Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery

by Carolyn Haines

  “I suspect those kids will survive Margene, unless they flip over the rail.” I was procrastinating, and Tinkie was too kind to tell me to evacuate her car and face the music.

  Not so true for Sweetie Pie. She yodeled softly in the backseat, reminding me that while I might enjoy sitting in a car in the rain, she wasn’t thrilled with the activity. Pluto, too, weighed in with a kitty love nip on my ear and a tug of my hair.

  “Okay, okay.” I gripped the handle. All I had to do was open the door and walk to the room.

  My cell phone rang, and relief buzzed through me. If anyone had ever been saved by the bell, this was it. I answered without looking. I didn’t care who was calling. It was a delay, a reprieve.

  “Hello!”

  “Sarah Booth, it’s Angela.” She was so breathless I almost couldn’t understand what she was saying. “The storm turned. It’s coming right at us, and someone dumped Randy Chavis in my boat. He’s unconscious, and I don’t know what’s wrong with him. If he dies, I’ll be blamed.”

  23

  I tuned the radio as Tinkie drove. Sure enough, Hurricane Margene had picked up speed and wind. Her barometric pressure was falling, which indicated she could grow into a stronger storm.

  “Shit.” Tinkie was worried.

  The voice of an excited newscaster made us both lean forward. “Hurricane Margene, once sauntering through the warm Gulf waters, is making a direct run at Mobile Bay. Landfall on Dauphin Island should occur within the next three hours. Sheriff Osage Benson and Governor Betty Miller have strongly urged evacuation of the island. All residents are asked to be off the island in the next half hour.”

  “Will they even let us back on Dauphin Island?” Tinkie asked as she drove south like a bat out of hell.

  “I don’t know.” I turned to the backseat. Sweetie was staring out the window at the gray sky, her eyes mournful. Pluto was curled in a ball. His attitude was to ignore anything he didn’t like, and he didn’t like the weather. He didn’t like the tension, and he didn’t like being confined in a car. He was a little black cloud of kitty disdain and discontent.

  “Shouldn’t you call Graf and let him know what’s going on?” Tinkie was pissed at him, but she was also the only adult in the vehicle.

  “No.”

  “I’ll say this once. You should call him. He doesn’t deserve it, but you should do it anyway.”

  I opted for a text. “Emergency with Angela. Headed to D.I.”

  Tinkie nodded. “Okay, so we should call an ambulance, too. If Chavis is injured, he’ll need medical attention. We’d better get it there now, before the storm isolates everyone still on Dauphin Island. Snill told me some people never evacuate and never will.”

  “Snill is a source of endless information. As to Chavis, if he’s dead, Angela is correct. She’ll be framed for this. We can’t afford to call the cops until we see the crime scene.” Someone in Mobile County had manipulated events for a second time to frame an innocent person.

  “Jameson Barr isn’t behind Angela’s troubles,” Tinkie said. “And neither is Commissioner Roundtree. The mastermind for these events has a very personal agenda.”

  “It has to be the treasure, but the entire tale sounds like local folklore, a story to entice the tourists. Finding that map on the wall of Fort Gaines, though, I’m beginning to believe John Trotter had accomplished his dream.”

  Tinkie and I had grown up on tales of treasures lost in the Mississippi River, or at old plantations where the silver and jewels were buried on the property to keep them from Yankee invaders. Most of them were romanticized family yarns with no basis in fact. Beloved, but ultimately untrue. Pirate treasure seemed to fall in the same category.

  “True or not, someone believes the treasure exists.” Tinkie swerved to a stop to avoid a tree that had blown over. It blocked the road, and two local men with chain saws were already at work clearing it away. “I think we’re nuts to be driving into this storm.”

  My world was collapsing, but Tinkie and Oscar had a wonderful life. She shouldn’t be doing this. I signaled for her to pull over at an abandoned roadside fruit stand. It marked the turnoff to Remy Renault’s rental. “You’re right. Turn around. I need to get you and the animals to safety. I have no right to endanger your life. Or theirs.”

  Tinkie’s response was a soft snort. “You have no right to treat me like a child who has to be protected from her own choices. Think about this, Sarah Booth. You aren’t responsible for what I do or the consequences that attach. You’re always willing to take the blame and never the credit. If it’s true that we create the reality we project with our thoughts and emotions, what kind of life are you building based on blame and guilt and unnatural responsibility?”

  “Are you working with Jitty?” The question popped out before I could stop it.

  “Who is this Jitty?” Tinkie had the scent of a hot trail. “You’ve said the name before. You think I don’t pay attention, but I do. Who is she?”

  “No one.”

  “You are such an awful liar. I know who she is. She was your great-great-great-grandmother Alice’s nanny.” She dared me to deny it.

  When I didn’t say anything, she huffed. “Well, aren’t you going to make up another lie?”

  “No.” I was done lying. If she asked, I’d even tell her about dognapping her courageous little Yorkie, Chablis, way back in the first month I was home at Zinnia. That act of desperation had resulted in Delaney Detective Agency, but it would also be the one thing Tinkie would never forgive. Maybe that’s what I wanted—punishment. Maybe she was right about me and my penchant for self-flagellation.

  “How does Jitty figure into your life today? She’s been dead for over a century.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m not driving another foot until you tell me.”

  The urge to unburden myself overwhelmed me. I wanted to tell her everything. But I couldn’t. Not the total truth. My relationship with the dead was my cross to carry. “Sometimes I talk to Jitty. It’s like she watches over me. She’s my guardian angel.”

  “Do you see her?”

  “Yes.” I would confess to visualization, but I would never tell her about Jitty’s getups or her penchant for humor and harangues via her wardrobe.

  “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  I only smiled. It wasn’t a lie or a confirmation.

  “Why do you talk to the spirit of a dead nanny from Civil War times?”

  Sweetie’s soft yodel underscored my answer. “Why not?”

  “I worry about you, Sarah Booth.”

  “Don’t, Tinkie. I’m fine. Maybe a little eccentric, but completely fine. Jitty keeps me company and makes me think about an action before I take it. Most of the time.”

  She put the car in drive.

  “Take a right.”

  “Are you nuts? That looks like a wagon rut, and Angela is waiting for us.”

  “I think she was held captive there. Remy Renault’s place. We’re almost there, and we can check it out and be done by the time they clear the road.”

  She whipped down Heron Bay Road, which really was a rain-slicked rut. “I won’t tell anyone about Jitty if you promise to stop pretending you’re personally responsible for my welfare and happiness.”

  “What if I don’t care if you tell?” I was playing with fire, but I couldn’t stop.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah Booth. I don’t care if you’re a little nuts and talk to dead people. Fine by me. Maybe they have more gumption than you do. Maybe you ought to channel your aunt Loulane, though. She had a lot of common sense. But please, please stop trying to make my life perfect for me.”

  “You’re my friend. I want you to be safe and happy.”

  “And you’re my friend, and I would prefer it if you were sane.” She wasn’t completely teasing. “But you aren’t. And you can’t control the forces of my life. Let’s both just let it go.”

  “Okay.” I was all out of gas for an argument. Besides,
we were at our destination.

  “What do you hope to find?” Tinkie asked as we both ran from the parked car to the rental.

  “Evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “That Angela was held captive here.” I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked.

  “We can’t just break in.” Tinkie kept looking toward the main house and the boat, as if she expected someone to materialize.

  “We aren’t breaking in; we’re walking in an open door.” And I did just that. “While there’s a break in the weather, why don’t you check the boat?”

  “Aye, aye, captain. I hope it’s not as filthy as this place.”

  The place was cluttered squalor: plates with old food, roaches, and the smell of something dead.

  “What is that?” Tinkie pinched her nose.

  “I’ll check the kitchen and work my way to the back of the house.”

  “I’ll be on the sailboat.” She took off across the yard.

  The power was out and the daylight dim, but I found nothing in the kitchen and made my way to a bedroom. There was a smudge of dried blood on a pillow that could have come from Angela’s head wound. I was careful not to touch anything. When the storm was over, I’d call the Alabama Bureau of Investigation. To hell with Sheriff Benson and his deputies. I’d get a nonbiased team of lawmen on the scene. But for right now—I stopped at a colorful painting tucked behind a chair. It was definitely the work of John Trotter. The missing painting from his boat.

  I picked it up and moved to the light of the window. With rain cascading down outside, it gave the blues and greens a watery look. I realized then what I held in my hand. It was a shoreline. The varying shades of light aqua and darker blue-green indicated water depth. It was the coastline of Dauphin Island, and it was meant to be used as an overlay on top of another map.

  “Tinkie!” I whispered her name and turned to run to show her. Before I cleared the front door, I heard her scream.

  “Sarah Booth!” She was on the deck, waving. “Come here, quick!”

  I tucked the painting in the front seat of her car and rushed to the boat. She didn’t wait but rushed belowdecks. “What is it?” I asked as she threw open the door to a stateroom.

  A blond woman sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. A small round hole in her forehead and her glazed eyes told me she was dead. Had been for a while.

  “It’s Lydia Clampett, I’ll bet.” I walked around the body.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  I agreed and put words to action. We scampered to the deck, jumped to the dock, and raced to the Caddy.

  “Where’s her brother, Remy?” Tinkie asked as she pushed her wet hair out of her face and started the car.

  There wasn’t an answer for that, and I didn’t want to wait around in case he showed up.

  The elusive Lydia Renault Clampett had met a cruel fate. I dug in my pocket for a cell phone to call Coleman, only to discover the damned thing had no service. Perfect. Tinkie’s cell phone was as useless as mine. And there was nothing we could do for the dead woman. And no way to find Remy Renault. We had to pack it in and retrieve Angela. Getting off the island was the priority. When we found a working phone, we could call the law and let someone know about Lydia Clampett.

  The road was clear, and Tinkie drove as fast as the wind and rain allowed.

  “Look, there’s the bridge.”

  Rain was coming down in buckets, but the gray concrete outline of the Dauphin Island bridge loomed in front of us. We were crawling along, and I noticed an alligator on the side of the road. When we drew closer, it slipped into the water and marsh grass. Not a good idea to wade in those waters on a hot summer day.

  “We haven’t passed a single car coming or going.”

  “Because people with good sense are secure somewhere. They’re tucked into homes and safe places, not out in the middle of an approaching hurricane.” Tinkie flipped on the radio for the latest weather report.

  “With sustained wind at seventy-five miles an hour, Dauphin Island should be feeling the brunt of the storm in half an hour. Hurricane Margene has picked up speed at an alarming pace. We’re lucky with the daytime approach of the minimal hurricane. For those who haven’t evacuated, batten down the hatches. It’s going to be a wild ride.”

  I snapped off the radio. It didn’t help to realize how foolish we were behaving.

  My cell phone buzzed an alert that a text message had come in. I checked it. Why are you going to the island? Graf had sent the message.

  I clicked past it. He’d lost the right to question me or my decisions.

  Moving inch by inch, we made it over the hump of the bridge. As we descended, I was keenly aware of the pitching surf. Dauphin Island was normally a place of small waves where swimmers loved to body surf. Children often played in the tide under the eye of watchful parents. Today, the waters were pewter colored, ugly, and very dangerous. The deserted white-sand beaches stretched to the angry Gulf. I wondered how the turtles had fared. The storm would likely kill them.

  Jitty would tell me that nature is cruel. Or something else equally true but useless that would include what a fool I was for driving into a hurricane instead of away from it.

  At last we turned into the marina. Tinkie gripped the wheel even though she’d killed the engine. There was no sign of Angela or anyone else. The marina was desolate and dangerous. Only one boat remained, the Miss Adventure, which pitched up and down and side to side. The ropes were being put to the test.

  “Is she on board?” Tinkie sounded doubtful.

  “I presume so.” I tried to call, but no answer. The only avenue open was to board the boat and see.

  “We should have called the law or at least the paramedics.”

  I didn’t disagree. “We would have, if our phones had service. The bigger question is how Chavis got on that boat.” I’d searched the Miss Adventure. Chavis hadn’t been there. So where had he come from? And how had he gotten there?

  “Who do you think hurt Chavis?” Tinkie asked.

  “I don’t know. I had assumed he was the primary villain.”

  “Let’s go. We won’t have a better chance.”

  I cracked the window to give Sweetie and Pluto some fresh air and dashed behind my partner to the dock as rain pelted me like pebbles. Tinkie had foregone her stilettos for a pair of deck shoes, a wise choice under the circumstances. The dock was slick and difficult.

  To my amazement, Tinkie leaped onto the deck of the Miss Adventure with the grace of a mountain goat. I lurched aboard like a drunk.

  “Angela!” Tinkie cried, but the wind tore the word from her mouth. “Angela!”

  “The master bedroom!” I signaled belowdecks. That’s where Chavis would be. Whoever had attacked him would surely use the chance to reenact John Trotter’s murder. The person or persons behind this were masters at manipulating events to paint a certain picture. This one would put Angela as the person who’d attacked and grievously injured—or killed—a lawman in the same place her father was killed.

  Tinkie led the way down the narrow galley that was pitch-black. I couldn’t see her in front of me, but I kept a hand on her shoulder. It was the only way not to bulldoze over her in the dark.

  “We forgot the damn flashlights in the car,” Tinkie whispered.

  A sigh was my response.

  At the door of the master bedroom, Tinkie slid it open as soundlessly as possible. Lightning flashed outside, and for one instant we could see the room as clearly as if the lights were on. Randy Chavis lay on the floor in the exact spot John Trotter had been killed, in an identical pose.

  I only caught a glimpse of him, but his pasty skin color and stillness made me think he was dead. We were too late. The worst had been done. But why? And where in the hell was Angela? She’d called and said she was on the boat. So far, nada, and not even the sound of another living soul.

  Tinkie, always the more compassionate, rushed forward. The
lightning flash vanished, and so did my vision.

  “He’s alive!” Tinkie said. “He’s unconscious. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt.”

  I recalled a hurricane lantern that hung from the wall, an ancient relic of days when oil lamps were used or when the ship’s generator failed. I felt along the paneled wood until I found it. Once the chimney was removed, I flicked my Bic and fired the wick. Smoking did have some benefits.

  Warm light illuminated the room.

  “Good work,” Tinkie said. “Now help me examine him.”

  The light swung as the boat pitched, but we could see well enough to determine the lack of open wounds on Randy Chavis. He was out of uniform and wearing gym shorts and a sleeveless sweatshirt emblazoned with a tequila brand. There was a small cut in his forehead. It should have been stitched, but it didn’t appear life threatening. Head wounds had a tendency to bleed a lot, which might explain the blood in Angela’s kitchen. Except for his pasty color and the pose of a dead man, Chavis looked mostly unharmed.

  At Tinkie’s behest, I helped her roll him over. No injuries to his back. At least no stab wounds or gunshots. Something was wrong with him, though. No man slept that soundly.

  “Look!” Tinkie pointed to a tiny red mark on his neck. It was hard to see in the shifting lantern light, but it looked like a puncture wound of some kind. Just about where his artery might be.

  “Angela was drugged. She said she felt a pinch at her neck.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Tinkie said.

  “Randy!” I lightly slapped his face. “Randy! Wake up!”

  He moaned and turned his head away.

  “I think he’s okay.” Relief made my shoulders sag. I didn’t care for Randy Chavis, but I didn’t want him to die.

  “Randy!” Tinkie shook him.

  He came to bucking and thrashing, sending Tinkie sprawling into me. We both tumbled along the cabin floor.

  “What? Where am … Where’s Angela?”

  “Good question.” I gained my feet and pulled Tinkie to hers. “How did you get on this boat?”