Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “This stone heap is scary,” Tinkie said, voicing my thoughts.

  “Monica is probably somewhere on the grounds, but it’s possible she turned an ankle or something.” I opted for the most logical and least tragic explanation. I didn’t believe Monica would willingly worry her sister. They were very close.

  “I hope Eleanor has some high-beam flashlights.” Ever the practical one, Tinkie stopped the Caddy in the circular drive by the front door.

  A light came on, giving the façade of the house a more inviting look. We crunched along the gravel drive to the front door. Earlier, we’d gone in under the portico, but Eleanor greeted us at the front entrance. She came out on the small entrance alcove, a breeze catching the folds of her robe and sending it billowing behind her like a vision from a 1940s Hitchcock film.

  “I’ve searched the entire house. Monica isn’t here,” she said, her voice breaking halfway through.

  “We’ll check the grounds,” I said. “Do you have any good lights?”

  “In the pantry. We keep them for storms.” Eleanor led the way, and Tinkie and I were soon outfitted with hefty flashlights that cut an arc through the blackness of the night. Without further ado, we started in the gardens where Monica was last seen.

  “At the back of the property is Jerome’s cottage,” Eleanor said. She’d opted to stay in the house in case Monica returned. If that happened, she’d call us.

  “Can the gardener help us look?” Tinkie asked.

  “He could if he were home,” Eleanor said. “I’ve called repeatedly, but there’s no answer.”

  The hair on the nape of my neck tingled. Jerome and Monica were absent. A tête-à-tête or an abduction? It could be either, or neither. But it was at least a good place to start. Tinkie had come to the same conclusion, and we set off through the maze of the garden, our flashlights allowing us a narrow path in the dense darkness.

  When we were out of earshot of Eleanor, Tinkie pulled me to a stop. “Do you think Monica is boinking the gardener?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t buy that business of giving up on men,” Tinkie said. “Women who are doing exactly what they want say stuff like that. I mean, I expect you to say it any minute.”

  “What are you talking about?” I wondered if Jitty were somehow influencing Tinkie.

  “You’re so determined to be upfront and honest and put everything out there. Men don’t like that. They want to be deceived and coddled and catered to. They need the illusion of control. Surely by now you’ve learned that, Sarah Booth.”

  We were standing in the middle of a garden at an estate that looked like the setting for a Frankenstein movie with one half of our client team missing and Tinkie was lecturing me on appropriate behavior with men. “Let’s find Monica, then you can sort my love life.”

  “Point taken.” She aimed her flashlight and set off to the north.

  The stiff breeze blew strands of my hair into my eyes, and slender oak and dogwood branches slapped at my face. By the time we made it to the gardener’s cottage, I was exasperated. A bottle tree clanked and jangled in the wind. The multicolored bottles that had been stuck on bare limbs would be beautiful in sunlight. Now, though, the noise was unsettling.

  The beam of our flashlights showed a modest, Creole-style cottage set on six-foot pilings with an inviting front porch. A single light burned in the front window.

  We headed up the steps. Tinkie knocked loudly on the front door. “Mr. Lolly! Mr. Lolly!”

  No answer.

  “Do you think he’s inside?” Tinkie asked.

  Emptiness seeped from the house. “No.” I didn’t think anything alive was in residence at that moment. While the structure of the house was symmetrical and handsome, something was off. I felt as if someone watched me, excited by our presence. If Jerome Lolly was as creepy as his house, I didn’t want to meet him in the dark.

  “Listen!” Tinkie’s fingers dug into my arm.

  A muffled sound drifted from the east. I couldn’t be certain what it was. There was a rhythm, a familiar cadence, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until I heard the wild whinny of a horse.

  “Holy Christmas.” Tinkie’s grip tightened until I winced. “If the Headless Horseman comes crashing out of the tree line, I’m breaking into the cottage.”

  I wasn’t certain inside was any safer than out, but I respected Tinkie’s decision. I had the thought we’d been dropped down into a really bad fairy tale. All sorts of evil spirits and ghoulies might roam the grounds of Briarcliff. “See if the door’s unlocked.”

  She gave the knob a twist, and the door swung wide without a sound. “We don’t have permission to enter,” she reminded me.

  “Lolly is Eleanor’s employee. She sent us to find Monica. I think we’re within our rights.” I stepped over the threshold and fumbled for a light switch. When I found it, I prayed as I flipped it up. Warm, wonderful light filled the room. Glancing around, I could say two things about Jerome Lolly. He was a neat man and he loved horticulture. Books on plants and gardening filled one wall, but my eye was drawn to a meticulous miniature re-creation of a schooner.

  Tinkie and I approached it together. Lillith was the boat’s name.

  “Wasn’t that Barthelme’s ship’s name?” Tinkie whispered, though there was no one in the cottage to hear her.

  “Yes.” My skin rippled with goose bumps. The replica of the Lillith could have any number of interpretations. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that Jerome liked boats, but I didn’t think so.

  “There’s no obvious sign of Monica,” Tinkie said.

  “We might as well search the whole place.” We were there. We’d already entered. It only seemed logical to make the most of our current situation. Besides, Jerome Lolly had begun to interest me. He didn’t fit the picture in my head of “the average gardener.”

  To prove the point we found a half-empty bottle of expensive red wine and the remnants of a meal on the oak counter in the kitchen. Two plates and two glasses implied Jerome hadn’t dined alone.

  Tinkie held a glass up to the light. “There’s a lipstick stain. Could be Monica’s shade.” If anyone could match a color, it was Tinkie, or our journalist friend, Cece Dee Falcon, formerly known as Cecil. They took matters of appearance seriously.

  “A kidnapping victim doesn’t generally swill wine and eat cheese and expensive crackers.” Tinkie put the glass down.

  “Jerome had company, but it doesn’t mean it was Monica.”

  A voice boomed from the doorway. “You’re right about that. Such clever lasses.”

  We whirled to find a fifty-something-year-old giant of a man planted at the threshold. He filled the frame with his large shoulders, long legs, and big hands.

  “Care to tell me what you’re doing here in my wee cottage?” A beard hid his expression.

  “Looking for Monica Levert.” Jerome looked and sounded like he’d been carved from highland rock. He was a manly man, and the idea of an affair between him and Monica no longer seemed unlikely. “She’s gone missing, and her sister asked us to find her. Eleanor said there was a gardener’s cottage back here. We thought maybe she’d gotten ill and—”

  “Cut the bullshit. You thought I’d abducted the woman.” He took a step. “Holding the lovely employer hostage, for…” He shrugged. “Her favors? Money? What?”

  Tinkie lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, a warning to anyone who knew her well. “You’re right, Mr. Lolly. We thought you might be involved. Eleanor has tried to call you all evening, but you haven’t answered.”

  “I had a date. And then I heard something in the gardens, so I went to look.” He closed the door. I heard a funny click, and I wondered if he’d locked it. The possibility was unsettling, to say the least.

  “Have you seen Monica?” Tinkie asked.

  “About five o’clock. She came by to talk about the rose garden. She has plans for the space.” Jerome didn’t look particularly pleased.

  “Where did you meet her
?” I asked

  “It wasn’t an arranged meeting. We happened upon each other and came here to look at some options. Chance meetings occur outside the storybooks you ladies love to read, you know.” His mockery was tainted with humor. “We talked, she told me what she wanted, and she left. Then I went to buy the necessary supplies to fulfill her demands.”

  The Scottish burr of his speech was pleasing, even when his words were sharp. “How long have you worked here?” Abrupt subject changes sometimes rattle a suspect.

  “I started when I was a young man. Hired by Mr. and Mrs. Levert when I came over from Skye.”

  “The twins’ parents hired you?”

  “Indeed. The two Miss Leverts were finishing high school. I’ve known them that long, you see.”

  I pointed to the dishes in the kitchen. “Who was here?” I asked.

  “Monica.” He focused on me when he spoke. The only hint of discomfort was a mild flush to his cheeks.

  “You and Monica shared a bottle of wine.”

  His smile was slow. “We each had a glass. While we talked about plans for the rose garden. As I mentioned, she’s a lass with a strong will. She has her ideas, and sometimes she won’t listen to reason.”

  “So you talked, shared some wine, and then she left?” Tinkie asked.

  “Exactly. At five thirty she walked back to the main house. She said she had to pack. They were leaving for Europe again.”

  Eleanor had seen Monica around seven thirty, so if Jerome was being truthful, he wasn’t the last one to see the missing sister.

  “Did she say anything about her evening’s schedule?” Tinkie asked.

  “She talked only of packing. Monica doesn’t confide in me.” Lolly relaxed a little. “She tells me what she wants, and I mostly do it. Unless it’s the wrong plants. Then I do what needs doing. No point wasting money on something that won’t flourish here.”

  “What were her instructions for the rose garden?” I asked.

  “Buy the materials to put in a fountain this fall and beef up the color around the front and the drive. Monica wanted Bermuda Mystery Roses that bloom most of the summer. Wanted an archway with the Seven Sisters.” His tone reflected his approval. “She’s a sensible woman, more often than not, when it comes to plants. I could say otherwise when it comes to … other things.”

  “And what might those other things be?” I pressed.

  “Men and friends. Not much luck on either count.” He crossed his arms. “Now I’ve spoken out of school.” There was regret in his tone. “Please, I have a lot to do.”

  “Did Monica seem troubled to you?” I asked.

  “No, she…” His brow furrowed. “Hold a minute. She was a mite troubled. Someone tore up my vegetable patch the last week, and she took it personally. I told her not to make so much of it, but she did.”

  This was the first we’d heard of a vegetable patch assault. “How do you mean tore it up?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t say ‘someone.’ It was a horse. Stomped all over my baby turnips and my melons. Horses like melons, you know.”

  I did know. I often gave Reveler and Miss Scrapiron watermelon. “I heard a horse earlier.”

  “I hear it, but I never see it,” he said. “It’s a big devil. Hoof the size of a platter.”

  Reveler was a hefty horse, but not that big. “You think someone deliberately rode the horse into your garden?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say if the rider put the horse to it, or if the horse is running loose around the grounds. Briarcliff is close to three hundred acres. These are hard times. Could be someone turned the horse out here, thinking there was forage or maybe the creature would be fed. Folks know the Levert sisters have a lot of money.”

  “You’ve checked the stables on the grounds?”

  He nodded. “Hasn’t been a horse in there for decades.” He turned slightly away. “People in town say it’s the ghost of Barthelme’s horse, a right fierce devil. Solid black and swift. Barthelme rode him on the Natchez Trace when he was robbing travelers. That foolish writer man who did the book on Natchez has stirred up talk of ghosts.”

  Lovely, a highwayman’s ghost horse. If Jitty was eavesdropping she might take a notion to dress up as a jockey. “What writer?”

  The gardener’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’d best ask the sisters. I’ve spoken out of turn for the second time. In Scottish legend, the third time will turn me to stone. So be off with the two of you.”

  “We need to find Monica before we can ask her anything.” Tinkie brought us back to the immediate matter. “Will you help us hunt for her?”

  “Is she truly missing, or is this one of her games?”

  “If it’s a game, she’s worried her sister. And us,” I said. “Is Monica in the habit of disappearing?”

  Jerome drew in a long breath. “She’s headstrong. When she doesn’t get her way, she makes people suffer, but I don’t think she’d deliberately make Eleanor think she was hurt or in trouble. Now let me fetch a light.”

  He was back in a moment, and we left the well-lit cottage for the darkness of the night.

  4

  Jerome strode under a canopy of trees so dense it blocked the night sky. I squeezed Tinkie’s arm, slowing her down so I could whisper, “Should we trust him? He could have kilts and a broadsword hidden in the woods with the idea of whacking off our heads.”

  “Fine time to bring that up. But the kilt sounds mighty interesting. What do Highlanders wear under them?” She urged me forward as his light disappeared around a sharp bend in the trail. “We don’t really have a choice. Jerome knows the grounds.”

  “And he could be leading us to the cliff. We’d never know until—”

  Before I finished speaking, the moon broke free of the clouds. The woods released us to a sweep of manicured carpet grass. Two hundred yards ahead was the cliff’s edge. Jerome waited, his flashlight beam playing across our faces. “Did anyone check at the bottom of the cliff?” he asked.

  “Holy shit.” I remembered the object in the sheer material falling into the river.

  “I’ll call the police.” Tinkie reached into her pocket for her cell phone.

  “Wait.” I restrained her. “We don’t have any more evidence than when Eleanor called them.” Out on the open lawn, the wind was constant and strong. I had to lean close to Tinkie and speak loudly.

  “Are you coming?” Jerome yelled.

  We walked reluctantly to the bluff. There were no railings or markers or even steps down to the water. The cliff had been cut out of the land by the passage of the river, the wind, and time. We pointed our flashlights down, but the beam failed to reach the bottom. Moonlight revealed a section of the cliff dropped straight to the water. We stood above a rocky jut of land. Downriver the Natchez-Vidalia Bridge connected Mississippi to Louisiana. The twin, cantilevered spans were, technically, the tallest bridge in the state.

  Moored upriver from the bridge was a riverboat casino. The wide Mississippi seemed tame and slow moving, but I knew better.

  “No sign of her down there.” Jerome’s stronger flashlight beam swept the land and the river. “If she’s on the grounds, we’ll find her.”

  He turned toward the house. Tinkie and I lingered a moment before we followed him. A gust of wind from the north carried an out-of-season chill, and Tinkie gasped. It caught me unprepared, too. It was summer in Mississippi. Jack Frost had long been run out of the territory, but this wind had plenty of nip in it. I thought of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee.” The wind moaned low and plaintive through the trees.

  In many ways, Briarcliff brought Poe’s work to mind. The house was menacing with the moonlight striking silver in the damp stone edifice. The gothic overtones of the architecture and setting couldn’t be denied.

  A pale, fluttering object scuttered across the lawn. I rushed to pin it with my foot. When I picked it up, I realized it was part of a gossamer gown, a strip of lace that likely adorned the hem. Holding it triggered a gut-droppin
g twist of anxiety.

  “The thing I saw fall in the river could have been wearing something like this,” I told Tinkie. It could have been a woman.

  “We have to show this to Eleanor.” Tinkie spoke with determination but didn’t move.

  “And Jerome.” I, too, hesitated. The gardener was now far ahead of us, headed to the back lawn. I forced myself to call out to him.

  “Come on, if you’re comin’,” he grumbled.

  When we caught up with him, I showed him the lace. He shook his head. “Could have blown in from anywhere. Never felt a wind like this, this time of year.” Earlier he’d kept his face blank, but now I clearly saw distress. It struck me that he recognized the fabric, and I wondered again if Monica and Jerome had more than an employer-employee relationship.

  “We must show this to Eleanor,” I told him. His reluctance to be a part of that scene was clear.

  “I’ll keep searching the gardens. She has to be around here.”

  In all probability she was safe, but if someone had been able to break into Briarcliff and steal a four-million-dollar necklace, who was to say they hadn’t returned to harm the sisters.

  “If you find anything, let us know,” Tinkie told him.

  “Do you think you have to tell me that? I’m not daft, lass.” He strode around the side of the house, leaving us to face Eleanor and show her the scrap of material we’d found and which might shed the worst light possible on Monica’s strange disappearance.

  * * *

  Eleanor’s hands trembled as she clutched the lace. “It’s hers. It’s Monica’s. She has a gown … she bought it in Geneva. She called it her Gloria Swanson gown. When she wore it, she was ready for her close-up.” Her fingers stroked the airy fabric. “She loves beautiful things.” Her head dropped to her chest and she sobbed. “Where is she?”

  Tinkie and I exchanged a look. We wouldn’t tell her about the object falling into the river. We had no proof it was Monica—or anyone else. There was no point putting that kind of fear in Eleanor’s mind until we found evidence. But I had every intention of telling the Natchez police chief.