Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  Pride for my partner formed a lump in my throat. Tinkie always had my back—and Sweetie’s, too.

  The ringing of the telephone stopped us cold.

  A dozen thoughts shot through my brain, but the predominant one was that only bad news came at three in the morning. Judging from Eleanor’s face, she had exactly the same thought. Instead of answering, she didn’t move.

  The phone rang twice more before Tinkie turned on the recording device still attached. “Answer it,” she directed Eleanor.

  Eleanor started to refuse, then a shaky hand reached for the phone. “Hello.”

  A man spoke sharply. “The drop will be at midnight. You have twenty-one hours. I’ll call with further instructions.”

  “Wait!” Eleanor cried. “Wait, please—”

  The burr of the dead line echoed in the silent room.

  16

  Eleanor returned the phone to its cradle. She tottered, as if she would fall, then stiffened her spine. “Please don’t quit now. See this through until he calls with the drop instructions. Please. I have no one else. Jerome is missing. Millicent hates me. I intend to call that man, Barclay. If he is a true Levert, perhaps he’ll help me.”

  The log in the fireplace snapped. Sparks flumed up the chimney. It wasn’t that Eleanor’s plea didn’t touch me—my heart wasn’t completely made of stone. But she’d acted in bad faith from the moment she’d called us, and I couldn’t afford to forget it. I owed it to Graf and Oscar to remember.

  “I need a word alone with my partner,” Tinkie said.

  Eleanor reluctantly left the room. For a long moment, there was only silence. I didn’t look at Tinkie. I waited to hear what she’d say.

  “I know we should leave,” Tinkie said. “Eleanor hasn’t been honest about all the personal stuff, but is that really even part of the case? I don’t think Monica has been taken by a lover she dumped. Yes, she’s gone all over town making trouble, but this isn’t about sexual payback. You heard the kidnapper. This isn’t some lovesick guy wanting to punish Monica. He was cold. I’m afraid he’ll kill her if I don’t help Eleanor get the money together.”

  The exact same thought had crossed my mind. “I’m sorry for Eleanor and Monica, but they’re liars. Can we really help them, Tinkie? The FBI would have a much better chance of securing Monica’s safety.” I took a breath. “There’s too much at stake. You’re right, the person who has Monica is deadly earnest. Once again, I’ve risked you, Sweetie Pie, Chablis, and myself. Whoever struck Sweetie could have killed her. It could as easily have been you.”

  “Jerome may also be in danger. Was he taken or did he leave on his own?”

  “I have no idea. Affiliation with the Leverts is obviously dangerous. And I’m sorry. I won’t risk your safety or mine. We can’t fix this.”

  Tinkie took a poker and stabbed at the fire. “We can’t just tuck tail and run home.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” I wanted to go home. I wanted to call Graf and see if there might be a possibility to hop a flight to La-La-Land with my dog and spend a few days in the golden California sun. The darkness of Briarcliff had tainted my soul. I was ready for light and love.

  “Let’s help Eleanor get the money, at least. We’ll review the drop instructions with her—try to prepare her. You and I both know she won’t call the police. She’ll try to do this by herself.” Tinkie seemed to stand taller. “We aren’t prepared for this, but we’re a lot more prepared than she is. I can’t just walk away.”

  When Tinkie took a stand, her head was harder than mine. “If the drop sounds too dangerous, we’ll warn her. That’s it. Nothing more.” Like my partner, I had some guilt at the idea of just walking away. Even if it was the smartest thing to do.

  “Do you think Hightower is still on the grounds? He may know something about Monica and Jerome.” Tinkie inhaled deeply and stretched.

  “He wasn’t hurt. He’s just a crybaby. He popped up like a jackrabbit and took off.” I leaned down to kiss Sweetie’s muzzle. “So what do we do about the open window?” I’d almost forgotten the incident that had driven me and Sweetie out into the night.

  “Tomorrow Eleanor can find a hammer and nails. To hell with historic detail. I intend to make certain all of the downstairs windows are secure. The nails can be removed later.”

  It was too little too late, but I nodded in agreement. My brain was still knotted around the whole John Hightower incident. That Monica was a predatory lover, I didn’t doubt. What I didn’t believe was that she’d be attracted to a man like John Hightower. He simply didn’t have the va-va-voom factor.

  And Millicent. What was her true role in all of this?

  “Let’s get some sleep,” Tinkie said. “It’s after four o’clock. We can still snatch a couple of hours before daybreak.”

  I held no hope of sleeping, but I pretended to go to my room so Tinkie would rest. As soon as her door closed, Sweetie and I went to the front parlor. I settled on a sofa with my hand dangling onto Sweetie’s satiny head. Together, we waited for the dawn.

  * * *

  Against her nature, Tinkie was up at first light. I heard her in the kitchen grinding coffee beans and humming an old standard. I hadn’t truly slept, but I had drifted into a strange dreamy state where I knew exactly where I was and what was happening around me, but I also traveled backward through time to summer mornings when my mother hummed in the kitchen at Dahlia House. She’d loved the tunes of the 40s and often sang them around the house. And she could sing, in a clean, resonating contralto.

  I knew the lyrics to Tinkie’s melody. “A Dreamer’s Holiday,” a Perry Como classic from 1949. It was one of my mom’s favorites. Sometimes, in the music room, she’d crank up the old stereo and play the 78 rpm record so she could hold me and dance.

  “‘Climb aboard a butterfly…,’” I crooned softly, until Sweetie Pie started to howl.

  Tinkie popped around the corner. “I knew you weren’t asleep, but you looked so peaceful.”

  “Is the coffee made?”

  “It’s brewing. Shall I wake Eleanor?”

  “I think so.” We had to determine if John Hightower had left Briarcliff, and we couldn’t leave Eleanor alone. She’d have to come with us.

  Tinkie started up the stairs just as a heavy knock fell against the front door. I had a momentary visual of the old Vincent Price classic The Fall of the House of Usher. I’d heard the story of director Roger Corman, when asked by the studio, “Where is the monster?” replied, “The house is the monster.”

  So it was at Briarcliff. Everything, even a knock at the door on a summer morning, seemed sinister.

  The heavy rap came again as the person outside demanded entrance. Dread, my current BFF, marched in goose bumps along my skin as I walked to the door. I put my hand on the knob and opened the massive wooden doors of Briarcliff.

  “Ms. Delaney.” Barclay Levert looked every inch a descendant of the Levert clan. He wore a black shirt open at the throat, black slacks that suited his build, and his dark hair was clipped in a queue at the nape of his neck. “May I enter?” he asked.

  “Are you a freaking vampire?” I snapped. “Do I have to invite you in?” Barclay unsettled me, and I turned abruptly and walked back to the parlor. Tinkie, on the other hand, almost skipped out of the kitchen to greet him.

  “Oh, Barclay,” she called merrily. She acted as if she’d slept a full ten hours. “Care for some coffee? And I found some scones Kissie baked the other day. Eleanor tells me that Kissie has a talent for baking.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Barclay winked at me, which made me want to smack him upside the head. I was sure he’d sampled Kissie’s baking skills as well as many others.

  “What are you doing here?” I wasn’t in a mood to flirt or banter.

  “I have the DNA results.”

  “What, you have an inside track at a crime lab? No one gets results so fast.”

  Barclay chuckled softly and pushed a strand of my hair out of my eyes. “You’re something
of a grump in the morning, aren’t you, Sarah Booth?”

  “When she doesn’t get her seven hours sleep, she’s a gorgon,” Tinkie said.

  “Like I ever get seven hours of sleep.” I glared from one to the other. “Why are you so damn perky, Tinkie? And what are you doing here before the sun even clears the horizon, Barclay?”

  “I thought I might move my things here.” Barclay pushed in the foyer, drinking in the elegance of the house and the furnishings. “I grow weary of rented rooms and the kindness of strangers. I’m ready to come home, and this place is even better than I imagined.”

  “So the test results prove you’re a Levert?” In this instance, one plus one resulted in baby Barclay Levert. He not only looked the part, he was beginning to sound like landed aristocracy.

  “Monica is my mother. I have the evidence I need. A lab in Jackson performed the test. The results are indisputable. As they say on all the crime shows, DNA doesn’t lie.” There was almost a challenge in his attitude, as if I wouldn’t believe him. Before I could respond, Eleanor’s stern voice came from the stairs.

  “You might have a blood test, but you don’t have permission to be in Briarcliff. Monica is the only person who can offer you a place here.”

  Eleanor descended the stairs in an old-fashioned satin robe cinched at her slender waist. It fell around her with a swirl of shining fabric. With her dark hair tousled from sleep and in disarray, she looked as if she’d awakened from a time past. The beautiful chocolate color of the dressing gown heightened her penetrating gaze. The resemblance between Eleanor and Barclay was clear. They could as easily be mother and son as aunt and nephew.

  “Where is my loving mother?” Barclay asked. “I would think she’d be on pins and needles to meet her boy. Our parting was so abrupt and unexpected.” He turned his palms up. “Poof. Like magic. How can a boy resist a mother who performs magic?” Irony laced his tone.

  Eleanor was in his face in a flash. She drew her hand back to slap him. Only Barclay’s quick reflexes saved his cheek.

  “I’d planned to call you here to help me, but I see my judgment was clouded. What have you done with my sister?” Eleanor said through gritted teeth.

  Barclay held her wrist. Stepping close, he forced her back to arch away from him. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of, my dearest Aunt Eleanor?” He, too, spoke through his teeth.

  “Stop it!” I punched Barclay’s arm and he released her. Eleanor stepped back and rubbed her wrist. “Have you both lost your minds?” The Leverts provoked questions to which there was no simple answer.

  “Where’s Monica?” Eleanor was almost breathless with rage.

  The confusion on Barclay’s face seemed genuine, but I’d been duped before by a handsome face. “How should I know where Monica is? She’s not in the habit of communicating her whereabouts to me. Let’s see, the last she spoke to me or my father was to say she was going for a pack of cigarettes, or something to that effect. That was, what, thirty-five years ago?”

  “Stop it.” Eleanor’s eyes flashed danger. “Stop mocking Monica.”

  “Defensive of Mom, are you? I always dreamt of having a mother I was proud to defend. Life has its disappointments, though. I get a mother who is indefensible.”

  Although we didn’t physically move, Tinkie and I eased into the background. This was family turf, a place where we had no standing. Barclay was angry, and he had every right to be. Eleanor was protective, a role she’d obviously played since birth for Monica. The two would have to work this out, and we had no right to interfere—as long as they kept it to the verbal arena.

  “You may be her son, but that doesn’t automatically give you a place in this family.” Eleanor had plenty of backbone when put to the challenge. Maybe she’d do better at the ransom drop than I anticipated. “If Monica wanted you to be part of her life, she would have told me about you.”

  “I’m not a fool, Aunt Eleanor. I have standing. Legal standing. If put to the test, I’ll wring every last ounce due me out of you and Mommy dearest.”

  “It always comes down to money.” Eleanor’s fists clenched at her side. “Always money. You don’t care about anything else.”

  “It’s the altar where you worship. Monica left me behind so she wouldn’t have to care for me. She never even sent a birthday card—all to protect her fortune from my father, a man who would have starved rather than take a dime.”

  “Too bad you don’t take after him.”

  I thought Eleanor had taken it too far. Barclay stepped back as if he’d been slapped. The earlier blow Eleanor intended to deliver came in the form of words so cutting, even I gasped.

  “Tell Monica I’m at the Eola. She can call on me if she desires. Otherwise, my lawyer will be in touch. I advise the two of you to meet me head on rather than drag this into court. I have all the time in the world, and I’ll likely get a judge’s order allowing me to reside here at Briarcliff while we battle it out. Think of it, Auntie. Dinner at eight in the formal dining room, just the three of us.”

  Barclay stalked out of the foyer and down the front steps. A moment later his black sedan tore down the driveway.

  * * *

  Sweetie Pie was up for an outing, so I took the dogs down the path to Jerome’s cottage. Tinkie and Eleanor had to call Oscar about the ransom money. I was just as happy to be out looking for clues.

  The day was beautiful—hot and sunny, as if the night had never happened. Walking toward the cottage, I remembered the sense of someone watching in the thick fog. In the bright sunshine, with a breeze off the river and birds singing and calling, it seemed improbable. Even Sweetie acted as if her injury had been part of a nightmare.

  I came to a place in the dirt path where it was obvious a scuffle had occurred. John Hightower’s camera had flown into the underbrush somewhere near here. I had to find it. The camera would tell me a lot about what Hightower was up to at Briarcliff.

  Chablis bounced in and out of the underbrush, yapping, and I had to smile at her joy and enthusiasm. She was so puppy-like at times, but I’d seen the lioness emerge when necessary. She was, indeed, Tinkie’s child.

  The dustmop gave a bark of excitement, and I stepped off the path to see what she’d found. I wasn’t surprised when she pawed at a camera lying under a huckleberry bush. Tinkie was the photography buff, but I could manage the basic functions. I picked it up and checked to see if there was obvious damage sustained when it was thrown into the bushes. It seemed fine, so I turned it on and went to the view function.

  Hundreds of photos were cached on the memory stick. In dozens of grainy images, a horse and rider moved blurrily through the fog. Hightower had camped out in the front shrubbery near where Jerome had reported an intruder the previous night.

  Hightower had a bird’s-eye view of the horse and rider—had the weather cooperated, his pictures might have identified the rider.

  One frame captured the horse rearing over my head. An Andalusian. A magnificent animal known for its athleticism, good temperament, courage, and handsomeness. The rider’s features were lost in shadows, but he was graceful and accomplished.

  The photo reminded me of the danger I’d been in as I stood beneath the front hooves, the horse pawing the air. It was a stupendous photo that would scare the socks off Graf if he ever saw it. Which meant he never would.

  I clicked to the final image and nearly dropped the camera. For a moment I thought the glare of the hot summer sun had fogged the screen or that a trick of light was playing with the images.

  The sun beat down on my head and back, but a cold sweat popped out along my hairline. Surely this couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of fake. I stepped into the shade for a clearer view of the screen, and the horror tripled. It wasn’t a fake.

  Millicent Gentry lay in the underbrush, her neck twisted at a grotesque angle. And someone had gone to the trouble to dress her as a Shopping Barbie. She even held a Macy’s bag filled with rhinestone tiaras.

  The sensation of being wat
ched made me lower the camera and look around. Sweetie gave a low, dangerous growl, as if she, too, suddenly sniffed danger. Around me birds sang, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance there was the mournful horn of a tug on the river. Nothing had changed—except I knew someone was watching me.

  Quickly scanning the underbrush, I searched for Millicent’s body. It had to be nearby. In the photo she was partially leaned against the base of a big oak. The grounds of Briarcliff contained hundreds of old oaks.

  After half an hour of searching, I had to admit the body was nowhere in evidence. Whoever had taken the picture had either removed the body or returned the camera to a spot where it would easily be found by someone on the path to Jerome’s cottage. The killer wanted us to know he’d taken a life. This wasn’t just about ransom money now. This was about murder.

  The rules of the game had taken a drastic turn for the worse.

  17

  With the camera in hand and Sweetie right at my side, I jogged back to Briarcliff. Stepping into the shadow of the house I felt the temperature drop ten degrees. The place cast an impressive shadow uncomfortably reminiscent of a mausoleum.

  Ignoring the sensation of lingering evil, I pushed open the front door and went straight to the telephone.

  Tinkie answered her cell phone on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “At the bank. What’s wrong? You sound like someone shrank your panty hose.”

  “Come back to Briarcliff. Now.” The phone wasn’t to be trusted. I couldn’t be certain who might be listening—the pervasive sense of being watched had followed me from the woods into the house. Someone knew every move we made.

  My first instinct had been to call Gunny, but instead I waited for Tinkie and Eleanor to return. The police had to be called. No more fooling around. To put the best face possible on an ugly situation, Eleanor should be the person to contact the police.