Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Haines, Carolyn

  “But he didn’t keep his promises.”

  “Not a single one. Gossip had it that she caught him in his office with another woman. A younger woman. Linley transferred to a different department and eventually completed a nursing degree. She married a doctor and has a nice life. Her daughter is attending Ole Miss now. Things work out like they’re supposed to, but Webber is a skunk.”

  “A lot of men wouldn’t take on the responsibility of another man’s child.”

  “Rumor said it was Webber’s kid, too. Supposedly he met Linley during a senior trip for the majorettes and cheerleaders at Ole Miss. He was a research assistant for one of the other professors that summer. Later, when he had his PhD, he used the contacts he’d made to snare a job teaching.”

  “Linley and her daughter were just too much baggage to carry,” I surmised. He was the lowest kind of bastard, not to mention the balance of power in the relationship had been weighted in his favor all along.

  Harold’s tone was easy, but the tension in his jaw revealed how much this still upset him. “Professor Webber is capable of anything in my opinion. Any man who would deny his own child and the woman he seduced and impregnated—he’s not much of a man.”

  I didn’t consider Harold’s judgment too harsh. I certainly needed to reexamine Webber’s alibi. If he would turn his back on his daughter, he might kill without a qualm. He had plenty of reason to hate Olive and to want her dead. Poor Boswell mistakenly drank the coffee.

  Sweetie’s soft yodeling bay called my attention back to the moment. It was time to load up and head home. “Thanks for the break.” I splashed down from the tree seat and when Harold joined me, I put my arm around his waist. We headed out of the creek with the dogs bounding after us.

  * * *

  Before I dropped Harold at his place, he gave me the current skinny on Linley Hanks, now Mrs. Dr. Libeaux. Linley Libeaux—it had a nice ring. She lived on Highway 49 near Greenwood, not so far from the scene of her old high school reign of glory.

  When I got her on the phone, she was agreeable to a meeting, especially after I mentioned the Christmas Parade and the glamorous figure she cut. Those carefree days must have been a respite for her.

  I dropped Sweetie at Dahlia House and did a quick search for my missing fiancé. My friends and Graf had vanished. I was puzzled but not concerned. No telling what they were up to. I’d find out soon enough, and I didn’t have time to chase them down. I was on official PI business.

  Following Linley’s directions, I cruised down a tree-lined driveway and pulled up in front of a home that smacked of the antebellum era.

  Linley Hanks Libeaux opened the door with a warm greeting. Her well-appointed home showed quiet good taste and an emphasis on family. Linley looked older, but not by much. The last two decades had been kind to her. She offered Louisiana coffee with chicory and an apple strudel that belied her trim figure. She really did have it all, including a metabolism to die for.

  “I haven’t stayed in touch with Richard,” she said in answer to my question. “There’s no reason to.” But her glance toward the back door made me wonder if she felt a need to escape the conversation.

  I didn’t really want to go into great detail, so I skimmed the surface of Olive Twist’s research, including Webber’s role in it.

  Linley showed no reaction. When I finished, she asked, “So what do you want from me? I don’t know about any of this. My … relationship with Richard is history.” Her half-smile straddled amused and sad. “I was a kid easily awed by Richard. He believed he was superior, so I did, too. Like I said, I was a gullible kid.”

  “How ambitious is Richard?”

  The sadness remained, but my question also evoked anger. “He denied his daughter and me, because he feared we’d hold him back. A man of his academic status couldn’t marry a mere secretary. Besides, a wife and baby would have cramped his style as the freewheeling, seductive professor. He’s ambitious enough to doom his own blood to bare survival.”

  “Would you say he’s capable of murder?”

  “Richard likes to play the game, but he never wants to pay the price. He’d kill if his comfort were threatened. He tried to talk me into aborting Kelly, but I wouldn’t. I thought I could make him love our baby. I was such a fool. Worse than a fool.” The skin beneath her eyes tightened. “One night, he threatened to choke me to death. He was that desperate to eject me from his life. See, I refused to be shamed into disappearing. When he wouldn’t marry me, I forced him to pay for my education.”

  “So he has a bad temper?”

  “Yeah. And no conscience. A classic sociopath. He takes what he wants and screw the consequences it causes for others.” She put her hands, palm down, on the table beside her coffee cup. “Once I accepted his utter lack of conscience, it was easy to walk away. I left behind the girl in the red-sequined dance costume. I stepped into the shoes of a pregnant, unwed teenager. But I wouldn’t be the person I am today, and I wouldn’t have Kelly and Charles, were it not for how awful Richard was.”

  She spread her fingers on the table. “Charles was Kelly’s pediatrician. He’s a good man and he loves Kelly like his own child. I might have settled for an egotistical sociopath who cheated on me when I was pregnant. Instead I have a man who loves me, Kelly, and every child he meets.”

  “Does the name Olive Twist mean anything to you?”

  She laughed. “Bad pennies really do turn up again, don’t they? She was a graduate student he met at a history conference in San Diego.”

  My jaw fell. “Were you at the conference?”

  “No, I wasn’t there, but I pieced it together later. Twist isn’t the type of person you forget.” She gathered herself to recount the tale, anger sparking in her eyes. “I was almost due when Richard booked the conference. I begged him not to leave town. I was scared and on my own. But he went anyway. Weeks later, I found photos in his briefcase. Explicit photos of Richard and a lanky graduate student, Olive Twist. They had a torrid affair while I sat at home in Oxford and waited for him to call.” She pressed her hands against the solid table. “Thank God the pathetic, scared young woman I used to be is long dead.”

  “Are you positive he was involved with Olive Twist?”

  “Fake British accent and all. She called the history department repeatedly after he was home. She wanted me to know who she was and that she was educated and I wasn’t. She was everything he needed, she told me.”

  It had to be Olive. And she and Webber had known each other for years. He’d certainly lied to me and Tinkie, which carried only the penalty of our wrath. They both had. Had they also lied to Coleman? Now, that was a different kettle of fish. Lying to a law officer could bring harsh consequences, and Richard Webber was a man who needed to feel the brunt of the law falling on his shoulders.

  * * *

  I swung by Cece’s, but she wasn’t home. Nor was she at the newspaper office—where she should have been. I called Graf to ask if he’d heard from her or Tinkie. No answer on his cell phone or at home. I left another message to let him know I was running by the courthouse to speak with Coleman. I needed to update the sheriff on the latest Richard Webber info.

  Coleman had his own set of woes when I arrived at the sheriff’s office. DeWayne Dattilo, his deputy, gave me a comical moue of wild panic before Coleman caught him. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  DeWayne pushed himself out of his desk chair. “I’m going to Millie’s. I’m having hunger pangs.”

  “If you don’t convince Darcy Miller to say yes quick, you’ll be too big to fit behind the wheel of the patrol car,” Coleman snapped. “It’s three squares a day, not six troughs-full. How many pieces of pie have you eaten today?”

  DeWayne had stacked on twenty pounds or so during his courtship of waitress Darcy Miller, but he was a long way from being obese.

  “I’ll bring you a bowl of Millie’s peach cobbler. Might sweeten up that foul temper of yours.” DeWayne jammed on his hat and strode out the door.

&nbs
p; I was left alone to face Coleman and his flushed cheeks. Embarrassment or anger, I couldn’t tell.

  “I hope you have good news,” he said. “This is a frustrating case. And Gertrude Strom is driving me nuts. She could worry the fur off a bear.”

  “What does she want?”

  “The killer arrested and the reputation of her B and B restored. She says no one will drink her coffee since word is out that Boswell died of poisoned java. Folks are canceling reservations. She wants a front-page story in the Zinnia Dispatch saying her facilities are top-notch and perfectly safe.

  “If she wasn’t always such a bitch to me, I’d ask Cece to write a story for the society page.”

  “Yeah, like movie star Graf Milieu dines in the shady luxury of Zinnia’s premier B and B. I can see the photo spread. Graf, pensively leaning against a vine-covered post looking into the hazy, heat-soaked distance.”

  “If you tire of pushing a badge, you can write ad copy. You have a knack for it.”

  He rounded the counter, hat in hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

  What was with the men today? A wade, a walk, next it would be a waltz. It was hot as hell outside but had begun to cool—a tad. It was still eighty-five degrees, and humid. But if Coleman needed to walk, I would stroll beside him. As a child, I’d spend endless hours bicycling around town, or walking and window-shopping. Now I seldom toured Zinnia, which was a shame.

  The courthouse square and many of the downtown streets were shaded by large oaks. When the Delta land had originally been cleared, a few trees were left in areas where residential centers were planned. In other instances, trees had been planted after the town was formed. Good planning. The lacy oaks dropped the temperature at least ten degrees.

  A soft breeze lifted my hair off my neck as we sallied forth. Coleman had something to say, but grilling him wouldn’t make him give it up any faster, so we walked.

  When he did speak, it wasn’t what I expected. “This morning I caught the first whiff of fall in the air.”

  “You must have been up at five a.m., before the sun heated everything up.” I couldn’t read his profile. What the hell? I didn’t need a weather report.

  “I was up early. I met Olive for a jog.”

  “Daniel leapfrogging lions! Where?”

  “At The Gardens. I wanted to tell you myself. Before Olive did.”

  “Oh, no. This is not happening.” I grabbed his elbow and jerked him around to face me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re dating that bitch.”

  “I’m not. We jogged. She likes to stay fit.”

  “She’s so thin if she turns sideways she won’t cast a shadow.” My overwrought brain refused to process the information in any useful way.

  “Don’t be cruel, Sarah Booth. She has a high metabolism.”

  “I don’t know what to say. She’s a suspect in a murder case. Have you lost what little gumption you had?” I realized we were standing on a corner on Main Street in Zinnia. Vehicles whizzed by, and several pedestrians eased around us, looking back with concern.

  I tried to compose myself. It wouldn’t do a lick of good to have a come-apart on Main Street.

  “We went for a jog, but I know how gossip flies around Sunflower County and I knew it would get back to you.”

  “I’m not your mother.” Fury washed over me in waves. “I should think you’d be more concerned about what DeWayne and the voters think about the fact you’re dating your own murder suspect.”

  “We were—”

  “Jogging, I know. A euphemism for dating for the S and M set.”

  “Ouch!” Coleman’s grin said it all. “Are you mad because we’re dating or because we’re exercising together?”

  “Mother Teresa eating a Fudgsicle! I don’t care what you do, it’s doing it with Olive Twist. She’s a suspect. You’ve made a few boneheaded mistakes in your life, but this is too much. You’re displaying terrible judgment, Coleman. There’ll be a backlash. People in Sunflower County will despise Olive for what she’s trying to do. That contempt will rub off on you.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t defend his choice. He didn’t say a damn word. Which wasn’t like Coleman.

  “What are you up to?” I tried to pin him down.

  “I won’t discuss this, Sarah Booth, but I didn’t want to sandbag you. Now you know.” He pivoted and started back to the courthouse. Our little walk was nothing but a chance for him to confess his insanity. He didn’t want to do it in the courthouse in case I broke bad.

  I trotted to catch up to him. “I can’t tell you who or what to date.” I spoke with a calm I didn’t feel. “Olive isn’t a very nice person.”

  “She says the same about you.”

  I wanted to beat his chest with my fists. “Make fun of me if you want to, but I’m not trying to date a possible killer. The voters might not understand.”

  “I’m not dating her. I went for a jog.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you call it or how you rationalize it. It looks bad. What if you have to arrest her for murder?”

  “Then I will.” He reached for my hand, but I pulled back. “You have to trust me on this, Sarah Booth.”

  “No, I don’t.” I did an about-face and left him standing on the Main Street sidewalk as I hurried back to my car and the fifteen-minute drive to the safety of Dahlia House.

  12

  Dahlia House was silent as the grave. For about sixty seconds. I’d just made it in the door when I heard frantic scratching coming from the dining room. Sweetie’s excited bark followed, then the sound of a solid hound body pummeling the door. The locked dining room door.

  I never locked interior rooms, and neither did Graf. Like in many old houses, each door was fitted with a lock. The brass keys were left in the locks. Could the door have locked accidentally?

  If so, why didn’t Sweetie and Pluto use the swinging door into the kitchen and then the doggy exit to the outside? It didn’t make sense. I hurried to unlock the door before my critters clawed and buffeted it down.

  Pluto flew at me from the darkened dining room and nearly scared ten years off my life. If Ole Miss needed a flying tackle, I had just the cat for them.

  Sweetie Pie followed right behind. She rushed to my feet and sat, tail thumping a calypso rhythm on the hardwood floor, demanding my attention. The critters were teaming up on me, but I still didn’t understand the locked door in the dining room.

  “Where’s Graf?” I asked.

  Sweetie’s reply was a long, sad howl. Pluto galloped to the front door and clawed at it. He really wanted out, but Sweetie lingered at my side.

  “Sweetie, you’ve had an ice cream and a swim today. Why are you acting so needy?”

  She circled frantically, clawed the door, and barked. Pluto, too, gave a great impression of a cat crazed to get outside. Watching their frenzied antics, I wondered if Graf had locked them in the dining room and then blocked the doggy door. But why? I’d check it in a moment, but first I released hound and kitty into the front yard. They hurtled down the steps in tandem and tore around the house toward the barn.

  “Man, those two are wound up.” As I closed the door, I sensed someone was behind me. Thoughts flapped through my head as I eased around. Neither Sweetie nor Pluto would abandon me to danger. And surely they’d know if a stranger was in the house. It had to be—

  “Your man is on the loose and you’re worried about that sheriff. You’d better keep tabs on the handsome Graf Milieu, or you’re gonna lose him.”

  I stared into the chocolate orbs of a mocha and beautiful Jessica Rabbit. Her arched eyebrows were fascinating, and her red hair, à la Veronica Lake, spectacular. But who cared about such things when confronted with an hourglass figure. “Jitty?” I could barely get her name out. “Where did you get that body?”

  “As usual, your focus is on the wrong thing. It’s not my body you should be thinkin’ about. It’s innocence. And how the wrong people can be accused of a crime. Maybe even a crime that was never committed. You s
hould give Eddie Valiant a call. Take a page from him on runnin’ an investigation. Toontown hides no secrets from Eddie. If the same could be said of you and Zinnia, you’d crack this case.”

  I had no clue what she was rambling about. Now I fully understood why Jessica Rabbit had been voted the sexiest cartoon character of all time, and Jitty knew how to play her. She took long, hip-swinging steps in my direction. For a ghost who disdained her body, she worked every inch of it to get the maximum attention. The only thing I could think to say was, “Who framed Roger Rabbit?”

  “Framed is the operative word, Sarah Booth.” She flicked her cigarette and the ashes speckled the top of my shoe. “Watch out.”

  The action set off an instant craving for a smoke. I forced my attention back on Jitty. “Who’s being framed?”

  “That’s your job—figure it out. And you’d better be quick. Missing husbands are serious business.”

  Her words made not a lick of sense, or maybe I was dazzled by that incredible body, wrapped in an impossible dress. How did it stay on her? There was no back to it.

  “Shall I sing you a tune?” Her wicked smile teased me. “That’s a t-u-n-e, not a t-o-o-n. If I could sing a stool-pigeon t-o-o-n, I’d find out who framed my husband.” She slinked across the room. “Dig into it, Sarah Booth. If it’s the last thing you do.”

  She sashayed toward the staircase and disappeared.

  Between Jitty, Sweetie, and Pluto, I was living in a madhouse. With a missing fiancé. And missing friends. And a sheriff bent on self-destruction.

  I checked in the kitchen. My note to Graf was still stuck to the refrigerator door with a magnet. My messages were still on the answering machine. And the doggy door was blocked.

  How long had Sweetie and Pluto been cooped up in the house? Color me annoyed. I tried Graf’s cell. No answer. Same for Tinkie and Cece. At last I called Oscar.

  “Harold said you pushed him into a creek, Sarah Booth.” Oscar sounded peeved. “He came back to work looking like he’d been in a tornado.”

  I couldn’t believe Harold would go to the bank and fib about how he’d gotten his pants wet. “That’s a lie. He dragged me to the water and then he jumped in. Along with that rotten dog of his.”