Water surged up my throat and I gagged. I pushed at the man who was trying to suffocate me, causing a red-hot blaze to zing through my right arm.
“Thank God.” Barclay Levert rocked back on his heels and gave me some room to flail and struggle. I tried to swat him in the face, but my arms refused to obey my commands.
Beside my head a horse’s hoof stomped, and I wondered if I had truly come awake. The creature shook and droplets of waters sprayed over me. When lightning illuminated the sky, I could see the Andalusian standing over me, his long mane tossing in a wind building to gale force out of the west. Any minute the sky would crack open and I figured a band of angels would swing down in a chariot.
“Can you sit up?” Barclay gave me an assist.
I could and did, though I cried out in pain. My arm blazed. Blood dripped from a bullet wound. I’d been shot. The whole nightmare on the river came back to me.
“Monica!” I tried to rise, but Barclay pushed me back to the mud, which made a sucking sound around my near-naked bottom. I wore only panties and a bra. My clothes had been swallowed by the river.
“Take it easy. You’re hurt.”
“He threw Monica in the river. I think she was already dead.” I had to get it all out. “The antidote for Tinkie is gone. So is the money.”
I thought for a moment he was daft as he pulled off his black T-shirt and tore it into strips.
“Did you hear what I said?” And then another thought struck me. How the hell did Barclay and the black devil horse from Briarcliff get down to the river to rescue me?
“Listen to me, Sarah Booth.” He forced me to focus my thoughts and hear him. “After we traded cars, I went back to Briarcliff. I started through some of the old family history books in the library. I found a map of underground tunnels that link Briarcliff to the river. I’m sure Eleanor knew about those tunnels. Old Barthelme used the cliff tunnels to rob boats docked at Natchez and make good his escape. For generations the family must have kept this secret.”
What was it with this case? All roads led back to a man long dead, Barthelme Levert. He’d branded his legacy of deceit, lies, and murder on his family in a way that was inescapable.
Barclay caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I took the maps and began searching, thinking maybe Monica was being held hostage in one of the tunnels. That’s when Tinkie texted me, ‘Sarah Booth in trouble at bridge. Help.’ I assumed this bridge and I got here as quickly as I could. One of the tunnels connects with the stables, so I saddled Lucifer and came down through the tunnel thinking you might need help. I saw you in the boat. I saw you get shot, and you were drowning. Lucky for you Lucifer is a strong swimmer. He was able to get to you and then struggle back to the bank.”
So it was Barclay who’d swum the horse into the river and rescued me. I owed him and the black hell-horse. But my worries centered on one person. “Where’s Tinkie?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have to find her.”
Lighting flared across the sky revealing Barclay’s stomach, rippling with muscle. “Someone meant to kill you out in the river. The whole plan was for the money to disappear, and you to die. Monica is dead. Millicent is dead. If I’m discounted as a true Levert, that leaves one person to inherit everything. We have to call your friend, the lawman, and tell him all of this.”
“Eleanor is behind it all.” My pulse accelerated. “She killed her own sister and she has Tinkie. Jerome must be helping her.”
Barclay’s features were grim in the next flash of lightning. “She means to kill you and Tinkie and me. She has the insurance money, the necklace, and she can’t afford loose ends.” He bound the strips of T-shirt around the wound, which almost made me scream, but I bit it back. We had to move. He pushed a cell phone into my hand. “Call your friend in Sunflower County.”
“Tinkie first.” I pushed it away. Coleman couldn’t help me. There wasn’t enough time for him to get here. “We have to find Tinkie.”
“We need backup. Call him. Tell him Monica has been killed. Nothing more. We need him to be on his way here.”
I used the phone he offered. When Coleman answered, I almost lost my composure. “I’m in Natchez. Tinkie may be dead,” I said. “Monica Levert was kidnapped and murdered. She’s floating down the Mississippi. I need your help.”
“I’m on the way, Sarah Booth.”
Barclay took the phone, snapped it shut, and hauled me to my feet. “We have to hurry. We’ll ride the horse back through the tunnels.”
“Screw the tunnels. I’m going to look for Tinkie.” I had a perfectly good car not forty feet away.
Barclay’s sardonic grin was as intimate as a touch. “I suggest you find some clothes first, Sarah Booth. I appreciate the view, but Natchez is still a bit … provincial.”
“You are lower than a snake’s belly,” I ranted, and then realized he’d provoked me with cause. Getting my fighting Irish up energized me to battle for my partner’s life.
“Let’s ride,” he said.
“I’ll take the car.” But then I realized I couldn’t. The car keys were at the bottom of the Mississippi River in my jeans pocket.
Barclay mounted the big stallion, who danced, eager to run. The dinner-plate-sized hooves moved up and down like pistons keeping a beat. When Barclay reached for my hand, I let him pull me up behind him. Lady Godiva might have been a sex symbol riding nude, but sitting astride the rump of a big horse in mud-caked panties was not my idea of erotic.
My arm throbbed with every beat of my heart. A visit to the emergency room was in order, but first Tinkie. And then Eleanor. She’d murdered the last vestige of her family for money. And she’d tried to kill me.
Eleanor and her conspirator were about to confront the wrath of Sarah Booth Delaney. It was going to get bloody.
* * *
The ride up the darkened tunnel on Lucifer took at least five years off my life. I clung to blind trust in the horse’s superior sight and Barclay’s balance. My good arm wrapped tightly around Barclay’s lean and muscled torso, I put all of my concentration into not sliding off. Lucifer surged up the steep incline into blackness so dense I shut my eyes to keep from getting a headache.
Amazingly, we arrived at the manse within minutes. Barclay dropped me at the front door, then he cantered to the stables to tend to Lucifer.
I took three minutes to wash the mud off so I could examine the bullet wound.
A groove sliced through the muscle of my right arm. I’d been grazed, not hit directly. I applied a tube of antibiotic salve I found in the medicine cabinet and clumsily wrapped gauze around my arm. The injury was painful, but not anywhere near life threatening. Then I got dressed and picked up the phone. The desk clerk at the Eola knew Tinkie by sight, and he hadn’t seen her or Eleanor Levert.
My fingers hovered over the touch pad, but I didn’t dial Gunny. Something held me back. The police chief would be furious, no doubt about that. But it wasn’t his wrath I feared. I still didn’t trust the Natchez lawman.
“Who are you calling?” Barclay asked as he came in the back door, panting from his sprint.
“We should call the local law officers.”
“No.”
“You don’t trust Gunny.” I understood Barclay’s reluctance because I shared it. There had been that moment when the chief had stopped me and Tinkie downtown. He’d made reference to the insurance money. It had struck me wrong, but Barclay obviously sensed something, too. “Why not?”
“I went to see the police chief when I first got to town. I wanted to be upfront, to let him know who I was and that I intended to claim my legacy.”
“How did he react?”
“As if I’d personally insulted him. He warned me off and told me if he got one complaint from the sisters, he’d bury me in the Natchez jail so deep no one would ever find me. He wasn’t interested in justice; he was protecting the sisters. Or one of them. I think he’s neck-deep in this mess.”
Thirty years ago, smal
l-town police chiefs and county sheriffs had nearly total power. People without family or friends to inquire after them did disappear. The lawman’s interpretation of the law was often based on personal interests—their cronies were protected and their enemies suffered.
Gunny’s allegiance to the sisters could mean a number of things, but first and foremost was that he stood to gain from the association. Four million could buy a lot of goodwill from a man with a badge.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where?”
“Back to the tunnels. Do you still have the maps?”
“I do.” He leaned down beside a sofa and brought them forth from beneath a cushion. “I didn’t want to leave them lying around. I haven’t had a chance to really study where all the tunnels lead.”
I carried the maps to the kitchen counter. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Tinkie had been drugged for more than two hours. Was she still alive? “Let’s see if there’s a place Tinkie might be stashed close to Briarcliff. Eleanor had to put her somewhere no one would find her.”
“What about the money?” Barclay asked.
It was a logical question from a Levert heir, but I was over worrying about anything except my partner. “Talk to your aunt Eleanor about it once we round her up.”
“You think she really killed Monica?”
I was about to answer in the affirmative when footsteps sounded in the parlor headed our way.
“The answer is no.”
We both whirled. Eleanor Levert stood in front of us, gun leveled. She looked capable of using the weapon, too. Gone was any shred of the Southern belle who’d paced and wrung her hands. This version of Eleanor was cool and contained. “Barclay, move away from her.”
Barclay, too, remained calm. “Of course, Moth—”
I saw it then. Before he finished the sentence. “You’re Monica, not Eleanor.”
“Bada bing!” She was very pleased with herself. Her posture shifted and assumed a demeanor I recognized as Eleanor’s. “I’m just worried sick about my sister.” She laughed out loud. The woman was a total chameleon. “I’ve been in Briarcliff the entire time and you never suspected.”
“Where’s Tinkie? If you’ve hurt her—” All my threats were empty. I had no weapon, no phone, and no hope of anyone coming to my rescue.
“As you guessed, Sarah Booth, Mrs. Richmond is in the tunnels, where you’ll join her. For eternity.”
“Give me the antidote for Tinkie.”
“There isn’t one. She was never in danger from a drug. I gave her Rohypnol, the date rape drug. It’s worn off by now. Of course that won’t help her since she’s securely tied. Surely you’ve come to conclude I can’t let you go. You and Tinkie have served your purpose marvelously, Sarah Booth. I couldn’t have planned this better if I’d gotten old Barthelme to climb from the grave and help me.”
“You killed your own sister.” The idea still astounded me.
“You’re always jumping to the wrong conclusion, Sarah Booth.” Monica swept the maps Barclay had gathered into a pile. “Can’t have these lying around. The tunnels will make a convenient tomb. I must say, Barclay, you did a superb job riding Lucifer up from the river. He’s a real handful. I applaud your skills.”
“You’re the horseman!” Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? The shorter torso, longer legs. And the old football pads in the stables. Monica wore them to lend the illusion of being a man.
“Nice deduction, just a trifle late in the game.” Monica smirked.
I heard a scuttling on the hardwood floor beyond the kitchen. Monica heard it, too. She checked over her shoulder. “I have a delicious surprise for you both.” She was almost giggling.
But I had a surprise, too. “I can hardly wait.” Just beyond the parlor, Chablis darted past a doorway, her little nails skittering on the wood.
“Ah, the dogs.” Monica didn’t bother looking. “I may keep the little one. The big hound will join you in the tunnels.”
The idea that she would kill Sweetie without a qualm—and steal Chablis!—anger surged in my chest.
“You won’t get away with this.” It was such a clichéd line I almost groaned.
“Yes, yes, I know.” She waved the gun. “Justice prevails and all of that.”
In the brief moment when she allowed her vigilance to slip, Sweetie rounded the corner and catapulted herself directly into Monica’s back. Seventy pounds of hound rammed her at thirty miles an hour.
Monica flew forward. The gun discharged wildly as she smashed onto her face. Her chin hit the tile floor of the kitchen with such force that she cracked a tile and shattered several teeth.
I kicked the gun free of her hand and knelt in the center of her back with all of my weight.
“Good job, Sweetie!” I had nothing but praise for my heroic red tic. “Barclay, get some kind of rope or cord.”
Monica moaned beneath my knee, and it gave me great pleasure to grind my kneecap harder into her. “Where is Tinkie?” I demanded as Barclay went to the parlor and ripped a cord from a lamp.
Monica spat blood and tooth fragments, acting as though she were suffocating. I had no problem with that.
“Get … off—”
I leaned down. “Screw you, Monica. Where’s my partner?” Sweetie Pie licked my face. A new notch would be cut in Sweetie’s leash—she’d brought down another criminal.
Barclay bent beside me to tie Monica’s hands. “What a pleasure this is, Mommy, dearest.”
The first warning of anything wrong was Sweetie’s long, low growl.
“What is it, girl?” I started to stand but froze when I felt the cold metal of a gun muzzle against my head. Very slowly I turned to face … Monica. No, Eleanor.
“You aren’t dead, either.”
“Far from it. Now get off my sister.” Her shove sent me into Barclay.
Monica flopped and moaned. “My teeth! My teeth! She broke my teeth out.”
“Four million can buy a lot of dental work, Monica,” Barclay said. Beside him, Sweetie growled fiercely.
“Just add it to the plastic surgery list,” Eleanor said.
“You’ll pay for this.” Monica scooted away from us and used the kitchen counter to pull herself upright. “Shoot the dog, Eleanor. Then shoot them.”
“I don’t want to carry them to the tunnels. They can walk.” Eleanor’s hand was level as she held a gun on us. The one Monica had used was against the kitchen counter about ten feet away. Neither Barclay nor I could reach it in time.
Sweetie bared her fangs and snarled.
“Shut that freaking dog up!” Monica slurred through bloody lips. “Or give me the gun and I’ll do it.” Eleanor swung the weapon out of her grasp.
I don’t know where Roscoe came from, or how he knew to intervene, but he sailed through the air and his jaws clamped down hard on Eleanor’s gun arm. Chablis streaked around the corner and leaped high in the air—a truly Michael Jordan vault. She caught Monica’s bloodied lip with her little underbit teeth and clamped down with a snap I heard clear across the kitchen.
Monica and Eleanor, a dog hanging off each one, slammed together in a screaming frenzy. Eleanor still held the gun, but Roscoe controlled her wrist. When the mutt finally gained his feet and began to shake his head back and forth, Eleanor screamed and released the weapon.
In a moment I had scooped it up. Barclay went for Monica’s gun, just as Chablis lost her lip grip. Undaunted, the Yorkie leaped at Monica’s face, narrowly missing her nose. Cupping her mangled lip with one hand, Monica lashed blindly at the little attack canine.
“Call off the dogs, Sarah Booth,” Barclay said.
I hated to, but I did.
“Monica, Eleanor, up against the wall.”
“You both think you’re so smart.” Eleanor was furious. “You won’t inherit a thing, Barclay. Harm us, and you’ll never get Briarcliff.”
Inheritance was the last thing on my mind. Tinkie was the only thing I cared about. While Barclay held them at gunpoint, I gathered
the things I’d need to go for Tinkie.
The cavalry was on the way.
25
Even if Coleman flew on the wings of Mercury, I couldn’t wait for him. I helped Barclay tie up the twins before I gathered the three dogs, a gun, the maps, and a flashlight. Tinkie was underground—and I couldn’t stand the thought of my partner and my friend alone in a dark, dank place.
“I should go after Tinkie, Sarah Booth. You guard the sisters,” Barclay said.
“No.” I couldn’t trust this job to anyone else.
“Then be careful. Remember, another person is almost certainly involved in this,” Barclay reminded me. “He could be down there, waiting.”
“Make Monica and Eleanor give more details of where Tinkie is?” Briarcliff’s underground maze could have me wandering about for hours. “If you find out anything, call me.” I picked up Monica’s cell phone. Where she was going, she wouldn’t need a phone.
“How hard should I try to force information from them?” Barclay had a hard glint in his eye.
“They’re your relatives.”
“After years of dreaming about confronting my mother, this is what I get.” He gave a snort of disgust.
“It would help if I knew which tunnel they left Tinkie in.” According to the maps, the tunnels led directly to the river, but branches forked off and led to numerous cul-de-sacs where Barthelme had undoubtedly stored his stolen goods, including slaves. The old river pirate had constructed an amazingly complex grid of underground routes. Tinkie could be anywhere.
I left Barclay checking the bonds on the sisters. At the front door of Briarcliff, I realized that while we’d been inside, the fury of the weather gods had been unleashed. The threatening storm had broken, and the wind howled up from the cliffs. Rain fell in sheets while lightning popped all around, as if Briarcliff were a rod. The place was evil, down to the bedrock.
I jogged to the rose garden, where the trapdoor to the tunnels could be found beneath a mulch bed. Jerome had known about the tunnels all along. And he’d known that Monica was the horsewoman. He’d pretended ignorance, but a fourteen-hundred-pound horse living on the estate could not have escaped him. How much else had he known?
Bones of a Feather Page 26
