Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Tammy’s eyes darted away. “She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t careless in front of the help.”

  I leaned forward. “Tammy, do you think Veronica Garrett had her husband killed?”

  For a split second fear seemed to spark in her eyes. “All that summer I dreamed of doves. I dreamed that I was flying with them. And then the hunters started shooting, and all around me the other doves began to fall to the earth, wounded.”

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I tried to speak, but it seemed my throat was frozen, the words blocked. Tammy wasn’t looking at me. She was staring into her coffee cup and talking.

  “I was afraid to go to sleep at night because I didn’t want to have the dream. So I told my granny about it.” Tammy nodded. “You know what she said? She said, ‘Blood soaketh the earth, and in the proper season the bones will rise.’ ”

  I reached across the table to grab her arm, to stop her from talking. My hand swept the half-filled mug to the floor. The blue cup shattered and the black liquid spread on the yellow linoleum, and for a moment I could only stare at it.

  Tammy made no effort to move. She looked at me, waiting. “You’ve had that dream, haven’t you?” she asked. She bent down and picked up a fragment of the cup and held it so that the light from the window struck it. It was a hand-cast mug and on the surface three birds had been etched, the outline of their bodies gathering the blue glaze.

  “What does it mean?” I finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just promise me that you’ll leave this alone. I’m afraid for you. And for Claire. Is Tinkie Bellcase really worth this risk?”

  12

  Jitty tapped her fingernail on the crystal decanter that rested on the porch railing. Her long nails were a pale, opalescent pink that matched her frosted lipstick and the paisley pattern of the skintight hip-huggers she wore. “That stuff’s gone rot your guts out.”

  I lifted the glass in a silent toast. Jitty was upset that I was drinking hooch in public. It would be okay in the bedroom, but on the porch a lady only sipped sherry.

  “You’ve been around. You know secrets,” I said, aware that my pronunciation had begun to slip a little. I had been drinking, feet propped on the porch rail, for over an hour. I was cold, and too stubborn to go inside. “What do you know about the Garretts? Surely you’ve heard something.”

  Jitty traded in her disapproving face for one that held a bit of slyness. “I know you’re thinking about Hamilton the Fifth more than you should.”

  “He’s my case,” I pointed out, aiming my glass at her for emphasis. “If I don’t think about him I won’t be able to help Tinkie.”

  “You can fool other folks, but you can’t fool me. I know when that Delaney blood is pumpin’ strong. That man’s got you stirred up.” She grinned. “You thinkin’ about how dark and brooding he is, how his fingers dug into you and made you mad and at the same time brought you to life.” She nodded. “He’s a vital man. His blood’s strummin’ like a river at flood stage, and it makes you want to jump in and swim.”

  Instead of denying it, I sipped the moonshine.

  “What about Mr. Diamond Man?” Jitty asked cagily.

  That was a good question.

  Jitty stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. The sycamores closest to the house were bone white in the illumination that reached from the porch like delicate fingers. Beyond them was a rich blackness, a sense of solitude and peace. All around me, as far as my voice could carry, was Dahlia land.

  A valiant cricket rubbed his little legs together in an effort to stay warm, and his song was sadly reminiscent of the summers past. I had spent many a sweet June night down by Salem Creek listening to the night-song with a man I fancied and the unspoken birthright of a known future. I would live at Dahlia. I could pursue my dramatic career because Dahlia was always there for me. Like all of the other Daddy’s Girls, I would marry a man with financial security. But I would be just a little different. I would also love my husband with a wild abandon that never seemed part of the matrimonial bargain for my friends.

  A sudden longing took hold of me, and I couldn’t help my thoughts from going to Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. What would it be like to have him sipping moonshine beside me? To feel him move up to stand behind me in the stillness of the Delta night? I shivered.

  “You thinkin’ crazy,” Jitty said without turning to face me. “Next thing I know, you’ll be hoppin’ in the sack with young master from the big, big house.” Her voice grew sharp. “That’s your client’s interest—the man she’s payin’ you twenty thousand to check out for her. First you steal her dog, and now you’re after her man. Hurrump!”

  “Thinking and doing are two different things,” I said. And they were.

  She turned to face me and for the first time she looked old, her voice tired. “You’re displayin’ the full range of Delaney aberrations. Keep it up and you’ll end up at the emergency room with a tilted womb and a frontal lobotomy.”

  No point denying it. I had a wealthy, successful man wanting to marry me and a handsome, reputed mother-killer on my mind. “I think I’ll go inside and type up a report for Tinkie.” It would give me something to do, and also help clarify my thoughts. I had only two real leads left—Billie’s Garage and a talk with some of the Buddy Clubbers to see what they remembered about the day Guy Garrett was shot. I did not relish confronting powerful old men about a possible murder.

  “Sarah Booth, what are you gonna do if you find out Hamilton did kill his mama?” This time Jitty’s question was pensive. She wasn’t simply needling me. She was worried that at the advanced age of thirty-three I might sustain a serious heartbreak that would steal the last good years I had left.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m ready for the next generation. Time’s passin’ by.” Her sigh was the sound of the old house settling into the cold night. “I remember when you were born. Your mama was never so happy. And your daddy, he went all over town giving out cigars and buying drinks. Times were good then.”

  I’d heard the stories. I had been the long-awaited princess. Perhaps I could not settle for a facsimile of love now, because I understood what the real thing felt like. To be truly loved. With that in mind I answered Jitty with honesty.

  “I used to daydream about being married. I had it all planned out, how it would be, how I would feel. The trouble is that every man I meet leaves me feeling … empty.”

  “Except Hamilton the Fifth,” Jitty interjected.

  It was true. Hamilton Garrett the Fifth had made me feel many things. Empty was not one of them. And that frightened me.

  “Be careful, Sarah Booth. Emotion and marriage have nothing to do with one another. Your daddy loved your mama, but that was a rare thing.”

  James Franklin Delaney and Elizabeth Marie Booth had set the Delta on fire with their torrid romance. Heir to the Delaney holding, James Franklin had met Elizabeth Marie at a college dance at Ole Miss. She had been the one signing up volunteers to join the Peace Corps, and had rebuffed his first advances.

  In front of his friends, she had pointed out that as a “wealthy planter” he held no interest for her. She intended to go to Borneo and help establish productive farming methods and a 4-H Club.

  He had been swept off his feet. A social conscience was born, along with a year-long campaign to get Elizabeth Marie into his bed. “Give a damn” was the slogan Elizabeth lived by, and James set out to prove that he did. He wooed her with roses and dinners and dances. With the zeal of a missionary, she held to her ideals. James could accompany her to the gatherings and protests and political organizations that fired her blood. It was the only place she allowed him to see her.

  The only daughter of a banker, my mother had spent her college tuition money on a Volkswagen van and brochures extolling the virtues of giving a damn. Her parents were horrified. Her name was not spoken in her family’s Meridian, Mississippi, home, but she made phone calls to and received phone calls from the Kennedy ad
ministration.

  Her only weakness was blues music, and my father used that to his advantage, proposing to her as they danced to B.B. King’s driving electric guitar in The Iron Bedrail, a colored joint in Issaquena, Mississippi. Caught in the pulse of the hot music, she accepted Daddy’s proposal. He found a justice of the peace that night, before she could change her mind.

  It was only my birth that finally brought my parents to heel. They closed the commune they’d developed at Dahlia House and settled into maturity, of a sort.

  “Mother loved Daddy, too,” I finally answered. It had not been a one-way street, though it may have started out that way.

  “More than life,” Jitty answered, and there was grief in the hollow of her voice.

  “I wish they were still here.”

  Jitty came to stand by me and the light filtered through her pink paisley pants, giving the porch a warm tint. “I do, too, Sarah Booth. This old house is empty. You should give Harold’s proposal some serious thought. You could go a lot farther and do a lot worse.”

  “What would Daddy do?” I asked her.

  “The most unlikely, wildest thing possible.” She smiled. “But your mother would rein him in. Until that night—”

  “I know.” I interrupted, not wanting to think of the night they had died. My home held all of my memories, even the tragic ones, and for a moment they seemed overwhelming. “Maybe it would be better if I left. Maybe I should move to California.”

  Jitty only laughed softly. “Now that’s desperation for a Daddy’s Girl. Honey, you’re not wild enough, tan enough, or blond enough. You go out there and that West Coast wind’ll suck the humidity out of you and your lips will crack and fall off.”

  It was not a pretty picture, and my stint in New York had taught me the hazards of transplantation. Love of my home had brought me back to Dahlia House. Now I wondered if I could live anywhere else. If I left the Delta, would I become a different person? So much of me was this place, these people. My rhythm was joined with that of the Mississippi seasons. To change would shift everything inside of me, as well as outside.

  “Jitty?”

  When she didn’t respond, I looked up to find Harold walking across the lawn toward the porch. I must have smiled, because his serious face showed relief.

  “I know I shouldn’t press you,” he said, hesitating at the steps.

  “It’s okay.” And it was. He was still wearing his banking suit, as if he had no other life to change into. “I’m having a sip of moonshine. Would you like some?” I had been raised with good manners even though I’d been conceived in a commune.

  Harold eyed the decanter. Thank goodness I’d poured it from the old bottle or he would have hauled me to the hospital to have my stomach pumped.

  “That would be nice,” he answered with a hint of a smile.

  “It’s smooth,” I reassured him. “I’ll get a glass.”

  One of my mother’s prides was her crystal. Once I was born, her family had forgiven her “those terrible years of madness” and she’d inherited the Booth family collection of Waterford. I picked up a glass and decided that Harold wouldn’t object to drinking it neat.

  “Sarah Booth,” he said slowly as I poured the liquor and handed it to him, “Avery Bellcase came by my office today.”

  This was not going to be good news.

  “He thinks you’re blackmailing Tinkie.”

  I put my glass on the railing. “Because of the money?”

  “Yes. Tinkie won’t tell him why she got her mother to write the check. Mrs. Bellcase says she doesn’t know.”

  It was something of a problem, but it was Tinkie’s, not mine. “I can’t discuss this,” I said, wondering if a PI could claim the same privilege as lawyer/client. “Tinkie can tell him if she wants to, but it’s her secret.”

  Harold’s smile was something of a surprise. “You have some noble qualities. You protect your friends.”

  I was protecting my own butt, but it was okay for Harold to put it in the best light. “How long can I go on that money?”

  “A month, maybe two. But the avalanche of debt is building.”

  Harold wouldn’t lie about money, even though his interest was vested. He, too, had some noble qualities.

  “Gordon Walters came by, too. It’s not every day that a deputy sheriff and a bank president ask me about you.”

  The whiskey caught in my throat and I thought I was going to choke. My nose burned and my eyes watered, but I managed to gasp, “What did Gordon Walters want?”

  “It was a very curious conversation.” Harold paused.

  “He was asking about your financial situation. His implication was that you were doing something illegal. What are you up to, Sarah Booth?”

  “Nothing illegal, I can promise you that.”

  The look he gave me was speculative. “Will you attend a function as my date Sunday evening? A small gathering at my home. It’s a business evening, but I’d like to add some pleasure by having you there.”

  Banking business didn’t sound like much fun; on the other hand, Harold put out a magnificent spread. “What’s the occasion?”

  “An old Sunflower Countian has returned. Did you know Hamilton Garrett the Fifth?”

  My mouth went dry. “We’ve met, briefly.”

  “He’s back in the area, and the Bank of Zinnia would very much like to have his business. It’s rumored that he made a large fortune in Europe.”

  “Doing what?”

  Harold lifted an eyebrow. “That’s what I intend to ask him. Will you be able to attend?”

  I shrugged a shoulder, glad that he wasn’t near enough to hear the drumroll of my heart. “I might as well. Masterpiece Theatre is a rerun.”

  Harold studied me carefully. He was not a dull-witted man. “Hamilton and I attended Dorsett Military Academy together.”

  That was news to me, but he was watching so closely I knew better than to show the slightest interest. “Maybe we should go inside and build a fire.” I was freezing, and I needed time to find out everything Harold knew about Hamilton.

  Harold stood up, pleased at my unexpected invitation. I was usually shoving him out the door. “That would be lovely,” he said. “I’ll bring in some wood.”

  In his fine suit, he walked to the woodpile and began gathering logs. Wood carrying was a man’s job. It would never cross Harold’s mind that I was capable of it.

  In that moment, marriage did not seem impossible.

  13

  Harold built the fire with the same grace and economy of motion I’d come to expect of him. We settled onto the sofa, drinks in hand, as the blaze caught the dry oak and began to crackle. Though the night was not particularly cold, the warmth of the fire was comforting.

  “This is a fine old place,” he said, looking into the fire instead of at me. “I’ve often regretted the Joss of my family home. It was nothing like Dahlia House. It was on Birch Lane, a nice old Victorian Gothic with a big yard. I had some pleasant memories there.”

  His admission caught me by surprise. Harold was not from Sunflower County. He’d grown up in Greenwood, still in the Delta but not part of my world. I knew that his parents were dead, but I knew very little else. His attachment to property that had given “pleasant memories” was unexpected.

  “What happened to the house?” I asked. Every Pliant Woman knows that the way to a man’s heart is to focus the conversation on him. But this was actually something I wanted to know.

  “After my mother died, I sold it. School debts. I wanted to go to Juilliard.” His smile showed amusement at a long-ago dream. “Business school seemed much more practical.”

  “You’ve done well.” I heard the creak of a floorboard and knew that Jitty, as usual, was eavesdropping. Harold assumed it was simply the sound of an old house standing firm against a north wind.

  “There’s no sense regretting decisions that are irrevocable,” he said. “There are people who spend their entire lives in regret. It’s a sad substitute fo
r awareness of the present.”

  I wondered if his words were directed at me or himself. “You said you went to Dorsett Military Academy. It’s difficult to believe you were a discipline problem.”

  He laughed softly. “I was an inconvenience. But I learned self-reliance at Dorsett. It wasn’t a wasted experience.”

  I had arrived at the tricky patch of road. “You went to school with Hamilton Garrett. Did you know his sister, Sylvia?”

  So far, Hamilton’s steps had been easy to trace, but Sylvia was elusive, a shadow person.

  Harold turned from the fire and looked at me. “Yes, I knew her. Even as a young girl she was striking.” He looked at his drink. “We shared an appreciation for art. And music.”

  Something in his expression made me catch my breath. “I understand she’s in Glen Oaks,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “What a pity. I believe Hamilton is her only family.”

  “I thought most people had forgotten she ever existed.” He lifted his glass to catch the flames in the intricate pattern of the crystal. “She wanted to be forgotten. It was her stated wish.”

  “She committed herself voluntarily, didn’t she?”

  “Her father’s death nearly destroyed her. There were problems in the family, but Mr. Garrett’s violent end did something to her. Sylvia was always delicate, always so high-strung. I talked to her after her mother’s accident. I tried to convince her to seek help outside the institution. She would only say that her life had been one of waiting, first for tragedy and now for the opposite.”

  This was very dicey. Harold had obviously not forgotten her. “Is she—”

  “Insane?”

  “Ill?” I supplied in a softer voice.

  “Not when I knew her. At least not in the way everyone thought. She had an intensity … There was always something between her and her mother. When I knew her she was almost grown, almost ready to have her own life.” His voice drifted to a close.

  The fire crackled and a log shifted, sending sparks up the old chimney. “I heard she was very beautiful.”