Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “What note? Tell me from the beginning,” I prompted. I caught sight of Jitty sitting at the top of the stairs. She held her finger to her lip to warn me. Like I was stupid enough to tell Tinkie that the ghost who’d masterminded the doggie abduction was watching us?

  “Chablis went out last night to eliminate, and she disappeared. I was heartsick all night, but Oscar assured me she’d just found a little doggie friend and that she’d be home today.” Tinkie’s face collapsed, mouth widening and cheekbones scrunching into her brow. A sob issued forth. “Someone cruel and evil and mean has stolen my baby. And they want money.”

  I cleared my throat. “How much?”

  Tinkie gasped, “Five thousand.”

  I swallowed, trying hard to hang on to my nerve. “That’s not such a large amount.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Tinkie wailed again. “Oscar says he won’t pay that for a dog!”

  Once when I was playing in the woods by the river I stepped into what we called quicksand. The sensation of sinking, of going slowly deeper and deeper into muck, was one of the most terrifying experiences I’d ever had. Well, déjà vu! Only this time I was going down in my own little private cesspool of black despair. Oscar, who’d never had an original thought in his life, was going to be a tight-ass about five grand! He blew that on a round of golf with his buddies.

  “Oscar won’t pay?” I croaked.

  “ ‘Not one red cent,’ he says.” Tinkie turned her swollen face to me. “He says he won’t be blackmailed, and besides, he hates Chablis. He was delighted that she’s gone. You’ve got to help me.”

  It was karma. I deserved this. Every second of it. I’d hidden my financial troubles from the Daddy’s Girls and almost everyone else in Zinnia. Now, Tinkie had come to me for a loan. Pride goeth before a fall—and I was busted. “Tinkie, I don’t have a penny to my name.”

  “I don’t want money,” Tinkie said, eyes widening.

  “What then?”

  “I have my own money. I’m not completely stupid; I knew better than to put myself at the mercy of a man, so I’ve been socking away money in my own private account. Money isn’t an issue.” She reached out and touched my knee. “I want you to make the delivery. When they send me the instructions, I want you to take the money and rescue poor little Chablis. You’re so brave, Sarah Booth, going all these years without marrying, living out here in this big old house all alone, hoarding your independence and all. You can do this. I’d just have a heart attack and die right on the spot.”

  Karma was a tricky beast. Somewhere along the line I’d earned a break. “Of course I’ll do it, Tinkie,” I said, reaching over and gently patting her knee.

  “There’s a special hell for hypocrites.” This time it was my mother’s voice badgering me, but she wasn’t a ghost and she wasn’t talking from the grave. This was all in my head. Surely, I’d doomed myself to the hottest regions of Hades by stealing a friend’s dog and then playing the brave and daring rescuer. But what the hell? Five grand was five grand, and Chablis and Tinkie wouldn’t be permanently damaged by my little scheme.

  I slipped into my faded jeans and black leather jacket and got my car keys. I’d already sent the second note, setting the drop place and dictating the terms, which didn’t make a hill of beans since I was playing both roles in this little drama.

  “Be good,” I murmured into the cute little tufts of hair on Chablis’s head. I was going to miss the damn dog. I hadn’t realized how lonesome I was in that big, old house until I had little Chablis to keep me company. I would suffer when she was gone. It was a kind of justice.

  I hurried out of the house and drove to Tinkie’s to get the loot. She met me at the end of the drive, money in a paper sack, per the instructions I’d written.

  “Don’t let them hurt her.” Tinkie blinked back tears.

  Guilt made me twitch, but I took the money. “I won’t let anything happen to Chablis,” I promised.

  In a moment, I was riding free in the night. I drove back to Dahlia House, dropped the money, and picked up the dog.

  All the way back to Hilltop I cuddled Chablis in my jacket and felt the pain of the coming good-bye. I hadn’t expected the fur-ball to win my heart in two nights. Maybe Aunt LouLane and her cats and I had more in common than I wanted to admit.

  My headlights picked up Tinkie’s car—she was waiting at the Sweetheart Café just as I’d instructed. Well, she was actually pacing beside her car. When she recognized the Roadster, her face lit up with enough kilowatts to send a power surge through Zinnia. She ran toward me, and when she didn’t see the dog, her face fell—until I pulled Chablis out of my jacket.

  “My precious.”

  I never had a chance to say good-bye. Chablis was swept into her arms, and I was left with the cold cash and an empty place in my heart.

  “Thank you, Sarah Booth. Thank you,” she said, leaning down to the car window. “I’ve never known anyone as brave as you. You brought my darling little baby home.”

  Shame is a peculiar emotion. I blinked back tears, which Tinkie took for compassion. So she had married for money and security and she frittered away her days in idle spending and gossip. She still thought the best of me when I deserved it the least. If the money had been in the car, I would have been tempted to give it back.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, revving the engine.

  “Wait a minute,” Tinkie said, kissing Chablis’s head. The dog looked at me, longingly, I swear, and I felt another, deeper gouge in my already wounded chest region.

  “Tinkie, I—”

  “I was thinking, while I was waiting for you to bring my baby home, maybe you could help me out with something else.”

  I was all out of playing the role of friend and helper. In truth, I didn’t have enough money to save Dahlia House, but I had enough to get across the country and try to find a life. “I don’t think I’ll be in Zinnia much longer.”

  “Just listen,” Tinkie said, drumming her Red Passion nails on my car door as she cuddled Chablis to her bosom. “You’re the perfect person to do this. I wouldn’t confide in anyone else, but you’re smart and trustworthy.”

  As my soul writhed, Tinkie continued.

  “I never really knew what was at the bottom of Hamilton’s family troubles. There were so many rumors, so much gossip.” Her brow furrowed. “I want to know the truth.”

  The Garrett tragedies had happened shortly after my parents’ deaths. I’d had other things on my mind. “I vaguely remember,” I said. The Garrett family had been accused of the usual list of Southern crimes that involved everything that could be done to a relative, but most especially matricide.

  “I want to hire you to find out the truth.”

  Tinkie’s declaration caught me by surprise. “Me?”

  “You’re perfect. You understand the code of our set. Whatever you find out, you’ll keep it a secret. And you seem to have a knack for solving things.” She kissed the dog. “You got Chablis home safe and sound.”

  “What good is knowing about Hamilton’s past going to do you?” I asked. “You’re married.” It didn’t make a lot of sense.

  “I want to know.” Tinkie took a deep breath. “We all accepted the gossip and never thought to find out the truth. Well, I want the facts. If Hamilton comes home, I want to be able to look him in the face and know that I made the right decision or the wrong one. I’m tired of living my life based on perceptions and gossip.”

  “Tinkie?” I started to reach out and feel her forehead. Perceptions and gossip were the parameters of her life—of all the Daddy’s Girls’, except mine. My parameters were a lot uglier—theft and cheating for cash.

  “I mean it, Sarah Booth. This business with Oscar not wanting to pay for Chablis. That’s the final straw. I love this dog. And if Oscar really loved me, he would have given me the money. I’m only thirty-three. If I made a mistake by turning away from Hamilton, maybe it’s not too late to rectify it. But if he did all of those things …” Her eyes r
olled.

  She had a point, about Hamilton and about Oscar. Men of our class were used to laying down the law and letting the women live with the consequences. This was an interesting consequence.

  “You want me to find out his family secrets?” This didn’t sound too hard. There were plenty to pick from in every family.

  “Exactly.” Tinkie reached into the pocket of her suede jacket and brought out a slip of paper. She pushed it into my hands.

  I glanced down at a check made out for ten thousand dollars.

  “I’ll cover all expenses, and you get another ten if you find out the truth.”

  Tinkie had paid cash for Chablis, and now she was forking over another ten grand for information I could get by visiting a few town mavens. “I’ll get some answers for you,” I promised.

  “The truth, Sarah Booth. And hurry. I want to know before Hamilton gets here for Christmas. Madame Tomeeka didn’t say exactly when he’d be home, but I’m sure it’ll be for the holidays.”

  4

  A small town is a hard place to be different. It’s also a good place, because you know everyone else who’s different. That’s how I knew Cecily Dee Falcon, the society columnist for The Zinnia Dispatch.

  Though I’d not slept well, guilt being worse than a thousand needles in a soft bed, I was up early and dressed for success in wool slacks and a silk blouse. The newspaper was my third stop of the morning; the first had been the bank to deposit Tinkie’s check, cleverly written on her mother’s account. Once the moola was stashed, I strolled the two blocks to see Cece. On the way I picked up some coffee and two Danishes from the bakery. Cece loved her sweets.

  The newspaper office was small, cluttered, dirty, and a hive of activity. No one paid me much mind as I negotiated between the desks. Cece’s office was in the back, the only private office. The details of local society do’s were more closely guarded than Washington, D.C., political affairs.

  I knocked and entered, holding out the coffee and treat as a peace offering.

  “Sarah Booth,” she squealed as she stood up and rushed toward me. After air kisses on each cheek, she grabbed the pastry bag with an elegant hand adorned with bronzed two-inch nails. She peeked inside. “Cream cheese, my favorite.”

  The deliberate effort of memory for small detail is a social grace that will take a person far.

  Already biting into the Danish, she bumped the door closed with her narrow hip and went back to her desk. “What brings you to the paper?”

  The question was casual, but her eyes were not. She’d heard that Dahlia House was in trouble and though she was my friend, she was also a columnist. “I need your help,” I said.

  “Are you organizing a fund-raiser?”

  Now that wasn’t a bad idea. I’d reserve it for the future in case my job for Tinkie didn’t pan out. “No, actually, it’s the past I’m interested in. Discreetly interested.”

  “Do tell, dahling.” She reluctantly deposited the pastry on a napkin, licked her fingers, and found a pen.

  “As you no doubt know, Dahlia House is in … financial disrepair.” This was not news to her, but I had her attention. The fall of the House of Delaney would make headlines in the Delta. “I’ve decided to write a book to raise some cash.” Authors were her weakness.

  “What kind of book?”

  “Oh, fiction.” I shrugged a shoulder. “But I need a good, juicy scandal. I was thinking about the double murder of the goat man over in Natchez.”

  “No, dahling, that’s been done!” Cece pinched off a bit of Danish and popped it into her mouth. She had strong white teeth.

  “What about the Crawford love triangle?” I suggested. “She was sleeping with both of the brothers.”

  “Passé.” Cece waved her hand.

  “I need something really meaty. Something that will titillate the readers.” I paused and furrowed my brow.

  “What about the Nelsons?” she suggested. “Your daddy heard that case before—”

  “No legal thrillers,” I said quickly. “Too much competition in this state.”

  “Hummm,” she said, her face brightening. “Think Greek.”

  My first reaction was disappointment. The last thing I wanted to discuss was a stupid sorority thing. She saw my face.

  “Something e-lec-tri-fying,” she hinted.

  I had a vision of curling irons and singed hair, not the direction I wanted to go at all. “I thought you were going to help me,” I grumbled.

  “Tragedy,” she said.

  “Tragic is good,” I agreed.

  “The Greeks were the masters of tragedy, and every author from Shakespeare on has borrowed the great themes from them.”

  Cece had been magna cum laude at Ole Miss, with a double major in literature and journalism.

  “Definitely something Greek,” I agreed, wanting to tap my foot with impatience.

  “Although great tragedy is based on fact, the type of page-turner you’re talking about might rest more solidly on conjecture,” she said, nodding. “Supposition.”

  This was the alley I wanted to explore. “Such as?”

  “Do you remember the Garretts?”

  Oh, baited trap, spring shut! “From up around the prison?” I asked, all puzzlement. My minor at Ole Miss was drama.

  “Big, big house called Knob Hill. Landed, wealthy, and hot-blooded. Mr. Garrett was killed in a dove field. A hunting accident.” There was a hint of speculation in her tone.

  “Wasn’t there a son about our age?” I pressed.

  “Hamilton Garrett number five.” Cece pushed the Danish away, hands going unconsciously to her hips. “He’s a bit older, but I remember him clearly.” Her pupils dilated. “It was the Christmas parade, 1979, just after Mr. Garrett was tragically killed. Hamilton drove his father’s white Cadillac convertible, and Treena Lassiter was the homecoming queen. The whole parade, with the band and floats and Santa Claus, was coming down Main Street. Treena was in his car, waving. I was watching her, thinking how wonderful it must be to be the one picked to wear a white winter gown with a tiara, and wave and smile. Then I looked at him. Hamilton the Fifth. He was gorgeous.” She smiled. “That’s when I realized I was not a normal boy.” She shifted her bra to maximize her cleavage and accentuate the fine bones that angled out from her throat. “Hamilton went away shortly after that.”

  I’d accepted Cecil as Cecily for so long that I sometimes forgot about the trip to Sweden and the drain on the Falcon inheritance for medical bills. Cece made a good-looking woman, and she was the best society editor Zinnia had ever seen. She lived and breathed peau de soie and Belgian lace, Gucci heels and Versace designs. She brought a touch of the exotic to Zinnia, and the readers of the local paper had grown to love her.

  The sex change business had worked against her when she’d applied at The Commercial Appeal. They didn’t come right out and say so, but they didn’t hire her. Nor in Atlanta, or anywhere else. Her talent was overshadowed by her medical history. That’s how she’d ended up back in Zinnia. Home is where they have to accept you.

  “So Hamilton was your first pulse,” I said, figuring in my head. I was thirteen at the time. If Hamilton was old enough to drive, he was fifteen or sixteen. Whatever image I might have had of him on the day of that Christmas parade, it had been blotted out by the death of my parents. They had died in November, a car wreck with a drunk on their way home from Memphis. My world had been destroyed, and it was no wonder I had little recollection of Christmas parades or handsome boys.

  “Hamilton was one fine hunk of man.”

  In deference to the wistfulness in Cece’s voice, I phrased my next statement with delicacy. “I remember Hamilton’s departure was rather … hush-hush.”

  “He was loaded on a plane and sent to Europe before they could even get his mother in the ground. Sylvia, the sister, had to be institutionalized.” She licked a crumb from her bottom lip. “One finds those facts deeply interesting.” Cece was over her wistful moment and was in full-blown hypergossip
mode.

  “I never knew he had a sister.” I honestly had never heard Sylvia’s name spoken.

  “She played Electra to his Orestes.”

  In contrast to Cece, who’d left college with her brain jammed with facts and ideas, my education was experiential—I had acquired intensive knowledge of moments, men, and mistakes I didn’t want to repeat. “Electra?” I asked, wondering if she might have been a Delta Chi sister.

  “Revenge is the motif,” Cece said. “Rumor has it that Hamilton the Fifth murdered his mother at the behest of his sister.”

  “No kidding,” I answered. This was finally sounding more Southern than Greek. “Why would he kill his mother?”

  “Revenge!” Cece leaned forward. “Hamilton’s father, Hamilton the Fourth, was murdered in that dove field. It was a gruesome shooting. It was ruled an accidental death, but the gossip around town was that Hamilton the Fourth was actually murdered by his wife, Veronica Hampton Garrett. Somehow the daughter, Sylvia, discovered the plot and enlisted Hamilton the Fifth in the revenge. Supposedly, Sylvia and her mother never got along.”

  This was a dark tragedy, if there was a scrap of truth in it. The problem with Cece and the Daddy’s Girls was that fiction was as good as fact—even better if it made the story move along. “And so now, Sylvia is in a nuthouse and Hamilton is exiled to Europe.” It wasn’t hard to see which sibling got the best end of that bloody stick. Women always got screwed, even in revenge.

  “A private institution. Glen Oaks, over at Friars Point near the river. My understanding is that she committed herself, but there’s something fishy there.” Cece lifted eyebrows perfectly feathered with gel. “Most folks think she was responsible for her mother’s death, but she was never charged. Surely your father talked—” Cece put a hand over her mouth as she realized that by the time the Garretts became the source of gossip, I was an orphan.

  “It’s okay,” I said, then pressed on. “But why was Hamilton the Fourth killed in the first place?”