Sweetie came over and I rubbed her long, silky ears. Hounds have the most expressive faces, and Sweetie’s showed bliss. The sun was hot on my legs and face, but there was contentment in sitting on the steps, just as I had as a child during the long, late-summer days.
A sudden fantasy of walking into Dahlia House and hearing my mother, busy in the kitchen, took hold of me. She didn’t cook all the time, but when she did, it was such a treat. My father and I would eat in the kitchen, sometimes with a couple of their friends. It would be festive and casual and fun.
I was startled out of my fantasy by a golden rope that fell over me and was pulled taut, penning my arms to my sides. “What the—”
“Don’t you dare curse.” My captor wore a red, blue, and gold formfitting costume. And brother, did she have the form to fit. Enormous, perky ta-tas rose above a nineteen-inch waist and swelling, voluptuous hips. A golden crown rested in dark black hair.
“Diana Prince!” I knew who she was. Wonder Woman! One of my favorite cartoon characters, though she was a sexist creation. Still, she had super strength, super speed, and the ability to make people tell the truth. Now, that would be useful in my current line of work.
The lasso shook free and fell. “I don’t need no lasso to see you’re pinin’ for your mama.” Jitty took the form of the Amazon goddess of the comics, but she hadn’t bothered to upgrade her accent. She sounded just like Jitty.
“Okay, so you’re roaming the halls of the great comic-book heroines. What message are you trying to convey?”
“Sarah Booth, you are one lazy chile. Sittin’ here on the porch, moonin’ about with a hound and a black cat. Put your thinkin’ cap on. What’s the story on Diana Prince?” Jitty was all about the lecture and never about giving a simple answer. She struck a pose and light reflected off the silver bands that encased her forearms.
“Let’s see.” I hadn’t thought of Wonder Woman in years, though Jitty’s portrayal reminded me that I’d once fantasized about her magnificent superpowers. “She’s a princess, the ruler of a tribe of Amazon women. She fights to bring peace to the planet, and she can make people tell the truth with her golden lasso.”
“Your brain ain’t all turned to mush.”
Jitty was never free with a compliment either.
“So, what’s shaking in the world of superheroines? And aside from the ass-kicking costume, why Wonder Woman?”
Jitty’s response came in the form of another question. “Where is that Olive Oyl person?”
“Dr. Twist is at The Gardens, I presume. Or she might be in Jackson making the state investigator’s office a hellhole. She has a knack for bringing stress and discord wherever she appears.”
“Forget Twist the twit. You need to find the truth about the Lady in Red, Sarah Booth.”
“No kidding.” She was pissing me off. “Do you have any suggestions how I might go about that? I don’t have a lasso of truth.”
“Have you bothered speaking with Oscar?”
“Tinkie’s Oscar?” I didn’t see the point.
“Maybe he’ll tell you what he won’t tell Tinkie.”
I sat up. I hadn’t considered such a thing. “Is Oscar related to the Lady in Red?” I’d never entertained the idea Olive’s accusation could be true.
Jitty twirled her lasso.
“Was the Lady in Red involved with Abraham Lincoln?” Jitty could answer if only she would. Almost everyone involved in the wacky case hung out beside Jitty in the Great Beyond. All she had to do was track Honest Abe down and interrogate him.
“You know I can’t tell you secrets from the Great Beyond. Why do you keep askin’ such things?”
“Because you could tell me if you wanted.” I didn’t care that I sounded spoiled and bratty.
“Rely on yourself, Sarah Booth. That’s what your mama would say.”
She was right about that. And Wonder Woman would say the same. “I do rely on myself.”
“Better get in the kitchen and cook up some vittles for your man.”
I stood slowly. Pluto reached up and dug his claws into my kneecaps. I thought I’d dance off the steps backward but managed not to break my neck. “Pluto! What’s with you?” When I looked up, Jitty was gone.
I disengaged Pluto’s claws and walked toward the kitchen. She was right. I should prepare something fantastic for Graf. Lately, he’d done most of the cooking. I would surprise him with my culinary skills.
“Right!” Jitty’s voice echoed around the kitchen.
I whirled around, but there was no evidence of Jitty at all. She just had to have the last word.
Pluto and Sweetie followed me to the cabinets. When I reached for one of my favorite recipe books, a note fell from the pages. I picked it up and discovered my mother’s lovely handwriting, a recipe for curried shrimp salad. Perfect for a hot September evening. I had just enough Gulf shrimp in the freezer. And I had a plan!
* * *
“Why, Sarah Booth, I had no idea you were an aficionado of the curry.” Oscar reached for a third serving of the shrimp salad.
“My mother’s recipe.” I opened another bottle of the crisp California pinot Graf had brought from the land of oranges, grapes, and movie stars. My intention was to help Oscar to a drunken state. Then, if my questions offended him, he wouldn’t remember tomorrow.
Tinkie put down her fork and watched me. Behind her baby blues, her brain was churning. I hadn’t told her of my goal—I would never solicit her help in getting her husband drunk—but she was on to me nonetheless. She wasn’t my partner because she was slow.
“Have more wine,” she urged Oscar.
When I began to clear the table, Graf snatched my hand and pulled me into the dining room. The swinging door closed. “What the hell are you and Tinkie up to?”
I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. I’d had a bit of wine myself, and my libido was thrumming. I put my hand in his thick hair and twisted my fingers. “We’re getting him drunk so I can question him.”
“You’re not far behind him.” Graf’s good humor was restored. “Oscar will be hurting tomorrow.”
“I know.” I was suddenly remorseful. Oscar was a good guy, and I’d plied him with liquor.
“Cheer up. He’ll live.” Graf took my elbow and led me back into the kitchen. Tinkie arched her eyebrows and I nodded.
“Graf, will you help me find a file in the office?” She kissed Oscar’s cheek. “We’ll be right back, sweetheart.”
I was left alone with Oscar.
“Tinkie is something special,” Oscar slurred.
“She is, indeed.” I captured his hand on the table and held it firmly, forcing his attention to me. “Oscar, are you related to the Lady in Red?” I asked him outright.
It took a moment for his gaze to latch on to me, but then he looked down at the table. He couldn’t hold my gaze and fib. “Don’t lie to me, please.”
“Maybe.” He tried to focus but couldn’t. “There are family stories about a young girl with beautiful red hair. She was a Richmond. Tilda Richmond. She was an accomplished woman, especially for those times. Though she couldn’t get a degree, she studied law and was more knowledgeable about agriculture than any of her brothers or cousins.” His grin was lopsided. “Family legend has it that she was wild as a March hare. Had her own mind about things, and how her future would be. She was like you, Sarah Booth, kicking against conventions.”
“What happened to her?”
Oscar reached for his wineglass but then pushed it away. He was toasted, but he wasn’t wallowing drunk. “She ran away when she was sixteen. She never came back to Zinnia, at least not that anyone knew.”
“Do you think she’s the Lady in Red?” I asked.
He tried to stand but sank back in the chair. “In 1969, when that backhoe dug her up, the question was raised. Judging by the perfectly preserved corpse, she would have been about Tilda’s age, according to family records. The whole thing was so peculiar. If you remember, the late sixties were a time of gre
at stress in Mississippi. My family chose not to pursue the question of the Lady in Red. But she’s haunted the Richmond family. If she was a Richmond, and my family knew of her and didn’t bring her home because they disapproved of her lifestyle or her political beliefs, then I’m deeply ashamed.”
The poignancy of that touched me. If the Lady in Red was indeed Tilda Richmond, she’d been so close to home, yet she couldn’t make it. She’d died a few counties away from her family and those who had once loved her.
“Do you know any more of her story?”
Oscar was closer to sober than I’d assumed, and still willing to answer the question. “The family story goes like this. Her father had arranged a betrothal for her to a planter’s son. It was a very wealthy family from Virginia that had established a huge plantation here in Mississippi. Tilda would have been well taken care of and held a position in society.”
“But she didn’t love him.” This story was old and familiar. Why did parents never learn? Security and position meant nothing to a young girl who’d always had everything she ever wanted. She’d never experienced life’s harshness. She’d been loved—and she wanted the same devotion from her husband. Not a business contract.
“She couldn’t know if she loved him or not. She never met him,” Oscar continued. “She never gave him a chance. When she heard he was coming to visit and meet her, she ran. Sixteen years old and alone. She took a few of her clothes and her horse and rode out during a March storm. She was never seen again. There was talk she made it to Washington, D.C., but there were also stories she opened a saloon in Tombstone. Any or none of it could be true.”
“Could Olive Twist’s hypothesis that she was Lincoln’s lover be true?”
Oscar blew out his breath. “She was wild. And she believed she should be free to make her own choices. She felt the same way about the slaves. She was an outspoken abolitionist at a time when such talk often resulted in death.”
I let these new facts sink in. “Was she murdered?”
“I don’t know. And I’m not certain the woman in the grave is Tilda Richmond, my great-great-great-grandfather’s sister. All I know is that Tilda left Mississippi when she was sixteen. She never came home.”
“She never sent a letter or anything?” That would have been hard on her parents, even if she’d disappointed them. They would have craved to know she was safe.
Oscar contemplated his answer. “Gossip got back to the family. There was talk she had gained President Lincoln’s favor. She would have been in her late twenties, and from the only photograph I saw of her, she was a true beauty. Part of the family legend is that she became a madam in the capital. But that’s as substantial as the Old West stories.”
“Holy shit.” Olive Twist had been striking at the right nail. If she published these revelations, she’d cause a scandal for Oscar and the Richmond family. But only a minor scandal. So, a Richmond had been an abolitionist and slept with Lincoln. Not such a big deal. But if she’d conspired to assassinate Lincoln, that was something else.
“I’ve thought repeatedly of digging up the grave and having a DNA test.” Oscar waited for me to react.
My shock gratified his expectation. “Really? Will you submit a DNA sample to Olive?”
“Absolutely not. It’s one thing to deal with family issues privately. I won’t pander to her need for material for a book. And neither will that moron Buford. I’ve heard she’s offered money if he will and I put a stop to that.”
I didn’t really blame Oscar. Knowing was one thing. Having the world know was something else. “Would Tilda have come back home and gone to Egypt Plantation instead of Zinnia?”
“I can’t say. What was there at Egypt Plantation? Maybe someone who believed in what she was doing. Another abolitionist, or perhaps a lover. I’ve thought perhaps she came on a riverboat from New Orleans, based on the fancy dress she wore.”
“You think it’s Tilda, don’t you?”
“I think there’s a good probability. She was a true beauty, Sarah Booth. There’s a photo of that corpse in the family Bible. Why else would it be there? But I don’t want to give her over to Twist. That woman has no soul. I don’t want Tilda painted as a whore or an abolitionist or a murderess. I want her to rest in peace.”
“What can you do about Buford?”
“I intend to have him committed to a private mental institution. Cece spoke with me about what he and Jeremiah have been up to. I’ve made arrangements at Cold Springs Mental Hospital. I’m paying for both of them, if Cece can get Jeremiah in there to dry out. They need to be locked up before they hurt themselves or someone else. I’m afraid they’ll either sell out to Twist or kill her. They’re both so volatile it could go either way.”
That was a pretty drastic step, but I understood Oscar’s impulses. If they were under medical care, Olive couldn’t work on them and they couldn’t hurt her or anyone else. It wasn’t a bad plan—on the face of it. I didn’t know the legal machinations for getting a relative committed, but I was fairly certain neither Buford nor Jeremiah would go voluntarily. Besides, while Buford tipped the sauce too frequently and too much, I wasn’t certain alcohol was Jeremiah’s issue. I got the sense he had bought into the baseline meanness of the Evergreen Tree group. He did feel superior to women, especially Cece, and so many other elements of society.
My immediate problem was Tinkie and her husband. “You need to tell all of this to Tinkie. She knows something is wrong and she’s worried about you.”
“I will,” he said. “Tonight. When we get home. It’s funny, but I think about this and it happened such a long time ago, none of it should matter now. It’s gone and done. But I can’t let it go. Tinkie deserves to know why I’ve been so preoccupied.”
“One more thing, Oscar. Did you meet with Jimmy Boswell the night before he died?”
He paled but recovered quickly. “Who told you that?”
“Tinkie. She found a note in your pocket. She assumed it was from Boswell. Asking to meet.”
“He slipped the note in my pocket the night of the Molotov cocktail in Twist’s room. I agreed to meet him at a little park on the other side of town. He didn’t have a vehicle, so we picked a place he could walk to. He never showed up. I figured Twist caught on to his scheme and chained him in the room.”
“Or possibly poisoned him.” I really hadn’t taken Olive seriously as a potential killer. Maybe I needed to change my attitude.
I had other questions, and a warning for him to be honest with his wife, but I had no chance to twist his arm, because Tinkie and Graf returned.
Oscar planted a sloppy grin on his face and the evening continued.
9
The morning sun slanted through the bedroom window, chasing the predawn gray into the corners. Consciousness brought a mile-long list of things I needed to do, but Graf was too much temptation to leave all alone in bed. For a few minutes, I watched him sleep. Pluto curled into his chest, his little black kitty paws making biscuits against the dark hair. Sweetie’s soft snores waffled from the floor beside the bed. There was not another thing in the world I needed. I whispered a thank-you for the wonderful life I’d somehow managed to acquire.
I’d lost so many people I loved. Jitty wasn’t the only spirit moving through the hallways of Dahlia House. My parents, Aunt Loulane, a host of Delaney relatives who’d loved this land. While I couldn’t see them and talk to them like I could Jitty, I knew they were never far. But Graf was flesh and bone, a man who stirred my blood just looking at him. How had I ever gotten so lucky?
My finger traced his jaw. The dark shadow of beard gave him a roguish look. He was perfect for the role of a private dick in the movie Delta Blues. I wanted the chance to act opposite him, to complete that part of our life.
And I wanted a lot more.
I put my left hand on his shoulder and the morning sun sparked off my beautiful engagement ring. Graf had pushed me to set a wedding date, but I was reluctant to marry at Dahlia House. I didn’t consider my
self a morbid person, but holding the ceremony here would only accentuate all the people who weren’t around to bless the union.
Ireland. That’s where I wanted to get hitched. Maybe a nice horseback ride up the western coast and a ceremony in an old church. Something casual with a small group of those close to me. The drawback involved my friends. Not everyone could just drop everything and haul butt to Ireland. So it would have to be a planned trip arranged around schedules and responsibilities.
Sweetie’s cold nose poked my back as if she’d read my thoughts and wanted to say, “Hey, you can’t leave me behind.” I gave her the petting she craved and when I glanced back at Graf, he was also looking at me.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“Wedding plans.”
His grin melted my heart.
“We don’t have to wait for a ceremony to celebrate.” I leaned into him with a kiss, and he pulled me against him.
Pluto gave a growl of protest and a big hiss before he vacated the bed.
When I finally stretched and decided I had to feed the horses, Graf had fallen back to sleep. I left him snoozing and slipped into shorts and tennis shoes to do my barn chores.
A breeze lifted my brown curls off my shoulders. Before anyone could say “Jack Spratt” it would be Christmas. Time rushed by. It was a quantum physics question—why did time flee when one was happy and drag when one was sad? The answer had something to do with perception, but I didn’t want to try and figure it out.
The horses cantered to the barn the minute they saw me. Reveler gave a corkscrew buck just to let me know I was late with his chow. While they ate, I groomed them. Lucifer had settled into my herd without a problem. When the Natchez sisters who’d owned him were sent to prison, his care had fallen to me. It became less and less likely I’d try to re-home him. He was here at Dahlia House to stay. Graf adored riding him, and so did I. And Miss Scrapiron had two boyfriends to tease and torment. Life was good for her, too.
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 14
