Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  The last little vestige of guilt at taking the case evaporated. Angela needed my help, and Graf was fine with it.

  “Tell me exactly what he said,” I asked.

  “Dad said he’d found the key. I asked him what he meant, and he said he knew how to find the treasure. He had a list of things he had to accomplish, and the first was to buy back a spyglass he’d sold. Once that happened, he said he’d have the treasure within a week. He was so positive he’d figured it out.”

  “Your father was a treasure hunter. He spent his life chasing a dream. Is it possible this was all just wishful thinking?” I had to ask, and I was as gentle as I could be.

  Angela slid the door open to a spotless bedroom/office. Every trace of the murder had been removed, but it didn’t take much imagination to understand what had happened. The space was small but tastefully decorated with what looked like original artwork in a modern style. Shades of blue, green, and teal painted on a translucent sheet rather than canvas reminded me of the crystal water on the south side of the island. A blank spot on the wall indicated someone had removed one of the paintings.

  “Dad dabbled in painting,” Angela said. She went to the blank spot. “He gave a lot of paintings away, but the one that was here—it was his last. I tried to find who he gave it to, but no luck.” She was lost in memory for a moment. “He was like that. Just giving things away.”

  I continued my examination of the stateroom. A bunk took up the wall to the left, and a large desk was centered in the remainder of the space. Built in filing cabinets and storage lined the wall to the right. The only space for a body was on the floor behind or in front of the desk. “You believe he found the treasure?”

  “Dad was a dreamer, that’s true. This was different, though. He was excited, but also grounded. Whatever it was he’d found, it was something solid.”

  “What do you think he meant by the key?”

  “The way he said it, it had to be a physical thing. Maybe even a real key. It wasn’t just an idea or a mental thing. He’d found something physical.”

  “And you searched the boat looking for it afterwards?”

  “I can only assume the killer took it.”

  “But the killer hasn’t used it to retrieve the treasure?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Which leads me to believe the killer doesn’t understand the value of this key or hasn’t figured out how to use it.”

  Angela’s hand brushed across the teak desk. The gesture spoke more eloquently of her loss than words. “My conclusion exactly.”

  “Do you have any idea who killed your father?”

  “I wish I did. I’d confront him. I’d make him confess.”

  Not the smartest move. Someone who had killed once would do so again. “How long since your father died?”

  “Eighteen months. Larry was convicted a year ago. I haven’t found a damn thing to help apprehend my father’s murderer.”

  “And yet you haven’t given up.” She was as hardheaded as I was.

  “I can’t bring my dad back, but Larry Wofford was falsely convicted. He said he didn’t do it, and I believe him. I won’t give up trying to help him, and I need to find something before his appeal date.” She sat on the edge of her father’s desk. “So you’ll help me?”

  “As much as I can without neglecting Graf. And only for this week. I’m headed to New Orleans on Saturday, and I won’t be back this way.”

  “Deal.” She reached out her hand and I shook it. She pulled a check from her pocket. “Is five thousand enough?”

  I pushed the check back at her. “Let’s see how much time I have to work on it. It won’t be a lot.” I really didn’t feel I could accomplish much, but I’d try. She carried a lonely burden, and sometimes just a friend on the road was a big help.

  “What’s your first step?” she asked.

  “I’ll call the sheriff’s office in Mobile. I need to talk to the officers who investigated and check with the court clerk to see the trial transcript.”

  “Sheriff Benson is a complete ass,” she warned me. “When I was a reporter, I did some stories that teed him off. He won’t go out of his way to help.”

  “He doesn’t have to help; all he has to do is not obstruct.” Besides, I had my own secret weapon. Coleman Peters, the sheriff of Sunflower County, where I lived, would call the Mobile County sheriff and ask him to cooperate with me. Most lawmen offered courtesy to their fellow officers. Maybe Coleman could work a little magic.

  “When will you start?” she asked.

  I checked my watch. It was after three on a Sunday afternoon. “The courthouse is closed, so I’ll try in the morning. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “Thank you,” Angela said.

  “Don’t thank me until I get some results.”

  3

  Graf was ready for an outing and interested in the sparse details of Angela’s case when I got back to the cottage. The day was sunny, and the wind brought the tantalizing smell of salt and faraway places as we strolled along the abandoned beach. I chose a path near the surf line, where the sand was firmer and easier for Graf to navigate. We both rolled up our pants and walked barefoot in the edge of the foam.

  I caught Graf’s fingers in mine and was gratified when he squeezed my hand and held it, his thumb kindling a fire as it circled my sensitive palm. I was relieved to see the sensual, loving Graf emerging.

  This was what I wanted my future to be: Graf and me, hand in hand in the surf with Pluto and Sweetie Pie frolicking beside us. Well, frolicking was a bit too enthusiastic for Pluto. The cat was not at all thrilled with our afternoon activity.

  “Graf, I have a special surprise planned for you.” I wanted to ease him toward the idea of a beach wedding. We’d planned on marrying in Ireland in April, but I didn’t want to wait. I’d checked into the marriage-license application. Easy-peasy. I only needed to fulfill the three-day residency requirement and apply for the license. Graf’s injury had taught me one thing—the future was not mine to plan. All I had was the here and now. And I meant to make hay while the sun shone.

  “A surprise?”

  “A good one. Just for us.”

  “What we have right now is enough for me, Sarah Booth. I’m trying to adjust to a new … idea of myself. I don’t know if I can maintain my balance with surprises thrown at me.”

  Why not just stab me in the heart? Wouldn’t that be kinder? And quicker? “Of course,” I said, forcing a casual tone. I was pushing too hard, too quickly. “Nothing you can’t handle. I promise.”

  “Good. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, Sarah Booth. A strong wind might topple me. I’ll get my footing back. I will. Just give me some time.”

  “Of course.” I squeezed his fingers and was stunned when he withdrew his hand and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans.

  “I think we should turn around,” he said. “I’m tired. I want to take a nap.”

  “You did great today.” My enthusiasm wasn’t manufactured. He was working hard. “We’ve walked for several miles, at least.”

  “Four months ago, I could have run a marathon,” he said, stepping out ahead of me in the journey back to the cottage.

  The remark was directed not at me but at how far he had to go to get back to the peak of his abilities. Even knowing that, I felt the cut deeply.

  * * *

  True to his word, Graf napped when we got back to the cottage. I went outside and sat on the stairs and called Coleman.

  “How’s my favorite girl detective?” he asked.

  “Needing a favor.”

  “Is everything okay, Sarah Booth? You sound lower than a well digger’s ass.”

  The temptation to blurt out my heartache was almost too great, but my love for Graf kept me in check. Whining to Coleman about Graf’s recovery and my fears would accomplish nothing. While Coleman had settled into the role of solid friend, there was a time, not so long ago, when we’d almost been romantically involved. He’d been marr
ied at the time, and that wasn’t a line he’d been willing to cross. “I’m fine. I met a woman here who wants me to investigate her father’s murder. She says the wrong man is in prison. She claims the sheriff over here in Mobile County is uncooperative. Could you make a call for me? I want to see the trial transcripts and evidence. The case is on appeal.”

  “You can ask. Trial transcripts are public record. The evidence may be another matter.”

  “True, but you know how long an uncooperative law enforcement official can tie things up. I’m here until Saturday. I don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

  “I see your point. Sure. I’ll make a call. Maybe I can soften the ground for you.”

  “Thank you, Coleman.”

  “I don’t mean to pry into your business, Sarah Booth, but should you be taking on a case right now?”

  He asked the question any friend would put forth. “Graf sleeps a lot. He has to work through some stuff by himself, and, in a way, it’s good for me to be out of his hair. I’ve been told the worst thing I can do is treat him like a baby. And he encouraged me to do this.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone told me my argument was not totally successful. “Is the water too cold to swim?”

  “I’ve seen a few surfers in wet suits, but I’m not interested in a polar dip. We’re focusing on beach walks and rehabilitation.”

  “I see. I’ll make that call.”

  “Sheriff Osage Benson. It’s the John Trotter case. Larry Wofford is serving a life sentence. Happened on a boat in the Dauphin Island marina.”

  “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  It was time to hang up, but talking to Coleman gave me a sense of balance that was missing with the emotional turmoil in my life. “Have you talked to Tinkie lately?”

  “She’s in New Orleans helping Cece with the preparation for the Black and Orange Ball. I hear it’ll be the gala event of the year. Cece has lined up a dozen film and music celebrities to attend. All proceeds for charity. And I hear she has a special surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” I perked up. Cece’s surprises were always fun. “What is it?”

  “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told, would it?”

  “Dammit, Coleman, that should be illegal.”

  “Didn’t your aunt Loulane tell you that patience is a virtue?”

  “She told me a lot of things, and that might have been one of them. She wasn’t always right, though.”

  His chuckle was warm and reminded me of long ago days picking plums from the wild trees along an abandoned fencerow. “Pester your cohorts in crime. I’m not telling anything. I’ll get back with you once I’ve talked to Benson.” I expected to hear the click of the receiver. Instead, I heard his breath exhale. “Sarah Booth, Graf is a good man. I can only tell you that if I were in his shoes, I’d be acting like a total jackass. An injury of that kind, one that is so public and puts the future in jeopardy—it’s easy for a man to lose his way. Keep that in mind. He’ll recover. His love for you is the beacon he needs to find his way.”

  I’d never been a crier, but I felt tears threaten. “Thanks. You’re a good friend to Graf and to me.”

  I hung up. Words of wisdom from Coleman. Everyone told me the same thing, and I knew they were all right. The week of my beach vacation stretched out like a long, treacherous road. At times I had the sense I walked on eggshells. No one could try harder than Graf—he pushed his body to exhaustion. I had to learn not to overreact to each shift in his attitude. Every time he sighed or looked down, I couldn’t interpret it as a crisis. I couldn’t control Graf’s emotions, but I could my own.

  I was shifting to my feet to return inside when I heard Sweetie’s soft harrumph of greeting.

  No vehicle was visible on the road in front of the cottage, so I glanced behind to the sand dunes. Standing amid the sea oats was a slender woman in a pillbox hat with a thick veil and a classy skirt and short jacket. The black fabric contrasted starkly with the blues and whites of the beach.

  Her dark hair blew in the wind, but I didn’t need to see her face. I would recognize Jackie Kennedy anywhere—but why had Jitty brought Jackie’s persona to Dauphin Island?

  She approached with an elegant grace I could only envy.

  “Why Jackie?” I asked.

  “Iconic.”

  “No doubt, but on what level?” There was always a message in Jitty’s appearances, but seldom was I able to discern it.

  “Widowed twice, she never bowed her head to tragedy.”

  Something heavy and unpleasant settled in the pit of my stomach. “What’s with the widows’ outfits, Jitty? You’re starting to make me a little paranoid.”

  “Whatever fear or disappointment Jackie faced, she never let on in public.”

  I considered her words. “She lost a lot. Thank God she didn’t live to suffer the loss of her son. That would be too much to bear.”

  Jitty lifted the heavy veil that had concealed her face. “We bear what we must, Sarah Booth. Hold on to that.”

  “Stop being so damn enigmatic. If you have something to say, spit it out.”

  Jitty gazed past me. “You can’t cling to things. Not love or power or success. Time marches past us all, Sarah Booth. Best to let things go when the struggle is too hard.”

  Panic swelled my arteries to the point I thought my blood had ceased to flow. “You’re not the Jitty I know and love.” Jitty never gave up. Never. “What’s wrong with you? You’re a fighter, like Alice. Like me. We’ve always fought.”

  “I’m rethinking my position on the never-say-die situation.”

  Coleman thought I was low when he spoke to me on the phone. Jitty was so far down I didn’t know if she’d sink out of sight. “What’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”

  “Coming here was a mistake for me, Sarah Booth. I should have stayed at Dahlia House. The past here is a stain.”

  She wasn’t making a lick of sense. “Are you talking about my case?”

  She frowned. “What case? I turn my back for one minute, and you’re involved in a case? What kind of case?”

  “It’s more of an inquiry. I’m only here for a few more days, and my client knows it.”

  “Client? You been paid?” She still looked like Jackie, but she sounded more like a wet hen. “What kinda fool brings her man, her man who was shot bad, to a beach paradise and then gets involved in a case?” The depression was gone at least, burned away in the fury of her anger.

  “No, I haven’t been paid. This is more a favor. An innocent man may be in prison for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “Save me from my lunatic charge,” Jitty whispered. “Girl, has somebody bonged the soft spot on the top of your head? Does Graf know about this?”

  “He knows I’m looking into something for Angela.”

  She clucked her tongue in disgust. “If I had me a switch, I’d make the backs of your legs sting.”

  “Stop it.” I found my own anger. “I love Graf and I’ll do anything to help him, except stop living my own life. Graf is struggling. He’s scared. I know this, Jitty. I know it because I am, too. I did this to Graf, but I can’t give up who I am. It won’t fix anything.”

  Jitty pondered my words. “You need to talk to Graf. Get rid of all the guilt and anger.”

  “You’re right, Jitty. I’ll speak to Graf.”

  “Girl, if you’re sayin’ I’m right, I’m really worried. Be quick about it.”

  “I promise.” But I spoke only to the wind and my pets. Jitty was gone. Graf descended the stairs.

  “Who were you talking to?” he asked.

  “I was having a long, serious talk with myself,” I told him.

  He sat down beside me. The wind ruffled my hair, blowing it into my eyes and mouth. Sweetie joined us, and he absently stroked her long, silky ears. “I’m glad you’ve found a new client. Even a part-time one. Your job doesn’t define you, but you’re a great PI.”

  I leaned into him, glad for the warmth of his body
in the brisk wind. “I care more about you than any career. I’m rethinking my life, Graf. I can let go of some things. I want to spend more time with you.”

  He pulled me against him and kissed the top of my head. “Once I’m back on my feet, literally, let’s have a talk about the future. Our future. I can’t go there until I’m positive I’m the man I want to be for you. Give me a little more time.”

  I pushed thoughts of my surprise wedding aside. Coleman was right. Patience was a virtue. “You’ve got it, ma puce.”

  Graf gripped my hair and tilted my head so he could kiss the sensitive spot below at the side of my neck. “Call me a flea again, and I’ll have to resort to force.”

  “Gotta love the French. They sure know how to create terms of endearment.” We were both laughing as we went inside the cottage.

  * * *

  I found myself in a dense woods, a place where light couldn’t penetrate the canopy of trees. I had no idea if it was night or day. My feet sank into a layer of dead leaves, soundless. I knew I dreamed, but I had no idea how to wake myself.

  Someone watched me from the trees. Someone bad. Someone who meant me harm. I tried to run, but the darkness and the thickness of the underbrush held me in place. The harder I struggled, the deeper I sank into the damp, rotting leaves. The detritus closed around my ankles, my knees, my hips.

  I wanted to call out for help, and I tried, but it seemed the woods drank my pleas. The silence sucked all noise into it, so that my battle caused no ripple of sound.

  The leaves closed around my waist, and then my armpits. My neck. Only my head managed to stay above the suffocating leaves.

  When they covered my mouth and nose and eyes, I let go. I accepted the darkness and felt it swallow me like a tasty morsel. It was over. At last I could rest.

  I woke up with Graf’s hand shaking my shoulder. “Sarah Booth! You’ve got a phone call.” He gave me the cell phone.