Gathering my notes, I returned the bound newspapers to their slots. There was no way to tell from the articles who’d arranged to send Lana’s body to West Point—or why. But Sunflower County and the Delta had adopted the Black Prairie beauty as one of their own. It was almost unheard of for a woman who married into a wealthy family not to lie beside her husband in death.
If Lana had made the arrangements before her death—that was one story. Gregory and Luther shipping her off to West Point was something else again.
Shuffling the huge, bound editions of the paper, I found the one that contained details of Luther’s death.
This story was also played on front page, but below the fold, which befitted the double tragedy of death by suicide. The exact coroner’s ruling was “death by accidental hanging,” a nice way to phrase it. The obvious facts were accepted. It appeared that no one considered the possibility of foul play.
Gregory Carlisle was buried in the family cemetery located on the estate.
Dusting my hands, I left the newspaper morgue and went to find Cece. As I drew near her office, I heard her on the phone.
“Well, Jimmy, I’d love to meet for dinner, and steak sounds wonderful. Carnivore would be a good description of me. Seven is perfect.”
She was almost purring. I leaned against the door frame and listened without apology.
When she hung up, she flashed me a grin. “I’ll find out what ever you want to know.”
“And a whole lot more than that,” I said. “I’m heading over to the sheriff’s office to check the reports filed on the Carlisle deaths.”
“Have you heard from Tinkie?”
My cell phone, that troubling implement, had remained silent. “No calls from anyone.”
“I’m on deadline, but I’ll meet you later.”
“Sure thing.”
As I left the newspaper, I had the strangest sense that everything that had happened in Hollywood was only a dream. The movie world seemed a million miles away, and I couldn’t be certain if it was a good thing or a bad.
Coleman wasn’t in the sheriff’s office, and the new dispatcher showed me to the cubbyhole where old reports were kept. Since I had the dates of death for Lana and Gregory, it didn’t take me long to locate the paperwork.
Nothing in the reports offered any insight into what had really happened at the Carlisle home.
In fact, the reports were nonexistent. There were no diagrams of body placement, no interviews, no real information at all.
Since I was going to the hospital to see Tinkie, anyway, I stopped first at the health department to check out the CDC facilities. Beaucoup and Peyton had taken over the back office of the clinic, and I was pleased to see what looked like high-tech microscopes and other equipment. A hint of relief whispered along my neck. Maybe Peyton and Bonnie would come up with a solution that would save the lives of the four sick people.
“Hello, Peyton!” I called out as I stood around in the main office. The door hadn’t caught properly, so the lock hadn’t engaged. My first thought was to make sure everything was okay.
“Peyton! Bonnie Louise!”
The place was empty.
My second thought was to make sure the CDC team was sharing information. I went to the back room, where two desks had been set up. Beaucoup’s was easy to spot—it was the one with everything neatly stacked and arranged. Peyton’s desk was buried in paperwork.
Since he was the senior CDC official, I plowed through the stuff on his desk first. There were reports filled with language I didn’t understand. I saw a notation regarding Mississippi Agri-Team and a phone number for Lester Ballard. Peyton was following the same leads that Coleman and I were pursuing.
My assumption—which was correct—was that the computers in the office were linked with the CDC network. Firing up the one on Peyton’s desk, I did a bit of basic background work: I pulled Bonnie Louise’s work record. She’d been with the CDC two years, and her service was filled with laudatory comments from her supervisors. Before the CDC, she worked with the World Health Organization. She’d been around plague, famine, and disease plenty.
I brought up Peyton’s file. He’d only been with the CDC for six months, but his private research credentials read like a blue-chip portfolio. He must have been earning in the high six figures in private industry, but the bad economy had sent a lot of folks scurrying for government jobs. There was nothing else noteworthy.
I shifted to Beaucoup’s chair and began to read through the papers on her desk. Reports had flown between the field office in Zinnia and the main office in Atlanta. Beaucoup was a meticulous note-taker and she made it a point to keep her superiors in Atlanta abreast of everything.
She was also thorough. And detailed. And organized.
On the negative side, she didn’t have a lick of taste. A tacky keychain, all pink cubic zirconium-emblazoned alphabet letters BLM, served as a paperweight. But I hit the mother lode when I opened her desk drawers. One contained clothes—tight jeans, a slinky pullover, flimsy underwear, and nice shoes. She was a woman with dating on her mind, and I knew whom she intended to wear those clothes for. I closed the drawer.
I didn’t know what I’d hoped to find, but it appeared from the reports I read that Peyton and Beaucoup were shooting straight.
I reached for the last bundle of papers when the small note torn from a yellow legal pad fell into my lap. Coleman used such a pad.
“Dinner tonight?” were the only two words written.
Rising slowly, I replaced everything and left the office, taking care to latch the door firmly. The bright sunlight gave me a sudden headache, which resulted in a churning stomach.
While I was a snoop, I wasn’t the kind of person who threw up in public. After a few moments, the urge to hurl passed. I wiped my clammy face and tried to find that mindset where I could sincerely wish happiness for Coleman and Beaucoup.
9
After a depressing two hours at the hospital, Tinkie refused to leave, and I finally went home. I wanted to do some research on the Internet, and I couldn’t bear watching Oscar and Gordon and the two women who suffered in their glassed-in sick ward. My head was still pounding, and I saw no improvement in any of the patients. As Doc had pointed out, though, the longer they hung on, the better the chances they would outlast the illness.
I’d just sat down at the computer when the telephone rang. I answered it without even checking caller I.D.
“Sarah Booth?”
I recognized the cultured tones of Avery Bellcase. “Yes, sir.”
“Have you made any headway?”
I had nothing solid to report. “Sir, I’m trying.”
“If you can find the cause for Oscar’s illness, I’ll forgive the mortgage on Dahlia House. I’ll pay it off myself.”
“That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Bellcase, but unnecessary. I’ll do what ever I can to help Tinkie and Oscar. Tinkie is like a sister to me. Even Oscar has grown on me over the past year.” Money couldn’t motivate me like friendship did.
“Tinkie is my only child. To see her suffer . . .” His voice broke and he faltered into silence.
“She’s my best friend. I know exactly how you feel.”
There was a pause before he spoke again. “Doc Sawyer is worried about her. He’s urged me to entice her from the hospital, even for short breaks. She won’t listen to me.”
“She’s headstrong.” I couldn’t help a tiny smile as I said the words that Tinkie so often applied to me. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“She’ll do things for you that she’d never consider if I asked.”
“That’s not true, Mr. Bellcase. Tinkie adores you. In all things, you’re the person she relies on for wisdom and advice and the right action to take. You’d be surprised how often she quotes you.”
“I knew your mother and father, Sarah Booth. Elizabeth was like a wild wind blowing through this town. She stirred things up and unsettled folks. James Franklin, well, he never felt a need to try
to bridle her. He fell in love with her outspoken wildness, and he honored it. I so admired that about him. He let Libby be who she was. And they let you grow in that same way.”
Even though he’d called my mother Libby, a nickname few people used, I thought he was getting ready to lower the boom on me. I dropped into defensive mode as he continued.
“In recent years, I’ve tried to give that same type of freedom and support to Tinkie. Her mother and I, we made her conform when she was younger. Her marriage to Oscar was appropriate and fiscally sound. Love grows in soil well fertilized and tended. It’s the way things are done in families like ours. Until recently, I’d begun to wonder if perhaps we’d pushed Tinkie into a loveless union.”
“Tinkie dotes on Oscar.” I swallowed the emotion that had lodged in my throat. “They truly love each other.”
“Not at first. Tinkie did what she was told. Oscar was a good match for her, a man who provided security, good judgment, a family history that excluded mental illness, alcoholism, and deviancy. Those things were all important when I thought of my daughter marrying and beginning a family.”
I couldn’t believe Mr. Bellcase was confessing this arranged marriage to me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. “Tinkie would be lost without Oscar, and vice versa.”
“Why are they still childless?” he asked.
Holy moly. I wasn’t going near that topic. “When Oscar is well, perhaps you should ask them.”
There was another hesitation. “You’re a good friend to my daughter, Sarah Booth. Just don’t get her hurt working on your cases.”
“I’ll do my best, but the truth is, I can’t protect her from the things that hurt the worst. Nor can you.”
He sighed. “That much I’ve learned. Have a safe night, and try to get my baby out in the sunshine tomorrow. Take her for a ride through the cotton fields and over to the river. Let her see the land. It may help her.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” I put the phone down. The conversation had exhausted me. Instead of surfing the Net, I unplugged and went to bed.
I awoke to the strains of a sprightly tune sung in a sultry contralto. I didn’t recognize the song, but I sure as hell knew who the singer was. Jitty! And Sweetie Pie was howling along with her. A duet designed to drive me mad. I checked the clock beside my bed. Three a.m.
Throwing back the covers, I padded downstairs. The piano, an old baby grand, was in the music room, a place I hadn’t even dusted since I’d been home. When I pushed open the door, I stopped in my tracks.
Jitty sat at the piano wearing an exquisite ball gown of midnight blue cut like a 1930s movie star’s: sweetheart neckline, tight torso, and all. With her hair piled on her head and diamonds glittering around her neck and hanging from her ears, she was stunning. Believe me, I was stunned.
“What the hell are you doing?” I walked to the piano. “You can’t play. You’re noncorporeal. You can’t press the keys.”
She swiveled on the bench and stood up. Sweetie gave one last, mournful howl and settled down to sleep. Seemed everyone in the house could fall asleep on command except me. I was the poor schmuck who’d sail forth into the new day with bags under my eyes.
“You’re exhausted,” Jitty said.
She looked magnificent, and it only added fuel to my fury. “I might look better if I could sleep through the night. Why the serenade at three a.m.?”
“That was one of your mama’s favorite songs,” she said. “She and your father used to sing it together. James Franklin sang the part Sweetie Pie had.”
Jitty knew good and well that any reference to my parents would pull me out of a bad mood. “Why now? Why three in the morning? Why are you so dressed up? When did you learn to play the piano?”
Jitty’s chuckle was as soft as a butterfly kiss. “You’re the one havin’ this dream, missy. Don’t go askin’ me the answers to things curled up and writhin’ around inside your head. Man alive, Freud could have a field day with what’s goin’ on between your ears.”
Sweetie Pie’s low moaning howl—much like a blues singer telling about the pain of life—kicked in about then. I realized the music room was dusted and alight with candles. I was dreaming. I’d set the scene with Jitty dressed as a torch singer from the thirties, the piano, and my hound. I’d heard my parents sing that song, my mother’s lovely voice and my father’s untuned baritone.
“This is a dream, but what does it mean?” I asked Jitty.
“Only you can answer that, Sarah Booth. It’s your subconscious at work.”
I remembered the name of the song. “My Blue Heaven.” My mother had loved it. The lyrics came back to me.
“When whippoorwills call, and evening is nigh, I hurry to my . . . blue . . . heaven.” I sang the words softly. “A turn to the right, a little white light, will lead me to my . . . blue . . . heaven.” I could almost see my parents laughing as they fox-trotted around the room deftly avoiding sofas and chairs.
My attention was drawn to the sheers pulled across French doors that led to a small, secluded patio. Long ago, when the music room was where young folks gathered to sing popular tunes, the patio had been a trysting place for couples to spoon, as Aunt Loulane had called it. Even into the 1960s, when a phonograph and records were the music to love by, Dahlia House’s music room had been a gathering place for high schoolers to spin the latest discs, dance, and smooch on the patio.
My parents had shared more than one passionate embrace out there in the falling twilight. As the memories and sensations flooded over me, I thought I heard my mother’s soft whisper.
“Mama?” Framed against the sheers was a silhouette of a man and a woman. “Daddy?” My feet were held in thick concrete. I could barely struggle toward the door.
I turned to Jitty for help, but the piano bench was empty, the piano closed and covered with dust.
The more I tried to move, the more I became stuck. My parents were just outside, and I couldn’t get to them. For twenty-two years I’d hoped for this moment—for a word or an embrace—and I couldn’t reach them.
“Mama!”
I felt something warm and wet on my face, and I fought to consciousness with Sweetie Pie licking me.
The bedroom was empty, except for my hound. My body was wrapped in the sheet like a shroud, so tight I couldn’t wiggle an arm or a leg. For a long moment I simply lay there, panting and exhausted by my nocturnal struggles.
“Jitty!” I called. “Jitty!”
There was the slightest shimmer of air and she appeared at the foot of the bed. Her attire was a far contrast to the glamour of my dream. She was still wearing her Depression Garb, her face worn and tired.
“You’d best have a reason for givin’ me double-duty tonight,” she said. “Torch singer is a million miles from the place I’m in right now.”
“Mama and Daddy were there.”
She started to say something and stopped.
“They were. You know it.”
“Sarah Booth, I tole you before, they’re watchin’ over you. Have been since the day they died.”
“What did the dream mean?”
“I’m only a ghost. I don’t have answers like that.”
I freed a leg from the sheets and sat up. It was three-thirty, and there wasn’t any point in going back to bed: I wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t call Graf, because it was 1:30 in the land of celluloid. While working as a P.I., I could get by looking like a run-over sack of suet, but Graf had to look great.
I stood up and stretched.
“Where you think you’re goin’?” Jitty asked.
“Maybe for a moonlight horse back ride.” It was the best idea I’d had in ages. I thought of the rides I’d shared with Graf in Costa Rica. “I wish Graf was here. I miss him a lot.” More than I’d anticipated.
“Call that man and tell him to hop the next plane home. He needs to be with you.”
I laughed. “That’s provincial. I’m a full-grown woman. To have a relationship with Graf and still help my frie
nds, I can’t call him every time I have a bad dream.”
“Don’t you dare go ridin’ off into those cotton fields.”
Jitty was seriously troubled, and I found it hard to accept. “I’ve ridden at night for the past year. What’s the problem?”
“Folks weren’t keelin’ over from some strange sickness until just a week ago. You don’t know what’s in those fields.”
“If it’s something bad, Jitty, it can walk right in the front door. In case you haven’t noticed, cotton is growing not a hundred yards from Dahlia House.”
She turned away. “I noticed. And for the first time I can remember, I’m hopin’ the crop fails. I don’t want that stuff near you, Sarah Booth.”
“Jitty!” I was appalled. No Mississippian would ever wish a cotton failure. Never more than an adequate student of history and economics, even I knew the devastation of such a thing. Jitty had lived through the Civil War and the boll weevil—she should know better.
“You’ve got to take care of yourself, Sarah Booth.”
“I do, Jitty, but I have to live.”
She kept her back to me. “The stakes are higher than you know.”
I found a pair of jeans and slipped into them, along with socks and my boots. “It’s a good thing I don’t know how high these stakes are, because I almost can’t hold up to the burden I’m carrying now.”
I whistled up my hound and clattered down the stairs into the soft glow of a nearly full moon. Reveler and Miss Scrapiron were at the fence. Both whickered softly when they saw me. Again I felt the pain of missing Graf, but I refused to let it ruin what promised to be a wonderful ride. If I’d learned anything in the thirty-four years of my life, it was that happiness came from living each moment to the fullest. If I could manage that difficult task, I could be the partner for a dynamic man like Graf.
It took only a few moments to saddle Reveler. Miss Scrapiron trotted beside us until we reached the end of the pasture fence. She returned to her grazing while Reveler and I set out across the moonlit fields at a trot.
Greedy Bones Page 8
