Olive sashayed up to him and gave him the once-over, head to toe. “Oh, I think I’d enjoy exposing myself to you.”
Nebuchadnezzar eating a Kit-Kat! She was coming on to Coleman. “I beg your pardon,” I said before I thought. “I don’t want to see our sheriff turned to a pillar of salt.”
“Are you one of those religious nutcases?” Olive asked.
“Sarah Booth is not any kind of nutcase, religious or otherwise. But she and her friends are leaving. Now.” Coleman winked as he pushed me toward the door.
Jimmy joined the huddle as we all bumped together trying to get out. My left eyebrow inched up my forehead. “Good luck, Coleman.” I was only too glad to leave Olive to his tender mercies. Coleman was first and foremost a lawman. But the Richmond and Falcon families included his friends. He would not take Olive’s stated goal lightly.
* * *
After the excitement of the explosion in Olive’s room, my sweet man, my best friend, and Oscar repaired to the bar at The Gardens. Thank goodness we managed to avoid Gertrude and settled at a table with a round of drinks. We could see the front exit from where we sat, and Coleman would not escape us. I had a lot of questions for him.
At the first sip of my drink, my shoulders relaxed. The bomb or Molotov cocktail or whatever it was had upset me more than I realized. “My goodness, we could have been injured or killed. And we aren’t even on a case.”
I was surprised by the coolness on Graf’s face. “You were certainly protective of the local sheriff.” He sipped his Jack and water. “I thought you might claw Dr. Twist’s eyes out. Are you sure you aren’t still carrying a torch?”
His question caught me flat-footed. I’d reacted to Olive’s blunt come-on to Coleman not because I wanted him for myself, but because she was poisonous. I wondered if I could explain my reasoning to Graf.
“Shut your mouth, Sarah Booth, before you catch a fly.” Tinkie put her arm through Graf’s. “He’s teasing you.”
“I am,” Graf said. “But I did notice.”
“I’m glad you noticed, but you have nothing to worry about. My point was, Olive Twist could go through a man like a buzz saw through bologna. I just didn’t want Coleman to get his clean shirt bloody.”
“Coleman can handle himself,” Oscar assured me, “though Dr. Twist probably eats raw meat, and I suspect cannibalism wouldn’t be much of a stretch for her. She considers herself quite the vamp, and she certainly liked the looks of Graf and our fair sheriff.”
“I’ll bet she likes handcuffs,” Tinkie threw in.
“Oh, stop it. I think we should investigate who threw that incendiary device through the window.” I didn’t want to sit around twiddling my thumbs and making up sexual scenarios for the history professor. I’d just had my fill of witnessing kinky sexual moments, thanks to the butler at a wealthy estate during my last case.
“I think we should let Coleman and DeWayne handle the attack or whatever it was. Once they finish, we’ll have a look for ourselves.” Tinkie turned to me. “Do you think that bomb-thing was meant to scare Olive off?”
“Maybe. Or it could be she set the whole thing up to—” I stopped mid-sentence when the handsome man I’d noticed at the bar earlier that morning came up to our table. This time I paid a lot more attention.
He wore an expensive tweed sports jacket with leather patches, brown slacks, casual and expensive leather shoes. His salt-and-pepper hair was carefully cut, and the dark mustache highlighting his sensual mouth was trimmed to perfection. This was a man who cared greatly about his appearance.
“Excuse me, I’m Dr. Richard Webber,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Did someone try to blow up Dr. Olive Twist?”
“We’re not certain what happened,” I said smoothly. “Are you a friend of Dr. Twist’s?”
“Some would say colleague, others might say competitor. I believe the good doctor’s premise is flawed and I intend to prove it.” His charming grin revealed twin dimples and eyes that crinkled at the corners. “I see a giant flapdoodle brewing. I predict excellent fun.”
A man who enjoyed a “flapdoodle.” Now, that was a development I hadn’t expected. “Are you psychic or do you intend to start this … flapdoodle?”
“I like to think I’ll be instrumental in putting the wheels in motion. You see, Dr. Twist has behaved in a most unethical fashion.”
“How?” Tinkie was on it like a chicken on a bug.
“It’s not a simple story. May I join you?”
Oscar got a chair from a nearby table and we made room for Dr. Webber to sit with us. When Oscar offered a drink, Dr. Webber opted for iced tea. “Dr. Twist has stolen my concept and research. Worse than that, though, she’s intent on perverting the true facts and she’ll stop at nothing. I have the real documentation for the Lady in Red. Olive Twist is a dangerous woman who won’t let anything get in the way of her ambitions.”
“Then you know her intentions about the Lady in Red?” Tinkie was grim.
“I know them and I abhor them.” He swallowed and glanced out the window for a long moment as an angry flush rose up his neck.
“Can you stop Dr. Twist from using the Lady in Red for her own personal gain?” I needed to know what silver bullets he might possess.
He inhaled slowly, controlling his temper. “There’s a ninety percent probability I can halt that mule in her tracks.”
I loved his colorful language, and I could see my friends approved, too. He actually made a set-to with Olive sound like fun, but big talk did not necessarily mean effective action. “How will you accomplish this?”
“I can’t give away all of my trade secrets,” he said. “Just believe me, I have ammunition that will stop her.”
His secretiveness led me to question his credentials in the “torpedo Twist” realm. “Do you know each other?”
“That’s a complicated question, my dear. I slipped in under the radar and I’ve been watching her for the past two days. All I can say is, thank god I’m not her assistant. Why that boy doesn’t slit her throat while she sleeps, I’ll never know.”
He’d pretty well captured my feelings about Jimmy Boswell. The only thing worse than being Twist’s paid employee would involve marriage or blood kinship. “He sleeps on the floor beside her bed.”
“So I’ve been told.” Webber drank his tea. “There’s a long tradition of strange relationships in the world of letters. The young and eager subjugate themselves to the older and experienced.”
“Oh, bull hockey!” I’d had enough. “No one should treat another living creature the way she treats Boswell.”
“It’s a peculiar arrangement, even by the standards of eccentric academics.” He shrugged. “But the young man accepts it. He isn’t an indentured servant or a slave. He can leave any time he chooses.”
“He could pack his gear and make a run for it while she sleeps,” I said.
“Do you think she sleeps?” A mischievous grin lit Tinkie’s face. “Vampires don’t require rest, do they?”
“Good one, Tink,” Oscar said as everyone chuckled. My partner had a quick and ready wit.
Yes, we were a jolly bunch as we waited for Coleman to free himself from Olive’s machinations. To pass the time, Richard Webber entertained us with tales of historic battles where competing academics vied to outdo each other and win acclaim. One thing about Richard Webber—he loved an audience. “Academia is a war zone fraught with the blood of the innocent and the naïve.”
“He’s a bit over the top,” Graf whispered in my ear.
“No kidding. I’ll bet the students love him.”
Oblivious to the murmuring in the audience, Webber continued, “The stakes are important to only a handful of people, but to those people this is life or death. If Olive is able to prove her cockamamie theory that Tilda is a Richmond or Falcon ancestor and the Lady in Red, and that she was involved in Lincoln’s assassination, we’ll be watching Olive on national television. She would love that, wouldn’t she? Sh
e’d throw over her academic career for a host position on an entertainment network in a heartbeat.” His lips pursed. “If she’s right, though, this would impact the entire Mary Surratt execution.”
“Was Mary Surratt guilty?” I’d heard two different sides of the story about the Southern woman who owned a boardinghouse in Washington, D.C., where John Wilkes Booth was often seen.
Webber held up both hands. “She was the first woman executed in the United States. Charged with conspiracy to assassinate a president, she was rushed to a trial, never allowed to defend herself properly, and summarily hanged as a conspirator. The trial was a sham, engineered by Secretary of War Stanton as a military trial rather than a civil one. Most historical experts agree the evidence against Mary Surratt was not enough for a conviction. She ran a boardinghouse where Booth and his co-conspirators gathered at times. Being a Confederate sympathizer is a far cry from participating in an assassination.”
“I never learned any of this in a history class,” I said.
“History is written by the victors. Surely you know that, Ms. Delaney. The Surratt hanging brought shame on a government viewed as occupiers by half the country. You understand how some actions require deep burial in the shifting sands of time.”
“Indeed, I do. I—”
My comment was short-circuited when Coleman strolled up to the table. An impression of lips in bright red graced his right cheek. Olive had kissed him! I couldn’t believe it. “You’d better go disinfect yourself.” I hadn’t meant to speak those words aloud, but the whole table laughed. Even Graf.
“If you’re thinking of bedding that woman, I’d be careful,” Oscar said with mock concern. “She’s lovely and could make a burlap sack look elegant, but if you rolled on top of her, one of her ribs might poke you and puncture a lung.”
Everyone laughed, except me. I didn’t find it funny that a woman who plotted the destruction of Coleman’s friends would have the audacity to kiss him—and that he would let her.
“Who’s responsible for the bomb?” I asked, getting down to business. I didn’t want to know the details of Olive’s play for Coleman. Or that she got close enough to leave evidence of a smooch on his cheek.
“Molotov cocktail,” Coleman corrected. “Whoever made it was an amateur. They didn’t put enough gasoline in the bottle to spread the flames.”
“Maybe the bomber didn’t intend to do real damage. Maybe it was someone Olive paid to have her little moment of drama. She’s a diva if ever I saw one.” I sounded stiff and hateful, and I didn’t care.
“Your ability to judge character is excellent,” Webber threw in. “Dr. Twist is a barracuda. Her exploits are legendary. She craves the limelight and would do anything—or anyone—to be the center of attention.”
“The same thought occurred to me,” Coleman said. “My first assumption was the event was staged. Now, after examining the scene, I’m not so certain.”
“You found evidence of an intruder?” Tinkie asked. “Tell us.”
“There were footprints made by a large shoe in the dirt outside the window,” Coleman said. “Very large.”
“Have you checked Olive’s clodhoppers?” I asked maliciously.
Coleman arched an eyebrow at me and kept talking. “We tracked the prints from the porch to Olive’s window, and then back. Someone ran to the window, threw the bottle, and then rushed back to the porch and disappeared into the main building. DeWayne tracked the person through The Gardens and then out to the front parking lot, where the trail ended. We’re acting on the belief the bomber was male.”
His gaze drifted pointedly to Richard Webber. “Where were you?” Coleman asked him.
“Right here at the bar. The barkeep will verify I didn’t leave my stool to even go to the john.”
“I will check,” Coleman said pointedly.
“So whoever it was likely drove off in a car.” I didn’t believe Webber was guilty. He was too collected and urbane to be a mad bomber.
“Exactly.” Coleman eased into a chair Graf provided for him. “As far as I can tell, the only person Dr. Twist knows in Zinnia is her assistant. Both of them are accounted for at the time of the explosion. As were you, Sarah Booth. Otherwise, based on your obvious dislike of the professor, I might have you on the prime suspect list.”
Graf laughed out loud, which only made me more annoyed with Coleman. “You tried that once before with a murdered actress. How did that work out for you?”
“Touché.” Coleman’s grin didn’t slip an iota.
“So who did throw the cocktail?” Oscar asked.
Gertrude Strom appeared out of nowhere. Leaves from a ficus tree and other flora were trapped in her red hair. She’d been hiding behind the potted plants eavesdropping on us.
“Sheriff Peters, you find the person who did it and make him pay for all the damages. Whoever did this is gone, but I fear he’ll be back. Once word gets around about Olive’s project, every yahoo and half-wit in the area will be after her, and I don’t intend for my bed-and-breakfast to become a war zone. But I believe this book needs to be written. A lot of hoity-toity people will get their comeuppance.”
“You like what she’s proposing to write about?” I asked.
“I like the truth,” Gertrude said. “Sometimes it takes centuries for it to finally roll around. If the Lady in Red was involved in killing President Lincoln, the whole world needs to know about it.”
Dr. Webber drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height. “I can assure you, madam, that such is not the case. I’ve done extensive research in this area, and the woman in that grave was Abraham Lincoln’s lover, not his assassin.”
“Oh, King Solomon with a meat cleaver! Where did that come from? Lincoln’s lover? And just how do you intend to prove that?”
“I’ve been working on this premise for the past two years. Dr. Twist became aware of my research and has stolen my concept and tagged a ridiculous assassination charge onto the end of it. Tilda Richmond, and I’m reasonably certain she was a Richmond and not a Falcon, though there is some blurring to be cleared, was in love with Lincoln. She would never have conspired to harm him. I personally believe she returned to Mississippi to try to mend the wounds of the war. She loved her homeland and she loved Abe Lincoln. She was a woman caught between two gigantic forces. But I scoff at the notion she wanted Lincoln dead. Olive Twist is the worst kind of intellectual thief—one who takes a solid theory and bastardizes it into soap opera drama. Next thing you know, she’ll be a cable TV pundit.”
“Why haven’t you sued her?” I asked.
“You can’t copyright an idea.” Tinkie knew a lot about business law. “She took your findings and built on them. It’s how academia perpetuates itself.”
“I realize that.” Webber’s chin lifted. “But there is a code of ethics involved here. Twist has violated them. Professors don’t steal each other’s research.”
“Like drug companies don’t steal research, or movie studios pilfer writer’s ideas,” Oscar said. “I think research is fair game, Dr. Webber.”
“Legally, you are correct. There is no recourse in a court of law. But that doesn’t excuse what she’s done.”
“This is hogwash,” Gertrude said. “She beat you out fair and square. She got busy and came down here. You should have pushed aside your cabal of devoted graduate students and gotten busy.” Her smile was smug. “You might better plan on being at the press conference Olive has called for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning at the Lexington Odd Fellows Cemetery. She plans to announce approval for the exhumation.”
“Over my dead body,” Oscar said, rising from his chair.
“I’m sure that wouldn’t bother Dr. Twist a lick,” Gertrude replied before she pivoted and walked away.
4
The ceiling fan in my bedroom swirled round and round, casting a lazy breeze over our sheet-clad bodies. It was late afternoon, and while I knew I should feel guilty for wallowing around in bed when there were grave robbers to snare, I co
uldn’t deny the time with Graf had been well spent. We’d come home from The Gardens and raced up to the bedroom like teenagers.
I stretched and fought the temptation to curl up beside him and sleep. I’d never been one to take naps, but then I’d never had such a pleasurable bedmate. Snuggling against Graf made a nap sound as tempting as a slice of Chocolate Decadence cake.
A delicate black paw patted my chin, and I looked into the green gaze of Pluto the cat. “Hey, big boy.” I pulled him against my side for a few strokes. His owner was recuperating from a near-death experience. It was still up in the air if she’d leave Pluto with me permanently, but I was already attached to the handsome and smart feline.
Pressed between Graf and Pluto, I wanted to drift back to sleep. Unfortunately, I owed Frances a call to report how our meeting with Olive had gone. And I wanted to check in with Coleman to see if his crime analysis had revealed any clues about the bomb thrower.
Sliding from beneath the sheet, I stood up and stared at my handsome lover. Graf had it all—movie-star good looks, talent, personality, charm, and me. He was one lucky devil. And just to prove it, I decided to slip downstairs and stir up dinner. I could multitask with the best of them.
The thought generated a growl from my stomach. We’d had drinks at The Gardens but no food. It was time to find something to eat. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt advertising an Irish liqueur and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
My mother’s favorite cookbook was open on the countertop, and I put on a pot of coffee while I leafed through the entrée selections. I decided on couscous with fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, bell peppers, and mango chutney, corn on the cob, and sweet potato salad. Even with the air-conditioning and fans churning, it was too hot to eat a heavy meal. To that end, I began peeling and cubing the sweet potatoes while rehearsing in my head what I’d say to calm Frances and yet keep her from having any false hope I could send Olive packing.
The next thing I knew, a slender hand sporting a honking diamond ring was shoved under my nose. No surprise, Jitty had joined me. What was unexpected was the black pageboy hairdo, the cute little skimmer dress with a black patent belt emphasizing her tiny waist, and matching pumps. “Who this time?” I asked wearily.
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 5
