He slowly rose from the ice chest and studied me. “I’m trying to figure out where the line is, Sarah Booth. For me to leave you at a party, it would have to be something serious.”
“It is serious. I swear it.” I could tell him that.
“You were with your friends, who adore Harold and would never cut out on his party without good reason.”
“True.”
“Since Oscar isn’t too upset, I suspect whatever this is has to do with Cece.”
I pressed my lips together. Where was the line for me? “That’s true, too, but please, no more. I promised I would let her handle this. I want to tell you. I do. But I gave my word.”
“If someone is hurt or in danger, you should tell me.”
“I know.” I suddenly wanted to cry. What was the right thing to do? If I weren’t sleeping with Coleman would I be so hesitant to tell him? The choice between friend and lover was truly cruel. And especially at Christmas. My plans for the holiday had included lots of snuggling, champagne, and passionate lovemaking. Not secrets. But I had to toe the line for Cece, no matter how much it chafed and pinched me. I would not let a secret come between us on this magical evening.
Harold had strategically hung mistletoe in several rooms, including the kitchen. In the parlor, the remaining guests were singing “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus.” My parents had acted out that song for me when I was a toddler, and I loved it. More than anything I wanted the kind of love my parents had shared. It was a now-or-never Christmas moment, so I took action.
I grabbed Coleman’s arm and pulled him under the leafy green bundle and kissed him long and deep. At first he was a little resistant, but I burned that away with the power of my passion. I loved this man and I wasn’t going to hold back and pretend otherwise because I risked getting hurt.
His hands settled at my waist and he kissed me back. Really kissed me with enough passion to make my legs weak and my head swim. When we finally parted, I knew the bump in the road was behind us. Coleman had chosen to trust me to do the right thing.
“Let’s go home,” I whispered. “Right now.”
“I think so.” He found our coats and we said our good-byes to the gang. When we stepped into the night, he kissed me again under the twinkling fairy glow of the tree lights. I closed my eyes and gave myself to the magic of the moment. I consciously chose to yield. When had I learned to be so guarded and so afraid of risking my heart? Courage was required to confront the barriers my heart attempted to erect. Once upon a time I’d been a lot bolder. I would find that place again. Coleman would lead me there.
“I love you, Coleman.”
He swept me up and spun me in a circle until the beautiful lights danced in a blur. “I love you, Sarah Booth. More than you’ll ever know. Now let’s head back to Dahlia House. We need a crackling fire.”
I jumped into the passenger side of his truck and in no time we were headed to my home. Coleman drove down Main Street, where the lovely lights and decorations of the season sparkled. The storefronts had been staged for holiday scenes, some even sporting fake snow in the displays. I loved looking at them even if I wasn’t fond of shopping. Zinnia was an old-fashioned Southern town, built around the courthouse square. The grounds were marked with oak and magnolia trees that were also decorated in light and tinsel. The lone statue of Johnny Reb wore a Christmas wreath.
“The city voted this morning to remove the statue,” Coleman said. “They’re going to take it down immediately.”
“Where will it go?”
“They’re still looking for a museum or park to place it in.”
The statue was a part of my childhood, of riding my bicycle around the square and visiting my father in his law office, but I also understood how painful it was for others. “I have a compromise,” I said. “Couldn’t we commission more statues? A Union soldier, a black soldier, Medgar Evers, James Meredith, Dr. James W. Silver, that newspaper writer Jerry Mitchell, Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman, and James Chaney—the three young civil rights workers who were murdered and buried in a dam, the men and women who stood up to racism. Couldn’t we learn from the past?”
“We don’t seem to be capable of learning from history.” Coleman put his arm around me and pulled me close. “The best we can hope is that you and I learn from our past mistakes.”
He was right about that. I snuggled against him, silently vowing to do my best not to repeat the missteps I’d made before. Perhaps it was an inch-by-inch learning process for everyone, just like me.
We arrived at Dahlia House to Sweetie Pie’s happy howls and Pluto’s cool disdain. He was in a snit because he’d been left behind. Pluto enjoyed a good party with fancy gourmet treats. I won the cat over with some of the snacks I’d put in a plastic bag and pocketed for my pets. Sweetie Pie and Pluto ate dog and cat food, but only under duress. Normally Millie or I cooked for them—healthy food, but still home cooked. Canned food was a last resort.
Within ten minutes, the animals were smacking down salmon puffs, scrumptious chicken salad croissants, and some curried shrimp to die for. Coleman pulled a bottle of chilled champagne from the refrigerator. He’d snuck it in without my knowing. He popped the cork and filled two glasses.
“What are we celebrating?” I asked as I took the flute he handed me.
“Us.”
And so we did, with long, slow kisses, talk of dreams for the future, and Christmas wishes and memories of the small miracles that made the season so wonderful. I’d avoided a fight with my man, and I’d come up with another lead to pursue as soon as the sun rose.
* * *
The next morning, Coleman left at daybreak. An overnight burglary at the local hardware store had him on the job—before I could even make coffee. I was in the kitchen brewing a pot when Cece called. I wondered if she’d butt-dialed me because Cece was not a crack-of-dawn person.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Guess what I found out.”
“What?”
“Matilda and Curtis Bromley own a fish camp up the river from the boat launch.”
I connected the dots instantly. The boat that the Bromleys had reported—with what might have been a drugged or dead Eve wrapped in some kind of drop cloth or rug—had headed upriver, possibly toward their camp, which they’d failed to mention. And why had the Bromleys felt the need to come forward with the purse they’d found? Coincidence, or something darker?
“Meet me at the paper,” Cece said. “I have to make sure the photos from Harold’s party are laid out correctly. Then I’m taking the rest of the day off.” She cleared her throat. “Bring your gun.”
“What about Tinkie?”
“We can do this without involving her.”
And now, not only was I going behind Coleman’s back, I was leaving my partner in the dark. But I understood Cece’s impulse. If things went bad, it would be best if Tinkie wasn’t involved. Cece was worried that we’d find something tragic. Tinkie didn’t need to see a dead pregnant woman and baby. That was a true fact. Then again, neither did Cece. Or me. It was pointless, though, to try to convince Cece to call Coleman in.
* * *
I fed the horses, took off their blankets because the day promised to be sunny, and fed Pluto and Sweetie Pie. While they ate, I drank my coffee and made some toast. I wasn’t hungry, but I’d learned one great old saying Aunt Loulane had never taught me: “Alcohol dissipates in the flames of carbohydrates.” I’d had enough to drink the night before that some carbs would set me to rights. I ate three pieces of buttered toast, then loaded up the pets and headed for the Zinnia Dispatch.
Cece was waiting on the sidewalk for me. Sweetie gave her the front seat and we were off to an address north of Fortis Landing. It was still part of the river community, and if I followed the Tallahatchie River south, I would come to the boat launch where we’d met the Bromleys.
I turned where Cece directed, but I wasn’t surprised when the dirt road we followed went deep into a river brake. The woods crowded close and
I knew in the summer we’d be dive-bombed by yellow and horseflies and a number of other bloodsucking little varmints. We were almost on top of the cabin before we realized it.
“Let me go look,” Cece said. “Just wait here with the motor running. Maybe turn around for a quicker getaway.”
All good instructions, but what if she peeped in the window and got her head blown off? “There’s not a vehicle here.” The Bromleys had been driving a navy-blue pickup.
“Doesn’t mean the place is empty. I’ll be careful.” She opened the door and, before I could stop her, Sweetie Pie was out like a streak. She coursed through the underbrush and headed up the steps. The cabin, made of cypress, was up on pilings to prevent flooding when the river was up.
“Sweetie!” I loud-whispered her name. She ignored me and clawed at the door. If someone was in there, they’d know they had visitors.
Cece got out of the car and stalked toward the door. She was the most ladylike of women until she was mad. Then she developed this angry way of walking—which let everyone who could see her know to beware. To add to the stomping, she was wearing clodhopper boots that could have been steel-toed. She didn’t have a gun, but she wasn’t helpless.
I turned the car around so we could leave in a hurry and then got out with Pluto. I retrieved my gun and checked to be sure it was fully loaded.
Cece was climbing the steps to the front door, where Sweetie frantically barked and clawed. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the door crash open. Cece had kicked it in. When I got to the porch, Cece and my dog were already inside. From the high elevation, I could see the river only fifty yards away, a slow-moving current of brownish yellow. I also noticed a road that ran along the riverbank. While the river was low it was perfectly passable. Come spring, it would be underwater.
“No one is here.” Cece stated the obvious. The cabin was one large living/kitchen/bedroom area, furnished like most fishing cabins. I checked the bathroom to be sure. Empty. Sweetie moved about the room, sniffing and snuffling until she came to a heavy recliner and began to dig at the rug beneath it.
I got on my stomach and felt beneath the furniture until my hands captured a large, empty prescription pill bottle. I examined the bottle and discovered it was for prenatal vitamins for Dara Peterson. The script had been written several months earlier.
“Who is Dara Peterson?” I asked Cece.
“No idea.” She took the bottle. “Another pregnant woman? I’m feeling there are just too many coincidences here. Are aliens stealing pregnant women and babies? I can’t take much more of this.”
“I’m on the same page. This is a strange coincidence and we have to figure out what it means.”
“We’re going to find out,” Cece vowed. “I don’t think Eve is dead. I do believe she’s been here in this cabin.” She held out a pacifier she’d found on the kitchen countertop. “And there’re toys under the bed. There was definitely a child here.”
“But Eve’s baby wouldn’t be old enough to play with toys or use a pacifier,” I reminded her.
“I can’t explain it, but this is all connected to Eve’s disappearance.”
Sweetie howled softly and went to the now permanently open door. “Listen,” I said. The sound of a boat coming up the river was clear. “We have to get out of here.”
“Take the medicine bottle. We can check at the pharmacy.”
“Let’s go.” Sweetie Pie and Pluto needed no urging. They scampered down the steps and onto the wooded trail that led to the car. We didn’t have time to try to repair the door, and it would have been pointless. Cece had destroyed the wood frame that once held the hinges. Someone was going to be majorly pissed off. My concern, though, was getting out of Dodge before we were caught. I heard the boat motor cut off just as we tore down the driveway. I hoped the arriving boaters hadn’t caught a glimpse of my car, but it was too late to worry. It was time to drive.
Mud whipped from the wheels of my antique roadster as I beat it out of the bushes and onto the paved road. Instead of going back by the river, I hooked a left, preferring to drive several miles out of my way and double back rather than risk being seen crossing the river bridge.
“That was close,” Cece said. She released her death grip on the door handle.
“Okay, so who is Dara Peterson?” Every time we followed a lead, we ended up in a pool of new questions. I felt like I was in a maze with pregnant women hiding around every hedge wall. “What does she have to do with Eve? If she has anything at all to do with her.”
“She does,” Cece said so seriously that I knew she believed wholeheartedly she was telling the truth.
“How do you know?”
“I didn’t have time to tell you, but I found something.” She reached into her coat pocket and brought forth a photograph. It was the same photo I’d found in Eve’s apartment—the two babies swaddled and held in someone’s arms. The headless torso, wearing the hospital gown, was female, but that was all I could tell. The babies were newborn, still all squinched up and mottled.
“Who are these kids?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but we have to find out.”
“This still doesn’t prove that Eve was in the Bromley’s fishing camp.” I had to be sure Cece understood that we had no real evidence tying Eve to the Bromleys.
“I know she was there, Sarah Booth. I could … sense it.”
That wasn’t good enough. I didn’t doubt her, but we needed evidence. The photo showed a clear link between Eve and the Bromleys, and I had no doubt they’d lied to us. But what was the link? I didn’t know, and they had seemed like good people. Could they be responsible for Eve’s disappearance? Were they holding her hostage? For the money? “Why would Curtis and Matilda put themselves in the spotlight by telling us about the purse if they were involved in her abduction?” It didn’t make sense.
“Maybe they wanted us to know she was alive so we’d be sure and get the money together.”
“But we don’t know she’s alive. And you already told the kidnappers you would get the ransom together.”
“Eve has to be alive.” Cece’s voice cracked. “She has to be.”
“I think she is alive, but we’re no closer to finding her. What purpose would that whole trip to the river and the purse serve, if the Bromleys are involved with the abduction? Think about it logically, not emotionally.”
“Maybe they wanted to see if we’d bring the law with us. Maybe this was a test run for the money drop and return of Eve. To see if we could be trusted.”
Now that made a little more sense. If we’d shown up with the law, Cece was correct, we’d likely never see Eve again. “Breaking into that fishing camp might not have been the smartest idea.”
“Only if they saw us. Did they?”
“I don’t know, Cece. I hope not. Let’s see what we can find on Dara Peterson.”
We drove back to Millie’s Café for breakfast and to call Tinkie. I refused to continue without including my partner, and Cece reluctantly agreed. Tinkie was huffy at first, but when I explained where we’d been and what we’d done and why we hadn’t called her at butt-crack-o-dawn, she forgave us.
We showed her the prenatal vitamin bottle and she rolled her eyes. “You don’t need a prescription for this,” she said. “It’s an OTC vitamin. I wonder why this Dr. Warren wrote a script for it.”
“Maybe to get insurance to pay for it,” I said, looking at Cece’s puzzled expression. “Some policies cover OTC drugs, but only if there’s a prescription.”
“Why would you know so much about prenatal vitamins?” Cece asked Tinkie.
“I know about poisonous plants, too.” Tinkie popped a bite of biscuit in her mouth. “All the girls I went to college with—except you two—have kids. What do you think they talk about at club meetings? Babies, pregnancy, doctors, and how fast their little tulips are developing into genius babies.”
I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t kept up with college friends other than Tinkie, and I certainly had refused
to join the Delta social clubs, which involved fancy dressing, husband bragging, reproduction, gardening, and community service.
“What are we going to do about this Dara Peterson? There aren’t any Petersons that I know of in Sunflower County. But she could be from up around Fortis Landing. There’s a whole community back along that river. They keep to themselves.”
“Coleman could help us.” I realized I hadn’t seen him in four hours and I was already missing him.
“Fortis Landing isn’t in Sunflower County,” Cece was quick to point out. “Coleman has no jurisdiction.”
“But he has experience and legal connections.” I said it as gently as I could. “Please, Cece.”
“No.” Her chin jutted out.
I shook my head at Tinkie. “Then let’s do some investigating. Cece, why don’t you go to work? Seriously. Tinkie and I can handle this better without you.”
“I can’t believe—”
Millie, who’d been hovering near our table, wrapped her arms around Cece and held her close. “Let them handle it,” she said. “I heard enough to know what’s going on, and I agree. I’m going to make a box of breakfast pastries for you to take to the newspaper, and then you go there and wait. Stay busy. Or you can come to the kitchen and help me with some pies.”
Cece blinked back her tears. “I think I’ll help you bake, if that’s okay.”
“God help the people of Sunflower County,” Tinkie said drolly. “Cece baking is almost as bad as me.”
“Wrong,” I said. “Nothing is as bad as what you create in the kitchen. Trust me, I remember those doggie treats you tried to make. I don’t know how you turned ground meat, vegetables, and mashed potatoes into lethal weapons, but you did. The stench was enough to kill.”
“Go on, Sarah Booth.” Tinkie snapped her fingers under my nose. “I haven’t seen any Betty Crocker awards hanging on your walls.”
“You two take your bickering on the road.” Millie pointed at the door. “Cece, you come on back with me. I have an apron hanging on the back wall. You know, I’m putting together those special Christmas tarts with fresh cherries and apples. They’re so pretty and perfect for the holidays. I hate to see you get that nice outfit all messed up, but…” They went to the kitchen, Millie murmuring all the way.
A Gift of Bones--A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 8
