The Devil's Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “Tinkie, you should go with her.” I didn’t look at my partner. We’d agreed not to tell anyone about the gunshots. I could have asked Cece to simply not tell, but I realized the burden that placed on people. To be loyal to me and Tinkie, she’d have to be disloyal to Jaytee and Coleman. That was a place that rubbed me raw, and I didn’t want to do it to Cece if I could avoid it.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Tinkie edged her stiletto closer to my toes with the intention of punishing me for persisting with a topic she’d already given her final word on. I moved my foot. She turned to Cece. “What did you find out? You were excited on the phone.”

  “It’s Snaith,” Cece said.

  “What’s Snaith?” I asked.

  “Snaith is the killer.” Cece spoke with utter confidence.

  “How do you know?” This was an interesting twist, especially since Sheriff Glory believed that Snaith was a potential victim.

  “Hans and I have been doing some investigating—”

  “What did you find out?” Tinkie interrupted.

  “The nights before the bodies were discovered, Cosmo Constantine saw Snaith slipping around the gardens.”

  “What?” Tinkie and I sat up and paid attention. This was interesting since Snaith was accusing Erik of slipping around his place.

  “I know.” Cece almost clapped her hands. “Cosmo saw it, and he’s willing to go to Glory and tell her what he saw.”

  “Why hasn’t he come forward before now?” Tinkie asked.

  “He thought that Glory would close the investigation if she had proof Snaith was the killer. Cosmo didn’t want that. He believed that if there was enough stink about the murders at the gardens, Reynolds would have to shut the place down. He’d accomplish his fondest dream—to get rid of Reynolds and his miniature Holy Land.”

  “Talk about self-interest,” Tinkie said, rolling her eyes. “Had he come forward with this information after the first murder, Glory might have put a tail on Snaith and saved Patrice Pepperdine.”

  “I know,” Cece said. “Hans is going to talk to Sheriff Glory, but she wasn’t in her office. She was out at the site of a shooting, the dispatcher said.”

  I held my breath to see what Tinkie would do. It was up to her, and now was the time if she was going to spill the beans to Cece.

  “Has Hans offered you a job?” Tinkie turned the conversation to another topic.

  “He has, as a correspondent. I’ll work on a contract basis for a certain number of stories a year. But first I have to clear this with Ed. You know I wouldn’t go behind his back and take another job, not even a part-time one.”

  I was relieved, but not surprised to hear that. “So this is for the internet?”

  “Yes, Hans says there’s tremendous opportunity there for this kind of semi-news, semi-entertainment story. Exploring the back roads, looking up the history of forgotten places. At first it would be regional to the Southeast, but then it could expand, if we decide to do that.”

  “We?” I asked. Cece was excited, and I didn’t blame her. When she’d first transitioned from Cecil to Cece, she’d been shunned in Sunflower County. No one understood—or even wanted to try to understand—why she’d taken the path she’d taken. She’d been given a reporting job at the local newspaper because Ed Oakes, the managing editor and owner of the paper, had recognized a great reporter when he met Cece. From there, she’d risen to society editor. Now she was accepted and embraced by the community. But she would never forget those early, hard years when it seemed everything was against her, especially her own family.

  “Yes, Hans is hinting that if the show goes national, I would be head of the Southeastern region. I told him I’d never leave the Dispatch. He understands.”

  Tinkie beamed her approval. “Cece, that is so great. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Ed is a little concerned that the celebrity column you and Millie hatched is going to launch Sunday and you aren’t there to shepherd it along,” I reminded her.

  “I’ll be home in plenty of time,” Cece said. “Besides, Millie has this in hand. Did she tell you Harold is hosting a big party Sunday when the paper is out? It’s going to be Hollywood themed, so be thinking of which celebrity you’re going to come as.”

  This was a fresh hell. I had no inkling of who I might pretend to be.

  “I’m going as Reese Witherspoon,” Tinkie said. “She’s short, blond, cute, and from the South. It’s a natural for me.”

  Now the heat was really on me. I shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Vivien Leigh,” Tinkie said instantly. “You’ve got the whole Tara thing going and I know your mama had plenty of those old antebellum costumes up in the attic. Coleman could dye his hair and go as Rhett Butler.”

  I didn’t know if Coleman would go for hair dye, but I’d learned not to argue with Tinkie when she had the bit between her teeth. “We’ll see.”

  “When you get home, ask Coleman to take you to the attic so you can find one of those dresses. You need to hang it in the bathroom, steam it, and then let it air in the sun. Although mothballs may be appropriate since Sarah Booth is far over the age of belledom.”

  I tried to glare at Tinkie, but we all ended up laughing. It was wonderful to see my two friends so happy and excited over something as small as a party. And a bright future for both of them. I, too, had no complaints. Coleman as Rhett was not a bad future.

  “This is my last night here at the B and B,” Cece said. “What shall we do?”

  “Where’s Hans?” I asked.

  “He was going to a local studio to go over some of the footage we got today, but he should be back any minute. He knows someone with the software that he can use to put together a two-minute package to send to some of the cable executives—just a quick example of what we’ve done so far. He wants to stay streaming, but he’d like some financial backing.”

  “Let’s have dinner here and just relax and talk,” Tinkie said.

  Cece took pity on her. “I know you’re exhausted all the time. Let’s do just that.”

  “Call Erik,” Tinkie said. “Invite him. That way we can keep an eye on him and also make sure he’s telling us the complete truth. If Glory doesn’t have him in the pokey by then.”

  “Did you see Erik with Cosmo today?” I asked.

  Cece shook her head. “I didn’t. We weren’t with Cosmo but a couple of hours, though. I think Hans and I convinced him to see Sheriff Glory early in the morning. Cosmo said he had more details that would prove Snaith was the murderer, but he wouldn’t tell me and Hans. Hopefully that will wrap up this case and you and Tinkie can hightail it home.”

  “An excellent plan,” I agreed just as Hans joined us. He couldn’t look at Cece without beaming, and I realized that he’d fully recognized her talents and abilities. Cece’s career as a journalist was on the brink of big change. “What’s your pleasure, Hans?”

  “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

  “I’ll get us all another round of drinks. Tinkie, you call Erik. Tell him we need some dance lessons.” The truth was, I needed an opportunity to talk—face-to-face—with Erik about his nocturnal wanderings on Snaith’s property. I didn’t know what evidence Cosmo had—or claimed to have—or if this was something Erik and Cosmo had cooked up together, but I intended to find out. One way or the other, this was going to be resolved. I was almost at the door when Hans spoke up.

  “I can dance.”

  We all whipped our heads around to stare at him. He was graceful and looked to be in terrific shape. “Can you waltz?” I asked.

  “It’s my second favorite. Right behind the shag.”

  “The shag!” Cece was up and on her feet. “I love to shag. No one knows how to do it anymore except for Harold, one of our Delta friends. He’s always got a dance card filled a mile long whenever there are dances at home.”

  “How did you fall into dancing?” I asked. How strange that both Erik and Hans were into the world of ballroom dancing.

&n
bsp; “My mother was a dance instructor in Chicago.” Hans held out his hand to Cece. “My father was often gone, and my sister and I would accompany my mother to the studio where she taught. The older ladies there loved me, and I realized I enjoyed dancing and I could make good money. I paid for my college education teaching dance lessons.”

  “I took cotillion at Ole Miss.” Tinkie gave me a sad face. “You were learning jazz and modern dance and tap for your acting career. I was doing the rumba and the cha-cha. Oh, and I know it isn’t really a dance, but I did love the conga lines in the sorority house.”

  Tinkie put some music on her phone, turned up the volume, and watched as Hans and Cece performed a dance where their upper bodies seemed to float while their feet were Snoopy dancing. Amazing.

  Tinkie and I applauded when they finished.

  “I’m impressed,” Tinkie said. “Rumba?” She held out her hand to Hans. “Dance with me.”

  He pulled her from her chair in one swift move as Cece put the right music on, and I watched in amazement at the things Tinkie’s hips could do. No wonder she’d defied scar tissue in her Fallopian tubes. Those hips just tossed those little swimmers right on up past the blockage and to the egg.

  After the dance, Tinkie placed a call to Erik. Of course he didn’t answer, but she left him a message asking him to come dance with us. I doubted we’d see him before I tracked his butt down at the drugstore tomorrow—if Glory didn’t get him first. Tinkie and I had been shot at twice, and I found it difficult to believe he hadn’t heard about what happened. Yet he’d failed to even call to check on us.

  I went to the bar and fixed drinks for all. I tapped lightly on Donna’s door to invite her down for the dance. She declined, citing a need for sleep, but she told me where to find some snacks to help absorb the alcohol she seemed certain we’d consume.

  “Donna, we may be leaving tomorrow. I can’t say for certain. Cece is going home for sure.”

  “She told me,” Donna said. “Hans is also leaving. You and Mrs. Richmond stay as long as you like or if you need to go, that’s fine, too. It’s been a pleasure having you here as guests.”

  “Thanks.” I took my tray of drinks, stopped for the snacks, and headed back to the dance-a-thon. I arrived just in time to see Hans, Tinkie, and Cece going to town doing the twist. I put the goodies down and jumped to the dance floor. I didn’t have a lot of grace, but I sure did have a heart for dancing.

  When we finished the twist, Cece put on a waltz and I accepted Hans’s invitation. Coleman was a good dancer, but he lacked the polish and skill that Hans displayed. A strong lead could make even a mediocre dancer like me feel like Ginger Rogers. I gave myself to the flow of the music and Hans’s talent. We ended the dance with a flourish. From the waltz, he went to the salsa with Cece and on to the bolero. Cece jumped back for a paso doble and she took on the role of the bull with great vigor. I was exhausted by the time they were done. We all sat down laughing as we sipped our drinks.

  Watching Hans and Cece together, I clearly saw the chemistry that would make them a dynamic duo on the small screen if their show took off. Hans said he would be happy to film in Memphis so Cece could keep her job in Zinnia. I wondered how much she’d told him about her reporter job. It had been—and still was—her lifeline. When she was transitioning, that job had given her a purpose and also forced the town to confront her. She was the society editor, and nothing would go in the paper without her say-so. Either Cece had told Hans, or he was intuitively astute enough not to try to steal her away from the newspaper. My friend’s life had hit one of those happy plateaus that sometimes happened.

  “It’s bedtime for me,” I said. I had one more thing to do before I called it quits for the night. I wanted to look up any news stories about the death of a dancer on a cruise ship in the Caribbean. Snaith might be the villain in this story, as Cece thought, but my client had a past that needed some explanations. I wanted all the facts at my fingertips when I confronted him. That cruise-ship death still hung over Erik’s head.

  22

  I took a tray of dirty glasses and a stack of empty snack bowls to the kitchen. The sink and counters were spotless. Donna had cleaned everything up before she went to bed. I was tired, but not sleepy, so I decided to wash the dishes. It wasn’t expected, but Donna had been a terrific host, catering to our every whim. I knew how aggravating it was to get up in the morning, prepared to cook breakfast, and find the counters filled with dirty dishes. And I was the only one to blame at my house.

  I ran the sink full of soapy water and immersed my hands. Truth be told, I enjoyed washing dishes when I had a spacious drainboard, which Donna had. She had one of the old farm sinks with a long, funneled ceramic slab. A huge bamboo rack held the clean dishes so they could air dry. I had a sudden memory of Aunt Loulane washing dishes in Dahlia House. She had never complained, not one time, about all the work she did for me.

  Wind chimes outside the open kitchen window made me smile. Aunt Loulane’s favorite scent, a light eau de cologne that smelled of magnolias, drifted in the window and I inhaled, closing my eyes as I let the memories slide over me. A pang of loss hit me hard below the ribs. I missed my family.

  A voice came from the kitchen doorway. It sounded like a young person. “When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.”

  I whirled around to find a young girl standing behind me. She wore overalls and a cotton shirt, and her hair was cut with bangs straight across. I knew her instantly. Jean Louise Finch, better known as Scout. She’d lost her innocence one summer in a small Southern town when she’d run into the true ugliness of racism. I’d read the book, To Kill a Mockingbird, when I was a girl, and it had marked me in ways that still reverberated today. Scout was my North Star, a tomboy who was book smart and determined to be valued for her own worth. She demanded to be taken seriously as a person, not as a woman. She had a pure heart that didn’t recognize skin color or socioeconomic class. That was the code I’d been raised on.

  “Well, well, Jean Louise, did you bring Jem with you?” Scout hated to be called by her given name.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sorry, Scout.” But I couldn’t help but grin. I knew Scout wasn’t real. This illusion was my very own haint come a’calling as a literary character who’d had a profound effect on me. I’d give my eyeteeth for a chance to talk with Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus—people, perhaps fictional, but so real to me. They’d shaped my own childhood, my view of right and wrong, and taught me to value my father because he was a man who stood up for principle.

  “I came alone,” Scout said in that straightforward Southern voice I heard in my head whenever I read To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “Why are you here?” Jitty always had her reasons for the presentation she brought me. I almost never understood them until too late, but I would always try to decipher her puzzles. Even when she drove me to drink.

  “It’s about the truth, Sarah Booth.”

  “What about the truth?” Even though I knew it was Jitty, I was softer, more tender in addressing Scout. She was, after all, a young girl who was about to lose her innocence in a brutal way.

  “Not everyone is a good person,” Scout said, hooking her fingers in the straps of her overalls. “Your daddy knew that, like mine did, but Atticus chose to believe in people anyway.”

  There was no doubt my father, James Franklin Delaney, had met the bottom-feeders of humankind in his law practice. He’d shielded me from the worst of people as much as he could. “Sometimes it only takes one good person to stand up for what’s right.”

  That was the lesson of Atticus Finch. He had not saved Tom Robinson. That was never even a possibility—and he knew that. What he had done, though, was stand against the corruption of the justice system. He’d demonstrated courage against a mob.

  “Standing up for what’s right is dangerous.” Scout rubbed her nose as if she could scrub the freckles off.

  “It’s always dangerous. You�
��re right about that.” I wondered where she was going with this. Scout was so serious and earnest. “What truth have you come to tell me?”

  “I don’t have anything to tell. Or anything that I can tell,” she said, “but I wanted to be sure you still believed in the truth. The importance of facts stacked atop one another to come to the truth.”

  “I do.” How could I not? It was the way I was raised.

  “Be careful, Sarah Booth. Speaking out against lies and corruption comes at a price. Just be sure you and your friends are willing to pay it.”

  “My friends?” I hated warnings about my loved ones. The last time a series of Native American female warriors had brought me a warning about danger to those I loved, Coleman had been shot—twice—and nearly killed. It didn’t escape my notice that Tinkie and I had only hours ago escaped being shot—also twice. The parallel was not pleasant.

  “Atticus always said that caring about other people was a vul-ner-a-bil-ity.” She got the word out with pride. “Bad people see a weakness and they stab right at it. Like Jem takin’ care of me. That’s how he hurt his arm.”

  “You’re scaring me.” She was. Her words sounded ominous.

  “Good. You’re always more alert when you’re scared.”

  “Who’s in danger? Is it Tinkie or Cece?” Jitty, no matter what guise she wore, never really told me any answers. It was against the rules of the Great Beyond. But I had to ask anyway. “Do you know who shot at me?”

  She looked down, scuffing the toe of her shoe on the rug. “You know I can’t tell you facts. Just don’t forget to ask for help when you need it. That’s a big, important lesson.”

  “Scout … Jitty, if you know something, please tell me. I’m asking for help. Your help.” If my friends were in danger, I’d grovel.

  “In your heart, you know it already. You just haven’t put it together yet, but you know.” She went to the door. “Calpurnia is calling me to dinner. I have to get home. She’s making fried chicken.” She was gone on the sweet scent of magnolias that fluttered into the kitchen on a spring breeze.