Rock-a-Bye Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Carrie Ann’s accusation had no substance. Someone, presumably the mother or daughter, burned some old pine pallets behind a rundown shed. It would have done the neighborhood a favor if the whole thing had gone up in flames.”

  “Is it possible Carrie Ann is working in conjunction with Gertrude?” The two of them in collusion would be a match made in hell.

  “It’s possible,” Coleman said, “but probable? I just don’t see it. How would they even know each other?”

  A prickling sensation swept over me. “Is it possible that Carrie Ann’s house is Gertrude’s lair?” Had she been hiding there the day Tinkie and I stopped by? We’d had Libby with us, and the critters. We could all be dead.

  All conversation stopped.

  “I insisted on checking the property, but Carrie Ann said no. She demanded I have a search warrant,” Coleman said. “Such a possibility…” He stood up and drained his coffee cup. “I’ll ask Sheriff Kincaid if he can spare a man to sit on that property. Her house is in Sunflower County, but the best vantage point is in Bolivar. In the meantime, I’ll see about a warrant. If Gertrude is using the Musgrove house as a place to hide out, we’ll know soon enough. We’ll catch her.”

  The tension in my shoulders eased a little. “Since Carrie Ann reported a fire that didn’t exist, what did she want? Other than to possibly clear the way for Gertrude to come after me.”

  “To talk about old times.” Coleman put a finger in his shirt collar and tugged to loosen it. He was uncomfortable, and I suspected why.

  “Old times, like back in high school?” The very devil was on my shoulder, but Coleman had been teasing me a lot and now I had my chance for a bit of revenge. What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, as my aunt would point out. “Like when you were having sexy fantasies of how she could contort her body?”

  Cece and Harold beat the top of the counter and hooted. Sweetie Pie sidled over to the kitchen table and snatched another biscuit, then ducked under the table to munch down. Pluto was angling toward a platter of bacon Harold had fried. I deftly swooped it out of his reach.

  “I didn’t go to Sunflower County High,” Harold said. “Tell me about this woman with the double-jointed hips.”

  Coleman took the teasing with good grace, but the spark in his eyes told me I was in for payback. “Did you learn anything from her?” I pulled the conversation back on track.

  “When I started asking about Pleasant and scholarships, she developed lockjaw. But she did serve me a slice of fine lemon pie. Homemade. She can make crust, Sarah Booth. Just like my mama used to.”

  “I’ll bet crusty would describe many things about Carrie Ann,” Cece said.

  “Bazinga!” I high-fived her. “So tell me what you learned, Coleman, other than that she’s a wunderkind in the kitchen. Though I hope you got all your vaccines before you ate the pie. If the health department looked through her house, I’ll bet they’d take away her stove. That’s just based on the horrid condition of the outside.”

  “Okay, okay.” Coleman held up a hand. “She insisted that Lucinda and her friends were only kidding around about preventing Pleasant from making the scholarship interview.” He buttered another biscuit. “But Lucinda did get the scholarship that was meant for Pleasant. She got it by default.”

  “That’s not fair.” Pleasant had been cheated out of her future because she was kidnapped. How was that right in anybody’s estimation?

  “The scholarship is the least of it,” Harold said gently. “I’m sure that Tinkie and Oscar will help Pleasant, once she’s found.”

  He was right. The Richmonds had already mentioned that to Charity. “Those scuzzy girls—”

  “I believe they’re involved in whatever happened to Pleasant and Carrie Ann is, too,” Coleman said. “When I began to press her for alibis, real answers, she slammed the door in my face. On the way home I drove over to Rosedale to talk to Hoss Kincaid.”

  “Did he know anything?”

  “He knew Gertrude had been seen, and give the man credit, he had two deputies on Highway 1 with a roadblock. Of course the Delta is so flat there, Gertrude could have seen the roadblock a mile away and taken a hundred small turnoff roads through the interior of the county. It’s just as well you and Tinkie will be in Nashville all day.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Tinkie stepped through. She wore some smart knee-high lace-up boots, trimmed at the top with faux fur, black jeans, and a red and black sweater that emphasized her petite figure. She had Libby, dressed in a matching outfit, in her arms. My best guess was that Tinkie had the baby’s outfit custom-made to match hers. “We won’t be gone all day. Yancy Bellow has offered to fly us to Nashville. His pilot will wait for us and bring us home. We shouldn’t be gone longer than three or four hours.”

  “That’s really generous.” Yancy had been kind in the past, offering reward money for information leading to the person who killed the bartender at Playin’ the Bones. He’d also offered to help Scott out of a jam with the blues club. Luckily, my friend had been able to hold on to the club without taking a financial partner.

  “Yancy is sympathetic to our situation. He’s worried about Pleasant. He just melted at the sight of Libby. Oh, by the way, Cece, he asked that you call him. He’s going to offer a reward for information leading to Pleasant’s safe return.”

  “That should bring in some leads,” Coleman said. “Yancy’s a strange fellow. I don’t hear anything from him for months at a time, and then he pops up helping someone. He’s been a real benefactor to the library and to several children’s organizations, too.”

  Aunt Loulane would say, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” It was an adage I was happy to obey. The private plane would save me ten or more hours of driving. While I loved the scenery, time was a precious commodity right now.

  “Tinkie, we can’t take the baby.” I said it as gently as I could.

  “I know, Sarah Booth. Madame Tomeeka will keep her. Oscar had to go to work.”

  “Thank god,” Harold muttered under his breath. “It’s about time. The bank won’t run itself.”

  Tinkie acted like she hadn’t heard. “I’m ready if you are, Sarah Booth. We can drop Libby on the way. The plane is waiting at the airport.” Zinnia didn’t really have an airport. What was called the local airport was a cluster of hangars and two landing strips for small planes. I was almost positive Yancy had his own private landing strip, but it was far more convenient to go to the little airport on the edge of town.

  “Hit it, ladies,” Harold said. “I’ll clean up this mess. Or I may call Toxic Waste Disposal to remove that orange stuff. Is it breathing?”

  “Leave it. I’ll be back and take care of it.”

  “I’ll help Harold,” Coleman said. “I need more coffee, and this will give me a chance to have a cup.”

  “I’m half asleep, but after this great grub, I’ll take care of all of it,” Jaytee said. “The rest of you working men, take off. Cece, if you can catch a ride to town with Harold and leave me the car, I’ll bring it to the newspaper when I finish here.”

  “Done and done,” Cece said, kissing him on the cheek. “You fill my life with joy.”

  “Let’s get out of here before our blood sugar surges and we stroke out,” Harold said, but his smile spoke more loudly of his happiness for Cece.

  * * *

  We rented a car at the Nashville airport and drove straight to the Landbridge Building where Benny Hester maintained an impressive suite of offices. He was a big agent with a lot of power, and we were right on time for our meeting. For someone like Hester, time really was money.

  Though we had an appointment, Hester had been called into an urgent meeting. We were told at the first floor reception area to check back in two hours. With time to kill, I called Rick Ralston and we met at Edgehill Café. I was stuffed from Harold’s breakfast delight, but Tinkie and Rick ordered food and coffee.

  “Sorry about the meeting. Hester’s a busy man. Putting out fires. Al
l of that.” Rick sipped his coffee. He was blond-blond with bright blue eyes and a winning smile. He looked more like an art student or musician than a private eye. Then again, he played bass in a Nashville band as well as solving mysteries. Multitalented.

  “Not a problem. Our appointment was originally for this afternoon. We rearranged because we caught a private plane up here,” I said.

  “So tell us how you came to track down Pleasant’s songs,” Tinkie said.

  It wasn’t a long story. Once Rick had the photo of the sheet music—and since he was a musician—he scouted the top venues where young talent played for tips. “Good material like the songs your missing girl wrote—someone would be singing it. There are thousands of talented people trying to break into the business. What they all must have is that song that will rocket them to the top. Pleasant wrote two songs that I’m willing to bet will hit the number one position.”

  “I’d love to hear someone perform them,” I said. Reading music wasn’t a talent of mine.

  “Finish your coffee. I can make that happen.”

  Tinkie wolfed down her omelet and we left our rental and rode with Rick. The hills of Nashville were so different from the flat, flat Delta. Music City combined the gracious architecture of the South with a touch of the mountains. The city could easily seduce me.

  We left Music Row behind and twenty minutes later pulled into what looked like a real dive. It was only ten in the morning. I had my doubts that anyone would be playing music at this hour. Musicians were notoriously night people who didn’t stir until after noon. Cece could attest to that. Jaytee’s schedule was taking some adjustment for a woman who was frequently made up, dressed to the nines, and out the door at six in the morning.

  Rick parked in the rear of a building that looked like it might be a crack house or a front for the sex trade. Three young girls in minidresses, black stockings, and multihued hair stood outside smoking cigarettes. They watched us as we walked toward them. Tinkie and I shared a glance, but we followed Rick inside.

  The building hummed with chatter and the wail of guitars. Someone clapped and silence fell. “Craig’s got a new song. Give a listen.”

  A young man took the stage, guitar at the ready. Four minutes later he was met with loud applause. “It’s a music co-op,” Rick said. “These musicians meet, try out new material, critique each other. It’s an unusual group of folks. And that,” he pointed to a petite brunette who sparkled with energy, “is Laney Best. She’s the next Taylor Swift.” He signaled her over. “Laney, these women know the girl who wrote your song. Would you play it for them?”

  “Sure. I want to get some opinions on the bridge.” She picked up a guitar and took the stage.

  When Laney started singing, everyone in the room stopped and focused on her. I discovered I was holding my breath. Laney had a big, big voice, and she had “it”—that indefinable quality that drew people to her. Emotion rippled through her voice, and I lived the song with her as she sang about lost love, the yearning for what once had been a dream, all of it.

  “She’s a dynamo,” Tinkie said, while I gathered my ragged emotions. Pleasant’s song brought up a past I needed to leave behind. Pleasant had a lot of mojo as a writer, and Laney knew how to put her heart into a song.

  “Yeah, Laney’s a great singer who identifies with her material,” Rick said. “Your missing girl wrote that song. Laney and Benny Hester are just smart enough to recognize the power Pleasant Smith created.”

  “How did Benny come by the material?” I asked Laney after she walked over to our table.

  Laney didn’t hesitate to answer our questions. “He told me he was approached at a music festival by a young woman from Bolivar County who said she’d written some songs. She e-mailed him the music, then took a meeting with him. They made the deal. I sure hope the songwriter doesn’t pull out of the agreement, because we cut a music video of the song last week. It’s ready for release.” She looked from Rick to us. “We have the rights to the song, don’t we?”

  “I’m not certain,” I said. “But I’m sure the songwriter will work with you—as soon as we find her.”

  “She’s missing?” Laney looked really uncomfortable.

  “Yes. Do you know something about that?” Tinkie pressed.

  She released the strap on her guitar and put it on a stand. “I don’t. Not really. I wish I could help.”

  “Me, too. Are you sure you can’t?” Tinkie asked.

  She looked longingly at the door for a moment, as if she might flee, but instead she answered Tinkie’s question. “The day Mr. Hester called me in and gave me the song to rehearse, there were some girls in the lobby of the Landbridge Building. There was also a woman in his office. Not so old, but too old for the ponytail and the skinny jeans with holes she was struttin’ around in.” Her eyes squinted. “It was like she was trying to look like a teenager, but she failed. I was a little early for my appointment and Mr. Hester was busy, so I went downstairs to the coffee shop on the corner. I was nervous, and yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense, but coffee calms me down. I thought I’d grab a cup to pass the time.”

  When she paused, I prompted her with an, “And?”

  “Those girls and that woman were in the lobby high-fiving each other. One of the girls said something like “by the time that redneck bisnotch figures out how to get home, we’ll be set.”

  I showed Laney the photo of Tally McNair first.

  “That’s the ponytail woman.” She identified Tally.

  I’d taken a few shots of Brook, Lucinda, and Amber, so I showed them.

  “Yeah, that’s the trio. And that one,” she pointed at Lucinda, “is the one who was talking. I remember it because they thought they were so cool with the whole bisnotch thing. Like slang was her special province.”

  “What about this guy?” I showed her the photo of Alfred Uxall.

  “I didn’t see any males. Just the girls and that ponytail woman.”

  I knew three girls who were headed for a stint in reform school or juvy if not outright adult prison, and the band director would be right with them. Sadly, they would learn that neither popularity, money, nor intimidation of their peers would keep them from time behind bars.

  “Thanks, Laney.” It was time for our meeting with the music agent.

  “I hope you find her and she’s okay.” Laney was caught in the middle of Pleasant’s disappearance, like the rest of us.

  * * *

  The Landbridge Building was one of the premium office spaces in Music City. Rick walked us up to Benny Hester’s office, then took off to work another case. While we waited for Hester to finish a meeting down the hall, we took in the mahogany paneling, the impressive number of framed gold and platinum albums hanging on the walls, and the waterfall that comprised one entire wall of his office. Lighting twinkled behind the water, which soothed my nerves even though I was eager to take the meeting and get back to Sunflower County and my search for Pleasant.

  We were on the twentieth floor, and when I looked out the window I could see the area of Nashville where some of the great singers and songwriters had met fame. Music Row, the Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Ole Opry, and one of my favorite Nashville bars, Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, were all clearly visible.

  I’d always enjoyed Nashville, and I knew the basics of the town’s history—at least where country music was involved. The blues were my first love, but some country singer-songwriters had also captured my allegiance.

  The Ryman had originally been built as a church and was known as the “Mother Church of Country Music.” Stars such as Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, and Porter Wagner had graced the stage with talent and glamour.

  Behind the Ryman was Tootsie’s famous watering hole, a place where “new” musicians were often discovered by music executives having a drink after taking in an Opry performance. Willie Nelson, among many, had gotten his first music break while playing for tips at the bar known as “the place where music begins.” The mus
ic legends who grew from Tootsie’s and the Ryman were staggering.

  “This town could get in your blood,” I said to Tinkie, who clearly wanted to be on the way home. She checked her watch every five seconds.

  “I used to love to come here with Oscar when we were first dating. A lot of couples drove up to catch shows or meander through the bars, listening to new talent, singers like Laney Best. That girl is going places.”

  “She has the heart and the right material.”

  “I’m more and more positive Pleasant is alive but can’t come forward. Someone is holding her prisoner.”

  “To what purpose?” I asked. “The scholarship thing is over and done.”

  “And Pleasant doesn’t have a pot to pee in, as your aunt Loulane would say. It can’t be a kidnapping for money. And they’ve stolen her songs.”

  “Jealous of her talent?” It worked as a motive. “Clearly Tally wanted the songs Pleasant had written. And those girls just hated her because they are eaten alive with envy. And they’re all four stupid as a dead slug. They got her out of the way, but what now? Are they holding her hostage and forcing her to write new songs?”

  “Maybe, but they can’t keep her the rest of her life.” Tinkie’s eyes widened. “When they release her, what will they have gained? Pleasant can reclaim the rights to her songs. I’m sure she can prove they’re hers.”

  The obvious answer was one I didn’t want to say. They had no intention of releasing her. Ever. Tinkie had the same thought—it showed clearly in her expression.

  My enthusiasm for the Nashville view had waned as Pleasant’s terrible plight filled my imagination. I didn’t know the teenager, and sometimes it grew too easy to think of her in the abstract. She was a missing young woman, one who had given birth and might not have received any medical attention. One who might be suffering from an infection, if the young man trying to get help from Betty McGowin was any indication.