Bones of a Feather: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “I know the truth about her. I watched the family curse take her. Monica killed that French artist and with that single act she changed Eleanor’s heart. Monica couldn’t stand the thought Eleanor would marry away from her, so she killed him. I think Eleanor just gave up and became what Monica wanted her to be.”

  “I won’t feel sympathy for either of them,” Tinkie said. “They meant to kill me and Sarah Booth. They lured us here with the intention of using us and then killing us.”

  Tinkie was wounded by the betrayal in a way I wasn’t. I was just plain pissed off. “Let’s get in the back of the truck.”

  The rain had finally stopped, but the sky still roiled with lightning and thunder. The front was passing, moving toward Jackson and the center of the state. Meteorology-wise, the worst was over. For Tinkie and I, the darkest hour had begun. We had to defang three very dangerous snakes and hold them until help arrived.

  Jerome stopped at the front door while Tinkie and I hid in the bed of the truck. A quick look around told me Coleman was already inside. His forest green pickup was parked down the driveway.

  When Jerome knocked at the door, Eleanor gave him a halfhearted welcome. To his credit, Jerome pushed past her and went into the house. He’d entered the vipers’ den.

  As soon as the door closed, Tinkie and I ran toward the front windows the sisters had used to such advantage with false reports of breaking and entering. Looking through the glass, we had a good view into the parlor. From the scene within, it was clear that the Leverts had no clue Tinkie and I had survived the river.

  Coleman—and Cece—brandished drinks while Eleanor and Barclay paced in high drama, arms waving here and there. Eleanor even squeezed out a few tears. No doubt she was telling Coleman how Tinkie and I had bravely tried to rescue Monica—and all had perished. This was the finishing touch. By pulling Coleman, a sheriff in a nearby county, and Cece, a journalist, into the web, Eleanor and Barclay were perfecting their scam. In their plan, Coleman and Cece, grief stricken, would search for our bodies, which would conveniently reveal we’d drowned in the tunnels. The end result: Coleman would ultimately accept our deaths. My verbal report in the phone call I’d made from the riverbank at Barkley’s promping gave credence to the claim that Monica had been killed by the kidnapper. The insurance company would have no recourse except to pay off—double indemnity—a kidnapping gone wrong.

  The fly in the ointment centered around the fact we were very much alive and about to blow their world apart.

  I’d almost turned away when Millicent Gentry entered the room with a tray of snacks. I couldn’t believe it! She wasn’t dead. Hell, no. She was playing hostess for her cousins! She’d whipped out some cream cheese roll ups, a basket of hot bread and herbed butter, and those damn cheese straws that appeared at every Southern gathering, even a murder scene.

  “She’s in on it, too,” Tinkie whispered.

  “Why are we surprised? She’s a Levert. Obviously, John Hightower was supposed to find his camera with the photo of her dead corpse. I think they meant to frighten him off the book.”

  “And to think, I felt bad for her, dressed up like a stupid Shopping Barbie and left in the woods for the flies.” Tinkie was boiling.

  “I’ll bet it was one of her dolls they threw off the bridge to make me think it was Monica. And the first evening, when that object went over the cliff. They did it because we’d mentioned the ghost tour. They planned this very carefully.” Born to it or simply talented, the Leverts were master criminals.

  I signaled my partner to the back of the house. If we could slip into the kitchen, we might find a gun. Or two. Eleanor wasn’t holding one and the Leverts owned weapons, I knew that for a fact. Coleman was off duty, so he might not have a weapon on him.

  We had to use caution, though. We might also find Monica, who had to stay out of sight for obvious reasons. There was no doubt, though, she was somewhere in Briarcliff.

  Moving stealthily, we pushed at the door under the portico, which swung open without a sound. Tinkie and I were in the house. From far upstairs I heard the bay of my hound. Sweetie was alive. Chablis’s high-pitched complaint rang out, along with Roscoe’s deep grumble. The dog had a personality like W. C. Fields.

  To my delight, a loaded handgun lay on the counter beside a flour canister. Because I’d seen her in action, I gave it to Tinkie. I grasped a flashlight and a butcher knife. Bludgeon and slice. Whatever it took.

  Together we crept toward the parlor door. I wished for a way to alert Coleman and Cece. I could hear them talking. Coleman was tense. He kept asking Eleanor questions about what had happened to Tinkie and me.

  “They were so brave,” Eleanor said, her voice clotted with crocodile tears. “They went to deliver the ransom and save Monica. I tried to stop them. I begged them to let me call the local police chief, but they wouldn’t.”

  Damn, she was good!

  “They were afraid the kidnapper would kill Monica if the police became involved.” Regret and sorrow weighted Barclay’s baritone. “They put Monica’s life ahead of their own. Now they’re all three gone.”

  “We have to recover the bodies,” Coleman said. “There’s no closure without a body. Oscar will be comforted to have Chablis home. It’s all he has left of Tinkie. He’ll need that little dog to help him put his grief behind him.”

  I had the urge to smack him upside the head. Closure? Like seeing my corpse would put an end to all we’d shared? What was wrong with him? And Oscar? As if seeing Tinkie dead—and Chablis alive—would give him license to find a new wife and just get on with living. For a man who’d once claimed to love me, Coleman sure wasn’t taking my death very hard.

  “We all knew this would happen to Sarah Booth and Tinkie eventually,” Cece said. “We tried to talk them out of this P.I. business, but those girls, heads as hard as coconuts.”

  Tinkie and I exchanged a look. Oh, Cece was so going to hear about this later. There we were, dead and obviously floating down the river, and all she had to say was how stubborn we were!

  That was the blast of adrenaline we needed. Tinkie and I lunged into the room with weapons at the ready. “Monica is alive! It’s a scam!” I screamed.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  A figure in black firing a handgun appeared on the stairs. Bullets exploded in walls and the floor. Barclay bolted over the sofa, heading for me and Tinkie, but before he could make it halfway, Coleman shot him in the leg.

  He just whipped his gun out, aimed, and fired without a second’s hesitation. Millicent threw the tray of food at him, but Coleman ducked, and Cece karate-chopped the undead wench in the throat with a blow that dropped her to her knees, choking and gagging.

  Acting on instinct and with a speed I never knew I possessed, I hurled myself across the open space toward Monica. She’d come out of her hidey-hole in the mansion, but I was ready for her. I brought the flashlight down across her gun arm with such force I thought I heard bone snap. And then I used the heel of my palm against her chin. Watching Jackie Chan movies was not a waste of time. She went down hard, and I kicked the gun out of her unresisting fingers.

  Jerome threw Eleanor to the floor, then covered her with his body. Even knowing what she was, he protected her.

  Tinkie and I were left panting side by side.

  “Quick reaction,” I said to Coleman. I was still smarting at his easy dismissal of my death. “I see grief didn’t slow you down at all.”

  His easy smile broke across his face. “Why, Sarah Booth, I see that reports of your death are greatly exaggerated.” He pulled me hard against his chest and held me, and I could feel his heart pounding.

  “I’m not hurt,” I whispered.

  His answer was to grip my hair and hold me tighter for a long moment until he released me. “Of course you aren’t,” he said.

  “You knew I wasn’t dead?” I looked at Cece, who was also smiling.

  “Dahling, you are too mean to die. That one, too.” She pointed at Tinkie.


  “You knew they were up to something. How?” I demanded.

  “Barclay.” Cece gave him a long look of regret. “Such a pity. He could have made a fortune as a gigolo.” She turned to me. “I was obsessed with him. So handsome. So charming. Such a liar. The whole story of his birth and abandonment was just a crock of shit, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, dahling. Once I really started looking, I realized a con was in progress.”

  “How did you know it was the sisters?” I asked. With my wet boot—the second pair I’d ruined in this case—I prodded Monica, who was out like a sack of stones. Her teeth were a total mess, and I wondered if the Mississippi state prison at Parchman had a dental plan.

  “We didn’t,” Coleman said. “But we were prepared for a double cross. The minute you rushed into the room, we knew. We were primed to react.”

  “Get an ambulance!” Barclay demanded. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Blood will tell,” I told him.

  “But it often tells too much,” Cece concluded. “I learned that from Don Marquis, who created an intelligent cockroach. This is the perfect ending for a man who came to town as one literary figure and will go to jail with his kith and kin.”

  Coleman helped Jerome off Eleanor, but she remained prone since he had a gun pointed at her. “It’s time to call the local police,” Coleman said. “I spoke with Gunny on the way over here. He’s on standby. He’s suspected the Leverts for a long, long time, and he’s been watching them. Now he can charge them with a long list of crimes.”

  “You call Gunny,” I told him. “I’m going to free the dogs.”

  * * *

  The sun rose as yellow as the yoke of a yard egg. I sipped a cup of coffee on the front porch of Dahlia House while Sweetie snored at my feet. Roscoe, incorrigible as ever, was right beside her. Later today, Harold was coming for an adoptive parent meeting with the evil—but charming—pooch. In his devious heart, I think Harold was hoping Roscoe would continue with his Dumpster-diving ways in Zinnia and stir up the local gossip. The dog had a reputation throughout the entire Delta, and while Harold emulated “proper,” there was a deep vein of mischief in his soul. Since there were no unjailed Leverts to care for the dog, Harold had agreed to take him on.

  On the other hand, it seemed that Lucifer, the Andalusian, would remain at Dahlia House and had a date with destiny in the form of Dr. Patrick Cleveland. He would have to be gelded.

  Jerome continued at Briarcliff. For the moment he was out on bond, pending a deal with the prosecutor. Whatever happened, he didn’t want the responsibility of the horse. Monica had confessed to beating John Hightower and she, Eleanor, and Barclay would be in jail for a long, long time. Millicent’s involvement was yet to be determined, but there was no doubt she’d serve some time. Gunny was still sorting through the tangle of lies and falsehoods the Levert family had generated.

  Speaking of falsehoods … I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and put it on the wicker table beside my chair. I owed Graf a call. I’d wrangled Cece into calling him to say that I was fine and would call today. He’d been curious, but not suspicious. And that troubled me.

  Tinkie and I had almost been killed. Again. And I’d promised Graf I would protect his heart. Yet even with the best of intentions, I’d ended up facing danger. Tinkie had, too. Oscar, once he got over the joy of having her safely home and began asking for details of the case, would be angry with us.

  And our men had every right to be upset. But Tinkie and I also had a right to our careers. Where was the middle ground in this impasse?

  Sweetie’s tail thumped a tango beat and Roscoe growled and grumbled in his sleep.

  “Pull on your big-girl panties and give that man a call.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment before I opened them to find Joan Collins, one hand on her hip, posed on the steps of Dahlia House. Her dark hair was messy perfection and her leopard-print jumpsuit, tight in all the right places, was perfectly accented with patent-leather stilettos made of tiny crisscrossing straps. Those were some sexy shoes! The giveaway was the beautiful mocha complexion. Jitty had come to call.

  “I’ll call him,” I told her.

  “Then do it.” She mounted the steps with her hips wagging in a way that would make a grown man quiver. Impersonating the Dynasty television icon, Jitty had some deadly moves.

  “It’s not even daybreak in Hollywood,” I reminded her.

  “If you run your love life like an efficient train depot, you’re gonna kill all feelin’. Who cares what time it is? You nearly drowned, and you slugged it out with an evil vixen. Call that man and let him know you’re glad to be alive.” She grinned. “Make him glad to be alive. A little randy talk long distance can be a good thing.”

  I frowned. “If I wake up a man whose job is to look rested and compelling for the camera, what kind of fiancée am I?”

  “The kind that puts a smile on a man’s face.” She walked toward me and I thought of the big cat whose fake spots she wore. She was beautiful and dangerous.

  “So why Joan instead of Jackie? Both are beautiful, talented women. Why did you pick the actress?”

  Jitty didn’t hesitate. “Joan lived life. Jackie wrote about it. Which would you rather be, a doer or a documenter?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  She shrugged. “One thing about being dead—I don’t worry about fair no more. But I do worry about you, Sarah Booth. You don’t use the skills god gave you. Call that man. Make him long for you. Whisper those words that make him groan with desire. Then gloss over this whole mess and move on to some steamy phone sex.” She arched one eyebrow, and her lips, so red with lipstick, curved into a smile. “You think Tinkie is drinkin’ coffee, worryin’ about things?”

  She had me there. Tinkie was far smarter than I was when it came to the opposite sex. “I don’t want to trick or manipulate Graf.”

  “Oh, dear lord. You are dumber than a sack of rocks!” She threw up her hands.

  “Hey!” Jitty was always bossy, but seldom belittling.

  “Call that man. Make him feel how much you love him and want him and miss him. That’s not manipulation, that’s reality. Give him a taste of yours, Sarah Booth. You’re sittin’ out here in the dawn thinkin’ of him, wantin’ him to love you despite your hardheaded ways. Don’t lie to him about the sisters and don’t linger on the facts. Keep the focus on how you feel about him.”

  Even as I resisted, I heard the wisdom in her words. “Will he forgive me?” I realized then how much I dreaded Graf’s reaction. What if he decided he couldn’t risk his heart? What if he felt I’d broken his trust?

  Jitty did a brisk about face and strutted to the door of Dahlia House. “If my man were in Hollywood, I’d be on the first flight out there. I’d give my explanations with my hands moving over his wonderful, virile body.”

  I stood up abruptly. Jitty—or Joan—was dead on. Tinkie would take care of the dogs and Lee would mind the horses if I took a weeklong trip to see my man. Once things were solid with Graf, I could focus on the rest of my life.

  And my next case.

  ALSO BY CAROLYN HAINES

  SARAH BOOTH DELANEY MYSTERIES

  Bone Appétit

  Greedy Bones

  Wishbones

  Ham Bones

  Bones to Pick

  Hallowed Bones

  Crossed Bones

  Splintered Bones

  Buried Bones

  Them Bones

  NOVELS

  Revenant

  Fever Moon

  Penumbra

  Judas Burning

  Touched

  Summer of the Redeemers

  Summer of Fear

  NONFICTION

  My Mother’s Witness: The Peggy Morgan Story

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BONES OF A FEATHER. Copyright © 2011 by Carolyn Haines. All rights reserved. F
or information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Haines, Carolyn.

  Bones of a feather : a Sarah Booth Delaney mystery / Carolyn Haines.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-59502-9

  1. Delaney, Sarah Booth (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Mississippi—Fiction. 3. Heiresses—Mississippi—Fiction. 4. Kidnapping—Fiction. 5. Mississippi—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A329B655 2011

  813'.54—dc22

  2011005105

  First Edition: June 2011

  eISBN 978-1-4299-7013-6

  First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: June 2011