Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Tammy believed in sixth senses, and I wasn’t about to deny that they existed as goose bumps marched over my arms. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Not by name. She’s been there awhile. Lollie—she’s my cousin by marriage and she works there as a nurse’s aide—anyway, Lollie said she was some rich woman who’d been there a long time. Nearly twenty years.”

  Now I was sure who she was talking about.

  “Hey, you look a little pale, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I drained the Coke and left the bottle on the counter. “Thanks again.”

  I took the directions Ina had written down and found myself at the mental institution in less than fifteen minutes. Based on this latest information, I wondered if I stood a prayer of getting to see Sylvia Garrett. What was troubling was that she’d made her escape on the very weekend that Delo Wiley had been killed. And Delo had been murdered in the exact same spot her father had died.

  18

  A wise woman would probably have turned the car around and headed home, but I wasn’t about to give up. If I was going to get to see Sylvia, though, I had to come up with a good story, and certainly not anything about a book. I looked down at my wardrobe and considered. I was the right age to be a cousin, so I decided to try that angle.

  I walked into the building with a big smile and all the confidence of a Daddy’s Girl. I headed to the main desk where I introduced myself as Sarah Booth Mason, a second cousin of Sylvia Garrett.

  “You’re not on the list of approved visitors,” the nurse said, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “I’m from New Orleans,” I said. “I haven’t been in the Delta in years, but while I’m here, I want to visit Cousin Sylvia. I promised my mama I’d be sure and stop by and see her. We all feel so guilty that we don’t get up to visit more often. You know how it is, though, with kids and jobs and all.” I smiled my Daddy’s Girl conspiracy smile to let her know that though I was born into a life of privilege I was no better off than she was.

  The nurse nodded knowingly. “My aunt Martha has been ill in Greenwood and I can’t seem to make it to see her. She raised me when I was little.” She picked up a chart. “It says here that I’m supposed to call the doctor before I let anyone see Miss Garrett.”

  “Honey, I don’t have but ten minutes. I’m on my way to Memphis. I know Cousin Syl had a rough weekend, slippin’ out and all. I just want to say hi. What could it hurt? If she doesn’t remember me, then there’s no harm done. If she does, it might make her feel better.”

  “She has been something of a problem lately,” the nurse said, checking the clock on the wall. “She came back from her little adventure covered from head to toe in mud. She must have made a horrible mess in that big, fancy car when they brought her back.” She studied the chart.

  “She came back on her own?”

  “She did. Got dropped off at the gate. Okay, you can have fifteen minutes. It might help her, poor thing.”

  I followed the nurse down the corridor wondering how long it would be before I was a “poor thing.” That’s a classification of unmarried females which negates whether a woman is single by choice or not. A woman could have been the first female to the moon, or have invented the cure for cancer, but if she doesn’t marry, she will end up being a “poor thing.”

  “Does Cousin Syl get many visitors?”

  “More than usual lately.” She stopped. “Here’s her room.”

  When the nurse pushed open the door, I walked into a lovely suite that could have been part of an English estate. The woman sitting at a delicate antique desk had a sheaf of white-blond hair that hung down below her waist. Rich, luminous hair that seemed to radiate its own light.

  “Miss Garrett,” the nurse said, her voice holding a degree of respect. “You have a visitor.” Sylvia turned to face us.

  What I noticed first was that Sylvia Garrett’s silver eyes fixed on me and pinned me like a butterfly to a corkboard. She shared her brother’s directness, but there the resemblance ended. Her face was completely unlined, her skin opalescent and beautiful, framed by the mass of straight, incredible hair. She was a study in moonlight, a woman of alabaster.

  “Cousin Sylvia,” I said, recovering and stepping forward. “Do you remember me? Sarah Booth?”

  Her smile was sly. “Of course I do, Sarah Booth, come in and sit down.”

  I looked at the nurse, who nodded. “Just a few minutes,” she agreed. “Don’t get her upset.”

  The door closed behind me. “Did Hamilton send you to convince me to behave?” Sylvia asked, motioning me into the room.

  “No.” Although I was raised not to stare, I couldn’t help myself. She was beautiful. Her darker eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted with her delicate, flawless skin.

  “People do find me interesting to look at,” she said, not at all perturbed by my rudeness.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled and looked down at the floor, which was covered in an expensive hand-woven carpet. On the bedside table was a fresh bouquet of birds-of-paradise, the purple-and-orange blooms exquisite in a globe of blue that seemed to glow with the afternoon light.

  She noticed my interest. “The vase was a gift from my father,” she said. “At Knob Hill there’s a sculpture.”

  “The pink lady,” I said, immediately remembering the fascinating work.

  “Yes.” She nodded at a collection of breathtaking colored bottles in a glass bookcase and I thought of Tammy. These had to be the bottles she once dusted with such concern. “Beautiful, aren’t they.” She went to the case and picked one out, fondling it carefully.

  For a moment she stared out the window at the manicured grounds. “Do you know how long a day can be here?” she asked. “Some days are like years, and those are the good ones. Others last for decades. But prisons come in all shapes and degrees of luxury. A room, a continent, a dark corner of the mind.”

  I looked at the shelves of books and music. Someone had tried to make her prison as palatable as possible, but she was right; it was still a prison, even if she’d volunteered to stay.

  She seemed to reassess me. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Information. About the past.”

  Her hand on the arm of her chair trembled, but her fingers grasped the carved wood. “I’ve been here nineteen years. Why the sudden interest in the past?”

  “I was thirteen when your father was killed.”

  “And that explains nothing,” she answered. “I was seventeen. Away at school. My father’s body had already been prepared for burial by the time I was told of his death. My mother had decided everything. Even how she was going to sell Knob Hill and move.” She moved to a seat facing me.

  Sylvia’s anger seemed alive in the room. I wondered what would happen if she were turned loose. “What do you want to know?” she asked, eyes wary and alert.

  My time was short, and she didn’t seem the type to suffer a fool. “Do you know who killed your father?”

  She leaned back in the chair and slowly relaxed her hands. “My version of the truth is somewhat suspect. Haven’t you heard? I’m insane.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was mocking herself or me. “I’m willing to take a risk on your version.”

  She was so still. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was at school. Mother was careful. Oh, so careful. She had friends, male friends, but they came and went. They danced and laughed and played cards.” She leaned forward, a blush on her ivory cheeks. “There was never a hint of such dark passions. It was all so socially acceptable.” Her smile turned bitter. “But there was someone. And she knew that I knew. I told her so. And I told her I would find out. I told her that I would never rest until I made her pay for what she’d done. And that was my mistake. I warned her.”

  She rose from her chair so suddenly that I pressed back in mine. My reaction made her laugh. “You’re smart to be afraid of me. There’s no telling what I might do.” She walked to a desk in the corner of the room and I was taken with the way she mo
ved. She had the grace of a dancer, the body of a woman who worked at keeping fit. And that sheaf of blond hair swung around her hips. She was thirty-six. Nineteen years must have been an eternity. “Ask something else.”

  “What were you doing at Delo’s?”

  “Looking for buried treasure. There’s half a million buried somewhere in Delo’s fields.” She faced me and smiled. It was chilling to witness. “Everyone’s hunting for it. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Treasure?” Was this some Gilligan’s Island fantasy? It was an act of pure insanity to go out to a cornfield on a freezing November night, unless there was a mighty good reason. “Where would Delo get half a million dollars?”

  “It wasn’t Delo’s. It was payoff money. Meant for my father.”

  I didn’t follow. “Your father was in a dove field to get a bribe?”

  She gave me a long look of contempt that chilled me to the bone. “My father couldn’t be bought. What is it you really want?”

  “You know Delo’s dead.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “And you wonder if I might have killed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “The gun they will have found beside the body is mine. A Remington. A gift from my mother when I was twelve. She had my initials engraved on a brass plate. She thought hunting would be good for me. Or maybe she hoped I’d shoot myself.” She picked up the bottle she’d held before, lifting it to the light so that it seemed to glow. “I’m allowed a few harmless indulgences here. One of them is collecting. I bought this only last month from an auction in California. Amazing what items come onto the market. People get in financial situations and they’re forced to part with valued possessions. Acts of desperation.” She came to me and put it in my hand. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” It was exquisite, but her train of thought shifted faster than the Orient Express. I believed she was crazy.

  “Give this to my brother. Tell him that the pits of hell are opening and the bones are crawling from the cold, damp earth. Vengeance is neither swift nor just, but inexorable.” Her eyes glittered. “Tell him the waiting is over, for both of us.”

  • • •

  The drive home was a blur. I played an old Arlo Guthrie tape and sang along, remembering my mother, who knew all the words. Even when the songs began to repeat themselves, I kept driving and singing. The beautiful glass bottle was on the seat beside me, but I didn’t look at it. I didn’t want to think, because there was no good place my thoughts could go. By the time I turned off the old highway and started down the drive to Dahlia House, night had fallen, and once again I regretted that I had not left a light on. Sylvia Garrett had spooked me.

  I was interested in Hamilton. Very interested. In a way that had brought turmoil and grief into my life. I did not want to believe that he had deliberately plotted to kill his mother. But Sylvia had left me with some mighty big doubts where Hamilton the Fifth was concerned. Had he left her institutionalized for nineteen years to take his rap? Or was she the murderess? Of her mother and Delo?

  If she wasn’t at the scene of Delo’s murder, then she had been in the vicinity, digging in the mud. After nineteen years, she made a break for freedom on the weekend Delo was shot. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.

  I parked beneath the big magnolia tree and quickly pulled the tarp over the car. My first order of business in the morning was going to be to pay a few back notes on the Roadster. I had the cash now, thanks to Tinkie.

  The night was cold and I shivered. Dahlia House was a huge square of blackness, and I hoped Jitty was waiting for me in the kitchen.

  As I started around to the back with Sylvia’s bottle in hand, I saw movement on the front porch. Remembering Hamilton’s earlier visit, my impulse was to run inside and lock the door. But it might be Harold, waiting for me. I headed that way.

  “Home at last,” came the sultry tones of Kincaid Maxwell. “I was beginning to think you’d skipped town and left all your debts for poor old Harold to settle. Interesting bauble. Where did you get it?”

  “A, I’m capable of settling my own debts, and B, none of your business,” I informed her, overcoming my shock at her visit. Kincaid wouldn’t normally waste her social hours on the likes of me. This had to be a business call, and since there were no witnesses to this exchange, I had a feeling that the gloves were going to come off. In a way, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I’d had a rough day, and there was no one I’d rather dump on than Kincaid.

  “Is that why Harold Erkwell sent me a check for your lunch at the charity ball?”

  “Probably Harold sent it because he’s a gentleman, and a generous one at that,” I replied, wanting nothing more than to wring Harold’s neck. There was no way he could have anticipated the repercussions of his act, but nonetheless …

  “They’re all generous, until you marry them,” Kincaid said.

  “That was your mistake, Kincaid. Not mine.” A little salt in an open wound is always refreshing.

  “That’s true, I don’t have to come to parties dressed like a slut to get attention,” she parried.

  I was getting a little tired of the banter. “What do you want? Say it and then leave.”

  “I hear you’re good at finding out things.”

  If I had not been leaning on the porch railing I would have fallen into the azalea bushes. “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. My money’s as good as Tinkie’s.”

  I wanted to strangle Tinkie more than Harold. “What kind of things do you want found out?” It would be quicker just to listen to her. I pushed open the front door. A week ago I’d been ashamed of the state of Dahlia House. I wouldn’t have wanted a Daddy’s Girl inside. But I’d changed. “Come on in, Kincaid. I’ll pour us a glass of moonshine.”

  “That sounds divine,” she answered, trotting in behind me.

  I carefully placed Sylvia’s bottle on the sideboard by the decanter. When I snapped on a lamp, the little bottle glowed with life, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about Hamilton. I now had a reason to see him again.

  “Sarah Booth?” Kincaid said, almost at my elbow.

  I divided the last of the moonshine. I also lit a fire with some of the wood Harold had carried in for me. In five minutes the room had taken on a pleasant glow.

  “This is strictly confidential,” Kincaid began.

  I wondered if she was stupid or desperate. “What do you want?”

  “It’s a delicate matter.” She stared into the moonshine but failed to continue.

  She was obviously getting cold feet. “Man or money?” I asked. There were no matters more delicate for a Daddy’s Girl.

  “Both,” she said and pressed her lips together.

  It occurred to me then that she was afraid. Kincaid, who got the tennis pro first, who always had the newest car, who wore the sexiest clothes and then called others sluts.

  I would like to say that her situation didn’t give me pleasure, but I’d lied enough in the past week. I was having a good time. “Tell me about it,” I said smoothly.

  “It’s Chas. If he finds out about the money—”

  I waved her to silence. “From the beginning,” I ordered.

  “My God, it is such a mess,” she whispered and then belted back all of the liquor. She regained a little Kincaid hauteur and met my gaze. “You’ve got to go out to Delo Wiley’s house and find the check I gave him yesterday morning before he was killed. He didn’t have time to cash it, being Sunday and all. If Chas gets wind of this, he’ll—why, he’ll divorce me.”

  19

  It was my turn to knock back the rest of the moonshine, and I steadied myself against the mantel. There was the tinkling sound of Jitty’s bracelets, but I knew Kincaid would assume it was a wind chime caught in the blustery north wind. After a deep breath, I excused myself and went down to the cellar to hunt for more whiskey. This night required libations. I also needed a moment to think. Kincaid’s revelation had opened the door on a lot of questio
ns, and though she was worried about a missing check, I saw potential for a murder charge. Kincaid, sheltered her entire life, obviously had not thought of this.

  Among the jars of jam and syrup, I recognized another of the dark brown bottles Uncle Lyle had preferred for his liquor, saying that too much sunlight took the bite out of good whiskey. I pulled it out, blew the dust off, and headed upstairs.

  Kincaid asked no questions; she simply held out her glass. Her hand was trembling. I poured us both a goodly measure and then took a seat. “The most obvious question is, why were you giving Delo money?” I said in a cool, flat voice.

  “Tinkie said you could keep a secret.”

  I considered pointing out to her that if Deputy Gordon Walters discovered a check from her to Delo, the questions would be very public and very ugly. Gordon didn’t have an appreciation for the delicate treatment needed by a Daddy’s Girl. “If you want me to help, you have to tell me the facts.”

  “Then you’ll sneak in there and get the check? I’m sure it’s somewhere in his old shack.”

  “I haven’t committed to any course of action.” She was still Kincaid, perfectly willing to risk my neck to solve her problem. “What was the money for?”

  Kincaid put her drink down and clasped her hands. She seemed to be struggling with herself. When she spoke, she didn’t look at me. “I was renting one of his camps from him.”

  Kincaid didn’t hunt, and she wasn’t the rustic type. Roughing it, to her, meant leaving the nanny behind. Which meant she was meeting someone in the cabin for some mattress maneuvers. “I see.”

  “Delo knew how to keep his mouth shut,” she said.

  “Did it ever occur to you that a check wasn’t exactly a brilliant way to pay Delo?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t normally pay him. It was an emergency. I got a call Sunday morning and was told that Delo needed the money right then. The, uh, other party couldn’t make it, so I had to.”