Them Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  That was pure Buddy Clubber logic. “And Delo, was he in on it?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I was never certain how much Delo knew. But I did get a call from him the Saturday before he was killed, asking for money. He said he knew things he’d never told, and that someone was willing to pay to hear them. That’s when he said he wanted cash. Kitty and I were obligated to go to a christening, so I called Kincaid and asked her to take him some money. I told her it was for the use of the cabin.”

  I was about tired of his way of looking at life. “Before you go home to Kitty tonight, go over to Delo’s and get that check Kincaid wrote.”

  “Gordon Walters is all over that place.”

  “That’s why you need to be very, very careful.” I got up to leave. “There’s only one problem with your scenario. Veronica was killed and the money was never found.”

  20

  I was exhausted. What had started as a simple probe into historical gossip had turned into a current murder with lots of ugly implications. I had interviewed half a dozen people, and I was no closer to finding the truth than I had been the week before when I wasn’t even a PI. The problem was that I’d discovered more than I ever thought possible. My initial take on this job was completely wrong. I’d imagined digging up a few half-truths and rounding it all out with some creative faction. I’d read Truman Capote and his army of imitators. I was clever, imaginative, and equipped with a certain infallible female logic. I could have created a yarn to suit Tinkie’s purposes—and maybe even save her some grief on down the road.

  Somehow, everything had changed. This was no longer a Tinkie-driven investigation. Guy Garrett had been murdered. Likely Veronica, too. A large sum of money had gone missing—and never been reported. And Delo Wiley was dead.

  My mind kept going back to Sylvia. Nineteen years in Glen Oaks. She had struck me as someone who, if she hadn’t been nuts when she went in, was certifiable now. Guilt could drive a person mad, I reasoned. But so could living in a mental institution for nearly two decades.

  On the spur of the moment I decided to stop in at the bank. I really had to pay some back notes on the Roadster. And I wanted to see Harold. I didn’t want anything in particular from him, I just wanted to see how he reacted to me. I realized that it was a trapping of a Daddy’s Girl, this need to check my ability to draw a reaction. But I decided to indulge it anyway. My visit with Sylvia and the ensuing dream had left me wary of my desires where Hamilton was concerned. Maybe Jitty was right. Harold was not such a bad option after all.

  I walked into the lobby, went to the first available clerk, and stated my intention to bring my car notes up to date. She disappeared into the depths of the bank, and in a few minutes, Oscar Richmond appeared at the window. He grinned. “You looked terrific at Harold’s party,” he said, nodding. “Nice entrance.”

  “Thanks.” Oscar wasn’t given to compliments. He wanted something. “You’ll be glad to know I’m bringing my car payments up to date.” I pulled a checkbook from my purse.

  “Tinkie still hasn’t told me what you’re doing for Mother Bellcase.”

  So this was what he wanted. I winked. “Oscar, honey, you know I’m the only one of our set who can keep a secret.”

  “I’m worried about you, Sarah Booth.”

  Right, I thought. Worried about Mother Bellcase’s money slipping from his grasp. “You’re such a big old bear to worry about me,” I said, sweeter than prune juice and producing the same effect. “But I’m fine. In fact, when I finish my business here, I’m going to stop in and surprise Harold.”

  Oscar nodded. “Now that does relieve my mind, Sarah Booth. Harold has a good head on his shoulders. He won’t let you get in trouble.”

  “Exactly my thoughts,” I said. I looked at the amount the clerk had written on a slip of paper and nearly staggered. I was four thousand dollars behind on the car. But I wrote out the check like a grown-up, and smiled as I turned it over.

  My trip across the lobby drew speculative gazes as I headed for the closed door of Harold’s private domain. His secretary announced me, and in a few seconds his door swung open. Harold, in a gray pinstripe suit that made his steel gray hair seem even more distinguished than normal, took my hand in a warm grip.

  “What a delightful surprise,” he said, ushering me into the room and closing the door behind us. “What are you up to today?” he asked, still holding my hand.

  It occurred to me that Harold might be the perfect person to ask about some of the things that were troubling me. “Did you ever hear that a large sum of money went astray when Hamilton Garrett the Fourth was killed?”

  Harold lifted his eyebrows. “I wasn’t in Zinnia when Mr. Garrett died.”

  “But since then?” I pressed. “Bank gossip, over coffee with the directors, that kind of thing.”

  “It’s a bad policy for a banker to deal in speculation and gossip,” he answered. “Why are you so interested in the Garretts’ old affairs?”

  He was jealous. “Oh, Harold, don’t be stuffy,” I said. “I came to you because I knew you’d know. And I knew you’d tell me the truth.” Fiddle-dee-dee almost jumped out of my mouth, but I bit it back.

  He shrugged. “There were rumors about money out at Delo’s. Buried treasure, that kind of thing. But it was all foolishness. Some folks still go out there digging, I understand, looking for the lost money.” He looked down at the desk. “If a large sum really went missing, someone would have investigated it.”

  “They hardly investigate murder here in Zinnia. Why should they go after buried treasure?” I pointed out.

  “I doubt there’s a bit of truth to any of this, Sarah Booth,” Harold said in a gentler tone. “The Garretts were a wealthy family who suffered great tragedy. That kind of thing always breeds gossip and tales.”

  I heard Harold, but I wasn’t paying much attention to his excuses. My mind was off and running. If a large sum of money disappeared, where would it have gone? Since Veronica was dead and Sylvia was in the nuthouse, Hamilton the Fifth was the obvious answer. I looked up to find that Harold was watching me. “It could have been buried in the fields at Delo’s house. Perhaps that’s why someone killed Delo. Now that I think about it, there are some strange holes there.”

  “That’s a romantic notion,” Harold said, lifting my hand and examining the still-ringless fingers. “It’s bad business, whatever happened. Not something I want my future bride to worry about.” He pointed to his desk. “Come over here. I want to discuss Dahlia House.”

  My hackles rose instantly, until he continued.

  “I thought we might live at Dahlia House after the wedding,” he said as he handed me into a wing chair to the side of his desk. “It is your home, and I know how much you love it. And my house in town will be easy to sell. But I think we should put the land to use, don’t you? It seems such a waste for that soil to grow nothing but weeds.”

  Hearing him talk about Dahlia House as if he cared about it, not as some valuable piece of real estate, was almost more than I could take. “I didn’t realize you were interested in farming,” I said.

  “I’m interested in making you happy. Farming seems to be required to reach my goal.”

  Before I could answer there was a tap at the door and Oscar entered.

  “It’s a good thing you’re still here, Sarah Booth. Gordon Walters is outside with a court order for us to turn all of your financial records over to him.” Oscar gave me a dirty look. “This means Mother Bellcase’s name might come up.”

  “My records? Why?”

  “You’re under investigation,” Oscar said simply.

  “For what?”

  “Oh, murder and some other things.” Oscar shrugged. “Just keep Mother Bellcase’s name out of the press. She’s not in good health, and a scandal might finish her off.”

  I wanted to ask him what he thought a scandal would do to me, but I knew the answer. He didn’t care. I looked at Harold. “Can we block this?”

  “Not if the court
order is legitimate.” He came around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Not to worry, Sarah Booth. This kind of thing happens more than anyone knows. Financial records have become a primary source for law officers to track the comings and goings of wanted felons.”

  “I’m not a felon,” I insisted.

  Harold’s grip tightened slightly, and he leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Even if you are, it doesn’t matter. I’ll still marry you.”

  Great, I thought. Just great.

  • • •

  After I watched Gordon haul off my sordid financial past in a cardboard box, I decided that grease and ketchup were required to elevate my mood. I refused Harold’s offer of lunch and went solo to Millie’s Café. I was really too depressed to continue my PI work. I just wanted a double-cheese-and-bacon burger, ’tater wedges rolled in Cajun spices, a diet Coke over crushed ice with a straw in it, and a bottle of Heinz ketchup. Millie served only the finest yellow rat cheese, in contrast to that plastic stuff most fast food places used, and she always had Heinz ketchup. If a body is going into a grease-and-ketchup slump, only the real stuff is effective.

  I parked on a stool at the counter and waited my turn. It was in the mirror that I caught Millie staring at me. Not directly—she was using a shiny napkin holder to watch my reflection. My PI antenna cranked up, though I was careful not to change my posture or my expression. When Millie turned around to face me, I gave her a friendly wave and my order.

  The café was busy, and Millie was on her feet hauling iced tea, hot coffee, and platters of food that smelled so good my mouth was watering. As a crisp mountain of fried onion rings passed by me, I regretted not ordering both wedges and rings. No wonder Millie looked like a thirty-year-old. She crisscrossed the café at least a hundred times. All the while she kept shooting glances my way. I wondered if Billie had somehow discovered my snooping in his garage.

  Millie swung down the counter, refilling iced tea glasses, and picked up my order from the window. When she put it down in front of me, she avoided my gaze.

  “Have you got a minute?” I asked.

  She looked everywhere but at me. “There are a lot of hungry folks in here …” She reached up to the window and picked up two plates loaded with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and fried okra. I was struck by the thought that almost all brown foods are delicious. If brown was the basic group at the bottom of the food pyramid, I would be a very healthy woman.

  “It won’t take but a minute. Millie, did you ever work for your brother at the garage?”

  I don’t know what made her drop the plates, but they tumbled from her hand. They flipped three or four times, the okra and chicken flying but the mashed potatoes hanging on before the plates hit the floor and shattered.

  Millie stood there, staring at the mess and then looking at me. I half expected her to be furious. Instead, a large tear rolled out of each eye and tracked down her cheeks. The café had gone silent, and everyone seemed to be staring at us.

  “I didn’t work for Billie,” she said. “Why can’t you mind your own business, Sarah Booth? I hear about you asking questions. Well, if you have to know, it was Janice, my baby sister. She worked for Billie that summer.”

  I didn’t know Millie had a sister. So that explained the feminine handwriting on the files. “Let me give you a hand,” I said, standing up from the stool and walking behind the counter to help her clean up the mess.

  “Sit down and eat your lunch.” She grabbed a handful of paper napkins and stood clutching them with white knuckles. “Lon, give me two fried white meats, okra, and mashed with rolls,” she called through the window. She turned back to me. “Go eat while it’s hot. I’ll take care of this.”

  I picked up the chicken breasts and dropped them in a trashcan. “I don’t mind—”

  “Go,” she said, putting a firm hand on my arm. “Don’t make it harder than it is. One thing I don’t need is a Daddy’s Girl behind my counter.”

  Millie’s words cut deep. I’d never given her reason to treat me in such a way. I nodded and went back to my seat. The noise level in the restaurant began to climb again, a din of cutlery, glassware, laughter, whispers, and general conversation.

  I drowned the wedges and the burger in ketchup and began to eat. The food was delicious, but Millie’s emotional barrage had taken the pleasure out of the meal. I ate slowly, and watched the townsfolk of Zinnia having their lunch. The front of the restaurant held small tables, and the counter was along the back by the kitchen and the grills. Each table seated four, although people often moved from table to table, talking and catching up. Elections were determined in that café, paternity settled, menus planned, and marriages mended or ended. I eavesdropped. Coleman Peters seemed to be a popular sheriff, based on the gossip, and there was a low buzz about Hamilton returning to town and the tragic deaths of his parents. A few people looked at me or Millie and then away, but no one said anything about our encounter. As far as I knew.

  I dipped my last potato wedge in ketchup and swallowed it down, even though the waistband of my jeans had cut off the blood supply to my lower extremities. I didn’t need circulation in that direction anyway. I wanted my brain in control. I put money on the counter, stood, gathered my purse, and prepared to leave.

  On the way to the door, I felt a tug on my shirt. When I turned around, Clara Beth King held out a hand for me to shake. She was ninety if she was a day, an old scrapper who’d lived through fevers and depressions and who looked at life through a sharply focused lens. She had been one of my mother’s greatest pleasures. When I was a child, Clara Beth, who had never married, often rode over to Dahlia on her big gray stallion named Spartacus. She’d spend the morning talking with Mother and then mount up and ride home, a distance of four or five miles. My mother had greatly admired her.

  “Miss King,” I said. “You look wonderful.”

  “I’m feeling spry for a woman of my advanced years. I attribute it to the fact that I never allowed a man to attach himself permanently to me. I see you’re following in my footsteps.”

  “I’m too busy to worry about men,” I answered, though I had two of them in the back of my mind.

  “I just wanted to tell you that Millie isn’t upset with you, honey. Her younger sister disappeared one day when she was working at Billie’s shop. Millie and Janice were very close, and no one ever found out what happened to her. Millie keeps it all inside her, but I think you just pried the lid off.”

  I leaned down so I could talk softer. “Did Janice run away?”

  She shook her head and sipped her glass of iced tea. “No one knows. She was tending the shop, and Billie took a client out on a test ride with his car. When he came back, the shop was wide open and she was gone. There’s never been a trace of what happened to her. No sign of trouble. She left all her things at Millie’s. It was like she picked up her purse and took off.”

  Miss King sipped her tea, then carefully wiped her mouth on her napkin.

  “How old was she?” I asked.

  “Eighteen or twenty. A young thing. It was said she was seeing a man from across the river. A married man.”

  I felt terrible for Millie.

  “Janice was on the wild side. Not mean or a troublemaker, but she was high-spirited. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not living it up somewhere.”

  “Wouldn’t she call her family?” I asked.

  Miss King gave me a smile that was so sad it hurt. “I never did. I came here sixty-seven years ago with a man I decided to marry against my family’s wishes. We never made it to the altar, and I never once called back to Hammond and told anyone where I had moved to, not even when he left me. When I severed the ties with my family and my town, they were slashed. Sometimes, you just have to walk away and never look back.”

  21

  I went back to Dahlia House and threw myself on the sofa. It had been a rotten day. My legs and lower extremities had gone numb from gluttony and tight pants. I unzipped the jeans and put a sofa pillow over my f
ace.

  “Hidin’ in here won’t do a bit of good. Not a bit.”

  I eased the cushion aside to look up at Jitty. She’d plopped down on the arm of the sofa. Her ’fro was gone, replaced by hair carefully straightened into a pageboy. She wore heavy silver eye shadow, burgundy lipstick, and a halter dress made of a silvery/metallic material. “You look like some kind of hellish, backup-singing astronaut,” I told her.

  “Bein’ ugly to me won’t make your troubles go away.” She smiled, and I noticed that even the lipstick had little glittery sparkles in it. Where did she find this stuff? There had to be a heavenly outlet store trafficking in ungodly cosmetics.

  “I’m goin’ to a party tonight. It’s disco.” She sounded delighted.

  “So you’re here to rub it in that even a ghost has more of a social life than I do.”

  She laughed. “You’ll have company tonight.”

  “And who might that be, Disco Duck?” I pulled myself into a sitting position. “Have a good time.”

  She stood up and walked to the armchair, settling gracefully onto the cushion in her metallic skin of material. I had to admit, the dress looked terrific on her. It reflected every move she made.

  “Do you remember back when you were a little girl and your daddy was still a judge on the bench?”

  Very clearly. In fact, at times those days seemed more real than the life I was living. I nodded.

  “Hamilton the Fourth visited your daddy a few times. Neither of them were hunters. And they shared a love of music, among other things, as I remember.”

  As she talked I did remember a tall, handsome man coming to visit, and playing the piano while my mother and father listened and drank wine. My parents believed in “quiet” evenings, when I was sent to my room with my supper. It wasn’t punishment, simply a way for them to have an adult evening and for me to learn self-reliance. It was only as an adult that I realized they were undoubtedly talking business. Something I shouldn’t hear.