Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Haines, Carolyn

  “At least my mother can read.”

  “Thanks to a prison literacy program!”

  Bada bing! Score one for Twist.

  “You listen to me, you bone with a hank of hair. You leave my mother out of this.”

  Too bad for Webber. He showed the first weakness.

  “Got a few mommy issues, do we, Dr. Webber? You probably started your history career doing genealogy for dear old Mum. Plundering the musty bones of your dead relatives give you a boner for history?”

  “What type of mother could produce the academic version of a cross between Marilyn Manson and Charles Manson?” Webber asked.

  Twist muttered what sounded vaguely like “helter-skelter” and lowered her head and charged. She butted Webber’s midriff with enough force to send him staggering backwards.

  Tinkie and I rushed into the fray. Enough was enough. The war of words had turned physical. I caught Webber before he fell. Tinkie dragged Olive back.

  “Get a grip!” Tinkie ordered. “What is wrong with you two? This isn’t elementary school. You can’t punch each other like six-year-olds.”

  “As usual, words fail her!” Webber pivoted and strode toward the B and B, leaving me to wonder if plagiarism applied to stealing great lines.

  “What in the world is wrong with you?” Tinkie asked Olive. “Your assistant has been murdered, and you’re out in a garden head-butting a grown man.”

  “He deserved everything he got.” Twist was breathing hard, but she was calming. “He’s just … mean!” She burst into tears.

  Tinkie rolled her eyes at me. “Will you drive the car back to the parking lot? I’ll walk with Olive.”

  I knew then she wouldn’t quit the case. Olive’s show of helplessness was all it took to bring out the defender in Tinkie. Great. I wouldn’t be flying to Hollywood with Graf, and Olive Twist and Richard Webber wouldn’t be leaving Zinnia, either. We would all stew in our juices until poor Jimmy Boswell’s murder was resolved.

  * * *

  I found Tinkie and Olive in the bar. Olive was sucking down Bloody Marys, on Tinkie’s tab, of course, and was feeling much better. “Webber stole that last line from Gore Vidal,” she said. “He’s so unoriginal he rips off barbs.”

  “Let it go,” Tinkie said. She inhaled her drink, working on the premise, I presumed, that if she couldn’t beat them she’d join them. She signaled the waitress for a round for all three of us.

  “I’ll sue Webber.” Twist dared us to disagree.

  “That should be fun.” The waitress set a glass in front of me. The Gardens’ bartender made an awfully good Bloody Mary. Lots of big fat olives. I chomped one in half.

  “What big teeth you have,” Olive said.

  “The better to eat you with, my dear.” I wasn’t in a mood for her foolishness. If she messed with me I might bake her in a pie.

  “Listen, it’s imperative I exhume the body, get the DNA samples, and get out of this place. The heat, the crazies, it’s just too much for me.” Olive fished around in her empty glass for the pickled green bean. “I have to return to a cultured environ. This is a desert of ignorance.”

  Tinkie grabbed her wrist. “You’re not endearing yourself to us, Olive. If you want our help, stop acting like an arrogant jackass. Boswell is dead. From what I gather, you’re the prime suspect.”

  “I speak the truth, no matter whom it offends.”

  “Then let me give you an etiquette lesson.” Tinkie slid from her chair and stood up. “You don’t insult the people who work for you or try to help you. I realize you were likely raised by bloodthirsty barbarians, but it’s time for an education. You will treat Sarah Booth and me with respect, or you’ll be on your own.”

  Olive simply couldn’t help herself. She bared her teeth. “That sheriff won’t arrest me. He questioned me and knows I wouldn’t hurt Boswell. Besides, there’s a spark between us.”

  Now I stood. “Coleman is a good man. He’s off-limits.”

  She smiled. “Got a crush on the sheriff? Does your fiancé know?”

  “Off-limits,” Tinkie said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  A hard pause settled between us. At last Olive broke the silence. “How can I prove I didn’t kill Boswell?”

  “Convince us.” I propped on my elbows.

  Twist pushed her hair from her face, and sadness settled around her mouth and eyes. “I treated Boswell poorly, I know. But he knew I cared for him. He paid attention to all the little details. His research was thorough, and he was smart. He pursued a lead until he exhausted it. He cared about this work as much as I did. Sometimes, late at night, he’d get up and work more. Why would I harm someone so valuable to me?”

  In Twist’s logic, she had no reason to want the young man dead. It was a start, though I wondered if she was aware he had been working behind the scenes to betray her.

  “Have you noticed anyone strange following you?” Tinkie asked.

  “Half the people in this town are strange.” Twist held up a hand. “Sorry. No one has followed me.” She frowned. “So you think the poison was meant for me?”

  Tinkie nodded. “I believe Boswell was collateral damage. You have a knack for pissing people off.”

  “Where did you buy the coffee beans?” I asked. “We’ll start by tracing the beans and everyone who touched them.”

  “They were special ordered from a little market in Costa Rica. The beans are organically grown on a private plantation. One pound runs thirty dollars, but the coffee is worth every cent. Of course, there’s nothing to compare here in Mississippi. Do you even have imported beans?”

  Tinkie sighed. “Your arrogance is exceeded only by your ignorance. We have specialty coffees, gourmet cheeses, chocolates—anything you can find in the big cities you love so much. And we also have clean air, and land that grows things other than gangs and litter.”

  I gave Tinkie a high five. When she put it on someone, she lowered the boom.

  “Look. I don’t mean to sound so—”

  “Officious. Repugnant. Bigoted. Ill-mannered.” Countless options were available to me.

  “Rude,” she said. “Small towns are not sophisticated, no matter where they are. I require cultural stimulation. I’m a creature of refinement.”

  “Creature, yes. As to the rest, I’ll withhold judgment.” I couldn’t help myself any more than she could. My reward was a hard stomp on my toes from Tinkie.

  “We have to stop this one-upsmanship if we’re to accomplish anything.” Tinkie spoke with fervor. “Can you two stop needling each other?”

  I looked at the ceiling.

  “I’ll do my best,” Twist said.

  “Me, too.” My fingers crossed behind my back.

  “Good. Let’s track down those coffee beans.”

  7

  Three hours later I knew more about La Hacienda coffee than I ever wanted to know. The upshot was the coffee had been shipped to a gourmet shop in New York City. Olive ordered it from there, and it was mailed to her home. She’d opened and used the beans—without ill consequences—before she’d brought them down to Zinnia.

  Logic led me to believe the poison had been introduced into the coffee after Twist and Boswell checked in at The Gardens.

  I gave Doc Sawyer a call. Normally I’d stop at the hospital for a face-to-face, but my focus was on getting the info and getting rid of Twist. I’d visit with Doc another day when we had more pleasant topics to pursue.

  “Coleman tells me you’re working for the professor,” Doc said, amusement in his tone. “I hear she’s something else.”

  “Nobody ever said private eyeing would be easy work.”

  Doc’s chuckle took me back to the past. He’d always been able to finagle a smile, even when I was in panic mode about shots. “You could retire and let your movie star take care of all your needs.”

  “Not likely. I love Graf, but nobody takes care of a Delaney.”

  “Or a Booth. You get a lot of your independence from Libby Booth, and don�
�t ever forget it.”

  “Not possible.” Forgetting my parents was akin to forgetting to breathe.

  “Some days, Sarah Booth, I see you and think for just a split second that Libby’s back.”

  I had the same fantasy, but I wondered what had Doc waxing nostalgic. “If I had time for therapy, I’d ask if I’ll ever recover from missing my parents. But there’s a murder to solve, so what’s the story on the poison?”

  “It was the coffee, as everyone thought. Someone mixed a form of rat poison in the coffee beans. It was the only thing in poor Jimmy Boswell’s stomach.”

  The ingeniousness of the murder method stopped me in my tracks. “So when Boswell ground up the beans and made coffee, that was it.”

  “Doesn’t take much.” Thanks to Tinkie and me, Doc had become expert in murder methods. Especially poisons.

  So the issue I had to resolve was how did the d-CON, or whatever brand it was, get into the coffee beans in Olive’s room. And were they intended for Boswell or Olive? The latter seemed the logical answer. She was abrasive, superior, and determined to piss off the old-school grumblers who wanted to pretend the Civil War had been about nobility. War was always about money, and nothing else. Pretending otherwise didn’t change the facts.

  I told Doc what I’d found out about the coffee beans. “So why didn’t Olive drink coffee? Her beans. Her fetish for this boutique coffeehouse bean. She’s not generous enough to stock such things for Boswell. It was her coffee. So why did she not die, too?”

  “Questions you and Coleman will have to answer. By the by, best keep an eye out for our sheriff.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Twist showed up at the hospital for the autopsy results and she was all over Coleman. He wasn’t exactly fighting her off.”

  My aggravation factor climbed to red-hot. “Coleman isn’t a fool. She’s a suspect in the murder of her assistant. Surely he has more sense than to involve himself with her.”

  “He’s a lonely guy.”

  I couldn’t tell if Doc was teasing me, baiting me, or warning me. “I’ll have Tinkie speak with him.”

  “Music to my ears. Now I have a motorcycle accident victim to tend. At least he was wearing a helmet, but it probably won’t make his leg heal straight.”

  I hung up and considered calling Coleman. Best to leave it to Tinkie, though. She could be no-nonsense with Coleman in a way I couldn’t. Poking my nose in Coleman’s romantic affairs, even for his own good, was forbidden to me.

  I left a callback message on Tinkie’s phone and returned to my computer. While I couldn’t do anything to save the sheriff from a romantic debacle, I could research Dr. Olive Twist. If the Molotov cocktail and the poison were meant for her, she might have brought her enemies to town with her.

  I had Dahlia House to myself. Graf had gone to town to buy new shirts. While shopping opportunities abounded in Los Angeles, Graf preferred the boutique men’s shop, Butterfield 8, where Oscar and Harold bought their clothes.

  Sweetie Pie’s snores resounded in the house. Even Pluto was asleep on a pillow on my desk. He lolled, half off the brocade, and opened slanted green eyes. He watched my fingers move across the keyboard with sudden interest. Pluto wasn’t above attacking my digits. He made his demands known.

  I’d been working on the computer too long, and I stood to stretch.

  “Care for a bite of apple?”

  It was no big shock when I turned to find Snow White standing behind me, a Red Delicious in her outstretched hand.

  “Let’s see. Snow White succumbed to a poisoned apple. And Boswell died from poisoned coffee beans. Maybe it’s time to diet.”

  “A pure heart is the only protection from evil,” Jitty said. Her voice was high and singsongy and I wondered if her black hair and pale, pale white skin were compliments of Disney.

  “Where are those pesky dwarves when you need them?” I wasn’t really annoyed with Jitty—more amused than annoyed—but I certainly didn’t intend to let her know it.

  “Why are you such a crank?” Jitty asked. “I’m here to help you out.”

  “I don’t think so.” I stretched side to side and leaned forward to rest my hands on the floor. My hamstrings screamed. I needed to reclaim my stretching and exercise regime. Since Graf was home, I’d focused on horizontal action. My aerobic routine had fallen by the wayside.

  “Lord, Sarah Booth, whatever you do, don’t bend over in front of Graf.” The cartoon voice was gone and Jitty’s familiar voice came through loud and clear.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s gone see that wide ass of yours and run for the hills.”

  I slowly stood and glared at Jitty. “You are infuriating. My butt is not that big.”

  “If you were goin’ down the street, you’d have to wear a sign that says ‘Wide Load.’ Girl, throw them ’taters out the back door and make you a green salad.”

  I checked my backside in the front parlor mirror. I’d put on a few pounds since Graf had been cooking, but it wasn’t that bad. Jitty was going to give me a complex. “My butt looks fine.” I tightened and released the muscles, making it jump. “See. Nice and firm.”

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the jigglyist of them all?” Jitty smirked.

  I wanted to throttle her, but she was already dead. “No point in you gazing in the mirror. You don’t have a reflection. Are you sure you’re a ghost and not a vampire?”

  “Very funny.” Jitty put her hands on her hips. In the fitted blue bodice and long yellow skirt, she came across sweet as pie. I knew better. This was my heritage haint, and she meant to hold my feet to the fire. About love, life, honor, even weight. It was time to turn the tables on her.

  “Okay, what gives? Betty Boop, Veronica, Snow White? I realize Twist bears an uncanny resemblance to Olive Oyl, but I don’t get the connection with these cartoon characters.”

  Jitty shook a finger at me. “Your fantasy life is sadly lacking.” She was starting to fade. “What happened to your imagination, Sarah Booth? What happened to giving yourself to a fancy? You used to daydream and create scenarios. You were softer, more feminine then. What happened to the girl who sang ‘Moon River’ with her daddy and danced across the parlor?”

  Her questions were wicked and sharp. It had been a long time since I’d allowed a daydream to fully capture me. I’d been living with both feet planted firmly in chores and necessities. I’d lost the magic of make-believe. But I was also in the middle of a case where my client seemed to live in a world of pretend. Her whole scenario of the Lady in Red was like a bad melodrama. I had to focus on the truth.

  “I wish I could give myself to a dream.” I wasn’t just saying it to placate Jitty. A longing for the softer, gentler Sarah Booth took hold. It was hard to always be practical and on-target.

  “Remember when you used to go down to the oak trees with your mama? You played with elves and fairies.”

  The memory Jitty called forth made me long for those days. “I remember.”

  “Your mama knew how important it was to imagine things. She knew, and she would be sad to think you’d lost that. She never did.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Don’t ever forget how to play, Sarah Booth. You and Graf got some good times ahead. And some hard times. But if you remember to play, you can get through anythin’ the world throws at you.”

  “Did you and Alice play?” Alice was my Civil War–era ancestor who’d survived the brutal hardships of a defeated nation—with Jitty’s help. She’d kept Dahlia House and the land, even though she and Jitty lost their husbands in the war. They suffered poverty and near starvation by holding on to each other.

  “We did.” Jitty picked up a basket filled with apples. The sunlight from the window shafted through her. She was almost ready to leave. “We played cards and we talked about the past and the future. Folks might say we built sandcastles, and that the war and the poverty and the sickness came in wave after wave and knocked our fancies down. B
ending over, backs breaking in the fields as we struggled to grow potatoes and turnips, we made up our future. And we clung to those fancies even when we had nothin’ to eat. We lived on pretend.”

  I walked toward Jitty as she faded in and out. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  “You’re mighty welcome, Sarah Booth. Now find you some fancy lingerie to slip into and play a game with your man. I believe that’s him pulling up right now.”

  * * *

  The game I chose was Afternoon Delight. When Graf walked in the door, packages in his arms, I let him know I’d been fantasizing about him. I left him a happy man. Exhausted but happy.

  I didn’t always give Jitty credit, but this once I had to hand it to her. Thanks to her nagging, I’d recaptured a bit of the girl in me, and Graf enjoyed the rewards of my femininity. He was smart enough not to ask what had inspired me.

  He was sound asleep when I returned to the computer and finished my research on Twist. What I found wasn’t completely surprising, but it was interesting enough that I copied most of it and emailed it to Tinkie. And to Coleman. I was pretty sure he’d done his own research, but just in case.

  The thought of Twist laying her snares for Coleman was like salt under my skin. I couldn’t stop him from making romantic mistakes—I had no right to interfere at all—but I wanted to be sure he knew the score. Knowledge was power, so I sent him her entire bio.

  Twist’s parents were British. No big bombshell based on her name and the references to Charles Dickens’s fictional character. Olive grew up in London until school age, when the family moved to the United States. Her parents took jobs at the University of Montevallo in Alabama. Twist was sent to boarding school in Connecticut. About as far away as they could send her.

  It got worse. When she was twelve, her parents returned to England and left her in the States.

  I pondered that for a moment. The tiniest grain of sympathy for Twist began to grow inside me. What would I have become had my parents abandoned me and moved halfway around the world? And why would they have done so? Olive was an unpleasant, pretentious person, but was that a result of abandonment issues or the reason she was abandoned?