Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Now what’s on your mind?”

  “History,” I answered sweetly.

  “An antebellum theme!” he enthused. “I love those Old South parties. I make the best bourbon-soaked ham. Put out some home-baked biscuits and greens, and you got a party.”

  My stomach growled long and deep. “I’m not planning a party, but I’ll keep your menu in mind.” I took a breath. “I’m writing a book.” This had become the most serviceable lie in the history of whoppers.

  “You always were a little peculiar, Sarah Booth. I thought New York had cured you of such foolishness. Book writin’ and actin’ are career cousins. You know, folks around here thought you’d gone off to have a love child or been put in an institution. No one really believed you’d gone to be an actress. So what kind of book are you writing anyway?”

  “A murder mystery,” I said, leaning forward and making my eyes as big as possible. “It’s about a man who gets murdered in a dove field by his wife’s lover.” His gaze shifted to the door. “Then just when it looks like the perfect crime has been committed, wham! the wife meets an untimely death—an accident. Something involving an automobile. What do you think?” In the silence that followed I heard a calf bawling.

  “I’m not much of a mystery reader,” Fel said finally. “Sounds more like something for a made-for-TV movie. Seems I saw something that went that way last year.”

  “As county coroner, you’d know about every death that occurred here, wouldn’t you?” I pressed.

  “I don’t remember every case that comes along,” he said. “Fact is, I try to forget as much as possible.”

  “You’d remember the Garrett deaths, wouldn’t you?”

  “Old man Garrett got shot in a dove field. I remember.” Fel shifted in his seat.

  The calf bawled again, this time with pain. One thing I wouldn’t forget was the brutal nature of Fel’s surroundings.

  “Are you sure Hamilton Garrett the Fourth’s death was an accident?”

  He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the groaning of the springs. His small eyes assessed me.

  “Mr. Garrett was sitting on the ground when he was shot,” he said. “He was carrying a Remington pump and it had been fired once, the spent casing still in the chamber. The gun was on the ground beside him, pointing right at him. There were dog tracks all around. Isaac Carter was working a couple of retrievers, and I figured it was those dogs that had been there.” He sat forward. “Mr. Garrett wasn’t a huntin’ man. Pasco Walters and I assessed the situation and figured that Mr. Garrett sat down and rested his gun on a stump. One of the dogs, all excited like dogs get, knocked it. When he reached for it, he wasn’t careful. One little touch on the trigger … Now that’s one way of lookin’ at it. The best way.”

  Best for whom? “Another way would be that someone sneaked up on him, grabbed his gun, and shot him.”

  His eyes became hard and his mouth tightened. “You tell me which one of those seven men you want: to accuse of murder. Especially when the widow is claiming accidental death. Keep in mind that no one wanted a ruling of suicide, which is more likely than murder.”

  Fel had a point. “What about Mrs. Garrett? Veronica was killed only a few months later.”

  Fel nodded and his eyes went to the doorway once again. “Car wreck. She was a beautiful woman before she went through the windshield. Awful accident.”

  “Another accident, right?”

  Fel’s eyebrows lifted. “That woman died from injuries she got in the wreck. She went through the windshield face-first. That was all I could say; all I ever said.”

  “Rumor has it that her brake lines were cut.”

  He gave me a black look. “I’m the coroner, not an auto mechanic.” He was across the room fast, his finger pointing out the door and down the hall. “Get out of here. I can’t be wastin’ my time with foolishness like this.”

  I let him escort me to the door. “Where can I find Pasco Walters?”

  He smiled. “Try Cedar Lawn Cemetery.” He slammed the door in my face.

  Damn! Cedar Lawn Cemetery. So Pasco Walters, former sheriff of Sunflower County, was dead. There were certainly a lot of dead folks involved in this case. It struck me that perhaps the sheriff was also the victim of foul play.

  Unbidden, Hamilton the Fifth’s handsome face came back to me and I felt as if Mr. Jack Frost himself had whispered icy kisses along my spine. Was he capable of murder? Of murdering his own mother? It was something I had to find out, and I realized that it wasn’t only for Tinkie’s money.

  11

  The Sunflower County Courthouse is centered on a square of land bordered by chestnut trees. A statue of Johnny Reb guards the front entrance, and there is a memorial plaque to the men of our country who died in the War Between the States. I have never passed the statue of the bedraggled and poorly clothed soldier without thinking long and hard about the psychology of war. I always end up angry. My personal theory is that women would refuse to participate in such foolishness. Certainly the Daddy’s Girls, who would find the hardships and lack of adequate hygiene enough to put an end to the fighting after the first three hours. It’s not that Daddy’s Girls don’t want their way on global issues, it’s just that they prefer less messy tactics.

  Inside the courthouse, the smell of old dust is pervasive and comforting. As a child, I came here with my father to attend to tax business or courtroom work. I hid in the nooks and crannies of the old building, spying and eavesdropping on anyone who passed. During some of the more interesting cases, I would sit in the judge’s chamber with the door cracked and listen to the trial, judging my father’s mood by the power with which his gavel cracked down. Daddy never denied me the freedom to listen to the criminal trials, though Mama did her best to discourage it. She felt exposure to the baser human acts would warp me. Perhaps she was right.

  Walking into the rotunda, I realized that I took the operation of the county for granted. I’d never thought to consider where a death certificate might be filed, or where the coroner’s reports would be. So I headed down to the sheriff’s office, where Coleman Peters currently held office.

  Coleman was two years older than me, a boy whose father sharecropped on the Bellcase plantation. I remembered him as a linebacker on the Sunflower High football team, a big boy who did his duty without flinching.

  “Why, Sarah Booth Delaney,” Coleman said, rising to his feet from behind a desk. “What in the world could we possibly do to help you?”

  It is true that up until recent years, people of a certain social status took care of their problems without interference from the law. Cops were hired for the middle class. The highest and lowest rungs of society were basically left to their own devices.

  “Coleman Peters,” I said, surprising myself at the pleasure I felt in seeing an old friend. “Imagine you as the chief law enforcement officer in this county. I remember when you used to kick butt on the gridiron.”

  “I’m still kicking butt,” he said, grinning wider. “You’re not being stalked or anything, are you?”

  I considered fabricating a tale to meet his expectations, but then I realized that Harold might get caught in the snare. That would not be a good thing. “I’m writing a book,” I answered, watching the interest fade from his eyes. “I need to see some of the old county records.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “Fiction. A murder mystery.” I could see that Coleman didn’t differentiate between fact and fiction. If it was written down, it was liable to be dangerous. “I’m interested in 1979.”

  “If it’s a murder, the best records may be down in the circuit clerk’s. That’s where the trial notes are.”

  Score one for Coleman. “Wouldn’t the notes from a crime scene be here?” There had never been a trial in this case, but I didn’t want to get into that technicality.

  “In the back. Things are kind of a mess, but you’re welcome to look.” He twisted his gun belt. “Me and Carlene
are getting a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, surprised at the revelation. It would normally take a dental instrument to extract a detail like this from a man like him. I remembered Carlene as one of the bouncy little cheerleaders. She had a big mouth, a big butt, and big bosoms. She was chronically “cute.”

  “Is it true you never married?” he asked.

  This was not good. This was definitely not good. Coleman was getting personal. “Marriage just isn’t the road for me.”

  “You like men, don’tcha?”

  I closed my eyes. “About half the time.” Before he could sort through it, I hurried into the back. Things were a mess, but I found the jail docket and other records in chronological order, and I started plundering.

  Pasco Walters’s initial report was neither hard to find nor very informative. The facts, as recorded, matched what Fel and Delo had told me. Tucked in the file was Fel Harper’s report, which pronounced the time of death to be 5:10 P.M. on the evening of October twenty-third. I noted that Fel had listed the time of death as the time the body had been found. According to Delo, Guy Garrett had been stiff by then.

  There were several black-and-white photographs of the crime scene. One showed a body covered with an old spread, and beside it a tall, lanky lawman who had to be Pasco Walters. I examined his face and remembered him from trips to the courthouse with my father. I had thought him very handsome, and I remembered how he tugged my braids and teased me.

  This photo showed none of his humor. He was tense and serious, actually very authoritative looking. I would have voted for him for sheriff.

  I read through a few more reports, enjoying the sensation of being alone and privy to the sordid details of the past. I was about to move on to Veronica’s file when a shadow fell across my notebook. I turned to confront a tall, slender man in a deputy’s uniform.

  “You find what you need?” he asked, his face in shadow.

  I closed the notebook. “Some of it.” He stepped closer and I saw he was staring at me in a way that was deliberately meant to intimidate.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked.

  “I’m writing a book,” I said, feeling the need to rise to my feet. When I was standing, he was still a good six inches taller than I was. He lacked the broad-shouldered physique of Hamilton the Fifth, but he had an edginess that was compelling. He blocked the exit, his hand resting on the butt of his gun like some High Noon marshal.

  “I heard you’re interested in the past,” he said.

  “Like I said, I’m writing a book.” I closed Hamilton’s folder, hoping he hadn’t seen much. My gut instinct was telling me not to reveal what I was hunting for, and to get out of there as quickly as I could. I would have to come back another time to probe the death of the last Mrs. Hamilton Garrett.

  “Folks are touchy about the past,” he said quietly. He took a step closer so that the minimal light glinted in his eyes. He looked down at the records I’d been examining. “1979. That would be about the time Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was shot.”

  I considered calling out for Coleman, but that would show I was frightened. There are certain types of men who take great pleasure in frightening women. I suspected that the deputy blocking my path might be one of them. “Excuse me,” I said, starting to brush past him.

  His hand found the exact same place where Hamilton Garrett the Fifth had gripped me. He leaned down so that he whispered in my ear. “It might be wise to postpone this little writing project for a while.”

  I twisted free of him with minimum effort. “Who do you think you are?” It was spoken like a true Daddy’s Girl.

  “Deputy Gordon Walters. Pasco’s son.”

  His hand was no longer on me but his eyes held me. He had the eyes of a hunter. “Law enforcement seems to run in the family,” I said.

  His chest moved up and down slowly. “Take a word of warning and stay away from Knob Hill and everyone associated with it,” he said. “The only thing you’ll find in the past is ghosts.”

  By the time I pulled up under the big oak tree at Tammy Odom’s house, I was armed to the teeth with facts and even more opinions. The “investigation” of Hamilton Garrett the Fourth’s death was sloppy. There was no public record of the men who’d allegedly been hunting with Guy Garrett on that day. I had only the list of Buddy Clubbers that Delo had given me. A bit more digging via a phone call to Cece had turned up that Pasco Walters had died in the Mississippi River in 1980. He’d run his cruiser off the side of a bridge and drowned. I’d stopped by Billie’s Garage but found it closed.

  As I got out of the car, I saw Tammy sitting in the shadows on the porch. It was late afternoon, and she was rocking slowly.

  “Claire said you’d probably be by to see me,” she said, rising. “Come on in. I put on coffee about five minutes ago.”

  “Dahlia is beautiful,” I said, following her inside. “And Claire, too. She’s a good mother.”

  “Yes, and smart, too. I miss her.”

  I wasn’t certain what to say. Tammy had forced Claire from her house, had sent her packing to Mound Bayou. “What about school?” I finally asked.

  “She’s doing good. I think she’ll get that scholarship to Ole Miss.” Tammy turned and smiled at me. “Times have changed since I was a girl.”

  They had indeed. And in this instance, for the better. “What about the baby?”

  “She can come here, stay with me while Claire gets her degree.” Tammy shook her head. “When Claire was born, I was so frightened, I didn’t get a chance to enjoy her.”

  Now seemed as good a time as any to ask. “Tammy, who is Claire’s father?”

  “Why are you asking now, after seventeen years?” She put cream and sugar on the table. Her movements were casual.

  “Claire thinks it might be Hamilton Garrett the Fifth.” I watched her face closely, but she gave nothing away. She’d learned to guard her expressions in the game of fortune-telling, and she was a top-notch performer.

  “He’s home, isn’t he?” she asked, eyes suddenly alert. “I knew he’d come back.”

  I nodded, amazed at the wistfulness in her voice. “I ran into him at Knob Hill. He’s a very intense man.”

  She motioned to a chair at the kitchen table and poured us both coffee. She took her seat before she spoke again. “Did you know that the summer I turned sixteen I worked at Knob Hill, mostly in the kitchen and laundry?” She shook her head. “I hung miles and miles of cotton sheets to dry.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “School got out, and you went about your life for the summer. You were taking tennis lessons and planning a trip to Florida. When I was making beds and chopping onions, I thought about you on the beach. I saw you in a red bikini with white laces on the top and bottom. I took the job at Knob Hill because I needed to earn money for clothes.”

  The fact that I had worn a red lace-up bikini on the beach that summer aside, I was stunned. “So Hamilton is the father.” As I spoke his name I could almost feel his hand on my shoulder. And I felt something else, too. Disappointment. “He never attempted to help you with child support?”

  “He never knew.” She reached across the table and touched my hand. Her fingers were dry, and they whispered on my skin. “He isn’t Claire’s father.” She waited until I met her gaze. “Stay away from Knob Hill, Sarah. There are things at work there that you can’t possibly stop.”

  Her words, such an echo of Deputy Walters’s, sent a battalion of chill bumps marching up my not-so-staunch spine. “I need the money,” I said.

  “Money can’t buy back your soul.”

  “If I lose Dahlia House, I’ll lose a part of my soul. Maybe the best part.” I saw her give up. It was the first emotion I could clearly read on her face. “You worked at Knob Hill the summer before Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was shot. What was it like there?”

  Tammy stared down into her coffee cup. “Young Hamilton was sixteen, and I was in love with him.” She smiled at what
ever she saw in the cup. “I picked up his clothes and did his laundry. He liked lemon meringue pies and he said I made the very best he’d ever tasted. He was nice to me. He’d give me books from the library and talk to me about college.”

  The tears in her eyes were a surprise. So was her description of the dark master of Knob Hill. “Kind” would not have been the word I chose for Hamilton the Fifth. “What about Sylvia?”

  “She was away most of the summer. Mrs. Garrett had sent her to Switzerland because she didn’t want her home. No one ever talked about her. It was sad, like there was something wrong with her and they all pretended she didn’t exist.”

  “And Mrs. Garrett?”

  “She was a beautiful woman. She’d sit out by the pool and drink gin rickeys in a pewter cup with her name inscribed on it. Then she’d swim laps and get out, all sleek and wet, and drink more. Her friends would come over and they’d laugh together. They had beautiful teeth and dark sunglasses and big hats, and they laughed all summer.” She rested her hands on the table. “She had all these fancy bottles, and I hated dusting them. I was afraid I’d break one.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Tammy looked up at me. “I couldn’t say. There were always men there. All the time.”

  “And Mr. Garrett, what was he like?”

  “He was at work a lot. I’d see him, sometimes, in the upstairs window looking down at his wife. I think no matter what she did, he would always have loved her.”

  I’d come to the conclusion that if Hamilton the Fourth had been murdered, it was the lover who pulled the trigger. My take on Veronica was that she was too smart to do the deed herself.

  “What men were around?” I pressed, thinking maybe a naive young girl wouldn’t notice flirtations. I wanted names.

  “The husbands of her friends, businessmen, Hamilton’s friends, hired help. That was a house full of men.”

  “Did Mrs. Garrett pay any of them special attention?”