Crossed Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “I'll give you a call and let you know the results at the hospital,” Coleman said to Scott as he walked past us, got in his car, and drove away. He didn't offer me a ride back to town. He followed the second ambulance out.

  “Are you okay?” Scott asked, standing tall and holding me at arm's length. He examined my face, reading God-only-knows-what thoughts. I couldn't hide that I was upset.

  “I'm shocked. What happened?”

  He led me into the cottage and closed the door behind us. When I was on the sofa, iced tea in my hand, and he was beside me, he put his arm around me and held me close against him. “I've never felt I could tell another person that I was scared, but I can tell you, Sarah Booth. You won't judge me.”

  “How can I? I'm scared, too.” It was so simple with Scott. For a man who put up a barricade of solitude, once it was breached, he was a candidate for Oprah. He had feelings, and he knew more about them than I did mine. Perhaps that was why he wrote such powerful music. “Tell me what happened.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “I heard something on the porch. I'd been thinking about you. Daydreaming, I guess you'd say.” He gave me a wicked look that tingled the Delaney womb.

  “Go on,” I urged. I needed to hear the facts before we started in on the fantasies.

  “I thought it might be you, coming to visit, so I opened the door, and there was this bloody thing lying on the porch. For just one terrible moment, I thought someone had hurt you. Then I realized it was Nandy. I knelt down and tried to see where she was hurt. She was moaning and she grabbed my shirt, pulling me down.”

  I could see it all clearly. Nandy making sure her blood got on Scott. I had no doubt she'd set the entire thing up just to pin it on him.

  “Her face was bleeding where the ring had been in her eyebrow. It seemed all of the blood was coming from there. At least I didn't see any on her shorts or legs. Once I figured she hadn't severed an artery, I didn't look much beyond that. I tried to make her talk, but she wouldn't. She just moaned. When she grabbed me she was pretty strong, so I risked leaving her and called the paramedics and the sheriff.”

  “She's going to try and set you up for the beating.” Judging from his nonreaction, Scott had already anticipated this.

  Scott put a hand on my face. “It doesn't seem possible that I'm saying this, but I don't think the sheriff will believe her.” He sought something in my expression. He sensed there was something between me and Coleman.

  “Coleman won't believe her.” He might want to believe Nandy, but he was a man who believed only evidence. At first glance, the evidence supported the theory that Nandy was trying to set Scott up. “No matter what Coleman believes, we need as much supporting evidence as possible. Where's Nandy's car? She had to drive herself here. There's bound to be blood in it.”

  “I hadn't thought of that. There's a bunch of trails that go back to the creek. I'll bet she parked it there and walked here.”

  “Let's go.”

  “Now?” he asked.

  I nodded. “No time like the present. I want to find that car before anyone can tamper with it.”

  Working on the theory that Nandy would park as close as possible while still hiding the car, we went down the first trail that led back to the creek. We'd gone only thirty yards into the trees when I saw the BMW convertible. The top was up. I told Scott not to touch it, but we walked around it. There was a bloodstain on the headrest and one on the visor above the passenger's door. My best guess was that Nandy had parked the car and then ripped the ring out.

  “Will this help?” Scott asked.

  “I think it will clinch it if we have to go to court,” I said. “Let's call Coleman and let him know.”

  Walking back to the cottage, I reached out and took Scott's hand. He'd washed the blood off, and the long, elegant fingers stretched out as I examined it. I looked at the other hand. “We should let Coleman see your hands. You haven't hit anyone.” I looked up at Scott. “The hands I want to see belong to Robert McBruce. If anyone hit her, and that's a big if, I'll bet it was him.”

  His lips turned down at the corners. “I was hoping Nandy had moved on. She wasn't at the club last night, and I couldn't help but hope she'd left this area.”

  I'd also noted her absence and hoped she'd turned her warped attention to someone else. “If she accuses you, Scott, you'll have to file charges against her. False accusation, slander, whatever we can cook up. You were right. We should have gotten a legal injunction.”

  “Or a wooden stake. Why would she do this? Does she think I'll want her?” he asked, confusion in his voice. “I mean, does she think she can force me into wanting her?”

  It went against my better judgment, but a smidgen of pity touched my heart. “Nandy never had a chance for normal thought processes. You know the story of her wacko family, all that Mary, Queen of Scots stuff. Then the arranged marriage. She was bred and trained for disaster.” We were back at the cottage and Scott held the door open for me.

  Inside, he paced the room. “She had money, opportunity, the chance to make something of herself. Just like I did. My family was just as screwed up as hers.” Scott's laugh was bitter. “Try having a father who made a fortune selling Ram trucks, but who wanted to be a Bentley dealer. You can't begin to imagine. He'd sit in the middle of the showroom floor at night, a bottle of Scotch and a crystal glass beside him, crying because he'd inherited a dynasty, but it wasn't the one he wanted.” Scott sat down beside me on the sofa, his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands dangling.

  I'd never really considered how much background Scott and Nandy shared. “Perhaps a stint in Michigan State prison could redeem even Nandy.” I meant it as a joke, a comment to lighten the moment.

  “It wasn't prison. It was Ivory.” Scott's head lowered. “I have so much to learn. We'd really just begun. Now I'm on my own again.”

  It struck me then, the state of adult orphanhood. Though I knew it intimately, it was a revelation. Everyone confronts this moment. It doesn't matter if we're six or sixty, we still long for the parent, the trusted guide. We never recover from the loss.

  “It really sucks,” I said, and a sad smile touched the corners of Scott's mouth.

  “Well said, Sarah Booth. You could write lyrics for the blues.”

  “Somehow I don't see the word 'suck' as blues material. It's too graphic, too . . . crisp.” I was glad I'd made him smile.

  “Perhaps it is. But it's a very interesting word. So many applications.” His gaze dropped to my breasts.

  The heat was instantaneous. Marvelous how that worked. He looked at me with sexual intent, and I wanted him. We melted together, locked in a kiss that went from intimate to intense in less than ten seconds.

  Our hands were on each other's clothes, working buttons and zippers, when we both heard the roar of the motorcycles in the front yard.

  “Damn!” Scott stood up and went to the front window. “It's Spider and Ray-Ban.”

  “Tell them to leave.” I understood male bonding, but Spider and Ray-Ban had two strikes against them. They were complete creeps and they had lousy timing. “Or better yet, ask them why they set fire to Goody's Grocery. Coleman's going to pin that one on them.”

  Scott ignored my ire. “Let me see what they want.”

  I rebuttoned my blouse and rose. “It's okay, I've got to go into town and check on some things.”

  “You aren't mad, are you?” He shifted one hip out. “I just can't throw them away. Everyone else does.”

  “I'm not mad.” And I suddenly wasn't.

  “Will you come back and have dinner with me tonight? I'll make you my specialty—pompano in parchment.”

  “Really? You can cook that?”

  “Sure. Fish sticks in a cardboard box.”

  I couldn't help laughing. “Should I bring my own catsup packets?”

  “No, I have a big bottle. Will you come? I'll make something special.”

  “I'd love to.” I heard Spider give a rebel yell. There wa
s the sound of glass breaking. My best guess would be a beer bottle. “Just don't encourage those two to hang around. If they're really your friends, they'll understand how much they can hurt you.”

  He shook his head. “I don't know if they can understand that, Sarah Booth. That's why I don't just send them away. They don't understand. They honestly think they're showing support for me.”

  Perhaps he was right. A two-celled organism couldn't be expected to understand.

  Scott placed the call to the sheriff's office, and I didn't wait for Coleman or one of the deputies to come out and examine Nandy's not-so-hidden car. I called Tinkie for a ride. On the way to the hospital, I filled her in on Nandy's ploy. Tinkie complimented my work in finding the car so quickly, but there was a hint of distance in her tone. She was worried about me. And annoyed that I was making her worry about one of my romantic peccadillos. And I wasn't confiding in her—or anyone else.

  “I need some help,” I said. “It would be best for everyone if Nandy simply confessed to trying to set Scott up for hurting her.”

  “Yes, that would be best.”

  Tinkie wasn't her normal, enthusiastic self. “Could you talk to her? I think you'd be able to finesse her better than I could.” Which was the truth. My idea of finessing Nandy involved a blackjack shampoo. Tinkie's thoughts didn't run to violence, at least not at first.

  “Finessing Nandy isn't the real problem,” she said.

  I took a breath. “Scott is more than a client to me. You know that.”

  “Everyone in town knows that,” Tinkie said. “I mean everyone. And we're all concerned for you. You'd know that if you talked to us.”

  “I don't need to talk—I know you aren't thrilled. Look, my involvement with Scott is going to make Nandy hate me even more. I think you could make some headway with her. Will you try?”

  “Sarah Booth, I care about you,” Tinkie said. “Yes. I'll talk to Nandy. I'd love to. But I wish you'd quit running out to Bilbo Lane. At least until this is over.”

  “I can't promise that. But I will be careful.”

  We stopped by the courthouse and I got my car. By the time I parked in the hospital lot, Tinkie was standing on the curb, waiting for me. She was well turned out in white slacks, sandals, and a pale pink sleeveless sweater that rippled with every move she made. It was stunning. She'd matched the muted pink perfectly with Baby's Day Out nail polish and lipstick. Not everyone could wear that shade, but Tinkie made it look easy.

  We found Nandy on a stretcher in the hall. She caught sight of me and sat up. The gash in her eyebrow was closed by three small staples. I wondered if she liked them, since she had such a penchant for metal in her flesh.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, ignoring Tinkie, which was a serious mistake.

  “Checking on you,” I said.

  “Where's your husband?” Tinkie asked.

  “What's it to you?” Nandy asked.

  “I wanted to meet him. I just wanted to ask how much your daddy had to pay him to marry you.” Tinkie's lips were pink innocence.

  “Don't worry about your car,” I told Nandy as I started to walk away. “The sheriff's office is towing it in. They needed a sample of the bloodstains. Leather holds stains so much better than vinyl. There are benefits to money.”

  I didn't hang around to hear her bark. I went down the hall to Doc Sawyer's office. Even if he hadn't examined Nandy, he'd know exactly how badly she was hurt. The hospital grapevine was the most efficient in town. After seeing her car, I was willing to bet the entire damage involved her eyebrow.

  Doc was brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I couldn't believe it. I'd been certain the coffeepot in the corner of his office was being used to incubate some rare new bacteria that would cure cancer, diabetes, and arthritis with one dose.

  “Stuart Ann Shanahan,” he said as he sat on the edge of his desk. “I remember the day she was born. Her daddy had a little tiara and a scepter that he wanted to bring into the delivery room. I put an end to that, but he managed to smuggle it into the nursery so she could have her first picture made wearing the tiara and holding the scepter. That child never had a chance.”

  I wasn't about to buy in to sympathy for Nandy. I'd had my moment of weakness with Scott. “She's trying to frame an innocent man for a felony battery charge.”

  “The ER doc told me someone had ripped an earring out of her . . . eyebrow.” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, a sapphire stud. It was a made-to-order piece and probably very valuable.” Nandy would also try to include robbery on the charges. I could see it coming.

  “Lots of blood vessels around the eye. She had her own plastic surgeon come in, but I hear she bled a lot.”

  “She'll just replenish her supply by drinking someone else's.”

  Doc laughed. “That's a good one, Sarah Booth.”

  “Don't let her near your neck.”

  He laughed harder.

  “Did you hear how badly she was hurt?”

  “From what I heard, only the eyebrow.”

  “Could she have done that herself? Ripped out the ring?”

  “She could have.” He templed his hands in front of him. “Edgar, her doctor, said there weren't any bruises to indicate she'd been beaten. He wants to have her mentally evaluated.”

  That was good news. Still, if she made the charge against Scott, it would stir up the community even more. A lot of folks wouldn't wait to hear the whole story, they'd just see Scott as the man who killed Ivory Keys and beat a woman. “Edgar believes Nandy injured herself, doesn't he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell her so and would he testify to that?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  I nodded. With that background, I knew Tinkie could break her. Scott would never be brought in for questioning.

  “Doc, can I see the photos of Ivory Keys again?”

  He lowered his hands. The coffeepot gave its last gasp, and he got up and poured us both a cup. When he handed me the white Styrofoam, I swallowed hard. The coffee was thick and black and toxic. Yet it was a fresh pot. I'd watched it brew. When I looked at Doc, he was grinning. I didn't bother with creamer because I wasn't going to drink it.

  Before he sat back down, he got a folder from his filing cabinet and handed me the photos. I hardened my expression as I quickly sifted through them, stopping on the shot of Ivory's back. The design that had been cut into his flesh was definitely crossed bones. But if it was representative of the Bonesmen, it was an unfinished work. The skull hadn't been included.

  “What's that?” I asked, pointing to a place on Ivory's back just above the crossed bones.

  “Another cut.”

  “Made at the same time?”

  “No,” Doc said, frowning. “It was made before he died.”

  I knew he'd been beaten. His face showed it, and even in death the dark bruises could be found beneath his skin. I hadn't realized he'd been cut, too. “Were there other cuts?”

  “Three,” Doc said. He shook his head. “The brutality of people. It sickens me.”

  “Where were the other cuts?”

  “That one on his back, one to the left of his sternum, and two lower.”

  “Symbolic?” I asked him.

  “More likely they were trying to frighten Ivory. I believe the killer went into that club intending to kill Ivory. I don't think there was ever a chance he was going to be left alive.”

  “Premeditated murder.”

  “That's what I would call it. Based on my experience, I'd say the killer was someone who had a score to settle.”

  I sighed, thinking of what Coleman had said about Ivory being a symbol. We humans did like to build them up just to knock them down. “But what about the club being torn up and the money stolen? Couldn't it have been a robbery that went bad?”

  Doc finished his coffee. “I believe the robbery was an afterthought.”

  I put the pictures back in the folder and stood. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “
Be careful, Sarah Booth. This county is like a powder keg. Emotions are high, and Nandy isn't helping matters.”

  “It might be best if she was sent somewhere for evaluation. Best for her and certainly best for the rest of us.”

  Doc nodded. “Her old man will buy her out of this, just watch.”

  “Coleman won't—”

  Doc held up a hand. “Not Coleman. But Shanahan will bring in a name shrink, and they'll whisk Nandy off for 'treatment.' Then it will all blow over.”

  “You know, I don't care, just as long as she's gone from here for the next few weeks.”

  Tinkie was waiting in the hallway for me. I almost missed her. She was surrounded by white coats.

  “I just think I'm a little anemic,” she was saying to the handsomest of the doctors. Tinkie had a fetish for men who'd taken the Hippocratic Oath. She could talk about herself and her conditions without any holding back. “You know, it's just my inheritance from Grandmother Camilla. She was so delicate, and I'm just like her.”

  “Perhaps you should stop by the office. We could run a few tests, do a complete physical. . . .” The doctor put his hand on Tinkie's forehead.

  She closed her eyes, her lips going into her famous pout, made even more sensual by that pink lipstick. “I feel better just letting you touch me,” she said. “You have the most healing touch.”

  “I'll have my nurse call you with an appointment tomorrow,” Dr. Haywick said. I checked his name tag. Gynecologist.

  “Tinkie, if you're healed, we have work to do.” I smiled at the doctors, who scattered as if I had the plague. I didn't inspire the need to heal the way Tinkie did.

  “Isn't he a doll?” Tinkie whispered to me, her gaze following Dr. Haywick's back.

  “You're married,” I pointed out to her.

  “He's a doctor,” she whispered back. “That's the only fun married women get to have, Sarah Booth.”