Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  He shifted so that he could look directly at me. “She’s very different from you, Sarah Booth.” His voice grew stronger. “But I didn’t come to talk about Delta heritage or intrigue. Or the past.” He dropped his gaze to my left hand. “Whatever you decide, the ring is yours to keep.”

  His change of subject left me momentarily befuddled. I was so deep into my PI mode that I’d forgotten the rules of social conversing. Now it was time for a witty and challenging reply. I fell flat in my mission and mumbled, “That’s hardly fair, Harold. It’s a very expensive ring.”

  His light eyes seemed to reflect the restless movement of the fire. “You have some strange ideas,” he said. “What is fair in life? Especially in romance?” He lifted my ringless hand and examined it, giving my unmanicured nails a shake of his head. “The diamond would look lovely on you. Your hands, for all that you don’t seem to care, are artistic.”

  By God, the scoundrel had turned the tables. “And I won’t keep it unless I wear it as it was intended.” I had barely finished speaking when a crash in the kitchen made us both jump.

  Harold rose instantly and started toward the sound.

  “Wait,” I said, reaching out to catch his arm. I knew the culprit, and I knew Harold would find nothing in the kitchen except the stack of fruitcake pans Jitty had sent flying to the floor. “It’s the wind. I left the kitchen window cracked.”

  He swung to face me and before I could react, he stepped forward and caught me in his arms. He did not crush me to him; instead, he brushed a strand of hair from my face. “May I kiss you, Sarah Booth?”

  For answer, I lifted my face. His arms around me felt solid, and I was curious. There were things about Harold I was growing to like. Would this be one of them?

  His kiss was restrained passion. He was a man who governed his emotions, even his desire. While I was tempted to urge him on, I also checked my impulse. Passion unleashed was a dangerous thing. Some of the Daddy’s Girls had confided that they kept their marriage beds free of such troubling emotions. Why swamp a stable and adequate boat in a gale of roaring needs and expectations? Harold was a man who would be safe. Did I truly want to unleash the demon of desire?

  Ah, but of course. Just a little.

  I kissed him back, closing my eyes and letting the four ounces of moonshine I’d consumed loosen my back and my inhibitions. My response encouraged a bolder kiss. And yet he held back. I was getting ready to up the ante when he broke the kiss gently and stepped away.

  “You give me hope,” he said. “Shall I send a car for you Sunday?”

  He was leaving. I was surprised. “No, I’ll drive myself.” I wondered if his withdrawal was deliberate. A strategy. Was it possible that I was being outflanked by a banker?

  “Wear something daring,” he said as he went to the door and let himself out. The front door shut with a solid click.

  I was still standing in the center of the room when Jitty came out of the kitchen. She was in such a hurry that she didn’t bother with the door, just came right through the wall. “What kind of fool are you? You gone give the ring back if you don’t marry him?! I tol’ you, the ring is part of the goods. When a man gives an engagement ring to a woman, it’s hers if she accepts the engagement. Even if it’s only for one night, or a week. Of course, there’s some expectation of a good time there. But once she breaks if off, the ring is hers.”

  She rattled those cheap Mexican bracelets in my face and took another breath. “But no, you gone give the ring back. Miss High-and-Mighty, actin’ like we got money to burn.”

  Jitty was only expressing my thoughts, but I didn’t like to hear them. “Fair’s fair,” I retorted, determined to stand my ground with Jitty if not with Harold.

  “I’m surprised that man didn’t run screamin’ from the room. What woman talks about fair when jewelry is involved?” She shook her head and I realized that something was terribly wrong. Her head was huge, twice as big as I’d ever seen it—and it was covered in an orange net thing with hot-pink and olive green tassels all over it. It looked like some underwater creature had jumped on her head and might be sucking her brain out.

  I reached out and pulled the elastic band of the head cover, but she jerked away. “What is that thing?” I asked.

  “It’s a curler bonnet,” she said, miffed. “If you ever read Cosmo, girl, you’d know a few tricks about how to straighten hair.”

  “That’s incredibly ugly, Jitty,” I said, snapping the elastic against her forehead. I took another peek under there. “Orange juice cans? Is that what you’re using for rollers?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” she asked. “You put some a’ that gel stuff on your hair and then the big juice cans pull it straight. At least that’s what the magazine says.”

  I had a vague memory of such beauty antics. I’d still been in my first decade when the seventies roared into Sunflower County and turned Zinnia upside-down with hip-huggers, long straight hair, love beads, halter tops, sandals, and rich girls who had been trained to barter sex for security suddenly giving it away free to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who could strum a guitar or blow a harmonica.

  My mother, who’d had a head full of long, wavy chestnut hair, had read Cosmopolitan sitting in the floral chair of the parlor. Mother had already been through her hippie phase, but she was a strong supporter of female independence.

  I suppose Jitty had found some of the magazines up in the attic. Or else she remembered that time period. She seemed to have an amazing memory, and an endless amount of time to experiment with fashion. Really bad fashion.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, narrowing her eyes and beginning to walk around me. “You just hold your horses. I know you’re tryin’ to divert me. I know your game, Sarah Booth Delaney. You your father’s child as sure as the night is dark. I’d get him pinned down in one place and he’d shift around to another subject. That won’t work with me anymore.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You better figure out a way to keep that ring,” she warned.

  “Or what?” I asked.

  “Or else you gone have to marry that man for real.”

  It was late Saturday afternoon before I found a pair of shoes that would do for Harold’s Sunday soiree. They set me back two hundred dollars, but they were going to be worth every penny. As I glanced at my legs in the full-length mirror of Steppin’ Out, I decided not to think about whether I was buying the shoes for Harold or Hamilton. I was still Daddy’s Girl enough to know that there was no point spoiling the perfect pair of shoes with too much thinking. The shoes were so striking, I decided a manicure was a necessity.

  Although Zinnia is a small town, it’s possible to find the latest in fashion at several of the small boutiques. I stopped in at After Nine to look at the winter season’s dresses and to do a bit of sleuthing. Martha Wells, the owner, was busy with two customers, so I sauntered around the stylized, faceless mannequins that were draped in black and red sheaths. I was hoping the store would clear and I would have Martha to myself.

  Instead, Tinkie came into the shop on a blast of rich perfume and a soft bark. Chablis leaped out of her arms and came straight at me, launching herself at my face. Luckily, I caught the fluff-ball as she licked my nose with amazing dexterity.

  “Oh, my lord,” Tinkie said, putting a hand on her heart as her eyes filled with tears. “She knows you saved her life, Sarah Booth. She remembers!” She rushed toward me and gave me a real kiss on the cheek.

  “Tinkie!” I whispered, but Chablis took that opportunity to give me a dog kiss right in the mouth. Her breath had a hint of expensive leather, and I knew a pair of shoes had bitten the dust. I hoped they were Oscar’s. “Tinkie, hush up,” I said. “You’ll blow my cover.” Of course, the dog rescue had already been in The Zinnia Dispatch so it was sort of a moot point.

  Tinkie hustled me over to the lingerie corner, and my eye drifted to a severely sexy black teddy. Now, that was something that would demand center stage in the bedroom.

 
“Sarah Booth,” she whispered, “have you found out anything?”

  In fact, I’d discovered quite a bit, but this wasn’t the time or place. What was more important was that I let Tinkie know about the party at Harold’s. Except I discovered that I didn’t want her there. If she and Hamilton actually had something going on, I didn’t want to watch it playing out in front of me. But I’d been paid for the information, and paid handsomely.

  “Will you be at Harold’s tomorrow night?” I asked.

  Her nose wrinkled like a little rabbit’s. “Oscar said something, but I just hate those parties where the men discuss business and the women are left to drift around with a glass of wine. I was thinking of developing a minor relapse of anemia. I let my prescription for my vitamins run out, just in case.”

  I was surprised. Tinkie’s description of the parties was accurate, but those were the moments when Daddy’s Girls got to preen. I would have thought she’d adore the opportunity.

  “You should make it a point to be there,” I said, still reluctant to spill the big news.

  She picked up on something in my voice. “Why?” she whispered, her eyes big with excitement.

  “Hamilton will be there. He’s in town.” I reached out and grasped her shoulder.

  “You’ve seen him?” she asked.

  More than seen, I’d felt his hand on me. But I wasn’t being paid to acquire titillating experiences. I was paid for facts. “He’s back at Knob Hill. He’s doing business with the bank.” It was good I had my hand on her because she slumped against the wall. She was not tall, but she was deadweight.

  “Madame Tomeeka was right,” she moaned. “He’s here.”

  Chablis wriggled free of my arm and began to bark. “Tinkie, you’re causing a scene,” I whispered. The words were like a slap. She regained her balance and stood straight. Dramatic scenes were never to be wasted in such places as a dress shop with no men around.

  “What was he like?” Some of the color came back into her face. “I should have known Oscar was up to something.” She looked at me in alarm. “Did Hamilton look poor? Oscar was talking about someone pretending to have money.”

  I realized that Martha was watching us with open curiosity, and her two customers, women I didn’t know, were holding scarves but staring at Tinkie and me.

  “I wrote you a report. This isn’t the place to discuss it.”

  “Bring it Sunday night,” she said. “I’ll be there.” She gathered Chablis up in her arms and hurried out of the shop. The small dog barked twice over her shoulder, a parting of affection.

  After the scene with Tinkie, there would be no chance of asking nonchalant questions of Martha. I looked over a few alligator bags, and as soon as possible slipped from the shop.

  Even Jitty was impressed with the black-beaded dress that hugged my bodice and then changed into chiffon. Short swirling chiffon.

  “Honey, that skirt hikes any higher, you’ll be able to see possible.”

  “In this dress, anything is possible,” I answered her. The shoes were absolutely perfect. The heels were tall, a slender silhouette that widened to a square at the base. Offbeat and perfect for dancing. I checked the backs of my legs in the mirror to make sure the seams of my hose were straight. After all, Harold had said daring.

  “What are you up to?” Jitty asked, walking around me three times in a circle like some wicked stepmother about to turn my coach into a pumpkin.

  “I’m working,” I said. “On several fronts.”

  “You workin’ on messing up your meal ticket. If Tinkie gets a whiff of the fact that you’ve got the hots for Hamilton, you’re gone get fired. And if Harold finds out you’ve got ulterior motives, he just might take that ring back, along with the marriage invitation.”

  Jitty had a point. For a split second, I let myself acknowledge the gamble I was taking. Then I caught a glimpse of those damn shoes in the mirror, and I knew that I was holding some awfully good cards. These were shoes that could conquer an entire civilization. What were two mere men?

  “I’ll give you a full report,” I promised Jitty as I palmed my car keys and headed into the Delta night.

  14

  It was a dazzling November evening, the last of the month, and I turned into Harold’s drive with strategies whirling in my head. Although I had resisted much of Aunt LouLane’s training in the art of feminine wiles, I did learn one important thing—the aura of desirability is created first in the mind of the woman.

  I’ve seen women working in the cotton fields, their clothes soaked with sweat and hair plastered to their foreheads. But when a good-looking man drove by, they smiled. They were aware of their femininity, of the power of being female, and neither sweat nor dirt nor bare feet could detract from their sexuality. They generated sexy from the inside out, and the men responded.

  My mind was on these things as I turned into Harold’s long, oak-lined drive. Suddenly a million twinkling white lights dazzled my eyes. My foot jumped onto the brake, and the Roadster hunkered down and held the road as it skidded to a stop.

  I was awestruck at what Harold had wrought. Fairy lights followed the graceful limbs of the huge oaks that canopied the drive. The effect was spectacular. I suddenly wanted to forgo the party and all of the attendant intrigues to simply sit beneath the canopy of winter stardust.

  But there was work to be done, and I parked at the end of the line of cars and headed to the house.

  There is an art to the entrance of a single woman into a party. It is timing and attitude—and dress. I had designed myself for a dramatic entrance, and I intended to see that I got my full due. To that effect I had tucked a few old cherry bombs into my spangled evening bag. I waited for a few stragglers to go inside. As I got on the porch, I lit one of the cherry bombs and threw it into the hydrangeas beside the steps.

  Counting the seconds, I rang the doorbell, pushed the door open, and—kaboom! Dead hydrangea leaves fluttered behind me like confetti. After a few squawks and shrieks, everyone in the room turned to the door. There was an appreciative intake of breath from the men and a glare from the women, and I knew my strategy was doubly successful. Harold’s face showed his sincere appreciation, and Kincaid Maxwell looked pissed.

  There was one other reaction I sought, but Hamilton Garrett the Fifth was not in evidence. Disappointment did not begin to describe what I felt.

  Harold was immediately at my side, his proprietary hand on my elbow as he steered me into the room. Kincaid was first in line to greet me, and she shifted so that I was cut off.

  “Now I understand why you failed in your stage career,” Kincaid whispered in the required act of an air kiss. “Dramatic special effects won’t ever cover up weak character development.”

  “Oh, Kincaid,” I whispered back, “you look lovely tonight. But how do you get your eyeliner so straight when you don’t cast a reflection in the mirror?” Kincaid and I are not bitter enemies, but there is no love lost between us. The breach stems back to our junior play, when I got the lead and she told everyone it was because the drama teacher pitied me since I was an orphan.

  She stepped back and away. “Chas!” she called out loudly. “Get Sarah Booth a drink, darling. Some of the good Scotch, since she can’t afford it anymore. It’ll be such a special treat.”

  So, my financial woes were common knowledge. All of my hiding out and avoiding my peers had done no good. Well, there was a certain freedom in not having to pretend. “Make it a double, Chas,” I said airily, when I felt someone staring at me. It was one of those fully aware sensations. I turned quickly and found myself impaled on Hamilton Garrett the Fifth’s direct gaze. He was standing beside a bronze sculpture—a female torso of great sensuality. Beside the work of art, Hamilton was a powerful presence, and I was viscerally reminded of our earlier meeting and the glowing pink woman of glass in his foyer.

  His green eyes held me, and I felt my skin chill and then flush warm. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. He advanced toward me, one hand brushing
the naked hip of the sculpture in a gesture that made me tremble. Harold turned to me, a question in his light blue eyes.

  “Miss Delaney,” Hamilton said, stepping forward. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Harold cast me a shrewd look. “You two know each other?”

  “Miss Delaney came to interview me,” Hamilton said in a clear, deliberate voice. “I’m afraid she caught me at a bad time. I treated her rudely, and I want to offer an apology.”

  I wanted to catch him in a bad place and hurt him. There was no hint of malice on his face or in his tone. Only his eyes gave away the pleasure he was having—at my expense.

  “No, it’s I who owe you an apology,” I said quickly. “I should have called and requested an appointment. It was rude of me to appear on your doorstep.”

  “What kind of interview were you conducting?” Harold asked, plainly curious about this unexpected turn.

  “Didn’t you know Miss Delaney works for the Dispatch?”

  Hamilton was having too good a time, and I was finding it strangely difficult to breathe.

  “Sarah Booth?” Harold said.

  A convincing lie did not immediately present itself to my mind. “I may have misrepresented myself,” I said slowly, making the artless, mischievous face of a female caught in a harmless fabrication. “I thought if I could get a good society scoop, Cece might give me a job.” I sobered as I looked at Hamilton, hoping to destroy him with a surfeit of truth. “If you haven’t heard already, I’m destitute. If I don’t come up with some money, I’m going to lose Dahlia House.” For an unguarded second, there was surprise in his eyes.

  “So now you know the entire sordid story.” I shrugged. The gesture made the chiffon swirls of my skirt shimmer, and I saw Hamilton’s eyes flicker down, then back up to mine.

  “I admire a person who takes a gamble,” he said with his relentless gaze trained on me. “The problem with taking risks is that sometimes you can’t afford to lose. My advice to a desperate gambler is to get up from the table.”