Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

A cousin would know the family history. She’d have local connections. She’d know the house and the comings and goings of the sisters. And the only thing that stood between her and the Levert money was the sisters. She was a very good suspect. “Is Millicent capable of putting together something like this kidnapping scheme?”

  “Millicent is greedy enough to try it.” Eleanor’s eyes flashed with fury. “And if she is behind this, I promise I’ll squeeze every last drop of Levert blood from her silicone-enhanced body.”

  Tinkie gave me a wide-eyed look. Eleanor was a refined lady, but when she was pissed, she was well and truly pissed. “Where can we find Millicent?”

  “She inherited one of Barthelme’s homes on Wonderland Drive. It’s a beautiful pink Victorian she’s managed to ruin with a lawn full of lighted, animated gnomes.” She grimaced. “Incredible. She turns them on every night. Her neighbors have gone before the city council to try to stop her. Oh, and while you’re there, ask to see her doll room.” A hint of humor had returned to Eleanor’s face.

  “Doll room?”

  “Every Halloween Millicent dresses up like a doll. You know, Shopping Barbie, Convertible Midge, Chatty Cathy—whatever is hot and popular and by all means attractive. She has a life-sized model of the doll made, with her features, and dresses it in her costume. Then the doll is placed in her doll room. It’s like a window display at a freak show.”

  Visions of a wax museum jumped into my mind. I would have used the word “macabre,” but Eleanor had indeed proven her point about the shit-house rat.

  “How are you related to Millicent?” Tinkie asked.

  “She’s my great-grandfather’s sister’s great-grandchild.”

  I wasn’t certain how to calculate that degree of kinship. Maybe a cousin fourth removed? “She’s your closest kin?”

  “She is. As you can tell, the Levert bloodline didn’t produce a lot of breeders. Mother had only Monica and me. Our father, Middler Levert, was an only child.” She shrugged. “No one in the family was overly fond of children. Monica and I never wanted any, but when I think about Millicent getting her hands on Briarcliff, I think I may adopt.”

  “Since there aren’t any other relatives, who else has access to Briarcliff, other than Jerome Lolly?” I had to get a list and get busy. The kidnappers could call back at any moment. If Tinkie and I were to be prepared, we needed to make tracks.

  “Kissie, who cleans for us, has a key. She comes and goes as she pleases, but she’s a delightful young woman. She’d never do a thing to harm Monica.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Tinkie and I would have to investigate everyone, no matter how slim the chances, and Kissie had an arrest record.

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “That historian fellow has been hanging around.” A strange expression crossed her face. “In fact, shortly after he showed up we had the first robbery attempt in the family cemetery. And the mysterious horse and rider was seen on the bluffs.”

  “Tell us about the attempted grave desecration.”

  Eleanor leaned forward. “We returned home unexpectedly late one night. Bitter cold, as I recall. When Monica drove up to the house, someone was silhouetted running across the lawn. They disappeared into the woods, and then that horse came out of nowhere running wild without a rider. It was like a nightmare. Monica and I rushed into the house and locked the doors. The next morning we found where the grave had been disturbed. The thief left his shovel. I’m sure he meant to have the ruby necklace, but those graves are sealed with heavy cement slabs.”

  “How did a historian know about this?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid we’d told him the old stories about Barthelme and his black horse. He used to terrorize the slaves by riding around on Diablo late at night, or so the family legend goes. Ask the kids in town—they’ll all claim to have seen old Barthelme riding the cliffs by the river. John, the historian, was all over the story. He practically salivated when Monica told him about the millions of dollars’ worth of rubies in the graveyard.”

  “But this John person—”

  “His name is John Hightower. He’s from England. Lovely accent that hides a roachlike intellect. He’s writing a book about the first Mississippi Levert. Claims he traced Barthelme from England.”

  “And he’s been here, in your home?” Tinkie asked.

  “Monica and I met with him. He sounded like an interesting man, and of course we were eager to discover what he’d learned about Barthelme. Unfortunately, it was just more of the same.”

  “Meaning what?” I checked my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Tinkie and I needed to shake a leg.

  “He had an alleged proclamation signed by a magistrate showing Barthelme was supposed to be hanged in Liverpool for horse theft, adultery, and sinking a competitor’s ship. I’m not certain any of it was true. Turns out Hightower is a descendant of the man whose ship Barthelme supposedly sank. That put a new light on his findings, and one Eleanor and I didn’t care to participate in. The man’s family has carried a grudge for nearly two hundred years. Like I said, he has the cockroach’s ability to survive the passage of time.”

  I was glad I was sitting. The problem with digging up bones under the family tree is that some of them are bound to be stinky and crooked. “Is this Hightower fellow still in Natchez?”

  “My dear, he’s taken the garage apartment of Helena Banks Gorenflo, one of my archenemies.”

  I wondered what kind of archenemies a heritage Southern belle acquired. “And who is Helena Banks Gorenflo?” I asked.

  Tinkie’s face showed astonishment. Apparently I’d committed a Daddy’s Girl faux pas with my failure to recognize the name of a dame of society.

  “She’s president of the Confederate Belles for Justice,” Tinkie said quietly. “A society of women descended from females who fought to preserve the spirit of the Confederacy.”

  “Helena refused membership to Monica and me. She said Barthelme’s wife, Terrant Cassio, was not a loyal Confederate. She said Terrant was the daughter of a Yankee banker who flimflammed the people of Natchez by offering loans through her father’s bank and then cheating the property owners with pernicious interest rates.”

  “Is it true?” I asked. Between Barthelme and Terrant, it’s a wonder the town didn’t tar and feather the duo and send them packing.

  “Helena can’t prove a thing.” Eleanor sniffed. “She’s just being awful. Monica challenged her at the last meeting to show proof or allow us to join. We have documentation that Terrant Cassio Levert was responsible for building the orphanage for children of the war. Terrant did a lot of good things for Natchez. Helena only wants to focus on the negative.”

  “Does everything to do with your family go back to the War and beyond?” I couldn’t help myself. Something to say in favor of the Delaney family—we didn’t inherit enemies or hand-me-down grudges from one generation to the next. We were quite capable of making plenty within our own generation.

  “History is important in Natchez,” Eleanor said.

  “So Mr. Hightower is in town, and he knows about the necklace?” I made a note.

  “He is and he does. He was here the day it was stolen. Monica may have mentioned the reappraisal to him.”

  “Why would she do that?” Tinkie asked.

  Eleanor’s lips thinned. “To goad him. She shouldn’t have done it, but he was so eager to see the necklace. She had it out of the safe for the reappraisal and she showed it to him. I thought he’d swallow his tongue with lust.”

  “That was stupid.” The words flew out of my mouth.

  “He’s such a spineless little man, hiding behind his notebook and pen.” Eleanor twisted her hands in her lap. “Monica enjoyed getting him worked up. It’s one of her least pleasant characteristics, but some people just get under your skin. It was hard not to torment him.”

  I couldn’t hurl another stone or my glass house might shatter.

  “Is it possible Hightower might have figured out a plan to abduct Monica for th
e insurance money?” Tinkie asked. Her body language told me she’d found a potential suspect she liked the look of.

  “He’s a brilliant man. And devious. But he’s a coward.”

  “Kidnapping is rather a cowardly act,” Tinkie pointed out. “He knew about the necklace, the money, Monica’s habits. He has a score to settle with the Levert family. Motive, means, and opportunity.”

  Eleanor started. “Do you really think…” She stood.

  “It’s a theory,” I said. “He’s a good suspect, but so is Cousin Millicent. Is there anyone else?”

  Eleanor resumed her seat. “We’ve had tiffs with people in town, but I can’t imagine any of them would abduct Monica. She’s fierce. I’m more the milquetoast sister. It seems they would have taken me instead.”

  To the contrary, a kidnap / ransom plot would target the stronger twin, hoping the weaker sister would obey and fork over the cash without calling the cops. Which is exactly what was happening.

  “What about the housekeeper?”

  “Kissie?” Eleanor was shocked. “No! Kissie wouldn’t be involved.”

  “She has a key, right?” Tinkie asked.

  “She does. And knows the house and grounds inside and out.”

  “Was she aware of the necklace?” I asked.

  Eleanor thought a moment. “My sister and I didn’t behave wisely, I see that now. Monica and I have operated with a sense of … privilege, I suppose you could say. It didn’t occur to us that anyone might try to harm us. Here at Briarcliff, we’ve always felt so safe and … untouchable. That’s very arrogant, isn’t it?”

  Tinkie cut in before I could respond. “Tell us about Kissie. How long has she worked for you?”

  “Two years. She keeps the house when we’re traveling. She’s a remarkable young woman, actually. Very talented.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “She sings with a local band. She’s a songwriter and a vocalist.”

  “Not much of a music scene in Natchez,” I said. “Why hasn’t she gone to Nashville?” If a singer-songwriter wanted a career in the music business, Nashville was the closest town to peddle her wares.

  “She did. Monica and I helped her. But it didn’t work out.” Eleanor was clearly uncomfortable talking about this.

  “What happened?” Gunny had revealed a little about Kissie McClain’s life. I wanted to see how much Eleanor actually knew.

  “She got involved with the wrong sort.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes, she met a man involved in methamphetamines. Kissie never used, but she got caught up in his troubles. She was arrested here in Natchez. He accused her of stealing his guitar, of all things. Only it wasn’t his guitar. It was hers, and I know that for a fact because Monica and I bought it for her. We tried to intervene in her behalf, but she asked us to let it go. Anyway, she did some time in jail for breaking and entering and theft. When she got out, we helped her and gave her a job.”

  I didn’t have to look at Tinkie to know what she was thinking. Kissie was another wonderful suspect. The best place to determine her possible involvement in Monica’s abduction was by talking to her personally, and we might be able to make more headway than a lawman.

  “Tinkie, we should file that report with the insurance company and speak with Kissie, Millicent, and John Hightower.”

  Eleanor rose and grasped Tinkie’s hands. “So you’ll help me? You won’t turn this over to the authorities?”

  “We’ll ask a few questions. Maybe we’ll help,” I said.

  Eleanor’s relief turned to worry. “What if the kidnappers find out you’re asking questions?”

  “No one will find out,” Tinkie said. “We’ll be the souls of discretion. I promise.”

  That was going to be a hard promise to keep. We headed out the door just as the sun burst over the tops of the huge oak trees. It was going to be a long and arduous day.

  * * *

  We booked our rooms at the Eola for another night. Before we wrote the insurance report we showered and changed. Tinkie was subdued, and I knew she’d spoken with Oscar. How much she’d told him, I couldn’t ascertain. Whatever it was, Oscar couldn’t be pleased. Whatever he’d said to Tinkie had taken the wind out of her sails.

  When the report was finished, we delivered it to the Langley Insurance Agency and personally handed it to Mr. Nesbitt.

  “You’re certain the necklace was stolen?” he said, doubt evident in his voice and expression. “Did you find any reason to believe the Levert women may be responsible for the disappearance of the necklace?”

  “Yes and then no,” Tinkie said. “The necklace is missing. The sisters are distraught.”

  We’d decided against mentioning Monica’s disappearance. We didn’t need the entire town talking. If the kidnappers were local, gossip could cost Monica her life.

  “This is a huge settlement,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “The necklace was supposed to be kept in a secret vault in the house.”

  I didn’t respond. Sometimes it was smart to say nothing.

  “And you determined the necklace was there before it was stolen?” he asked.

  I pointed at the report. “It’s all in there. The necklace was removed from the vault in preparation for a new appraisal.” We had to tell the truth. Whether the policy paid out or not, Tinkie and I couldn’t fib about the circumstances of the theft.

  “Who removed it?” He held the report in his hand, but he hadn’t bothered to read it.

  “Monica did.”

  “Was anyone else in the house?”

  “Mr. Nesbitt, we’ve included everything in the report. You can corroborate most of it with the Natchez Police Department’s report. The Levert sisters had control of the necklace. It’s up to you to determine whether the policy will pay out or not, but I believe the necklace was stolen,” Tinkie said. “That’s all we can tell you.”

  “Thank you, ladies,” he said. “And have a good day.”

  He had no intention of confirming whether the claim would be paid or not. The truth was, our report would have no impact one way or the other. Our report was an extra fillip, a supporting opinion.

  Mr. Nesbitt dismissed us with a curt good-bye, and we drove to Wonderland Drive and a beautiful pink Victorian laced with gingerbread and green shutters. A wraparound porch was as inviting as a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. The sun climbed the sky, sending the temperature and humidity way up. It was summer; the cotton was high, and the living steamy.

  The sidewalk to Millicent Gentry’s home was lined with five-foot shrubs interspaced with gnomes hammering, sawing, and building. Frozen in the act of work under oaks and in flower beds, they waited for someone to flip a switch and crank them into mechanical life—like figures out of a Tim Burton film.

  Tinkie skirted around them as we made our way to the house. When we rang the bell, a beautiful blonde with spangled blue eyes answered. If she was related to the Levert sisters, it wasn’t evident in her appearance.

  “How do you ladies do?” she asked, as friendly as if we were longtime neighbors. “Can I help you?”

  “Millicent Gentry?” I’d sort of expected a gorgon with rubbery, doll-like flesh and bad plastic hair.

  “That’s me,” she said, still smiling. “Who are you?”

  We introduced ourselves and explained we were working on the insurance claim for Monica and Eleanor.

  Millicent put her hand to her mouth and gasped. “The Levert ruby necklace has been stolen!”

  “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  “Poor Eleanor and Monica. They must be awful upset. I guess they’ll just have to dig up one of the old wives for a replacement.” Her grin was irreverent, but her eyes narrowed. “So what are you doing here?” The lovely blond hair hid a facile brain. She’d quickly put the facts together and come up with the sum of suspect. “Did the sisters accuse me of taking the necklace?”

  “Absolutely not,” Tinkie said. “They thought you might be able to help us. As a member of the Levert f
amily, they knew you’d want to figure out who did this terrible thing.”

  Tinkie’s lie smoothed over the moment. Millicent opened the door for us to enter. “Come on to the back porch,” she said. “I was just fixing myself a Bloody Mary. Would you girls care for one?”

  “Yes.” We spoke in unison. It was nearly eleven, which was brunch time by anyone’s standards. We hadn’t had much sleep or any breakfast, and a spicy drink would hit the spot. We followed her through the house, and sure enough, I caught a glimpse of a large room filled with mirrors and life-sized replicas of our host in various costumes. There must have been two dozen—Candy Candystriper, Polly Pole Dancer, Bitsy School Girl—all tricked out and dressed to perfection.

  While we settled into white wicker porch furniture cushioned in a bright floral print, Millicent made the drinks. She returned with a tray laden with our beverages, cheese straws—a fine Southern delicacy for a ladies’ brunch—cucumber sandwiches, cherry tomatoes, and lemon squares.

  “Were you expecting company?” I asked. How in the hell had she whipped up a tray of delicious food so fast?

  “Honey, around Natchez it’s a good thing to always be prepared for a visitor. Sometimes neighbors come over to fuss about my paint job or my dog. Ol’ Roscoe tends to paw through their garbage or dig up their flower beds. Once he stole Miss Bigelo’s gigolo’s underpants and took them all over town. Had I not had fresh Gulf shrimp and Mama’s famous comeback sauce, Miss Bigelo would have killed Roscoe.” Her laughter was infectious.

  “Your dog really stole someone’s underwear?” Tinkie was appalled.

  “Roscoe has a nose for trouble.” Millicent opened the screened door and called for the dog. “Miss Bigelo is principal at the private Catholic school. As you can see, it was awkward for her. Especially since her lover was pastor at the Final Harvest True Church of the Pentecost—a married man, I might add.”

  “A conflict of apocalyptic proportions,” Tinkie said.

  Millicent tipped her glass at Tinkie in a toast. “You are the cat’s meow,” she said. “Anyway, I served them the shrimp and patched over the whole episode.”

  “How did everyone in town recognize the preacher’s underwear?” I asked.