights of Dahlia House blazing a welcome. Oscar had turned on every bulb in the house, but despite the waste of energy, I was glad. The sight of my ancestral home, lit with a warm glow, was exactly what I needed.

  Add to that the wagging tails of one dustmop and one hound, and it was as close to bliss as I was going to come for a while. Sweetie Pie’s mournful bay rang through the night as I stopped the Caddy in front of the house and got out.

  There is no joy like that with which a dog greets her human. Whatever bad decisions I’d made in the past weeks, coming home was a good one.

  Sweetie and Chablis snoozed beside my bed. Outside the window, moonlight touched the cotton fields. The trees that shaded the family cemetery at Dahlia House swayed in a light breeze. In the stillness of the night, time seemed to have slowed, but it was an illusion. Events were moving forward at a fast and furious pace. While I should be sleeping, my mind wouldn’t rest.

  Graf’s words whirled in my head, and there was a truth there that refracted on the murder of two girls and attempted murder of a third. He’d said he recognized my needs were different from his. Somehow, I knew this was the key to finding the beauty pageant killer. It all had to do with motive. Every criminal investigation looks at three principal elements: means, motive, and opportunity.

  The means was poison, which could be purchased via the Internet. It was almost impossible to narrow a field of suspects by this criteria.

  Motive was equally nonspecific. Getting rid of pageant competitors was a motive Tinkie and I had settled on. But we also considered Marcus Wellington’s potential desire to frame Hedy and remove her from registering a claim on Vivian by plunking her behind bars. But Graf’s simple statement—that he’d wanted to give me what he needed, not what I needed—was the thing that kept me awake. Somewhere in those words was the nugget of truth I sought. In assigning motives to these murders, Tinkie and I—and even Chief Jansen—had assumed the killer would want what we might want.

  That was not necessarily true.

  Amanda Payne had been the top contestant at the “Taste and Copy” competition. Which by my theory would make her the next victim—unless she, or Voncil—was the killer. Yet no one had been poisoned or harmed.

  Had our extra security measures been successful? Had we foiled the killer with our precautions? Or had there been no murder because Amanda, as the potential winner, had no need to kill the woman who stood ahead of her in line for the title? If Amanda, or Voncil, was the killer, why would she go to such trouble to frame Hedy?

  Perhaps the poisonings weren’t related to the competition at all but to something from the past. So far, our research had found nothing in common amongst the girls. They’d never met until the competition.

  I wanted to throw the keyboard across the room. I didn’t have enough evidence to settle on a single motive, and I couldn’t trust my gut. The attack on me at the Carlisle plantation had deeply shaken my faith in my instincts. Self-doubt gnawed at me.

  I stood up and stretched. Sweetie Pie and Chablis had eaten the deluxe hamburgers and now slept in the bliss of a doggie coma. Dr. Leonard, Sweetie’s vet, would be on my case if she knew I’d treated my hound to such a fatty meal, but Sweetie had scarfed it down. Whether it was the food or my return, it didn’t matter. Her hunger strike was over—she was full and content, as was Chablis.

  I considered the third arm of an investigator’s approach to crime. Opportunity. Because of the extra security at the “Taste and Copy,” the killer might have been thwarted. “Might have been,” like any other qualifying phrase, was the opposite of fact. Supposition didn’t make for a strong case.

  Because the public had been excluded from the “Taste and Copy” event, Marcus Wellington had not been on the premises. Was the lack of a murder due to lack of opportunity? Again, it was impossible to say.

  The things linking the poisonings were location, occupation of the three victims, means of death or injury, and timing. The poisonings all occurred in less than a week. Any logical person would assume they were somehow connected to the pageant. Yet a “logical” person would not harm three young women in such gruesome ways.

  The use of different poisons was another clue to the killer’s mindset. The total lack of forensic evidence told me this person knew something about sophisticated detection. He, or she, was showing off. Unless, of course, there were multiple killers. My head hurt with the possibilities.

  I leaned my arms down on my desk and lowered my head. My temples throbbed, and I needed to get up and run. Just run. Without destination or reason. Frustration made me feel this way.

  When I woke up, my back and neck were stiff. Sweetie was licking my face while Chablis teethed on my right ankle. I looked around, confused for a moment about where I was. I didn’t normally sleep on my desk in the Delaney Detective Agency, a room that had once been a grand parlor and now contained desks, filing cabinets, and the putty gray furniture of an inexpensive office. One day, when Tinkie and I were fabulously wealthy, we’d spring for mahogany credenzas and wall-to-wall framed accounts of our successful cases.

  Dawn was just breaking over the pasture, which was empty because Reveler and his buddy Miss Scrapiron were vacationing at my friend Lee McBride’s. I trudged upstairs to shower and prepare for the day. I wanted to be back in Greenwood early, but first I had to see Doc.

  I left the dogs at Dahlia House. Dew sparkling on the cotton plants and the tree leaves, a billion diamonds glittering in the first shafts of sunlight. My favorite time of day.

  Doc was, as I anticipated, in his office. The smell of coffee snaked down the hallway to alert the innocent he was brewing up a witch’s pot of strong caffeine. I’d attempted to drink his brew a few times. Never again.

  When I tapped on his door and entered at his invitation, I was greeted with a smile. “Sarah Booth,” he said as he came around the desk to hug me. “You look healthy. A bit thin for my taste, but your color is good.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Thanks to you.”

  He waved my gratitude away. “You’re here about those Greenwood murders, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Ricin, digitalis, belladonna—those are unusual poisons.” My impulse was to pace, but I didn’t. “I know my client, Hedy Blackledge, didn’t poison anyone. But I have to find out who did.”

  Doc settled in the chair behind his desk and motioned me toward another. I moved a stack of documents to the floo
r. The place looked like a recycling center.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  I eyed the pot in the corner. I thought a bubble rose from the primordial goo. “No thanks. I like having enamel on my teeth.”

  Doc chuckled. “I’m glad to see you up and sassy. You had me worried, Sarah Booth.”

  “I know.” It wasn’t a kidding matter. I’d come close to dying. “I’m fine, Doc. But I need some help with those poor dead girls.”

  “Strange case. No doubt they were poisoned, but the delivery is interesting. More toxicology reports were faxed in this morning.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Because Brook was terribly burned, the cause of death was obvious, or so it seemed. The initial tests revealed her body had been rubbed with ambergris, which is flammable. What they failed to detect was the belladonna in her body lotion. It was masked by the ambergris.”

  I knew a bit about the plant. “Women used it to make their eyes bright because it dilates the pupils. It translates to ‘beautiful lady.’ ”

  “It’s the source of atropine, which ophthalmologists use to dilate eyes for an exam. When a cornea has a minor scratch, it can alleviate the pain.” He gave me a chance to interrupt, but when I didn’t, he went on. “It’s also called deadly nightshade and a host of other names like Devil’s Elixir. Used topically, it’s a critical numbing agent. In an overdose, it can also lead to cardiac arrest and asphyxiation by shutting down the respiratory system.”

  “Brook would have died even if she hadn’t caught on fire.”

  “She was likely dying as she burned.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think the killer meant for her to burn. I think the action of the poison took longer to kick in than expected. The killer meant for Brook to die during her performance. Not of fire but of asphyxia.”

  “Where does belladonna come from?”

  “The plant isn’t really native to these parts, but it could be cultivated here. Hell, by manipulating temperature, soil, and water in a controlled or even hydroponic situation, folks can grow just about anything. It isn’t a difficult plant, is what I’m saying. You know, deadly nightshade is strongly associated with witchcraft. It’s a topical anesthetic and also a hallucinogen. Not a reliable one, because it can kill quickly, but it is potent. That’s how it came to be associated with witches and flying.”

  He rubbed the corners of his mouth. He looked like he’d been up all night. “During the witch trials, possession of belladonna was a hanging offense. A lot of healers who used the plant for good were accused of practicing witchcraft.”

  “And that gave the real killer a perfect setup to frame Hedy as a ‘conjure woman,’ ” I noted. “The ricin comes from the castor plant, which grows wild here, correct?”

  He nodded. “Especially down along the Gulf Coast. The castor plant also has medicinal uses. I doubt Libby ever dosed you with castor oil, but it was used a lot during my sprout days when a young-un looked a might pea-ked.”

  “Pea-ked?”

  “Pale or jaundiced, usually from eating too much junk food or simply having a case of the pouts. Folks my mother’s age would get out the bottle of castor oil and give a young-un a tablespoon full.” Even the passage of six decades hadn’t dimmed the bitter taste. Doc’s face compressed. “Nasty stuff that cramped your stomach and made staying close to the bathroom a good idea.”

  “Sounds unpleasant, but isn’t it deadly?”

  “Not the oil used in the laxative form. Ricin, made from the castor bean, is one of the deadliest poisons around.” He picked up a notepad and studied it. “Foxglove, which is the plant that produces digitalis, is also easy to grow in this area. A lot of people are unaware of the medicinal value of the plant and cultivate it for the beautiful blooms. The interesting element with Babs Lafitte is incorporating the poison in a cigarette. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Do you think she’ll regain consciousness?”

  “She has. Early this morning.”

  “Thank heavens.” I checked my watch. It was going on seven o’clock. I needed to get back to Greenwood to interview Babs. She might hold the clue to finding the real killer. “Doc, no one was murdered last night. There were extra precautions in place. The final event is today. I wish they’d cancel the whole thing.”

  “This may or may not be helpful, but I suspect your killer grows these plants. They can be ordered over the Internet, but with heightened national security, it might set off alarms.”

  “That will narrow it down.”

  “Look for someone who has a green thumb and has some knowledge of the occult.”

  “I’m more certain now that Hedy is being framed. All of these poisons could have come from her backyard. She’s admitted she has an interest in botany and marine biology. The killer left gris-gris bags with each girl who was poisoned. This is a complicated setup.”

  Doc got up and poured another cup of coffee.

  I couldn’t swear, but I thought I heard a splat, as if a blob of semisolid coffee had splashed into his cup. The idea was disturbing in more ways than one. “Gotta hit the road.”

  “I shouldn’t need to caution you to be careful,” Doc said. “Poison is one of the easiest ways to kill someone. Medical science can detect it now and trace it back, as we’ve done with these young women. But, sometimes, if the poison is metabolized, there’s no trace. And no antidote. If you ingest the wrong stuff, Sarah Booth, you’ll be dead. Finding the killer doesn’t bring the dead back to life.”

  “Have you spoken with Graf?” I didn’t mean to sound suspicious, but it seemed everyone and his brother was trying to protect me.

  “No, I’ve talked with the young coroner, the one better suited to preaching than searching out the motives for murder.” Doc came over to me, his coffee cup in one hand. He put a palm on my forehead to take my temperature and then kissed my cheek. “You be careful, Sarah Booth. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Doc. If you find anything else, call me.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ve discussed this with Coleman, and he’s offered to help Jansen. Things are calm here in Sunflower County, thank goodness.”

  The thought of Coleman butting heads with Jansen made me smile. “Good idea. Did he say he’d be in Greenwood?”

  “Didn’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me to see him there.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re too thin. When you and Tinkie solve this case, I’ll treat you to a tray of bear claws from the bakery.”

  I had one more stop to make before I left Zinnia. I called Tink to tell her the good news about Babs.

  “Can we talk with her?” Tinkie was raring to go. Oscar had recharged her batteries.

  “We’ll give it a try. Ask Jansen if he’s interviewed her yet.” The Greenwood chief would not appreciate us preempting him.

  “Will do. I’ll wait in the room. We can visit Babs together.”

  “I’ll be there as quick as I can.” I disconnected as I pulled under the big shade tree in Tammy’s, aka Madame Tomeeka’s, front yard.

  Our psychic friend had been strangely silent in the last few days. It wasn’t uncommon for me to hear from Tammy at least once a week. Sometimes I played a big role in her dreams and visions, and she always alerted me to danger when she sensed it. After the tragedy of Brook Oniada’s death, I hadn’t heard a peep from Madame Tomeeka.

  I was relieved no other car was parked there. Tammy’s services were popular with area residents who sought her advice on everything from dating to illnesses.

  The screen door wasn’t latched, so I went in, calling her name.

  “In the kitchen,” she yelled back.

  No surprise since the smell of bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the house. Tammy, along with her special talents, was an excellent down-home cook.

  She indicated a chair at the table, and I sat while she poured me coffee and broke two eggs in the frying pan. “You’re here about those pageant girls, aren’t you?”

  Her tone was neutral, but she didn’t face me. Tammy
had made it clear she wanted no part of the competition. I’d brought trouble to her doorstep. “Actually, I need to ask you about poisonous plants and voodoo.”

  She put a plate of eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits in front of me and prepared one for herself. She’d cooked enough for two people, as if she’d expected me, or someone, to arrive.

  “I don’t truck with voodoo.” She refreshed our coffee.

  “Do you believe in it?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  I told her about the gris-gris bags and the girls who’d been attacked.

  “Doesn’t matter what you or I believe. Voodoo, charms, the power to harm or heal—that comes from the person. If you believe it, it’s real.”

  I’d learned this lesson from Doreen Mallory in a previous case. “Do voodoo practitioners use poisonous plants?”

  She nodded. “Many groups use drugs in rituals, whether you classify them as religious or spiritual or evil. There’s a history of drug use in voodoo. Whether poisonous or not, elements are designed to hurt people. In voodoo, intent is the weapon.”

  Tammy always told me when she had a vision about me, but since she’d volunteered nothing, I asked. “Have you seen anything happening to me?”

  Pushing back her chair, she went to her kitchen window. “Not you.”

  Her words constricted my chest. “Tinkie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Fear made me react poorly.

  “I told her, Sarah Booth. It was her vision to know. I urged her to share it with you. Obviously she didn’t.”

  “What did you see?”

  She returned to the table and took my hand. “The dream wasn’t specific. She was walking in the woods in a white gown. It was a beautiful place, with sunlight and big oaks. Ferns carpeted the ground. Tinkie slowly staggered and fell. She stretched out with the ferns as a cushion, and she went to sleep.”