Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “I’ll meet you back at Briarcliff in two hours. And I’ll take Chablis with me. She’s prone to heat stroke.” She blew me a kiss before she left to go back to the manor, hopefully to get Eleanor to talk. I was left with the yellow flies, gnats, and mosquitoes—until Roscoe burst from beneath a thick, prickly bush. Sweetie was right behind him.

  “Make yourself useful and find Millicent,” I told him.

  He put his nose in the air and sniffed, then snuffled along the ground. Sweetie followed suit, and the two dogs took off in the underbrush. I had no choice but to run after them as fast as I could.

  Four hundred acres is a lot of territory to cover on foot, especially if it’s wooded. My cell phone had a compass, which might have been somewhat useful to keep me going in a general direction—had I not finally discovered that the battery was not just dead but damaged. No wonder it wouldn’t hold a charge. As I trudged through the woods I thought about the Girl Scout meetings Mrs. Freeman hosted in her two-story home. She’d attempted to interest us Sunflower County girls in the arts of compass and map reading, proper table settings, honorable conduct, and home décor. Glancing at the sun and trying to aim for a westerly direction, I wished I’d been more tractable.

  A soft voice, Victorian in phrasing and clear with melancholy, made me stop and turn around.

  “Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill: / I’ve felt its icy clasp; / And, shuddering, I remember still … / That stony-hearted grasp. / Thine eye bids love and joy depart: / Oh, turn its gaze from me! / It presses down my shrinking heart; / I will not walk with thee!” The young woman coming toward me wore a floor-length gown of gray flannel that must have been stifling in the summer heat.

  Moving between the bright sun and the shadows, she was more vision than real. Perhaps I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. My only fear was that Sweetie and Roscoe would get so far ahead I couldn’t find them.

  “Who are you?” I asked, when she stopped and lingered in the shade of two leafy sycamores. It struck me that she could easily be a ghost.

  “You know my sister’s work far better than my own.”

  If not a ghost than a riddler. I had no patience. “Step forward.”

  She did so, and I saw she carried a book. Her hair was styled in ringlets from a center part and gathered at each ear—most unattractive. “Who is your sister? Or better yet, who the hell are you?”

  “I am Anne Brontë, Emily’s sister. You’re drawn to the men who populate her world, especially those who forego good manners for passion. You, Sarah Booth Delaney, are addicted to passion.”

  “I am no such thing. Come out of the shadows.” I wasn’t certain who—or what—I was dealing with and it unnerved me a little, but I doubted the spirit of a Brontë sister was walking the woods. The dark halls of Briarcliff, or the dense woods, might be home to any number of lunatics with delusions of literary grandeur, but not a genteel Brontë.

  “Whatever pleases you, madam.” She stepped forward, and the sunlight caught her beautiful mocha skin.

  “Jitty!” She’d tricked me. I should have caught on to her more quickly, and it irked me that she’d had me going. “Aren’t you about to sweat to death in that getup? Even ghosts surely feel the oppressive August weather.”

  “Ladies glow, they don’t sweat.” She clung to the stiff and proper phrasing and pronunciation. “I don’t believe sweat was ever a condition applied to me or my sisters.”

  “Okay, you don’t sweat. Pardon me. But you also don’t look well.” She wasn’t sweating, and though her skin was lovely, there was a hint of dark bruising beneath her eyes and she gave a tiny cough into a white tatted handkerchief. When she lowered it, I saw it was spotted with blood. Why she’d chosen the persona of a seriously ill young woman, I couldn’t guess. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “The moors are not a healthy climate for me. I’m the youngest and most delicate of the living sisters. Death has haunted my family, but it’s such a fine topic for poetry.”

  I wracked my brain trying to remember my literature classes. I’d been more of a Poe fan, but the gothic creations of Emily Brontë had remained with me. The work of Anne, the youngest of the Brontë brood, was not as familiar. She’d died young, I remembered that. “Tuberculosis.” At last I put my finger on it.

  “Very good.” She smiled wanly.

  “Why are you appearing as Anne?” I asked Jitty. She always had a reason—normally one that had to do with my inadequate womb action. Lately, though, she’d given my fertility issues a rest. My miscarriage had made her slightly more compassionate, at least in that category.

  “Emily and I created a fantasy world. We escaped there whenever our real world became too oppressive. When two minds create together, reality can be breached. We made Golan. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  I had, but only a mention. As I remembered it, no one knew much about this mental terrain of the youngest Brontë girls. “Tell me about it. Or better yet, tell me why it’s important. I really don’t have time to stand around discussing literature.”

  “From the unhappiness of reality, Emily and I escaped to Golan. We were able to create a world suited to our sensibilities.” She smiled. “Emily was my anchor. She was so much stronger than I. So much hungrier. And then she created Heathcliff, a man of such dark passions the world remembers her. Her creation became bigger than her.”

  The sunlight had begun to penetrate her and in the distance I heard Sweetie strike another trail. “Jitty, what are you telling me?” It was wasted effort to ask. She never came right out and told her what was behind her costumes or periods. I had to figure it out for myself. It was, undoubtedly, one of the rules from the Great Beyond.

  She shook her head. “Danger is never where you expect it, Sarah Booth.” Her stilted Victorian speech began to lessen and her dark, hot dress grew transparent. “When the world was so treacherous, who would have thought TB would get me?” And then she was gone.

  “Baaaaayoooo-eeeee!” Sweetie’s excited yodel filtered through the bright green woods, bringing me back to the moment and the job at hand.

  “Millicent Gentry,” I said softly to myself. Had the dogs found her body? I wished for the company of my partner, but Tinkie was pursuing another thread. It was up to me to march forward and see what the dogs had sniffed out.

  Jitty might have presented herself as Anne Brontë, but it was Wuthering Heights that infected my imagination as I stepped off the path and into the woods.

  Trying to follow Sweetie’s insistent bay, I was totally unprepared for the root that caught my foot and sent me sprawling. I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and for a moment I thought I was seriously injured, perhaps paralyzed.

  “Miss Delaney, are you okay?”

  The unexpected male voice sent me turtling onto my back. Digging my heels into the ground, I pushed to escape.

  “Sarah Booth!”

  I looked into the dark visage of Barclay Levert. True to form he wore a black T-shirt and jeans that showed off every muscular inch of a long, lean body. He was hotter than Chinese mustard on an August day.

  The image of Jitty as one of the Brontë sisters came to mind—had she conjured this man in the woods, perhaps summoned him with her supernatural mojo? How far did Jitty’s powers extend? Was Anne just a teaser to the appearance of Emily’s most thrilling Heathcliff?

  Barclay knelt beside me, his strong, capable hands easing beneath my shoulder blades and lifting me up as if I were dandelion fluff. “Relax and breathe,” he said, his strong fingers massaging my back. “Don’t fight it. Just relax.”

  I tried to do what he said, but I sounded like a seal barking for attention.

  “Sarah Booth, relax your diaphragm.” He placed a hand below my breasts and pressed gently. “Let the oxygen in.”

  His touch was hot and electric and I finally drew in a gulp of air. I coughed and pushed him away. “What the hell are you doing here?” I managed.

  “Looking for you and Mrs. Richmond. Ther
e was no one at the house, and I heard the frantic barking and howling of the dogs. It concerned me, so I came to the woods.” He looked in the direction of the dogs’ cries. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “You could say that.” I tried to ease away from him, but he took my arms and pulled me to my feet as he stood. The man had the grace of a panther. My diamond engagement ring winked in the sunlight and brought me to my senses.

  “Where is everyone? What are those dogs chasing?”

  From charmed I went to annoyed. Barclay asked questions as if I owed him an answer. I didn’t want to tell him that I was likely on the trail of Millicent Gentry’s dead body. In fact, I didn’t want to tell him a damn thing. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Breathing easily at last, I tried to step away from him, but my knees wobbled and he grabbed me to hold me up. “I have to get my dog,” I said without a lot of conviction.

  “I’ll help you.”

  I shook my head. “I have it covered.” He needed to leave so I could find Sweetie and whatever she and Roscoe had unearthed. A witness was the last thing I wanted.

  His strong fingers captured my upper arms, and he held me so I couldn’t avoid his gaze. Staring deep into his eyes, I saw concern, compassion, a hint of annoyance, and a large dose of impatience. My body also registered the dark edge of passion, barely contained and decidedly delicious. He was sex on a stick! Had I cast a movie of Wuthering Heights, Barclay would have made the perfect Heathcliff.

  “Millicent was supposed to meet me for breakfast this morning,” he said, his thumbs working gentle circles on my arms. “She never showed. She said she had information on the sisters that could put the estate in a trust with me overseeing it. She did everything but promise to put the deed to Briarcliff in my hands.” His lips thinned. “But she wanted something. A trade. I told her I’d consider her proposal, and then she didn’t show up for our meeting.”

  He was angry, which made me believe he didn’t know she’d missed her appointment due to circumstances beyond her control, like death. “What information did she have?”

  “She was supposed to tell me the details this morning. Something about the ruby necklace. She never showed at the café. She wasn’t home, and I can’t find a trace of her in town.” His temper flared. “If she’s toying with me…”

  The dogs’ barking hit high frenzy and I eased a half step away from him. “Barclay, I have to go. I’ll have Eleanor call you.”

  “I’m not leaving.” His smile was lazy now. He’d found a way to curb his natural impatience—by annoying the stew out of me.

  “You have to go. Now.” I pointed toward Briarcliff. “I have something to do.”

  He reached over and pushed a wayward curl from my cheek. His fingertips were warm, slightly roughened. His touch made my gut twist. I didn’t want to react, and I had no intention of letting him know how much he worked on me, but I was only human.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you,” he said. “I’ve been shut out of the Levert matters long enough. I’m a rightful heir. You know it.”

  My options were limited. I could go back to Briarcliff with Barclay, or I could let him accompany me in my search.

  “Sweetie!” I called, realizing too late that the minute my hound appeared with Roscoe, Barclay would realize Millicent played a role in whatever I was doing. Sure enough, Sweetie came bounding down the trail with Roscoe biting her back legs like a heeler. Instead of snapping at him, Sweetie sat on her haunches and spun around to lick his evil little bearded face. She was obviously in love with a dog that looked like Robert De Niro portraying Louis Cyphre in Angel Heart.

  “Isn’t that Roscoe, Millicent’s dog?” Barclay asked, his eyes narrowing as his gaze shifted from the butt-biting canine to me.

  “Is it?” I tried for nonchalance.

  “You know it is. Where’s Millicent?”

  I could answer that without lying. “I don’t know.”

  Before I got any deeper along the slippery slope of avoiding a real answer, the dogs spun and lit out through the woods again. This time Barclay didn’t wait for me. He jumped out ahead of me, hot on the dogs’ trail. His legs, long and powerful, gave him an advantage, and I had to resort to a flat-out run to keep up.

  Silently cursing Barclay, the dogs, and Millicent, I concentrated on keeping up with his broad shoulders as he jumped and wove through the foliage. When he stopped suddenly, I almost smacked into him.

  “What the hell…” His voice faded to nothing.

  I leaned around him. Dozens of rhinestone crowns were scattered around the ground, along with one silver high-heeled shoe. “Those belong to Millicent. They’re part of her doll room collection. Shopping Barbie or something like that. Something has happened to her and you know what it is!”

  He grew louder, and in a split second, Sweetie was at my side, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. No one threatened me when Sweetie was near. Roscoe followed her lead and also began to growl at Barclay.

  I held up a hand. “I was looking for her. I found a photo…” I ground to a stop. “I’m afraid Millicent has been murdered.” There was no way to sugarcoat this truth. “There was a photo of her body here in the woods, with those tiaras. It looked like her neck had been broken.”

  “Who would do such a thing? She was a little wacky, but she didn’t deserve to die.” Barclay reached into his pocket and brought out his cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Calling the authorities. Listen, Sarah Booth, I know you’ve gone along with Eleanor and her wishes, but it’s time to get the pros in here. We need a forensic pathologist, some crime-scene experts. This changes everything. Someone is dead.”

  His reasoning paralleled my own, but I found myself making Eleanor’s argument. Millicent’s death did change everything. If she was killed by the person holding Monica hostage, then killing Monica would be no big deal. A person couldn’t be executed twice. The stakes had risen considerably now.

  “Wait.” I touched Barclay’s hand holding the phone. “Don’t.” I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “We can’t risk Monica.”

  “Monica, my eye. You say Millicent is dead. Maybe the Levert sisters killed her because she was going to tell me what I needed to know to claim my heritage.”

  Wasn’t that just like a man? To jump to the only possibility that involved him. I slapped the phone from his hand and stomped it. “Everything is about you, right? The whole world is involved in a conspiracy to keep you from your just rewards.”

  I thought for a moment he might strike me. His face darkened and his eyes shot forks of lightning, but he gained control of himself and took a long deep breath. He smiled, but it was bitter instead of humorous. “So Eleanor bought your soul. How much? What’s the price?”

  “Monica’s life depends on what we do for the next”—I checked my watch—“eleven hours. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I think Millicent can wait that long.”

  He made a sound of disgust.

  “Your mother’s life may depend on it. If we call in the authorities and the person holding Monica sees, he may kill your mother. Tinkie and Eleanor are trying to pull together a ransom. This should be over by midnight. Can’t you—”

  He pushed past me and headed back toward Briarcliff. I picked up Barclay’s cell phone and shoved it in my pocket. I’d likely ruined it, but no point leaving it at a crime scene. As much as he annoyed me, I didn’t want to set him up for a murder he didn’t commit, and I had no sense that he was involved in Millicent’s death. In fact, he’d lost something—validation of his claim.

  “Hey, Barclay!” I jogged to catch up with him.

  “Piss off,” he said, never slowing.

  “Wait a minute. What do you think Millicent was going to tell you?”

  “Oh, let me consult my magic ball and see. Hummm. There it is. She was going to give me evidence that the sisters are mentally incompetent and that I am the person who should control the estate.” />
  I tugged at his T-shirt. “Why would Millicent do that?”

  He stopped, curiosity dawning on his face. “Because she hated the sisters more than she hated me?” But it was a question not a statement of fact. “It is odd. I never even questioned her motive.”

  “There had to be something in it for her. If she acknowledged that you’re the rightful heir, she in essence gave up her claim to controlling the estate when the sisters died.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  He was asking me? I had no clue why the Leverts did two thirds of what they did. “There had to be some gain to her. But what? Did she say anything at all that might give you a clue?”

  “She talked about the ruby necklace. She said the whole legend that Barthelme buried a necklace with each of his brides was made up to cover the fact that—and I quote—‘the old outlaw and every generation since had turned a profit on that necklace.’ I took it to mean the insurance money. I asked her what she meant, and she said she wanted me to sign a document pledging half the estate to her.”

  I must have looked worried, because Barclay’s demeanor changed. “What did she mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. But something niggled in my brain.

  “Will you tell me when you figure it out?”

  “If you promise not to tell the police about Millicent. I’ll call them as soon as Monica is safely home. And you have to tell me about the horse in the stables.” I could drive a hard bargain when it suited me.

  “That’s easy. I don’t know a thing about a horse.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Tinkie’s Cadillac pulled up at Briarcliff, followed shortly by Eleanor in her Mercedes. Barclay and I rose from the chairs we’d moved outside beneath a bower of Seven Sisters roses. When Eleanor saw Barclay, she frowned. She strode ahead of Tinkie, who carried Chablis and had to navigate on three-inch heels. Somewhere along the way she’d managed a wardrobe change.

  “What are you doing here?” Eleanor demanded of Barclay. She glanced back at her car, and I knew she’d brought the money for the ransom. No wonder Barclay made her anxious.