Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  Bud Lynch stepped out of the shadows of a big cedar tree and made a beeline for Carol Beth. I stopped. Bud could do a much better job of ass-kicking than I could, and it would be fun to watch.

  Carol Beth was in her riding togs and came out of the truck like she had ants in her skintight pants. “If you call my husband one more time, I swear I’ll . . .”

  She didn’t conclude the threat, and I wasn’t sure if it was due to lack of imagination or the sudden realization that Bud Lynch wasn’t a man to threaten.

  “What will you do, baby doll?” Bud asked. “Let’s see. Slander is out of the question, since what I intend to tell your beloved husband is the truth. He’ll be able to recognize that little mole shaped like Italy on the left side of your . . . coccyx.”

  Ah, Bud did have a vocabulary.

  “Leave Benny out of this.” Carol Beth advanced toward Bud.

  “I think a man should know what his wife’s about. I mean, Benny provides you with a terrific lifestyle and a lot of cash. Maybe if he knew how you spent your evenings away from home, he wouldn’t be so generous. And I believe if Benny weren’t so generous, you wouldn’t have so much free time and money to make mischief in Lee’s life.”

  “I’m going to get Avenger and those mares. Legally, they’re mine. No matter what you do, you can’t stop me.”

  Bud pointed to the truck. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble around here? I see Kip found out you have Mrs. Peel. I wondered how long it would take her to figure out who bought her mare.”

  “Kemper sold her for top dollar.”

  “That was Kip’s horse. She’d raised her from a foal.” Bud’s voice was ugly. “Everything can’t be valued in money, Carol Beth. One day you’ll learn that. It broke Kip’s heart.”

  “She has a dozen other horses to ride. Mrs. Peel is mine now.”

  Bud shoved his hands into his pockets. “You obviously haven’t thought this through very well, so I’ll help you. Even if you get all the horses, you won’t keep them. Legally they’ll be your husband’s horses.” He laughed at her shocked expression. “Consider the fact that if Benny Bishop divorces you, you’ll have to get a job. How binding is that prenup you signed? When you signed it, you never imagined that your daddy would have such awful luck in the stock market, did you? Sounds to me like you’ll be headed straight to the secretarial pool.”

  “I’ll have my own money, and you can bet I’ll never put myself in a position of relying on a man again.”

  “You can have all the money in the world, Carol Beth, and it won’t be enough to fill that black hole in your heart.”

  “You’ll pay for your part in this,” Carol Beth vowed as she hopped back in the big truck and started the engine. The window rolled down smoothly. “I don’t know why you want to protect Lee. She hasn’t paid you in months, and probably won’t ever be able to. She’s going to prison for the rest of her life, and then we’ll see who ends up with Avenger.”

  The window rolled up and the black truck wheeled in the parking lot and lurched through the ditch onto the blacktop. Bud was left standing in the parking lot alone, chuckling.

  I thought I was hidden by the shadow cast by the church, but Lynch spotted me when he turned to go.

  “Are you detecting or spying?” he asked as he walked over to where I hid.

  “Was that blackmail or simple conversation?” I countered.

  “Blackmail, I hope. I think the only thing that will stop her for good is a silver bullet.”

  “Kip vandalized Carol Beth’s truck?” I asked.

  “With good reason.” He took my elbow and led me back toward the cemetery, where Father McGuire was getting ready to start the service. “Carol Beth won’t press charges.”

  “She knows it was Kip?”

  “She caught her and brought her out to Swift Level. I drove Kip back to your place and let her out at the drive.”

  “Did you pick her up last night?”

  He slowed his pace so we could finish our conversation before we entered the cemetery. “No, and she wouldn’t tell me who did, or who told her about Mrs. Peel.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “Kemper knew, of course. I found out. Neither of us told her.” He touched my elbow, moving us forward.

  I scanned the small gathering. About twenty yards past the graveside, three men in dark suits stood watching. “Recognize those men?” I asked Bud.

  He steered me away from them. “They’ve been out to the farm. I would call two of them collection agents. The third one is Tony LaCoco, the gamblers’ bank. Kemper owed him a lot of money. I suppose they’re wondering how to collect.”

  The men simply stood and watched, and I thought of the big blackbirds that once sat on the telephone lines up and down the county roads. I was still looking at them when the gold Lexus pulled up. A beautiful redhead and Mike Rich got out of the car.

  The redhead, who had to be Simpson/Krystal, stopped by the three men long enough to sign autographs. It was both crass and fascinating to see the brief exchange, and at least Mike Rich had the manners to be annoyed. Even from a distance of a hundred yards, I could tell that he wasn’t exactly cordial to them. Then he grasped his wife’s arm and ushered her away.

  “So, the celebrity has arrived,” Bud said.

  “Yes, you know Krystal well, I hear.” I watched him closely, but he ignored the implication in my tone.

  “I was referring to her husband,” Bud said. “Krystal’s a piece of cake compared to her spouse. He thinks he’s the talent and she’s just an accoutrement.”

  Bud and I took a place in the back of the small gathering, behind Coleman and Deputy Gordon Walters.

  “We’ve come to say good-bye to Kemper Fuquar,” Father McGuire intoned. “He has left us here to begin his immortal journey.”

  One of the men in a dark suit stepped to the head of the casket. In the startled breach, he said very calmly, “And he left owing Mr. LaCoco a lot of money.” He looked around at everyone, his gaze lingering on Lee. “Mr. LaCoco has asked me to deliver his condolences, and to tell you that he hasn’t been able to convince the sheriff to let him talk to you in jail. The sooner he talks to you, the sooner Mr. LaCoco can leave town.” The last was spoken to Coleman.

  He gave Kip an appraising glance before he looked at Lee. “Mr. LaCoco will be in touch.” Nodding once, he rejoined his friends, who remained standing beside a big Town Car. They got in and drove away.

  “Father,” Lee said softly.

  The priest concluded the brief service, and we all turned to leave.

  “Sarah Booth,” Coleman said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Wait up. Gordon can take Lee back to the jail.”

  The sheriff and I waited at the cemetery until everyone was gone. Mose, Rake, and Elijah, the three old grave diggers, leaned on their shovels and stared at me. Coleman, too, was staring at me. He took my arm and we walked slowly away from the grave and toward a small pecan orchard that was just budding out.

  The sunlight was warm, and the day promised to be truly beautiful.

  “How stable is Kip?” Coleman asked.

  This was a question I dreaded. It seemed that he and I were running down the same tracks. “I don’t know.” I turned to face him. “I don’t know anything about kids. What about those men at the funeral? That guy all but came out and threatened Lee and Kip. Who is this LaCoco?”

  “They’re exactly what they look like. They’re from Biloxi. Kemper owed them money. I’m checking them out.” He put a warm hand on my shoulder. “I still want to see Kip tomorrow.”

  “Coleman, I don’t—”

  “Billy Appleton, the Security Life agent, was in my office this morning. Kip is the beneficiary of the primary insurance policy on Kemper.” His blue eyes held trouble. “Kemper changed the policy just two weeks before he was killed. He upped it considerably. Prior to that, Lee had dropped a lot of the policies. She was having financial difficulties.”

  In the silence I could hear the unsettling call of a
whippoorwill, normally a nighttime bird. We turned back the way we’d come, and we walked in silence.

  “Don’t forget about tomorrow,” Coleman said as we parted.

  The three grave diggers were still waiting. “Bury him deep,” I told Mose. “We don’t want him crawling out of the grave.”

  The body was lowered into the ground, and the men threw in the first shovelfuls of dirt. I suddenly thought of stopping the entire process to open the casket and apply the required wooden stake. Even though I’d seen the gruesome photographs, I just didn’t trust Kemper to stay dead.

  12

  I stopped by Dahlia House to check on Kip, only to discover a note from Tinkie. She and Kip had driven over to a small restaurant on the Tallahatchie River for lunch. They would be gone for an hour or two.

  “Bless you, Tinkie,” I murmured as I kicked off one high heel and then another. At the sound of the shoes falling, Sweetie Pie bolted out from under the dining room table and snagged a shoe. She had the fastest jaws in the South, and I lunged across the floor to grab it before she could begin the process of digestion.

  “Sweetie!”

  At the reproach, Sweetie dropped the shoe, lowered her head, tucked her tail, and slunk away. I heard the kitchen door swing open and shut. She’d gone to console herself with a bowl of food.

  Just as I reached up to unzip my dress, I felt a chill. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Jitty was in the room.

  “Maybe you could just leave that dress on for a little while. Legs are good. Men like ’em. Folks around Zinnia think you got gorilla hair or somethin’.”

  Jitty was wearing a gold body-stocking with a sheer black overdress threaded in gold. It was a stunning outfit that did justice to her beautiful skin tones and made me think of Star Wars. Gold streaks had been glitzed through her dark hair. I decided to trade insult with compliment. “You look great.” It was hard not to be a little jealous.

  “Your partner is good at playin’ mama. You should take notes.”

  “Tinkie does seem to have a way with that girl.” I stepped out of my dress and walked upstairs, shedding hose, slip, and bra. What was called for was a completely different outfit—something denim and down-home. Jitty could be fashionable and Tinkie maternal; I was happy playing Elly May Clampett.

  “That blues man’s not so bad.” There was a hint of mischief in Jitty’s voice. “You like the blues. The man was outside your window serenadin’ you! What more could you want?”

  I rummaged through my closet and found some clean jeans and a red cotton top. It was spring outside, and I suddenly wanted to put the top down on the Mercedes and take a spin in the sun.

  “He seems nice,” I said, because it was true. Against all good judgment, the blues-singing John Bell had piqued my interest. Once the case with Lee was concluded and things had settled down, I was going to make it a point to go and listen to him play. As Jitty pointed out, I did love the blues.

  “Sarah Booth, you gone give that man a chance?”

  A touch of wistfulness in her voice made me turn around and look at her. I caught the hint of sadness in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a long road between thirty-three and eighty-three. You keep on like you are and it’s gonna be a long, lonely road. You ever wonder why you’re so afraid of a relationship?”

  I had wondered what era Jitty would assume, once she was done with the fifties. Now I knew—after a bit of hopping around she’d settled on the future. She was Princess Leia, spouting the latest pop psychology on why love hurts.

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, perhaps without total conviction.

  “Delaney women have always been headstrong, opinionated, full of the devil, ornery, and driven by the needs of their wombs. But they ain’t never been afraid to take a chance.” She gave me one of those long appraising looks that put me in mind of Aunt LouLane when she was disappointed in something I’d done. In this case, it was what I hadn’t done.

  “You want me to seriously consider taking John Bell Washington to the Chesterfield Hunt Ball?”

  “I haven’t seen any other prospects beatin’ down the door.” Sensing victory, she arched an eyebrow. “He’s a fine-lookin’ man.”

  She was right, on both counts. “I’ll think about it.”

  “So you don’t know a thing about him. The future is a risk, Sarah Booth. Walkin’ down the street, goin’ out to work on a case, anything you do is takin’ a risk. Look at that Bud Lynch. Could be he’s a killer, but you talked to him.”

  “That’s a case, Jitty.” The difference was clear to me, if not to her.

  She snorted. “ ’Cause it gives you a reason to do something. Like that would make a bit of difference if he cut off your head. We could put it on the tombstone. She was workin’, not socializin’, when he killed her. But you’d still be just as dead.”

  “What, exactly, is it that you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Open yourself to the possibilities of the future. Times are changin’, and if you don’t adapt . . .” She arched one eyebrow in a gesture I envied. “Dinosaur bones,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Take a chance. Live a little. What could it hurt?”

  “It could hurt a lot. Loss hurts. You never got over the loss of your husband. You never remarried.” She’d once told me the story of how her husband had gone to war with my great-great-grandfather. Neither had returned alive.

  “You great-great-grandma and me, we never had time to worry about findin’ a man. We were worried about survivin’. Gettin’ through each day didn’t leave room for no other worries.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. I was dressed and ready to go. “You’ve guilted me into it. I’ll talk to him.”

  “You better think about payin’ him a visit. He’s at that motel, waitin’ for you. Maybe you two could ‘do’ lunch.”

  I was spared answering her by the ringing of the telephone. The caller ID showed it was, at long last, Cece Dee Falcon, the woman I deemed responsible for my current predicament.

  “I’m going to break your neck,” I said sweetly as my form of hello.

  “How nice, dahling.” Cece didn’t even take a breath. “I’ve found out the most interesting thing. Guess!”

  “Could it be about one of the men you’ve drug out of the cotton fields and brakes and sent over to Dahlia House to devil me?” My sarcasm was thick.

  “All you ever think about is men, Sarah Booth,” she said, with some ill humor. “I don’t know why I bother, but I’ve been working on your case.”

  “Right.”

  “I called to tell you something important.” Cece was annoyed. “I thought it might be of interest to you that Tony LaCoco is in town. He’s a gangster, Sarah Booth. He owns The Golden Corral, biggest gambling house and den of pleasure on the Louisiana-Mississippi line. He’s been in town the last four nights.”

  That tidbit of news did stop me in my tracks. “The last four nights? Before Kemper was murdered?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  I could imagine Cece moving her shoulders back and forth in that little maneuver that showed off her exquisite collarbones, and her impatience. “That makes him an excellent—”

  “Suspect,” Cece supplied. “Those Mafia types take it seriously when a debt isn’t paid. For a little debt, they just break kneecaps. For a big debt, like what Kemper owed, it’s death. They have to make an example of people who don’t pay, so all the others are afraid and do pay.”

  “LaCoco was at the funeral. His man made a veiled threat to Lee.” As mad as I was at Cece for playing Chuck Woolery in my life, I couldn’t help but be delighted with her information. “Good work, Cece. Why weren’t you at the funeral?”

  “I had a little run-in with Mr. LaCoco at Millie’s about half an hour before the funeral. I went in and started to ask a few simple questions about his business in Zinnia. It isn’t every day that a gangster of Mr. La-Coco’s repute visits a small town for a collection.”

  “What hap
pened in Millie’s?” Cece had a way of making a person beg for the punch line.

  “Mr. LaCoco doesn’t care for journalists,” she said dryly. “One of the bodyguards, the least cute one, threw a plateful of biscuits and redeye gravy at me. I’m afraid that wonderful Dior suit is ruined.”

  “And I thought you were hiding from me.”

  “Moi? Hiding? Whatever for?”

  So she was going to play innocent. I could crack her, but it would take more time than I had. Besides, I was more interested in LaCoco. “Where’s LaCoco staying?”

  “There’s only one place to stay. The Holiday Breeze.”

  “Excellent work, Cece.”

  “Thank you, dahling. One does the best one can. Now I have to dash. Kisses.”

  The line went dead and I replaced the receiver.

  Although in at least a tiny corner of my heart I wanted to be a victim of love, slain by the power of romance, and addicted to passion, I also had an ulterior motive for speeding over to the Holiday Breeze. I hoped to get an up-close look at Tony LaCoco. John Bell Washington, blues man, was a good secondary reason.

  Just now, the Breeze had more patrons than I could remember ever seeing there, with the exception of 1999 when the monster truck competition was held in Clarkesdale and Zinnia ended up with the overflow of fans.

  I heard the slide guitar as soon as I parked the Mercedes near the motel office. I didn’t have to ask the desk clerk what room John Bell Washington was occupying. My destination, and according to Jitty my destiny, was room 8.

  Zinnia had once boasted one of the grand hotels of the South, the elegant old Sunflower Hotel. But it was long gone, and with it had faded the tradition of afternoon tea and the evening story hour. The Breeze was more a place of mid-morning Millers.

  Built in the 1950’s along the distinctive architectural lines of a prison, the motel was flat, low, and painted a monotone shade of gray-yellow.

  The small, empty pool nestled between the V-shaped wings was depressing. Eighteen-wheelers roared by on 61 Highway—the route many blues musicians and blacks had taken north—blasting grit against my legs.