“You are insufferable.”
“You’re a greedy bitch. Greedy and completely unprincipled. Don’t push me too hard.”
“You’ll pay for this.” She heaved a deep breath.
“Don’t think you can play with me.” Lynch’s smile was gone, and his face lifted closer to hers. “We were together when Kemper was killed. Remember that. You can phrase it any way you’d like, but just don’t try to change that fact.”
“My memory isn’t all that good, Bud.” Carol Beth smiled.
“Try some ginkgo biloba. I’ve heard it stimulates the brain. Just do it fast. Remember, Carol Beth, if I don’t have an alibi, neither do you.”
“And who would a jury in Sunflower County believe—a horse trainer implicated in a Texas murder, or the daughter of Littleton Farley?” Her laughter was cold.
“I’ve tied up with people a lot smarter, richer, and tougher than you. And I always come out on top.” Bud appeared unperturbed.
“We’ll see about that.” Carol Beth whirled, and then halted dead in her tracks when she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” The question was a spear hurled across the room. “I wasn’t aware that Dahlia House was in such dire straits that you’d been reduced to mucking stalls to make ends meet.”
Her attack was surprising, but not necessarily unexpected. Carol Beth hadn’t changed a bit. “Lynch said he had a way with horses. I guess he doesn’t have the touch with a jackass.” What the hell, there was no reason for me to hold back. I was rewarded with a crooked grin from Lynch that sizzled with charm. Part of his appeal was the ease with which he established a connection. I felt a desire to move physically closer to him.
“Get out of my way.” Carol Beth stormed toward me.
“Wasn’t that what Sherman said on his way to Atlanta?” I stepped aside and turned to watch her stalk down the barn aisle. In a moment, there was the sound of a big diesel engine starting, and her rig pulled away. The old man, Roscoe, peeped out of a stall and grinned at me.
“I gather you know Mrs. Bishop,” Lynch said in that slow Texas twang.
“Since first grade.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He had a quick wit and a bit of malice. “What was that all about?” I asked as casually as I could manage. The conversation I’d overheard involved more than equines. Bud Lynch and Carol Beth Bishop had only each other for an alibi the night Kemper was killed. Although Kip was my primary suspect, Bud was close behind her.
He shrugged a shoulder. “A woman with regrets is never a pretty sight.” Although his attitude was cavalier, his tone belied his worry. “How’s Kip?” he asked.
“She’s managing.” Although his concern seemed genuine, I had my own questions. “What was Carol Beth doing here? Why does she want Avenger and the mares? She has enough money to buy any horse she wants. Why Avenger?”
“That horse is worth a lot more than the bill of sale Kemper signed for him and the mares. After this show season, when his first crop of babies demonstrate their stuff, Avenger will be getting ten thousand a pop for a stud fee, and that’s just starters.” He shifted one lean hip. “Of course, that’s if everything goes as planned. In the horse business, risk is the only certainty.”
He motioned me over to a chart on the wall that listed names of horses, breeding dates, foaling dates, sales.
“Avenger’s potential is unlimited. The mares who are bred to him carry foals that will bring millions. Four of his babies are on the Olympic team, eight on the Grand Prix circuit. If any were available on the market, they’d command prices up to half a million dollars each. Carol Beth recognizes the possibilities and she has the three hundred grand to seize the opportunity. That’s the answer to your first question. In simple terms, she wants what Lee has. Carol Beth’s eaten up with jealousy of Lee. Everything Carol Beth has, someone else actually owns. She went from her father’s largesse to her husband’s. Lee’s made her own way.”
“You make Carol Beth sound just a little psychotic,” I said.
“Not psychotic, but certainly obsessed. Ever since she first showed up out here under the guise of taking riding lessons, she’s been planning on how to get Avenger. That fool Kemper played right into her hands.”
I could buy that explanation. Now for the more unpleasant chore. “I want to see where Kemper was killed.”
He motioned me to follow him. As he went through the door, it was impossible not to let my eyes wander down his body. He had a fine butt. Was it riding that made it look that good? I forced my eyes up to his shoulders and saw the good posture, the strength. He was a total package. Remembering the facts I’d dug up on him—not least of all his possible implication in the murder of a Texas rancher—I wondered if all that charm and masculinity were what might be considered a lethal package. It occurred to me that I was alone in a barn with a potential killer, but what was worse was that another suspect was living under my roof. It wasn’t exactly what the private eye handbook cited as an example of wise investigating techniques.
We left the main barn and walked down a path of raked gravel to a smaller barn with only a few stalls—all empty—but a lot of sunlight and fresh air. He led me directly to a huge box stall cordoned off with the remains of yellow crime-scene tape. “Help yourself,” he said. “The sheriff’s come and gone.”
I slowly opened the door and found only what I had anticipated. Blood had been spattered everywhere. The shavings were soaked in it. It looked as if a terrible battle had been waged within the confines of the whitewashed boards.
There was nothing for me to learn in the stall except that Kemper had been brutally murdered, but I had other questions. “Are you involved with Lee?”
Instead of answering, he walked into the sunshine. Leaning against the barn, he turned his face to the sun. I caught up with him, growing more annoyed. “I need an answer. After all, this wouldn’t be the first time a woman you were involved with ended up with a dead husband.”
He ignored the gibe. “Involved can cover a lot of ground. I’m the hired help. Of course I’m involved in part of her life.”
Hedging was his specialty. I could be more direct. “Are you in love with Lee?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It speaks to motive. I won’t be the only one asking.”
“Kemper was a cruel, sadistic bastard.” He looked beyond me, down the aisle to where a horse called a soft greeting to him. “A long time ago, if things had gone differently, she might have fallen in love with me. If Lee had given me a single sign that there was a chance . . .” He turned slightly away. “Things would be a lot different now.”
He forestalled my next question by pointing down the lane where old Roscoe was leading a huge gray horse. The animal shook his head and called a soft greeting.
“That’s Avenger.” He straightened up and waved at Roscoe. “Put him back in the stallion barn. Use the spare stall. We’ll get his cleaned up tomorrow.”
As the horse was led away, I couldn’t help but notice how every muscle seemed defined. He was breathtaking. His sculpted head nodded up and down on an arched neck. A forelock of black hair tossed against his gray hide as his hooves beat a tattoo on the gravel. My eyes lingered on him, captured by his magnificence.
“Do you remember Spartacus, Lee’s big gray stallion from her teen years?” Bud asked.
“Yes.” I had a vivid memory of her riding down my drive on a cold Christmas morning.
“Avenger is his son. Kemper wanted to sell all the horses, take the money, and start some new business. What that actually meant was that he would gamble it away. Lee, of course, refused. It would have killed Kip.”
That was a sentiment I questioned. “Kip doesn’t seem all that fond of her life at Swift Level.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Kip loves these horses as much as, or more than, Lee. Her love was always the weapon used against her. Is there anything else you need to know?” he asked, obviously ready to conclude my visit.
“Where
were you the night Kemper was killed?”
“I told you, I was with someone.”
I merely looked at him. “I heard. Carol Beth. But there seems to be some disagreement there.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Carol Beth is trying to play the odds. If she can implicate me, she’ll try it. With Lee in prison and me out of the way, she’d be up here with an eighteen-wheeler and load up everything with four legs.”
“Who killed Kemper?”
“Lee didn’t.”
“Is this a theory or a fact?” My heart was beating fast. Was Lynch going to confess to murder? “It’s not so different from Texas.”
His chuckle was slow and easy. “Yes, a setup similar enough that it would be very convenient to pin this on me. You’re hoping I’ll say I did it.” His eyes caught the light, a pure, clear blue. “Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll say I did it.”
He let that hang between us, the possibility that he was a killer. Smiling, he shook his head. “I didn’t. Like I told you, I was with Carol Beth. Believe it or not, I’d do anything I could to help Lee.” He paused for effect. “Anything.”
I arched my eyebrows, waiting.
“I can’t confess,” he said slowly.
“There’s bound to be a good reason here.”
“The night Kemper was killed, Carol Beth showed up intending to claim the horses. She showed me the bill of sale. She put it in the glove box of her truck. It was the only evidence she had that Kemper had sold her Avenger.”
There was a long pause as he let me work it out for myself. “Once she was asleep, sated with pleasure, you were going to steal the bill of sale.”
“Not my most noble act, but yes. That was my plan. Unfortunately, it seems a succubus doesn’t need sleep. I must have dozed off. When I woke up, Carol Beth and her rig were gone, along with the bill of sale.”
9
The sycamore trees along the drive were budding out with tight, green leaves. Against the pale blue sky they were almost chartreuse. Sycamores are messy trees, but they’re also graceful. I love them at all seasons, even in the winter when their pale trunks rise like ghostly bones into the sky.
My mind was still back at Swift Level. Two things intrigued me. Number one was that Carol Beth had lowered her standards enough to sleep with someone who wasn’t landed gentry. Second—that Lynch had survived the experience. “Succubus” was a perfect word to describe Carol Beth.
A little added jolt was Lynch’s vocabulary. He was a lot better read than I’d ever thought.
I was halfway down my drive when I saw a man sitting on the front porch of Dahlia House. He held a glass of something, and he was reading a magazine. He looked up as I parked the car. My first thought was that a Flannery O’Connor character had jumped out of the pages of her stories and come to sell me a Bible. His suit was shiny and black, and the thin tie reflected his own physique. There was even a briefcase at his feet. Glass eyes? Wooden legs? What was he after? His slick smile did not bode well.
“You must be Sarah Booth,” he said. “I got here as quickly as I could. Your niece was kind enough to give me some sweet tea.” He took a sip and smacked his lips. “Perfect.”
“I don’t have a niece.” Very slowly I walked up the steps, taking him in full measure. He was tall, oiled, and impeccably ironed. I was sure his underwear had a crease. His hair, probably a sandy blond, was slicked back in an eighties style, and a pair of aviator sunglasses was folded into his shirt pocket.
“You said to bring a set of tails.” He pointed to a suitcase leaning beside the door.
“Who are you?”
He looked puzzled. “Malone.”
“Malone?”
“Malone Beasley.” He grinned. “You said you were in dire need of a man, so here I am, tails in hand and ready to dance.”
“Where did you come from?” I felt as if I’d gotten trapped in a nightmare. Had I conjured him up from the hell pit of my subconscious?
“Wetumpka, Alabama.” He was looking at me as if he were suddenly concerned.
“Wetumpka,” I repeated. It was a hole-in-the-road town within driving distance. I looked around and noticed that he didn’t have a car.
“I took the bus,” he said. “Leave the drivin’ to them!” He laughed. “You have a Mercedes.” He rolled the word as if it had tremendous flavor. “That’s car enough for the both of us.” He walked past me down the steps to the car in question. “She’s a real beaut.” His lips thinned as he said very slowly, “Cher-ry.” His fingers trailed over the Chinese red paint in a way that was purely sensual. He was in love with my car.
“Beasley,” I snapped.
Hand still proprietarily on my car, he grinned. “You don’t have to be formal. You can call me Malone.”
Just my luck, a weasel with two last names and suffering from autoerotica. “Why are you here?”
His brows drew closer together, almost meeting in a worried point. “For the ball. You know, I’m your date.”
Immediately I detected the fine hand of Cece Dee Falcon. She’d dredged this creature up from the mud of the Mississippi River and expected me to take him to the Chesterfield Hunt Ball.
“I’ve already got a date,” I told him.
Disappointment registered all over his face. “You do? Then why—”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea why. But when I find out, I’ll send you a postcard. I think you should take the bus back to Wetumpka. Send a travel voucher to The Zinnia Dispatch for reimbursement.”
Anger crossed his features like a storm. “You can’t do this. There’s some kind of law. It’s . . . false advertising.”
His voice was growing louder, and I saw a curtain move in the parlor. Kip, Jitty, or the spring breeze, I couldn’t be certain. Two of them would be enjoying this little scene far too much.
“Leave or I’ll call the sheriff. He’s a close personal friend.”
He walked stiffly back up the steps and picked up his suitcase and the briefcase, hefting them with a huff. “And I brought you a present,” he said. “Dang chocolate’s probably melted all over my clean underwear.”
I felt a momentary pang of guilty horror. It wasn’t his fault that Cece had invited him here with the promise of a ball and a date. None of this could be laid at his door. But I knew where the big bad wolf of guilt was going stalking for dinner tonight.
Malone cast a covetous glance at my car. “How about a ride to the bus station? You can’t expect me to walk back to town.”
I hesitated. Common decency dictated that I give him a ride. Then again, he might salivate in the front seat of my car.
“I’ll call a cab.” That was the best I could offer. And I acted on that, going inside and calling Burtis Wade, the only cabby in Zinnia. He wasn’t actually a cabby, but he had a 1963 Ford Fairlane that he used on prom night to drive the seniors around so they could drink. He was groggy from a nap and reluctant to work, but I told him it was an important story for Cece, whom he should bill for the fare. He said he was on the way.
I wanted a hot bath and a locked door. When I went into my room, Kip was sitting at the computer. She clicked off the screen she’d been looking at. “Where’s Mr. Beasley?” she asked.
“He’s gone.” I examined her fourteen-year-old face. She was growing more innocent by the second. “Did you tell him you were my niece?”
“No. I told him I wasn’t your daughter, that you’d never been married. He just assumed I was your niece.” She was finding it hard to hide her amusement. “He had a box of cherry cordials for you. He showed me. I thought it was kind of sweet.”
I wanted to murder Cece. I was prevented from rash action by the sound of high heels tapping through the parlor and toward the kitchen.
“Sarah Booth! Kip! I’m here!” Tinkie called out.
I’d forgotten all about the hair appointment. I went down to the kitchen to find her pulling boxes and bottles out of a pink plastic bag. She already wore a pink plastic apron. Kip had followed me,
and Tinkie signaled her over to the table. “I think something with auburn highlights, but very subtle.” She was already touching Kip’s hair. To my surprise, the thorny teenager sat in a chair and let Tinkie have her way with her burgundy head.
Afternoon light slanted through the kitchen window illuminating them, and for a moment I saw clearly how Kip craved the attention of a woman, the feminine skills that Lee had put at the bottom of her list of priorities. Kip needed a mother.
I walked to the window and looked out at the family cemetery plot some fifty yards away. The Delaneys, including my parents and Aunt LouLane, were all buried there. Five generations. Around LouLane’s grave a star-burst of daffodils was blooming. They’d always been a favorite of hers.
“Sarah Booth, what do you think of this style?” Tinkie pointed to a magazine on the table.
I walked over and looked at the crisp, clean cut. “I like it.”
“Just make me look completely different,” Kip said.
“Okay, then we’ll do that cut, and this color.” Tinkie held up a box.
“Great,” Kip said. “No one will recognize me.”
I gave her a close look, but she was staring at the hair-color box.
“By the way, Sarah Booth, Margene, my cook, is bringing over a roast for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.” Tinkie was whipping strands of hair into the air.
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Without the duties of chef, I could take care of pressing business. “I need to run an errand or two.” I hesitated. Was I leaving Tinkie in danger?
“That roast will be here in half an hour,” Tinkie said. “We’ll just have time to put the color on.” She rolled up the sleeves of her Chanel suit. “You go on, Sarah Booth. We’ll have a surprise for you when you get back.”
All of the courthouse offices were winding down for the close of day, but Coleman was still at the sheriff’s office, and I noted that it seemed he seldom went home anymore. I walked in to an unexpectedly big grin.
“Well, Sarah Booth,” he said. “You’ve been on my mind.” He could barely contain his amusement. “There was a man here about half an hour ago. One Malone Beasley. He says you lied to him. That you deceived him in a deliberate effort to make a jackass out of him. He wanted to press charges against you. Date fraud.”
Splintered Bones Page 9
