But Gertrude had them. Graf had been taken on her property, his car hidden in a secluded part of her gardens.
Shortly after Graf disappeared, Tinkie and I left The Gardens’ bar. I’d seen Gertrude hustling across the unlit grounds with sheets and towels. I’d figured a guest emergency. Now a more sinister possibility arose.
The night Olive’s room was firebombed, Gertrude had appeared in the bar with shrubbery in her hair. I’d assumed it was from eavesdropping behind the bar’s ficus trees. What if it had been because of a sprint through the flowerbeds after a failed attempt to kill Twist?
But why? What stake could Gertrude claim? She wasn’t part of the high-society Daughters of the Supreme Confederacy. Why would she harm Boswell, or Twist? Or Graf? It didn’t make sense, but at last I’d stumbled on what felt like the right path.
A terrible thought followed right on the heels of my revelation. Tinkie had gone to The Gardens to question Gertrude.
Fighting panic, I called Tink. She answered with a sleepy hello. She was home safe with Oscar. She’d found nothing to indicate Graf had been in any of the B and B guest rooms. I urged her to go back to sleep and promised I would do the same.
At the front door, I considered making Sweetie and Pluto stay. The glare festering in Sweetie’s eyes convinced me otherwise. They loaded into the backseat of the SUV and we were off just as the sun topped the sycamore trees that lined the driveway.
I parked on the road and hiked across the B and B grounds. Sweetie, Pluto, and I—the Mod Squad of Zinnia—trudged side by side. I’d brought along Graf’s sock. If he was being held here, Sweetie would sniff him out.
I’d feared Gertrude might be working in the flowerbeds in the cooler morning hours, but my worries were for nothing. The only living creatures in the gardens were the birds and squirrels, and a few butterflies that had endured the summer heat. It wasn’t seven o’clock, but the mercury was already in the mid-eighties. The humidity added at least ten degrees. Summer would end, but not soon enough.
Sweetie darted off the trail and Pluto and I followed, dodging through a vividly colored bed of red salvias bordered with Sweet Williams. I was familiar with the inn proper, the gardens near the tennis courts, and those surrounding the pool, but there were areas I’d never explored, not to mention wilderness areas. My hand twitched to call Tinkie or Cece, who were far better versed on the layout of the facility. But I didn’t. My intent was to scout the area. If Graf was here, I’d call for backup.
We cut across a beautiful bonsai garden and continued, Sweetie leading the way. Occasionally, she stopped to sniff the ground, circling in different directions. Then she’d be on the scent again.
We left the tennis courts behind, and I realized we were close to the spot the Range Rover had been found. Sweetie sniffed the area where the car had been—and where I’d abandoned her—and gave me the stink eye and a low, mournful howl.
“A little forgiveness,” I lectured.
Sweetie shook her ears at me and bolted northeast. She lunged into the four o’clocks and vanished. Pluto and I hesitated, then went after her. “Sweetie!” I called quietly. This was payback for leaving her. Now she was showing me how worry felt, and I had to agree—I didn’t like it.
I couldn’t call loudly—for fear of waking the sleeping dragon. Hot pursuit was my only option. Pluto and I sprinted after the dog. The cat, for a rather tubby specimen of the family felidae, zoomed like greased lightning.
My long night of no sleep became apparent as I struggled after my critters. I’d lost my sense of direction. We wove through beautiful oaks and a swampy area that reminded me of a river brake. Sweetie truly had struck a trail. She knew where Graf was—or at least where he’d been. And it was no place he should have gone.
I hurled myself through unkempt tangles far from the puritanical righteousness of Gertrude’s regimented gardens. Dodging around a walnut tree, I stopped an inch short of ramming into Sweetie. She stood at attention. I followed her gaze to see Pluto batting at a grotesque brown, moldering mummy.
“Son of a—!” Sweetie hadn’t found Graf, but she had found the Lady in Red. Or what was left of her. A ragged tatter of red velvet shrouded her rib cage.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. Coleman needed to be here. I’d punched in the first three digits when my feet were snatched out from under me. In one terrifying moment, I hung upside down. The phone flew from my grip and landed at least two feet beyond my dangling hands. Harold’s pistol slipped out of my waistband and landed beside the phone.
Gradually, I stopped swinging back and forth and my stomach settled. I caught my breath and called to my dog. “Sweetie, get the phone.” I’d stepped in a snare, and the rope circling my ankles would quickly become painful. “Sweetie—bring me the phone.”
But Sweetie was intent on something else, a movement in the bushes surrounding the clearing. Cougar, bear, wolverine, giant python—what lurked in the bushes, eliciting a low, no-nonsense growl from Sweetie Pie? Hanging upside down and swaying, I was too dizzy and disoriented to discern the threat.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I heard the familiar hum of blood-sucking insects. Mosquitoes the size of dragonflies swooped at me from all directions. This would be the most humiliating death of any PI ever. Drained by insects and eaten by coyotes.
“Sweetie, please, fetch the phone.” Why hadn’t I taught Sweetie to retrieve?
The long, low growl that came from the hound made my hair stand on end, but I couldn’t see anything—until the bushes parted and Olive stepped into the small clearing.
“What in the world, Sarah Booth?” She circled me. “You’re like a bug hung in a spider’s web.”
“Stop yakking and cut me down.” I twisted so I could follow her movements.
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t, when I get free, I’ll hunt you down and hurt you.”
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, as Scarlett would say. You do talk a mighty ferocious game. Hard to back up a threat when you’re hanging from a tree like Tim Burton’s idea of a piñata. If I gave you a few good whacks, I’ll bet roaches would fall out.”
I would kill her, first chance I got. Something painful and slow. “You’d better let me down, Olive, I mean it.”
“Sorry, no can do. I have a date with destiny, and Dr. Webber. If you’re free, you’ll try to stop us. We have big plans for the Lady in Red. Neither of us has tenure, and the halls of academia are suffocating us. No, it’s the open road that calls to us, a siren song of adventure.” Her hands fluttered in theatrical little gestures.
I burned with the desire to strangle her, but I had a bigger question. I couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Richard Webber, your adversary? You’re traveling with Richard Webber?”
“It seems the passionate fire of our first love was banked, not dead. We’ve rekindled the heat, and let me just say, he lights me up like a Roman candle! We’re taking the Lady in Red and leaving town. We have it all planned out. We’ll explore every state while traveling in the intimacy of a huge Winnebago. We’ll exhibit the Lady in Red, just like they did outlaws in the Old West. You know, there was even a plot to steal Lincoln’s body. We’ll give lectures across the nation to communities who would never, otherwise, be exposed to rigorous academic research and professors of our quality. We’ll draw crowds and charge admission fees. We’ll coauthor a book about the Lady in Red and our incredible romance and sell it at our lectures. I’ll add passion to Dick’s dry research, and he’ll add male gravitas to my voluptuous language. We’ll hit the New York Times bestseller list together.”
The woman was delusional. About a billion laws prohibited such spectacles. “You’re nuttier than a can of Planters. There are health provisions against hauling a corpse around the country. Webber will serve prison time for stealing a dead person. If you involve yourself with him, you’ll end up behind bars, too.” Not that I cared. In fact, it was a great idea.
“Oh, Sarah Booth, I received th
e DNA results. The Lady in Red is a Richmond, no doubt about it. She had DNA matches to Buford. It cost an arm and a leg to do the testing, but it’s well worth it. The things I learned!”
“How did she die?”
She squatted so we were face-to-face, though I was still upside down, which made her look even meaner. “You’ll have to read my book to find out.”
I didn’t give two hoots about what caused Tilda’s death, but I did care about Graf. “Where’s my fiancé? If you’ve hurt him—”
“Why would I have Graf?” She crossed her arms. “Oh, I get it. You saw how Coleman Peters went after me, and now you think Graf Milieu has caught my scent. If I had more time I’d bring him to heel, but now I have Richard. He’s the jealous type, you know. Can’t stand it when another man shows his desire for me. I can’t produce Graf. Haven’t seen him in a couple of days. But just remember, I could have had him.”
“Twist, untie the rope.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“The knowledge you did one decent thing in your life?”
She grabbed my hips for a big windup. “By the way, Sarah Booth, I never intended to pay Delaney Detective Agency. Never. Not one red cent. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
When she let go, I spun in fast circles. The last thing I heard was her age-inappropriate giggle as she fled the scene.
The spin nauseated me, but I clung to the fact she’d be back. She had to get the bones of the Lady in Red—hopefully before all the blood rushed to my head and popped it like an overripe melon.
I was getting too old to take the abuse of a PI.
Before I could react, I slammed into the ground, head-first. Had I not been rotating a little, I might have broken my neck. As it was, I deflected my weight and flopped hard on my left hip. I was so damned glad to be flat on the ground, I didn’t complain but scurried to gain my feet.
Picking up the rope that had held me, I saw where the fibers had frayed from rubbing against the tree limb. Olive’s little cruelty had freed me. And I wasn’t waiting around for another booby trap.
I picked up Harold’s cell phone and gun. Thank goodness it worked. Now was time for the cavalry. I called Tinkie and filled her in. “Webber, Twist, and the corpse are here in the woods behind The Gardens. Call Coleman before the freaks take their traveling show on the road.”
“Do you have a lead on Graf?” Tinkie asked. “Coleman searched all night. Jeremiah and Buford swear they don’t know anything. The blood at the old McCauley house came from Arnold, not Graf. When Pluto attacked him, he bled like a stuck pig. There’s no evidence Graf was ever there.”
“Don’t you find it a little suspicious that Gertrude had the keys to Graf’s SUV? She didn’t give them to Coleman. I’ll bet they weren’t in the ignition when Coleman searched the car. And Gertrude was the last one to see Graf.”
Tinkie was silent for a long moment. “Coleman wouldn’t have given her the keys. In fact, if the keys were in the vehicle, he would have driven it to Dahlia House once he checked it over.”
“Exactly.”
She came to the same conclusion I’d reached. “Graf is somewhere at The Gardens.”
“I think so, too. Gertrude has to be involved. I don’t know the specifics. But she has a stake in the outcome of the Lady in Red. Did she tell you anything useful?”
“She wasn’t at the desk. I looked everywhere, but no one awake had seen her. I checked the empty rooms and found nothing.”
“Is there somewhere else on the grounds she might hide a person?”
“What are you planning?” Tinkie would have me microchipped to track my movements if I wasn’t careful.
“I’ll sit on Gertrude. If she’s involved with Graf’s disappearance, the simplest thing to do is watch and wait. She’ll have to take him food and water, right?”
“Yeah, right.” Tinkie didn’t sound positive that Gertrude would feed and water a hostage. “Wait for Coleman.”
“Absolutely,” I lied before I closed the phone.
I had no time to lose. “Sweetie, find Graf.”
19
I couldn’t be certain who’d set the man snare, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t Olive or Richard Webber. Neither had the skills. A person with military or survival training had rigged it. Like … Arnold, or a Heritage Hero. But forewarned was forearmed, as Aunt Loulane would say. I wouldn’t fall into another ambush.
The most encouraging thing was the trap’s existence—an indication protection was needed from snoopers. A hostage would warrant such tactics.
It was disturbing to abandon the bones of a long-dead woman, but Coleman was en route. I made tracks and followed Sweetie’s nose. She’d hit a trail. Graf was close. I could feel it. I just prayed he wasn’t injured.
As I jogged through underbrush along the shady path, I tried to connect Gertrude to Graf’s disappearance and to Jimmy Boswell’s death. No matter how I turned the facts, I couldn’t make the dots connect. Gertrude simply didn’t fit into any scenario I came up with.
Amid the thick underbrush and canopy of trees, I discerned a darker shadow. Sweetie, too, slowed, checking back to be sure I was paying attention. I drew abreast of her and she licked my hand. At last, I was forgiven. Pluto, panting a little from the extended exertion, brushed against my other side. Hidden by a screen of scrub brush, we crept close to an old building, probably a plantation foreman’s home at some point in history.
Surrounded by woods, the place was well maintained. The clapboard was painted and the porch swept. Flowers surrounded it in a riot of blooms, and the yard was carefully mowed carpet grass. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the roof shingled in gingerbread. If I went inside would Graf be imprisoned in a cage, a hot oven waiting to toast him?
Time to do battle with the witch. If Graf was there, I meant to save him.
I started forward until I felt sharp claws hook my ankle. Right through the skin and into the bone. “King Herod waltzing with Freddy Krueger! What are you doing, Pluto?” I had to whisper, so the harsh words lost some of their impact.
I was about to shake loose when I heard a low rumble of wheels on gravel approaching the house. Cat, dog, and I hunkered down and hid. Peering through the leaves, I saw Gertrude arrive in a vintage golf cart. She balanced a food tray. From her pocket she withdrew a key and went inside.
Unless she was delivering room service to Olive and Richard—and hell hadn’t frozen over so that couldn’t be possible—she had Graf in there.
Tearing free from Pluto, I scurried to a window and peered in. A nicely furnished living room held no human occupants. The next window showed a dining room, also empty. At last, I found a bedroom window. Tied to an iron bedstead was Graf.
Gertrude stood beside him, holding the food tray and talking. I could tell Graf was disoriented and weak by the way he struggled to sit up when she freed one hand for him to eat the sandwich she’d brought. It took all of my willpower, and a grip on Sweetie’s collar, to keep from flying into the room. Good thing I stayed put. She lifted a gun off the tray and waved it around.
“We have to do something,” I told my comrades. Great words, but short on action. I didn’t know what to do.
Pluto had other ideas. He jumped onto the porch and hurled himself at the front door. There was nothing I could do to stop him. I watched Gertrude’s shocked reaction as she dropped the tray and hurried to the front door, gun in hand.
By the time she opened the door, Pluto had streaked into the front shrubs. Gertrude scanned the front lawn. She was closing the door when Pluto darted through her legs and into the house. The sound of glass breaking followed.
Pluto was destroying her dishes.
“A cat! In my house! My lovely china!” Gertrude was furious. “I’ll kill that black beast.”
In her frenzy to extinguish Pluto’s life, she left the door open. Sweetie and I took the opportunity. I zipped toward the bedroom where Graf was a prisoner, and Sweetie went to aid Pluto.
Graf saw
me and tried to sit up, but I motioned him to be still as I untied his other hand and his feet. His face was swollen and dark circles underscored his eyes. His left leg angled oddly under the covers.
“Don’t move.” I forced myself to stay calm.
He nodded. “Sarah Booth, I knew you’d find me. You’re the best detective.” A goofy grin heightened his pitiful physical condition.
I pulled the Glock Harold had loaned me from my waistband. If Gertrude got between me and helping Graf, I’d send her to her eternal fate.
I dialed the sheriff’s office and DeWayne answered.
“Send an ambulance to The Gardens. Gertrude has a house down the road on the north side.” Why had I never wondered where Gertrude lived? I’d assumed she had quarters in the B and B. “Graf is really hurt. Hurry.”
I closed the phone and my gaze fell on a photograph on her bedside table. It was Gertrude and Jimmy Boswell. I couldn’t believe it. I picked it up for a closer look. He was younger, with shorter hair, but it was Boswell. The photo was maybe five years old. What was Gertrude doing with—I saw it then, the physical resemblance. Boswell was her cousin, nephew, child? Some relation.
“Put it down.” Gertrude stood in the doorway, her gun aimed at my heart.
I returned the framed picture to the table. My own gun was at my leg, hidden from her view. If she was a decent shot, she’d hit me before I could raise the Glock. Distracted by the photo, I’d let her get the drop on me.
“Why did you kill Boswell? He’s your blood.” It was the first thing that popped out of my mouth. Judging by her thunder brow, it was the wrong thing to say.
“That selfish Twist never let him drink her expensive, imported coffee. She should have drunk it. The poison was meant for her. Jimmy took her crap for months to infiltrate her research. He suffered abuse and denigration for the cause. Jimmy was a good boy.”
Her wild eyes scanned the room. When she saw the cell phone in my other hand, she laughed. “You called the sheriff, didn’t you?”
Smarty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 27
