Crossed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Wonder what?”

  The bemused look on his face was replaced with a smile. “Just a business detail, Sarah Booth. Contractual obligations.”

  “What kind of obligations?”

  “It's Sunday afternoon. Let me at least make you comfortable and fix you a drink before we talk business.” He led the way into the front parlor.

  There wasn't a remnant of our Bedouin evening left. The front parlor now contained a leather sofa and club chairs. I took a seat in a chair, wisely avoiding the pitfalls of potential couch contact, and waited for Bridge to return with the drinks.

  Realizing that I might have melted a little in the hot car, I slipped into the bathroom to check my makeup. Despite Bridge's hug and kiss, my hair remained a perfect helmet. I pulled a comb from my purse and worked on making it look a little more natural, arranging the lacquered curls on my shoulders. Dang the humidity! I hated summer. I pinked up my lipstick and was back in my chair before Bridge brought the drinks.

  “Jack Daniel's, I believe, is your preferred drink,” he said, handing me a crystal highball glass.

  My heart gave a little contraction. He'd taken the time to find out what I liked to drink. “Tinkie has been talking again.”

  Bridge only laughed. “You'd be surprised at the people who pay close attention to your habits, Sarah Booth.”

  He meant it as a compliment, but it struck me as a little chilling. I moved right on to the business matter he'd dodged at the door. “What contractual obligations were you referring to?”

  “Scott is obligated to perform at Playin' the Bones for two years. If the club is closed, I'm sure that invalidates his contract.”

  “If Emanuel finds out about that, he may keep the club open just for spite,” I pointed out.

  “Very true. But Scott may not be obligated if the club is sold. Contracts are very tricky. The wording might allow him to leave even if Emanuel keeps it open.”

  “Because Ivory isn't running the club.” I got his point, and it was an interesting one. “I'd like to see that contract.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Bridge tilted his head as he looked at me. “You are a lovely creature, Sarah Booth.”

  Compliments are like cocaine—they make a girl feel like a million dollars, even when they aren't justified. “Thank you, Bridge.”

  “You have a special glow about you today. And there's just the hint of . . . satisfaction in the corners of your mouth. You're a very sexy lady, Sarah Booth.”

  I couldn't afford to mainline pretty words from Bridge. I was working a case, and I had to keep that foremost in mind. “If you buy the club, would you try to hold Scott to his contract?”

  “I hadn't really thought about that,” Bridge said, “but I'd hope he'd agree to play there. Of course, the club isn't worth much without Scott. He's the draw.”

  Bridge was a businessman, and a good one. No matter how generous his offer to buy the club, he intended to turn a profit on it.

  “Would making Scott's bail have anything to do with that?” I asked.

  Bridge shrugged, turning down a corner of his mouth. “I thought it might not hurt if he felt a small obligation toward me.” He waited for my response. When I didn't say anything, he leaned forward and put his hand on my knee. “Sarah Booth, do you suppose Ida Mae would allow me to walk through the club? I need to get an idea of what's there and what it's worth. I want to make a fair offer.”

  “I'm sure Oscar could make the financial paperwork available to you.”

  “He has. But there's nothing like a physical inspection to answer a lot of questions. At least in my mind. I want a contractor to take a look at the plumbing, the wiring, all of that. See what it would take to add more bathrooms, maybe put in a kitchen.”

  “When would you like to go?”

  He lifted his elegant hands. “This evening would be fine. If they plan to reopen the club, it might be best if I could get this done right away.”

  “You can find a contractor on a Sunday evening?” This was an amazing trick. I was impressed.

  He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I'm willing to pay triple overtime. I think I can turn someone up. And if I can't, I know a bit about such things. I wasn't always an investor.”

  When he looked back up at me, there was humor in his eyes. I'd underestimated him again. He was merely letting me know that he was a man's man, capable of building and other such manly activities. I had to smile. “I'll keep that in mind.”

  “Please do, Sarah Booth.”

  I got a pen and scrap of paper from my purse and wrote down Ida Mae's number. I'd gotten the answer to my burning question about why Bridge made Scott's bond. And I was relieved to discover that Bridge had no hidden agenda—he wanted to help Ida Mae and keep the club open. It was good business if he bought the club. “I'd call Ida Mae first. Emanuel may not be as agreeable. I'm not certain how property is transferred in a will.” When my parents were killed in a car accident, I'd been a child. My Aunt LouLane took care of all the details. Dahlia House had simply become mine.

  “If Ida Mae gives me permission to have the club inspected, I think that's all I need right now.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for the drink.” In truth, I was disappointed—and a bit relieved—that Bridge hadn't asked me to dinner or for a future date. His words were charming, but he was all talk. It was just as well. I had my hands full.

  He walked me to the door, and as I was leaving, he put a hand on my shoulder. “I'll call you, Sarah Booth.”

  I smiled. “Good evening, Bridge.”

  The car was hot as Hades, but I got in and drove away. By the time I got to the end of the driveway, sweat from the hot leather seats had soaked my back.

  I had half an hour to kill before I was to meet Robert Pennington McBruce at The Club for drinks, and I'd need every second of it to cool off.

  On Sundays when I was a little girl, my parents and I would drive to the Sugar Shack and get ice cream cones. It was a Delaney tradition that I'd deliberately avoided since my return to Zinnia. I didn't need the ice cream calories, but the memory was comforting, and I needed chocolate. I headed toward Main Street and mocha chocolate fudge—a bolus of caffeine-laced chocolate.

  On the way, I passed Millie's. Two large Harleys were parked in the asphalt lot. The hog owners appeared to be the only customers, and I had a tingle of concern. Millie could handle herself, but if Spider and Ray-Ban were back on the scene, it could only mean trouble for Scott.

  I canceled my plans for ice cream and pulled into the café. Sure enough, I saw the two men sitting at the counter. Millie stood behind it with her hands on her hips and aggravation on her face.

  The bell over the door jangled as I walked in and both men turned my way, their faces lighting with grins. “Well, if it isn't National Velvet,” Spider said, his grin widening. “Although I think the girl in the movie rode around on her horse. Seems to me you've been riding something else. By the way, nice hairdo. Is it real?”

  I fought the flush that wanted to creep into my face. I don't know how successful I was, but I did see Millie flash me a curious look, and it wasn't about my hair. I decided to take the high ground and ignore the innuendo.

  “Velvet Brown is the character in the movie National Velvet. The word 'national' comes from a prize she won—it is not her first name. Seems to me you don't have any of your facts straight.” It was weak, but it was the best I could do. The two bikers had caught me flat-footed. How did they know I'd ridden Reveler over to see Scott?

  “Right,” Spider said sarcastically. “How's my man Scott?” Ray-Ban continued to grin, his gaze wandering up and down me in more than a suggestive manner.

  “I thought you boys had left town,” I said, ignoring his question. “Millie, I'd like a diet Dr Pepper, please. Large. Lots of ice.” I didn't meet her gaze.

  “We realized Scott needed us, so we came back.”

  “Where are you staying?” I addressed the question to Spider, since he seemed to do all
the talking for both of them.

  “Oh, around.” They looked at each other and laughed. “Scott didn't like our housekeeping. He can be a real pussy about stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, I can't imagine a man who would insist on hygiene and cleanliness.” I laid the sarcasm on heavy, deciding to take a page from the Daddy's Girl handbook and ignore their vulgarity.

  “Baby, if we got cleaned up, would you come over to visit us?” Ray-Ban had finally found his vocal cords.

  “I wouldn't visit you for any reason.”

  Millie put the drink on the counter in front of me. “I'm closing up.” She pointed to the clock on the wall. “It's already after five. Finish up, pay up, and move on.”

  I put my money on the counter, hoping they'd follow suit. What I really wanted to ask them was how they knew I'd been over at Scott's. Millie, I could tell, wanted to ask me a few questions about that same issue.

  “Tell us about that rich man who made Scott's bond?” Spider said, and there was a hungry light in his eyes.

  “Nothing to tell.” I shrugged. “He loves the blues. He's a big fan of Scott's. Now you tell me where you were the night Ivory Keys was murdered.”

  Spider laughed and Ray-Ban joined in. “She wants to know where we were,” Spider said, winking at Ray-Ban. “She's interested in us, even if she don't want to admit it.”

  “I suspect the sheriff might be even more interested,” I said.

  “Too bad. We were in Greenwood. Big Daddy's. You know the place?”

  I did. It was a redneck honky-tonk just off the two-lane that had the reputation of a knife fight every fifteen minutes. Perfect for the two of them. If they were really there.

  “Now, you tell us why that rich man made Scott's bail. He wouldn't be interested in buying that old club, would he?” Spider pulled two dirty fives from his jeans pocket and plopped them on the counter. “You think he might need some muscle? You know, to keep things orderly. Keep those hot women from trying to crawl up on the stage after Scott.” He winked at me. “You wouldn't like that, would you, baby?”

  “Yeah, we could take them out back and settle them down some,” Ray-Ban threw in, licking his lips.

  “You can talk to Mr. Ladnier. I don't know what his needs might be in the way of muscle.”

  Millie put their change on the counter. “It's been fun, guys, but I have to go.”

  They rose from their stools. Ray-Ban picked up his iced tea and drained it, slamming the glass down on the counter so hard I thought it would break.

  “We'll catch you later, Sarah Booth,” Spider said. “We have a deal with Scott. When he gets tired of a woman, he passes her on to us.”

  My ready retort was blocked by a lump of disgust the size of Kansas in my throat. “Keep dreaming,” I managed.

  They punched each other on the arm and walked out laughing. Millie waited until the bell quit jangling before she hurried around the counter and locked the front door. “What was that all about?” she asked, headed back toward me.

  “I was over at Scott's house this morning.” I fiddled with my straw in the glass. I didn't want to lie to Millie, but I also didn't want to tell her the truth. “I rode Reveler around the county and happened up on Scott. He was outside chopping wood.”

  “Sarah Booth, you're not involved with that man, are you?”

  I met her gaze and saw more concern than curiosity. “Now, that's hard to tell.”

  She shook her head. “He's one of the sexiest men I've ever seen, but I don't think he's a serious candidate for any kind of relationship.”

  “I think you're right about that.” How could something that seemed so good six hours before turn into such an awful mistake?

  Millie took pity on me and decided not to press the issue. “How did he get out of jail?”

  I told her about Bridge, and about Nandy's husband. She was suitably impressed and sworn to secrecy. When I had her solemn oath, I stood up. “I've got to go. I'm meeting McBruce for drinks at The Club.” I had a sudden, horrible thought. What if Nandy showed up, too?

  “Good luck,” Millie said. “And keep me informed.” She brushed my hair back from my face and a frown touched her lips. “Where's your other earring, Sarah Booth? Those were your mother's, weren't they?”

  My hands flew to my ears and I felt panic. I never lost jewelry. I seldom wore any, except earrings. No matter how hard I squeezed my lobes, my left one was bare.

  “I combed my hair at Bridge's,” I said. “It might be there. Or it could be in the car.”

  Millie got a broom and swept around the counter to be sure the earring hadn't fallen there.

  “It's probably at Bridge's,” Millie said, her smile relieved. “It's just like in the National Enquirer, when Barbra Streisand was led to James Brolin by a kind spirit. I read all about it. One of your spirit guides has fixed it so you can see Mr. Ladnier again. And just let me say that he's a far more suitable match than Scott.”

  Boy, was she ever right.

  The bar at The Club was dark, glittering with leaded crystal hanging from an overhead rack. I noted that the bowl of the martini glasses seemed to shoot more sparks than the others.

  Bernard—he had a last name but no one ever used it—ran the bar seven evenings a week, and as far as I knew, had never missed a day. He was a fixture from the forties, like the bank and the music and the dancing.

  “Miss Sarah Booth,” he said when I sat down, elbows on the polished mahogany. “I haven't seen you in a long time.”

  “Bernard.” I leaned across the bar and gave him a quick hug. “How are you?”

  “Just fine,” he said. “No point bein' any other way.”

  There was some truth in that. “How's Mollie?” His wife had been my baby-sitter on the rare occasions when my parents were gone and Aunt LouLane was unavailable. Mollie made cinnamon toast and hot chocolate for me whenever I asked. One day I asked five times.

  “She's gettin' the arthritis in her hands. It's hard because she loves her sewin'. You know Trina, our grandbaby, is in the Junior Miss pageant and Mollie's been workin' on the prettiest dress for her. She's determined for Trina to have an original, even if it hurts her.”

  I was sorry to hear that. Mollie could take scraps of material and create masterpieces. Once, when she'd had some imported lace from Ireland, she'd designed a wedding dress for Jo Dee Bethea, a belle who'd fallen out of a cushy lifestyle and onto hard-luck row. Jo Dee was a sweet girl, and when she agreed to marry a local farmer from Blue Eve, she asked Mollie to make her gown. The dress was so exquisite that it even fooled Cece. Our local maven of society had pronounced the dress a Lucy Lu original and caused a scandal as to how Jo Dee had managed to pay for it. Mollie had come forth only when it looked as if Jo Dee were going to jail for theft.

  The memory of Mollie's talent and generosity had me smiling. “I'd like to stop by and visit her.”

  Bernard's smile was brighter than the chandelier. “She'd like that, Miss Sarah Booth. She sure misses your mama. They were close.”

  “I miss Mama, too,” I said. No matter how many years passed, the loss was always there.

  “Your mama, Mollie, Ida Mae Keys, and Dub Renfroe used to go to Little Talika Creek fishin' for bream down in the hard part of the summer like it is now. They said they let Dub go to bait the hooks and pull the bream off once they were caught.” Bernard laughed. “Mollie would bring those fish home and fry them up, and the others would show up with cole slaw and the likes. Those were some good times. Nothin' like a fish fry on a hot August evenin'. I can almost taste those tender little fish right now.”

  Me, too. My mouth was watering. For the fish and for the safe, loving memory he'd given me. In my mind I saw the three women and Dub, an older man who used to always give me nickels, walking out the backyard of Dahlia House toward the deep fishing hole on the creek that ran through the back of the property.

  The women were wearing straw hats—Mollie's bright with a long, kerchief tail—and carrying cane poles. Dub carried t
he can of worms and the stringer for the fish as they were caught. I'd forgotten all about it until Bernard reminded me.

  “What can I get you, Miss Sarah Booth?” Bernard asked, picking up a cloth and polishing a glass. Someone had come into the room. I knew it by the change in Bernard's attitude. I glanced behind me and saw a big, sandy redhead. His shoulders were wide and his body lean and muscled. I slid from my barstool.

  “Mr. McBruce?” I held out my hand.

  “Miss Delaney,” he said, glancing around the bar. When he saw it was empty, he relaxed. “I've been wondering all afternoon why you wanted to talk to me.” He glanced at Bernard. “I'd like Dewars on the rocks.” He lifted his eyebrows at me. It was an interesting way to ask what I wanted to drink.

  “Vodka martini.” The sparkling glasses had lured me to abandon my regular Jack and water. Without waiting for me or further acknowledging Bernard, McBruce walked to a table in the corner and sat down. I had no option but to follow. I was beginning to get a hint of why Nandy had suddenly turned into a blues-guitarist groupie. In just glancing over an audience, Scott gave each fan personal attention; McBruce gave none.

  “What is it you need to talk to me about?” McBruce said as soon as he was seated, his back to the wall.

  “You attempted to pay Scott Hampton's bond. Why?”

  His gaze was level and long. “You know my wife.” It was a statement made in that strange rhythmic brogue. “You've seen her, up there at the courthouse. I thought if Hampton were free, Nandy could take her act to a more private location.”

  He had every right to be embarrassed. Nandy didn't care that her actions made her husband a fool and a public cuckold. She looked like a wealthy punk, and she acted like she was thirteen with a massive overload of hormones. Still, he'd offered to put up a tremendous amount of cash to benefit the man his wife was pursuing. “Why didn't you just get Nandy to stay away from the courthouse?”

  The look he gave me was pure contempt. “I thought you knew her. She's Stuart Ann Shanahan, distant heir to the throne of Scotland, France, and England. Didn't you know? All other humans live to do her bidding.”