Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “What?”

  Coleman shrugged. “She’s been in jail for nearly a week, Sarah Booth. She’s sticking by that damn confession, even when she knows I know she’s lying.”

  I stood up straight. “Does Linc know who she’s protecting?”

  “He thinks it’s Bud Lynch.”

  I tried not to show my relief. “Does Bud know he’s the latest suspect? He seemed pretty carefree all evening.”

  “Not yet, and don’t tell him. Lee has raw emotion behind her. You saw the crowd tonight, all of that ‘Earl had to die’ stuff. Linc’s decided to go for the other end of that emotion—greed. If he can portray Lee as a greedy woman, then he can counteract the victim emotion.”

  Coleman had it figured out pretty well.

  “What can I do?”

  He sighed. “Keep working for her. Keep talking to her. She’s afraid, and too proud to show it.” He swallowed. “She won’t even talk to me now.”

  I wanted to point out to him that it wasn’t so surprising that she wasn’t in a humor to confide in him; he’d locked her up for murder. I kept my mouth shut. There was no point rubbing salt in a wound.

  “How are you, Coleman?”

  “Me?” He sounded surprised. “Tired of all of it.” He put a warm hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I know Lee is innocent, and I may end up being a big liability to her.”

  He was referring to his relationship with Lee. He was right; it could be trouble for both of them.

  “I’ll keep an ear to the ground,” I told him.

  His hand moved around my shoulders and pulled me to him for a gentle hug. I smelled whiskey on his breath as he leaned down and whispered, “Thanks, Sarah Booth.” He straightened up. “Let’s go back inside and dance. I have a proposal for you.”

  A dance and a proposal. Coleman was definitely up to something. He spoke to the bouncer at the door as he pulled it open for me. Once inside, a path parted for us to enter the dance floor.

  “I haven’t danced with anyone but Connie for ten years,” he said as he tentatively put a hand on my back. “Hang on.”

  And I did, surprised to discover that Coleman was better than fair on the dance floor. The fact that we’d both been drinking helped ease us past the initial awkwardness of body touching body. In a few steps we were moving easily together. I closed my eyes and let Coleman waltz me around to the old Hank Williams number the house band was playing.

  “Sarah Booth, will you be my date to the Chesterfield Hunt Ball?”

  The question came out of left field. “What about Connie?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “She’s not in the mood for a date. She’s filing for divorce. Besides, this is work-related. For both of us.”

  Strange how flat that made me feel. “Sounds like a plan,” I said breezily, though my blood pressure had skyrocketed. “I accept.”

  His hand tightened on the small of my back, bringing me into slightly closer contact. “I like your style,” he said, and to my surprise he kissed my temple, a soft, gentle kiss.

  After Coleman’s strange behavior, the rest of the night was anticlimactic. I made it home by three, danced out and fueled up by the attention of my close personal friend, Jack Daniel’s. Krystal had done another set, equally as good as the first. She was a bona fide Nashville singer and had all the makings of a star. I had no doubt she’d one day be at the Grammys with a trophy in each hand. My advice would be for her to dump her husband first. He was nothing but deadweight.

  I checked on Kip, took a shower, swallowed three aspirin and two glasses of water, and slipped beneath the cool cotton sheets. Although my body demanded sleep, my mind was whirling. I’d pretty much written both Krystal and Mary Louise off my list of possible Kemper-killers. They both might have wanted him dead on general principle, but I couldn’t see them doing the job.

  Bud was still a strong suspect, for me as well as others. Linc was contemplating the horse trainer’s involvement as part of a capital murder charge. Bud did have a past history of being at the bloody scene at the wrong time, but it was possible that Linc had dug up something more. I hoped to find out the details from Coleman at the ball.

  That left Susannah, Elizabeth, and Carol Beth from the horsey set. The gamblers. And Kip.

  My stomach growled, and I realized I was hungry. In a few short hours it would be morning. Maybe I would bake muffins. Then I’d eat two, swimming in butter.

  Sleep was playing hard to get, so I picked up my Kinky book. I snuggled deeper into the bed. At last my eyelids grew heavy, and I put down the book and snapped off the light. I had my own case to solve, and I knew I needed all the rest I could get.

  The smell of muffins teased me awake, and even as I felt myself get out of the bed, I knew I was dreaming. In that strange mode of dream travel, I was suddenly in my kitchen. The muffins were on the counter, already buttered, waiting for me with my favorite white coffee cup beside them. Steam rose from the coffee.

  Sunlight filtered through the kitchen curtains and struck the table in a hazy yellow shaft. I had started toward the muffins when I realized someone was sitting at the table.

  Two someones.

  “It’s ’bout time you got down here to see to your company,” Jitty said. She nodded at the black-hatted cowboy. Kinky Friedman was once again in residence at my kitchen table.

  “I was about to find my guitar and play you a song,” Kinky said. “Jitty tells me you’re partial to a good serenade.” He and Jitty exchanged a good laugh.

  Jitty had obviously felt compelled to share all of my latest traumas with him. I did not like this new coalition. My head was throbbing, an excess of Jitty, Jack, and Kinky. “Why are you here?” I asked him.

  “Checking on your case. Any new developments?”

  I flopped into a chair. “None that are good.”

  Two cups of coffee steamed on the table in front of us. Jitty didn’t ever lift a hand, so I knew it was dream coffee. I took a sip anyway.

  Kinky sampled his and made a face. “Where’s the real coffee? This is flavored water.”

  “I don’t have an espresso machine.” His predilections were clearly listed in all of his books. As a big fan, I knew them by heart.

  “She don’t have nothin’ that chugs, bubbles, or foams,” Jitty threw in.

  I glared at her, noticing that while I was in my rumpled nightgown, she was dressed in a snappy little capri outfit. Damn her.

  “I’m going back to bed,” I said. “I’ve suffered enough abuse for one dream.”

  “Hold your horses,” Kinky said. “In fact, why not pin it on the horse? Last I heard, they couldn’t strap Trigger in the electric chair. The straps aren’t big enough. Pin the murder on the horse and get your friend out of the hoosegow.”

  “I’ve already thought of that,” I said irritably. If Kinky was going to disturb my sleep, at least he could arrive with fresh bad ideas. “Lee won’t go for it. If she says the horse killed him, then it ruins Avenger as a stallion. Not to mention it contradicts her confession.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jitty glare at me. She wasn’t fond of surliness, except when she was the one who surled.

  “What if it was an accident?” Kinky pressed. “It’s a simple thing for her to change her story. People do it all the time. It’s pretty much a job requirement for politicians.”

  His idea was growing on me. So was he. I found it comforting to have someone to discuss my case with.

  “She could just say she was protecting the horse, but wants to tell the truth now. Kemper attacked her, she hit him in the head, he fell in the stall, she tried to drag him out but he was too heavy, she went to get help, when she got back he was dead, the victim of a tap-dancing horse.”

  “Doc Sawyer only says it was a blow to the head that killed Kemper, not necessarily a hoof to the head,” I reminded him.

  Kinky waved a hand as he flipped open the front flap of the hunting vest he wore. Instead of bullets inside, it
was loaded with cigars. He selected a stubby one. “Details. Simple details. Forensic evidence is always fascinating, but there is always room for a good lawyer to introduce reasonable doubt. Think about it, Sarah Booth. You saw the photos of Kemper. Can even a man of science really determine that one specific blow killed Kemper Fuquar?” His grin was wide as he leaned forward and motioned me closer. “Would that same man of science, Doc Sawyer, want to prove that?”

  He let me digest it all.

  “Everyone agrees Kemper needed to die. No one really wants Lee to go to jail. Reasonable doubt. That’s all you have to have.”

  “Thanks, Kinky.” His idea had merit.

  “Professional courtesy,” he said, flicking his Bic and lighting the stogy. “Call on me anytime.”

  He was gone in a puff of cigar smoke.

  I found myself sitting straight up in bed. Sunlight streamed into the room, and Sweetie Pie, snoring loudly by the side of my bed, rolled over and began to wag her tail. The bedside clock said nine. I inhaled deeply and caught the scent of blueberry muffins.

  Not bothering with a robe or slippers, I ran down the stairs with Sweetie Pie hot on my heels. The dream had been so intensely real that I felt compelled to make sure the Kinkster was not actually in my kitchen.

  Pushing through the swinging door, I stopped in my tracks. It was almost as if I’d walked into the dream again. Hazy sunlight struck the kitchen table. On the counter across the room, two muffins on a saucer swam in butter, and beside them a white cup of coffee steamed.

  “Boll weevil!” The phrase slipped out.

  “What’s wrong?” Kip stood up. She’d been wiping something off the floor. “The muffins aren’t poisoned. I thought I’d make you some breakfast.”

  I picked up a muffin. Blueberry, my favorite. I eyed it suspiciously.

  “Are you okay?” Kip asked.

  “Just a dream,” I said, sighing. “I thought Kinky Friedman had paid me a visit.”

  “Kinky Friedman?” Her expression said it all.

  “He’s a mystery author.”

  She backed up a step and looked harder at me. “Maybe you shouldn’t party so hearty, Sarah Booth.”

  17

  Although quelled, my appetite wasn’t completely killed by the dream of a nocturnal liaison between Jitty and Kinky. I ate the muffins while my bathwater ran, then washed up, jumped into a pair of jeans, and got ready to go.

  Kinky’s suggestion—to blame Avenger for Kemper’s accidental death—was roiling around in my mind. If Lee recanted her confession, saying she’d offered it to protect Avenger and save Swift Level, then there was a possibility a jury could be convinced that Kemper’s death had been an accident, of a sort. Doc Sawyer wouldn’t lie, but he wouldn’t split hairs, either.

  I tapped on Kip’s door. “I’m going to Swift Level. Want to come?”

  Her feet hit the floor with a loud thud and in two strides she had the door open. “I’m ready!” Her boots were in her hand and her face was flushed with happiness.

  “Why didn’t you ask to go home before now?” I asked. “I would have taken you at any time. You said you wanted the horses to burn—”

  She shook her head. “It was never the horses. It was . . . everything else.” For the first time since she’d moved into my house she voluntarily touched my arm. “Will we have to sell Swift Level?” There was worry in her voice. “There are so many debts. That man, Mr. LaCoco, says we owe him a lot of money. I don’t think he’s going to wait much longer. There were men in the barn a lot just before . . . Kemper was killed.” She spoke so softly I had to lean toward her to hear. “There were phone calls, and I could hear him talking. He was angry and scared. I think they were threatening him.”

  I noticed her use of Kemper’s name. She was distancing herself from him, and it was a sad thing to witness. “Did you hear any of those conversations?” I wasn’t certain Lee would go along with Avenger accidentally killing Kemper, so a Mafia hit was also still an option. It wasn’t lost on me that I had completely shifted from finding the truth to finding the best story that would free Lee.

  Kip shook her head. “I could have. I could have walked right up to the door and listened, but I didn’t. I ran away instead. I’d go ride Mrs. Peel or Avenger so I didn’t have to hear.” She caught her top lip with her teeth and pressed until I could see the skin turn white.

  “No one can blame you for not eavesdropping on your father’s conversations, Kip.” I was careful not to show my disappointment. It was clear to me that Kip had often been made to feel that she’d disappointed a lot of people. “If you’d known what was going to happen, you might have tape-recorded the calls,” I said, trying to inject a light note.

  Her green gaze was so sad and so filled with hurt. “But I did know. I knew exactly what would happen. He would hang up the phone and go up to the house. Then he’d start yelling at Mother. Then he’d start saying which horses would be sold to pay his debts, or else he’d sell the property. Then he’d start hitting Mother. That’s what always happened when he got angry and scared. He hurt Mother or one of the horses.” She swallowed. “I didn’t listen because when I heard it start, I knew what would happen and I wanted to kill him.”

  Kip was on the edge. She had crept as close to a confession as she could get. She only needed a little nudge. I thought suddenly of Coleman, and wondered how he could stand this part of his job. The truth would only bring more pain and hurt to people who had suffered far too much, yet I had to ask.

  “Kip, what really happened the night Kemper was killed?”

  “Can you save Mother and Swift Level?”

  “I won’t promise you anything, except that I’ll try.”

  Kip assessed me with eyes far older than her fourteen years. “Mother has some good friends. You and Mrs. Richmond. And that newspaperwoman. Miss Millie at the café. You’ve all tried to help Mom.”

  “I don’t believe Lee killed Kemper. But even if I did, I’d still try to help her. Lee’s idea of a defense, that she’s just going to prove Kemper deserved killing, makes a great song, but I’m scared for her.”

  “She didn’t kill him,” Kip said without dropping her gaze.

  “Who did?” The question was effortless, without planning. Kip and I had finally reached a level of honesty that I trusted implicitly.

  “You know he sold Mrs. Peel to Carol Beth?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “I was sick. I was so angry that I thought my head would explode. But there was nothing I could do. Nothing. Except not give him what he wanted. I refused to ride in a big show. Avenger has to be shown and campaigned right now. It’s vital to keep him out there as a performance horse, if we’re going to be able to ask the high stud fees.”

  I nodded again that I understood all of this. “Lillian and Bud have explained a lot of this to me.”

  “I refused to ride. I told him I would never ride any of the horses again because of what he’d done with Mrs. Peel.” She blinked back tears. “She was my horse. Mine. Mother gave her to me when she was born, and I trained her all by myself. Every day. She wasn’t as strong as Avenger, but she was as good.” She wiped a single tear from her cheek. “She loved me. She would do anything I asked of her, and no one else had ever been on her back.”

  Kemper Fuquar did deserve to die. By any measure of fairness or justice, his death would not be another reason for this child to suffer. There were no adequate words, so I said nothing, waiting for her to take a deep breath and regain control.

  “He came up to my bedroom, angrier than I’d ever seen him.” At last she dropped her gaze, staring at the toe of her sock. “He said he’d beat me if I didn’t ride. He said he’d make me regret the day I was born, because he regretted it.” She wiped at her cheeks. “He hated me.”

  “Kip, I’m—”

  She shook her head and when she looked up at me, the old tough exterior was back in place. “I always knew it. This didn’t come as any big shock. He said a lot of other hateful things.
Mean things that he thought would upset me. Then he said if beating me didn’t work, he’d beat Mother. He said I was going to ride and I was going to win, or he would make me sorrier than I’d ever been. That’s when Mother came home. She ran into the room and told him that if he ever threatened me again, she’d kill him. She had a knife from the kitchen, and he knew she’d do it. He stormed out of the house and went down to the office in the barn.”

  “Where had Lee been?” I’d heard none of this. Lee had fabricated a story, and told only what she wanted us to hear.

  “She’d been out in the pasture with one of the mares. There was difficulty with a foal, and she and Dr. Matthews had delivered the filly.”

  “Did she hear Kemper threaten you?” I asked. I made a mental note to talk to the vet. He might have written down the time he left.

  “I don’t know. She only came home at the last. She heard some of the mean things he said to me. She was more upset than I was.”

  “After Kemper went to the barn, what happened?” Kip clamped down on her top lip again until I thought she was going to bite through the skin. “Mother told me not to tell this part.”

  “Your mother could go to prison for life, Kip.”

  “She knows that. If I tell the truth, can we save Swift Level?”

  “If Lee is found innocent, the insurance company will have to pay off. There’ll be money to pay Kemper’s debts. Lee inherits Swift Level, from what I understand.” I turned up both palms. “I can’t make any promises. I won’t lie to you.”

  She tucked her chin once, then stared me in the eye. “I went down to the barn. I’m not really certain what I intended to do. I wanted to talk to Bud, and I wanted to kill Kemper . . . my father. I heard him talking on the phone. I peeped in the office door and saw him, his legs up on the desk, leaning back in the chair, and talking. He had some papers in his lap, and he was talking about the payoff. He said he knew what he was doing and he’d have money in two weeks at the latest. He was drinking and laughing loud. He did that all the time, showing off. I just stood there and thought how much better everything would be if he were dead. I could get one of the surgical knives that we kept for emergencies and just slip up behind him and—” She made a slashing motion across her throat.