Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  She shrugged one shoulder in a modest gesture that was completely sincere. “Since Lee’s in jail, Virginia Cooley Davis is hosting the ball. Let’s just say she owes me a favor or two.” Tinkie smiled.

  “Virginia?” She’d been a delicate young girl who played the piano and read novels. I couldn’t imagine her riding a horse in a blood sport, and said so.

  “She doesn’t ride. Her husband is a whip in the hunt, and she handles the social calendar.” Tinkie retrieved the pie and opened her mouth for the last strawberry. When she finished, there wasn’t even a smudge of whipped cream on her perfect lipstick. A Daddy’s Girl had many talents.

  “This is the final ball of the season,” Tinkie continued, “and Chesterfield always has a very, very elegant affair. The men will wear tails with the colors of the hunt on the collar, and the ladies”—she grinned—“we wear ball gowns fit to kill.” Her expression changed to one of worry. “Can you find a date? You have to have an escort.”

  “Of course I can find a date,” I replied, cut to the bone. “You act like no one will go out with me.”

  “Have you been out since Hamilton the Fifth went back to Europe?” she asked pointedly.

  “I’ve been busy, and—” Truth was, Hamilton, the focus of my first case and the man who’d touched my heart, was often on my mind.

  “So, the answer is no. It doesn’t sound like your dance card has any marks on it.”

  I glared at her. “You know, you’re beginning to remind me of Brianna Rathbone.” Brianna had figured prominently in my last case—as primary suspect, primo Daddy’s Girl, former schoolmate, former model, wannabe biographer, and bitch extraordinaire.

  Tinkie only laughed. “Well, put your thinking cap on, because you need an escort. And don’t think you can fall back on Harold. I hear he’s already got a date.” She tilted her head, watching for my reaction.

  “Who?” My attempt to play uninterested was a failure.

  “This is the other thing I found out.” She slowly sat back in her chair, playing out the moment like Gloria Swanson waiting for her close-up. “Harold’s taking a married woman because her husband can’t attend. Carol Beth Bishop!” At my blank look, she continued with some exasperation. “She was a Farley.”

  I inhaled. “No!” I remembered her perfectly.

  She nodded. “In fact, she’s in town right this minute. Even better, she’s out at Swift Level, and she’s claiming that she owns Lee’s prime breeding stallion and four of her best mares. She has a bill of sale from Kemper, signing the horses over as collateral for a debt.”

  I stood up so fast my chair spilled over backward. There was a startled yelp at the kitchen window, and I caught a glimpse of Kip stumbling away. She’d been eavesdropping.

  “Carol Beth Farley! She’s the person claiming Lee’s horses?” Now I knew why Bud Lynch had been so desperate to talk to Lee. Carol Beth took what she wanted, when she wanted it. Anyone who got in her way was flattened.

  Tinkie nodded. “She’s already called the sheriff on that trainer, Lynch. He won’t turn over the horses to her.”

  “Bravo for him.” His stock rose a notch in my eyes. At least he was good for something. “Carol Beth Farley,” I said, pacing the kitchen. The moment that defined her for me was a sixth-grade piano recital competition held the spring after my parents’ death. She’d worn a designer gown, her mahogany brown curls piled high on her head and a glittering tiara nestled on top. She’d taken one look at the plain satin dress Aunt LouLane had made for me and twisted up one corner of her mouth. “Appearance is three quarters of the performance,” she’d said, and then gone on to prove it. She’d won.

  But the story was more complex than our childhood rivalry. Frankie Archey was, hands down, the best pianist in the school. Three broken fingers on his right hand had forced him to withdraw from the contest. The day before the recital, when he was practicing alone in the school auditorium, Carol Beth slammed the piano cover on his hand. She said it was an accident. Frankie said nothing at all.

  “How did you find out about Carol Beth?” I asked Tinkie.

  “Virginia told me. She was at Swift Level making preparations for the ball. It’s still going to be held there, even with Lee in jail. Lee has insisted, though Heaven knows why. Anyway, Virginia heard the whole exchange between the trainer and Carol Beth.” She bit her lower lip, then let it pop out from her teeth. I’d borrowed that little gesture to good advantage in the past.

  “Good work, Tinkie.”

  “There’s one other thing.” She paused.

  “What?”

  “Virginia said several of our old crowd have been taking riding lessons from that horse trainer. It seems Bud has quite a following among the ladies.”

  I caught a glimpse of Kip, back at the window. Judging from the expression on her face, she wasn’t as indifferent to what was happening as she wanted to make out.

  Once Tinkie and Chablis had gone, I went up to Kip’s room. She was lying on her unmade bed, a magazine open in front of her.

  “We need to talk about school,” I said. I needed to keep Kip busy and out of trouble.

  “I’m not going back.” She didn’t bother to look up from the magazine. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Kip, you can’t drop out of school.”

  She closed the magazine, revealing a horse and rider clearing a big fence. “Mr. Hayden said I could do my classes on-line if I can borrow your computer. I just can’t go back to school now.”

  “I’ll talk it over with your mom,” I agreed.

  “Do that,” she said. “She won’t care. I missed school all the time to ride.” She flipped the magazine open again and began to read an article. I was dismissed.

  Kip was heavy on my mind as I drove to The Zinnia Dispatch to see what Cece had dug up on Kemper. Because I’d already eaten peach cobbler and a modest portion of strawberry pie, I decided to forgo the cheese Danish that was my usual offering to Cece. Poor decision. Cece was always nicer when fed.

  Cece’s door was open, and I slowed and stopped just outside when I noticed the well-dressed man sitting in front of her desk. He was groomed to perfection, and sat with one ankle crossed over a knee, perfectly at ease.

  “An industrial park isn’t exactly a society page story,” Cece said in a tone that showed her patience had worn thin.

  “Sunflower County has no development,” the man said patiently. “What I’m proposing will bring jobs here. And my ideas on development are far from merely industrial. I envision great things for Sunflower County. This is a land rich in history and heritage. These are all things that can be capitalized on.”

  “It’s a news story, not society,” Cece insisted.

  “Mr. Erkwell, at the bank, specifically told me to talk to you,” the man said.

  He was not big of stature, but he had grit. Either that or he was dumb as a post. I lingered just outside the door, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “I’ll have to thank Harold,” Cece said. She leaned forward on her desk. Her perfect breasts pressed against the pale yellow sweater she wore, and I saw the gentleman’s gaze lock on them. “You need to talk to someone on the news side, Mr. Walz. I can’t help you.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Falcon. One positive mention of Riverbend Development Company in your column could open a lot of doors for us. We need the support of the community.” He leaned forward in his chair as he continued to talk to her breasts.

  “Mr. Erkwell explained to me how so many people, especially the . . . landed gentry, shall we call them, frown on development. I concede that there have been too many unfortunate incidents in the past where historic homes and beautiful architecture have been razed to make way for progress. I want to assure the people of Sunflower County that Riverbend isn’t that kind of company. You could help me get that across.”

  I saw a flicker of interest pass over Cece’s features. “Exactly what are your plans for Sunflower County?” she asked.

  “We’re very ambitious. We h
ave some major investors. We’re thinking of a golf course, a PGA-level course, with a country club and a housing development. Very elite, but preserving the integrity of the original property.” He had his hands on his knees and had leaned back, but the flush on his face indicated that he had not lost interest in Cece’s nonjournalistic assets. “It would be the economic scoop of the year for this state. This region.”

  “Have you selected a location?” Cece’s tone was slightly bored, but I saw the keen interest in her eyes.

  “We’re exploring our options, but I’d like, very much, to anchor this development in Sunflower County. I’ve seen several pieces of property that capture my interest,” he said, rising to his feet. “Can we count on your help?”

  Cece finally caught sight of me lurking outside the door. “As I said, Mr. Walz, this is a news story. Until you begin development.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll look forward to working with you, Miss Falcon.” He came out of the office, nodding at me as he left.

  “Who was that?” I asked, stepping into her office and closing the door.

  “Nathaniel Walz,” she said, rolling her eyes. “A short man with a persistence problem.”

  “Have you found out anything for me?” I asked, settling into the chair that Walz had vacated.

  Cece’s smile grew wide and toothsome. “You will not believe what I found.” Her nails, beautifully manicured and painted a glittering shade of metallic fruit, drummed on the small space of her desk that wasn’t piled with paper.

  “Spill it, Cece.”

  “Krystal Brook, the country singer, wants to do a benefit for Lee, to raise money for her defense. Her husband, who’s also her manager, stopped by to see if I would do some articles if Krystal agreed to sing.”

  “Terrific.” Benefit was good, but I needed leads.

  “You’ll never guess who Krystal Brook really is.” Cece was beside herself.

  “Who?” I asked, not wanting to play celebrity guessing games.

  “Simpson Maes Fielding!”

  I was stunned. Simpson was a Daddy’s Girl, not a country music diva. “Simpson?”

  Cece nodded, arching one perfectly groomed brow. “Her husband, Mike Rich, is trying to launch her career big time.”

  “Simpson is now Krystal?” I was still in disbelief. “Krystal Brook? That’s her name now?”

  “She legally changed her name. It takes a lot of guts to do that—to just abandon the past and become a completely different person.”

  Cece would know, from firsthand experience. “It takes a little getting used to, but it sounds like a great country music name.”

  “This benefit could help Lee and Krystal both. Mike said that Krystal is really talented, that she just needs a chance. She’ll get total media coverage for doing this.”

  It was good to know that Simpson hadn’t been completely transformed. She could still find the silver lining in another person’s cloud. “Great. I hope it works out. But did you find out anything about Kemper that we can use?”

  Not bothering to hide her miff at my lack of interest in music stars, Cece picked up a notepad and began to scan it. “I’m still digging. I haven’t been able to locate his family, but I did turn up an interesting tidbit. He was expelled from Louisiana State University. Some form of misconduct. And he owned a club in New Orleans for a time.” She slid her hand over the varnished surface of her desk. Her Gilded Apricot nails shimmered. “In general, a lot of false starts. Until he hooked up with Lee.”

  “No criminal charges?”

  “None,” she said, “but I’m still checking.” She shuffled the papers on her desk and selected a sheet. “I have taken care of Kemper’s funeral arrangements. There was no one else to do it. Thursday. Eleven o’clock. St. Lucy’s Cemetery.”

  “Thank you, Cece.” I meant it. “I know Lee will appreciate it.”

  “I’d have her there, Sarah Booth. For her daughter’s sake and for appearances.”

  I nodded. “I could kiss you.”

  Cece held up one hand like Diana Ross stopping love. “Control yourself, Sarah Booth. We’re friends, but you’re not my type. Speaking of types, wherever are you going to get a date for the hunt ball? I’ve racked my brain, and I can’t think of a single man who would take you on.”

  I stopped at the Pig and bought food. In concession to Kip’s age, I included some chips and colas, but I also got shredded cabbage, catfish, and the makings for hush puppies and fries. I wasn’t certain what type of food Kip liked, but no one in her right mind could resist fried catfish and all the trimmings. Grocery sacks in hand, I hustled in the back door. Sweetie was sound asleep on the kitchen floor, and there was no sign of Kip.

  I checked in my bedroom, where the computer screen saver shifted from Mickey Spillane to Dick Tracy and a host of other cartoon renderings of detectives. Kip had been at work on the computer and failed to shut it down.

  I knocked at her door. No answer. Feeling as if I were committing a crime, I opened the door of her room. Her clothes were all over the floor, along with CDs, books, magazines, and makeup.

  “She’s gone.”

  I turned to find Jitty peering over my shoulder. “So I see.”

  “She’s very unhappy,” Jitty said.

  She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Worried that she’s unhappy, or worried that she has a reason to be unhappy?”

  While I couldn’t confess my concerns to anyone else, I could tell them to Jitty. She couldn’t repeat them, because no one else could hear her.

  “What if she killed Kemper?” I asked, nudging a CD with my toe. The band on the cover looked as if they could be Satan worshipers.

  “What if she did?”

  It was the crux of my dilemma. Lee had not hired me to prove her innocence; she’d hired me to prove that Kemper was a bastard. The reason for this fine distinction might very well be Kip. I saw Lee’s strategy very clearly now. She had confessed, which would prevent a full-scale investigation of the murder. She wanted me to provide the evidence that Kemper was a worthless piece of work, which no one disputed. That would keep the focus of the trial on Kemper—and away from Kip. Lee had stepped onto an oily tightrope. If she could actually convince a jury of her peers of Kemper’s role as abscess on the butt of the world, the right jury just might acquit her. She was correct; it had happened before. Barring that, she might get manslaughter and a sentence that amounted to county jail and probation. She could still keep Swift Level up and running and Kip safe. But it was a dangerous, dangerous game.

  The thing that troubled me was Lee’s first lie—that Kemper had attacked her and provoked his death. There had not been a single mark on Lee in that jail cell. A smart prosecutor, and Lincoln Bangs was not stupid, would have noticed that. That and the fact that Lee had never reported Kemper’s repeated abuse of her, not one single time.

  “Look at this mess.” Jitty’s voice pulled me back to the disarray of Kip’s room. Had it not been a perfect reflection of my own room, I would have been forced to have the old “cleanliness is next to godliness” conversation with Kip. Spared by my own vices.

  I turned around to leave and felt something crack beneath my shoe. Mascara. A black makeup kit was open on the floor, the contents spilling out. A tip of blue plastic caught my eye. I looked over at Jitty.

  “She’s your responsibility,” she said.

  I knelt down. The syringe was still in the plastic case, unused. I dumped the lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner pencils onto the floor. There was nothing else. No vials of medicine, no plastic bags of white powder. Just the syringe.

  The phone rang and I walked to my room to answer it.

  “Sarah Booth, it’s Virginia. You need to come out to Swift Level right away.”

  I barely knew Virginia Davis. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s Lee’s daughter. She’s out here and she’s in a real state. The girl is acting crazy.”

  “I’m on
the way.”

  Since Virginia had called, I went to the main house instead of the barn. There was a gold Lexus in the driveway, and a green Mercedes. The only other vehicle in sight was a big black truck with dual rear tires, parked at the barn.

  I walked into a scene so thick with tension that I stopped. Kip was sitting in a chair, her face streaked with makeup and dirt. A handsome man in casual slacks and a white shirt sat on the sofa, chatting with Virginia.

  “Sarah Booth,” Virginia said, as soon as she saw me. “Thank goodness.” She gave Kip a wary glance as she walked past her to take my hand.

  “What happened?” I addressed the question to Virginia.

  “Kip had a little tantrum,” the man said. He stood up. “Mike Rich. Pleased to meet you, Miss Delaney. I’ve heard a bit about you from my wife.”

  I’d heard his name, but I couldn’t place it. My focus was on Kip.

  “What happened?” I asked her again.

  “I was looking for something.” She kept her gaze on the floor.

  “She’s torn up Mr. Lynch’s apartment,” Virginia said with disapproval. “Her mother would be so disappointed in the behavior.”

  Kip was on her feet. “Let her be disappointed! What about me? Does it matter that I’m disappointed? She lied to me. She lied to everyone. You can all just go to hell!” She ran out of the room. I heard the front door bang.

  “How did she get out here?” I asked.

  “I brought her.” Mike Rich had remained standing. “I stopped by your home to discuss a business matter with you. You weren’t home, so I mentioned that I was coming out here to look at Swift Level for the benefit concert.” He paused for a moment, his gaze on Virginia. “Kip asked for a ride out here, and I obliged.”

  Virginia cleared her throat. “I’ve already told Mr. Rich that a concert is out of the question here. We’re in the midst of preparations for the Chesterfield Hunt Ball on Saturday.”

  That was a sticky wicket I didn’t want to touch. My only concern was Kip. “Are you often in the habit of giving teenage girls a ride?” I asked. I was angry with Mike Rich. At the very least, his actions fell in the category of stupid.