Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “In some very conservative states, even today a divorce is hard for a politician to overcome,” I agreed.

  “Lorraine worked hard for his campaigns, and in her own way she was even more ambitious than Jameson.” Snill sipped his chocolate and sighed. “The two of them could have made it to the White House. If they’d pulled together, they could have had anything they wanted. The combination of brains, physical beauty, and charm … deadly.”

  “How did he kill her?” I asked.

  “It was a fall down the stairs at the governor’s mansion. Very dramatic. Very much designed to garner public sympathy. And it worked perfectly, until it was revealed she was pushed.”

  It was a bold thing to do—to push his wife down the stairs in the state’s most famous home. Falls weren’t always fatal.

  “How did they catch him?” Tinkie asked.

  “Angela Trotter dogged that story. You would have thought she and Lorraine were best friends, but I know for a fact Angela hated her guts.”

  Now this was interesting. “Why did they hate each other?”

  “Angela is her own woman. She makes her mistakes and pays the consequences. Lorraine never took the blame for anything she did. She left wreckage behind her left and right and was shocked that anyone would try to hold her accountable.”

  That kind of personality would grate on my last nerve, too. “So how did Angela figure it out?”

  “Jameson had an airtight alibi. He was at the Shakespeare Festival in Montgomery at a performance. He took his parents and half a dozen of their friends. They had drinks at the Golden Chalice and then went to the play. He was in the public eye at the time his wife slipped and fell to her death down a winding flight of stairs.”

  Jameson had hired someone to kill his wife, but how had Angela gotten the goods on him? “So he had an alibi. How did Angela put it together?”

  “The man hired to kill Lorraine didn’t take into account Lorraine might have a lover. Jameson was so arrogant, it never crossed his mind Lorraine would step out on him. Had he simply paid attention, he could have divorced her for adultery and kept the public sympathy. Down here in Alabama, a cheating man can be forgiven, but never a cheating wife. The double standard is firmly in place. He could have legally dumped her and kept the governor’s mansion and his daddy’s money.”

  “What an interesting world,” Tinkie said. “It’s sad to say, but you’re right, Mr. Snill. Men can be forgiven for cheating, but women often aren’t.”

  “At any rate, Angela dug around until she found Lorraine’s lover. He was terrified, because he knew if Jameson became aware of him, he would run into an accident, too. Angela found him, but he refused to talk.”

  “How did Angela convince him?”

  “He was between a rock and a hard place. She made him see that putting Jameson behind bars was his safest alternative. He told a grand jury that on the night Lorraine fell, he was sneaking into the mansion at the same moment the killer pushed Lorraine.”

  “Lorraine had an assignation, not a headache.” Tinkie nudged me in the ribs.

  “That’s correct,” Snill said. “Lorraine refused to go to the play so she could stay home and play with her boyfriend. At any rate, the lover gave Angela a good description of the man coming out. Angela did the background check, found out this guy was a gun for hire. That’s all it took.”

  “Did Angela testify against the governor?”

  “She didn’t have to. Her stories burned up the pages of the paper. And burned down Jameson Barr’s career. Not even all his daddy’s money could buy an innocent vote by the jury.” Snill took great satisfaction in the turn of events. “And Angela earned herself some powerful enemies. The Barr family hates her and swore they’d sue her for libel. They tried, but there wasn’t a case, which only made them hate her more. I often wondered if they hired another hit man to kill her father. Just to show her she would suffer for messing with Jameson.”

  A chill raced over my skin, and I looked behind me to see if Jitty had put in an appearance. No Jitty, but I knew the source of my discomfort. A premonition. The Barrs were dangerous people. They acted with impunity because they were insulated from consequences by money. Killing the father of a woman who annoyed them—to punish her—would be right up their alley. That kind of arrogance was very dangerous.

  “You okay?” Tinkie asked.

  “Someone just walked over my grave,” I said, repeating an old superstition Aunt Loulane used to say.

  “Now we’ll have none of that,” Snill said. “Another round of cocoa?”

  “If I stay, I’ll just buy more antiques,” Tinkie said.

  “Exactly my plan.”

  I couldn’t help but like Snill. He wasn’t devious, and he’d been a great help to me. “Do you remember the name of the hit man Jameson Barr hired?”

  “You should love this. His last name is Chavis. Zeke Chavis, cousin to our island lawman.”

  “Where is Zeke Chavis?”

  “He’s in the same prison as Larry Wofford. Up at Atmore. He got life with no parole. Barr got twenty-five, but he managed to pull some strings and was transferred to another prison.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” Tinkie said.

  “Not fair, but that’s the way life unwinds.”

  “When was Lorraine Barr killed?” I had to see if the time frame worked. And I remembered the big convict who’d given me a warning at the prison. I’d put the blame on Randy Chavis, and it well might remain there. But Zeke Chavis was an equally intriguing suspect.

  “About four months before John Trotter was killed. Angela broke the story about a week before John’s death. And Zeke was out on bail at the time John was shot.”

  “What does Zeke Chavis look like?”

  “A great deal like his cousin. Broad shoulders, big man.” Snill all but rubbed his hands together. “Strangely enough, a lot like the man Larry said he saw leaving the marina when he arrived.”

  * * *

  When we went back outside, a gust of wind nearly snatched Tinkie’s perky little sailor blouse right off her.

  “Sarah Booth, we need to get an update on the storm.” Tinkie grabbed her shirt and held on.

  She was right. “Chavis said we aren’t allowed to leave the island.” I couldn’t help the worry. If Margene blew in, did Chavis have the authority to put me, Graf, and Tinkie at risk?

  “Under what law?” Tinkie asked. “I’ll call Coleman. I think he was bluffing.”

  I put my hand over her phone before she could speed-dial. “Don’t.”

  “Because you’re afraid of what he’ll ask.”

  I nodded. “Coleman is nobody’s fool. He knows something is wrong in my world, and he knows Marion Silber and Graf are at the root of it.”

  She sighed and put her phone away. “As long as the storm hasn’t picked up speed, I’ll spend the night, but in the morning, we’re all leaving. Chavis can come to New Orleans and arrest us if he has probable cause, which he doesn’t because we didn’t take anything from the museum.”

  “Let’s crank up the computer and see what we can find about the pirate Armand Couteau and his spyglass.”

  When we arrived at the beach cottage, I was relieved to see Graf on the sand dunes with Sweetie and Pluto. He dodged and played, and the critters were eating it up.

  “He’s looking better, Sarah Booth. Won’t be long before the whole incident is just a bump in the road.”

  I couldn’t love her more for trying to put the best spin on a vacation shifted out of control. “Doc said exercise would bring him around.”

  “And he was right.” She put an arm around my waist as we watched the antics of man and beasts.

  “It won’t ever be the way it was before he was shot.”

  “His leg?”

  I hesitated, because I had been talking about his leg, but I realized my simple statement was more profound. “Nothing will. Not his leg, not our relationship.”

  She squeezed me tight. “Everything changes. That’s a fac
t. Up and down, better and worse. We age. His leg will always bear a scar, but if he can run and play and pursue his career, what more can he ask?”

  He saw us and waved. When he came trotting over, I thought my heart would break. The wind rumpled his dark hair, and his smile could have been featured on any Hollywood billboard. I had loved him so much in New York, and he’d broken my heart. I’d come home and healed and allowed myself to love him again. And I did love him. More than I’d ever thought possible.

  “Where have you girls been?” It was the old Graf. The pre-gunshot Graf.

  “I’ve been buying antiques,” Tinkie said. “And you?”

  “Groceries are in the kitchen. I got some ice chests and ice in case the storm hits and the power goes out. That’s what all the locals told me to do. Water, ice, flashlights, and batteries.” There was a hint of excitement in his tone. “I want to get in one more jog through the sand.” He scooped Pluto up and handed him to me. “He can’t keep up, but he’s been giving it valiant effort.”

  “You’re looking good,” Tinkie said after him as he sprinted toward the beach.

  He waved a hand at us as he disappeared over the dune with Sweetie Pie hot on his heels. Pluto, exhausted from slogging through the deep sand, leaped from my arms and flopped on the bottom step.

  We entered the cottage, and Tinkie began stowing away the groceries. Graf had stocked up on peanut butter, tuna, beans, and ice—the hurricane essentials for survival if the power went out for several days.

  “Sarah Booth, you’re out of coffee. How about I run to the store and buy some?”

  “Sure, coffee is good. Maybe some ice cream, too. Jamaican almond fudge or espresso with chocolate-almond nuggets. We can eat the whole thing before the power goes out.”

  She gave me a hug. “I’ll be back with ice cream in a flash.”

  The strains of a sweet violin drifted to me, almost as if the breeze had captured it from some conservatory and bore it straight to me. I remained at the window, listening, as the music teased my heart.

  “Who now?” I asked, because I knew when I turned around, Jitty would be with me in the guise of my violinist.

  “Someone who lost much to violence, too.”

  I faced her. She was young and black and beautiful, gracefully sawing the bow across the strings of a violin. It was a piece I recognized but couldn’t name, hauntingly sad in a minor key. “A vision from the past,” I said.

  “Not so many people remember that I was trained in music.”

  “You made your mark in social activism and courage.” I spoke to Coretta Scott King, or at least Jitty’s personification of her.

  “When I first met my husband, I saw only happiness and the joy of working together for justice. We shared that ambition. And lord, we shared a belief that we could accomplish miracles. Had I known the true cost, I might have taken another path.”

  I closed my eyes. It seemed the individual cells in my body responded to her violin music with a terrible yearning. “If we knew the price we’d pay for loving another person, I think all of us would head for the hills.”

  She stopped playing. The black silk dress rustled as she came toward me. “Is love always painful?”

  “So it would seem.” But there had been weeks and months of joy. “But not loving—what is the cost of that?”

  Her laughter was silky and vibrant. “You ask the right questions, Sarah Booth.”

  “And I have none of the right answers.”

  “We’re guaranteed only this moment. Live it completely, without holding back.”

  “Even knowing how much it will hurt when things come crashing down?”

  “In the end, we all walk to our destiny alone. In between birth and death, there’s time for love. Take advantage of it. Individual love and love of a cause.”

  She was a wise woman, but my heart had been weakened by loss. “Tell me how not to be afraid?”

  “Ah, but that’s the exquisite part of it. You love even while you are terrified.”

  She thinned, her substance gradually fading away.

  “Jitty, don’t go!” I really wanted her to stay. In all of the hard places I’d found myself since returning to Dahlia House, Jitty was always a presence I could count on.

  She flickered back into a more corporeal form, and this time her features were those of my haint. “I bring you all kinds of wisdom, and you still want to linger in that window and feel sad. Gird your loins, Sarah Booth. Take the battle to him.”

  I had to laugh. The contrast between Mrs. King’s gentle encouragement and Jitty’s drill-sergeant kick in the pants was striking. Between the two, I couldn’t find a single place to feel sorry for myself.

  Jitty swished up to me, rustling the silk of her dress. “Graf ain’t dead. Yet. Better get him while he’s still breathin’. Once Cece and Harold and Coleman get a hold of him, he’s gonna be hurtin’ too bad to even think about plowin’ your fields. They won’t put up with someone who mistreats you, Sarah Booth.”

  “So he is cheating on me?” I’d suspected, but confirmation was a bitter pill.

  “I didn’t say that.” Jitty sashayed around me. “You actin’ like he died. All you know is he’s talkin’ with a woman in his own profession. Don’t mean nothin’ ’til you make it mean something.”

  She was right. I could mope and moan and wail and whine all day long, but nothing was real until Graf and I talked about it. While I’d taken Jitty’s appearance as the widow of Martin Luther King Jr. as a sign for permanent loss and great sacrifice, perhaps it was about listening to others without jumping to conclusions.

  I remembered a famous quote from Dr. King that I’d heard my parents repeat often. “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”

  Jitty’s face was luminous. “Good girl. When you put hate and fear behind you, you’ll finally be free to grow into the person you’re destined to be.” And then she was gone. Simply there one minute and gone the next.

  As good as her word, Tinkie turned into the driveway and was soon at the door, coffee and ice cream in hand.

  “Put the ice cream in the freezer. Let’s brew a cup of coffee and decide how to proceed,” I suggested. But I took a moment to text Graf’s cell phone. “We must talk. Soon.”

  Tinkie’s smile said it all. “Welcome back from the land of the emotionally battered, pardner.”

  18

  I’d just poured coffee for Tinkie and me when there was a loud bang on the door of the cottage.

  “Mobile County Sheriff’s Department, open up.”

  “Better hurry or you’ll have to replace a door,” Tinkie advised. She continued to pour cream into her coffee.

  My feet hit the floor at a run, and I flung the front door open just as a deputy lifted a foot to kick it in. “What now?” I asked Randy Chavis. He’d brought three other deputies as backup.

  He thrust some folded papers in my hand. “Search warrant.”

  I opened the door wide. “Be my guest.”

  The search was more aggravation than any real attempt to find stolen goods. And while the deputies threw things around, especially our clothes, they did no real damage to the furniture. It was over in half an hour.

  “I hope you enjoy the words ‘I told you so,’ because I told you so. Tinkie and I aren’t thieves.”

  “I’ve got men searching your vehicles.” He was a sore loser.

  “Fine by me as long as you don’t damage them.” I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We have nothing to hide because we didn’t steal anything.”

  “Yet you made me get a search warrant.”

  “Because you have such an officious and shitty attitude,” Tinkie said. “And if you put one single scratch in my Caddy, I’ll make sure your department pays for it. And just so you know, if we had stolen a stupid telescope, we wouldn’t be so dumb as to hide it in our cars or where we’re staying.”

  Red flushed Chavis’s cheeks, but the skin around his eyes whitened. Never a good sign. “You t
hink you’re smarter than I am because you grew up with money and privileges. But you aren’t. I’ll catch you yet, and you’ll get to sample the hospitality of an Alabama prison.”

  “Then we could visit with your cousin.” I watched him closely as I spoke. Lightning forked in his pale eyes. “You might have told me Angela Trotter was instrumental in putting your cousin in prison.”

  “Zeke put himself in prison. He chose to be a gun for hire. I’m not sore at Angela for figuring out he was on Barr’s payroll. The ex-governor paid Zeke to push his wife down a flight of stairs. They both got what they deserved.”

  Chavis’s words were heated, but I couldn’t tell if his anger was at his brother for being a stupid killer or at me for bringing it up. Before I could pursue the matter further, he stomped out and slammed the door.

  “Does he have a chip on his shoulder or what?” Tinkie asked, but she was a little shaken by his behavior.

  “He’s pissed because he’s wrong about us being thieves. He’s not a stupid man, and he knew he was wrong before he searched. He wanted us to be guilty. And I rubbed a little salt in an old wound.”

  “He was really weird about Angela. He actually sounded like he didn’t blame her.”

  “He had a crush on her.” Chavis had too many personal feelings involved. He never should have been allowed to handle John Trotter’s murder case. His ties to Angela were a conflict of interest.

  “Speaking of Angela: if Chavis has a search warrant for our place, don’t you think he’ll hit Angela’s place, too?”

  Tinkie was correct. And it would be interesting to see how Chavis handled our client. “I bet they’ll search the boat first.”

  I wrote a quick note to Graf, then loaded Sweetie, Pluto, and me into Tinkie’s Caddy. In no time at all, we zoomed toward the marina. On the way, I called Angela to alert her. She agreed to meet us. Her voice was strained, but I didn’t have time to guess why. I’d ask her face-to-face.

  Angela pulled up just as I got out of the car. Chavis and the deputies were arguing with Arley McCain on the dock. It was clear the marina proprietor took exception to the search warrant and the way Chavis was proceeding.