Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “I think we should keep this quiet,” she continued.

  My agreement was total, but my curiosity was piqued. “Why?” I asked innocently. “So many people were traumatized by the fire, I would have thought you’d be rushing to press with a banner headline.”

  “Sarah Booth, dahling,” Cece said with some contempt, “a true journalist knows the difference between a good story and the seed of a good story. This is just a tiny little sprout.”

  “And what do you see growing from this sprout?” I asked.

  “A girl can’t give away all of her secrets. Just tell Coleman to keep this hush-hush. I’m positive he’ll agree with my assessment of the situation. I presume Lee is still in jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. She should stay there.” Before I could respond to that, she continued. “She’s protecting Kip, isn’t she?”

  I couldn’t answer that question. As frustrated as I was with Lee, I couldn’t violate her trust.

  “Never mind answering, I don’t need confirmation. What are you going to do?”

  “Try to find Kip and the horse.”

  “And that delicious trainer,” Cece said. She smacked her lips. “When you find him, tell him if he needs a place to stay, I have plenty of room.”

  “You’re getting greedy, Cece. Can you handle Nathaniel Walz and Bud Lynch?” I couldn’t help teasing her just a little. The developer was so definitely not her type, and yet she’d taken him to the ball as her date.

  “Talent comes in surprising packages,” Cece said somewhat coolly. “By the way, your entry in the Elvis contest was quite impressive. What was his name, Tom Smith? I hope you have a percentage in him. That man is going places.” She cleared her throat, and her voice dropped to low and sizzling. “How far did he make it with you, dahling?”

  The wickedness in her voice was the only thing that saved her. It was impossible to get angry with her when she was being so bad. “I don’t kiss and tell.” I’d actually forgotten about Tom. “Did he do well?”

  “First place. By a large margin. Congratulations. He said to tell you he’d be in touch.” I could imagine her smiling. “So what gives with you and the man with a badge?”

  “Business,” I said too quickly.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Coleman’s married.” Even to me I sounded defensive.

  “Not for long, from what I hear.”

  “So tell me, Cece, what is it about Nathaniel Walz that holds your interest?” I had to refocus the conversation, or Cece would soon ascertain that my feelings for Coleman, though confused, weren’t all professional.

  “He’s a man with ideas,” she said. “I like the way he can see into the future. That’s a talent, Sarah Booth, as real as writing or painting or singing.”

  “What does he see?” I had to be careful. Cece sounded as if she really liked this man.

  “Beautiful buildings, places that bring back the elegance of the old South.”

  “Does he have any locations in mind?” My heart rate increased, even though Harold had assured me that Dahlia House was safe.

  “He’s very secretive. That’s one of the things I find so interesting about him. He knows a lot about this area, and he reveals only what he must.”

  “Does he have backing, or is he . . .” I almost said “a lot of talk.” I had to remember that Cece had feelings for this man. While I’d barely spoken to him and didn’t like what gossip I’d heard, Cece might have invested emotionally in him.

  “He has yet to fully confide in me, but when he does, if there’s a good opportunity, I’ll let you know. Ta-ta, dahling, one of my best sources is on the other line.”

  She hung up, and I replaced the phone. Cece was not behaving normally. I couldn’t help but wonder if her talk of secrets and withheld revelations had more to do with what she’d failed to tell Nathaniel Walz about herself than vice versa. I’d never known Cece to have an emotional attachment, and I’d never considered how hard it was going to be for her to reveal her past.

  I looked around for Jitty. She’d taken herself off on some ghostly business, and I was spared having to confess that she was right about one thing—while I found safety in the past, Cece had hurled herself into a new future. Neither one of us was doing great in the romance department, though.

  I was hungry, but had neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything about it. It took the very last of my strength to drag myself up the stairs and run some bathwater. When all else fails, a soak in a tub is the only alternative.

  I used a liberal amount of some delicious foaming vanilla bubble bath that a friend in New York had sent me, lit candles, and got myself a hefty measure of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. I had a gut feeling that Jack and I were going to become good friends before the evening was over. If I’d belonged to the elite society of Daddy’s Girls, I would have drunk white wine. Lucky me, as an outcast I could keep company with the rowdy boys.

  I sank beneath the bubbles, forcing my body to relax one part at a time. Underwater, sound is completely distorted, but I thought I heard someone at the front door. I rose up out of the water and listened. The only thing I heard was the water dripping from my head and pattering into the tub. Sweetie Pie, though a food thief and shoe-chewer, was a pretty good watchdog. If someone had been around the house, she would have barked.

  Tinkie had given me an inflatable bath pillow, and I made good use of it, reclining back. The Jack Daniel’s had a bite, and I felt it burn all the way down. It was Sunday, and I’d been through an emotional wringer with the thought of Kip burning to death, and now her resurrection. Lee was lying through her teeth, but I didn’t know how to save her without sacrificing the thing she loved most. I wanted to get very, very drunk, and I intended to do exactly that. I took another long swallow, rattling the ice cubes.

  Not even whiskey could rout Kip from my thoughts. I hadn’t realized how disturbed she truly was. Was she mentally unbalanced enough to risk burning down Swift Level? Had she actually turned off the sprinklers? The fire had been contained to the stud barn, but one gust of wind and the flames could have been spread to the mare and foal barn, then on to the main barn or the covered show ring. Kip was fourteen, a child. But she was intelligent and surely capable of understanding the danger of starting a fire, and the consequences of murder, even for a man who so soundly deserved to die.

  She was terribly disturbed, and I had to accept it. Lee, too, would have to come to terms with the truth. And soon.

  I sponged water down my back and sank against my pillow. I polished off one drink and poured another from the crystal decanter of amber liquid. The storm had passed, and weak sunlight came through the window by the bathtub. I held the decanter aloft, enjoying the play of light on the glass and whiskey. I knew I had to call Dr. Vance in Memphis. I wondered if I could find him on a Sunday.

  Sweetie Pie’s toenails scrabbled on the oak floor in the foyer, and I listened for her to head up the steps. She was mostly a meat-and-potatoes kind of dog, but she also had a fondness for bathwater. I suspected she, too, was missing Kip. We could have a little drink together and commiserate.

  Suddenly, there was a low growl that ended in a snarl. I had the sensation of an icicle dragged slowly up my spine. I eased out of the water, grabbed a towel, and slipped to my bedroom door. The extended growl came again from the landing of the stairs.

  Someone was in the house.

  Leaving sodden footprints behind me, I tiptoed over to the computer and picked up the telephone on my desk. The phone was dead. The damn computer modem was plugged in. Dahlia House needed an entire wiring face-lift.

  There was no time to scrabble around tracing a snarl of wires. My clothes were scattered over the floor, and for once it was a good thing. I found jeans and a blouse and slipped into them, stepping into some sneakers as I zipped my pants.

  Outside, the day was ending on a note of fresh-washed glory. The storm had passed, and pink clouds burned to the west. The intense light gave the room a
glow that made everything seem more vivid, as if the volume of color had increased, saturating everything. My blood was pumping hard as I looked around my bedroom for a weapon. I picked up a heavy candlestick and inched back to the door.

  Sweetie’s growl was even lower, more deadly, finally ending on a snarl and a snap. I heard her moving slowly up the stairs until she took her stand outside the open bedroom door. Crouching low, she readied herself for the attack.

  She was not a hound who would back down in a shoot-out. She’d already rescued me twice, and in the process had taken a stab in the gut and a grazing wound from a bullet, not to mention having her sutures ripped open.

  I pressed myself against the wall by the door, ready to rush out as soon as Sweetie made her move. If she could knock the intruder down, I would deliver the coup de grâce. I gripped the candlestick tighter, listening to the very soft tread on the stairs.

  “You are one ugly-looking dog.”

  The voice was casual and feminine, not at all what I expected. I leaned against the wall and exhaled. Not that Krystal Brook wasn’t a dangerous woman, but I didn’t think she’d come to kill me while talking a blue streak to advertise her presence.

  “Sarah Booth Delaney, call off this dog!” Krystal yelled.

  “Have you ever heard of knocking?” I asked, stepping into the doorway. “I was ready to bash your brains in.”

  “Seems to be a bad habit in this part of the country.” She stayed on the top step, her gaze shifting from Sweetie to me. “I did knock. Repeatedly. The serving staff seems to be in a coma. No one came to the door. What kind of dog is that, anyway? I’ve never seen anything that ugly.”

  “Watch it,” I warned her. “Sweetie Pie is a red tic, and she’s mine. I happen to find her quite lovely.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “How true. I never in a million years thought I’d see you prancing on a stage in white boots.”

  “Honey, my wardrobe is the least of my problems. You should try being married to your manager.” She made a rueful face. “I stopped by because I wanted to check on you, and we never got a chance to talk. I suppose Bud’s a moot issue, now.” She shrugged, but it didn’t hide the slight tremble in her voice.

  The ice was melting in my drink, and a good hostess always offers her guest refreshments. “Let’s go to the parlor and fix a drink,” I suggested, pointing her back down the stairs.

  “Bourbon on the rocks. It’s five o’clock somewhere in the world, as the old saying goes.”

  Following her down the stairs, I couldn’t help but notice that a lot more had changed about Simpson than just her name. She’d developed a real fondness for whiskey.

  She took a seat on the horsehair sofa in the parlor, and I poured the drinks. “What’s going to happen to Lee?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, taking an old wing chair. “No one really believes she killed Kemper, but she won’t retract her confession.”

  “It’s hard to believe that someone should be punished for killing Kemper Fuquar. If anyone ever deserved killing, it was him.”

  Her statement sadly echoed the defense Lee clung to so hardheadedly. “The law says that someone has to pay. Lee volunteered.” I watched for any reaction.

  Krystal held out her glass for a refill. I did the honors and resumed my seat.

  “Kemper was a piece of shit from the first time I met him, and that was twenty years ago.” She sighed. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out Lee had married him.”

  “You knew him before they married?”

  “Actually, Mike knew him. They went to school together. I only met him once. But from what Mike said, Kemper could be quite charming with the ladies. He would draw them over, and Mike would benefit from the varied selection. Mike said he was very surprised when Kemper married. I suppose someone should have warned Kemper that Lee had a real talent for pissing her daddy off.”

  Krystal had confirmed my darkest suspicions of Kemper’s motives. He’d married for Lee’s money, and then when it didn’t come through, he’d set out to punish her every day for the rest of her life.

  Krystal reclined on the sofa, putting one leg over the back in a pose that was both girlish and provocative. “Mike can be a bastard, too, but he knows how to make money.” She finished off her drink. “That’s his only talent, and the only reason I keep him around. Once my career is launched, he’s history.” She looked into the empty glass for a moment. “I’ll have one more before I go, if you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t, and I got up and made her drink. I held up my own glass. “To Bud. I didn’t know him well. Tell me about him.” I was hoping she might know something that would lead me to where Bud had taken Kip and the horse.

  Krystal’s face softened. “Bud was all right. I took some riding lessons, hoping that there might be something there.” She shook her head. “He liked to flirt, but I think he did it to aggravate the rest of his harem. If you want to know the truth, I think Carol Beth hit the nail on the head. He was in love with Lee. And that ate at Carol Beth.”

  “Any clue as to why Carol Beth was so jealous of Lee?”

  Krystal tinkled the ice in her drink. “Lee asserted her independence. She just told her parents to kiss off, and she set about making her own life. They disinherited her and moved to Italy, and she never let it slow her down. Carol Beth has always made it off someone else. Her parents, her husband. She never stepped up to the plate and proved her own worth. I think that made her just a little bit crazy.”

  Krystal wasn’t a psychologist, but she was smarter than the average bear, and her opinion confirmed what Harold had said.

  “So what about Carol Beth and Bud?” I asked.

  “Honey, she would have given up her wealth, her security, everything she had, just for a shot at Bud. I think he gave her just enough to make her crazy for him.” She put her empty glass on a coaster and stood up. “Now, that’s a talent more men should develop—giving a woman just enough. Sounds like the perfect title for a new country song. I think I feel a visit by the muse coming on. I guess I’d better go back to the stimulating creative atmosphere of the Holiday Breeze. Thank God, Mike used some of his real estate connections and found me a place. I’m moving to a house this afternoon. You know, I never expected to feel like coming home, but I think I’m going to enjoy living back here in Zinnia.”

  “It’ll be good to have you home,” I said, meaning it.

  She stood up. “Let’s plan on spending some time together. Right now, though, I’ve got songs to write.”

  I walked her to the door and watched her drive away. I took my half-filled glass and her empty one to the kitchen sink. Watching the whiskey slip down the drain, I wondered how it would feel to have just enough of anything. It was, indeed, a great song title.

  24

  Dusk had fallen, and I had miles to go before I slept. Krystal’s visit had made me realize one thing: like my literary hero, Kinky Friedman, I couldn’t abandon a friend in need. The Kinkster would never leave Ratso or Rambam or McGovern or any of his buddies in jail. Lee was innocent, and I was going to prove it.

  My investigation had focused on everything but the victim, if Kemper could be described by such a term. Cece had made a few initial phone calls and determined that Kemper was something of a bad seed growing up. I hadn’t pursued that avenue, and I didn’t think Coleman had, either. Kemper had lived in Sunflower County for fifteen years. It was hard to believe anything in his past could be relevant, but maybe there was something.

  I found the piece of paper Cece had given me with the telephone number for Kemper’s parents on it. I dialed and listened to the ringing of the phone.

  A woman answered in a voice both refined and tired.

  I introduced myself and waded right in. “I’m working for Lee McBride.”

  “The woman who killed Kemper.” The statement was made without emotion.

  “Yes, ma’am. Lee’s an old friend of mine.”

&
nbsp; “There’s nothing we can tell you,” the woman said. “Don’t call again, or we’ll be forced to pursue legal recourse for harassment.”

  “Mrs. Fuquar, my friend may spend the rest of her life in prison—”

  “She shouldn’t be punished. Kemper set out on this path long, long ago. I’m sorry for your friend, but there’s nothing we can do to help. Our son has been dead to us for many years. We know nothing about him, except that he was a bad person.”

  “Please think about it,” I said. “Lee has a daughter, a fourteen-year-old. She needs her mother.”

  There was a long silence. “We haven’t spoken Kemper’s name in this house for nearly twenty years. We can’t help you, but there is someone who may be able to. Her name is Veronica Patriquin. She’s a newspaper reporter.” She gave me a telephone number. “She knows things about Kemper.”

  The line went dead.

  Veronica Patriquin turned out to be a whiskey-voiced chain-smoker who knew her territory like a shark knows a coral reef.

  “Kemper Fuquar, yeah, the name rings more than a bell,” she said into the phone. “I heard a rumor that he was killed.”

  “He’s dead,” I confirmed.

  “Let me think.” She exhaled, and I wanted a cigarette with an intense craving. “I’ll have to go back to some of my files. Can you hang on? None of that stuff is on computer now.”

  “Sure.” I settled at the kitchen table to wait.

  She was back in a few minutes, and I heard her turning pages as she talked. “I remember now. He and some partners bought an old estate. They were going to renovate it, make a resort. They sunk a lot of money in it, and then the place burned.”

  No big alarms were going off in my head, but a few bells were tinkling. Big estate. Fire. “And there was a huge insurance policy on the place, correct?”

  “That about sums it up. As I recall, there was some speculation that the fire was arson, but no charges were filed. Shortly after that, Kemper disappeared. I guess that would be about the time he moved over your way.”

  “I think so.”