Rock-a-Bye Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Chablis,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. I stroked her trembling body and checked her for a wound or illness. She wasn’t hurt—physically.

  I scooped the dog into my arms and marched back to Tinkie. “Put that baby down this instant. There’s someone here you’re neglecting.”

  Tinkie’s expression went from shock to fleeting anger and then sudden remorse. “I have been ignoring Chablis.”

  “And it will stop now.” My friend was tenderhearted and loved her dust mop of a dog, but baby fever had clouded her judgment. Tinkie would never, ever do a single thing to upset Chablis or hurt her feelings. Yet she had. And knowing my partner, she would suffer guilt until she made amends with her pooch.

  Libby was oblivious to all of it. When Tinkie put her in the playpen, the baby turned to look at Sweetie, gurgling with joy.

  I handed Tinkie her pup. “You need to do some serious making up.”

  Tinkie sank into a chair beside the playpen and rocked Chablis back and forth, crooning apologies to her. I went to the front door, where Oscar, loaded with even more baby stuff, struggled up the steps. Some of the products I’d never seen or heard of. Baby-ramas, Johnny jumpers, cuddle clothes. I’d grown up knowing about pacifiers, teething rings, diapers, and baby rash ointment. In the years I’d failed to pay attention, there’d been an explosion of things for doting parents to spend money on. Much of it useless, in my opinion.

  “Oscar, put that stuff back in the car. Libby has everything she needs right inside.”

  “But she might want—”

  “This excess has to stop. It isn’t good for you or the baby. And while I’m laying down the law, you have to stop neglecting Chablis. Her little heart is breaking.”

  He slowly lowered the goods, a chagrined expression on his face. “I hadn’t realized how we were leaving her out.”

  “She was your first responsibility. Sure, the baby needs constant attention, but Chablis needs to know she’s loved, too. You can balance the two.”

  Oscar left his bundle at the door and hurried inside. He joined Tinkie, who still cuddled Chablis. The pup looked a thousand percent more chipper, and after a few minutes of love from both her humans, she jumped to the floor and romped off with Sweetie.

  Crisis averted.

  “Thanks for the wake-up call,” Tinkie said as she shifted to sit on the floor beside the playpen. She lay down on her side so she was eye to eye with Libby, who watched her with absorption.

  “Chablis is a sensitive soul. She’s fine now. She will love Libby just as much as she loves you two.” I stifled a yawn. My day had been long and worry had settled heavy on my shoulders. The long hours of the night stretched ahead of us.

  Famished, we dug into the food Millie had prepared, and Tinkie and Oscar regaled me with stories of Libby’s intelligence and ability to understand English, French, and Spanish vocabulary words. They raved about her discerning palate. I didn’t say a word. How a baby who drank only formula could be such a prodigy of taste, I didn’t know and refused to ask. It was just fun to hear them brag so outrageously over the infant.

  The critters enjoyed the special treats Millie had sent them, and they stretched out on the floor beneath the kitchen table.

  I’d locked all the doors, windows, and even the doggy door. Sweetie, Chablis, and Pluto were fearless. I was filled with fears. To keep them safe, I made sure they couldn’t charge out into the night—should Gertrude show her face. Before it got any later, I called Lee McBride, my horsey friend, and checked on my herd. Reveler, Lucifer, and Miss Scrapiron were grazing in a lush winter pasture, content and well attended.

  After Gertrude’s surprise visit, when she recklessly shot up my place, I was glad the horses were safely away from Dahlia House, at least until Gertrude was brought to justice.

  As the hours passed, Coleman called twice to check on me. He didn’t explain his absence, and I was honestly too tired to question him thoroughly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  “Sarah Booth, you should go to bed.” Tinkie knelt in front of me. I’d fallen asleep sitting up on the horsehair sofa.

  “Scott said he’d spend the night.” I yawned again. “Watchdog.”

  “You jump under the covers. We’ll let him in. I promise.” Tinkie put the back of her hand against my forehead as if she were testing for fever. “You’re so tired your body is cool to the touch. You need rest.”

  I covered a yawn with my palm. She was right. I’d get a crick in my neck if I continued to sleep with my head cranked over. “Thank you both.”

  “See you in the morning,” Tinkie said. “And thanks for pointing out how left out Chablis felt.”

  I nodded and trudged up the stairs to my room, barely aware of what I was doing.

  The next morning I woke up with the sun in my eyes and someone sitting on my bed. When I finally focused on the towering blue beehive hairdo, I scooted against the headboard. “What the hell?”

  “It’s going to be a lovely day, Sarah Booth. Friends and family gathering round.”

  I leaned toward the bedroom door. If I could get away from the apparition with the huge blue hairdo, red necklace, and voice that sounded like gravel, I was going to make a break for freedom.

  “Don’t be in a rush, Sarah Booth. Rushing is bad for your digestion. Homer never rushes.”

  “Marge Simpson.” I meant to speak under my breath but failed.

  “Yes, it’s me. Marge. Here to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  I’d seen Jitty take on the form of cartoon characters, in particular Betty Boop and Wonder Woman, but to see her as Marge was disconcerting. Marge was a long way from beautiful or sexy, which were Jitty’s preference. Marge tolerated Bart’s mischief and Homer’s mediocrity. She was loving and kind and forgiving, which was also far down the list of Jitty’s character traits.

  Marge loved her family above all else.

  At last I got it—why Jitty presented as Marge Simpson. She was the mother of unconditional love.

  “You got it, cupcake,” Jitty/Marge said in that voice that could drive me straight up the wall. “Mothers love. That’s their job. You’re a mother to Sweetie Pie and Pluto. And one day, you’ll be a mother to your own little Delaney.”

  I braced myself for the shriveling ovaries lecture, but Marge was kinder and less repetitious than Jitty. She moved on to other areas.

  “You don’t have to be smart or famous or even pretty to be the best mother around. I know. I’m none of those things. But I got love.”

  In the crazy way that Jitty worked on me, I began to miss the idea of common, plain old motherhood. I didn’t have to be a genius, or the best private eye, or the prettiest Delta gal, or even the best cook. I could be Mom, and that required the capacity to love. It was a job description that suddenly held gargantuan appeal. My mother had been an exemplary mother. She fought for her community and to change the world. She married the smartest man in the South, a man who stood for something. But I didn’t have to match her. I could just be a mom in my own way.

  “Don’t compare yourself to the past. Remember, history’s like an amusement park. Except instead of rides, you have dates to memorize.”

  That statement was like a slap in the face or a glass of cold water tossed on me. I snapped out of it. Throwing the covers aside, I leaped out of bed. “Stop it, Jitty. You’re turning my brain into mush. Of course I have to be the best mom ever—just like my mama. I can’t be a substandard vessel for the last Delaney spawn.” I knew that would get her goat.

  Her blue beehive jumped a foot taller. “Stop that, Sarah Booth. Spawn is an unacceptable term. Just get pregnant. Look, roll the dice. DNA is a crapshoot anyway. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a good baby like Libby.”

  “In contrast to a bad baby?” I had her on the ropes.

  “You haven’t lived until you have a baby that cries or won’t thrive or stays sick and worries you to death. Yes, a good baby is one that is happy and joyful and will grow up to be a happy, joyful adult. Like Libby. Tha
t’s the kind of baby you want.”

  That was true, so instead of arguing, I grabbed my clothes from the floor. I had no idea if Tinkie and Oscar had left or what had happened while I was drifting along the River Lethe, unmindful of anything around me. Gertrude could have slipped into the house and slit me from gullet to stern.

  “Right now, Marge, I’m not interested in a baby. I have work to do. You know, that occupation that keeps a roof over our heads.”

  “You think you’re so different from Marge.” My beautiful haint, still sporting blue hair but completely herself, stood up. “That’s a problem in this world. Folks see the differences. Just remember, our differences are only skin deep, but our sames go down to the bone.”

  With that she was gone on the lingering scent of baking sugar cookies. I had been handed a lesson in humanity by a blue-haired cartoon.

  * * *

  I took a steaming shower, put on jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt and went down to the kitchen. Coffee smelled heavenly, and I poured a cup of black and grabbed a strip of bacon. Someone had been busy, but now there was no evidence of anyone in the kitchen or the house. Not even my hound was around to wish me good morrow.

  “Where the heck is everyone?” Since I’d been abandoned, I was forced to talk to myself. Coffee in hand, I stumbled back through the dining room and halted. Someone had made pinecone turkeys, and a huge cornucopia graced the dining room table, which was set with my mother’s Thanksgiving bone china plates edged in gold. Autumn leaves were scattered about the center of each plate, and Native American designs rimmed the edges. I loved this china set, and someone had taken the time to put a beautiful forest green tablecloth under the china, crystal, candles, and other elements of a proper table setting.

  But where had everyone gone? It was as if the decorator fairies had come, spruced up the house, and stolen my friends and pets.

  And then I heard laughter. I rushed to the front door where Harold was unloading bales of hay, pumpkins, and two dancing scarecrows to stage the front porch. Keeping him company were Tinkie, Oscar, and Scott. Libby, only her eyes exposed beneath the bundle of clothes, gurgled happily in the playpen, which had been moved to the porch where Tinkie could watch her.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Scott said.

  “You guys! This is wonderful.”

  “Thanksgiving isn’t going to just happen, Sarah Booth.” Harold loved to tease me, and he did it with great style. “You have to make the holiday arrive.”

  “I have the best friends ever. Come inside and have some coffee.” I wanted to kiss them all.

  “Do you like it?” Harold asked as he arranged the scarecrows and plugged them in. They ran through a fine do-si-do and then started over to the catchy music.

  “Where in the world did you find this?” I was amazed. Harold could find anything.

  “At the gettin’ place. I wanted to be sure this Thanksgiving gathering was festive. I’ve also arranged for square dance lessons for all of us. Something to burn off some of the calories we’re going to eat.”

  In a million years I’d never have thought of square dance lessons, but it was the perfect treat for a day devoted to gluttony. We could eat and then dance, and then eat again.

  “Harold, you are the party prince. You think of everything.”

  “I know how much it means to you for this Thanksgiving to be special. I’m happy to help. You’ve got your hands full with the search for Pleasant and the manhunt for Gertrude.”

  I’d missed god-knew-what while I was sawing logs. “Speaking of the devil, any updates?”

  Tinkie sat up. “Two bounty hunters, a man and a woman, checked into The Gardens B&B. Pretty ironic that they’re living in Gertrude’s former business. And they are not shy about telling folks their business. In fact, they’re passing out flyers of Gertrude with reward money attached. That, combined with what Yancy Bellow offered, has upped the ante.”

  “It will be a bitter irony if they catch her, maybe in the flower beds.” Gertrude, whatever her faults, had an amazing green thumb. The grounds of the B&B were some of the most beautiful I’d ever seen, ablaze with the fall colors of gold, purple, maroon. Each season presented with showy blossoms, and the autumn belonged to the mums. “Is it Dog and Beth?”

  Tinkie shook her head. “Junior was pulling your leg. He hired some bounty hunter named Clete Purcell and his partner Dave something from New Orleans. This has nothing to do with Dog and Beth.”

  “That Junior. Daddy always warned me he was a card. It’s too bad, though, that Dog isn’t in town. Gertrude would make an excellent TV episode.” Frankly, I didn’t care if Scooby Do brought her to justice, as long as she was caught.

  “You’d better get cracking if Pleasant Smith is going to make it home to spend Thanksgiving with her family.” Harold avoided looking at Tinkie or Oscar as he spoke. He wasn’t being cruel. It was merely a reminder for them to keep their hearts as protected as possible.

  We trooped into the house and cleaned up a breakfast that would have filled three-dozen hungry farmhands, and then I picked up my keys. “I’m going to work.”

  “We’re almost done decorating,” Harold said. He checked his watch. “I have to go to work, too. How about we finish this evening?”

  “Great.” Since I was in need of babysitters, it would be nice to have something productive to do with our time.

  “Would you mind dropping Libby by Madame Tomeeka’s?” Tinkie asked Oscar.

  “Sure.”

  Oscar kissed her cheek with such gentleness my heart twitched. “I’ll be at the bank. Call if you need me.”

  “And I’ll be at the club,” Scott said. “We’ll meet back here when we can.”

  We all nodded. It would be a great Thanksgiving celebration, but only because I had such incredible friends.

  * * *

  With the baby safely delivered to Tammy, and the critters in the backseat of the Cadillac, Tinkie and I were ready to find Pleasant. Although my gut knew beyond a doubt that Carrie Ann, Lucinda, and Tally had engineered Pleasant’s disappearance, I couldn’t figure out where they’d taken the young woman or why they were still holding her.

  Tinkie was all in the game as we drove to the spot on Highway 12 where Dewey Backstrum had been killed. I wanted her to examine the scene of the crime, even though there was nothing there to see but a bare stretch of road and empty fields. I also wanted her to meet Frankie. The DNA test results for Frankie’s paternity weren’t in yet. A backlog in the state lab was working in Tinkie’s favor. But I thought if she met the young man, she’d see he was kind and decent. It might help, when the time came.

  Off to the west a storm was brewing, and a massive thunderhead loomed, but it was far in the distance. Storms could sweep across the flat land of the Delta in record time. The assault was often quick and short-lived, but sometimes the black clouds moved slowly, a behemoth of rain, thunder, and lightning. I hoped this storm stayed to the west and moved north or south rather than on top of us.

  We exited the car into a stiff easterly wind, blowing away my hopes of avoiding the rain. The storm would be here, and if the wind was any indication, it would be here quickly. As I diagramed what I thought had happened with Dewey Backstrum and Pleasant, Tinkie visualized it.

  “If Pleasant had stopped to help Mr. Backstrum, it’s possible she may have witnessed the hit-and-run. Her abduction may have nothing to do with the Delta State scholarship,” Tinkie said.

  She was dead right. “I believe those men, Rudy, Owen, and Luther took her. I’m still not certain about Rudy’s role in this. But I believe Owen and Luther still have her. While these men may have done the kidnapping and hostage holding, I think those little high school bitches and Carrie Ann masterminded the operation.”

  “We need to focus on two questions. How can we prove it and where can we find her?”

  She was exactly right, and I knew where to find a source who might give some insight into Potter. “Let’s take a drive to Parchman.”

 
Tinkie blanched, but she didn’t refuse. “What do you hope to find there?”

  “Owen and Luther both did time. Maybe someone at the prison knows about their habits, places they might hide out. There is reward money on this, and it’s enough to maybe bribe someone to talk.”

  “Oscar isn’t going to like this one bit,” Tinkie said as she got behind the wheel. I slammed my door and she was grinning. “A prison adventure. Makes my heart go pitter-pat.”

  Sometimes I underestimated my partner and I needed to stop doing it.

  We dropped by the Three Bs grocery first, and I introduced Tinkie to Frankie and gave them a few minutes to chew the fat about Libby. Tinkie seemed somewhat relieved when we left the store for the short drive to the state penitentiary.

  “He’s a nice young man, isn’t he?”

  “He loves Pleasant. I’m pretty sure he’s the father.”

  “Yes, I can see it. Libby has that same tender look.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, but it was not uncomfortable. Tinkie seemed to be processing Frankie as Libby’s father, and I was figuring out what to say to the prison warden that would win us an interview with anyone who knew Luther or Owen and who would voluntarily talk to us. A call from Coleman might smooth the way, but I thought we’d try it on our own first. I’d resort to Coleman as a last ditch effort.

  We had no difficulty getting past the guard station, after an assistant warden agreed to meet with us. I’d been to Parchman on several occasions. My father had worked with clients there, men and women, before a separate female prison was built. My father believed that some inmates had been railroaded in a system that punished blacks and the poor far more severely than others. Daddy had saved two men from the gas chamber, which was the means of execution at the time. In more modern times, Mississippi had upgraded the state-administered death system to lethal injection.

  Prisons are bleak places no matter the season, but winter is particularly depressing in a prison that stretches across twenty-eight square miles of some of the most fertile land in the world. While the warden’s office was warm and sunny, the land seemed drenched in desperation and despair. The blues were born at Parchman, and if not born, then nurtured into a musical form that expressed both the joy and sorrow of life, the love of a good woman and the temptation of a bad one, the injustices yet also the small pleasures that make life worthwhile.