Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Haines, Carolyn

  “A request to dig up the body has already been filed?” I asked.

  He chuckled in a deep baritone. “So you aren’t the woman who petitioned to exhume the Lady in Red?”

  “No,” we answered in unison.

  “I don’t like the idea of disturbing the dead,” the gentleman said. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m Meshach McFail, the coroner of Holmes County.”

  “Who requested the exhumation?” I asked, though I knew the answer. Dr. Twist had been a busy, busy lady.

  “She didn’t sound like she was from around here,” McFail said. “Had a clipped voice with a strange twang. And real bossy.”

  “Olive Twist.”

  His smile widened. “She’s filed a petition with the circuit clerk to have our Lady in Red exhumed. She said it was really important.” He tilted his head to indicate the grave. “Since there’s no one to speak for the dead lady, I guess she’ll be dug up. Seems like a shame, though. She was already brought up once before. By accident.”

  “How can we stop this?” I asked.

  He gave me an approving nod. “I’d speak to the circuit court clerk right up there in the courthouse in Lexington. He’ll know what you need to do. Like I said, it would be a shame to disturb this poor lady’s rest a second time.”

  “Who has the authority to exhume the body?” I asked.

  “Anyone can request such a thing. Usually it’s in cases where homicide is suspected. But Red, that’s what we call her, she’s been dead over a hundred years. No one has ever mentioned murder. Even so, the person who killed her would be dead, too.” He gazed down at the headstone. “To be honest, I didn’t care much for Ms. Twist.”

  “Everyone she meets feels the same way.”

  “She was awful to the young man who was with her.” His lips compressed. “When he asked a question about the exhumation process, she told him he was stupid. She dressed him down right in front of me and the clerk. The young man was embarrassed. Why would a mother treat her son with such disrespect?”

  “He’s her employee, not her son.”

  Meshach whistled softly. “I’d be looking for another job if I were him.”

  Far be it from me to figure that one out. “What reason did Dr. Twist give for wanting the exhumation?”

  He hesitated. “The clerk should tell you this, not me. But I can’t see where it’s a secret. She said she believed the Lady in Red was poisoned, and she wants a DNA sample as well as tissue to test for poisonous substances.”

  “Would any poison remain in the tissue after a hundred years?” Tinkie asked.

  “Arsenic, for sure. I don’t know about anything else.” Meshach brought his watch from a pocket in his pants. “I’m not a medical doctor, just a coroner. Someone with medical training could answer that with more certainty than I.”

  In Mississippi, coroners were elected. Requirements for the office didn’t include a medical degree.

  “Who can stop an exhumation if there are no relatives?” Tinkie asked.

  Meshach pondered the question. “Can’t say for sure. The clerk will know, and if he doesn’t, Odie Williams will sure find out for you. He’s not too keen on digging this poor lady up, either.”

  “Thanks, Meshach,” Tinkie and I said simultaneously.

  It didn’t take ten minutes to reach the Holmes County Courthouse in Lexington. The graceful redbrick building was the third to serve as the official center of the county. Two predecessors had been destroyed by fire.

  Odie Williams was serving his fourth term as clerk. The first thing he did when we walked in the door was offer us coffee. Meshach had obviously been on his cell phone, because Odie knew exactly what we wanted.

  “My job is to help people,” he explained as he poured two mugs full of aromatic coffee. “That Twist woman, though, she just got under my skin. She was rude to Ruby, my assistant, and to Meshach, and when she unloaded on that young man she brought with her, it was hard to watch.”

  “Has her petition to exhume been granted?” Tinkie asked.

  “Judge Colbert has it. I assume he’ll rule on it sooner rather than later.”

  “Would it help if we protested?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t hurt. I don’t know what business this is of some professor from out of state. Seems to me Dr. Twist has her own interests that may not go along with what’s best for the Lady in Red or Holmes County.”

  Or Tinkie, Oscar, Cece, and our friends, but it would profit no one to point that out. “Where can we find Judge Colbert?”

  “He’s gone fishing. It might be best to hire a lawyer to draw up an official document protesting the exhumation. Might give him some legs to stand on to oppose it.”

  “Good idea,” Tinkie said. “I know just the lawyer to talk to.”

  3

  Oscar and Graf were sitting on the front porch of Hilltop when Tinkie and I returned to Zinnia. Ice tinkled in their drinks, and though I hadn’t even had lunch, I accepted Oscar’s offer of a “little libation.”

  In old planter tradition, morning alcohols are mostly mixed with breakfast fruit juices—tomato, orange, something with nutritional value to kick the day off to a good start. Noon opened the door to wines. Afternoons called, traditionally, for sherry for ladies and whiskey or port for men. Cocktail hour started any time after work and hard liquor, martinis, and such were the rule. Occasions such as a lazy Sundays were wide open in the realm of “libations.”

  Oscar returned with two salty dogs, one for me and one for Tinkie. “A little grapefruit is good for the body,” he said.

  “I’m sure the vodka doesn’t hurt.” I licked the rim of the glass and caught my fiancé watching me with wicked intent. If Graf stayed in the Delta much longer, I would be totally corrupted, and loving every minute of it. The tart drink exactly hit the spot, and would certainly make it easier to tell Oscar what was going on in the heart of his hometown.

  “How was the golf game?” Tinkie asked. Her level hand indicated that I should hold steady for the moment. She would break the news.

  “Graf won, but only by two strokes.” Oscar was a gracious loser and an equally gracious winner. There had been a time when I’d viewed him as a totally humorless stuffed shirt—a man who’d been handed everything on a silver platter. While Tinkie had married well when she joined her future with Oscar, he had also married into one of the most prominent Delta families. Tinkie was Mr. and Mrs. Avery Bellcase’s only child.

  Funny, but as I got to know Oscar, I saw depths in him I’d failed to acknowledge. That was even more true for Tinkie. Her high-gloss Daddy’s Girl polish had once made me underestimate her generous heart.

  Sitting on the front porch with a breeze cooling the day, we chatted aimlessly for half an hour before Tinkie broached the subject of Olive Twist. Oscar was, at first, amused, which quickly built to anger when he learned Olive had filed a petition to exhume the Lady in Red.

  “Exhumation would be a sacrilege,” he said. “I won’t stand for it.”

  “Is there anything we can do to stop it?” Tinkie asked.

  Watching the play of emotions across Oscar’s face, I could only admire Tinkie all the more. She’d put the problem squarely in his lap, yet she made it clear she supported him. She wasn’t just the good wife, she was his partner. And before the conversation was over, she’d made her points about what she thought should be done. Her gentle approach encouraged Oscar to listen.

  In comparison, I was ham-fisted. To quote a poet laureate of the nation, I had “miles to go before I sleep” when it came to learning how to work with men. Or work men, as I occasionally viewed it.

  “Let’s go talk with this woman.” Graf was more West Coast in his approach to the problem. “She can’t just come to town and start digging up bodies.”

  “Do you happen to know Circuit Court judge Colbert?” I asked Oscar.

  “I do. I went to school with Delbert.” Oscar leaned forward. “Is he the judge hearing the petition?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’
ll put in a call. We can certainly delay the exhumation.”

  That was a relief. It gave us a little time to figure out how much we wanted to stop Olive. “Her research will come to nothing,” I said. “Even if she gets DNA, the poor lady isn’t related to anyone around Sunflower County.”

  For half a minute, no one spoke.

  “Oscar? Is she a relative?” I frowned at Tinkie’s husband.

  “Whoever she is, it’s ridiculous to think she was involved in a plot to assassinate Lincoln. It would take days for a woman in a buggy to travel from Mississippi to Washington, D.C. Remember, Sarah Booth, women didn’t ride all over the country like you do. A lady only traveled in a buggy, coach, or wagon. The going was much slower.”

  “Maybe riding astride was the first declaration of independence by women.” I couldn’t help but tease Oscar. He was raised with a code of conduct as strict as the one Tinkie had been held to. In his world, the distinction of the genders was still clear and not the blurred line of more metropolitan areas.

  “Let’s see what this Olive Twist has to say for herself.” Graf stood up and I followed.

  I wasn’t certain this was a great idea, but I didn’t see any way to stop it.

  * * *

  Gertrude fawned over Oscar, Tinkie, and Graf as she led us to the suite of rooms Dr. Twist occupied. She didn’t even acknowledge I was there.

  “Dr. Twist may be napping,” Gertrude explained. “She’s been very busy working on material for her book. Isn’t it exciting? She’s going to write about the history of Sunflower and Holmes Counties. Let me knock.”

  The door opened instantly. Jimmy Boswell gave us a slight nod before he asked Gertrude what she needed.

  “Mrs. Richmond and her … friends would like to speak with the professor.”

  “Dr. Twist is napping,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “She’ll be up around three o’clock. Could you come back?”

  “No.” Tinkie slipped past him. “I have a busy schedule.” She walked into the room and stopped.

  Since I was right behind her, I nearly collided with her. But then I saw what had halted her. A pallet of blankets and a pillow were on the floor beside the lush bed Olive Twist reclined in. She made her assistant sleep on the floor beside her bed.

  Jimmy rushed to pick up the pallet, and to my surprise, Gertrude helped him.

  Tinkie’s red face told me all I needed to know. She was about to blow a gasket. I intervened as best I could. “Dr. Twist, this is Oscar and Tinkie Richmond, and Graf Milieu.”

  Olive had eyes only for Graf. “I know some of your work. I saw you once Off-Broadway in Bedlam. I thought you were exceptional.”

  “Thank you, but we aren’t here to talk about my acting career.” Graf was not a man won over by praise.

  And Dr. Twist was not one to be deterred from her goal. “I heard you just wrapped a western. The buzz is that it will rival Unforgiven for Oscar nominations.”

  Graf didn’t respond. He’d zeroed in on Olive’s feet. Her lovely face and model-thin body could never offset those gunboats. She was barefoot, and her toenails were painted black with silver lightning bolts. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the enormous mud flappers. I pinched him on the back of his arm.

  “Uh, yes. I mean, awards are hard to predict. No one knows what will happen. But as I said, we’re here for another reason.”

  Oscar and Tinkie, too, focused on Olive’s feet. She dug her toes into the carpet and released them. It looked like some strange machine that wanted to harvest the carpet but was unable to move forward.

  “Dr. Twist has a very busy schedule.” Boswell broke the strange tension. “It would be best if you left.” He held a video camera and was taping everything we did.

  “Please, put that away.” I made a move to cover the lens, but he stepped back.

  “I record all things related to Dr. Twist. It’s for posterity. People will be fascinated by Dr. Twist’s research techniques and her original thought processes once her book is published. She’ll have her own television show before this is over.” He spoke in a completely flat tone.

  “Please turn the camera off,” Oscar said.

  “Put it down, Jimmy,” Olive said. “Let’s hear what the locals have to barter. Whatever it is won’t make a difference, but they can try. Make notes, Jimmy. We might get some leads.” Olive’s infatuation with Graf was gone and now she was all business.

  Gertrude, who’d stationed herself by the door, inserted herself. “I’ll escort Sarah Booth and Boswell to the lobby so the four of you can have a conversation.” Obviously, Boswell and I had been culled from the herd.

  “Sarah Booth isn’t going anywhere.” Graf’s arm encircled my shoulders in a gesture both protective and romantic. “She’s my girl.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Gertrude said. “I’ll be at the desk.” She wheeled around and left.

  Graf closed the door. “Now let’s get this sorted out.”

  Oscar, Olive, and Tinkie settled at a small breakfast table in the kitchenette. Graf and I stood near the door, and Jimmy Boswell began straightening the room. “Shall I make some coffee, Dr. Twist?” he asked.

  “That’s my personal coffee, Jimmy. Absolutely not. It’s very expensive. Why don’t you fetch some coffee for everyone from the dining room.”

  He refused to look at any of us, and I felt a rush of sympathy for him. Had he known how he would be treated when he signed up to be Olive’s assistant? The better question was why he didn’t leave her employ. By the time she finished with him, he wouldn’t have a shred of self-respect left.

  I did a visual survey of the room as the Richmonds and Olive got down to business. The accommodations at The Gardens were exceptional and filled with amenities such as plush bedding and windows that offered stunning views of the back gardens. The kitchenette glowed with polished granite counters and chrome. I noted the gourmet coffee beans, electric grinder, and French press beside a Bose stereo system with satellite radio.

  A large-screen TV topped an antique desk in the parlor. There was even a bookcase with shelves of books written by Mississippi authors Miranda James, Charlaine Harris, Ace Atkins, and David Sheffield. All mysteries. So Gertrude had a thing for complicated story lines.

  On the bedside table were several romance novels. Dr. Twist didn’t strike me as someone who courted amore, so her choice of reading was illuminating. The titles intrigued me: The Rogue with a Brogue, Paradise Peccadilloes, The Viscount’s Verdant Vixen. She had a thing for alliterative titles. I picked up the last one, intrigued by the cover.

  “Put that book down,” Olive ordered me. “None of you has authority to interfere with my research.” She stood up so abruptly she bumped the table. Graf grabbed it before it toppled over.

  In that moment, I couldn’t say exactly what happened. A crash erupted, and window glass shattered as a missile flew into the room. A sliver of the window zinged across my forearm, leaving a thin line of oozing blood. A split second later, an explosion in the center of the Turkish rug sent everyone diving to the floor. Black smoke filled the room, and a fire broke out. The flames spread across the expensive carpet.

  “Everyone! Outside!” Graf took charge, and Tinkie, Oscar, and I obeyed.

  Not Olive. She ran around the room grasping notebooks, the video camera, computers, and files. “My research! Help me! Boswell, get back in here right now and help.”

  We met Boswell in the hallway holding a tray of coffee. Graf found a fire extinguisher in the hall, and in a few moments, he had the small blaze extinguished. Except for the noxious smoke, the burned carpet, and the broken window, the damage was minimal.

  Oscar whipped out his cell phone and called the sheriff.

  “I must be on to something good,” Olive said. “Why else would these rednecks go to the trouble of trying to stop me?”

  “How do you know it was a redneck?” I asked. “Did you see someone?”

  Before she could answer, Gertrude stormed into the room and let out
a wail of dismay. “That’s an antique rug worth thousands. Who did this? Who’s responsible?”

  Grasping her shoulders gently in his hands, Graf led her from the room and into the hall. Whatever he said calmed her.

  “Is everyone okay?” Tinkie motioned to Boswell to cease cleaning up the bits of scattered glass and debris.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Oscar directed. “Let the sheriff handle this.”

  “Boswell must take care of my papers,” Olive insisted. “And the camera. We can’t lose this valuable footage. He’s been taping me for the past six months. These are the critical moments leading to the point where I prove my theory correct. We must have this footage to support the climax of my documentary.”

  I stage-whispered to Tinkie. “I think she’s ready for her close-up.”

  Oscar barely suppressed a laugh, and Tinkie didn’t bother trying. “Where is Mr. DeMille when we need him?” Her dramatic tone drew a cough from Graf.

  “Take your half-wit remarks into the hallway,” Olive commanded.

  We were only too glad to do so, at least until the law arrived.

  We didn’t have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later Sheriff Coleman Peters strode toward us with DeWayne Dattilo, his deputy, in tow. I’d come to like DeWayne and respect his attention to detail, skills, and loyalty to Coleman.

  As DeWayne collected the physical evidence, Coleman questioned us. I could read the curiosity on his face—who was this Olive Twist and what were we doing in her room? He’d get around to asking soon enough.

  “Was Dr. Twist the target?” he asked me.

  Olive jumped in with both enormous feet. “Of course it was me. Boswell, get the camera running. This will make an excellent episode—how I was nearly killed by those who don’t want the secrets of the past to come out. I can see it now. Oprah may host a special just to interview me.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I said under mine.

  Coleman stepped aside. “Sarah Booth, Oscar, Tinkie, I think you should go. I’ll catch up with you later. Right now, I need to have a heart-to-heart with Dr. Twist and determine exactly what it is she thinks she’s going to expose.”